CHAPTER 11
It was clear after Kirby had tossed in bed and fluffed up her pillow for more than an hour that she wasn’t going to get the rest everyone seemed to want for her. Her body was dragging, but her mind refused to give in to it.
She tried. For twenty minutes she recited dull poetry. Closing her eyes, she counted five hundred and twenty-seven camels. She turned on her bedside radio and found chamber music. She was, after all of it, wide awake.
It wasn’t fear. If Stuart had indeed tried to kill her, he’d failed. She had her own wits, and she had Adam. No, it wasn’t fear.
The Rembrandt. She couldn’t think of anything else after seeing Harriet laughing, after remembering how Harriet had nursed her through the flu and had given her a sweet and totally unnecessary woman-to-woman talk when she’d been a girl.
Kirby had grieved for her own mother, and though she’d died when Kirby had been a child, the memory remained perfectly clear. Harriet hadn’t been a substitute. Harriet had simply been Harriet. Kirby loved her for that alone.
How could she sleep?
Annoyed, Kirby rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe, just maybe, she could make use of the insomnia and sort it all out and make some sense out of it.
Her father, she was certain, would do nothing to hurt Harriet without cause. Was revenge on Stuart cause enough? After a moment, she decided it didn’t follow.
Harriet had gone to Africa—that was first. It had been nearly two weeks after that when Kirby had broken her engagement with Stuart. Afterward she had told her father of Stuart’s blackmail threats and he’d been unconcerned. He’d said, Kirby remembered, that Stuart wasn’t in any position to make waves.
Then it made sense to assume they’d already begun plans to switch the paintings. Revenge was out.
Then why?
Not for money, Kirby thought. Not for the desire to own the painting himself. That wasn’t his way—she knew better than anyone how he felt about greed. But then, stealing from a friend wasn’t his way either.
If she couldn’t find the reason, perhaps she could find the painting itself.
Still staring at the ceiling, she began to go over everything her father had said. So many ambiguous comments, she mused. But then, that was typical of him. In the house—that much was certain. In the house, hidden with appropriate affection and respect. Just how many hundreds of possibilities could she sort through in one night?
She blew out a disgusted breath and rolled over again. With a last thump for her pillow, she closed her eyes. The yawn, she felt, was a hopeful sign. As she snuggled deeper, a tiny memory probed.
She’d think about it tomorrow…. No, now, she thought, and rolled over again. She’d think about it now. What was it her father had been saying to Adam when she’d walked into his studio the night after the Titian switch? Something… Something…about involving her figuratively.
“Root rot,” she muttered, and squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. “What the devil was that supposed to mean?” Just as she was about to give up, the idea seeped in. Her eyes sprang open as she sprang up. “It’d be just like him!”
Grabbing a robe, she dashed from the room.
For a moment in the hall she hesitated. Perhaps she should wake Adam and tell him of her theory. Then again, it was no more than that, and he hadn’t had the easiest day of it, either. If she produced results, then she’d wake him. And if she was wrong, her father would kill her.
She made a quick trip to her father’s studio, then went down to the dining room.
On neither trip did she bother with lights. She wanted no one to pop out of their room and ask what she was up to. Carrying a rag, a bottle and a stack of newspapers, she went silently through the dark. Once she’d reached the dining room, she turned on the lights. No one would investigate downstairs except Cards. He’d never question her. She worked quickly.
Kirby spread the newspapers in thick pads on the dining room table. Setting the bottle and the rag on them, she turned to her own portrait.
“You’re too clever for your own good, Papa,” she murmured as she studied the painting. “I’d never be able to tell if this was a duplicate. There’s only one way.”
Once she’d taken the portrait from the wall, Kirby laid it on the newspaper. “Its value goes below the surface,” she murmured. Isn’t that what he’d said to Harriet? And he’d been smug. He’d been smug right from the start. Kirby opened the bottle and tipped the liquid onto the rag. “Forgive me, Papa,” she said quietly.
With the lightest touch—an expert’s touch—she began to remove layers of paint in the lower corner. Minutes passed. If she was wrong, she wanted the damage to be minimal. If she was right, she had something priceless in her hands. Either way, she couldn’t rush.
She dampened the rag and wiped again. Her father’s bold signature disappeared, then the bright summer grass beneath it, and the primer.
