Sleight Of Hand (10 page)

He reached over and pried Bosman's hands away
from his face. "The guy with the gun, was that Sarah's father or
another man?"

Bosman wiped his nose with the back of his
hand. "The other one."

She felt Chance go still, as though he were
retreating inside himself. He'd done the same thing last night
outside the diner. She wanted to touch him, to reassure herself he
was still there, which was crazy, because even as she thought that,
he leaned to one side and dug into his jean pocket.

He pulled out a ten dollar bill and laid it
flat on the table halfway between him and Bosman. "Know what this
is?"

"'Course I do. That's ten dollars." A shy
smile flitted over Bosman's face.

"That's right," Chance agreed. "If you see
Sarah's father again and come and tell me where he is, I'll give
you this ten dollar bill."

"I don't like those men." Bosman glanced
toward the door as if he expected them to walk in.

"Hey kid, here's your fries." Cindy placed a
heaping plate of french fries on the table. "What's that for?" She
nodded at the bill.

"I want him to tell me if he sees Sarah's
father again." Chance looked up at her. "That's okay, isn't
it?"

Cindy shrugged. "It's up to him. What do you
think, kid?"

"I don't want you to talk to them, Bosman."
Chance explained. "But if you see him, I need you to come to my
cabin and tell me. If you can't find me, you can tell Cindy.
Okay?"

Bosman screwed off the top of the ketchup
bottle and tipped it upside down. He poured ketchup over most of
his fries until they looked more red than crispy brown. After he
had eaten a fry, he looked at Sarah. "Okay, but I think they're
gone."

Chance's tension eased as he stepped outside
the diner and took a deep breath. Salt saturated the air. His
tension dissolved completely, the taste reminding him of a summer
vacation spent alone with his father at Nantucket. In the years
before his father had remarried, they'd shared some good times.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, he
sauntered up the street in the direction of the old residence that
housed the local museum. He wanted to check out the museum's
security system alone. Not only would a good looking woman like
Sarah attract attention, but she distracted him.

Damn, he hated to admit that. There wasn't
time in his life to get tied up in those kinds of knots.
Particularly now.

That O'Sullivan's cohort had a gun was bad
enough, but only a pro would know not to stay in one place for too
long. No one remembered traveling salesmen who stayed one or two
nights in the area. He should be checking all the motels within a
sixty mile radius, but with the exhibition opening tomorrow, he had
other bases to cover first. Starting with how O'Sullivan planned to
pull off his next heist.

He stopped in front of a rambling, wood frame
house whose age probably matched the huge bare trees that loomed
above it. A small plaque on the front door announced it was the
Ashley Cove Historic Museum. At a glance, the building looked
secure. The first floor windows stood five feet above the ground,
and the basement windows all had bars on them. Better yet, the
front door looked like solid oak and could be seen clearly from the
street. A residence of this size would have at least two other
entrances, though.

He walked up the driveway intending to check
out the rear of the house when the front door swung open. Melvin
beamed at him over an armful of papers.

"You're early." He called out as he hurried
down the front steps. "The reception's not until this evening."

Chance moved up the front walk to meet him.
"Sarah's taking pictures down at the diner. I'm killing time."

"Oh." Melvin looked down the street toward
the diner and shuffled his stack of papers from one arm to the
other. "They're just setting up inside."

"This is a historic museum, isn't it?" Chance
nodded toward the plaque on the front door. "I was hoping to look
at the local exhibit. That's if I won't get in the way."

Melvin looked in the direction of the diner
again. "We're officially closed for the day, but...." He looked
back at Chance. "Just tell Mrs. Waverley I said it was okay for you
to have a look around. She should be at the front desk."

He brushed past Chance and opened the door of
his car with his free hand. "We'll see you tonight, right?"

"Yeah." Chance smiled. "Sarah's really
looking forward to seeing the exhibit."

He watched Melvin back his car out of the
driveway, then waited, curious to see which direction the young
librarian headed. He grinned and shook his head when three minutes
later, Melvin parked his car in front of the diner. Sarah sure knew
how to hook them. Imagine being involved with a woman like her.

