Sleight Of Hand (26 page)

"Sarah." He spoke her name softly as the cop
took her arm and started leading her to the door.

She looked over her shoulder. When she tried
to smile at him, his heart broke, really broke this time, into a
million pieces.

He ignored the last two cops and spoke
directly to her. "Don't worry, hon. I've got you covered."

Then she did smile at him. Not her full out
I-love-you smile that he loved so much. This smile was a
heart-and-soul smile. An
I-love-you-until-the-day-I-die-nothing-else-matters smile.

He felt a monumental shift, a slackening of
constraints. The tightness in his chest eased, and the corners of
his mouth moved upward as he smiled back at her.

He'd spent the last eight years running to
stay free, and now, handcuffed and on his way to prison, he finally
felt like a free man. With Sarah loving him, what was there left to
fear?

The room was as he expected. The smell of
fear, of rot-gut coffee and endless cigarettes assaulted Chance's
nostrils as the cop closed the door behind him, leaving him alone.
They'd given him the full treatment this time, frisked him, took
his jack-knife and refusing to look him in the eye, shoved him into
this room of broken dreams.

His anger simmered and rolled in his gut. He
looked around for something to vent it on. He'd hoped to ride to
the station in the same car as Sarah, to beg her to keep quiet,
persuade her to let him take the full blame.

They'd put him in a car by himself. When he'd
tried to tell the cop he wanted to make a deal that would make the
cop's career, the righteous bastard had laughed at him and told him
to shut up. Only he hadn't put it quite so politely.

Were they treating Sarah the same way? He
grabbed the rickety old wooden chair that sat by the metal desk and
hurled it against the wall. The chair splintered into pieces and
crashed to the floor. Hell. If he was going to bargain for Sarah's
freedom, he had to keep it together.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the
wall, searching for the patience and discipline that had served him
so well in the past. After a minute, he slid down to sit on the
floor, his hands dangling between his legs.

He could do this. Whoever they sent to
interrogate him, he could handle them. He didn't move or open his
eyes when someone entered the room.

"Finished with our little temper tantrum, are
we?"

Chance snapped his head up. They'd sent Gage,
the one man who could push him over the edge. "What the hell are
you doing here? This is out of your hands."

The FBI agent ignored him as he set the
plastic molded chair in his hand on the floor and shoved it over to
the desk. "I don't think you can break this one," he said as he sat
in the other chair on the far side of the desk.

He placed the same thick file on the desk in
front of him, then leaned his chair back on its two hind legs as he
had done the day before. "Helluva situation we got here."

Chance studied the agent's face. He was
playing his cards close this time round. He looked serious and
subdued, but there was a glint in his eyes that made Chance
nervous. Gage hadn't finished playing games with him yet.

He looked away from the desk, not wanting
Gage to see how desperate he felt. "How's Sarah holding up?"

"Fine, considering she's just confessed to
stealing a million bucks of original art."

"Christ."

"Exactly. You should have kept her out of
it."

Chance bit back his anger. Gage wouldn't
negotiate if they started trading insults. He stood and
straightened his shoulders. Time to make a deal.

Chance eyed his adversary. "What do you
want?"

Gage leaned forward and lowered his chair so
all four legs touched the floor. "What have you got?"

Chance looked at the file folder before he
dragged his gaze up to meet Gage's inquisitive look. "Everything.
Times, places, methods."

Gage grinned and relaxed back into his chair.
"Say it."

He knew what the bastard wanted, but he
wasn't going to hear it until Chance had what he wanted.

"I want to make a deal first."

"You drew the losing hand when you walked
into that museum tonight. You're not in a position to deal."

"Fine." Chance shrugged and turned away. No
way could he let the creep see his fear. He had to make a deal.
Sarah had to go free.

A tense silence stretched between them as
each man waited for the other to break first. Chance knew it wasn't
going to be him. He had more to lose than Gage could dream of.

