Read Online Drawn in Blood by Andrea Kane - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrea Kane
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Romance, Mystery & Detective, Fathers and daughters, Family secrets, Secrecy, Government investigators, Manhattan (New York; N.Y.)
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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 tel s me your boyfriend’s moving in. That means your cottage needs a makeover. Give me a cal and I’l make it happen.”
“Thank you, Leo,” Sloane replied, her gratitude 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 thril ed for Leo to take over. “That’s a real y 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 hel os as wel .
Phil Leary, a certified financial adviser and CPA, and the number cruncher of the art group, was normal y quiet. Tonight he was downright subdued, and he kept swal owing, as if there was something caught in his throat.
“I’d be happy to help you select a few art pieces.” Wal ace 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 gal eries; one in Manhattan, and one in East Hampton, near his suburban estate. “Some modern paintings would complement Leo’s work nicely.” Wal ace was the odd duck of the group. Unlike the others, who came from middle-class backgrounds, Wal ace 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 Wal ace’s case, it was his passion, and always had been. But owning the gal eries 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 kil ed 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 wel . But every once in a while, Sloane would see the overwhelming emptiness in his eyes. It was heartbreaking.
“Paintings from your gal ery would be wonderful,” she told him warmly. “Between you and Leo, the cottage wil get a makeover worthy of Architectural Digest . Derek wil 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’l be sure to tel him that.” Sloane was listening, but her attention was on Wal ace. She frowned as he rose, grimacing before he made his way over to the table of refreshments.
“Are you al 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 al he real y wanted was the beer. Which was odd, because Wal ace didn’t usual y 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 col ection is sadly lacking. So I’m settling for this to ward off the chil s.”
Wal ace 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,
Sloane noticed that his face and neck were flushed.
“You look prettier every time I see you,” he claimed. “Which reminds me, your father tel s me your boyfriend’s moving in. That means your cottage needs a makeover. Give me a cal and I’l make it happen.”
“Thank you, Leo,” Sloane replied, her gratitude 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 thril ed for Leo to take over. “That’s a real y 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 hel os as wel .
Phil Leary, a certified financial adviser and CPA, and the number cruncher of the art group, was normal y quiet. Tonight he was downright subdued, and he kept swal owing, as if there was something caught in his throat.
“I’d be happy to help you select a few art pieces.” Wal ace 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 gal eries; one in Manhattan, and one in East Hampton, near his suburban estate. “Some modern paintings would complement Leo’s work nicely.” Wal ace was the odd duck of the group. Unlike the others, who came from middle-class backgrounds, Wal ace 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 Wal ace’s case, it was his passion, and always had been. But owning the gal eries 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 kil ed 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 wel . But every once in a while, Sloane would see the overwhelming emptiness in his eyes. It was heartbreaking.
“Paintings from your gal ery would be wonderful,” she told him warmly. “Between you and Leo, the cottage wil get a makeover worthy of Architectural Digest . Derek wil 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’l be sure to tel him that.” Sloane was listening, but her attention was on Wal ace. She frowned as he rose, grimacing before he made his way over to the table of refreshments.
“Are you al 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 al he real y wanted was the beer. Which was odd, because Wal ace didn’t usual y 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 col ection is sadly lacking. So I’m settling for this to ward off the chil s.”
Wal ace 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,
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