And there, beneath where there should have been only canvas, was a dark, somber brown. One letter, then another, appeared. It was all that was necessary.
“Great buckets of blood,” she murmured. “I was right.”
Beneath the feet of the girl she’d been was Rembrandt’s signature. She’d go no further. As carefully as she’d unstopped it, Kirby secured the lid of the bottle.
“So, Papa, you put Rembrandt to sleep under a copy of my portrait. Only you would’ve thought to copy yourself to pull it off.”
“Very clever.”
Whirling, Kirby looked behind her into the dark outside the dining room. She knew the voice; it didn’t frighten her. As her heart pounded, the shadows moved. What now? she asked herself quickly. Just how would she explain it?
“Cleverness runs in the family, doesn’t it, Kirby?”
“So I’m told.” She tried to smile. “I’d like to explain. You’d better come in out of the dark and sit down. It could take—” She stopped as the first part of the invitation was accepted. She stared at the barrel of a small polished revolver. Lifting her gaze from it, she stared into clear, delicate blue eyes. “Melly, what’s going on?”
“You look surprised. I’m glad.” With a satisfied smile, Melanie aimed the gun at Kirby’s head. “Maybe you’re not so clever after all.”
“Don’t point that at me.”
“I intend to point it at you.” She lowered the gun to chest level. “And I’ll do more than point it if you move.”
“Melly.” She wasn’t afraid, not yet. She was confused, even annoyed, but she wasn’t afraid of the woman she’d grown up with. “Put that thing away and sit down. What’re you doing here this time of night?”
“Two reasons. First, to see if I could find any trace of the painting you’ve so conveniently found for me. Second, to finish the job that was unsuccessful this morning.”
“This morning?” Kirby took a step forward then froze when she heard the quick, deadly click. Good God, could it actually be loaded? “Melly…”
“I suppose I must have miscalculated a bit or you’d be dead already.” The elegant rose silk whispered as she shrugged. “I know the passages very well. Remember, you used to drag me around in them when we were children—before you went in with a faulty flashlight. I’d changed the batteries in it, you see. I’d never told you about that, had I?” She laughed as Kirby remained silent. “I used the passages this morning. Once I was sure you and Adam were settled in, I went out and turned on the gas by the main valve—I’d already broken the switch on the unit.”
“You can’t be serious.” Kirby dragged a hand through her hair.
“Deadly serious, Kirby.”
“Why?”
“Primarily for money, of course.”
“Money?” She would’ve laughed, but her throat was closing. “But you don’t need money.”
“You’re so smug.” The venom came through. Kirby wondered that she’d never heard it before. “Yes, I need money.”
“You wouldn’t take a settlement from your ex-husband.”
“He wouldn’t give me a dime,” Melanie corrected. “He cut me off, and as he had me cold on adultery, I wasn’t in a position to take him to court. He let me get a quiet, discreet divorce so that our reputations wouldn’t suffer. And except for one incident, I’d been very discreet. Stuart and I were always very careful.”
“Stuart?” Kirby lifted a hand to rub at her temple. “You and Stuart?”
“We’ve been lovers for over three years. Questions are just buzzing around in your head, aren’t they?” Enjoying herself, Melanie stepped closer. The whiff of Chanel followed her. “It was more practical for us if we pretended to be just acquaintances. I convinced Stuart to ask you to marry him. My inheritance has dwindled to next to nothing. Your money would have met Stuart’s and my tastes very nicely. And we’d have got close to Uncle Philip.”
She ignored the rest and homed in on the most important. “What do you want from my father?”
“I found out about the little game he and Mother indulged in years ago. Not all the details, but enough to know I could use it if I had to. I thought it was time to use your father’s talent for my own benefit.”
“You made plans to steal from your own mother.”
“Don’t be so self-righteous.” Her voice chilled. The gun was steady. “Your father betrayed her without a murmur, then double-crossed us in the bargain. Now you’ve solved that little problem for me.” With her free hand, she gestured to the painting. “I should be grateful I failed this morning. I’d still be looking for the painting.”
Somehow, some way, she’d deal with this. Kirby started with the basics. “Melly, how could you hurt me? We’ve been friends all our lives.”
“Friends?” The word sounded like an obscenity. “I’ve hated you for as long as I can remember.”
“No—”
“Hated,” Melanie repeated, coldly this time and with the ring of truth. “It was always you people flocked around, always you men preferred. My own mother preferred you.”
