Sleight Of Hand, Book One, Stolen Hearts, Romantic Suspense

By Kate Kelly

Suddenly suspected of stealing half a million dollars of original paintings, Chance Spencer can’t afford to have the FBI delve too closely into his covert past. When one agent in particular endeavors to put him behind bars, Chance coerces the real thief’s daughter, Sarah O’Sullivan, into helping him flush her wily father out of hiding. Both want him found. Sarah, to warn her father of Chance’s intent to turn him over to the FBI. Chance, to hopefully catch the thief red-handed. To succeed in capturing the thief Chance must keep Sarah close to him. But his plan quickly deteriorates when the stakes for his freedom soar. How can he ruthlessly use the woman with whom he’s falling in love?

Sarah O'Sullivan is also looking for her father, but for different reasons. With her best friend getting married, Sarah realizes she's alone in the world and needs her family. That would be her father, who has been absent most of her boarding-school life. When Chance arrives in New York to inform her he's going after her father, Sarah follows him to Canada, hoping to warn him before Chance or the FBI find him. But living in close proximity with Chance, Sarah soon starts falling in love with him. She struggles with her divided loyalties as the FBI and the local police close in for an arrest. Someone has to be arrested for the theft. Chance or her father?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Kelly
• Release date: Sep 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465971531

Kate Kelly

Kate Kelly (1950-2012) was the coauthor of two bestselling books, You Mean I’m Not Lazy, Stupid, or Crazy?! and The ADDed Dimension. An advanced practice mental health nurse with over thirty years’ experience as a family, group, and individual therapist, she was a legendary pioneer in the world of Adult ADHD and founded the ADDed Dimension Coaching Group.

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Sleight Of Hand

By

Kate Kelly

Smashwords Edition

**

Sleight Of Hand - Copyright 2011 - Kathryn J Kelly

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, the characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Prologue - Sleight of Hand

It was fitting to end the affair where it had begun. The man known to the art world, the FBI and Interpol as Simple Simon checked his reflection in the glass doors as he approached the building. After this, he'd let his hair grow longer, trade in the suit for his old, worn jeans and chuck the tie. He hated wearing a tie.

Three men, dressed in suits identical to his, exited the building at the same time he entered. Simon raised his hand as if to remove his sunglasses, blocking their view of his face.

He strode to the desk, set his briefcase on the floor and pulled his ID badge from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

I'm running late today. He smiled at the overweight security guard. Despite air-conditioning, the female guard's blue shirt was stained under the arms, and perspiration dotted her top lip.

She checked his badge. You guys ever take off your sunglasses?

Simon's heart tripped, but he kept his smile in place. They're part of the uniform. How else would you know I'm FBI?

You're new here, aren't you? Saw you with Special Agent Parker a couple of days ago.

He held his laughter in check. He'd attached himself to a group of agents surrounding the chief on Wednesday. If anyone recalled seeing him, he wanted it to be connected to the top dog. That's right. That's why I want to finish these reports before the holiday weekend. Gotta make a good impression.

The guard snorted as she passed the badge back to him. No one here to impress. The building emptied out right after the chief left. It's going to be a hot one this weekend. July 4th and all, everyone wants to get out of town.

Me, too. But first these reports. He hoisted his briefcase up for the guard to see.

I'm outta here myself in fifteen minutes. See you next week. She picked up her newspaper, dismissing him.

No, you won't. No one from the Boston field office would see Simple Simon again, unless something went terribly wrong. He hurried to the bank of elevators. Nothing would go wrong. Not after the planning that had gone into his final act of revenge.

When the elevator doors opened on the tenth floor, Simon's muscles quivered into alert mode. He stepped into the deserted hallway, drew a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He was a new FBI agent finishing up reports before the weekend. That's all. Later, he'd enjoy the rush of besting the FBI.

He strode down the corridor of closed doors toward the office at the end. No one was here, just as he'd calculated. He stopped at the door beside Special Agent Parker's office, set his briefcase down, then pulled a pair of leather gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on. Taking one last look up and down the empty corridor, he moved over to the last door and inserted a key into the lock. A second later, he stood inside the office with the door closed behind him.

