Laura Resnick - Sleight of Hand

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

ChapterThirteen

KISMET® is a registered trademark of Meteor Publishing Corporation

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any

means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written

permission of the publisher, Meteor Publishing Corporation, 3369 Progress Drive, Bensa-lem, PA

19020.

First Printing July 1993.

ISBN: 1-56597-075-6

All the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America.

To Grandma Cain, because no one has ever been kinder.

LAURA RESNICK

Bestselling, award-winning author Laura Resnick has published ten contemporary

romance novels under a pseudonym. She loves to travel and, shortly after

completing Sleight of Hand, she left for a seven month overland trip across the

African continent. She hopes to return alive and well, in order to write more books

for Meteor.

Chapter One

There was no mistaking the woman's profession. She wasn't any ordinary

streetwalker though. He was sure of that.

He spotted her on Broadway as he walked up the west side of the avenue and she

walked up the east side. She chose to window-shop for a moment as he waited for

the light at Broadway and Forty-second Street to change, and that was how he

caught up with her. She glanced at her slim wristwatch as he crossed the noisy

street.

She set off at a more hurried pace then. She must be late for a… a client? An

appointment? A customer? He wondered what she would call it.

He walked at a more idle pace than she, since he was early for his own

appointment. But his legs were long, and her heels were high and narrow, so he

always seemed to stay within a few yards of her on the crowded street.

He didn't mind having found something beautiful to look at. New York City had

always struck him as distinctly unappealing. No matter how many times he came

here, a country boy like him would always find it stifling, filthy, gray, and unfriendly.

He wondered if she was a native. She looked slightly foreign, a little exotic, but he

knew that New Yorkers often did. She was petite, perhaps five three. In those

perilous heels, she would come a little closer to his height of six feet. She walked on

them with care, setting each foot down firmly, toes pointed straight ahead, but she

was extremely graceful and didn't appear to be in danger of toppling off them.

After several blocks, she turned and entered an office building. He glanced up at

the address, and his brows rose in surprise. This was also his destination.

He followed her through the lobby and slipped into her elevator just before the

doors swished shut, locking the two of them in together.

"What floor?" she asked. Her voice was low and melodic, smooth and pleasant.

"Twenty-five," he answered.

Her brows arched slightly as she pressed a button for the twenty-fifth floor. He

noticed it was the only one she pressed. Were they actually visiting the same offices?

His curiosity about her expanded.

Thick, rich, glowing, red hair tumbled smoothly around her face and shoulders.

Her skin was pale and creamy and absolutely flawless. Her eyes were wide and

slanted slightly upwards at the corners. They were a stunning, vivid blue color, shot

through with sparks of emerald green. He had never seen such beautiful eyes. They

were without a doubt the most lovely feature of a very lovely woman.

She was perfectly proportioned everywhere, slim without being skinny,

voluptuous without being plump. And her dress emphasized everything about her

that was female and mysterious. A delicate concoction of black silk and lace, it

snuggled tightly over her full breasts, hugged her narrow waist, and slid intimately

around the smooth curve of her hips. The slits in the material, which exposed one

shapely thigh and a considerable amount of midriff, were positively indecent.

He loved her dress.

He was about to tell her so when it occurred to him that she would think he was

coming on to her. Did he want to come on to her? As beautiful as she was, he gave it

some thought before deciding against it.

The elevator came to a jarring halt on the fifteenth floor. The woman jiggled

slightly when she fell against the wall, and the sight nearly banished his resolve to

stay silent around her.

Two elderly women looked into the elevator, did a double take when they saw

her, and then mumbled something about waiting for the next elevator.

The doors swished shut again. He saw her mouth curve slightly, and he wondered

if she often endured that kind of insult. She looked more amused than embittered.

All the same, if he tried to compliment her, even flirt with her a little, she would

probably become business-like—either name a price or tell him she was booked for

the day. And that would destroy the love-goddess aura that seemed to surround her.

