But, as Derek had just said, she loved a challenge. Living together was going to be a biggie. It meant relinquishing another piece of her freedom and lowering another protective wall.
He was worth it. They were worth it.
The buzzer sounded, sending the hounds into a barking frenzy.
“Dinner’s early.” Derek walked over, tipped up Sloane’s chin, and kissed her—not just a kiss, but one of those slow, deep kisses she felt down to her toes. “Pity. We could have put those ten minutes to good use.”
Her eyes were smoky. “I’ll owe them to you. We’ll tack them on to dessert.”
“Deal.” Derek yanked his T-shirt back on. “I’ll get the food.”
Sloane scooted over to get out of bed. “I’ll set the table.”
“Don’t bother. We’ll eat out of the tins. Fewer dishes to wash, more time to pack. And whatever.” With a wink, Derek went to buzz the doorman and tell him to let the delivery kid upstairs with their food.
Pulling one of Derek’s oversize sweatshirts on, Sloane combed her fingers through the layers of her dark shoulder-length hair, and then padded into the kitchen to grab some forks and knives. She took an extra minute to pour two glasses of Chianti.
The wine wasn’t meant to be savored. Not tonight.
Her cell phone rang.
Pausing for a quick sip of Chianti, Sloane retraced her steps to the bedroom. One of her clients, no doubt. With something that couldn’t wait until morning. She was used to that. As an independent consultant with credentials as a former FBI agent and crisis negotiator, she had a client list that consisted of law enforcement agencies and companies that needed round-the-clock availability. So, adaptability in her personal life was the name of the game.
She wondered what tonight’s interruption would be.
Scooping her phone off the nightstand, she flipped it open. “Sloane Burbank.”
“Sloane, it’s me.”
“Dad?” Her brows drew together. It wasn’t that hearing from her father was unusual. She and her parents touched base a lot more since they’d moved back north to Manhattan from their Florida condo. But her father’s tone, which was normally smooth and upbeat from all his years in sales, was shaky and strained. Not to mention the disturbing background noises Sloane could make out through the phone. The institutional bustle. The clear, unwelcome echo of a doctor being paged. The sounds were sickeningly familiar.
Her father was calling from a hospital—a setting she’d had more than her fair share of experience in.
Her gut clenched. “Dad, what’s wrong?” she demanded. “You’re in a hospital. Why?”
A hard swallow. “It’s your mother. She’s been hurt.”
“Hurt—how?” Sloane was already shrugging out of Derek’s sweatshirt and rummaging around for her clothes. “And how bad is it?”
Another swallow, as her father struggled to keep himself together. “Our apartment was robbed. Your mother must have walked in and surprised the intruders. She was tied up and knocked unconscious. The good news is that, by the time the ambulance got us to the emergency room, she was coming around.”
“So she’s conscious?” Sloane wriggled into her bra and snapped the front clasp with her free hand, then stepped into her thong, and reached for her slacks and sweater.
“Conscious, and in pain. I’m waiting for an update from the doctors now.”
“Which hospital?”
“New York Presbyterian.”
“I’ll catch a taxi and be there in ten minutes.”
“Wait.” Matthew interrupted her. “Ten minutes? Where are you?”
“At Derek’s place.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” An uncomfortable pause. “Sloane, I need you to come alone. Not with Derek. Not with anybody. The NYPD is already handling the break-in. They’ve got detectives here asking me a hundred questions—most of which I have no answers to. The last thing I need is to escalate the situation by having an FBI agent join this three-ring circus. Your mother needs her rest. She also needs you. So do I. Please, come alone.”
“All right.” Something about her father’s request didn’t sit right. Sloane sensed it, despite her shock and worry over her mother. She just couldn’t pinpoint what it was—not yet.