Drawn in Blood (2 page)

Whoever had done this had struck her at least twice with the bookend. Hard.

“Roz!” Matthew gripped her shoulders and shook her, realizing he was being an ass. He shouldn’t be jarring her, shouldn’t be wasting precious seconds before cal ing 911. But he needed a sign,
any
sign—a word, a flicker of recognition—
anything
that told him she was okay.

He got both.

After his second “Roz! Honey, can you hear me?” she cracked open her eyes.

“Matthew?” she managed, blinking up at him. She stirred, then moaned, sinking back into the carpet and squeezing her eyes shut at the pain.

“Don’t talk. Don’t move. I’l get help. It’l be okay.” Matthew knew he was reassuring himself more than his wife, who’d slipped back into unconsciousness.

Groping in his jacket pocket, he snatched his cel phone and punched in 911.

“This is Matthew Burbank,” he announced the instant the emergency operator answered. “I live at 500 East Eighty-second, at the corner of York. Apartment 9B. My home’s been broken into. My wife is hurt. I need an ambulance—fast.” His gaze was darting around, taking in the wreck of his office as he spoke. “She was struck on the head. At least twice. I don’t know how bad it is. She’s bleeding, but she’s alive. Please…hurry.” Dazed, he supplied the other customary answers, then hung up.

He forced himself to scan the room, taking in the ransacked drawers of his myriad file cabinets. Even though he didn’t label the cabinets themselves, he had a system, and he knew which cabinets were which. So he knew exactly where to direct his scrutiny. The cabinet that was thoroughly trashed, with a specific drawer pul ed out to the max, was the one holding his pre-electronic business records of promising modern artists.

Neatly placed across the open drawer was a now-empty file folder. No surprise as to which one.
A. Rothberg’s Dead or Alive
was printed on the tab. And resting on top of the folder like some kind of menacing paperweight was a fortune cookie. He picked it up. The fortune was sticking out from inside the cookie. Matthew eased it free.

Devote tomorrow to silent reflection,
it read.

Bile burned Matthew’s tongue. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a threat. This is what they’d come for. Not his possessions.

Matthew stared at the objects in his hands. Then, he shoved the empty file folder, fortune cookie, and fortune into the inside pocket of his trench coat.

The cops couldn’t see these. If they did, the whole situation would explode wide open.

It was already too late for him.

But now his whole family was in mortal danger.

The evening rush hour had come and gone, but the cars were stil rumbling through the Midtown Tunnel, making the apartment vibrate and sleep impossible.

Fortunately, sleep was the furthest thing from Sloane Burbank’s mind.

Lying alone in Derek’s bed, she pul ed the sheet up higher, gripping it tightly in her fists, and wondering for the dozenth time if she was jumping the gun, making a huge mistake.

Was this happening too fast? Was it premature? Would it solidify things or blow them apart?

The step she was making was huge. How did she know if it was right?

She was stil pondering that when the key turned in the front-door lock, and Derek’s voice reached her ears, accompanied by the sound of racing paws. An instant later, three bright-eyed dachshunds scrambled into the bedroom, dragging their leashes behind them. They pounced on the bed and on Sloane with a vengeance, licking her face and burrowing in the pil ows.

“Hey.” Sloane greeted Moe, Larry, and Curly—or “the hounds,” as she affectionately cal ed them—with alternating scruffling of their necks. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and she had to grin as Larry stuck his head inside one pil owcase and emerged with two feathers on his snout. She plucked them off, pivoted to her side, and propped herself on one elbow.

“That’s quite a greeting, you three. And you’ve only been gone a half hour.”

“It feels like a lot longer.” Derek Parker entered the room, shrugging out of his lightweight jacket and hanging it neatly over one of the two suitcases near the bedroom door. “We jogged half a mile up Second Avenue. I think we marked every fire hydrant along the way twice—once going and once coming back.” Sloane laughed, sitting up to unsnap the hounds’ leashes. Curly was panting the least. Then again, he was her little frankfurter, with almost no hair to weigh him down. Larry was curly haired, and little Moe—actual y, Mona, the only female of the trio—was long-haired and silky. She was panting the most, and took the opportunity to gaze at Sloane and emit a plaintive whimper.

