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.
CHAPTER TWO
The evening rush hour had come and gone, but the cars were still 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 pulled 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 di
d she know if it was right?
She was still 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 pillows.
“Hey.” Sloane greeted Moe, Larry, and Curly—or “the hounds,” as she affectionately called them—with alternating scruffling of their necks. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and she had to grin as Larry stuck his head inside one pillowcase 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—actually, 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 galley kitchen to refill 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 small 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 still 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 collapsing 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’ll 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 challenge.” 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 well. “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 fell apart,” he reminded her. “And you know damned well 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 hell in today’s world.
Which was why she was terrified.