A muscle twitched between his shoulder
blades. He rolled his shoulders to ease the sharp jab, turned and
went into the museum.

The oak paneled foyer, with its carved wooden
counter and shelves full of colorful pamphlet stood empty. He
ignored the voices coming from the doorway to his right and studied
the layout of the first floor.

The staircase to the second floor was
directly in front of him. He glanced through the archway to his
left. A large room ran the length of the house. It held various
displays of local artifacts. He looked at the stairs again, then
toward the other room where people were still talking. They must be
setting up an exhibit, but which one?

As he eavesdropped on the conversation, he
moved behind the counter and noted where the phone sat and that the
telephone line went up to the second floor. There was probably an
office up there. He slid a drawer open, but found only paper and
pens and the usual office paraphernalia.

He pulled the second drawer open, and just as
he discovered the code inside an envelope marked 'Alarm', he heard
a woman's voice mention Yosemite. They must be hanging the Ansel
Adams photographs down here. Which meant The Group of Seven
paintings were upstairs.

He moved silently up the stairs and paused at
the top, the room one big open area. When he was growing up, he'd
hung out at galleries and museums the way other kids hung out at
the local pool hall. His father had taught him how to see the fire
and passion in the masterpieces. The Group of Seven had their share
of passion. It didn't take an expert to realize these men had loved
their country.

Chance stepped reverently in front of Tom
Thomson's Northern Lights, but a sound from the first floor jerked
his attention away before he had time to study the picture.

He scanned the room for a surveillance
camera. Not finding one, he hissed through his teeth and went over
to inspect the emergency exit door. It had the standard door sensor
that would trigger an alarm when the door opened.

If the alarm was turned on, that is. A kid
could dismantle this system in two minutes flat. He took one more
look around and slipped down the stairs and out the front door.

Tension coiled tight inside him as he turned
in the direction of the diner. With a little more effort, he could
have a sixty thousand dollar painting tucked under his arm right
now. What was he going to do about the lousy security? He could
hardly phone the local police and warn them of a possible theft,
because the first thing they'd do is check out any strangers in
town. Who knew what would come up if they ran his name?

His blood pressure skyrocketed when he
noticed Sarah walking up the street toward him. He'd told her to
stay inside the diner until he returned.

He stopped and put his hands on his hips as
she drew closer. "What happened to waiting for me inside the
diner?"

"I did. I waited until I saw you walking
back." She smiled up at him. "At least ten people stopped in to
watch Cindy have her picture taken. I was afraid I wouldn't be able
to say no if they asked to have theirs done as well. You look
cranky. Does your ankle hurt?"

Cranky? He'd never been cranky in his life.
Surly, maybe, but not cranky. And, yes, his ankle did hurt. He
hadn't noticed the dull ache until she'd mentioned it.

"Yeah." He limped ahead of her to the Blazer,
unlocked the door and slid into the seat, then watched in the rear
view mirror as Sarah teetered down the sidewalk. Damn stupid shoes.
It would be his fault if she turned her ankle trying to keep up to
him.

What was he doing taking his bad mood--his
cranky mood--out on Sarah? It's not like any of this was her fault.
Or, it could be all her fault. Maybe O'Sullivan was desperate for
money to support his daughter in the style he thought she deserved.
Except, Sarah didn't act like a spoiled, rich woman. Before he
could explore that thought, she opened the passenger door and got
in, a tight smile pasted on her face.

He stuck the key into the ignition and turned
the motor on, but didn't pull out of the parking spot. "I'm sorry,"
he said, staring out the windshield.

She didn't say anything. After a minute, she
pulled on her seatbelt. "Melvin mentioned you were at the
museum."

"Yeah."

"Did you go in?"

"Yeah."

She huffed out a breath. "At this point,
there's no reason for us to hide stuff from each other."

