Sleight Of Hand (15 page)

You're back to where you started. He turned
away and walked wearily to his own room. He had to finish the job
and get the hell out. Before anyone else got hurt.

Two hours later, Chance groaned and rolled
over on his side. It was hard enough to keep his hands off Sarah
during the day, but now, she'd followed him into his dreams. He
could have sworn she'd just whispered his name and slid her hand up
his--.

He froze, sensing another presence in the
room. Acting on instinct, he whipped back, grabbed the shadowy
figure looming above him and flipped it down on the bed. He threw
his leg over the squirming figure and clamped his hand over their
mouth. Sarah's delicious, spicy scent rose up to meet him.

"Sarah? Damn, I'm sorry." He pulled his hand
from her mouth. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head no and pressed two fingers
on his lips to silence him. Before he had time to react to the feel
of her soft skin against his mouth, she slid her arms around his
neck and pulled him down to her.

Instantly, he grew hard. He wanted to groan,
but couldn't. He'd stopped breathing.

Her warm breath tickled his ear as she
whispered into it. "There's someone snooping around in the living
room."

His breath came back in one large whoosh. It
chased the urgency from his body, and he gulped another mouthful of
air to clear his brain.

"Are you sure?" he whispered against her
forehead. Then, because he couldn't stop himself even now, brushed
his lips lightly over the smooth expanse of skin.

"I heard someone trip over something, and I
thought it was you." She pulled her arms away from his neck and
pushed against his chest. "But the light wasn't on, and I can't
imagine you tripping over anything, so I peeked out of my room.
He's shorter than you. And thicker. I thought it might be my
father, but why would he sneak around like that?"

Chance pulled out of her arms and stumbled
off the bed. Short, thick and tripping over things; O'Sullivan made
a lousy thief. Just as Chance knew he would.

He snatched up his jeans from the floor where
he'd dropped them earlier and dragged them on. Almost out the door,
he stopped and looked back at Sarah. The sight of her kneeling up
in the middle of his bed made him nearly groan out loud.

Her silvery hair fell in a cloud of disarray
to just above her full breasts, and her shirt had ridden up to
reveal the full length of her beautiful legs.

Man, wasn't this rich? He finally had her in
his bed and her father was creeping around in their living
room.

He turned away from the enticing picture she
made and stood by the door, waiting for his spurt of anger to die
down. If he had any sense, he'd stay away from both father and
daughter.

He slipped out of the room and stood to one
side of the open archway to the living area. The silence felt
unnatural, as if they were all holding their breath. He'd learned
years ago, it was better to take slow, shallow breaths, and he
waited for that telling gulp of air that would indicate where the
intruder stood.

After a long, breathless minute, he heard a
soft hiss of air being expelled. The door opened and shut. Chance
began to move into the room, but pulled back after half a step.
What if it wasn't O'Sullivan? There were more than one of them
supposedly holding Sarah's father hostage. One of them had a
gun.

When he was certain no one was there, he
moved into the archway and studied the room. He couldn't believe
he'd broken his first, most important rule; never make
assumptions.

Without taking the time to think, he'd leapt
to the conclusion that it was O'Sullivan stumbling around out here.
What if it hadn't been? What if it had been the thug who had tried
to run them over, who had killed Bosman? His carelessness could
have gotten both Sarah and him killed.

He stalked over to the light switch by the
door and slammed it on, then drove the lock on the door home. In
the morning, Sarah was taking the first flight out of here. He
didn't care where it was going to, as long as she left. He'd phone
Steve and ask him to meet her plane.

He'd be able to think straight again. As long
as Sarah stayed, the skills he'd perfected over the years--skills
he needed now more than ever--were lost to him. As they had been
tonight.

"Chance?"

He spun around ready to deliver his
ultimatum, but the words stuck in his throat. Sarah shivered at the
entrance to the room, arms wrapped around her waist, her eyes huge
with fright.