Simon surveyed the engraved metal desk that dominated the room, the burgundy leather couch and matching armchair in the corner and the two walls of windows. He grinned. The Botticelli would look good here.

He put his briefcase on the desk, opened it and lifted out an exquisite Botticelli painting. Right in the middle should do it. Simon shoved the neatly aligned stack of books from the edge of the desk to the center and leaned the painting against them so the small masterpiece faced the door. Perfect.

Now for the final touch. He ripped a page off the director's notepad and signed his trademark signature.

Compliments of Simple Simon.

Ten minutes later, he stepped into a phone booth three blocks away and dialled.

Boston Herald." The receptionist's nasal tone twanged in his ear.

'Len Corbet, please."

One minute.

Wild glee ripped through him as he waited for the reporter to come on the line. It was over. Done. With his free hand, he tugged on his tie to loosen the knot, then pulled the scrap of silk from around his throat and shoved it in his side pocket.

Len Corbet here.

I've got a scoop for you. Simon didn't bother to hide the delight in his voice.

Who is this?

Your favorite thief, Lennie, baby. I left a present for you at the FBI field office. Thought I'd start the fireworks a day early.

In the act of hanging up the phone, he heard the reporter yelling, Simple Simon, is that you? Where are you?

Nowhere. Simple Simon was gone forever.

Chapter One

She'd never driven in a snowstorm before, but it appeared the storm had a vortex, and she was in the middle of it. Sarah O'Sullivan peered past the frantic windshield wipers, out into the driving snow. After two gruelling hours, she was convinced every snowflake that hurtled out of the sky was aimed specifically at her.

Limp with exhaustion, she slowed to decipher the sign just ahead. Ashley Cove, Nova Scotia. Thank God. She unclamped a sweat-soaked hand from the steering wheel and flexed it, wondering if her fingers would ever unbend properly.

Just a few more minutes. You can do this. But would she find a place to stay? Back in the Lunenburg, the last town she'd driven through, it looked like everyone had locked up and gone home to wait out the storm.

She brightened when she saw a house ahead, then another. Five minutes later, she inched the rented Blazer along what was obviously the main street. A restaurant, a gas station and a small grocery store lined the street, all closed. Her heart sank as she continued on, looking for a place to turn around. She had to have missed something. The entire town couldn't be closed up.

A small sign rimmed with winking Christmas lights caught her eye. Cabins For Rent-Year Round. She murmured a silent thank you and pulled into the driveway. In a town this small, surely they'd have a vacancy.

A neon sign directed her to the side door of the monstrous old house. A giggle burbled up her throat at the absurdity of finding a red neon sign here, in the middle of nowhere.

She slumped against the steering wheel. You're losing it, Sarah. She dragged her limp body out of the Blazer and staggered through the blinding snow toward the office.

Heat rushed out to greet her as she opened the door and stepped inside. She blinked and glanced around the small office. She'd just driven through the vortex of hell. How could everything looked so normal and cozy inside this room? An older man, big around the middle and bald on top, sat in a wooden rocking chair reading a book. A sleek calico cat sprawled across his knees. The sound of a country and western song wafted out from behind the desk.

The man looked up from his book and smiled. So, you finally made it.

Sarah shook her head, not certain she'd heard him correctly. Excuse me?

He stood and ambled over behind the desk. You're Sarah, right? We thought you might not get here tonight on account of the storm. He pulled out a key from under the desk and laid it on the counter. That husband of yours is a real joker.

Husband?

Chance told us all about the trick he played on you. How he left clues for you to follow. I told my wife Myrtle, that's one helluva way to start a honeymoon.

Honeymoon. She repeated the word through clenched teeth.

It's a good thing he showed up yesterday, otherwise you folks would be out of luck. We're booked solid. He pushed the key toward her.

She looked at the key, then at him. But how can that be? I mean, Ashley Cove.... She snapped her mouth shut, realizing there was an outside chance he might not view the small town in the same light as someone from New York.

It's the skidooers. They're hoping this snow will stick, but I don't think it will. Either way, we're the only place open all winter around here.

He picked up the key and held it out to her. It's the last cabin on your right. I know Chance has been worried since the storm started. You'd better scoot up there and let him know you're here.