“Oh, cut it out,” Derek muttered as he stepped into the gal ey kitchen to refil their water dishes. “You’re such a drama queen. You were the one who dragged us into that mud puddle to play—
and
refused to leave for five minutes. So cut the violins-playing-in-the-background act.” Moe gave a pointed snort and jumped off the bed, leaving to join the others for a long drink.

“Thanks for taking them out,” Sloane said to Derek. “You know that when I’m in the country I take them for a jog every morning and night. But I hate running in the city.”

“Not a problem.”

Sloane watched as Derek guzzled a bottle of water, then stripped off his shirt and tossed it in the hamper nearby. That was the one good thing about a smal apartment—

everything was within reach.

The man had a great body. There were no two ways about it. From his broad, muscled shoulders to his six-pack abs, he was as hot as they come. And he didn’t owe that body to the FBI. He owed it to the military. As a former Army Ranger, Derek stil rose at dawn and worked out like a demon. When the rest of the world—and the sun—was rising, Derek was finishing up a workout that would knock most people on their asses for a week. No col apsing for him. After the workout, Derek showered, ate a PowerBar, and drove down to the FBI’s New York Field Office to start his workday.

Tonight the two of them had cut short their regular workaholic hours. They’d quit work by six and headed over to Derek’s apartment to pack. The packing had been minimal.

They’d spent most of the past few hours in bed.

Now, Derek was bare to the waist, and, knowing the effect they had on each other, Sloane held up her palm. “Much as I’d love to see the rest of the striptease, it’l have to wait. I ordered up Italian. It should be here in ten.”

Derek gave her that sexy grin that made her insides melt. “We’ve burned up the sheets in five,” he reminded her. “And that included getting our clothes off. You’re already naked, and I’m halfway there. Plus, we both love a chal enge.” His smile faded. “Of course, we also know that’s not the problem. The problem is you’ve used the past half hour to freak out and consider changing your mind about my moving in to your place. Kind of puts a damper on the mood.”

Sloane blew out her breath. She wished he didn’t know her so wel . “Guilty as charged,” she admitted. “And it’s not because I don’t want to live together. I just don’t want to screw things up—again.”

“We weren’t living together when things fel apart,” he reminded her. “And you know damned wel that, even if we had been, living together would have had nothing to do with what happened. We shut each other out. We let our pride outweigh our love. We won’t make that mistake twice.”

“No,” Sloane agreed softly. “We won’t.”

She was being ridiculous. She knew it. It had been six months since they’d found their way back to each other. They’d worked out the obstacles—at least the big ones. What they had together was unique. She loved him. He loved her. An emotional connection like theirs was rare as hel in today’s world.

Which was why she was terrified.

But, as Derek had just said, she loved a chal enge. Living together was going to be a biggie. It meant relinquishing another piece of her freedom and lowering another protective wal .

He was worth it.
They
were worth it.

The buzzer sounded, sending the hounds into a barking frenzy.

“Dinner’s early.” Derek walked over, tipped up Sloane’s chin, and kissed her—not just a kiss, but one of those slow, deep kisses she felt down to her toes. “Pity. We could have put those ten minutes to good use.”

Her eyes were smoky. “I’l owe them to you. We’l tack them on to dessert.”

“Deal.” Derek yanked his T-shirt back on. “I’l get the food.”

Sloane scooted over to get out of bed. “I’l set the table.”

“Don’t bother. We’l eat out of the tins. Fewer dishes to wash, more time to pack. And whatever.” With a wink, Derek went to buzz the doorman and tel him to let the delivery kid upstairs with their food.

Pul ing one of Derek’s oversize sweatshirts on, Sloane combed her fingers through the layers of her dark shoulder-length hair, and then padded into the kitchen to grab some forks and knives. She took an extra minute to pour two glasses of Chianti.

The wine wasn’t meant to be savored. Not tonight.

Her cel phone rang.

Pausing for a quick sip of Chianti, Sloane retraced her steps to the bedroom. One of her clients, no doubt. With something that couldn’t wait until morning. She was used to that.

As an independent consultant with credentials as a former FBI agent and crisis negotiator, she had a client list that consisted of law enforcement agencies and companies that needed round-the-clock availability. So, adaptability in her personal life was the name of the game.