The same kick of desperation he'd felt
earlier at the museum pumped through his heart, and before he knew
what he was doing, he crossed the room and pulled her into his
arms.

"It's okay. He's gone."

"Was it my father?" She nestled in close to
him, her warm breath fanning out over his naked chest.

His body grew rigid as her soft breasts
nudged him. This is what he'd been talking about; he couldn't think
when she was around. She'd asked him a question, something about
her father.

"No." He stopped and tried to clear the
huskiness from his throat. "Your father would have tried to talk to
you, or he would have left a message. Something like that."

"You didn't find anything?"

His raised hand halted halfway to her hair.
He'd been about to indulge the urge to feel it slide through his
fingers once before he sent her off to bed--alone.

Hell! He looked around the room. His breath
eased as he assured himself nothing was out of place, but then
Sarah gasped. He followed her startled gaze to the kitchen.

A jar of dill pickles sat on the kitchen
counter.

Of all the damned, stupid.... Sarah was on
the next flight out of here, and he truly was going to find
O'Sullivan and break every bone in his body. How could the bastard
torture his daughter this way? Didn't he know what he was doing to
her?

Resisting the urge to whip the jar of pickles
against the wall, he shoved his hands in his pockets.
Every
bone.

Sarah's soft whimper cut through his surly
anger. She looked so torn up inside, standing all by herself that
he had to exert every ounce of his control to stop himself from
going to her. He wrenched his gaze away from the misery in her
eyes, walked over to the kitchen and grabbed the pickles. He shoved
the jar into a bottom cupboard.

He kept his back to her as he spoke. "Go back
to bed, Sarah. That's just his way of telling you he's okay."

"Chance?"

He gripped the edge of the counter when he
heard her move toward him. Her voice held too much sadness, so much
uncertainty. A helpless feeling whipped through him. Sarah deserved
sunshine and laughter, not this ugly mess he'd dragged her into.
She deserved to be loved, thoroughly and forever.

"Chance."

He felt her hesitate behind him. When her
hand swept lightly up over his bare back, pleasure shuddered
through him.

"I don't want to be alone tonight. Please, I
want to be with you."

Sarah pulled her hand away from Chance's
smooth, broad back and clenched her fist against her chest. Had she
really just asked Chance to sleep with her?

Not asked.
Begged
.

She'd never felt as alone as she did right
now. The only person who came remotely close to loving her had used
a bottle of pickles to tell her he cared about her and that he was
all right. How pathetic was that?

She needed Chance to hold her, to love her,
if only for the night. She wouldn't ask for more. Chance had set
the boundaries. She understood how he felt. Truly she did. Some men
weren't made for staying.

The muscles ripple across his back as he
tensed. When he turned to face her, his eyes were shuttered, but
she felt the intensity of his gaze all the same.

Suddenly, she recalled her first impression
of him when they met in New York. He'd seemed so dangerous, so
hungry then. He had the same look now, but it had an explosive edge
that hadn't been there before.

"Sarah, I...."

Oh God, he was going to say no. After he'd
already asked her to make love with him. After she'd sacrificed her
pride to ask him. She hunched her shoulders against the pain of
rejection and turned to walk away.

"I'm sorry," she choked out over her
shoulder. "Forget I said that."

He caught her before she'd crossed the room
and pulled her back against him. "You have to know how much I want
you, Sarah. Every time I look at you, all I can think about is
making love to you.

"I want to feel your hair drift across my
skin." He separated a swath of her hair and let it slide slowly
through his fingers on to his arm.

"And your mouth." He turned her around in his
arms and ran his thumb over her bottom lip. "I could kiss you for
days and still come back for more."

Her body throbbed with heat as his deep voice
flowed over her. Tentatively, she raised her hands and traced the
muscles in his shoulders. "I've always wanted to touch you here,"
she whispered. "And here." She ran her hands over the soft, dark
hair on his chest.

He sucked in a breath and grabbed her hands.
"We can't do this, Sarah. Tonight is all I have. Tomorrow, next
week, I could go to jail for a long time. You deserve so much
more."

