“So we can get me far away from the danger you alluded to? So you can protect me?”
“Partly. Partly so we can live together.”
“We’re already living together. I’ve slept here every night this week.”
“Out of necessity. This is a temporary hangout for you, and for us; a place to stay over when we’re stuck late in the city. But a home? No way. It’s a coffin with a bathroom, with the continuous rumble of Midtown Tunnel traffic for mood music. You’ve got a cozy cottage, seven acres, and three hounds who are about to mutiny if they’re locked up in this place much longer. And I’ll be joining them.”
Sloane could feel herself losing this argument.
So could Derek.
“Most of my stuff is already at your place,” he continued, then went in for the kill. “So’s your archery range, by the way. You haven’t practiced in almost a week.”
Inhaling sharply, Sloane glared at him. “That was low.”
“It was honest. Manipulative, but honest.”
She couldn’t deny that one. Archery had always been her thing. She’d been captain of every archery team she participated in since high school. She loved the focus and the self-competitive edge, the way it cleared her mind and honed her skills. 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 bull’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 will 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 still 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’ll talk to him then. Oh, and Derek?”
“Hmmm?”
“He’s not guilty of anything.”
“If you say so.”
Wallace 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 normally 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 gallery 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 collection—or take in the entire collection 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 gallery 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 hallway 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 colleagues 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.