“That’s not true.” Did it go so deep? Kirby thought with a flood of guilt. Should she have seen it before? “Melly—” But as she started forward, Melanie gestured with the gun.
“’Melanie, don’t be so stiff and formal…. Melanie, where’s your sense of humor?”’ Her eyes narrowed into slits. “She never came right out and said I should be more like you, but that’s what she wanted.”
“Harriet loves you—”
“Love?” Melanie cut Kirby off with a laugh. “I don’t give a damn for love. It won’t buy what I need. You may have taken my mother, but that was a minor offense. The men you snatched from under my nose time and time again is a bigger one.”
“I never took a man from you. I’ve never shown an interest in anyone you were serious about.”
“There have been dozens,” Melanie corrected. Her voice was as brittle as glass. “You’d smile and say something stupid and I’d be forgotten. You never had my looks, but you’d use that so-called charm and lure them away, or you’d freeze up and do the same thing.”
“I might’ve been friendly to someone you cared for,” Kirby said quickly. “If I froze it was to discourage them. Good God, Melly, I’d never have done anything to hurt you. I love you.”
“I’ve no use for your love any longer. It served its purpose well enough.” She smiled slowly as tears swam in Kirby’s eyes. “My only regret is that you didn’t fall for Stuart. I wanted to see you fawn over him, knowing he preferred me—married you only because I wanted it. When you came to see him that night, I nearly came out of the bedroom just for the pleasure of seeing your face. But…” She shrugged. “We had long-range plans.”
“You used me,” Kirby said quietly when she could no longer deny it. “You had Stuart use me.”
“Of course. Still, it wasn’t wise of me to come back from New York for the weekend to be with him.”
“Why, Melanie? Why have you pretended all these years?”
“You were useful. Even as a child I knew that. Later, in Paris, you opened doors for me, then again in New York. It was even due to you that I spent a year of luxury with Carlyse. You wouldn’t sleep with him and you wouldn’t marry him. I did both.”
“And that’s all?” Kirby murmured. “That’s all?”
“That’s all. You’re not useful any longer, Kirby. In fact, you’re an inconvenience. I’d planned your death as a warning to Uncle Philip, now it’s just a necessity.”
She wanted to turn away, but she needed to face it. “How could I have known you all my life and not seen it? How could you have hated me and not shown it?”
“You let emotions rule your life, I don’t. Pick up the painting, Kirby.” With the gun, she gestured. “And be careful with it. Stuart and I have been offered a healthy sum for it. If you call out,” she added, “I’ll shoot you now and be in the passage with the painting before anyone comes down.”
“What are you going to do?”
“We’re going into the passage. You’re going to have a nasty spill, Kirby, and break your neck. I’m going to take the painting home and wait for the call to tell me of your accident.”
She’d stall. If only she’d woken Adam… No, if she’d woken him, he, too, would have a gun pointed at him. “Everyone knows how I feel about the passages.”
“It’ll be a mystery. When they find the empty space on the wall, they’ll know the Rembrandt was responsible. Stuart should be the first target, but he’s out of town and has been for three days. I’ll be devastated by the death of my oldest and dearest friend. It’ll take months in Europe to recover from the grief.”
“You’ve thought this out carefully.” Kirby rested against the table. “But are you capable of murder, Melly?” Slowly she closed her fingers around the bottle, working off the top with her thumb. “Face-to-face murder, not remote-control like this morning.”
“Oh, yes.” Melanie smiled beautifully. “I prefer it. I feel better with you knowing who’s going to kill you. Now pick up the painting, Kirby. It’s time.”
With a jerk of her arm, Kirby tossed the turpentine mixture, splattering it on Melanie’s neck and dress. When Melanie tossed up her hand in protection, Kirby lunged. Together they fell in a rolling heap onto the floor, the gun pressed between them.
* * *
“What do you mean Hiller’s been in New York since yesterday?” Adam demanded. “What happened this morning wasn’t an accident. He had to have done it.”
“No way.” In a few words McIntyre broke Adam’s theory. “I have a good man on him. I can give you the name of Hiller’s hotel. I can give you the name of the restaurant where he had lunch and what he ate while you were throwing chairs through windows. He’s got his alibi cold, Adam, but it doesn’t mean he didn’t arrange it.”
