Sleight Of Hand (22 page)

"Especially when the third one is Derek."
Chance grabbed Sarah's jacket from the hook at the end of the booth
and held it open for her. "What's that?" He nodded toward her
broken camera.

"Derek's handiwork. I don't think he liked
having his picture taken." Sarah scooped up the broken camera and
stuffed the pieces into her pocket.

She slid her hand into Chance's. "Let's get
out of here."

Chance touched the older woman's shoulder.
"Don't suppose you can come up with something to hold Derek up for
a while?"

Cindy's eyes twinkled. "It should be supper
hour by the time that poor sucker figures out his bill. Now
go."

"What did he want?" Chance asked the minute
they were out the door.

"Derek? He was fishing." Reluctantly, she let
go of his hand, walked around to the passenger side of the car and
got in. Chance was safe. That was all that mattered.

She snapped on her seat belt. "He scares me.
His stupidity scares me. Did you notice the car he was
driving?"

"Yeah, a dark blue...damn. The same as the
one that tried to run us over." He reached for her hand. "It's
going to be over soon. Don't worry." He looked back at the diner,
then started the car and turned it in the direction of their
cabin.

"Is it?" She ducked her head so he wouldn't
see her sudden tears.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I thought...." She swallowed and reached out
to touch him again, curling her hand around his arm. "The
police...I didn't know...."

"Aw, hon." Chance pulled the Blazer over to
the side of the road, put it in park, and gathered her into his
arms. "I'm sorry, Sarah. Gage felt like yanking my chain, that's
all."

He kissed the tip of her nose and smiled, but
his eyes had turned a deep, stormy blue. "Maybe we should look into
getting you another flight out of here."

"No." She dug her fingers into the sleeves of
his leather jacket. "I'm not some fragile flower that folds at the
first hint of trouble."

"First hint?" A look of exasperation turned
his face haggard. "You've already been through enough to last a
lifetime. You're the bravest woman I know, and the damned thing
is...." He stopped and pressed his lips together. "The thing is,
you deserve a lot better than this. You deserve the best."

Yes, she did. She deserved a lifetime of
loving Chance, of having him love her. That's why she was going to
take care of the mess her father had gotten him into.

Tonight.

By herself.

Chance had never felt so helpless in his
life. He cursed under his breath as he pulled out of the parking
spot and continued driving down the street. He'd screwed up big
time, and he didn't know if he could make it better.

As much as he hated to agree with Gage, the
only avenue left open was to stay away from the museum. O'Sullivan
was on his own. Chance could only hope Gage would leave him alone
if the theft went down. Sarah would need him.

He stole a covert glance at her. She picked
at a loose thread on the hem of her jacket, her forehead furrowed
in concentration.

The strained look on her face when he'd
walked into the diner half an hour ago had almost killed him. He'd
put that fear in her face. He was going to have to tell her the
truth about who he was, and what he was up against. She needed to
know, needed to understand that sometimes, love wasn't enough.
Sometimes, you just had to walk away. He couldn't go beyond that
thought. The emotional landscape bottomed out into a dark, dismal
pit. But he had to make her walk away. No way was he going to let
her live with the uncertainty of his life. No way.

"You look exhausted. I'm taking you back to
the cabin." His voice rasped into the silence of the cab.

She snapped off the thread. "I'd like to go
to the grocery store first. And a liquor store. I don't think they
sell wine in food stores here."

"You planning on cooking something up?" He
thought he saw a flash of guilt in her eyes, but she smiled at him,
and nothing else registered, except how he wanted to kiss her--long
and hard--right now.

"I refuse to go back to that diner for
supper. Let's cook something at the cabin and stay home
tonight."

Home. The muscles in his throat thickened. He
loved the way she said that. "Sounds good to me." He turned on to a
side street and backtracked to the store. He'd wait until after
dinner to tell her the truth. A few more hours, what difference
could it make?

