“Seagull. And that is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous password on record.”
“Routine, Adam. We’ve got to follow routine.”
“Sure.” There’d been nothing routine since he’d stopped his car at the end of the winding uphill drive. “I’m in, McIntyre, and I want you to know how much I appreciate your dumping me in this madhouse.” With a flick of his thumb, he cut McIntyre off.
Without stopping to wash, Kirby jogged up the steps to her father’s studio. She opened the door, then slammed it so that jars and tubes of paint shuddered on their shelves.
“What have you done this time?” she demanded.
“I’m starting over.” Wispy brows knit, he huddled over a moist lump of clay. “Fresh start. Rebirth.”
“I’m not talking about your futile attempts with clay. Adam Haines,” she said before he could retort. Like a small tank, she advanced on him. Years before, Kirby had learned size was of no consequence if you had a knack for intimidation. She’d developed it meticulously. Slamming her palms down on his worktable, she stood nose to nose with him. “What the hell do you mean by asking him here and not even telling me?”
“Now, now, Kirby.” Fairchild hadn’t lived six decades without knowing when to dodge and weave. “It simply slipped my mind.”
Better than anyone else, Kirby knew nothing slipped his mind. “What’re you up to now, Papa?”
“Up to?” He smiled guilelessly.
“Why did you ask him here now, of all times?”
“I’ve admired his work. So’ve you,” he pointed out when her mouth thinned. “He wrote such a nice letter about Scarlet Moon when it was exhibited at the Metropolitan last month.”
Her brow lifted, an elegant movement under a layer of soot. “You don’t invite everyone who compliments your work.”
“Of course not, my sweet. That would be impossible. One must be…selective. Now I must get back to my work while the mood’s flowing.”
“Something’s going to flow,” she promised. “Papa, if you’ve a new scheme after you promised—”
“Kirby!” His round, smooth face quivered with emotion. His lips trembled. It was only one of his talents. “You’d doubt the word of your own father? The seed that spawned you?”
“That makes me sound like a gardenia, and it won’t work.” She crossed her arms over her chest. Frowning, Fairchild poked at the unformed clay.
“My motives are completely altruistic.”
“Hah.”
“Adam Haines is a brilliant young artist. You’ve said so yourself.”
“Yes, he is, and I’m sure he’d be delightful company under different circumstances.” She leaned forward, grabbing her father’s chin in her hand. “Not now.”
“Ungracious,” Fairchild said with disapproval. “Your mother, rest her soul, would be very disappointed in you.”
Kirby ground her teeth. “Papa, the Van Gogh!”
“Coming along nicely,” he assured her. “Just a few more days.”
Knowing she was in danger of tearing out her hair, she stalked to the tower window. “Oh, bloody murder.”
Senility, she decided. It had to be senility. How could he consider having that man here now? Next week, next month, but now? That man, Kirby thought ruthlessly, was nobody’s fool.
At first glance she’d decided he wasn’t just attractive—very attractive—but sharp. Those big camel’s eyes gleamed with intelligence. The long, thin mouth equaled determination. Perhaps he was a bit pompous in his bearing and manner, but he wasn’t soft. No, she was certain instinctively that Adam Haines would be hard as nails.
She’d like to do him in bronze, she mused. The straight nose, the sharp angles and planes in his face. His hair was nearly the color of deep, polished bronze, and just a tad too long for convention. She’d want to capture his air of arrogance and authority. But not now!
Sighing, she moved her shoulders. Behind her back, Fairchild grinned. When she turned back to him, he was studiously intent on his clay.
“He’ll want to come up here, you know.” Despite the soot, she dipped her hands in her pockets. They had a problem; now it had to be dealt with. For the better part of her life, Kirby had sorted through the confusion her father gleefully created. The truth was, she’d have had it no other way. “It would seem odd if we didn’t show him your studio.”
“We’ll show him tomorrow.”
“He mustn’t see the Van Gogh.” Kirby planted her feet, prepared to do battle on this one point, if not the others. “You’re not going to make this more complicated than you already have.”
“He won’t see it. Why should he?” Fairchild glanced up briefly, eyes wide. “It has nothing to do with him.”
Though she realized it was foolish, Kirby was reassured. No, he wouldn’t see it, she thought. Her father might be a little…unique, she decided, but he wasn’t careless. Neither was she. “Thank God it’s nearly finished.”
“Another few days and off it goes, high into the mountains of South America.” He made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hands.
Moving over, Kirby uncovered the canvas that stood on an easel in the far corner. She studied it as an artist, as a lover of art and as a daughter.
The pastoral scene was not peaceful but vibrant. The brush strokes were jagged, almost fierce, so that the simple setting had a frenzied kind of motion. No, it didn’t sit still waiting for admiration. It reached out and grabbed by the throat. It spoke of pain, of triumph, of agonies and joys. Her lips tilted because she had no choice. Van Gogh, she knew, could have done no better.
“Papa.” When she turned her head, their eyes met in perfect understanding. “You are incomparable.”
By seven, Kirby had not only resigned herself to their house guest, but was prepared to enjoy him. It was a basic trait of her character to enjoy what she had to put up with. As she poured vermouth into a glass, she realized she was looking forward to seeing him again, and to getting beneath the surface gloss. She had a feeling there might be some fascinating layers in Adam Haines.
She dropped into a high-backed chair, crossed her legs and tuned back in to her father’s rantings.
“It hates me, fails me at every turn. Why, Kirby?” He spread his hands in an impassioned plea. “I’m a good man, loving father, faithful friend.”
“It’s your attitude, Papa.” She shrugged a shoulder as she drank. “Your emotional plane’s faulty.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my emotional plane.” Sniffing, Fairchild lifted his glass. “Not a damn thing wrong with it. It’s the clay that’s the problem, not me.”
“You’re