Besides, she would resent his wasting her time. He had never paid for a woman's

company and certainly didn't intend to start now, not even for her.

The doors opened on the twenty-fifth floor. Remembering the manners his

grandfather had drilled into him, he gestured for the lady to go first.

Alicia Cannon looked at the man from under her thick lashes for just a moment.

He must be a nice guy, she thought, because he had managed to study

her—surreptitiously, but unmistakably—all the way up to the twenty-fifth floor

without making her feel embarrassed or uncomfortable. This was the first time she

had ever left the theatre dressed like this, and she had found men's stares either

lustful or contemptuous as she walked along. This man's gaze was flattering and

curious, but also polite and respectful. A nice combination, she admitted to herself.

She walked past him, and then some devil inside, perhaps a residual characteristic

of the role she was currently playing, made her turn to face him. Surprised at herself,

she touched him lightly under the chin with one forefinger, and then winked coyly at

him as she pivoted to walk away.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his dumbfounded expression change

to a broad grin which swept slowly across his face. He shook his head and then

followed after her.

Much to her surprise, he wasn't going to one of the other two offices on the same

floor, but to her destination: Slade and Jackson Associates, Talent Agents. He

opened the door for her and followed her inside.

"A bit overdressed today, aren't we?" said the receptionist dryly.

Ally Cannon propped her leg up on the desk, leaned forward, arched her back,

and said in a low, seductive voice, "Tell Monty I'm here. He'll want to see me."

It had been a running gag between her and the staff of the talent agency during the

six months she had been playing a prostitute in an off-Broadway production.

Playing along, the secretary said, "Monty said you're to go right in. I'll hold all

calls."

Hips swaying beneath her uncomfortably tight dress, Ally started down the

hallway.

Behind her, she heard the secretary say, "Can I help you, sir?"

"What? Oh… I have an appointment. I'm a little early."

His voice was gorgeous, like the rest of him. Ally wondered if he was an actor.

He looked more California than New York. He was tall, slim, well muscled beneath

his blue jeans and cambric shirt, with thick, curly, honey blond hair and warm, dark

brown eyes. If she had been dressed like a normal person, she might have tried to be

a little friendlier. However, dressed as she was, he would have probably jumped to

erroneous conclusions.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite little tramp," said Monty Jackson wryly as she sat

down before him. Her squirming made him frown. "What's wrong, Ally?"

"It's so hard to find a comfortable position in this dress," she said. "And this wig

itches."

"Yes, I can imagine."

"I dashed over right after the matinee—the wardrobe mistress will kill me when

she finds out—and I have to eat and be back for the evening performance in an

hour," Ally said hurriedly. "You wanted to see me?"

Monty nodded.

"Is it about Roland Houston?" she asked eagerly.

Monty nodded again. For three months they had known that Roland Houston, the

writer-director, was preparing to make a film out of the novel Grass in Heaven. It

was a strong, uncompromising story of inner-city poverty. One of the supporting

roles in the movie would be the part of Rainy, the tough young woman who died

trying to help the hero realize his dream of finding a place where they could live in

peace and safety, a place with plenty of green grass to walk on.

Ally had dreamed of playing that part ever since she had first read the book.

When she heard that Roland Houston was turning it into a movie, she was

determined to seize her chance. When she learned that her agent, Monty, had dealt

with Houston several times before, it seemed that everything was going her way. All

she needed now was to meet the man, talk to him, read for him. She wanted the part

so badly, she would willingly blow what was left of her meager savings on a plane

ticket to Los Angeles to meet with him if necessary.

Ally frowned suddenly, aware that Monty did not look like a man about to deliver

good news.

"Does he want to see me?" she asked hopefully.

"I hate this," Monty said, and stood up abruptly. He turned away and looked out

the window. "No, Ally. He doesn't."

The words fell like stones. The room seemed to echo the rejection in mockery of

all Ally's hopes and plans.

"He doesn't?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. "Why not?"

"He… took one look at your picture and said no."

"What?"

