a flick of her tail, Isabelle moved to the bed and stared up at Montique. He thumped his tail, tongue lolling, before he leaped clumsily to the floor. With a kind of jiggling trot, he followed the gliding cat from the room.
“He went with her,” Adam murmured.
“Of course he did,” Kirby retorted. “She has a beastly temper.”
Refusing to be taken for a fool, Adam gave Kirby a long, uncompromising look. “Are you trying to tell me that the dog belongs to that cat?”
“Do you have a cigarette?” she countered. “I rarely smoke, but Isabelle affects me that way.” She noted that his eyes never lost their cool, mildly annoyed expression as he took one out and lit it for her. Kirby had to swallow a chuckle. Adam was, she decided, remarkable. She drew on the cigarette and blew out the smoke without inhaling. “Isabelle maintains that Montique followed her home. I think she kidnapped him. It would be just like her.”
Games, he thought again. Two could play. “And to whom does Isabelle belong?”
“Belong?” Kirby’s eyes widened. “Isabelle belongs to no one but herself. Who’d want to lay claim to such a wicked creature?”
And he could play as well as anyone. Taking the cigarette from her, Adam drew in smoke. “If you dislike her, why don’t you just get rid of her?”
She nipped the cigarette from his fingers again. “I can hardly do that as long as she pays the rent, can I? There, that’s enough,” she decided after another drag. “I’m quite calm again.” She handed him back the cigarette before she walked to the door. “I’ll take you up to Papa’s studio. We’ll just skip over the third floor, everything’s draped with dustcovers.”
Adam opened his mouth, then decided that some things were best left alone. Dismissing odd cats and ugly dogs, he followed Kirby back into the hall again. The stairs continued up in a lazy arch to the third floor, then veered sharply and became straight and narrow. Kirby stopped at the transition point and gestured down the hall.
“The floor plan is the same as the second floor. There’s a set of stairs at the opposite side that lead to my studio. The rest of these rooms are rarely used.” She gave him the slow smile as she linked hands. “Of course, the entire floor’s haunted.”
“Of course.” He found it only natural. Without a word, he followed her to the tower.
Chapter 3
Normalcy. Tubes of paint were scattered everywhere, brushes stood in jars. The scent of oil and turpentine hung in the air. This Adam understood—the debris and the sensuality of art.
The room was rounded with arching windows and a lofty ceiling. The floor might have been beautiful at one time, but now the wood was dull and splattered and smeared with paints and stains. Canvases were in the corners, against the walls, stacked on the floor.
Kirby gave the room a swift, thorough study. When she saw all was as it should be, the tension eased from her shoulders. Moving across the room, she went to her father.
He sat, motionless and unblinking, staring down at a partially formed mound of clay. Without speaking, Kirby walked around the worktable, scrutinizing the clay from all angles. Fairchild’s eyes remained riveted on his work. After a few moments, Kirby straightened, rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and pursed her lips.
“Mmm.”
“That’s only your opinion,” Fairchild snapped.
“It certainly is.” For a moment, she nibbled on her thumbnail. “You’re entitled to another. Adam, come have a look.”
He sent her a killing glance that caused her to grin. Trapped by manners, he crossed the studio and looked down at the clay.
It was, he supposed, an adequate attempt—a partially formed hawk, talons exposed, beak just parted. The power, the life, that sung in his paints, and in his daughter’s sculptures, just wasn’t there. In vain, Adam searched for a way out.
“Hmm,” he began, only to have Kirby pounce on the syllable.
“There, he agrees with me.” Kirby patted her father’s head and looked smug.
“What does he know?” Fairchild demanded. “He’s a painter.”
“And so, darling Papa, are you. A brilliant one.”
He struggled not to be pleased and poked a finger into the clay. “Soon, you hateful brat, I’ll be a brilliant sculptor as well.”
“I’ll get you some Play-Doh for your birthday,” she offered, then let out a shriek as Fairchild grabbed her ear and twisted. “Fiend.” With a sniff, she rubbed at the lobe.
“Mind your tongue or I’ll make a Van Gogh of you.”
As Adam watched, the little man cackled; Kirby, however, froze—face, shoulders, hands. The fluidity he’d noticed in her even when she was still vanished. It wasn’t annoyance, he thought, but…fear? Not of Fairchild. Kirby, he was certain, would never be afraid of a man, particularly her father. For Fairchild was more feasible, and just as baffling.
She recovered quickly enough and tilted her chin. “I’m going to show Adam my studio. He can settle in.”
“Good, good.” Because he recognized the edge to her voice, Fairchild patted her hand. “Damn pretty girl, isn’t she, Adam?”
“Yes, she is.”
As Kirby heaved a gusty sigh, Fairchild patted her hand again. The clay on his smeared onto hers. “See, my sweet, aren’t you grateful for those braces now?”
“Papa.” With a reluctant grin, Kirby laid her cheek against his balding head. “I never wore braces.”
“Of course not. You inherited your teeth from me.” He gave Adam a flashing smile and a wink. “Come back when you’ve got settled, Adam. I need some masculine company.” He pinched Kirby’s cheek lightly. “And don’t think Adam’s going to sniff around your ankles like Rick Potts.”
“Adam’s nothing like Rick,” Kirby murmured as she picked up a rag and wiped the traces of clay from her hands. “Rick is sweet.”
“She inherited her manners from the milkman,” Fairchild observed.
She shot a look at Adam. “I’m sure Adam can be sweet, too.” But there was no confidence in her voice. “Rick’s forte is watercolor. He’s the sort of man women want to mother. I’m afraid he stutters a bit when he gets excited.”
“He’s madly in love with our little Kirby.” Fairchild would’ve cackled again, but for the look his daughter sent him.
“He just thinks he is. I don’t encourage him.”
“What about the clinch I happened in on in the library?” Pleased with himself, Fairchild turned back to Adam. “I ask you, when a man’s glasses are steamed, isn’t there a reason for it?”
“Invariably.” He liked them, damn it, whether they were harmless lunatics or something
