Sloane's eyes began to blaze. "Why are you so interested in this?"

"Because I think you're in over your head. And I don't think even you know how far."

CHAPTER FIVE.

Xiao Long, or "Little Dragon," as his street name translated into English, crossed the street with his driver, who also served as his bodyguard. The driver unlocked the doors of Xiao's Mercedes sedan, and Xiao slid into the backseat. He popped a couple of aspirin in his mouth, swallowing them with a gulp of bottled water. His head ached from the effort of carrying on a conversation in unbroken English. His client, the rich collector Wallace Johnson, was a world traveler, so he spoke some Mandarin and Cantonese, but not enough to conduct a whole business exchange. So they used English. As for Xiao's native dialect of f.u.kienese? That was far too low-cla.s.s for Johnson. Xiao was too low-cla.s.s for Johnson. The old man treated him like a stupid delivery boy. Which, in his eyes, he was.

The irony of that was almost funny. Education didn't make a man smart, only well read. Xiao was smart. It was he who was the spider, and Johnson the fly. The pathetic old fool had no idea who he was dealing with, or the power he wielded.

He'd shudder if he knew the lengths Xiao had gone to in order to secure his position. And he'd be terrorized if he knew how far Xiao would be willing to go to preserve and increase his power.

Success was his. He was already the Dai Lo of the Red Dragons, hand chosen and sent to the United States by the triad's Dragon Head himself. And that was just the beginning. He'd come from nothing, clawed and killed his way to something, and stood on the brink of becoming the supreme leader.

And Johnson? He was on his way to h.e.l.l.

Xiao ordered his driver to go. The bodyguard obeyed instantly, inserting the key in the ignition and turning over the motor. The car hummed to life. Xiao gazed across the street at the sprawling manor as they pulled away from the curb. Then, he plucked the disposable cell phone out of his jacket pocket. It had been purchased for him by one of his Red Dragon kids this morning.

The first call he made was to the bank. This time speaking in Cantonese, he confirmed that the wire transfer was complete. All of the five hundred thousand dollars that had been deposited in his Cayman Islands account earlier this week had been transferred to the designated account in Hong Kong.

Ten percent of the full five million the Ca.s.satt was worth when it hung in the Museo de Arte Moderno. An excellent price for a stolen masterpiece that would be far too recognizable to sell. Then again, the world would never see this painting again. Its buyer had other plans.

The second call Xiao Long made was to Hong Kong. For that call, he spoke in the unique dialect of the Loong Doo region of Guangdong. He'd learned it for a reason. And that reason was at the other end of the phone.

Xiao Long provided the facts. The deal had gone off as always. Clean. No hitches. No attempts to renegotiate. One week after the museum theft, Johnson had his painting, and the Dragon Head's bank account had received payment in full.

That was all the Dragon Head needed to know. Until further instructions were issued, the rest was Xiao Long's problem. And he'd handle it any way he had to.

He was far too shrewd not to have noticed a change in Johnson. The procedure they'd just gone through might have been the same, but the mood that went with it was different. Johnson had been nervous. It was no secret why. The FBI and their f.u.c.king investigation. Johnson being on their interview list. The fact that Jin Huang, Xiao Long's enforcer, had paid Johnson a visit, warning him to keep his mouth shut. And the knowledge that the art collection Johnson owned could send him to jail. There was plenty to make the old guy nervous.

Doubtful that Johnson would crack. He hadn't even been there. And to tell any more of the truth would mean s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g himself or getting himself killed.

But it would also mean s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g them. And the Dragon Head wouldn't tolerate that. Especially not at Johnson's hands. Nor would the Dragon Head forgive.

It was Xiao Long's future on the line. He'd ensure it at all costs.

With that in mind, he picked up the phone again to make a quick call to Jin Huang.

Words were one thing. Pain was another. A small reminder of the consequences was needed.

Soon, a reminder wouldn't suffice. The Dragon Head would be finished toying with Johnson. He'd order him killed. His partners, as well. Xiao would personally carry out those orders, inflicting the greatest amount of pain possible before ending their lives.

The pleasure would be all his.

Sloane let herself into Derek's apartment, simultaneously tossing her tote bag into the closet and shrugging out of her jacket.

Long, hard day. Cranky human resources manager who wasn't a big fan of consultants, their seminars, or their steep rates. Although she had been interested enough to stick around while Sloane trained the staff of Adler and Berber, the prominent security company that had hired her to educate them in the newest techniques of crisis negotiations. That HR exec was singing a different tune by the time Sloane left.

It was a win-win. Sloane did her job, the company was satisfied, and she had time to check in privately with the first shift of the security team she'd hired to protect her parents. The relief team was on the job now, and she checked in with them by phone.

So far, so good. No one else following her father or mother around, and no subtle visitors hanging around the apartment.

That had to be good news. It meant that, more than a full week after her father had been interviewed by the FBI, he wasn't being regarded as an immediate threat-not to the Chinese killer and not to the Bureau.

Who was she kidding, she thought with a frown. That whole line of thinking was a crock.

She was swimming with sharks and she knew it.

Her father and his art group colleagues were convinced that they'd come through their respective FBI interviews unscathed.

She knew better, even without having been there.

FBI agents were pros at questioning. If every member of that investment group had parroted the exact same story, while no doubt fidgeting and worrying about blowing his lines, then red flags would be raised. She'd tried to counteract that. She'd talked her father into calling all the other guys after his own meeting, to urge them to vary their exact recollections of what had happened so they wouldn't sound so rehea.r.s.ed. Had they pulled it off? Doubtful. They weren't actors. They were frightened men.

Her father also had no clue that Derek had seen him at the Field Office on the day he was questioned. If she'd told him, he would have been even more scared-which was the last thing he needed to be right now. He had to stay calm, act normal, and focus on keeping himself and her mother safe. That meant following their normal routines and making sure to stay in plain sight of the security guards Sloane had hired.

But she was worried. She'd heard the gravity of Derek's warning, seen the intensity in his eyes.

He'd all but told her he had an inside track-one that put him a step ahead of her and clued him in to the fact that whatever her father was hiding was putting her family in danger.

That could only mean that there was a link to Asian organized crime. But how strong a link? If whoever killed Cai Wen was affiliated with a gang Derek's squad was investigating, then they'd be one step closer to putting her father at the scene of the crime.

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 h.e.l.l out of me."

"Why? I live here-for now." Crossing over, Derek poured two gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.s. 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 d.a.m.ned 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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.suming 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 re- joining 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 incredible 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 gla.s.s 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."

"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 partic.i.p.ated in since high school. She loved the focus and the self-compet.i.tive 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. .h.i.tting 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 a.s.sumed 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 Ca.s.satt 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 Ca.s.satts. 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.