And that would put him one trigger-pull away from being killed.
“Hey.”
Sloane nearly jumped out of her skin as Derek appeared in the bedroom doorway.
“Hi.” She went for honest; lying would be pointless and stupid. He’d already seen her reaction at the sound of his voice. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Why? I live here—for now.” Crossing over, Derek poured two glasses of the Chianti they had yet to drink, and offered her one. “Here. You look like you could use this.”
“You’re right. I could.” Sloane took the proffered glass. Her first sip was more like a gulp. Her right hand trembled a little, and she transferred the goblet to her left.
Derek’s sharp gaze took in the motion. “Bad day with your hand?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.
“A grueling OT session this morning,” Sloane replied, referring to the occupational therapy she still religiously, and rigorously, endured.
The Hospital for Special Surgery at New York Weill Cornell Medical Center was the best, and so were Dr. Charles Houghton, her surgeon, and Constance Griggs, her hand therapist.
“Connie’s determined to push me right back into the Bureau—right hand first,” Sloane added wryly. “Then again, she’s always been an optimist.”
“Maybe you’re ready.”
A dubious shake of her head. “My dexterity’s still not where it needs to be. Sure, I can fire my weapon now. It would be pretty sad if I couldn’t, since I’m at Fort Dix weekly getting firearms training.”
“That’s a huge step for someone who couldn’t hold a pistol two months ago.”
“Fine. I’ve made progress. But my aim is mediocre when it comes to rapid fire, and my trigger finger’s still weak. I’m pushing myself as hard as I can, and then some. But I’m just not there.”
“You will be.”
Derek was always so damned sure—when it came to them, and when it came to this. She couldn’t make that claim. Sometimes she waffled. Sometimes she was terrified. And sometimes the bitterness ate away at her. Then again, she was the one who’d lost a chunk of her life doing the job that she loved, being with the man she loved.
And for what? Lousy judgment. Doing a hell of a job defusing a hostage crisis in a bank barricade, and then blowing all her hard work by acting like a stupid newbie. Not waiting for backup. Single-handedly chasing down the one scrawny teenage punk who’d gotten away. Cornering him in an alley, and assuming the threat was eliminated once he’d dropped his weapon and was on his knees. Then finding out he was smarter than she was. He’d whipped out a knife he’d stashed in his boot, and sliced up the tendons, nerves, and flesh of her right hand.
Three surgeries and seventeen months of occupational therapy later, she still wasn’t whole. Maybe she never would be.
“Cut the self-doubt,” Derek instructed, reading the emotions on her face. “You suck at it. Besides, you want back into the Bureau so bad you can taste it. Combine that with the fact that you’re stubborn as a mule, and you’re practically a special agent again.”
Sloane arched a brow. “Ya think? I’m not so sure. I mean, regaining my skills is one thing. But rejoining the Bureau? It would mean a major pay cut. Going from private consulting to federal law enforcement—it’s usually the other way around, isn’t it? Plus, by the time I’m ready, I’ll have been out for almost two years. I’ll get as many recommendations as I can, but I’ll probably have to go through the whole training program again. Twenty weeks at the FBI Academy at Quantico, plus weeks of brush-up in crisis negotiations. Not to mention…”
“Not to mention you want it almost as much as you want me.”
Sloane blinked, then dissolved into laughter. “You lend new meaning to the word ‘arrogant.’”
“Yeah, but I’m incredib
le in bed.”
“True.” Sloane took another sip of Chianti. “That’s why I put up with the rest.”
“Put up with it at your place.”
Derek’s words cut through their banter like a knife.
He put down his glass and walked around to grip her shoulders. “Sloane, you can’t babysit your parents forever. I know you’re investigating something. And I know it involves your father. If you’d let me, I could help.” Unless he’s guilty of a crime was omitted but clearly implied. “It would make whatever this is go away that much faster.”
“Maybe. But whether or not I talk to you isn’t my decision.” A pointed stare. “Just like filling in for me whatever details you know that might help, or at least telling me what I’m up against, isn’t yours.”
“Fine.” Impatience laced Derek’s tone. “Then let’s call it a draw and move into your place.”