Yes. She took the key and rammed it into her jacket pocket. I think I'll scoot up there this instant.

Chance Spencer obviously had not grasped the concept of playing fair. Sarah slammed her car door shut. From the minute he'd strolled into her boss's office yesterday, a teeth-gnashing tension had wormed its way straight into her bones.

First interrupting that disastrous phone call to her grandmother, then using her father's pet name for her, Chance had caught her off balance twice in the brief half hour he'd spoken to her in New York. Three times if she cared to count the strange, breathless flutter she felt every time he fixed his cobalt blue gaze on her.

As she drove past individual log cabins tucked into their own private clearings, she nursed her outrage of his latest manoeuvre. She had a sneaking suspicion the whole town knew about the crazy American and his supposed new bride. Which meant her own brilliant plan of telling people she was a photographer--which she was--looking for interesting faces to take pictures of, wouldn't fly. So much for sneaking into town, finding her father to warn him and slipping away before anyone noticed.

She pulled into the driveway of the last cabin and let the motor idle. She had to come up with a new plan, but right now she was more concerned about the implications of Chance's announcement. He didn't really think she'd walk around town all starry-eyed like a newlywed, did he?

She slid on her black, heavy rimmed glasses and jammed her hat on her head. She felt like she was preparing for battle. The glasses useless, except as a prop to hide behind, her hat and scarf insulation against the strange, magnetic pull she'd felt yesterday while talking to Chance.

Sweat covered her forehead as her pulse lurched into an off-beat rhythm. Chance couldn't have known she would follow him. Especially after he'd told her not to. Yet, he'd backed her into a corner even before she arrived.

As her father's business partner, the FBI had probably looked long and hard at Chance after her father had disappeared, along with several original pieces of art. Chance wouldn't have been allowed out of the States if they'd charged him with the theft. If the FBI didn't think he was guilty, why was he so determined to find her missing father? What exactly did he have at stake?

The only way to answer that question was to ask him. Besides, she was exhausted from catching the early morning flight out of New York, and battling the snowstorm had used up the last of her energy. No way was she going to drive the two hours back to Halifax to find a hotel room.

Camera bag and suitcase in hand, she struggled out of the Blazer and trudged past a small economy rental car.

About to knock, she lowered her hand and took a final deep breath. This time, she would take the offensive. She shoved the door open.

At the sound of the door opening, Chance turned away from the flickering fire and faced the woman who had captured his imagination for over a year.

She'd taken the bait. Thank God.

He hid his satisfaction beneath a scowl. I thought I told you not to come here.

Her gaze lit on him, then bounced around the room. Thanks to her father and the cursed snapshots that O'Sullivan pulled out of his wallet every opportunity he got, Chance hadn't been able to shake the image of this woman out of his mind.

Sarah O'Sullivan was something to see, all right. Silver blond hair and a slim, willowy body. And her mouth. A man would have to be dead not to wonder what those lips felt like.

But it wasn't her beauty that had haunted him. Every time he'd seen her shy expression in those damned photos, he'd had the inexplicable urge to tell her everything was going to be all right, that he would protect her.

All that before he'd even met her.

If you didn't expect me to come, why make up that preposterous story about us being on our honeymoon? She eyed him from across the room. Did you pay the manager to say he doesn't have any more cabins available?

He'd been prepared to do exactly that, but for the first time in six months, luck was on his side. Why would I bribe good old Harvey? he drawled.

In New York, you told me not to come here. Yet, it looks as if you were expecting me.

He picked up his half finished beer from the end table by the couch and took a swig as he considered his options. He needed Sarah to stay close to him until O'Sullivan made an appearance, but the usual expensive wine followed by a tumble between the sheets wouldn't work with her. As desperately as he needed to find her father, he couldn't seduce the woman he planned to betray. He'd have to rely on his intelligence, not his charm, to keep this woman by his side. If there weren't so much on the line, he'd enjoy the challenge.

Just covering my bases, that's all. Your father told me how impulsive you are, and I can't risk you messing things up for me. What are you wearing on your feet? People revealed the most amazing things if you kept them off-balance. Satisfied by the confusion in her eyes, he slumped down on the brown corduroy couch and propped his own feet on the coffee table.