"But you didn't steal the paintings."

"No." He smiled sadly at her. "I didn't steal
the Group of Seven paintings."

Her mind leapt at the way he'd phrased his
reply. He raised her hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles on
both hands, and she no longer cared what he said or how he said it.
His actions spoke louder than his words.

She pulled her hands away and encircled his
neck with her arms. Her mouth was so close to his, his warm breathe
bathed her lips. "I'm only asking for tonight, Chance. Just one
night."

"Sarah." Her name came out on a long sigh,
and as though all his control had escaped with his breath, he
covered her mouth with his, his kiss hard and demanding. He slid
his tongue past her lips, into her mouth.

She tasted wine on his tongue and remembered
how he had looked at her at the museum. How could she have doubted
that he wanted to make love to her? She sunk into the warm,
sensuous hum that vibrated through her.

The feeling he drew from her as he cupped her
head and dove deeper, asking for more, filled her with wonder. She
felt shy, almost virginal, as if she was about to offer him
something she'd never offered to anyone before.

Like her heart.

She moved back from his kiss and slid her
hands down to his chest. It felt so right being in his arms, yet
not right. She needed time to sort out what she was feeling.

"Chance?"

"Hmmm." His answer was more purr than growl
as his nose brushed against her ear. She gasped with pleasure when
he nipped her ear lobe.

He kissed his way down her throat and stopped
at the edge of her nightshirt to finger the pink buttons on the
front of her shirt. "Do these things work or are they just for
show?"

"They work. Chance?"

"Yeah?" He opened the first few buttons with
amazing speed, pushed the shirt down over one shoulder and kissed
his way along her collarbone. "You taste as good as you smell. Like
coffee and cinnamon with lots of cream."

"Coffee?"

"Yeah." He raised his head and grinned. "And
cream. Don't forget that part."

He looked delectable himself. His eyes were
glitter-bright blue. A slash of red stained his cheekbones, while
one lock of hair tumbled on to his forehead.

When he bent forward to kiss her again, she
brought her hand up between their mouths.

"We need to talk."

He pulled back, shook his head as if to clear
it. "Talk? Can't it wait?"

"Just for a minute."

"Talk," he repeated with a resigned sigh.
"Hell, Sarah, you're the one who said you wanted to--"

"I still do, but...you're going too
fast."

"Too fast." When he repeated her words they
sounded ridiculous to her.

She knew how she felt, but she couldn't find
the right words to explain it to him. She loved him, and she loved
his body. She didn't want him just to make love to her; she wanted
to make love with him. If she were to say those exact words to him,
he would be out the door before she finished explaining.

"You want me to slow down?"

"That's not quite it, either." Embarrassed
that she couldn't explain her feeling, she avoided his puzzled gaze
and stared at her toes.

"Hey." He put a finger under her chin and
coaxed her to look up at him. "Show me."

"What?"

He smiled slowly. "Show me what you want.
Believe me, when the motivation is right, I can be a fast
learner."

How could she not love this man? Her heart
soared as she smiled back at him. "Okay." She took his hand in
hers. "Follow me."

Chance thought he just might die. He was
already bursting with need, and all he'd done was kiss her mouth
and her shoulder.

He clenched his teeth against the surge of
heat that swamped him as he watched Sarah's beautiful, white legs
flash in front of him down the shadowy hallway. He couldn't wait to
feel those legs wrapped around him. If she wrapped them around
him.

He understood why she wanted to slow down.
He'd have taken her right on the spot if she hadn't stopped him,
but she'd said that wasn't quite it, either.

A groan rumbled out of him at the
possibilities. He'd never done kinky before, but hell, if that was
what she wanted, he was up for anything.

"Your bed is bigger than mine." She turned at
the doorway to his room, a shy smile hovering around her mouth.

Beds were good. Conventional. But her smile.
If she looked at him like that again, he might not be able to give
her the time she needed.