She wondered what tonight’s interruption would be.

Scooping her phone off the nightstand, she flipped it open. “Sloane Burbank.”

“Sloane, it’s me.”

“Dad?” Her brows drew together. It wasn’t that hearing from her father was unusual. She and her parents touched base a lot more since they’d moved back north to Manhattan from their Florida condo. But her father’s tone, which was normal y smooth and upbeat from al his years in sales, was shaky and strained. Not to mention the disturbing background noises Sloane could make out through the phone. The institutional bustle. The clear, unwelcome echo of a doctor being paged. The sounds were sickeningly familiar.

Her father was cal ing from a hospital—a setting she’d had more than her fair share of experience in.

Her gut clenched. “Dad, what’s wrong?” she demanded. “You’re in a hospital. Why?”

A hard swal ow. “It’s your mother. She’s been hurt.”

“Hurt—how?” Sloane was already shrugging out of Derek’s sweatshirt and rummaging around for her clothes. “And how bad is it?” Another swal ow, as her father struggled to keep himself together. “Our apartment was robbed. Your mother must have walked in and surprised the intruders. She was tied up and knocked unconscious. The good news is that, by the time the ambulance got us to the emergency room, she was coming around.”

“So she’s conscious?” Sloane wriggled into her bra and snapped the front clasp with her free hand, then stepped into her thong, and reached for her slacks and sweater.

“Conscious, and in pain. I’m waiting for an update from the doctors now.”

“Which hospital?”

“New York Presbyterian.”

“I’l catch a taxi and be there in ten minutes.”

“Wait.” Matthew interrupted her. “Ten minutes? Where are you?”

“At Derek’s place.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” An uncomfortable pause. “Sloane, I need you to come alone. Not with Derek. Not with anybody. The NYPD is already handling the break-in.

They’ve got detectives here asking me a hundred questions—most of which I have no answers to. The last thing I need is to escalate the situation by having an FBI agent join this three-ring circus. Your mother needs her rest. She also needs you. So do I. Please, come alone.”

“Al right.” Something about her father’s request didn’t sit right. Sloane sensed it, despite her shock and worry over her mother. She just couldn’t pinpoint what it was—not yet.

But now wasn’t the time to argue.

She grabbed her pocketbook. “I’m on my way.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, Dad. Alone.”

She snapped the phone shut and finished pul ing on her sweater and buttoning her slacks. She was halfway through the bedroom door when she col ided with Derek, who’d come to announce that dinner was served.

He frowned, taking in her drawn expression and the fact that she was ful y dressed. “What’s going on?”

“My mom’s in the hospital. I’ve got to get over there.”

He snapped into take-charge mode. “Is it serious?”

“Someone broke into their place. She surprised them. They knocked her out. That’s al I know.”

“I’l go with you.” Ignoring the trays of lasagna, Derek headed for the door.

“No—wait.” Sloane stopped him, shrugging into her coat as she spoke. “My dad asked me to come alone. He sounds real y upset. The cops are in his face, asking questions. I think he and my mom have had al they can take.”

Derek went very stil . “I’m not going to interrogate them. I’m going to offer my support. And to be there for you.” This was going to be tough. “I realize that,” Sloane careful y replied. “And I’m grateful. But think of it from my dad’s point of view. Right now, he doesn’t see you as my boyfriend.

He sees you as yet another law enforcement official. I don’t want to upset him any more than he already is. So I’l do it his way. He and my mom are right here at New York Presbyterian.

I’l be there in a flash. And I’l cal you with updates.”

“Fine.” Derek wasn’t happy. But he didn’t argue. “My doorman wil hail you a cab.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“I don’t. I’m accepting.”

“That works, too.” Sloane’s gaze flitted to the kitchen table. “Go ahead and eat. I’l warm mine up when I get back.”

“Right. Sure. Send my best to your folks.”

“I wil .” Sloane was already halfway out the door, waiting only until Derek had reined in the hounds before she took off.

Derek shut the door behind her. He parked himself at the kitchen table but ignored the food. He wasn’t hungry. He was bugged. Sloane had a hel of a poker face. But he knew her. Something was up. What had her father divulged about the break-in that he wanted kept under wraps? It couldn’t have been too detailed, given the brevity of the conversation.