Mukluks, she huffed. Which you would know about if you'd spent any time in the north.

Hardly waiting for her to finish speaking, he shot another question at her. Why were you in New York?

She pulled her scarf off and frowned down at it. If he thought her capable of lying, he'd swear she was bracing herself to tell a fib. The weather was so wet and dreary in London, she said, still studying her scarf. I was homesick for a real winter.

Just like that? After, how long has it been, five years?

My reasons for returning to the States are none of your business. She tossed her scarf on top of her gloves, unbuttoned her jacket and shrugged out of it. As long we're playing fifty questions, I have a few of my own. Why are you so interested in finding my father? You haven't been accused of stealing those paintings, have you?

He choked on his mouthful of beer. Not yet, but I don't take kindly to the FBI following me around, he said when he got his breath back. The sooner your father's found, the sooner I get my life back to normal. As if he knew what normal felt like.

I suppose that makes sense. She rubbed a finger over a button on her jacket. You realize this honeymoon story you've made up is going to make it awkward for us? We're going to have to act like.... She avoided his gaze and looked at the fire.

Like lovers?

I guess.

He watched a blush tinge her cheeks. Had much practice?

Two round spots, the same bright red as her sweater, popped out on each cheek. Not as much as you, I'm sure.

She spun around to the open closet beside the door and hung her jacket up, then grabbed his leather jacket from the chair where he'd tossed it and hung that up as well.

She was picking up after him already. He shoved his empty bottle on to the coffee table, pushed up from the couch and went behind the counter that divided the main room from the kitchen to look for another beer.

Please tell me there are two bedrooms?

He pulled his head out of the refrigerator to glance over his shoulder. Yeah, I took the big one. But, if the small one's not comfortable we can share. Where the hell had that come from? I mean switch. Or something.

Rattled by his slip, he stuck his head back in the refrigerator and snatched a beer.

I'm sure the smaller room will be fine. She put her camera bag on the counter and half perched on a stool on the living room side. Have you located my father yet?

No, but when he did find his conveniently missing business partner, he was going to wring the Irishman's neck. Thanks to O'Sullivan, it was only a matter of a week or two before the FBI got tired of their games and threw Chance in jail. He slammed the door shut, popped the top off his fresh beer and took a long swallow.

She wrinkled her nose. How many of those have you had?

Here we go. He'd wondered how long it would take for the spoiled, little rich girl to surface. Not enough. To prove his point, he tipped the brown bottle up and gulped half of the beer.

Two lines furrowed between her brow as she slipped off the stool and clutched her bag in front of her. Maybe I should unpack. Which bedroom is mine?

He gestured with the bottle to the nearest door, watched as she marched to the bedroom, her finishing school pose firmly intact. He shouldn't have pissed her off. He needed Sarah to work with him, not against him.

He glowered at the bottle in his hand, set the unfinished beer on the counter and followed her. He leaned against the doorway to watch her inspect the snug, little room. With her ridiculous boots and her hat still on, she looked like she hadn't made up her mind to stay.

Your feet are going to melt if you don't take those boots off.

She gasped and spun around to face him.

Great going, guy. You need help with those? He nodded at her boots.

No. Thank you. She skirted around the edge of the narrow bed to stand on the opposite side. Is there a phone here?

No, but Harvey doesn't mind if you use the one at the office. You don't have a cell phone?

I gave them up as a bad habit after I lost my third one.

I've been through a few myself. He stopped and cleared his throat, not believing what he was about to say. Listen, if my drinking makes you nervous, I can cut back a bit. I guess.

Thank you. Her gaze brushed against his before she dipped her head and frowned at her boots.

Okay. He rubbed the back of his neck. When the snow stops, the restaurant down the road will open for supper. I think we should go mingle. Harvey says everyone comes out after a storm.

Do all the cabins have two bedrooms? Her direct gaze surprised him. Since she'd arrived, she'd avoided making eye contact with him as much as possible. Which was probably a good thing, considering each time her jade green eyes locked on his, he felt a little jolt, like his heart was misfiring.

I don't know. Why?

"It's hard to believe you weren't expecting me. The two bedrooms, the honeymoon story; I'm not here for more than fifteen minutes