FBI: Drawn In Blood Part 7

"You feel right, too." Sloane slid her hands under his sweater, hiking it up as she did.

Derek yanked it off and tossed it aside, then helped Sloane unb.u.t.ton her blouse, which he dragged off with her blazer.

"Which room should we initiate first?" he asked, unhooking her bra and letting it drop to the floor.

"That's a tough one." She wriggled out of her slacks, kicked them aside, and stood there in only a thong. "I think we've already initiated them all-several times over."

"Then how about right here?" He lifted her onto the hall table, shedding the rest of his clothes, and stripping off her thong in a few hot, fast motions. He moved between her legs, pushing her thighs apart, and wedging himself between them.

"Here is good." Sloane's voice was breathless, and her eyes held that familiar, smoky hunger that drove him crazy. She leaned forward and reached for him. "In fact, here is great." Her words ended in an aroused whimper, as Derek reached under her, gripping her bottom and lifting her against him.

"No foreplay?" she managed, wrapping her arms around his neck and rubbing her body against his.

"Not this time." He angled her, his erection nudging her, pushing slightly inside to see how ready she was.

She was more than ready for him.

He thrust all the way in and then some, simultaneously taking her mouth in an all-consuming kiss.

His tongue mimicked the motions of his hips, plunging, stroking, retreating, again and again, and she held on, meeting him kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke.

It was over before either of them could think of prolonging it. Sloane came in hard, racking spasms.

Derek spurted into her, each clench of her body milking his, drawing out his o.r.g.a.s.m as he instinctively timed it to match hers.

An exquisite peak, and an equally exquisite plummet.

With a soft moan, Sloane went limp, her head dropping forward until her forehead was resting against Derek's chest.

"Wow," she said in broken pants. "Quite an initiation."

"Just a prelude." Derek's ability to speak wasn't much better.

"Your heart's racing."

"Your legs are quivering" was his hoa.r.s.e reply.

She nodded against his damp skin. "I don't think I can walk. Or stand."

"Then don't." He lifted her, his body still lodged inside hers, and carried her toward the living room. "We've got a lot more initiating to do."

It was hours later when they lay draped across each other in Sloane's bed, replete with that utter, bone-melting peace that was the result of one of their marathon lovemaking sessions.

"Did I miss any rooms?" Derek muttered into her hair.

Sloane's lips curved. "Definitely not. You were very thorough. We covered every room in the house -even the laundry room. Making love on a washer and dryer-that's one I never thought of."

"You loved it. You came twice."

"No arguments. I'll just never be able to think of it as a laundry room again. Guess you'll be doing the wash from now on."

"Touche." Derek chuckled.

"I'm starved," Sloane announced.

"Me, too. I was about to order a combo dinner-Thai and Chinese-when you walked in. Once that happened, all I wanted was this."

"I don't blame you. It was my first choice as well."

"But now that I've worn you out, you'd like some sustenance."

"Exactly." Sloane eyed him with a wry expression. "And wipe that smug grin off your face. I gave as good as I got. You look like a train wreck."

"True." Derek wasn't the least bit put off. "I feel like I was. .h.i.t by an eighteen-wheeler, even though it came in a very small and s.e.xy package. As for the Thai and Chinese, I could eat everything on both menus."

Sloane sat up, squinting at the clock. "Well, we'd better hurry. We'll get in just under the wire. The restaurants here close by nine. Ten if you're lucky." She gave Derek a playful poke as she reached for the phone. "Get used to the country, city boy. This isn't Manhattan. No twenty-four/seven food."

"It's worth the sacrifice. The perks are good."

Forty minutes later, Derek returned with their food. They ate in bed, right out of the cartons. The hounds, having been fed and taken out, were cl.u.s.tered around them, nibbling on their own treats.

"If we make a ritual out of this initiation process, I'll never have the strength to work," Sloane commented between bites.

"Right." Derek was shoveling in mouthfuls of General Tsao's chicken, having long since abandoned his slower and more c.u.mbersome chopsticks in favor of a fork. "Like anything could keep you from working."

