Drawn in Blood by Andrea Kane Page A

loved the focus and the self-competitive edge, the way it cleared her mind and honed her skil s. And since her injury, it had been a lifesaver. It did wonders for her concentration, her aim, and her strength training. These days, her arrow was hitting the bul ’s-eye more often than not—or at least it had been, before this whole crisis with her father had relegated her to Manhattan.
    “The clock is ticking.” Sloane spoke one of her greatest fears aloud. “I’m close to finishing my hand therapy.” She glanced down at her scarred palm. “Connie made it clear; two years is the limit. After that, whatever nerve damage is left wil probably be permanent. So, yes, I need to get back home.”
    “Say the word and we’re there,” Derek urged quietly. “There’s nothing standing in the way but you.”
    “I know.” A pause. “I’m stil going to be driving into Manhattan.”
    “I never assumed otherwise. You’ve been commuting here regularly ever since you moved to Hunterdon County—to see clients, friends, your hand therapist, and now your parents. Go wherever you want. Just come home to me.”
    “Okay.” Slowly, Sloane nodded. “Tonight’s my father’s weekly poker game. I’l talk to him then. Oh, and Derek?”
    “Hmmm?”
    “He’s not guilty of anything.”
    “If you say so.”

    Wal ace took another sip of his martini. He had to head back to the city. Even if he sped, it was a two-and-a-half-hour drive. He’d be an hour late as it was. The game normal y started at eight. Tonight, it was at Matthew’s place. Rosalyn was venturing out for a business dinner, so she wouldn’t be home. And the group of them needed to talk—alone. He had to be there.
    But he couldn’t leave. Not yet. He couldn’t tear himself away.
    He’d hung the new painting in his private gal ery with the others. This Cassatt had been costly. And the risk was enormous.
    But it had been worth it.
    He leaned back in the leather swivel recliner that was at the center of the room. From there, he could turn in any direction and view any masterpiece in his col ection—or take in the entire col ection at once. Some of the paintings were high-end, like the Renoirs and the Cassatts. Others were far less pricey, often created by up-and-coming, and even local, artists. Cost wasn’t the issue. Content was.
    He studied the new addition to his private gal ery with deep gratification. His life was a facade, the world simply a stage upon which to enact the charade.
    This room was his only sanctuary.
    The clock in the upstairs hal way chimed six-thirty.
    Reluctantly, he rose, setting down his martini glass and taking in the exquisite painting for one long moment. Yes, acquiring this one had been worth the risk.
    He climbed the stairs, flipped off the light, and shut and locked the door. This room was off-limits to everyone—family, friends, and col eagues alike.
    He shrugged into his jacket and headed for the garage. He was just opening the door to his Jaguar when he sensed someone behind him.
    He barely had time to turn when a foot slammed into his stomach. The impact sent him sprawling to the concrete floor. He lay there, groaning, doubled up with pain, and gazed up at his attacker.
    The dark, emotionless eyes that stared into his belonged to the same brawny Asian man who’d been here earlier in the week. The threat he’d issued then had been menacingly clear. He’d shattered an antique mirror, sending shards of glass scattering al over the hal . With a gloved hand, he’d picked up the longest piece and held it to Wal ace’s throat. “FBI.
    You say nothing,” he’d warned in broken English.
    “I won’t,” Wal ace had gasped. “I have nothing to tel them.”
    “Good.”
    He was gone as quickly as he’d come.
    Now he pinned Wal ace to the ground, one knee planted squarely across his throat, squeezing his windpipe.
    “I didn’t say a word,” Wal ace wheezed out. “I…swear…”
    The dul -eyed thug leaned into him, increasing