His heart tripped and missed a beat. His eyes
sought hers, but there was nothing in her gaze other than concern
and puzzlement. He had Gage to thank for making him so
apprehensive. That damned agent would make you suspicious of your
own grandmother.

"Cindy wasn't far off when she said all they
had was an extra lock on the door." He nosed the car out into the
street. "If someone is serious about stealing those paintings,
there's not much to stop them."

"Can't we hint to the police that they may
get stolen?"

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
"Only if you want to get me thrown in jail." Why had he told her
the FBI would be only too happy to arrest him in lieu of her
father? What the hell had he been thinking to trust her like
that?

"So, what do we do?"

There was really only one avenue left open to
him. He couldn't do it; couldn't break the vow he'd made to himself
and ultimately, to his father.

He stepped harder on the gas as they left the
small town behind them. "We buy you a decent pair of shoes. After
that, I thought we might poke around a bit."

Sarah wiggled her toes inside the squeaky
white sneakers and tossed her rawhide jacket down on the store
bench. She glanced around the crowded shoe store for Chance. After
feigning interest in her shoe selection for all of two seconds, he
started prowling around the store as though looking for someone to
pounce on.

She saw him a few yards away, close to the
mall entrance of the store. He gripped a shoe with one hand and
drummed its heel against his open palm. His eyes had narrowed into
pinpoints of concentration and his beautiful, sensual mouth was
stretched thin and taut. He'd been wound tight since checking out
the museum.

She was wound pretty tight herself. Her
father was being coerced into helping with the art theft; she was
sure of it. Or maybe the thieves wanted him here so he would take
the fall. As Chance would, if the police didn't catch the real
thieves.

Panic squeezed her throat shut. It was
impossible to imagine either her father or Chance forced to live
behind bars. If only Chance would return to the States.

She looked back toward him and caught her
breath. A few feet behind him stood a tanned, blond-haired man. He
studied Chance with an intensity that was unnerving, a smug,
cat-and-cream smile stretched across his rugged face.

Without taking her eyes off the stranger, she
rushed past the stacks of boxes and display counters toward Chance.
The stranger's intention rang out clear. He was stalking his
prey.

The man switched his attention to her as she
approached Chance. His satisfied smile broke out wider, and she
stumbled as the full impact of his delighted grin hit her. He
saluted her with a finger to his forehead, then turned and
disappeared into the crowded mall.

"Chance." She grabbed his arm.

He dropped the shoe in his hand. "What?"

"A man...he's gone." She pointed out to the
mall.

Chance spun around and stared. Just as
quickly, he turned back to her, grabbed her arms and shook her.
"What man?"

"He was standing behind you, and he...he was
looking at you, like he knew you or...I don't know. He scared
me."

She pulled her arms out of his vice-like
grip. "When he saw me, he smiled and waved. Then he took off."

"Hell." He stalked to the entrance and looked
out into the mall, but she could tell he didn't expect to see the
man by the way he stood there. She joined him by the edge of the
store.

"Blond hair, blue eyes, right?" He stared out
into the mall, the line of his jaw rigid.

She touched her arm with the tip of one
finger and winced. "Beautiful blue eyes," she agreed.

"What were you doing? Flirting with him?"

She bit back her caustic reply. Chance had
reason to be suspicious, but surely not of her. Unless he still
believed she was involved with the theft.

He stared at her the way he had stared at the
shoe a few minutes ago, his gaze intense and narrowed. Obviously, a
simple handshake and a promise wasn't enough to convince him that
she wanted the same thing he did.

Without thinking, she raised her hand to her
cheek, remembering the warm caress of his calloused hand against
her skin and his husky promise the night before. She dropped her
hand and stuck it behind her back as if to avoid temptation. The
thieves--that's what they both wanted. Nothing else mattered.

"He had a tan, which is pretty noticeable
around here at this time of year. It made his eyes look more blue."
She swallowed, easing her strained throat muscles. "I think I
better pay for these runners before I get accused of
stealing--again." She muttered the last word under her breath as
she marched back inside the store.