Sleight Of Hand (17 page)

Her eyes flew open. "Do you really think my
father left those pickles?"

"Hard to tell."

"If it was him, why didn't he talk to me? Why
just leave the stupid jar of pickles?"

When Chance didn't answer right away, she
wondered if he'd fallen asleep, but his hand pressed against her
stomach, and he pulled her closer.

"You know him better than I do. What do you
think?"

"I don't know him all that well." She blinked
and wondered if she was going to cry. "He's been in and out of my
life so briefly we never got to know each other."

"You mean you never lived together?"

"Not in the conventional sense. There were
always nannies. He was gone from home a lot. When I was twelve, he
sold our home and sent me off to boarding school." She tried to
sound matter of fact, but even after all those years, she still
couldn't quite pull it off.

He buried his face in her hair. "Poor little
rich girl."

"Not likely. I never did fit in with the
other kids."

Chance sat up, switched on the light and
tugged her over to face him. "You're making the whole damned story
up."

Bewildered by the anger in his voice, she
pulled the sheet up further as if to protect herself. What had she
been thinking, sharing confidences with him in the dark? She'd
never talked about her lonely childhood to anyone.

"Your father dotes on you. It used to kill me
every time he dragged those pictures of you out of his wallet."

"He still has those photos I sent?"

"Yeah. You'd think he'd have worn them out by
now."

"Why did you hate them so much?"

"Because every time I saw them...I don't
know...." He laid back down and closed his eyes. "You looked so
damned beautiful, so vulnerable, I wanted to take care of you.
Crazy, isn't it?"

Now she really was going to cry. She sniffled
and rubbed her nose. "I think it's romantic," she managed to
say.

He opened one eye. "If that's what you're
looking for, you came to the wrong guy."

They were back to him being a fugitive with
no future. Except that FBI agent didn't seem to be in a hurry to
arrest him. Chance was like a big ball of secrets. She didn't know
which string to pull to start unraveling the truth.

She sat up and crossed her arms over her
chest as she leaned against the head board. "Tell me about your
father."

"My father? I thought we were talking about
yours."

"Were you close to him?"

The tension that emanated from him made her
want to put her arms around him and tell him she didn't really need
to know. But, she did. She needed to know how the parts of him fit
together to make the whole man, and she had a feeling his father
played a pivotal role. She slid her hand into one of his.

He squeezed her hand. "We got along pretty
good."

"What was his profession?"

"Look, it's late and it's been a tough day."
He pushed her hand away. "Let's get some sleep."

"You don't like to talk about your father, do
you?"

"He was the curator of the Gardiner Museum in
Boston."

"The Gardiner. Isn't that the one that had
several paintings stolen, and...Nathaniel Spencer." She hadn't even
realized she knew the name, but who could forget?

Nathaniel Spencer, respected curator of the
Gardiner Museum accused of the theft of several million dollars
worth of art work had been in the papers for weeks. "He killed
himself."

"It happened a long time ago, and believe me,
the last thing I want to talk about right now is my father's
suicide. It's over and done with. Now go to sleep." He rolled over
on his side, presenting his tense, stiff back to her.

She wanted to comfort him, but knew if she
offered sympathy, Chance was likely to come out fighting. Because
that's what he was--a fighter.

He'd ignored the FBI and came after her
father, but he hadn't rushed into it. No, he waited for the right
moment to get close, and now he was waiting for the final show
down. Hadn't he just told her he only took calculated risks? He
wouldn't give up until the whole episode had been concluded to his
satisfaction. Justice, Chance's style.

Her mind whirled with ideas as she wiggled
down under the sheet and tried to get comfortable without
disturbing him. She needed to think. If he turned back to her, the
only thought in her head would be how not to make love with him
right now.

When had the Gardiner Museum art theft
happened? Ten years ago? No, she graduated ten years ago. That's
the year she'd finally put her foot down and told her father she
wasn't cut out to be a debutante.

