Sleight Of Hand (2 page)

All that before he'd even met her.

"If you didn't expect me to come, why make up
that preposterous story about us being on our honeymoon?" She eyed
him from across the room. "Did you pay the manager to say he
doesn't have any more cabins available?"

He'd been prepared to do exactly that, but
for the first time in six months, luck was on his side. "Why would
I bribe good old Harvey?" he drawled.

"In New York, you told me not to come here.
Yet, it looks as if you were expecting me."

He picked up his half finished beer from the
end table by the couch and took a swig as he considered his
options. He needed Sarah to stay close to him until O'Sullivan made
an appearance, but the usual expensive wine followed by a tumble
between the sheets wouldn't work with her. As desperately as he
needed to find her father, he couldn't seduce the woman he planned
to betray. He'd have to rely on his intelligence, not his charm, to
keep this woman by his side. If there weren't so much on the line,
he'd enjoy the challenge.

"Just covering my bases, that's all. Your
father told me how impulsive you are, and I can't risk you messing
things up for me. What are you wearing on your feet?" People
revealed the most amazing things if you kept them off-balance.
Satisfied by the confusion in her eyes, he slumped down on the
brown corduroy couch and propped his own feet on the coffee
table.

"Mukluks," she huffed. "Which you would know
about if you'd spent any time in the north."

Hardly waiting for her to finish speaking, he
shot another question at her. "Why were you in New York?"

She pulled her scarf off and frowned down at
it. If he thought her capable of lying, he'd swear she was bracing
herself to tell a fib. "The weather was so wet and dreary in
London," she said, still studying her scarf. "I was homesick for a
real winter."

"Just like that? After, how long has it been,
five years?"

"My reasons for returning to the States are
none of your business." She tossed her scarf on top of her gloves,
unbuttoned her jacket and shrugged out of it. "As long we're
playing fifty questions, I have a few of my own. Why are you so
interested in finding my father? You haven't been accused of
stealing those paintings, have you?"

He choked on his mouthful of beer. "Not yet,
but I don't take kindly to the FBI following me around," he said
when he got his breath back. "The sooner your father's found, the
sooner I get my life back to normal." As if he knew what normal
felt like.

"I suppose that makes sense." She rubbed a
finger over a button on her jacket. "You realize this honeymoon
story you've made up is going to make it awkward for us? We're
going to have to act like...." She avoided his gaze and looked at
the fire.

"Like lovers?"

"I guess."

He watched a blush tinge her cheeks. "Had
much practice?"

Two round spots, the same bright red as her
sweater, popped out on each cheek. "Not as much as you, I'm
sure."

She spun around to the open closet beside the
door and hung her jacket up, then grabbed his leather jacket from
the chair where he'd tossed it and hung that up as well.

She was picking up after him already. He
shoved his empty bottle on to the coffee table, pushed up from the
couch and went behind the counter that divided the main room from
the kitchen to look for another beer.

"Please tell me there are two bedrooms?"

He pulled his head out of the refrigerator to
glance over his shoulder. "Yeah, I took the big one. But, if the
small one's not comfortable we can share." Where the hell had that
come from? "I mean switch. Or something."

Rattled by his slip, he stuck his head back
in the refrigerator and snatched a beer.

"I'm sure the smaller room will be fine." She
put her camera bag on the counter and half perched on a stool on
the living room side. "Have you located my father yet?"

No, but when he did find his conveniently
missing business partner, he was going to wring the Irishman's
neck. Thanks to O'Sullivan, it was only a matter of a week or two
before the FBI got tired of their games and threw Chance in jail.
He slammed the door shut, popped the top off his fresh beer and
took a long swallow.

She wrinkled her nose. "How many of those
have you had?"

Here we go
. He'd wondered how long it
would take for the spoiled, little rich girl to surface. "Not
enough." To prove his point, he tipped the brown bottle up and
gulped half of the beer.

Two lines furrowed between her brow as she
slipped off the stool and clutched her bag in front of her. "Maybe
I should unpack. Which bedroom is mine?"