“Damn.” Adam lowered the transmitter while he rearranged his thinking. “It gives me a bad feeling, Mac. Dealing with Hiller’s one thing, but it’s a whole new story if he has a partner or he’s hired a pro to do his dirty work. Kirby needs protection, official protection. I want her out.”
“I’ll work on it. The Rembrandt—”
“I don’t give a damn about the Rembrandt,” Adam tossed back. “But it’ll be in my hands tomorrow if I have to hang Fairchild up by his thumbs.”
McIntyre let out a sigh of relief. “That’s better. You were making me nervous thinking you were hung up on the Fairchild woman.”
“I am hung up on the Fairchild woman,” Adam returned mildly. “So you’d better arrange for—” He heard the shot. One, sharp and clean. It echoed and echoed through his head. “Kirby!” He thought of nothing else as he dropped the open transmitter on the floor and ran.
He called her name again as he raced downstairs. But his only answer was silence. He called as he rushed like a madman through the maze of rooms downstairs, but she didn’t call back. Nearly blind with terror, his own voice echoing back to mock him, he ran on, slamming on lights as he went until the house was lit up like a celebration. Racing headlong into the dining room, he nearly fell over the two figures on the floor.
“Oh, my God!”
“I’ve killed her! Oh, God, Adam, help me! I think I’ve killed her!” With tears streaming down her face, Kirby pressed a blood-soaked linen napkin against Melanie’s side. The stain spread over the rose silk of the dress and onto Kirby’s hand.
“Keep the pressure firm.” He didn’t ask questions, but grabbed a handful of linen from the buffet behind him. Nudging Kirby aside, he felt for a pulse. “She’s alive.” He pressed more linen to Melanie’s side. “Kirby—”
Before he could speak again, there was chaos. The rest of the household poured into the dining room from every direction. Polly let out one squeal that never ended.
“Call an ambulance,” Adam ordered Cards, even as the butler turned to do so. “Shut her up, or get her out,” he told Rick, nodding to Polly.
Recovering quickly, Fairchild knelt beside his daughter and the daughter of his closest friend. “Kirby, what happened here?”
“I tried to take the gun from her.” She struggled to breathe as she looked down at the blood on her hands. “We fell. I don’t—Papa, I don’t even know which one of us pulled the trigger. Oh, God, I don’t even know.”
“Melanie had a gun?” Steady as a rock, Fairchild took Kirby’s shoulders and turned her to face him. “Why?”
“She hates me.” Her voice shook, then leveled as she stared into her father’s face. “She’s always hated me, I never knew. It was the Rembrandt, Papa. She’d planned it all.”
“Melanie?” Fairchild glanced beyond Kirby to the unconscious figure on the floor. “She was behind it.” He fell silent, only a moment. “How bad, Adam?”
“I don’t know, damn it. I’m an artist, not a doctor.” There was fury in his eyes and blood on his hands. “It might’ve been Kirby.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Fairchild’s fingers tightened on his daughter’s shoulder. “You’re right.”
“I found the Rembrandt,” Kirby murmured. If it was shock that was making her light-headed, she wouldn’t give in to it. She forced herself to think and to speak clearly.
Fairchild looked at the empty space on the wall, then at the table where the painting lay. “So you did.”
With a cluck of her tongue, Tulip pushed Fairchild aside and took Kirby by the arm. Ignoring everyone else, she pulled Kirby to her feet. “Come with me, lovie. Come along with me now, that’s a girl.”
Feeling helpless, Adam watched Kirby being led away while he fought to stop the bleeding. “You’d better have a damn good explanation,” he said between his teeth as his gaze swept over Fairchild.
“Explanations don’t seem to be enough at this point,” he murmured. Very slowly he rose. The sound of sirens cut through the quiet. “I’ll phone Harriet.”
Almost an hour had passed before Adam could wash the blood from his hands. Unconscious still, Melanie was speeding on her way to the hospital. His only thought was for Kirby now, and he left his room to find her. When he reached the bottom landing, he came upon an argument in full gear. Though the shouting was all one-sided, the noise vibrated through the hall.
“I want to see Adam Haines and I want to see him immediately!”
“Gate-crashing, Mac?” Adam moved forward to stand beside Cards.
“Adam, thank God.” The small, husky man with the squared-off face and disarming eyes ran a hand through his disheveled mat of hair. “I didn’t know what’d happened to you. Tell this wall to move aside, will you?”
