Sleight Of Hand (27 page)

She froze. If she didn't pull out of this
depression soon, she'd have to seek professional help. She thought
she'd heard Chance's voice, not her father's.

"Sarah? Hon?" Chance poked his head around
the door. When he saw her, he stepped in and closed the door behind
him.

Chance
. Here. He was
standing...
right here
. She raised her hand to touch him, to
see if he was real, but snatched it back. If he was a figment of
her imagination, she wanted to hold on to this minute for as long
as she could.

"God, Sarah you look so...."

She watched his throat muscles tighten as he
swallowed. Her mind wasn't playing tricks on her. He was real. "Big
City?" She finished for him.

"No...I mean, yes, but beautiful.
So...beautiful." His voice broke as he moved forward and encircled
her with his arms, with his scent, with that wonderful feeling that
now, now, everything was going to be all right.

She touched his jaw with her fingertips, and
he closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Next, his hair. She ran
her fingers through his new haircut. It had been cut short and made
him look older, more severe.

"I thought...we, Dad and I, looked
everywhere."

His jaw turned rigid under her exploring
touch. He opened his eyes, dark, blue, turbulent eyes. "It was part
of the deal. I'd have sold my soul to keep you out of jail. Hell,"
he laughed, "maybe I have."

She dug her fingers into the sleeve of his
jacket. "What are you talking about? Where have you been?"

"Los Angeles. Gage, he...it's complicated. He
wants me to work with him. Crazy, isn't it?"

He pried her fingers away from his jacket and
slid his fingers through hers. "Turns out he knew all long that he
couldn't build a case against me that would stand up in court. I
spent the last six weeks detailing every theft I committed, but the
paintings were all stolen property to start with. Everyone knows I
didn't keep them."

A smile flitted over his face. "Gage's boss,
hated to admit they could use my expertise. But Gage." He shrugged.
"He was okay after I said I'd cooperate. They want to recruit me.
You know, be an FBI agent. Or I could freelance and be a consultant
on stolen art. I told them I had to think about it."

He swept his gaze over her face, then reached
up and pulled the pins from her hair. The pins dropped unnoticed on
the carpet as he slid his fingers through her hair and cradled her
head. "Let's finish this later, okay? Right now, I need..." He
stopped and drew in a deep breath. "I love you, Sarah. Tell me I'm
not too late, that there's still a chance for us."

She laughed, threw her arms around his neck
and pressed her body against his solid warmth. "Are you sure I'm
worth the risk?" she asked, her lips a breath away from his.

She felt his smile as he brushed his mouth
over hers. "Oh yeah." He kissed the corner of her mouth, slid his
hand down her back and pulled her closer.

He looked into her eyes, his gaze serious and
intent. "I'd risk anything to spend the rest of my life with you,
Sarah."

Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to smile,
but the happiness inside her was too big, too overwhelming to fit
into one small smile.

"I'm sorry, hon. Don't cry. Look, if you need
to think about getting married, I'll--"

"No."

"No?" He sounded as if someone had sucker
punched him. "Okay, we'll go at this from a different angle. I'll
give you more time, some space. I can fly up to New York
every--"

"Chance." She placed her hand on his flushed
cheek. "I mean no, you don't have to risk anything. I love you."
She smiled. "I've got you covered."

He held his arms open. "Want to come here and
show me exactly how you plan to cover me?"

Sarah laughed and stepped in to his arms.
"How much time do you have? I've had over six weeks to think about
this."

"For you?" He kissed her gently. "For you,
Sarah, I have a lifetime."

###

Kate Kelly has had a life-long love affair
with books, but writing came in fits and starts. She didn’t take it
seriously until her forties. Now she can’t get along without it.
She has the good fortune to still live on the east coast of Canada
with her husband (the children have flown away). She writes, grow
herbs and perennials and sails when the wind blows her way.

A Deliberate Father - Superromance,
Harlequin, Dec. 2011

Sleight Of Hand - Book one of the Stolen
Hearts Series.

