Free The Art of Deception by Nora Roberts Page A

to be ninety-two, but of course he’s ninety-five and won’t admit it.” She shook her head. “Vanity.”
    Kirby pulled him along until they stood at a dizzying height above the river. Far below, the ribbon of water seemed still. Small dots of houses were scattered alongthe view. There was a splash of hues rather than distinct tones, a melding of textures.
    On the ridge where they stood there was only wind, river and sky. Kirby threw her head back. She looked primitive, wild, invincible. Turning, he looked at the house. It looked the same.
    â€œWhy do you stay here?” Blunt questions weren’t typical of him. Kirby had already changed that.
    â€œI have my family, my home, my work.”
    â€œAnd isolation.”
    Her shoulders moved. Though her lashes were lowered, her eyes weren’t closed. “People come here. That’s not isolation.”
    â€œDon’t you want to travel? To see Florence, Rome, Venice?”
    From her stance on a rock, she was nearly eye level with him. When she turned to him, it was without her usual arrogance. “I’d been to Europe five times before I was twelve. I spent four years in Paris on my own when I was studying.”
    She looked over his shoulder a moment, at nothing or at everything, he couldn’t be sure. “I slept with a Breton count in a chateau, skied in the Swiss Alps and hiked the moors in Cornwall. I’ve traveled, and I’ll travel again. But…” He knew she looked at the house now, because her lips curved. “I always come home.”
    â€œWhat brings you back?”
    â€œPapa.” She stopped and smiled fully. “Memories, familiarity. Insanity.”
    â€œYou love him very much.” She could make things impossibly complicated or perfectly simple. The job he’d come to do was becoming more and more of a burden.
    â€œMore than anything or anyone.” She spoke quietly,so that her voice seemed a part of the breeze. “He’s given me everything of importance: security, independence, loyalty, friendship, love—and the capability to give them back. I’d like to think someday I’ll find someone who wants that from me. My home would be with him then.”
    How could he resist the sweetness, the simplicity, she could show so unexpectedly? It wasn’t in the script, he reminded himself, but reached a hand to her face, just to touch. When she brought her hand to his, something stirred in him that wasn’t desire, but was just as potent.
    She felt the strength in him, and sensed a confusion that might have been equal to her own. Another time, she thought. Another time, it might have worked. But now, just now, there were too many other things. Deliberately she dropped her hand and turned back to the river. “I don’t know why I tell you these things,” she murmured. “It’s not in character. Do people usually let you in on their personal thoughts?”
    â€œNo. Or maybe I haven’t been listening.”
    She smiled and, in one of her lightning changes of mood, leaped from the rock. “You’re not the type people would confide in.” Casually she linked her arm through his. “Though you seem to have strong, sturdy shoulders. You’re a little aloof,” she decided. “And just a tad pompous.”
    â€œPompous?” How could she allure him one instant and infuriate him the next? “What do you mean, pompous?”
    Because he sounded dangerously like her father, she swallowed. “Just a tad,” she reminded him, nearly choking on a laugh. “Don’t be offended, Adam. Pomposity certainly has its place in the world.” When he continued to scowl down at her, she cleared her throat ofanother laugh. “I like the way your left brow lifts when you’re annoyed.”
    â€œI’m not pompous.” He spoke very precisely and watched her lips tremble with fresh amusement.
    â€œPerhaps that was a