Sleight Of Hand (25 page)

Her father would be appalled she was about to
put to use the art of lock picking he'd insisted she learn one
summer vacation. After misplacing his keys for the fifth time in a
row, he'd taught her how to pick the house lock as well as the lock
on his car.

It wasn't only her father she was worried
about. Chance had shrugged off what had happened at the police
station. He probably thought he was saving her from worry, but by
shielding her, he had worried her even more. She didn't trust Agent
Gage. He had every reason to want Chance behind bars, and she
suspected he'd use any means possible to get him there. Even if he
had to manipulate the circumstances, such as placing Chance at the
scene of a crime.

But, Chance wasn't going anywhere
tonight.

Instead of going down the lane to the main
street, she set off through Harvey's backyard, keeping well away
from the house lights that spilled out into the dark, night. No
one--please, no one--would expect the theft to happen so early in
the evening.

A few minutes later, she recognized the tall
cedar hedge that separated the last yard from the museum. She
shrugged out of her jacket, folded it and laid the bundle neatly on
the ground. The tight branches of the hedge scratched against her
arms and legs as she squirmed deep inside the thicket. Her heart
roared in her ears, and as she crouched amongst the damp, dripping
trees, she wondered why the whole neighborhood hadn't turned out to
investigate the noise.

Nothing moved, except the thick fog as it
rubbed up against the back of the house, then stretched and spilled
down into the yard. The house sat silent, impervious to the heavy
mist. She stuck her head out of the hedge and glanced out to the
street. No cars in the driveway or the street. She'd guessed right.
The police obviously didn't expect any action until later.

Go. Go,go,go,go.
She streaked out from
the hedge and up the stairs to the back door, pulled a small
flashlight out of her trouser pocket, switched it on and pointed it
at the lock. Her hand shook as she slipped her nail file out her
pocket and shoved it in the key hole, praying a fast scrubbing
would set the pins. She didn't dare risk picking one pick at a
time.

Come on
. The second the plug rotated,
she stumbled inside, her knees shaking with relief.

She swung the door shut behind her and leaned
back against it, her breath harsh and ragged in her chest, and not
coming fast enough. She had to...had to...turn the alarm off.

She punched in the three digit number, then
letting her pent up breath out, edged her way along the narrow
hallway to the foyer. At the entrance, she stopped and listened
hard for any movement. After a few minutes of silence, a smile
spread over her face. She'd made it. No one was here, and in about
twenty minutes, even she would be gone.

She slid along the wall until her hand
touched the staircase's bottom newel post. Who would have guessed
she had a talent for this kind of thing?

Chance groaned and rolled his head to one
side, his nose brushing against something soft. He opened his eyes
and brought the faded gold material that covered the arm of the
chair into focus. He wasn't sure, but he thought, something might
be wrong.

What? He forced his head up, the fireplace
the first thing to cross his vision. The fire still ate away at the
small logs, but it looked different. He squinted to bring it into
sharper focus. The fire screen.

Sarah
. He jumped up, but his legs
buckled beneath him. The chair caught him as he sunk slowly
downward. He thrust his head between his knees, a wave of dizziness
sweeping through him.

"Sarah?" He could barely hear his hoarse
whisper above the pounding of his heart. He tried again, louder and
more insistent this time. "Sarah?"

The crackle of the fire hissed into the
silence of the room. He slowly raised his head and sat with his
hands on his knees, listening and waiting, his heart doing weird
things--jumping--inside his chest. Sarah wasn't here.

Sarah wasn't here
. He edged up off the
armchair and held on to the back of it until he was certain his
legs would support him.

She could be in the bathroom. Or getting more
wood. He strained to hear a sound--any sound--that would indicate
where she was in the cabin. He listened to the clock in the kitchen
tick off an entire minute, second by second. His heart beat at the
same measured rate as the clock until the sound of his breath
exhaling in one large burst filled the room.

Sarah wasn't here
. Her jacket...he
spun around to the closet...was gone.