Gage cursed, scraped his chair against the
linoleum floor as he jerked to his feet. He pointed a finger at the
chair across the table from him. "Sit."

Chance sauntered over to the chair, sat and
stared at the floor. "Sarah walks," he said without preamble.

"That's it?"

"And her father. She's going to need him." He
looked up from his contemplation of the dirty floor. "O'Sullivan
was coerced into stealing the other paintings."

The grim line around Gage's mouth softened.
"Well I'll be damned."

"You buying or not?"

"Depends. I have a condition of my own. You
come with me back to the States and save me a lengthy extradition
process."

"Right." What difference did it make whether
he stayed in Canada and wanted for them to jump through the legal
hoops to get him back to the States or went straight to jail?
Without Sarah, not much mattered.

"I mean right now, Spencer. We walk out this
minute and leave. No goodbyes."

Chance tried to breath and couldn't. In the
back of his mind, he thought he'd have one more opportunity to hold
Sarah in his arms before he went to prison. Just one more time.
Once he was incarcerated, he'd refuse to see her. She'd never get
on with her life if he encouraged her to visit.

"How did you swing this?" His voice sounded
as though it were coming out of the bottom of a well.

Gage stood and picked up the file. "The RCMP
have their three thieves. As far as they're concerned, you, Sarah,
and her father were bumbling civilians who stumbled into the middle
of the theft. I want to get you out of here before they change
their mind. Ready?"

No, he wasn't, but what choice did he have?
He stood and waited for Gage who didn't move from out behind the
desk.

"You still haven't told me what I want to
hear," Gage said.

"I'm Simple Simon." His fate sealed, Chance
turned and walked to the door.

She hated Christmas. She hated the heartiness
and the bustle and the cheer. Sarah picked up a sparkling red ball
out of the box and approached the tree, but the multi-colored
lights blurred and muddled together as tears welled in her
eyes.

Not again. She tossed the ball into its nest
of paper and wiped her tears away. Why couldn't there be a limit to
how many tears a person had inside them? She'd discovered over the
last six weeks--six weeks, two days and eighteen hours--that she
had an unlimited well to draw from.

The snowstorm that raged outside the hotel
suite drew her attention away from the half-rimmed Christmas tree.
Almost against her will, she wandered over to the huge window and
stared down at the Christmas card scene below her.

Thick, heavy snow clung to canopies, cars and
decorations, transforming the street from a bustling New York scene
into a hushed, pristine white postcard. The traffic had thinned to
taxis only, and the few people on the sidewalks, lacked the usual
urgency and speed as they wrestled their way home.

Sarah leaned her forehead against the cool
plate glass. Her mother had died in a snowstorm. She, herself, had
arrived in Ashley's Cove during a snowstorm. Now, this one. Was it
a harbinger of the traditional family Christmas she and her father
would finally share?

She'd returned to this continent to find her
family, to reconnect and find where she fit into the world.
Be
careful what you wish for.

Maybe a cup of tea would give her the
fortitude to finishing trimming the tree. She went into the small,
efficient kitchen, plugged the kettle in and waited for the water
to boil. Patience had never been one of her virtues, but she was
learning. Time, her father had assured her, would heal her
wounds.

She didn't think so, but what choice did she
have? Sarah tossed a tea bag into the porcelain teapot and filled
it with boiling water from the electric kettle.

Chance had disappeared. Totally, untraceably
disappeared. When the RCMP had told her she was free to go, she'd
foolishly thought he'd be waiting for her on the steps of the
police station. He didn't appear, and she'd gone back in and asked
for him, but the police shuffled their feet and shrugged and said
he'd left already.

"Where?" she asked. "We don't know," they
said. She asked to speak to Agent Gage, but he, too, apparently had
fled.

Her father argued that they leave right away.
She couldn't. Chance had come back to her before, hadn't he?

She waited. She waited in the cabin where
they'd shared their love, waited at Bosman's graveside remembering
how furious Chance had been at his senseless death, waited at the
diner for him to walk back through that door.