“It’s all right, Cards.” He drew an expressionless stare. “He’s not a reporter. I know him.”
“Very well, sir.”
“What the hell’s going on?” McIntyre demanded when Cards walked back down the hall. “Who just got carted out of here in an ambulance? Damn it, Adam, I thought it might be you. Last thing I know, you’re shouting and breaking transmission.”
“It’s been a rough night.” Putting a hand on his shoulder, Adam led him into the parlor. “I need a drink.” Going directly to the bar, Adam poured, drank and poured again. “Drink up, Mac,” he invited. “This has to be better than the stuff you’ve been buying in that little motel down the road. Philip,” he continued as Fairchild walked into the room, “I imagine you could use one of these.”
“Yes.” With a nod of acknowledgment for McIntyre, and no questions, Fairchild accepted the glass Adam offered.
“We’d better sit down. Philip Fairchild,” Adam went on as Fairchild settled himself, “Henry McIntyre, investigator for the Commonwealth Insurance company.”
“Ah, Mr. McIntyre.” Fairchild drank half his Scotch in one gulp. “We have quite a bit to discuss. But first, Adam, satisfy my curiosity. How did you become involved with the investigation?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve worked for Mac, but it’s the last.” He sent McIntyre a quiet look that was lined in steel. “There’s a matter of our being cousins,” he added. “Second cousins.”
“Relatives.” Fairchild smiled knowingly, then gave McIntyre a charming smile.
“You knew why I was here,” Adam said. “How?”
“Well, Adam, my boy, it’s nothing to do with your cleverness.” Fairchild tossed off the rest of the Scotch, then rose to fill his glass again. “I was expecting someone to come along. You were the only one who did.” He sat back down with a sigh. “Simple as that.”
“Expecting?”
“Would someone tell me who was in that ambulance?” McIntyre cut in.
“Melanie Burgess.” Fairchild looked into his Scotch. “Melly.” It would hurt, he knew, for a long time. For himself, for Harriet and for Kirby. It was best to begin to deal with it. “She was shot when Kirby tried to take her gun away—the gun she was pointing at my daughter.”
“Melanie Burgess,” McIntyre mused. “It fits with the information I got today. Information,” he added to Adam, “I was about to give you when you broke transmission. I’d like it from the beginning, Mr. Fairchild. I assume the police are on their way.”
“Yes, no way around that.” Fairchild sipped at his Scotch and deliberated on just how to handle things. Then he saw he no longer had McIntyre’s attention. He was staring at the doorway.
Dressed in jeans and a white blouse, Kirby stood just inside the room. She was pale, but her eyes were dark. She was beautiful. It was the first thing McIntyre thought. The second was that she was a woman who could empty a man’s mind the way a thirsty man empties a bottle.
“Kirby.” Adam was up and across the room. He had his hands on hers. Hers were cold, but steady. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Melanie?”
“The paramedics handled everything. I got the impression the wound wasn’t as bad as it looked. Go lie down,” he murmured. “Forget it for a while.”
“No.” She shook her head and managed a weak smile. “I’m fine, really. I’ve been washed and patted and plied with liquor, though I wouldn’t mind another. The police will want to question me.” Her gaze drifted to McIntyre. She didn’t ask, but simply assumed he was with the police. “Do you need to talk to me?”
It wasn’t until then he realized he’d been staring. Clearing his throat, McIntyre rose. “I’d like to hear your father’s story first, Miss Fairchild.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” Struggling to find some balance, she walked to her father’s chair. “Are you going to come clean, Papa, or should I hire a shady lawyer?”
“Unnecessary, my sweet.” He took her hand and held it. “The beginning,” he continued with a smile for McIntyre. “It started, I suppose, a few days before Harriet flew off to Africa. She’s an absentminded woman. She had to return to the gallery one night to pick up some papers she’d forgotten. When she saw the light in Stuart’s office, she started to go in and scold him for working late. Instead she eavesdropped on his phone conversation and learned of his plans to steal the Rembrandt. Absentminded but shrewd, Harriet left and let Stuart think his plans were undetected.” He grinned and squeezed Kirby’s hand. “An intelligent woman, she came directly to a friend known for his loyalty and his sharp mind.”
“Papa.” With a laugh of relief, she bent over and kissed his head. “You were working together, I should’ve known.”