Her sneakers. He turned back to the fireplace
to where she'd thrown them and saw his wine glass sitting by the
hearth. His wine glass. He picked it up and sniffed the remaining
wine, but he couldn't smell anything unusual.

No way would a few sips of wine knock out a
veteran drinker like him. Sarah had drugged him.

She'd gone to the museum to save her
father.

The sheer weight of his fear buckled his legs
again. He staggered sideways, but forced himself to move in the
direction of the bedroom.

"Sarah." He meant to yell, but his voice was
tight and thin, and what was the use? He knew she was gone.

He tried to wrestle back his panic and clear
the confusion in his brain as he tore his white shirt off and
dragged on a black turtleneck. His working clothes. He'd hoped to
never wear them again. He dug in his duffel bag for his rubber
soled shoes.

Sarah was wearing her white sneakers.

She didn't have a clue about what she was
doing. Cold sweat trickled down his back as he stumbled from the
room and rushed to the door of the cabin.

What was she doing?

The answer knocked him breathless. Hands
trembling, he fumbled with door knob to get it open.

He knew exactly what she planned to do,
because the very same thing had occurred to him.

Patrick O'Sullivan wasn't going to jail for
stealing the paintings, and neither was Chance Spencer or Simple
Simon.

No, Sarah O'Sullivan would.

Chance burst out into the night. He had to
get to her before it was too late.

Old houses came alive at night. Her arms full
of paintings, Sarah stopped at the top of the staircase and cocked
her head to one side as she held her breath and listened to an
indecipherable noise. It sounded almost as if the house were
sighing.

Or someone was moving around downstairs.

She backed away from the staircase. Backed
right into a solid body. Before her brain could process what her
body already knew, a hand clamped over her mouth, and she felt
herself being hauled deeper into the shadows of the big room.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Chance's whisper rasped in her ear.

Chance
. Her heart leaped in her chest.
He was supposed to be back at the cabin, asleep and waiting for her
to come back and kiss him awake.

Before she could answer, he pulled her back
even further until they were by the wall farthest from the windows.
She braced herself for his explosion as he stood in front of her
and looked at the paintings she held.

"Oh, hon." The sadness in his eyes hurt a
thousand times worse than if he'd yelled at her.

"I'm not stealing them," she whispered.

"Yeah? What then? Taking them for a walk?" He
pulled the top painting out of her arms. "We have to put these back
pronto and get the hell out of here. Do you remember where they
go?"

She clutched the remaining paintings to her
chest. "I'm not stealing. I'm hiding them. That way, when my father
shows up--"

"You'll have them ready and waiting for him."
Another voice, rough and reckless, finished her sentence. "How
convenient."

The beam from a flashlight hit them both in
the face. Sarah's heart stopped working. She stood, frozen to the
spot, not able to move or think.

Chance's harsh, curse cut through her shock,
and she swayed toward the wall as her knees turned to rubber.
Before she understood what he was doing, Chance grabbed the rest of
the paintings out of her hands.

"Sarah." Her father's frantic call was
followed by the sounds of a scuffle as someone tried to subdue
him.

Without thinking, she pushed away from the
wall and took a step in the direction of the noise, but Chance shot
his arm out and blocked her. "Don't."

"Turn your flashlight off," Chance quietly
commanded. "You're going to get us all busted."

The flashlight beam moved down to the floor,
then it came back up to highlight the other hand of the person
holding the light. That hand, the right hand, gripped a gun.

"See this?" The light swirled around the gun
as the man's disembodied voice reached them from across the room.
"This makes me in charge here. Nobody gets hurt if you do exactly
what I say. Derek, get the paintings from them."

Hearing his name made everything that was
happening more real. They were no longer an undetermined number of
shadowy figures standing a few feet away. Derek had frightened her
when he was trying to be nice. What would he do now that he no
longer had to pretend?

She tried to grab the top paintings from the
stack in Chance's hands, but he held on tight and pulled right
back. "What are you doing?" he snarled.

