Reluctantly, he rose, setting down his martini gla.s.s 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.

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 gla.s.s scattering all over the hall. With a gloved hand, he'd picked up the longest piece and held it to Wallace's throat. "FBI. You say nothing," he'd warned in broken English.

"I won't," Wallace had gasped. "I have nothing to tell them."

"Good."

He was gone as quickly as he'd come.

Now he pinned Wallace to the ground, one knee planted squarely across his throat, squeezing his windpipe.

"I didn't say a word," Wallace wheezed out. "I...swear..."

The dull-eyed thug leaned into him, increasing the pressure on Wallace's throat with his knee until Wallace couldn't drag air into his lungs, the other knee pressing into Wallace's bruised kidney. The agony was beyond bearing.

"I...can't...breathe..." he managed. "You're...killing...me..."

"No," Jin Huang replied tonelessly. "This not kill. This not even pain. When I kill, then pain. So bad you beg to die quick. But you die slow. Very slow. Tell friends tonight, don't talk. Or everyone dies -slow."

CHAPTER SIX.

The poker game was in full swing when Sloane walked in.

There had been a low, tense conversation going on among the men. It came to an abrupt halt the moment she entered the living room.

Sloane wasn't surprised. It felt weird, given she'd known these men her entire life. But she got it.

They weren't sure how much her father had shared with her, even if he'd rea.s.sured them he'd said nothing. And she wasn't a curious little girl anymore, or even a b.a.l.l.sy teenager. She was a grown woman, a former FBI agent, and a threat.

"Hi, all," she greeted them casually, pretending she hadn't noticed the lull in conversation. She plucked an apple out of the fruit bowl her mother had no doubt put out. The rest of the snacks were her father's contribution-a platter of deli sandwiches from the Second Avenue deli, bowls of mixed nuts and chips, and, judging from the half-empty bottles on the card table, a couple six-packs of Sam Adams, plus one six-pack of O'Doul's for Ben Martino, who was a recovering alcoholic. He had yet to break into the O'Doul's, but the night was young.

No shocker that her apple was the first thing missing from the fruit bowl.

"Sloane." Ben slapped down his cards and jumped up to give her a paternal hug. He was a demonstrative guy, not to mention a high-strung type A perpetual motion machine. Sloane remembered visiting his clothing manufacturing company as a child and watching him pace back and forth, doing everything from overseeing the seamstresses to reworking the patterns himself. The only time he sat in one place was during these weekly poker games, and even then he fidgeted, tapped his foot, or perched at the edge of his seat like an eagle about to take flight. He looked like an eagle, too, with his beakish nose, sharp dark eyes, and close cap of gray-white hair.

"It's great to see you," he told her, tugging a lock of her hair the way he used to when she was a kid.

"It's been way too long."

Sloane smiled, struck by a wave of nostalgia. "Yes, it has."

She'd seen her father's friends occasionally these past few years, but never all together, and never at the card table. In fact, she hadn't dropped in on the poker game since her days at the Manhattan D.A.'s Office. She'd left to join the FBI, gone down to Quantico for her new-agent training, and moved to Cleveland for her first Field Office a.s.signment. By that time, her parents had moved to Florida. They'd only moved back four or five months ago, and she'd been too busy to visit them for more than a few hours at a time.

So, yes, it had been ages since she'd dropped in on the infamous poker game. But her memories of watching, learning, and ultimately sitting in for a few hands of Texas Hold 'Em were warm and fuzzy.

She hugged Ben back. Talk about hyper. He was normally tightly strung, but tonight he was practically vibrating. "How's your new grandson?" she asked, hoping to ease the tension by bringing up his favorite subject: his family.

It worked, and Ben visibly relaxed-as much as he was capable of relaxing. "He's great. He's only four months old, and he's cutting his first tooth. Personally, I think he's also trying to talk. A real genius."

"Gurgling isn't talking, Ben," Leo Fox informed him, striving for a touch of his customary levity.