He gestured with the bottle to the nearest
door, watched as she marched to the bedroom, her finishing school
pose firmly intact. He shouldn't have pissed her off. He needed
Sarah to work with him, not against him.

He glowered at the bottle in his hand, set
the unfinished beer on the counter and followed her. He leaned
against the doorway to watch her inspect the snug, little room.
With her ridiculous boots and her hat still on, she looked like she
hadn't made up her mind to stay.

"Your feet are going to melt if you don't
take those boots off."

She gasped and spun around to face him.

Great going, guy. "You need help with those?"
He nodded at her boots.

"No. Thank you." She skirted around the edge
of the narrow bed to stand on the opposite side. "Is there a phone
here?"

"No, but Harvey doesn't mind if you use the
one at the office. You don't have a cell phone?"

"I gave them up as a bad habit after I lost
my third one."

"I've been through a few myself." He stopped
and cleared his throat, not believing what he was about to say.
"Listen, if my drinking makes you nervous, I can cut back a bit. I
guess."

"Thank you." Her gaze brushed against his
before she dipped her head and frowned at her boots.

"Okay." He rubbed the back of his neck. "When
the snow stops, the restaurant down the road will open for supper.
I think we should go mingle. Harvey says everyone comes out after a
storm."

"Do all the cabins have two bedrooms?" Her
direct gaze surprised him. Since she'd arrived, she'd avoided
making eye contact with him as much as possible. Which was probably
a good thing, considering each time her jade green eyes locked on
his, he felt a little jolt, like his heart was misfiring.

"I don't know. Why?"

"It's hard to believe you weren't expecting
me. The two bedrooms, the honeymoon story; I'm not here for more
than fifteen minutes and you suggest we go mingle with the local
people. Sounds to me like you had everything planned before I got
here." A gleam brightened her eyes.

So, the pretty lady had a sharp mind to go
with her sexy looks. It made one hell of a combination if a guy
were interested. Which he wasn't.

"You're here now. I'm dealing with it. That's
all there is to it."

She searched his face. Whatever she saw must
have reassured her because she shrugged and lifted the curtain on
the window beside her. "I don't think it's snowing as much as it
was."

He crossed the room to look out at the
remnants of the storm. Standing close to her, he caught a whiff of
delicate perfume. She smelled more spicy than sweet. Like a
concoction from a coffee bar-something with cinnamon and lots of
cream. He swallowed hard. Definitely cream.

Stick to the business at hand. "I haven't
asked anyone about your father yet. Thought it would be better to
go slow for a day or two, get to know some people."

When she glanced over her shoulder, he
noticed the faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. He
wondered if she laughed much and what she looked like when she
smiled.

Damn it, he didn't need to know that, just as
he didn't need to know why she'd blushed when he asked her how much
practice she had with lovers.

"My father liked you a lot. He talked about
you all the time."

"Talk is cheap," he shot back. "Don't bother
with the malarkey, or whatever it is your father calls it. I got
suckered by him. Don't think the same thing's going to happen with
you."

And there it was, the endearing, skittish
awkwardness he'd seen in the photos. She looked young and uncertain
and incredibly beautiful as her gaze collided with his, then veered
away. A faint blush touched her cheekbones, crept up to her high,
smooth forehead.

What if he'd gotten it wrong? She didn't look
capable of telling white lie let alone be an accomplice in a major
theft.

For one, terrifying second, he was tempted to
leave it there; to walk out of the cabin, catch a plane back to the
States and not go any further in his search for her father.

The hell you will. The only thing he cared a
damn about was saving his own hide. O'Sullivan's daughter was a
pawn to be played at the right time. Tough luck if he ruffled her
elegant feathers along the way.

Her eyes turned the color of liquid jade as
they stretched wide open. Oh no, she wasn't going to pull that old
trick on him. If she couldn't handle the truth, that was her
problem. Knowing he'd be in trouble if her tears actually fell, he
stalked out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

He paced the cramped living room from one end
to the other. His half finished beer sat on the counter where he'd
left it, mocking him. Moving into the kitchen, he snatched it up,
and with a quick twist of his wrist, poured the remaining beer down
the sink.

