Sleight Of Hand (24 page)

"We haven't really discussed it." She looked
up at the dark sky. There was nothing to see. No moon. No stars.
Just the oppressive feeling of clouds crowding down close to the
earth. If she was lucky, there might even be a layer of fog
soon.

"I suppose you'll live in New York after your
honeymoon."

She dragged her gaze from the sky and looked
at Melvin, her stomach dipping to her knees. "Pardon?"

"Chance told Cindy you weren't going back to
England. He said you two would be living in New York. It must be
exciting to live there."

After the honeymoon.
She hadn't
thought...if they all managed to stay out of jail.... The concept
of life without Chance wouldn't form in her mind. She stared
bleakly at the Blazer, struggling to come up with an acceptable
alternative. There wasn't one. She and Chance were meant to be
together.

Melvin touched her elbow. "Forget your
keys?"

"No. No, I have them right here." She dug in
her pocket and pulled the key ring out. "I'm late. I have to go.
Thanks, Melvin."

"Drop by any time." He waved and turned to
his own vehicle.

After the honeymoon. The phrase whispered
again and again inside her head as she backed out the driveway and
drove in the direction of the cabin. Imagine waking up each morning
to Chance. Imagine building a life with him. Growing old with
him.

Pain knocked the breath out of her lungs.
They could take him away from her at any time. This is what he'd
been talking about, what he'd been trying to avoid. But, he was too
late. Together or apart, they belonged to each other.
Forever
.

At the sound of the door opening, Chance
slung the tea towel over his shoulder and adjusted the temperature
of the oven before walking out of the kitchen. His heart eased as
he watched Sarah close the door behind her and turn to smile at
him. He'd never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.

Not certain how things stood between them, he
waited, heart in mouth, for her to speak first. The irony of the
situation--him cooking supper, waiting breathlessly for his love to
return from that dangerous old world out there--did nothing to
bolster his confidence.

In the time that she'd been gone, he'd
suffered agonies he hoped to never revisit. Agonies of Sarah in
danger, and he not being able to help her; of not deserving to help
her.

She'd come this far in life with very little
help from anyone. Certainly not her father. For reasons he couldn't
comprehend, Sarah loved him. Him, Chance Spencer. Flavor of the
month for the FBI.

He'd been so busy pushing his past between
them, he'd completely ignored the gift she'd offered. She loved
him, regardless of what he'd done and how much time they had left
together. Chance was going to make every minute of that time count.
When Gage came for him, as he would, what choice did he have?,
Sarah would at least have a few sweet memories to cling to.

It was what she wanted, wasn't it? And if he
had to risk losing his heart completely to her, well, he already
had. He'd only been lying to himself thinking he could control what
was between them. He was deeply, desperately in love with her.

"It smells wonderful in here. Are you cooking
supper?" She unbuttoned her jacket, but didn't take it off as she
waited with raised eyebrows for his answer.

"Yeah, and let me tell you, it's a challenge
in this town. The food store doesn't have fresh herbs, marinating
sauce or asparagus." Hell, he was babbling.

"I'm impressed. It never occurred to me that
you could cook." She glanced at him over her shoulder as she took
her jacket off. "It's always embarrassing to discover the little
prejudices I harbor."

He had a few himself, but his last confession
hadn't worked out all that well, so he decided to keep them to
himself. "Things quiet at the museum?"

"Yes." She hung her jacket up, then looked
toward the fireplace. "You kept the fire going."

For someone who had to go to the museum to
view the paintings she sure didn't have much to say about them. He
studied her face more closely and sighed. Sarah made a terrible
liar, bless her heart. He went over and threw another log on top of
the blaze. "Did you like the Group of Seven exhibit?"

"The paintings? They're wonderful." Her gaze
skidded into his, then down to her sneakers. She toed her shoes off
and grabbed them. "I should put these by the fire. They're damp."
She stood motionless with her shoes dangling from one hand.

Man, this was like pulling teeth. What was
bugging her? "Just Melvin there?"

"Yes. He said Agent Gage had been in and out
several times."