"Chance, give me those things." Sarah laughed
as she grabbed the cardboard box of cream puffs out of his hands
and put them in the refrigerator. "You're going to ruin
supper."

"Can't help it. I love cream." He crowded her
back against the refrigerator door and braced a hand up above her
head. "Especially the kind that comes with a beautiful mouth under
it. Hold still. You've got some on your upper lip."

He traced her upper lip with the tip of his
tongue to wipe away the small spot of cream. He loved her taste.
Loved her taste, her smell, the feel of her in his arms.

"You taste like more," he murmured, then
dipped his head to take all he could.

He felt her arms circle his neck, felt her
slender, firm body press against his as she opened her lips and
touched her tongue to his.

One soft touch, and the fire that smouldered
inside him burst into flame, and he poured himself--everything he
was, everything he had been or could hope to be--poured it all into
a kiss that possessed and gave possession.

"Wow." Sarah's voice trembled as she pulled
away from the kiss and leaned her forehead against his chest.

"Sarah?"

She shot him a worried look. "You sound so
solemn. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."
Everything
. The truth
couldn't wait. He had to tell her now, because it wasn't possible
to be alone with her and not want to make love. He was cheating
both of them as long as he kept his past from her.

"There are things I have to tell you."

She looked at the two steaks sitting on the
counter, then back to him. "Right now?"

"Believe me, if I thought this conversation
could wait, I wouldn't bring it up."

"Okay." With a decisive nod, she slipped the
steaks into the refrigerator. Once in the living room, she settled
back into the couch, her arms wrapped tightly around her.

Chance sat beside her and tried to find the
right words. If he could just begin the rest would follow, but
there were no right words for what he had to say. He stood and
paced around the couch. How was he supposed to think when it was so
quiet? The silence unnerved him.

Frustrated, he knelt in front of the
fireplace, crumbled a page from an old newspaper and tossed it in
the fireplace, then laid a few pieces of kindling on top.

"I told you my father was the curator of the
Gardiner Museum?" he said, staring at the laid fire.

"Yes."

He glanced over his shoulder. Sarah was
leaning forward , her arms resting on her knees, hands tightly
clasped. Her hair fell forward framing her face. She looked like an
angel. She was an angel. And he was--he sighed and turned back to
the fireplace--he was a thief.

He stretched sideways, took a wooden match
out the little tin match box that was attached to the wall and
scraped it against the bricks.

"And you know he killed himself." He watched
the match flare into life. "Were you in the States at the time? Did
you read about it in the papers?"

"Yes. I know he was accused of stealing those
paintings, Chance."

"Yeah." He tossed the match in the fireplace
and watched the paper catch fire. When the kindling started to
snap, he shoved two small logs on top of the burning wood. "He
didn't steal them."

"Did they ever find out who did?"

"No." He stood and brushed his hands against
his jeans. "After Father killed himself, they stopped looking."

"Did you look?"

Chance turned to face her. Indented lines
creased her brow. He wanted to go to her and smooth the lines away
with his fingers and tell her everything was going to be all right.
But it wasn't going to be all right. Not ever.

"Not really. By the time I buried my father
and got my head clear, the trail was pretty cold. The FBI weren't
exactly willing to share their information with me."

More than that, the agency had threatened
him. No way did they want some amateur stirring up a case that had
been investigated to their satisfaction. He'd made sure they'd
regretted that decision.

"Is that when you started traveling?"

"Sort of." He shoved his hands in his pockets
and turned back to the fire. One log had rolled forward a bit. He
toed it back on top, his heart pounding at what he was about to
say.

"Okay, here's the thing." He stalked over to
the coffee table and sat down in front of her. "My father didn't
steal those paintings, and no one cared enough to investigate
further than him, so I figured, the only way I could...I don't
know, honor him?, restore his good name? was to get the paintings
back."

"You stole them."

His breath chugged to a stop. That wasn't a
question. Sarah spoke as if she knew what was coming.