Tempted to open a fresh one, he thrust the
empty out of sight and scanned the living room for his jacket. Out
of the corner of his eye, he noticed the two jackets hanging in the
closet.

Sarah had been here less than an hour, and
already she was driving him crazy. He should never have let his
buddy, Steve, talk him into this stupid plan. He shrugged into his
jacket, pulled on his leather boots and escaped outside.

The deep, penetrating silence of the dying
snowstorm leeched away his tension. He grabbed the shovel that
leaned beside the front door and started clearing away the slushy
snow.

Okay, maybe he'd been a little rough on
Sarah. And, yeah he needed her help to find O'Sullivan. But she was
going to have to understand a few things. Two shovelfuls followed
in quick succession. Tears were out. He didn't handle the crying
thing well. And no personal chitchat, like how much O'Sullivan
liked him.

Or how many men she'd slept with.

Despite the cold, wet night air, sweat formed
on the back of his neck. He flipped up his collar and increased his
pace, the road only three feet away.

Sarah was shaping up to be as much trouble as
her father. His plan would stay as is for now, but if she posed too
much of a problem, he'd alter his strategy. He never worked without
preparing himself for contingencies.

When the door to the cabin slammed shut,
Sarah pulled her hat off and scrunched it tight between her hands.
What had she gotten herself into by coming here? In New York, she'd
sensed Chance was a desperate man, but she hadn't taken the time to
consider how desperate he was or that he might be dangerous.

She wandered over to the dresser mirror,
tossed her hat down and tucked a few wayward strands of hair into
her french braid. Had Chance made a deal with the FBI? Her father
in exchange for what? His life back to normal as he'd just told
her? For some reason, his explanation didn't ring true.

Chance had tracked her to the magazine where
she freelanced as a photographer and showed her the ad he'd
discovered in the New York Times. Happy Birthday, Silly Dilly. Love
Dad. How many fathers called their daughter Silly Dilly? It had to
be from her father.

The ad, Chance told her, had been paid for
with a Canadian postal money order bought right here in Ashley
Cove. He was on his way to Canada to find her father and wanted to
know--what? It alarmed her that other than showing her the ad, he
hadn't asked many questions.

He'd warned her not to follow him. She looked
too Big City, he'd said, then pointed out the possibility that her
father hadn't pulled off the theft alone. In a small town, she'd
stick out too much, and to some people, a half a million dollars of
art was worth killing for.

She'd followed him anyway. Six months ago
when the agent from Interpol had knocked on her door in London and
told her that her father had disappeared along with several
Canadian Group of Seven paintings--right after he and Chance had
installed a new security system in the same museum--she'd assumed
her father was guilty.

She'd had similar uneasy thoughts over the
years. Where else had the money come from to send her to all those
expensive schools? So, she ignored the disquieting thought that
Chance knew more than he was telling her and rushed up here in her
usual heedless fashion.

Moping around this empty cabin wasn't the way
to find her father. She grabbed her hat, spun away from the mirror
and checked her watch. Chance had been gone for a while. He'd
probably questioned half the town by now. Ignoring her unpacked
suitcase, she pulled her old Nikon out of its bag and rushed into
the empty living room.

With her camera and wool hat down in hand,
she stared at the fleece-lined rawhide jacket hanging in the
closet. What had she been thinking to let that sporting goods clerk
talk into buying the heavy, oversized jacket and those stupid
boots? Chance must think she was an idiot. Not that it mattered
what he thought.

She pulled on the jacket, tucked her braid
inside her collar and slipped on a pair of heavy framed glasses. A
smug smile looked out from the mirror beside the door.

Big city, my ass.

She'd ignore the honeymoon tale Chance had
fabricated and stick to her original plan of telling people she was
a photographer. Besides, she hung her camera around her neck, she
never went anywhere without her old camera.