Chance relaxed. Was that all? "I'm not
surprised. I assume the RCMP are tapping into his expertise. If he
believed a heist was about to take place, he'd want to have a good
look at the place. The only thing we can do now is stay away from
the museum and hope your father is smart enough to do the
same."

One sneaker dropped from her hand. She bent
over and grabbed it, her face red when she stood up. Damn, it
wasn't only Gage she was worried about.

He strode over to her, took the tea towel
from his shoulder, draped it around her neck and pulled on both
ends of the towel to tug her toward him. "You're a terrible liar,
babe. Want to tell me what's really on your mind?"

"Um...well...." She looked at her sneakers,
her eyes swimming with tears. "My father was at the museum this
morning. Melvin said he stayed for over an hour, asking all kinds
of questions. He's going to get caught, isn't he?"

She tossed her sneakers in the direction of
the fireplace. "Why didn't he come to see me? If he's free to walk
into a museum, why couldn't he contact me, too? I'm just so...."
She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. "You'd think
I'd know better than to expect anything from him. I'm so damned
pathetic."

Before she left for the museum she'd cried,
and he thought his heart was breaking, but no, he knew now that had
only been a blow. The pain that gripped him right now was his heart
breaking.

He let go of the tea towel and bent to lift
her into his arms. Without a word, he carried her over to the couch
and sat down with her in his lap, holding her close to him.

"You're beautiful." His voice scraped out of
his tight throat as he ran his fingers down through her long hair
and fanned it out over her shoulder.

"And intelligent," he continued. "Talented,
too." With his finger under his chin, he moved her head up to look
in her eyes. "Most of all, you're lovable. Totally, irresistibly
lovable." He rubbed his nose against the tip of hers.

"Oh, Chance."

When he heard the laughter in her teary
voice, his pain eased a bit. "Just because your dad went to the
museum, doesn't mean he was free, Sarah. It's a set-up. When the
theft happens, Melvin will remember O'Sullivan asking all those
questions."

"Oh." She scrubbed away the last of her tears
and sniffed. "I guess I'm not thinking too straight. Sorry."

"For what?"

Her mouth trembled as she tried to smile. "I
wasn't going to tell you about my dad showing up there. I didn't
want to worry you."

Chance knew technically he was still
breathing, but he didn't know how air could pass through his
blocked throat. Embarrassed to feel moisture in his eyes, he tucked
Sarah's head under his chin and held her.

"If I were a free man..." He stopped and
cleared the croak out of his voice. "If I were a free man," he
tried again, "I'd try to be there for you. Every time."

Free or not, he loved her. He'd always love
her. But what was the point of saying it out loud?

She angled her head until her lips touched
the hollow at the base of his throat. He felt her tongue lick his
skin as if she were tasting him. With a smothered groan, he shifted
her on his lap.

"I don't suppose you'd like me to show you
how I'd love you?" he asked, hopefully.

"What about supper?"

It wasn't exactly the response he hoped for,
but she hadn't said no. "This is your night, Sarah. You want to
eat, I'll put the steaks under the grill. You want to lay in front
of the fire with me, hey babe, I'm there already."

He heard another sniffle and bent his head to
look at her. "You're not crying again, are you?"

"No." She sent him a wobbly smile. "You know
what I'd really like?"

"Your wish is my command," he said and held
his breath. He had a feeling her wish wasn't going to be the same
as his.

"I'd like to sit by the fire and talk. With a
glass of wine," she added. "Unless you want to eat first. Are you
hungry?"

Yeah, he was. But eating wasn't what he had
in mind. "I can wait. Just let me turn the oven off and get the
wine."

"Let me do that." Sarah scrambled to her feet
and sprinted into the kitchen. "You've already prepared supper. You
relax. I'll, uh...I'll get everything."

Chance frowned as he got to his feet. What
was going on? One minute Sarah was curled up in his arms, coming on
to him, and the next, she was a bundle of nervous energy dashing
around the cabin.

She's worried sick about her father, idiot.
There was nothing he could do, except be there for her. If that
meant tapping down his own desires, that's the way it was going to
be. "I'll get more wood for the fire. Be right back."