She remembered reading about the theft in the
papers, which meant she must have been in the States. Eight years
ago then. She'd put in a year as an assistant to that egotistical
fashion photographer, Ralph. She'd hated every minute spent with
the flamboyant, self centered creature.

Eight years, and Chance said he'd finished
law school and drifted around the world for the next seven years.
When he'd said life can change suddenly, had he been talking about
his father's suicide?

Adrenaline curled her muscles into tight
knots. Chance had said he was close to his father; he would never
have let the accusation of theft stand against his father's name.
Whether he admitted it or not, she knew he cared deeply about the
people close to him.

The story of those stolen paintings hadn't
stopped with Nathaniel Spencer's suicide. The entire country had
been delighted as one by one, they turned up at a different FBI
office building. One had been simply propped up on the front steps
of the Los Angeles center. Another discovered on the desk of the
director of the FBI in Washington.

Always, the press was alerted, and always,
the same note was found attached to the painting. Compliments of
Simple Simon. A person didn't have to read between the lines to see
how much the FBI hated the famous thief.

Chance couldn't have...wouldn't have.... She
stopped, afraid to take the next logical step. No. Not Chance. He'd
studied to be a lawyer. He would never break the law.

Would he?

Chance pushed the door to the cabin open with
his hip as he balanced two paper cups of coffee in one hand. He'd
woken early and made himself get up and get moving before he gave
into the lure of Sarah's sleep-warm body. It took a good ten
minutes of watching her sleep before he'd convinced himself to
leave.

He pushed the door shut and with his free
hand, pulled out of his jacket pocket the package of condoms he'd
bought only minutes before. A desire to whistle swelled in his
throat, and he grinned. He hadn't felt like whistling since he was
a kid.

He'd gone into the drugstore to use the pay
phone. He needed Steve to go to New York, because if everything
went according to plan, that's where Sarah would be by
nightfall.

Waiting for Steve to come to the phone, he
noticed the display of condom hanging just below the cash register.
Things sure had changed since he was a teenager. No more stumbling
over an embarrassed request to the druggist for you-know-what.

The minute he saw the condoms, he thought of
Sarah still asleep, warm and curled up in bed just as he'd left
her. Then Steve came on the phone. When Chance told him what he
needed him to do, Steve laughed hard and long, and declared Chance
a fallen man.

And all the time, Chance eyed the condoms, a
part of him wondering if Steve might be right. Okay, so maybe he
was a little in love with Sarah, but mostly in lust with her. Oh
yeah. Definitely in lust with her.

When he hung up the phone, he went straight
to the display, snatched up a package of condoms and paid the
clerk. Things definitely had changed. He'd never bought condoms
before without planning to use them.

He tossed the pack on the kitchen counter and
slipped out of his jacket. He was back in control. Covering his
bases. Anticipating any eventuality was what he did best, and the
condoms were insurance in case his resolve slipped. Considering
Sarah was the woman he'd resolved to keep his distance from,
slipping posed a possibility.

That he'd booked her on an afternoon flight
back to New York made it a whole lot easier to stick to his plans.
Five hours and counting; he could control himself that long.
Maybe.

His light mood shifted into darker territory
as he thought of how she would receive his news. If he had to truss
her up and gag her to get her on that plane this afternoon, that's
exactly what he was prepared to do. He'd made a tactical error
involving her in this mess, and now he was ready to rectify his
mistake, regardless if she agreed with him or not.

But first he needed to steal one last look at
her sleeping. Once she woke, he had to stick to the business of
getting her to safety. God knows what would happen in the next day
or two. If things went as they should, he'd never see Sarah again.
At least not asleep in bed. In his bed.

Come on. It's not like he was swearing off
all women for the rest of his life. Just Sarah. First booze, now
Sarah. What next? Oxygen?

He snatched up the condoms and slipped them
into his jeans pocket. No sense in embarrassing both of them by
leaving the package on the counter. One quick look, then he'd leave
her coffee where hopefully the smell would wake her.