The Art Of Deception

Email: [email protected]

Twitter:@katekellywrites

Website: http://www.katekelly.ca

If you enjoyed
Sleight Of Hand
, you'll
want to read
The Art Of Deception
, a Between The Sheets
contest finalist. FBI Agent Vince Gage finally meets his match in
the second book in the Stolen Hearts series. Gage’s all important
career rests on solving an art forgery case. Cold, hard facts make
a case, but there’s nothing cold or hard about his prime suspect,
Sophia Pascotto.

The whole damned set-up was wrong. FBI Agent
Vince Gage paused at the bottom of the stairs to inspect the
discreetly lit bar. The smell of wine, expensive Scotch and Friday
night anticipation hung over the dark, cave-like room.

Why hadn’t his partner, Spencer, arranged to
meet the woman at the office instead of here? It wasn’t right. If
you thought someone was guilty, you hauled them in and grilled
them. Inviting folks to the imposing building that currently housed
the FBI tended to put a good scare into them, and in his
experience, a scared suspect was a talkative suspect.

His gaze skimmed over the cool, slim blond
sitting alone at the bar, moved on to the crowded tables of men and
women, the usual Boston fare, all looking much the same in their
suits, their slim laptop bags resting by their feet. He shifted his
attention to the darkest corner of the room where a woman’s smoky
laugh mingled with the rowdy guffaws and snickers of her
companions.

He tightened his mouth in resignation. A
laughing, disheveled woman perched herself on her boyfriend’s knee
and planted a noisy kiss on the guy’s mouth. Sophia Pascotto,
Spencer’s suspect. His suspect, as of an hour ago.

His gaze drifted regretfully to the blond at
the bar. Six months ago, he would have taken a few minutes to chat
with her, maybe get a phone number.

Another roar of laughter rose from Pascotto’s
table. Her boyfriend had dumped her on the floor where she
sprawled, laughing and waving her arms in the air.

Spencer owed him big time for this one. It
was bad enough having to put his Friday night plans on hold at the
last minute, but to take over someone else’s case–-especially
Spencer’s.

Gage strode to the back of the room, stopping
short of trampling on the giggling woman. “Sophia Pascotto?”

She grabbed his hand to pull herself up. His
fingers, suddenly thick and clumsy, fumbled for her wrist. Her
bones felt as delicate and insubstantial as the small bird’s
skeleton he’d once discovered in his back yard.

“Sophie. Only my mother calls me Sophia." She
plowed a hand through her short, dark hair, flattening the right
side while the left stood at erratic attention. “You’re a big one,
aren’t you?” Her gaze traveled slowly up his body and stopped at
his face. A mischievous glint sparkled in her rich brown eyes.
“FBI, I presume?”

“FBI? What’s this about?” The rangy,
long-haired man who had dumped her on the floor tugged on her
arm.

She yanked her arm free, her eyes glued to
Gage’s face. “Chance Spencer? You sounded much better looking on
the phone.”

Gage tried not to wince. That would be
Spencer. There wasn’t a female around he couldn’t charm. “Spencer’s
wife decided to have their baby tonight. He asked me to meet you.
My name is Vince Gage.”

She tilted her head to one side as she
checked him out again. “Vince sounds too tame. I’ll call you
Gage.”

“Most people do." He bit back the beginning
of a smile. She reminded him of the scruffy terrier he’d owned as a
child, playful until someone threatened those close to him.
Scrapper hadn’t lasted long in his house.

Cut her loose from her friends and get on
with it. If he made this fast, he just might get home before the
ball game finished. “Can we can find a quieter place to talk? I’d
like to ask you a few questions.”

“Would someone care to tell me what’s going
on?” Sophie’s boyfriend unwound from his chair and inserted himself
between Sophia and Gage. “Cool suit, dude. Do they issue the
threads with your badge and gun? These guys all look the same." He
tossed the last comment over his shoulder to the three men and the
woman who sat at the table watching with rapt attention.

Just what he needed to polish off his week–-a
crackerjack. Gage undid the button on his suit jacket, slid his
hands into his pants pockets, pushing his jacket back far enough to
display the FBI badge clipped to his inside pocket as well as the
gun nestled in his shoulder holster. Before he could deliver his
nothing-to-get-excited-about speech, Sophia tugged her boyfriend
back.