"Except in your case. You talk so fast, gurgling is easier to understand." He winked at Sloane, and then averted his gaze, seemingly examining his cards before looking back at her.

Sloane noticed that his face and neck were flushed.

"You look prettier every time I see you," he claimed. "Which reminds me, your father tells me your boyfriend's moving in. That means your cottage needs a makeover. Give me a call and I'll make it happen."

"Thank you, Leo," Sloane replied, her grat.i.tude visible and sincere. Leo was an interior designer, and a good one. He was in high demand. And since neither she nor Derek had a flair for decorating, she'd be thrilled for Leo to take over. "That's a really kind offer. And, boy, do I need it. So does Derek. He's been making some not-so-subtle comments about moving into a 'chick pad.' I'm sure he'd appreciate a few masculine touches."

"Of course he would."

After that, the rest of the men said their h.e.l.los as well.

Phil Leary, a certified financial adviser and CPA, and the number cruncher of the art group, was normally quiet. Tonight he was downright subdued, and he kept swallowing, as if there was something caught in his throat.

"I'd be happy to help you select a few art pieces." Wallace Johnson, who'd been sitting out this hand, slid forward on the sofa and picked up his bottle of beer to polish it off. He owned two art galleries; one in Manhattan, and one in East Hampton, near his suburban estate. "Some modern paintings would complement Leo's work nicely."

Wallace was the odd duck of the group. Unlike the others, who came from middle-cla.s.s backgrounds, Wallace hailed from a wealthy family. His speech and demeanor carried a touch of a patri-cian air, as did his taste in gourmet food, fine wine, and an elegant lifestyle. But the cla.s.s difference never intruded on the long-standing friendship he had with these men, or with their business partnership.

Art was their common bond. In Wallace's case, it was his pa.s.sion, and always had been. But owning the galleries was his second career, one he'd started the April before last, and under tragic circ.u.mstances. He'd been an investment banker for over thirty years-until tragedy had rocked his world.

His and his wife Beatrice's five-year-old daughter had been killed by a hit-and-run driver, one whose ident.i.ty the police had never uncovered. It had destroyed his career, his marriage, his entire being. Little Sophie had been his heart and his soul. He hadn't been the same since he'd lost her.

He hid his grief well. But every once in a while, Sloane would see the overwhelming emptiness in his eyes. It was heartbreaking.

"Paintings from your gallery would be wonderful," she told him warmly. "Between you and Leo, the cottage will get a makeover worthy of Architectural Digest. Derek will be overjoyed-and spoiled rotten."

"Yeah, we don't want that to happen," her father muttered. "I expect him to spoil you, not the other way around."

"I'll be sure to tell him that." Sloane was listening, but her attention was on Wallace. She frowned as he rose, grimacing before he made his way over to the table of refreshments.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"More or less." His voice, which Sloane had noticed was hoa.r.s.e, rasped as he spoke. "Fighting a cold or the flu." He put half a roast beef sandwich on a paper plate, then leaned past the tray to grab a Sam Adams from the ice bucket. It was as if the food was for show, when all he really wanted was the beer. Which was odd, because Wallace didn't usually drink much at the poker games. Fine wine was his thing, not beer.

He must have noticed the puzzlement on Sloane's face as he turned away, because he drily added, "Your father's wine collection is sadly lacking. So I'm settling for this to ward off the chills."

Wallace was wearing a turtleneck on an autumn night that was relatively warm. And his forehead was dotted with beads of perspiration. Maybe he had a fever, or else he was as unnerved as the others.

"Go sit down," she urged, playing along with his charade. "You need more than half a roast beef sandwich if you want to fight off the flu. I'll bring you a plate." She did just that, her frown deepening as Wallace coughed and rubbed his throat before sinking down heavily onto the sofa. "Maybe you should go home to bed."