His confidence slipped a notch as he stood
just inside the bedroom door and took in Sarah's wide, satisfied
smile. She looked pleased with herself, as if she had discovered a
secret and was bursting to tell someone.

He tried to remember exactly what he had said
last night, but Sarah uncurled her legs from under her, and all he
could think of was the feel of her legs twined tightly around
him.

"Good morning."

Coffee sloshed over his hand as her husky,
sleep-laced voice pulled him toward the bed.

"Morning. Here." He thrust the cup of coffee
at her.

"You're up early."

"Yeah, I...." Her night shirt gaped open,
revealing the creamy white curve of her breast as she reached for
her coffee.

"Got coffee?"

"Among other things." More coffee spilled on
his hand as the paper cup started to crumple under his tight grip.
He shoved the cup on the bedside table and stuck his hands in his
pockets to keep from slipping one into the open gap of her
nightshirt. When his fingers touched the package of condoms, he
jerked his hand back out as if he'd been burnt.

He lived in the shadows; Sarah in the
sunshine. He couldn't do this to her, couldn't take more than he
had to give.

"Drink your coffee." He stopped, tried to
tone down the desperate edge in his voice. "We've got a lot to do
today."

Sarah ignored him. She put her cup beside
his, sat up and crawled across the bed to kneel on the edge in
front of him.

"I hope you have the same things in mind that
I do." She slid her hands up over his chest and circled his neck
with her arms, pressing her body close to his.

He grabbed her arms, ready to pull them away,
but made the mistake of looking at her mouth. Her slight pout
pushed her bottom lip out, and without thinking, he leaned forward
and flicked his tongue over the tempting lip, groaned and crushed
his mouth against hers. He tasted a hint of mint on her breath. Had
she gone to the bathroom and cleaned up for him?

"You bought some protection, didn't you?" She
laughed into his mouth.

Chance pulled back, his breath caught
somewhere between his throat and his lungs. "How did you know?"

"I know you. You don't like to leave things
to chance." She laughed again, and almost before he caught her pun,
a moan rolled out of him as she slid her hands over his rear, then
into his back pockets.

"Sarah, hon, we talked about this. I thought
we decided...." A final, fleeting caress of her fingers over his
rear sent a shudder through his body.

"You talked. I listened." She wiggled her
fingers into his front jeans pocket and curled them around the
condoms. "I know what I want, Chance." She swept her fingers
lightly over his throbbing erection and laughing, nipped on his
jaw. "I want you. Naked and underneath me. Now."

Sweat covered his forehead as he clenched his
teeth, her hand pressing hard against his fly. She was using his
words against him, but underneath her laughter, he heard the plea,
the longing.

He should have turned her down last night. As
if that were possible. She thought she knew him now, but she
didn't. She didn't know the lie he lived.

He grabbed her hand away from his jeans and
held it close to his thundering heart. Almost as an afterthought,
he kissed her clenched fist. He had to convince her to stop. "You
don't know me, Sarah."

As her laughter died, her eyes darkened and
turned serious. She raised her free hand and ran it over his
forehead, feather-touched his eyes, then rested it against his
cheek. Everything went still inside him. He felt an unbearable ache
of emptiness, of expectancy.

"I know everything I need to about you." Her
voice was soft and sounded so certain. "I love every part of
you."

Her words filled him up. They flowed into his
emptiness and pieced together the fragmented parts of his soul. For
a brief, searing moment, he caught a glimpse of what his life could
be like with Sarah.

If only he hadn't felt such intense loyalty
for his father. The final toll for protecting his father had cost
him his freedom. His future. Yet, if he could go back, he knew he'd
do the very same thing. He couldn't change who he was.

"Hey, where did you go?" Sarah squeezed his
shoulder.

"I was wishing for the moon." He trailed his
fingers through her hair, loving the silky feel on his fingers.
"You're a very special woman, Sarah."