Dee grinned, a mischievous grin that was twice as charming for its rarity. “Just tell them I wouldn’t let you work in here during the day. You could throw in something about me being a pain in the ass—that will help with the authenticity of your story.”

Sloan laughed. “I’ll just mention that I touched something, and you threw me out.”

“I see that Frye instructed you well.”

Sloan just grinned as she walked with Dee toward the exit. It was time to put revenge aside. Now, it was time for Michael.

When Sloan entered Michael’s room shortly before two, she found what appeared to be a party in progress. Michael, looking pale but visibly stronger than just a few hours before, was seated in a leather-padded wooden hospital chair by the side of the bed, a thin blanket over her knees.

Sarah crouched beside the chair, her hand on Michael’s knee. Ali Torveau leaned against the side of the bed, a plastic folder containing Michael’s hospital chart tucked under one arm.

“Dr. Torveau says I can go home,” Michael’s announced, gripping Sloan’s hand with surprising strength.

Almost afraid to believe it, Sloan glanced at the trauma surgeon. “Today?”

“Right now,” Torveau replied even as she held up a hand. “Under certain conditions.”

“Anything,” Sloan responded quickly.

“Someone, preferably a trained medical professional, needs to stay with her twenty-four hours a day.”

“I’m an OMD,” Sarah interjected. “I’ll stay as long as you think it’s necessary—that is if Sloan and Michael don’t mind me moving in for a bit.”

“That would be great, Sarah,” Sloan said instantly. “Thanks.”

“That sounds good,” the surgeon agreed. “It’s also very important that I be advised immediately should there be any change at all in your symptoms, Michael—that means a worsening headache, visual disturbances, weakness—even temporary, cognitive or expressive difficulties, or seizures.”

Sloan felt slightly ill as she listened to the list of potential problems and struggled to keep her expression blank. “How long do we have to worry about something like this happening?”

“Some things could develop months from now, particularly a seizure disorder, but in all likelihood, after a week or two, we can all relax.”

“Can I work?” Michael asked. “I wouldn’t have to leave the house.”

“Michael…” At a swift look of warning from Sarah, Sloan clamped her mouth shut and swallowed the protest. All she could see, still, was Michael lying on the ground in a puddle of blood. But Michael didn’t know what had happened, and there was no reason to make her afraid now.

Ali raised an eyebrow. “I don’t expect you’ll feel like working for a week or so. But,” she added at the look of dismay on Michael’s face, “if it doesn’t involve digging ditches or moving heavy furniture, I don’t see why you can’t try it when you feel up to it.”

“Good.” Michael smiled wanly.

“I understand. Just remember, even though you’re being discharged, you’re still recovering. Don’t expect too much of yourself.”

“What about sex?” Michael kept her eyes on the surgeon’s face, but a soft sigh of resignation from Sloan’s direction was impossible to ignore. Michael merely smiled.

“You are feeling better. It’s amazing what a normal MRI will do for some people.” Ali laughed. “Usually, my position is if you feel like it, then it’s safe to do it. I wouldn’t get too vigorous the first time or so, and if you experience a headache as you approach orgasm, slow down. Maybe stop and the rest for a while.”

“Is it dangerous after this kind of…accident?” Sloan took Michael’s hand, her attention directed at the surgeon.

“Not ordinarily, no. Remember, though, there are fluctuations in blood pressure during sex and right now, Michael’s brain is a little sensitive to sudden changes.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” Michael teased softly, “I wasn’t thinking about it for tonight.”

“Darn.” Sloan grinned and hid her relief. The thought of anything harming Michael, even making love, terrified her.

Ali handed Sloan a card. “My office number. Call and make a follow-up appointment for a week.” She sketched a wave and followed Sarah to the door. “I’ll take care of the discharge orders now.”

Alone, Sloan crouched by Michael’s chair. “You sure you’re ready? Because you—”

Michael slipped her fingers into the back of Sloan’s hair and stroked her neck. “I want to go home. I want to sleep next to you tonight. I need that.”