"Nonsense." He waved away her suggestion, putting the bottle of beer to his lips and taking a healthy swallow. "The game will take my mind off the annoyance of catching a cold. Besides, the aspirin Rosalyn gave me before she left are starting to kick in."

"Left?" Sloane's brows rose in supposed surprise. "Where did she go? I wanted to check on her."

"She's at a publishing dinner," Matthew supplied. "You tried to talk her out of going, remember?"

"I remember. I thought I'd won that argument."

"You know your mother better than that. She was getting cabin fever." A pointed glance, reminding Sloane not to refer to the security guard she'd hired-or anything else that might clue his friends in to figuring out she was in the loop. "Her doctor gave her the green light, if that makes you feel better."

"Okay, you got me." Sloane had planned this from the start. It was why she'd come at the tail end of their game, rather than earlier. She could accomplish everything she needed to, then take off. "Mom told me she was going to that dinner. She also told me you'd have plenty of company, since the poker game was here tonight. And, since I'd cleared my work schedule to play Mother Hen, and since Mom wasn't going to be here to put up with it, I couldn't resist dropping by to play a few hands-just like old times."

"You mean trying to clean us out-just like old times," Phil amended.

Sloane grinned. "Well, something has to pay for redecorating and accessorizing the cottage. And, by the way, not trying-succeeding in cleaning you out."

"Back then, we let you cheat," Ben informed her. "Not anymore. Not since you grew up and started using the strategies we taught you against us. Now it's every man-and woman-for himself."

"Sounds fair." Sloane nodded, already walking toward the kitchen. "Finish your hand. I'll grab more beers from the fridge. And then, with all due respect, you can kiss your money good-bye."

An hour later, the group disbanded.

The men yanked on their jackets and left, looking far more on edge about Sloane standing in the liv- ing room waiting for Matthew than they did about the cash they'd lost to her at the poker table.

"Aren't you heading home, too?" Phil turned in the doorway to ask, striving for nonchalance and failing. "It's late. And it's a long drive to that rural part of New Jersey you live in."

"Not to worry." Sloane strove for nonchalance, too. "I'm staying at Derek's apartment in the city tonight." A quick glance at her watch. "Actually, I promised to meet him for a drink in a half hour-a drink I also promised to pay for, since I knew I'd win." She gave Phil an easy smile. "I just need to talk to my father for a minute. He's the only one who'll tell me how my mother really feels. She tells me only what she wants me to hear."

"I understand." The way Phil's features relaxed told Sloane he believed her. "Then I'll let you two talk. And don't be a stranger."

"Yeah, but don't join the game either," Leo chimed in as he followed Phil out the door. "I've got a mortgage to pay." He squeezed her shoulder. "I expect to hear from you. Between Wallace and me, we'll make a cozy home for you and your guy."

"I'm counting on it. Thank you both. Oh, and Wallace"-Sloane stepped into the hall to speak to him-"I a.s.sume you're not driving out to the Hamptons tonight. Not with that flu coming on."

"No," he replied. "I'm staying at my place in the city." A tight smile. "I always do after our poker games-and the inferior alcohol that goes along with them."

"Good. Take care of yourself."

Sloane stepped back inside and shut the door, more convinced than ever that there wasn't a shot in h.e.l.l these men had fooled the FBI agent who'd interviewed them.

"Did you get what you wanted?" Matthew demanded. "Do you believe everyone here is innocent?"

Sloane turned to face her father. "I never doubted their innocence. Their acting ability? Now that's another matter entirely."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I walked into a freaked-out meeting of the Knights of the Round Table. Things rapidly deteriorated the longer I stayed. And that's given the fact that you told them I'm clueless about everything except the burglary."

Her father began nervously gathering up empty beer bottles. "So you don't think the FBI bought our story."

"No way. Every one of those guys is a mess." Sloane raked a hand through her hair. "I wish you'd let me talk to Derek."