"You're Simple Simon," she said it as if she
were saying you're the Candy Man. Her eyes were wide and clear, and
an apologetic smile turned the corners of her mouth upward. "When
you told me about your father last night, I figured it out."

Chance came up off the coffee table in one
quick bound. "You figured it out? The FBI, Interpol, and God knows
who else have been trying to figure it out for years, and just like
that, you knew?"

Sarah stood up as well. "Are you upset
because I know you're a thief, or because someone has discovered
your secret?"

"Both," he said before he thought it through.
"I thought...you said...hell. You said you loved me. Was that
before or after you knew?"

"After, I think. But Chance," she grabbed his
arm and made him look at her, "it doesn't make a difference. I love
you. You don't have to win points with me."

"You can't...." His throat closed up. He
loved her so much, and he couldn't tell her. If he did, he'd never
convince her that the best thing she could do is run as far and as
fast away from him as she could.

What was wrong with her? He wasn't some ivy
league wannabe lawyer. He was a thief. A criminal. Not as busy a
thief as the press had made him out to be, but if Gage had his way,
Chance was going to spend the rest of his life serving time for
each and every theft that had been attributed to him, whether he
was guilty or not.

The soft, inquisitive look in Sarah's eyes
faded into a careful, guarded expression. Right now, right now, he
was killing the love she felt for him.

Get used to it.
He swallowed the lump
in his throat, grim determination bridging the pit of despair that
threatened to drown him.

He reached out and tucked her hair behind her
ear. "It's not enough, Sarah. You can love me until the day you
die, but that isn't going to change the fact that I'm a criminal.
Whatever is happening between us has to stop right here. I'm sorry.
I should never have let it go this far."

Sarah knocked his hand away from her hair.
"Why do you feel that you're solely responsible for our
relationship?"

What the.... Chance stepped back and folded
his arms across his chest, the need to protect himself automatic.
"Come on, Sarah. I'm the one who knew the risks involved."

"Oh, so we're back to that. The risk. When
you were stealing those paintings, did you like it?"

She was angry at him. Sarah thought she loved
him. She wanted her happily-ever-after. "I don't see what that has
to do with us," he said in a measured tone.

She stared at him, her eyes flashing signals
he couldn't understand. Was she going to cry or laugh? He backed up
another step.

Sarah followed, but when she spoke her voice
sounded as even as his had. "It has everything to do with us. I bet
you planned for weeks before you stole a painting. Every time you
went into a house or a museum, you knew exactly what you were
doing."

"Yeah, of course." It felt like someone had a
stranglehold on him. He couldn't breathe. Her eyes turned deep
green as her gaze held his. He couldn't look away from her if he
wanted to.

"You felt in control, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. What did you think, that
I'd go rushing blindly in like you would?" He was shouting,
shouting, at her.
At Sarah
.

He dragged in a deep breath. "That's not why
I stole those paintings."

"Isn't it?' Her question hung in the air as
she turned away from him and walked over to stand in front of the
fire.

"Sometimes I think...." As she stared at the
fire, her shoulders slumped, and suddenly, he couldn't look at her
any longer. Couldn't bear to see her look so sad, so defeated.

"Maybe you did feel the need to salvage your
father's reputation. I can understand that. But underneath...." She
turned back to him. "The truth. Wasn't there something else going
on? Your message to the world,
don't mess with me?
Just as
right now, with us, we have this feeling between us. It's so big,
Chance. It scares me, too." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I
don't think it's going to work this time. You can't mold our love
into something safe and manageable. I don't fall into the
calculated risk category, do I?"

He stuck his hand in his pocket. Christ, he
was shaking. Shaking because he didn't know what he was more afraid
of, her truth or his. What if she was right? What if he was missing
out on the biggest thing that ever happened to him in his life
because he was too scared he couldn't control it?

He couldn't move, couldn't speak, his entire
being pinned to one thought.
He was afraid.
Had been afraid
all his life.