"He said you were too fresh and sweet, too delicate-looking. He said Rainy is a

tough, wisecracking, hardened woman who's been through everything by the age of

twenty-four. He said a face like yours could never pull it off onscreen."

"But right now I'm playing a prostitute who kills her own pimp! And I do it eight

times a week," Ally sputtered. "To rave reviews, I might add."

"I know, Ally. But when he looked at your resume, all he saw were—"

"Underwear parts," Ally finished bleakly. The words "underwear parts" were

Ally's euphemism for the plethora of roles she had played that required nothing

except that she run around scantily clad, looking pretty and uttering straight lines.

Although dissatisfied with the roles, Ally had been grateful to at least get work more

often than many of her talented friends. What's more, her first two agents and

numerous producers had insisted again and again that a young woman with her sexy

looks was only going to get "underwear parts."

Montgomery Jackson was the first agent who had ever told her she was strong,

talented, and impressive, and should be doing more important work. When he had

left the huge agency he had originally worked in to form his own agency with a

partner, Ally had gone with him as a client, flattered to be asked since Monty's client

list was extremely impressive. She had never regretted it. He had gotten her a whole

season with an excellent Shakespeare company in Oregon, and three challenging

roles since then. Monty had kept his promise to help Ally build an impressive

repertoire of roles she could grow in and recall with dignity.

As she approached thirty, Ally was determined to continue growing. She resented

the implication that her pretty face made her incapable of playing Rainy in Grass in

Heaven.

"Didn't he see the more recent listings on my resume?" she demanded. "Pray for

Us, The Seagull, Much Ado About Nothing—"

"Of course he saw, Ally. But he's not convinced. He said that he can tell by

looking at your face that you're not right for the part, and there's not enough

evidence on your resume to make him think otherwise."

"Then why doesn't he come to see me in the play I'm doing now? I'm tough

enough in this play to scare a roomful of linebackers."

"He's not planning a trip to New York right now, and your play closes next week.

He's not going to make a special trip out here just to see you in Northern Comfort.

He's not interested, Ally. I'm sorry."

Ally bowed her head, feeling defeat hit her with merciless force. She had wanted

this so badly. The part itself would have meant everything to her, and the chance to

work in a Roland Houston film could have skyrocketed her career. She ran a hand

through the illusionary red tresses that spilled over her shoulders.

"Okay," she said at last. "Thank you for trying, Monty."

"I think he's wrong, Ally, and we'll find a part for you that will make him eat his

hat. But for now…"

"If only I could meet him, just talk to him. No one will play that part like I

could…" She sighed heavily. They were both silent for several long moments. She

was grateful to Monty for telling her this in person; telephones were so impersonal.

Finally she said, "Since Comfort closes next week, I'd better ask. Has anything else

turned up yet?"

He shook his head. "Things are very slow right now. How are you fixed for

cash?"

"Not good," she admitted. "My free animal-shelter cat just required some surgery

that nearly cleaned me out. And my rent is going up."

"Well, there might be a breakfast drink commercial coming up, if you're

interested." He looked doubtful.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Ally said glumly. "What about that woman who was

thinking of me for that play about Emily Dickinson?"

"She called last week. Can't get enough backers."

"Well, keep me posted, Monty. As of next week, I'm unemployed." She rose to

leave.

Monty opened the door. "Don't worry, Ally. I'll find something for you."

She smiled fondly at him as she stepped out into the hall. "I know. You always

do." She really was very lucky to have such a dedicated agent. Many of her friends

were not so fortunate. "I need a hug," she said.

Monty gave her an affectionate squeeze. He pulled back and looked into her face.

"Look at you," he said wryly. "It's a good thing my wife's not the jealous type."

"Ahhh, it's a good thing you're not the philandering type," Ally answered.

She touched his cheek lightly and turned to leave. As soon as she turned away

from Monty, her eyes locked with those of the blond stranger who had entered the

office with her. She heard Monty's door close behind her.