“We developed a plan. Perhaps unwisely, we decided not to bring Kirby into it.” He looked up at her. “Should I apologize?”
“Never.”
But the fingers brushing over her hand said it for him. “Kirby’s relationship with Stuart helped us along in that decision. And her occasional shortsightedness. That is, when she doesn’t agree with my point of view.”
“I might take the apology after all.”
“In any case.” Rising, Fairchild began to wander around the room, hands clasped behind his back. His version of Sherlock Holmes, Kirby decided, and settled back for the show. “Harriet and I both knew Stuart wasn’t capable of constructing and carrying through on a theft like this alone. Harriet hadn’t any idea whom he’d been talking to on the phone, but my name had been mentioned. Stuart had said he’d, ah, ‘feel me out on the subject of producing a copy of the painting.’” His face fell easily into annoyed lines. “I’ve no idea why he should’ve thought a man like me would do something so base, so dishonest.”
“Incredible,” Adam murmured, and earned a blinding smile from father and daughter.
“We decided I’d agree, after some fee haggling. I’d then have the original in my possession while palming the copy off on Stuart. Sooner or later, his accomplice would be forced into the open to try to recover it. Meanwhile, Harriet reported the theft, but refused to file a claim. Instead she demanded that the insurance company act with discretion. Reluctantly she told them of her suspicion that I was involved, thereby ensuring that the investigation would be centered around me, and by association, Stuart and his accomplice. I concealed the Rembrandt behind a copy of a painting of my daughter, the original of which is tucked away in my room. I’m sentimental.”
“Why didn’t Mrs. Merrick just tell the police and the insurance company the truth?” McIntyre demanded after he’d worked his way through the explanation.
“They might have been hasty. No offense,” Fairchild added indulgently. “Stuart might’ve been caught, but his accomplice would probably have gotten away. And, I confess, it was the intrigue that appealed to both of us. It was irresistible. You’ll want to corroborate my story, of course.”
“Of course,” McIntyre agreed, and wondered if he could deal with another loony.
“We’d have done things differently if we’d had any idea that Melanie was involved. It’s going to be difficult for Harriet.” Pausing, he aimed a long look at McIntyre that was abruptly no-nonsense. “Be careful with her. Very careful. You might find our methods unorthodox, but she’s a mother who’s had two unspeakable shocks tonight: her daughter’s betrayal and the possibility of losing her only child.” He ran a hand over Kirby’s hair as he stopped by her. “No matter how deep the hurt, the love remains, doesn’t it, Kirby?”
“All I feel is the void,” she murmured. “She hated me, and I think, I really think, she wanted me dead more than she wanted the painting. I wonder…I wonder just how much I’m to blame for that.”
“You can’t blame yourself for being, Kirby.” Fairchild cupped her chin. “You can’t blame a tree for reaching for the sun or another for rotting from within. We make our own choices and we’re each responsible for them. Blame and credit belong to the individual. You haven’t the right to claim either from someone else.”
“You won’t let me cover the hurt with guilt.” After a long breath she rose and kissed his cheek. “I’ll have to deal with it.” Without thinking, she held out a hand for Adam before she turned to McIntyre. “Do you need a statement from me?”
“No, the shooting’s not my jurisdiction, Miss Fairchild. Just the Rembrandt.” Finishing off the rest of his Scotch he rose. “I’ll have to take it with me, Mr. Fairchild.”
All graciousness, Fairchild spread his arms wide. “Perfectly understandable.”
“I appreciate your cooperation.” If he could call it that. With a weary smile, he turned to Adam. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten your terms. If everything’s as he says, I should be able to keep them out of it officially, as we agreed the other day. Your part of the job’s over, and all in all you handled it well. So, I’ll be sorry if you’re serious about not working for me anymore. You got the Rembrandt back, Adam. Now I’ve got to get started on untangling the red tape.”
“Job?” Going cold, Kirby turned. Her hand was still linked in Adam’s, but she felt it go numb as she drew it slowly away. “Job?” she repeated, pressing the hand to her stomach as if to ward off a blow.
Not now, he thought in frustration, and searched for the words he’d have used only a few hours later. “Kirby—”
With all the strength she had left, all the bitterness she’d felt, she brought her hand across his face. “Bastard,” she whispered. She fled at a dead run.
“Damn you, Mac.” Adam raced after her.