“Quit it, Ciro. He wants to ask me a few
questions about the supplies I buy from The Palette. It’s nothing.
Since when did you do the big brother trip?”

Big brother trip? Gage didn’t think so.
Sophia’s amused look indicated either Ciro hadn’t staked his claim
yet, or Sophia–-Sophie–-Pascotto was adept at deflecting men’s
advances. Gage gave an inward nod of acknowledgment. He liked women
who could take care of themselves.

“I buy supplies at The Palette, too. Are you
going to question me?” The woman at the table behind Ciro stared at
his gun, then slowly raised her gaze to his as she pushed her full
bottom lip into a pout. Her straight black hair fell to her
shoulders, grazing a poppy red top that clung to her generous
curves.

“Just Ms. Pascotto tonight." He tried to
grin, but his face felt stiff as if he’d forgotten how to smile at
a sexy lady. Man, his life sucked.

He turned his attention back to Sophie. She
couldn’t be five feet tall, if that. Her faded orange sweatshirt
slid off one shoulder revealing the delicate line of her collarbone
and the thin white strap of her t-shirt.

A vague ache gnawed at his gut. He ignored
it, nodded toward the stairs. “I saw a coffee shop across the
street. This will only take a half hour or so."

Without looking away from him, Sophie reached
behind her and groped for Ciro’s wine glass. Agent Vince Gage had
incredible eyes. Cerulean blue was the closest she could come to
naming the color. They were as depthless and changeable as the sky.
His broken nose and the scar above his right eye saved him from
being poster-boy perfect.

Bad choice of words. There wasn’t an ounce of
boyishness packed into FBI Agent Gage’s muscled frame. Everything
about him was too much. His hair was too short, his eyes too blue.
He stood well over six feet tall, and she bet his suit concealed
muscles hardened from too many hours of working out.

Slow Burn
. If she ever painted a
portrait of this man that’s what she’d call it. There was a
stillness about him that suggested an unnerving control. God help
whoever was around when he lost it.

“What are you doing?” Ciro’s snarl pulled her
attention away from the FBI agent.

“Drinking your wine." She raised the glass
and managed to drink half of it before Ciro clamped his hand around
her wrist.

“You’re asking for trouble, chickie. You’ve
already had two of those." He exerted pressure on her arm until she
set the half-finished wine on the table.

She kept her fingers around the stem of the
glass, pushed his hand away, then picked up the wine and downed the
rest of it. “Don’t call me chickie." She shoved the empty glass on
the table and grabbed her heavy leather satchel.

Ciro snorted and turned to Gage. “Booze and
Sophie don’t mix well. Maybe I should come with you.”

Ignoring both men in front of her, she
sketched a wave to her friends at the table and headed for the
stairs. She stumbled once, righted herself, and continued toward
the exit, certain Mr. FBI would follow. The heat of the alcohol
rushed through her, and she started humming a dirty little ditty
her brother had taught her years ago.

Her brother.

She spun around and collided with a solid
wall of male flesh. Huge, capable hands caught her as she slowly
tipped sideways. All those man smells, cologne, shaving cream, the
underlying scent of maleness surrounded her as she gripped hard,
muscular arms. Agent Gage smelled delicious.

She looked up. “Either I’m going to have to
get stilts or we sit down to talk. My neck’ll get a crick in it if
I have to look up at you.”

The stern line of his mouth softened, and she
thought he was going to smile, but he didn’t. “Are you really
drunk?”

“Not yet." She peeked around his solid body,
back toward her friends and shouted the length of the bar. “Ciro,
if Raphael turns up, tell him I’ll be home later.

“Okay. Let’s go." On the third stair, Gage’s
hand engulfed her elbow as if to steady her. She thought of pulling
away, but decided against it. Ciro was right. She was a stupid
chickie. Alcohol turned her into a chatterbox, which was not the
best state to be in while being questioned by the FBI. But, oh how
she hated people telling her how to behave.

Halfway up the stairs, she stopped and dug
into her satchel for her sunglasses. “The worst thing about happy
hour in spring is it’s still daylight when you go outside. Why do
you suppose they keep bars so dark?” She twisted around to face
him, sunglasses in hand.