Finally, she let her father bring her back to
New York, because after five days, the reality of never seeing
Chance again began to sink in. She was incapable of thinking beyond
why and where, and how was she supposed to get through another day
without knowing? It was the not knowing that was killing her.

She picked up the teapot, then put it down
when she heard a sharp rap on the door. Not many people knocked on
her door, but every time, her heart expanded with the hope that
this time, Chance would be standing out in the hallway. Would the
day eventually come when she could answer the door without this
heart wrenching anticipation?

Another knock sounded. Her father called her
name from the other side of the door as she hurried toward it.
Before opening the door, she checked for tears in the small mirror
above the what-not table. Her heart twisted painfully.

She'd put her hair up into a French knot and
wore her large gold hoops earrings in an attempt to look halfway
decent for her father's daily visit. The creamy white silk shirt
she wore drooped elegantly from her shoulders. She looked like a
Big City girl again, no doubt about it.

She unlocked the door and stepped back to let
her father in. "Oh, Dad. Not more presents. You promised."

Her father pecked at her cheek then brushed
past her and shuffled over to the tree. "It's just a couple of
things I noticed on the way over. Tree's looking good." He put the
stack of presents under the tree.

"I just made a pot of tea. Would you like a
cup?"

"Not today. I've got a few things to take
care of. Just wanted to stop by and see if you're okay."

"I'm fine." She heard the catch in her voice
and escaped into the kitchen. He'd been so patient and considerate
the last few weeks, as if making up for all the lost years. It was
time she started thinking of him.

"What are these things you have to do?" She
called over her shoulder as she poured milk into her tea.

"The private investigator phoned in his
report this morning."

She whirled around. Her father leaned against
the doorway, his face pinched and tired. "I'm sorry, honey. He
didn't find anything."

She nodded and stared down at her teacup
sitting on the counter. "How can...." She closed her eyes and tried
again. "How is it possible for a person to disappear so
completely?"

"I don't know, but we'll keep looking."

"Where?" She opened her eyes and kept her
gaze trained on the tea. If she looked at her father, she'd start
crying again. "We've checked everywhere, Dad."

"At least we know he's not in prison."

Where, then? Had the thought of loving her
been too much for him? Her hands shook as she picked her tea up and
took a sip. "I think we should stop looking. It's pretty obvious
Chance doesn't want to be found."

"It doesn't feel right to me. I'm meeting
with the private investigator in half an hour. We thought we'd toss
a few ideas around to see what we can come up with."

He crossed the kitchen and put his arm around
her. "Don't give up hope yet, Pickles." He kissed the top of her
head and moved toward the door. "I have to go. Want to go out for
supper later?"

"Not tonight, thanks Dad. See you
tomorrow?"

"You bet."

Sarah stayed in the kitchen. When she finally
heard the door close, she leaned her forehead against the cupboard
and closed her eyes.

She understood why he was so persistent in
his search to find Chance. His own wife, her mother, had died in a
car accident while rushing to her family. The Whitley Family.
They'd told her there was a family emergency, and she'd rushed out
in a snowstorm, leaving Sarah behind with the nanny.

Only there hadn't been an emergency. It had
been another attempt by her mother's family to separate her mother
and father. They'd succeeded. Her mother had never come home
again.

Her father had severed ties with the
Whitleys, threatening them that if they ever tried to make contact
with his daughter, he'd tell the press and anyone who would listen
how they'd killed their only daughter.

Her mother's trust fund became hers, but her
father had used it only for her education. The remainder still
waited for her to claim. He'd spoken the truth when he said she
didn't have to work. She was a wealthy woman.

Sarah heard another knock at the door and
smiled. Her father never could hang on to his keys. She hurried to
the door and swung it open as she turned to look for them on the
table. "I don't see your keys," she said from behind the door.

"Maybe because they're in my pocket."