The stranger's eyes were warm and curious. Not judgmental, but certainly

speculative as he looked at her. A suggestively dressed woman being physically

affectionate with a talent agent had all sorts of possible implications.

"Do it again!" cried the receptionist, distracting Ally and the blond man.

He grinned at the receptionist. He had a devastating smile, Ally noticed, sunny and

sexy at the same time.

"No, I'd better not. I might get hurt this time."

"Oh, come on!" Seeing Ally, the receptionist gestured to her to come nearer.

"You've got to see this!"

Ally stepped closer and looked at the stranger from under her thick lashes. "See

what?"

The receptionist pulled a cigarette out of her purse and put it to her lips. The man

glanced at Ally for a moment, shrugged good-naturedly, and snapped his fingers.

Ally gasped and stepped back as his fingers caught fire.

He leaned gracefully across the desk to light the woman's cigarette. He turned to

Ally. "Want a light?" he asked with the endearing tone and expression of a teenager

trying to impress an older woman.

"I… No, thanks." Ally was definitely impressed.

He waved his hand with a quick flourish, and the flame disappeared. His dark

eyes were soulful and laughing at the same time, his face was intelligent and

handsome, and his voice was husky and deep.

"Look! He's not even burned!" exclaimed the receptionist.

"That's amazing," Ally said politely.

As the receptionist purred with admiration, a thought occurred to Ally. Actors

needed all sorts of bizarre skills. A friend of hers had spent eight weeks in

roller-skating lessons to get her role in Starlight Express. Another nonsmoking

friend had spent many hours learning to roll her own cigarettes for a scene in Plenty.

Ally's last boyfriend had learned to use a lasso for his role in Oklahoma. Perhaps,

Ally thought, she could someday profit from knowing a trick like this. It was a good

one, after all. Like many people in her profession, he might be willing to share his

secrets.

"Do you give your tricks away?" she asked suddenly.

"No." The man's soft brown eyes glinted and traveled down her body with subtle

implication. "Do you?"

Ally felt blood rush to her face as she realized the implication of his words. This

was the last straw. She should have realized what people would think if she walked

around in the real world like this, but she had just suffered a crushing disappointment

in Monty's office, and felt neither tolerant nor humorous at this particular moment.

She gave the stranger her most withering look, her eyes telling him that she

thought he was loathsome and vulgar. Then, without another word, she turned on her

heel and left.

Chance watched the redhead stalk out of the talent agency without a backward

glance. A puzzled smile played around his mouth. He still wasn't sure what her

profession was—or what her connection to Montgomery Jackson was. He was

tempted to follow her and apologize.

"I'll tell Monty you're here, Mr. Weal."

"Call me Chance," he said. He was rewarded by an adoring flutter of eyelashes

before the receptionist picked up the phone to buzz her employer. He grinned, then

thought about the redhead again. Her eyes were amazing. He would have liked to see

her laugh or smile.

"Chance, good to see you again." Monty came down the hallway and clasped

Chance's hand in a firm handshake. Monty didn't greet him with the exaggerated

joviality Chance had come to detest in some show-business people. In fact, Monty's

sincerity and genuine concern for his clients was one of the main reasons that

Chance, having fired his last agent, had decided to sign with Slade and Jackson

Associates.

Monty's reputation was another reason Chance had chosen him. At fifty-six,

Monty had handled a wide variety of talent, had boosted numerous careers to

stardom, had obtained and cultivated excellent connections, and maintained a

reputation for fairness. And Chance had worked too hard all these years to settle for

less anymore.

They had shaken hands on their agreement in Los Angeles two months ago.

Chance had finished out a contract at one of the big Las Vegas Hotels, and now he

was in New York for some more television appearances Monty had booked.

"Have you found a place to stay?" Monty asked as they sat down in his office.

"I'm subletting a place from a friend of mine. It's comfortable."

"To get right down to business," Monty said, "I got a call from Los Angeles

today. It's a go."

"The one-hour special we discussed with that producer we met with? Ambrose

Kettering?"

