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“He?” Derek’s brows rose. “Does this he want to sleep with you, too?”
Sloane rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I’ve mentioned him to you in the past. Luke Doyle. He’s a medical assistant at Bellevue Hospital.”
“He’s the guy you went through 9/11 with, isn’t he?”
Sloane nodded soberly. “There’s something binding about sharing an experience like that. We touch base every so often. He’s a good, decent person. The more I think about it, the more I think that talking to Luke would be good for Burt.”
“Doyle,” Derek repeated, his eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. “Why does that name ring a bell?”
“Because Luke’s mother is Dr. Lillian Doyle—the John Jay sociology professor who spoke at the Crimes Against Women seminar with me. We’ve done quite a few panels together.” Sloane sighed. “Unfortunately, she has cancer, and, from what I gather, not a lot of time. Luke is caring for her. I think it would be very cathartic if he spoke to Burt.”
“It sounds like a good idea,” Derek agreed. “Give him a call—tomorrow.”
It was impossible to miss Derek’s implication. Sloane folded her arms across her breasts and eyed the hassock where Derek had propped his feet. “You seem to have made yourself comfortable. I take it you’re planning to watch the DVDs with me? Or have you already watched them?”
Derek shook his head. “I barely had time to get them, much less watch them. I saw enough to make sure the footage covered the right date and the right part of campus. Then I grabbed the DVDs and took off. We can go through the first batch of footage together.”
“That works. I’ll grab a couple of sodas—unless you’d rather have a beer?” She paused, knowing full well what his answer would be.
“Not when I’m working,” he confirmed. “That hasn’t changed.”
“Okay, then I’ll get the drinks. You set things up. The TV and the DVD player are over there.” She pointed.
“Done. Sloane—wait.” He halted her in her tracks. “Any more phone calls?”
“No,” she replied in as casual a tone as she could muster. “Not a one.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed on her face. “But something’s bothering you. What is it? And don’t bother telling me nothing. I know otherwise.”
Sloane gave up. Whether it pissed her off or not, he read her too well. “No phone calls, but a prolonged surveillance—I think. I don’t have any proof to support that. Just gut instinct. I didn’t see or hear him, not inside the house or on the grounds. And I’ve been in and out a bunch of times. I was looking for the messenger, but I was also scouting the area for my stalker. He was out there, watching me. I could feel it.”
“He’s studying your routine, figuring out the right time to act. No problem. He won’t be getting it. I’ll make sure of that.” Sloane opened her mouth to protest, but Derek shut her down fast. “Don’t waste time arguing. I’m not backing off, and we have hours of footage to watch. And, by the way, take a Vicodin. You’ve been rubbing your wrist since I walked in, and you wince every time you do. You’re also white as a sheet, and you’ve got that drawn, pinched look between your eyes. That means you’re in pain.”
Sloane wasn’t sure whether to tell him he was way off base, or to tell him to butt out. In the end, she opted for neither, and went for the truth.
“You’re right, I am in pain. But if I take a Vicodin, I’ll conk out.”
“So? You’ll watch the footage as long as you can. If you doze off, I’ll pause the DVD until you wake up. I’ll make myself a sandwich and take the hounds out for their late-night constitutional. If I remember right, they’ll do an excellent job of waking you up when they burst back in here like three attention-starved toddlers.”
“That’s true.” Sloane couldn’t argue with that. Still, she hated the idea of relinquishing even a teeny fragment of control over her life, especially to Derek.
“It’s a nap, Sloane.” He addressed her ambivalence as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud. “It doesn’t mean you’re leaning on me, or that you’re letting me back in. You drew the line. I get it. But there’s nothing acquiescent or emotionally binding about what I’m describing. We’re partners, supporting each other in order to solve a case.”
“Nice explanation,” she returned drily. “But you forgot one thing in your textbook description—the amazing sex part. Most partners don’t sleep together.”
“Okay, partners with benefits.” He grinned. “Does that description work better for you?”
Despite her best intentions, a smile curved Sloane’s lips. “Yes,” she said, acknowledging the fact that she was going to need that Vicodin-induced nap for more than just the all-night DVD watching. “That works just fine.”
Eickhoff Hall, the College of New Jersey
Trenton, New Jersey
April 4, 12 P.M.
Tina was psyched.
She’d finished her philosophy paper earlier than expected and delivered it to her professor’s office. The rest of her work could be done over the weekend.
