Sleight Of Hand Read Online Free PDF

charm anything he needed out of Cindy.
    Sarah, now--he looked at her tight fist and
covered her hand with his before he could censor his actions. Her
fingers started to uncurl, then as if realizing what she was doing,
snatched her hand from under his.
    Pleased she wasn't as immune to him as she
pretended to be, he smiled at the slender man who approached their
booth.
    "Melvin, my man. Have a seat and meet the
little woman." He pulled Sarah close to his side, his grip firm on
her shoulder to stop her from pulling away. "Isn't she something?
Melvin's the local historian, honey. He works at the museum." He
grinned at Sarah, amused by her brittle smile.
    "Hi." The stick-like man bobbed his head
toward Sarah and sat across from them. "Chance says you're a
photographer?"
    "Yes, I am." She shifted sideways and angled
her elbow into Chance's side. As he bit back his gasp of pain, he
shot her a sideways admiring glance. This particular rich, spoiled
lady was not acting true to form. She should be pouting or sulking
right about now, not holding her own.
    "I thought you might be interested in this."
Melvin slid a newspaper across the table toward her. "We managed to
talk the curators of the Ansel Adams exhibition into bringing part
of their show to Ashley Cove for a week. It opens tomorrow."
    Chance tensed, instantly picking up on
Sarah's uneasiness as she scanned the article in the paper. Geez.
Was he hard-wired to her panic buttons or what?
    She looked up from the papers. "An Ansel
Adams' exhibition is coming here?"
    Hearing the surprised wariness in her voice,
Chance turned to study her. How had he known what she felt before
she said a word? He hadn't even been looking at her. Whatever it
was, it better not work in the reverse; Sarah picking up on what he
was feeling. He dropped his hand from her shoulder and pulled his
arm away.
    Stick with the program. Something more
important than his tuning into Sarah's feelings was going down
here. He pulled the newspaper over in front of him. "Ansel Adams,
the California photographer?"
    "Yes." Melvin leaned forward
enthusiastically. "It took our little gallery quite a while to
convince the curators of that Canadian tour to make a detour. Of
course, we're not getting the full exhibition here, but twenty
prints is nothing to shake your head at."
    Sarah ran a finger over the top of her
camera. "A town this size--"
    "I know." Melvin nodded in agreement. "We
don't look like much, but you'd be surprised at the number of
retired people who live in the outlying area. We have a
considerable amount of support."
    "How much is an Ansel Adams' original worth?"
Chance directed his question more to Sarah than Melvin.
    "I saw one priced at six thousand dollars."
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "It would all depend on the
bidding, I suppose."
    "That's six thousand American." Melvin
pointed out.
    "I'm definitely looking forward to the
exhibition, Melvin. It was very thoughtful of you to mention it to
me." Sarah beamed at him as she leaned forward in a confidential
way. "This just shows how little I understand about small towns. To
find an Adams exhibit here is unbelievable."
    Melvin's face turned deep red, and his eyes
bulged with admiration as he gazed soulfully at Sarah.
    A dark, tight feeling shot through Chance,
followed by the urge to slap the silly grin off the librarian's
face. His breath slowly escaped between his teeth when Cindy
appeared at their booth with their coffee and tea.
    "I bet these folks haven't had time to look
at the menu with you blathering at them," she scolded Melvin.
    Chance almost felt sorry for the young man as
Melvin stared at Cindy with a stunned look in his eyes. As though
realizing he'd been ogling Chance's bride, he shot an apologetic
look to him.
    Chance crossed his arms over his chest and
glared back, making sure Melvin understood his silent bugger-off
message.
    The scrawny historian shot to his feet,
almost knocking Cindy over in his haste to get away. "Sorry." He
spoke