Sloan closed her eyes. “So do I.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?”

“I’m perfect.” Michael had been home twenty minutes, and Sloan hadn’t stopped fussing for a second. She patted the sofa beside her. “Come sit here, love.”

Sloan settled carefully onto the far end of the couch, afraid that the motion would somehow hurt Michael. “Doctor Torveau said bedrest, and we’re already cheating by letting you camp out in the living room instead of in the bedroom. I want you to be able to sleep.”

“I will.” Michael shifted. “Especially if you lie down here next to me.”

Sloan hesitated.

“I’m not going to break.” Michael’s voice was soothing, her eyes tender. “Please, love. I miss you.”

That was all it took. Sloan could no more not answer that call than she could stop her heart from beating. Slowly, she eased herself down until she was on her side facing her lover, her head resting against Michael’s shoulder. “Okay?”

“Mmm.” Sighing, Michael rested her cheek against the top of Sloan’s head and stroked her face. “Now will you tell me what happened?”

Michael’s request was delivered so quietly that at first the words did not penetrate Sloan’s consciousness. “Michael, Doctor Torveau said—”

“I hate this. The way I feel—like something is missing.” Michael’s fingers trembled as she continued to caress Sloan’s face.

The anguish in her voice was more than Sloan could bear. “You were hit by a car, out in front of the house.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Michael. Baby.” Sloan’s voice was nearly pleading. “You just got home. You’re supposed to be resting. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“I will. I promise.” Sloan nuzzled her face against Michael’s neck, needing to feel the heat of her skin and the rush of blood through the vessels, so vital, so alive. Her voice was hoarse as she whispered, “I love you so much.”

“I’m here. Right here.” Michael pressed against Sloan’s body, drawing solace from her nearness even as she offered Sloan the comfort of her embrace.

When Sarah walked into the living area of the loft from the guest bedroom at the far end, she discovered the two lovers asleep in one another’s arms. The ringing of the phone shattered the silence, and she grabbed it, hoping they would not awaken. “Sloan and Lassiter residence.”

Silence. “Hello?”

“Sarah?”

“Jasmine?” Puzzled, Sarah mentally flipped through the calendar in her mind. “Where are you?”

“Downstairs.”

“Why? You don’t have a show tonight, do you?” Sarah glanced over at the couch where Sloan had shifted to a sitting position, leaning with elbows on knees, her head in her hands. “Sloan’s awake now…What? When?…What kind of meeting? With the police?…You’d better come up.”

Sloan crossed to the huge double metal doors, entered the cod eon the keypad, and the doors slid soundlessly open. Just beyond, a woman stood waiting.

Although older than Sandy, she bore her a resemblance in some ways. Her layered hair was dark where Sandy’s was blond and slightly longer, but she was lithe and sensuous like Sandy. Her skin tight black pants, body-hugging lycra top, and scarlet silk blouse left open and tied casually at her narrow waist exuded an aura of confident sensuality. Her make-up was understated but artfully applied, subtly accentuating the sweep of arched cheekbones and the curve of her full lips. She might have been a high-priced call girl or a runway model.

“Hello, sexy.” Jasmine kissed Sloan on the mouth. “You look like road kill.”

“Thanks.” Hastily, Sloan cautioned, “Michael’s asleep.”

Jasmine stepped around her and kissed Sarah’s cheek almost shyly. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” Sarah replied, her tone subdued. Briefly, she touched Jasmine’s hand. “New slacks?”

“Mmm. This afternoon.”

“Nice.” Sarah gestured with her head. “Let’s go into the bedroom, and you can tell where you intend to wear them.” She gave Sloan a hard look. “And just what you two are getting yourselves into.”

Rebecca and Watts stepped into the elevator when a voice from behind called, “Hey, hold that, will you?”