When he returned with his armload of wood,
Sarah was already sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace. She
sipped her wine as she watched him deposit the logs in the
basket.

"Let's make a toast." She smiled up at him as
she offered him a glass.

He sat on the floor in front of the
overstuffed armchair, then leaned back against it and held his
glass up to watch the fire through the deep red shade of wine.

Sometime in the last couple of days, he'd
decided to stop drinking. He'd been putting it back pretty heavy
the last few months, and he didn't think he'd reached the point of
no return, but why take the chance? Except tonight. For Sarah's
toast he'd take a few sips to please her.

"Come over here." He spread his legs open.
When she snuggled back against him, he wrapped his arms around her
and rested his chin on her head. "What would you like to toast
to?"

"To nights like this. May there be many
more." She clinked her glass against his.

"To nights like these." He touched his glass
to hers, but he couldn't summon a smile. The second part of her
toast, the many more part, wasn't going to happen.

"You have to drink to finish the toast." She
nudged his side.

The wine tasted bitter when he raised the
glass to his lips. Small wonder. He was drinking to something he
didn't believe possible.

Sarah squirmed in his arms as if she couldn't
find a comfortable position. "If you'd be more comfortable sitting
in the chair, go ahead," he suggested.

"No, I..." She flitted a smile over her
shoulder at him. "I'm on edge. I can't stop thinking about my
father. Do you like the wine?"

Sarah twisted around to face him, her back to
the fire. Man, he'd never pegged her as being spinney, but she was
hopping from one topic to another so fast he was starting to feel
confused.

When she continued to look at him
expectantly, he pushed through his confusion to try to remember her
last question. Oh yeah, the wine.

He raised his glass and took several small
sips. "It has a funny aftertaste, don't you think?"

"Not everyone likes a Merlot." She ran her
finger around the edge of her glass.

Okay
. He let the word settle in his
mind. Something...he looked at the fire and tried to concentrate
but neither his head nor his eyes wanted to cooperate.
Something...wrong.

He squinted at Sarah and tried to bring her
into focus. She knelt in front of him, her eyes filled with tears
again. "I'm sorry, Chance."

Sorry
. No. He laid his head back on
the cushioned chair. He was the one who was sorry. So sorry. He
closed his eyes, his mind cloaked with a thick, black
heaviness.

He tried to raise his hand to hold on to
Sarah. Hold on to Sarah. His arm lay useless and heavy by his
side.

"Sarah?" His lips could barely form her name.
With the last of his energy, he opened one eye. Sarah...gone, was
his last conscious thought.

Sarah's hands trembled as she tucked her hair
up into Chance's black wool hat. The hat had been lying on the
table by the door since she'd arrived a few days ago. Good thing
she'd noticed it.

She grabbed her jacket and pulled it on over
her black turtleneck sweater. Black sweater, black trousers, black
hat and gloves. White sneakers. She tiptoed over to the fireplace
and picked up her sneakers, then bent down to kiss Chance's
forehead.

"Sorry my love." She hovered over him, torn
between wanting to reassure herself that he was all right and the
need to get moving. The painkillers the doctor had given her were
powerful, and she hadn't dared mix more than half a pulverized pill
in with his wine. All she needed was an hour.

His fingers were still wrapped around the
stem of his wine glass, but the wine sloshed dangerously to the rim
as the glass tilted in slow motion toward the floor. Sarah gently
pried the glass out of his hand and set it on the floor a couple of
feet away from him.

She settled the fire screen in place, then
hurried to the door and slipped her feet into the damp sneakers.
Without allowing herself a second thought, she crept silently out
into the night.

Thick fog had rolled in from the ocean in the
last hour. It moved like a living entity; now thick, now thin,
climbing high, then dipping down below her knees. She felt the
dampness embrace her, then swirl past.

She yanked Chance's hat down further. It was
now or never. She could steal those paintings--hide the
paintings--in the hopes of foiling the thieves' attempt to steal
them, or she could go back inside and wait for the police to come
and tell her that her father had been arrested.