Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

“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-class backgrounds, Wallace hailed from a wealthy family. His speech and demeanor carried a touch of a patrician air, as did his taste in gourmet food, fine wine, and an elegant lifestyle. But the class 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 passion, and always had been. But owning the galleries was his second career, one he’d started the April before last, and under tragic circumstances. 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 identity 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 hoarse, 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 living 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 assume 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.”