Sloane considered that, and nodded. "Good point. Although I kind of like being a part-time s.e.x G.o.ddess. But, the rest of the time-watching soaps and reading Home and Garden wouldn't do it for me."

The unlikely description was amusing. But it also made Derek remember a subject he was eager to broach.

"Speaking of Home and Garden, Leo Fox called just before you got home. He asked if you'd call him back tomorrow. He wants to set up an appointment to come over and check out the cottage-and me." Derek's lips quirked again at the memory. "I think he's trying to get a handle on my aura so he can do justice to our new, unified decor."

"That's Leo," Sloane acknowledged with a twinkle in her eye. "An artist through and through. But he is incredibly talented. You'll like what he comes up with." A pause as she tapped her fork against her lips. "Let's see. He'll probably start with a sign on the front door saying 'Rangers Lead the Way.' Then he'll add a vintage G.I. Joe collection on the coffee table. Oh, and let's not forget a wall-to-wall ruler on the floor of your half of the bedroom closet, to make sure your shoes are lined up just so and with equal s.p.a.ce between pairs."

"Yeah, but how is he going to incorporate that with a bathroom overflowing with hair-care products, file cabinets that are about to explode at the seams, and a lifetime's collection of bows and arrows that would put Robin Hood to shame and that takes up half the guest room?" Derek countered.

"Are you suggesting I'm a slob?"

"Nope. I'm suggesting you're a pack rat. I'm a minimalist. It should be interesting to see how Leo melds the two." Derek set his empty carton down on the night table and leaned back against the headboard, interlacing his fingers behind his head and studying Sloane. "Leo sounded nervous when I answered the phone. My voice must be a lot more intimidating than I realize, because he was definitely edgy, and he doesn't seem like the introverted type."

Sloane shrugged, polishing off her shrimp in black bean sauce. "Maybe having you answer the phone caught him off guard. It is a little awkward, talking to a live-in boyfriend you've never met."

"Maybe. Although artists are usually the most open-minded people in the world." Derek's gaze was steady, and there was no longer any banter in his tone. "So there's no other reason I'd make him uncomfortable?"

"None that I can think of. Unless you made an aura joke. That would offend him. He takes his craft very seriously."

"Nope. No aura jokes. Just Special Agent Derek Parker, being himself."

The comment was too pointed for Sloane to ignore.

She raised her head and met his gaze. "Is there something you wanted to ask me?"

"Dozens of somethings. But I respect your position. So I'll get my own answers-for now."

"What kind of answers?" Sloane demanded. "And why are you grilling me about Leo?"

"You're way too intelligent not to have figured that out."

Sloane sucked in her breath. "If you honestly believe this is part of a bigger picture..."

"I do."

"And if that bigger picture causes you to worry about my safety..."

"It does."

"Then don't I deserve some kind of explanation-some forewarning?"

"Yes-unless you plan on sharing it with your father."

A weighty pause.

"I won't," Sloane replied at last. "Not unless it puts him at risk, either legally or physically."

"Ah. Therein lies the rub. I can't promise you that unless you tell me what you know. And you can't tell me what you know unless I promise you that. A catch-22, if ever there was one."

"Dammit, Derek." Sloane raked a hand through her hair. "You know my hands are tied. I've told you my father's innocent of any major crime that you or your friend on the Art Crime Team could be investigating. That's all the wiggle room I have. You have a lot more lat.i.tude on your end about what you can or can't say."

"You're right. And, for the record, I've spoken to Tony. I'm the lead case agent on the C-6 investigation that I'm concerned might be tied to your father. I think Tony might ease up on the need-to-know directive where it comes to you. But not if there's a blatant conflict of interests. You're representing your father. That's both a legal and a personal conflict. I'm not sure how to get past it. But I'm trying."

Sloane nodded. "I appreciate that. And, for the record, at my end, I've pushed my father to opt for full disclosure. I'm still hopeful that will happen. But you're not the only one who worries about me. He does, too."

"I realize that. I also realize that worry is reciprocated. Since the break-in, you've hired round-the-clock security on both your parents."