She tugged again. "Let me give them to him.
Please, Chance. I don't trust him," she added in a whisper.

"Neither do I."

Derek loomed in front of them. He stood close
enough that she could see the sneer of satisfaction on his face.
"Let's see you give me a hard time, Spencer. I can't wait to pop
you one."

He wrapped his huge hands around the edges of
the paintings and pulled. Sarah watched Chance start to pull back
as he had with her. Suddenly, he let go. Derek flew backwards and
landed on his butt, the paintings still in his hands.

"Everyone put their hands up behind their
heads." The overhead light came on, illuminating the crowded
room.

Police. Everywhere police
. They
streamed through the door, filling the room with their official,
ominous presence.

Chance stepped in front of her, his hands
locked behind his head. "Go," he whispered over his shoulder.

"Go?"

"Behind you. The servants' old staircase.
Look for the open window. Go. Now." He shuffled another half step
sideways to shield her from the police.

This couldn't be happening. She'd come here
to save her father and Chance from going to jail. But the
police--five, six, seven--she stopped counting. They marched into
the room and started snapping handcuffs on as if they'd rehearsed
the whole scenario.

The man with the gun placed his weapon on the
floor and put his hands up behind his head. Wearing a dark blue
jogging suit, he looked like someone's next door neighbor, not a
thief. Not a kidnapper. But when the policeman approached him with
handcuffs, he shot a murderous look in their direction.

Her body quaked with fear. These men were
thugs, maybe murderers. What had made her think she could beat them
at their own game?

There were three of them, including Derek,
who still sat on the floor. The second man, his thin shoulders
slumped in a permanent slouch, swaggered across the room as two
policemen shepherded him toward the door.

"Please, Sarah." Chance sounded desperate.
"You can still get out of here."

He was still trying to protect her. He
wouldn't be here if she had listened to him. Yet, here he was,
shielding her from the policemen's eyes, telling her to run.

Don't you dare cry
. She clamped down
on her bottom lip, stepped out from behind Chance's broad back and
put her hands up behind her head like everyone else. She'd be
damned if Chance was going to take the blame for her stupidity.
This was all her fault, and she would keep telling the police that
until someone believed her.

Behind her, Chance uttered a curse, but her
attention was caught by the sight of her father. He stood watching
her from across the room, his hands secured by handcuffs behind his
back. His eyes were filled with tears.

Sarah tried to smile at him, but the muscles
in her face wouldn't move. As she watched two more police approach
Derek, fear blossomed and multiplied inside her until even taking a
small breath seemed impossible.

She and Chance were next. The man with the
gun was already being escorted out. Derek would be gone in a
minute. It was their turn now.

She was going to jail, and so was her
father.

And, Chance. Simple Simon. Her love. Dear
God, please don't let them know who he really is.

Chance's gut twisted as he watched Sarah
calmly hold her hands out to the policeman. He looked away, not
able to watch as the heavy, metal handcuffs encircled her slender
wrists.

He'd made a lot of mistakes in his life, but
enticing Sarah up to this God forsaken place topped them all. What
the hell had he been thinking?

His hands bunched into fists as he lowered
them and put them behind his back, waiting to be shackled. He'd
been thinking of himself, using Sarah to save his own hide. He
didn't deserve to live, let alone be a free man.

"No, in front." The cop who approached
gestured for him to move his hands to the front.

Chance frowned. Up until now, very few words
had been spoken out loud. The grim silence had spooked him, made
him feel as if he were caught in a bad dream. But it wasn't a
dream.

He jerked his hands from behind him to his
front and glared at the cop. Everyone except Sarah and him had been
cuffed from behind. What did that mean? That they thought he wasn't
dangerous? If only they knew.

Except he was helpless. It wasn't only the
cuffs that rendered him so. He knew he wouldn't start a fight,
because the only way out of this situation now was to take the
blame for everything. He was even prepared to admit to being Simple
Simon--for a price. Sarah walked. That was his only term.