"We've been over this before. The answer's still no. Look, Sloane, not one of us has been contacted again by that Special Agent Williams. So he must have accepted our story and a.s.sumed we were just nervous about being interviewed by the FBI." Matthew continued cleaning up, tossing dirty paper plates into a large trash bag. "We're no longer on their radar. Period."

"You're burying your head in the sand. FBI investigations take months, sometimes years. If they'd figured out what happened with the real and the fake Rothbergs, the story would be out. The media would be all over it. This one's juicy. A man was murdered. And, according to the provenance, you guys were the last ones to do business with him before he was killed; maybe even the last ones to see him alive."

"We didn't kill Cai Wen. They can't charge us with anything."

"Oh, come on, Dad." Sloane walked over and planted herself in his face. "You're not naive. You know that the law isn't always fair, or right. Besides, this is about more than your innocence. It's about protecting you from the real killer. You know what he's capable of. Who knows if he'll go away? Who knows if he's acting alone?"

Matthew went very still. "Why? Did you find out something? Is he part of some crime ring?"

"I'm not sure," Sloane answered honestly. "But I do know that he stole a valuable painting. I know that he traveled from Hong Kong to here, that he owns a Mercedes, and that he has the contacts to track you down. That tells me he's got money. He also has a bodyguard, hangs out with thugs, and arranged for your chance encounter to happen in an area of Chinatown that's filled with gang-run casinos and brothels. That tells me he's got power in dangerous circles. He doesn't sound like an ar-bitrary killer to me."

"I never thought he was. But you're not talking about just a group of thugs. You're talking about Asian organized crime."

"Yes, I am."

Sloane watched the color drain from her father's face.

"You didn't go down this path before," he said, his voice unsteady.

"It didn't automatically come to mind."

"But now it has. And you wouldn't pull it out of thin air. Which means Derek told you something."

"Nothing concrete. He can't discuss Bureau business. But I can sense he's worried. And that worries me. Because if he knows more than we do about whoever broke into this apartment, my guess is that it involves C-6. Mom said the intruders were speaking some Chinese dialect. It doesn't take a genius to put together the pieces. And if Asian organized crime is involved, that's even worse than our original idea that you were just being warned off by Cai Wen's killer and whoever hired him."

Matthew's jaw was working. "You think we walked into an even bigger hornet's nest."

"Yes, I do." Sloane wasn't going to sugarcoat this, not with so much at stake. "Which brings me to my next point. Derek is pressuring me about the move. I've been putting him off. I think I should stop, and let him move into the cottage with me."

Her father did a double take. "Why? If some organized crime group is after me, why would you choose now to move out of the city? I'm having a hard enough time containing your mother and convincing her she's in danger. Even after I told her the whole story, she still thinks she's invincible."

"I have the best security team there is watching both of you. And I'm moving back to New Jersey, not California. I'll drop by constantly." Sloane gave a firm nod. "I've been away from home way too much. And it's the right time for Derek and me to go forward with our plans."

Matthew's eyes narrowed. "What's really going on here? First, that whole gung ho reaction to having Leo and Wallace redecorate the cottage. Now, this uncharacteristic urgency to get Derek moved in, when you've been waffling about that decision for a month. You're in no hurry to forfeit your independence, so don't tell me you're suddenly desperate to play house. Especially under these circ.u.mstances. So why now? How is leaving the city going to help? You'll be an hour plus away from us."

"And in close proximity to Derek. In a place that distinctly separates work and play. We'll be living like a real couple. We can talk about our jobs at the end of each day and not have the blurred lines we have now. It's an important step in our relationship. And, hopefully, it'll make it easier for me to figure out what you're up against."

"You're going to spy on Derek?"

"No." Sloane's reply was adamant. "Nor am I going to manipulate him. Number one, I swore I'd never compromise our relationship again-which doing either of those things would. And number two, he's way too smart for games. He'd see right through me. I'm simply going to take this offi- cial, personal step-one I'm excited about taking, even if I am a little scared-and hope that it also provides an atmosphere where Derek is more likely to let me in."