Monty nodded. "One hour, prime time, network television. Of course, there are

still contractual details to work out."

"Monty, I don't know what to say. For two years I badgered my last agent about

a television special. And you've done it in two months!" Chance grinned. "And now

I guess it's up to me to make sure they sign me for another special after this one is

over."

"Exactly," said Monty. "To that end, I count on you to make magic onstage while

I stir up excitement about you offstage. If we both play our cards right, you could

be doing as well as David Copperfield and Doug Henning before long."

"And if I mess it up, it's back to Ghirardelli Square for me," Chance said wryly,

naming the colorful square in San Francisco where he had started his career more

than a dozen years ago by performing for pedestrians and passing the hat.

"As I said, there are a number of contractual questions," Monty began.

Chance had an unlimited attention span when it came to perfecting his craft, but

business bored him quickly. He was aware that, as a responsible adult and

professional, he needed to know the business details of his career. He was, however,

shifting restlessly in his chair and eager to leave after a half hour of concentrating on

Monty's conversation.

The phone intercom buzzed. Monty picked it up. "Yes? Tell her I'm with a client

now…" Monty frowned. After a moment, he glanced up at Chance. "It's another

client. She says it's urgent. Do you mind if I—"

"No, of course not."

"All right, put her on." He waited a moment. "Yes, Ally, what is it? Slow down, I

can't understand you." He frowned again. "Atlantic City? Ally, it's not right around

the corner… Well, I didn't know he would be there. How did you— Oh, I see. But I

don't think… He won't… You're not…" Monty gave a sigh. He smiled ruefully. "All

right, Ally. I will… Yes, I'll think of something. I promise."

After a few more moments, Monty said good-bye and hung up. He smiled at

Chance. "Ambition must be a terrible burden. I thank God I'm just a businessman.

Now, where were we?"

"Publicity."

"Oh, yes, that call reminded me. There's going to be a benefit in Atlantic City in a

few weeks. A fund for homeless children, I believe. It's a big weekend shebang that'll

take place at the Wilson Palace Hotel and Casino.

Ambrose Kettering is producing the show, and he's suggested you give a brief

performance."

"What do you think?" Chance asked.

"I think it's a good cause, it'll get a lot of coverage, and there will be a lot of

important people there. If we can fit it in, I think you should go." Chance nodded

affably, and Monty added, "I'll find out more about it for you."

They wrapped up their conversation quickly, since Monty was expecting another

appointment momentarily.

As Chance left Monty's office and rode the elevator down to the first floor, he

knew he had been right to sign with Monty.

In the past, Chance had suffered a number of setbacks, both professional and

personal, regarding his career. Conjurers were still often poorly regarded by talent

agencies and by other performers. Often by their loved ones, too, Chance thought

with a faint twinge of unpleasant emotion. After all these years, he had almost

forgotten the woman— but he had never forgotten the feeling of betrayal.

Monty didn't strike Chance as the type to steal a little afternoon delight with a call

girl, so he assumed the redhead was really an actress. He wondered if she dressed

like that all the time, or if it was part of some work she was doing. He was sorry he

had let the opportunity to meet her slip by. But then, he thought with a smile, the

venomous look she had given him when she left proved she had quite a temper.

Perhaps it was just as well he had let her go.

He sauntered down the street, hands in his pockets, and wondered what to do

until he met a friend at the cinema later. He could do some work, but he was feeling

suddenly nostalgic. On a whim, he decided to go to Central Park and see if he could

find a street magician or two.

Chance loved the spectacle of legerdemain, the awe, wonder, and suspicion on

the audience's faces, and the triumphant surprises offered by the magician. He

especially loved the impromptu aspect of conjuring right in the middle of a throng of

people. Anything could, and frequently did, happen.

He checked his pockets to make sure he had something to put in the hat, then he

set off for the park with a smile on his face.

After leaving Monty's office, Ally had decided to grab a bite to eat on the same

Laura Resnick - Sleight of Hand

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