Page 9 of Savage Beauty

I rap my fist against the doorframe, and Knox waves me inside. “Tristan, this is Max Hawkins. He’s a colleague of mine.”

I assess Sloane as I approach. “How’s the sleeping beauty?”

“Grumpy,” Knox mumbles low enough the women can’t hear. I clap him on the shoulder. If we weren’t in the company of ladies, I’d give him some shit about the family he’s considering marrying into. Of course, I doubt my buddy’s thinking marriage quite yet. He fell hard, but he didn’t hit his head when he nosedived.

“Well, I think I’ve had the most pressing questions answered,” Tristan announces to the room. “Lovely to meet you all. My department would appreciate inclusion on any reports or summaries.”

Knox leaves the hospital suite with the Interpol goon, and I hang back, observing the two sisters.

Sloane’s objectively a beautiful woman. I’d describe her as elegant and refined. Porcelain skin, a straight nose, curved, perfectly shaped eyebrows that frame intelligent oval eyes, and rose-colored lips. Knox says she’s over-the-top brilliant. All she needs is a pair of black-framed glasses and a skintight, rear hugging pencil skirt and she’d make one helluva sexy librarian on Halloween. The kind who doles out punishments for speaking. Yeah, I can almost see the flush undertones on those high cheekbones in response to a little dirty talk. Those thick eyebrows would knit together, her dark eyes would narrow, and those pink lips would pucker.

And yeah, I need to blink that away.

“You hanging in there?” I’ve had minimal interaction with Sloane since giving her CPR in the back of an ambulance, so the question is directed at Sage.

It’s hard to believe it was only a couple of weeks ago that she showed up at our apartment building back in Santa Barbara, scared to death. Sloane was missing and someone broke into Sage’s home, trying to kill her.

Sage stretches her arms out before her. “I’m good.”

“Why don’t you go back to the hotel? I’ll stay here. I got this.”

We don’t expect anyone else to come for Sloane. But if they do, I’ll be here.

“Thanks, but you can go back. I’m fine staying here.”

“Come on. You’ve got to be jonesing for an actual bed. You guys have been camping out here for days. That sofa out there is comfortable, but it’s not all that.”

Sloane’s sharp tone cuts through the air, a quick reminder she’s no longer medicated. “Sage Watson. You need rest. You, of all people, need your sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Sage argues, but the sunlight streaming in through the window highlights her bloodshot eyes, undermining her statement. From what I understand from Knox, Sage had a heart transplant as a teen. He said she’s healthy now, but it’s a fair assumption that her sister hasn’t forgotten the past.

“Sage. You need to rest. Go.” Sloane barks the words out. She could stand to be a touch softer.

“You and Knox get out of here. I’ve got things covered,” I say, modeling appropriate behavior for the bedridden grump.

“What’s everyone up to in here?” Knox asks as he re-enters the room. “Ready for some dinner?”

“Max and Sloane are ganging up on me to get me to leave.”

Sloane closes her eyelids and rests her head against the stacked pillows. “Max says she hasn’t left the hospital room. Take her back to the hotel. Make her shower and rest.”

Sage stands tall, not having it. “You don’t get to tell me?—”

“Have you been taking your medication?”

Oh, boy. A sister war. I take a step back.

“Yes,” Sage insists. “You can’t kick me?—”

“Talk to the hand,” Sloane says, palm up, eyes still closed, chin thrust in a regal position. “You’re not getting sick or worn down on my watch. You need to be rested before boarding a transcontinental flight. Sagey bean, go. Get out of here.”

CHAPTER2

Sloane

The hospital door clicks closed, and the sound strikes like an axe against marble. The constant throbbing on the back of my skull aches with the pain of a thousand knives pricking skin. I brush a hand over my forehead, and a pull on the back of my hand sends a painful tearing sensation up my arm. I squint to see the source of pain, and light intrudes with another blade to my temple. Thick, semi-transparent tape covers a needle dug into the back of my hand.

“It’s the IV,” a masculine voice rumbles. “Remember? It’s for fluids. You were chronically dehydrated.”

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