Grim lines tightened around Sloane's mouth. "So you know about the bodyguards. Did you share that information with Tony?"

Derek had no intention of lying. "Yes."

"And, from that, you both deduced there's a big conspiracy going on. How about deducing that the security stems from precaution, not from my father's potential guilt?"

"Doesn't fly. Uncharacteristically overreactive on your part. That is, if the burglary at your parents'

apartment was really just a simple burglary. Which we both know it wasn't."

Sloane didn't avert her gaze. "Don't put me in this position."

"I don't want to. But when it comes down to a question of your safety or your father's freedom, there's no choice to make."

Xiao Long received the telephone call that night. It came in on his throwaway cell phone.

He was being summoned. All the necessary arrangements had been made.

He had only to pack a bag. A car would be waiting to take him to the airport.

The morning after next, he'd be in Hong Kong to see the sunrise.

CHAPTER NINE.

Something was bugging Rich Williams.

The past two days, from dusk till dawn, he'd been buried in meetings and exchanging phone calls with Interpol, with the Bundeskriminalamt, or BKA-the German federal police-and with the regional headquarters of the Bundespolizei in Munich. There was no doubt that the heist at the Kunsthalle Munchen fit the same pattern as the others. It was a trademark performance of the Black Eagles, a brutal gang from Lezhe, Albania. Interpol had been hunting them down since their early days as gunrunners to Kosovo. By now they'd grown in size and strength, evolving into a major art-theft ring. Violent and ruthless, they operated without a shred of remorse or emotion.

They'd do anything, kill anyone, for money.

A plan was being formulated to break them up. At the drop of a hat, Rich might be required to go undercover and fly to Europe.

Coordinating strategies posed by various international government agencies had dominated his life these past few days. But those discussions weren't what was bugging him now.

After a hectic forty-eight hours of work, he'd been too wound up to sleep. And since his mind was now free to focus on other things, it kept flitting back to Derek's certainty that Matthew Burbank's involvement in the Rothberg sale went deeper than just an innocent transaction.

Rich had known Derek since he was a NAT-a new agent in training. He'd spotted Derek's sharp instincts from their first conversation. And, given he was like a dog with a bone on this one, maybe it did warrant a closer look. Not to mention, Rich had given him his word.

The Field Office was quiet as the first rays of sunlight rose over Manhattan. Rich went out, bought himself an extra-large cup of coffee and a bacon-and-egg sandwich. He munched on breakfast and drank his coffee at his desk. At the same time, he carefully reread each of the interviews he'd conducted with the five members of Burbank's art group.

Phil Leary's accounting records were in perfect order. The purchase of Dead or Alive for $125,000 at a reputed Manhattan art gallery in 1990 had been confirmed by the gallery owner, and Leary's bookkeeping entries coincided with the date and amount on the original receipt. Matthew Burbank had produced that original receipt, along with catalog photos of the painting and written correspon-dence between Wallace Johnson and the gallery owner arranging for the transaction. Johnson had been shrewd enough to recognize Rothberg's genius when he was still a relative unknown. Three years later, that same painting would have sold for twice the price.

It had sold five years later for even more.

Leary's records on the sale of Dead or Alive were as meticulous as those on the buy. Cai Wen, a wealthy Hong Kong art dealer, had s.n.a.t.c.hed up the painting, willingly paying $375,000 for what he recognized as a prime investment.

The financial records were precise, right down to the last date and dollar.

So what was bugging Rich?

He turned his attention back to the interview with Leary, rereading it sentence by sentence. The arrangements. The transactions. The records. The files.

That was it. The files were the inconsistency.

In his nervous recounting, Leary had explained the way their group worked. Leary was the numbers guy. Johnson was the art connoisseur, with the knowledge and the means to spot the high-value paintings, and to bid on them. Fox and Martino were the local guys. Fox was an interior designer, making him an artist in his own right. He had an eye for budding talent. Martino had a clothing manufacturing business, with dozens of contacts who knew, or were related to, struggling artists just looking for a break.

And Burbank was the art dealer, the one who negotiated deals full-time, and the glue that held them all together.