Rebecca braced the door with a hand and turned. Sandy hurried toward the elevator.

“Hi, Sandy.”

Sandy grunted a greeting and pointedly ignored Watts. When the elevator stopped, Rebecca led the way down the hall to the conference room.

“Hey,” Sloan said as the group filed in.

“Sloan,” Rebecca acknowledged, studying the dark-haired woman by Sloan’s side. She was certain they hadn’t met, but the stranger seemed familiar nonetheless.

“Yo,” Watts said, eyeing the woman, too. Sandy sat beside him, pointedly not looking at Mitchell, who took the seat across from her.

“Jasmine, this is Sergeant Frye, Detective Watts, and Sandy.” As they all nodded, Sloan continued, “Jasmine works at the Troc, and she knows some of the regulars at Ziggies.”

“Uh…doin’ what, exactly?” Watts asked, his gaze dropping from Jasmine’s face to her breasts and lingering a moment.

“I’m a singer,” Jasmine replied, her voice whiskey warm.

Watts glanced at Rebecca, who continued to study Jasmine intently. Watts shifted in his chair, almost as uneasy at Rebecca’s silence as he was with the way Jasmine’s voice made his blood race. He didn’t usually go for hookers, but Jesus, she was something.

Abruptly, Rebecca stood. “Excuse me a moment, Miss…”

“Just Jasmine.” She nearly purred the words.

Rebecca smiled, then glanced at the blond beside her. “Sandy?”

Sandy rose, pretending not to notice the hard stare that Dell threw her way, and followed Rebecca to the far end of the room.

In a quiet voice, Rebecca asked, “Know her?”

“Uh-uh and I’d remember. She’s major competition.”

“What do you think?”

“She’s good. Really, really good.” Sandy shrugged. “I know a few trannies, but…she’s different. Classy…I don’t think she’s selling it.”

“Who do you know who could check her out for us?”

Sandy shook her head. “I’m not sure.

Rebecca sighed. She needed a street contact badly, but she was loathe to trust someone she didn’t know, even if Sloan and Jas… “Son of a bitch. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

Sandy stared as Rebecca turned and walked back to her place at the table.

“Jasmine?” Rebecca asked. Blue eyes rose to hers. A full mouth smiled slowly.

“Yes, Sergeant?” The tone was openly seductive now.

“They know you by name in Ziggies?”

“Probably. I drop in there now and then with some of the other entertainers from the club.”

“Other drag queens?”

“We prefer the term female impersonators.” Jasmine tossed her head. “Although some of the other performers are drag queens, of course.”

“Huh? What’s she saying?” Watt’s voice had gotten louder.

“She’s a he, you twit,” Sandy said disparagingly

“No.” Watts looked at Rebecca, who nodded. He slumped in his chair, shaking his head. “Fuck me.”

Mitchell suddenly gasped. “Oh man…Jason. You’re…beautiful.”

“What’s going on?” Watts exploded.

Sloan took pity on him. “Jasmine is Jason’s stage name, Detective. “

“Jason’s stage name?” Watts looked as if he had been pole-axed. His head tilted from side-to-side as his face turned from red to purple. “Jason?”

Jasmine smiled kindly. “Jason isn’t here at the moment, Detective. He asked that I stop by to lend you a hand.”

Watts sat, placed his hands in his lap, and stared fixedly at the tabletop.

“How friendly are you with the girls in Ziggies?” Rebecca asked. “Because if there’s someone in there who knows about the porn videos, it would be them.”

“Nodding acquaintances. Most of the working girls consider us competition and there’s little love lost because of it.”

“What makes you think that you can get what we need in Ziggies if the girls won’t talk to you?” Rebecca asked.

“I might not be able to, but the show at the Troc has female and male impersonators,” Jasmine explained. “The drag kings are regulars at Ziggies. I can put one of us with them.”

“A drag king?” Watts finally found his voice. “A girl pretending to be a guy? Who?”