Sleight Of Hand Read Free Page A

was tempted to
leave it there; to walk out of the cabin, catch a plane back to the
States and not go any further in his search for her father.
    The hell you will. The only thing he cared a
damn about was saving his own hide. O'Sullivan's daughter was a
pawn to be played at the right time. Tough luck if he ruffled her
elegant feathers along the way.
    Her eyes turned the color of liquid jade as
they stretched wide open. Oh no, she wasn't going to pull that old
trick on him. If she couldn't handle the truth, that was her
problem. Knowing he'd be in trouble if her tears actually fell, he
stalked out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.
    He paced the cramped living room from one end
to the other. His half finished beer sat on the counter where he'd
left it, mocking him. Moving into the kitchen, he snatched it up,
and with a quick twist of his wrist, poured the remaining beer down
the sink.
    Tempted to open a fresh one, he thrust the
empty out of sight and scanned the living room for his jacket. Out
of the corner of his eye, he noticed the two jackets hanging in the
closet.
    Sarah had been here less than an hour, and
already she was driving him crazy. He should never have let his
buddy, Steve, talk him into this stupid plan. He shrugged into his
jacket, pulled on his leather boots and escaped outside.
    The deep, penetrating silence of the dying
snowstorm leeched away his tension. He grabbed the shovel that
leaned beside the front door and started clearing away the slushy
snow.
    Okay, maybe he'd been a little rough on
Sarah. And, yeah he needed her help to find O'Sullivan. But she was
going to have to understand a few things. Two shovelfuls followed
in quick succession. Tears were out. He didn't handle the crying
thing well. And no personal chitchat, like how much O'Sullivan
liked him.
    Or how many men she'd slept with.
    Despite the cold, wet night air, sweat formed
on the back of his neck. He flipped up his collar and increased his
pace, the road only three feet away.
    Sarah was shaping up to be as much trouble as
her father. His plan would stay as is for now, but if she posed too
much of a problem, he'd alter his strategy. He never worked without
preparing himself for contingencies.

    When the door to the cabin slammed shut,
Sarah pulled her hat off and scrunched it tight between her hands.
What had she gotten herself into by coming here? In New York, she'd
sensed Chance was a desperate man, but she hadn't taken the time to
consider how desperate he was or that he might be dangerous.
    She wandered over to the dresser mirror,
tossed her hat down and tucked a few wayward strands of hair into
her french braid. Had Chance made a deal with the FBI? Her father
in exchange for what? His life back to normal as he'd just told
her? For some reason, his explanation didn't ring true.
    Chance had tracked her to the magazine where
she freelanced as a photographer and showed her the ad he'd
discovered in the New York Times. Happy Birthday, Silly Dilly. Love
Dad. How many fathers called their daughter Silly Dilly? It had to
be from her father.
    The ad, Chance told her, had been paid for
with a Canadian postal money order bought right here in Ashley
Cove. He was on his way to Canada to find her father and wanted to
know--what? It alarmed her that other than showing her the ad, he
hadn't asked many questions.
    He'd warned her not to follow him. She looked
too Big City, he'd said, then pointed out the possibility that her
father hadn't pulled off the theft alone. In a small town, she'd
stick out too much, and to some people, a half a million dollars of
art was worth killing for.
    She'd followed him anyway. Six months ago
when the agent from Interpol had knocked on her door in London and
told her that her father had disappeared along with several
Canadian Group of Seven paintings--right after he and Chance had
installed a new security system in the same museum--she'd assumed
her father was guilty.
    She'd had similar uneasy thoughts over