What the hell just happened?
In long, desperate strides, I bolt from the kitchen, creating as much space between me and Ivy as I can. Fuck, I need some air.
Ivy has me so wound up that I feel like I’m losing my mind. Between her soft skin and that intoxicating scent of citrus and vanilla that follows her damn near everywhere, my chest is tight, my dick is in knots, and I can't think straight.
Focus.
That first text on her phone—the Call me, I’ll make it worth your while text—I know that number. Or… was it all in my head?
My reaching around wasn’t to get closer to Ivy—at least, that’s what I keep telling the incessant throbbing in my pants. I needed a closer look at the screen. As luck would have it, the damned thing timed out and went completely black.
When the second text came in, I lost my shit. A premature act, considering all I could see was the area code. A Chicago area code is common enough. But I know what I saw.
Think. I recall the number from Ivy’s phone. What if I wasn’t imagining it? That first number.
I race to my office, tearing open one desk drawer after the other. “Where is it?” I mutter, rifling around for my old notebook.
Jesus, I’ve got a lot of crap in here. Pens. Post-Its. Scraps of surveillance notes and a few receipts. Handcuffs. A pack of mint gum from who knows when. Magazines on cars and firearms and, of course, Rachael Ray.
A ruler? A goddamned ruler? Where the fuck is Marie Kondo when I need her?
Knock. Knock-knock.
The distinctive knock is Hunter. The lethal mercenary I put in charge of Ivy. Mostly to keep her at arm’s length from me, but also because I know that if I can't be the one protecting Ivy, Hunter is my next best option. “Come in.”
Hunter enters, closing the door behind him. “You all right, boss?”
My frustration peaks out by drawer number three. Playtime is over. I dump the largest drawer onto the floor, drop to my hands and knees, and rummage through the unruly mountain of contents. “Fine, Hunter. Why do you ask?”
He squats down beside me. “Um…Ivy said you didn’t seem like yourself.”
“I could say the same about her.” I mutter under my breath. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?” he asks as he pilfers the pile alongside me, shuffling its contents from one side of the rug to the other.
He tugs a small blue notepad from the pile. I stare at him as if he's a Hobbit who just discovered a ring. “Open it,” I snap. “Look at the first page.”
“O-kay,” he says, confused but playing along.
“Look at the first number.” He does. I close my eyes, praying for the first time in my life that I’m wrong. “Is it 224-555-0116?”
“No,” he says, and my shoulders relax. “But it’s the second one.”
“What?” I snatch the notepad from his hands and stare in disbelief. There it is, in black and white. The number. The one that texted Ivy.
Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuckety-fuck-fuck.
Fuuuccck.
“Boss, what is it?”
I wipe a hand down my face as a heavy ball of dread sinks into my gut. It’s Uncle Andre D’Angelo’s private fucking line.
I only think that. I don’t say it. It's not that I don't trust Hunter. The son of a bitch would take a bullet for me, and I would take one for him. He’s on my team because I do trust him. Implicitly.
But things aren’t adding up. Nothing makes sense. I suck in a needed breath, then ease it out to clear my head. I have to get to the bottom of this before Ivy becomes an enemy of the state.
At one point or another, we’ve all speculated that Andre had a hand in Antonio’s disappearance and probable death. Andre’s been public enemy number one—battling the D’Angelo children over the fortune and estate for years. If the family caught wind that Ivy might be mixed up with Andre, all hell would break loose.
They’re not exactly the hash-it-out types. I know their M.O. Shit, I wrote the book on it. Unleash the wrath of hell first, ask questions later…as we commence with a wet cleanup, and make plans for the disposal of her body.
Mercy is not an option. They’d crush her. And for reasons I can’t explain—not even to myself—I can’t let that happen.
“It’s nothing,” I manage to say. Hunter quirks a brow. It’s hard lying to a man you trained in interrogation, so I elaborate. “It’s private. Something I need to figure out on my own. That’s all.”
“Fair enough. Can I help?”
I rise to my feet and hold out a hand, helping him up to his. “No.” My better judgment kicks in. “Yes. Stay close to Ivy.”
“Close?” His brow ticks higher. “How close?”
I let out a long breath through my nose. “Close,” I repeat, mentally building a wall between what I want to do and what I have to do. Hunter is a chameleon. He’ll do and be whatever Ivy needs him to be: captivated, adoring, a good listener who sees the real her. A manipulative fuckhead who will go to whatever lengths needed to gather the necessary information.
Trust me, the last thing I want is Hunter Walsh turning up the charm. But, fuck. I need the truth. And he’s in a prime position to get it for me.
In that regard, he’s perfect. A presence in Ivy’s life who can worm his way into her trust. Investigate without it seeming overt or suspicious. And after my little tantrum this morning, let’s face it; clearly, I'm the wrong man for the job.
“Are you sure?” His question is obvious. He knows I’ve slept with Ivy. Hell, everyone working under this roof knows that. I have a vested interest in her, and I can’t deny it.
But Hunter isn’t looking out for Ivy’s well-being. I could be half a step from chaining her to my bed, forcing her to be my sex slave, and asking him to set up the video equipment. He’s not asking for Ivy’s sake. He’s asking for mine. He needs an assurance that whatever he does, he won’t be crossing a line.
I swallow my hesitation, the taste of regret bitter and hard. “I’m sure.”
He nods once. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Is he smirking?
I shake off the urge to throat-punch him and continue. “She reports to you. That gives you enough excuse to chat up a storm and pry into her day, but I want more than that. I want a full report.”
“A full report?” He pauses, treading carefully before he speaks. “But a full report requires—”
“I know what it requires, Hunter. Wire her room. Clone her phone. Track her car. Do it.”
“But it’ll take more than just me. Anyone she talks to. Anyone she sees. It’s a three-man team.”
“No. Just you. If she leaves the estate, stay on her heels. If she sneezes, I want the time and place. Anything that looks like a message. Code. No matter how the picture ends up looking, lock every puzzle piece in its place.”
“Yes, sir.” His two words are unyielding and definitive.
The good thing about working with someone you've been in combat with is they know when not to question your orders. Or intentions. No matter how batshit crazy you sound.
“Anything or anyone, in particular, you want me to look out for?”
It takes me half a second to think it through. “No. A detailed report is enough. I’ll take it from there.”
He takes his orders and heads for the door.
“And Hunter,” he turns, facing me, “this stays between us.”
His nod is serious and assured.