For the next twelve hours, I comb through one intel report after the other, bouncing between reports about Uncle Andre, the Bratva syndicate, and every so often, the bits and pieces I manage to unravel about Ivy. If she is mixed up with Uncle Andre, she’s more covert than Evelyn Salt. Hunter’s reports were about as eventful as watching the tumble cycle on a dryer. Nothing ties Ivy to the most hated man in the D’Angelo bloodline, save for his persistent need to keep calling her.
The other thing that’s noticeably absent is the lengthy drive from Aunt Grace’s house back to the estate. Not a single reference to their conversation. Hence the reason I have Hunter front and center and reporting to me now.
“Is this everything?” I ask.
For two days, Hunter has been Ivy’s shadow. I scan through the document on my laptop. Hunter’s report is thorough. Fifty-pages. I’ve finished my review and can't shake the nagging feeling…
I’m missing something.
“Yes, sir. That’s everything from what she ate to when she flosses.”
“What about the text?”
He rubs his jaw. “It’s weird.”
My eyes narrow. “What exactly makes it weird?”
“There doesn’t seem to be anything to it. She received two texts from the same number. And I verified that the number definitely belongs to Andre D’Angelo. Or, at least, someone on his books.”
Hunter stalls. My patience wears thin as a razor. “And?”
“And nothing, boss. No reply text. No calls back. No emails. Unless she’s using homing pigeons or telepathy, they’re not in contact.”
“But Andre is trying to contact her… Why?” We exchange blank looks. “Andre wouldn’t be circling her if he didn’t have a reason.” I stare at the end of his report. “What about the car ride back? You drove for nearly an hour. What did she talk about?”
He thinks about it for a minute before answering. “She really didn’t say much.” Hunter stands in military at ease position, a habit drilled into the heart of his muscle memory. I raise a brow, and he elaborates. “You always said that a report has to center on the subject of the surveillance. Ms. Palmer. The conversation had almost nothing to do with Ms. Palmer.”
“Because it had to do with you?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Yes, sir.”
“I see.”
“I told her about Pax.”
Pax was a part of Hunter’s life he never wanted to discuss. The bond between a military handler and his dog can be stronger than one with a spouse. That bond was severed, and not by him. Revealing a detail so personal isn’t like him. At all. Hunter usually holds women at arm’s length, even with his dick inside of them.
I stare at the lethal killing machine before me, perplexed. Is this more of the Ivy Effect? Is the woman a freaking voodoo queen? Or a shaman? Or a witch?
Hunter unlocks from his stance without my permission—finally—and offers me his head on a platter. “If you need to remove me from this case, or my duties entirely, I understand.”
I steeple my fingers and tap my chin. “Why? It’s not your fault that Ivy’s the worst surveillance target ever. A good listener is our fucking kryptonite.” I stand to connect eye-to-eye. “Are you slipping at your job?”
“No, sir.”
“Then enjoy the free therapy.”
Unmoving, he blinks back. “You sure you’re okay with this?”
I crack my knuckles. I hate the idea. “Positive,” I say. I watch as he rubs his neck and notice the bloodshot eyes behind his waning grin. “When’s the last time you slept for more than an hour?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. A few days? Creeping on a week.”
And I wonder why he turned into a Chatty Cathy doll with Ivy. “You and the guys get some rest. I’m on Ivy the next two days.”
“You got it, boss.”
Three knocks sound on the door, and Hunter and I both know who's on the other side. Ivy.
“Come in,” we say in unison because someone forgot whose fucking office I is. Hunter smirks, I glare, and we both turn our attention to the woman who steals my breath a little more every time I see her.
Ivy pokes her head in. She notices Hunter, then faces me. “Sorry, I was hoping to speak with you, Leo, but I can come back.”
“No need. Hunter was just leaving.”
On cue, Hunter begins to head out the door, stopping short of it as Ivy asks, “Are we on for later, Hunter?”
He glances over, uncertain. When the slightest blush rises up Ivy’s cheeks, I step in. “What’s happening later?” I ask.
Ivy slips her lone silver ringlet behind her ear. A habit she does when her confidence shies away. “Hunter’s going to teach me to swim.”
Annoyed, I glare. I’m the one who insisted he get close. He couldn’t get much closer without a condom. A small nuclear explosion erupts in my head, which I control with white-knuckled fists.
Hunter shrugs, trying and failing not to smile. “I was a SEAL,” he reminds me. As if I wasn’t. I was his goddamned commander, for fuck’s sake.
“You don’t say,” I let out. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Ivy. Hunter won’t be teaching you to swim today.” Or any other day.
“Why not?” Her lips form a pout. A full-lipped, delectable pout that my body craves like heroine.
I mentally command my dick to play dead and try to answer her question. “Because…” I try to think up an excuse. “Because Hunter has more pressing matters. I’m sorry he can’t be at your beck and call. That’s all, Hunter.” I dismiss him, waving him away.
He leaves, shutting the door behind him.
Ivy stands there, unaware that I’ve taken inventory of all of her. Her snug denim jeans. Her pale pink peasant blouse. No makeup. Hair carefree. The colorless lip gloss she only glides on after each meal.
And a crumb of biscotti at the corner of her mouth I’d like to remove with my tongue.
With Ivy and I, privacy is our anti-Christ, seconds from slaying me with an onslaught of sin.
“Have a seat.” I gesture for the chair.
“No, thank you.” Her arms remain across her chest, and there is that luscious pout again. I swear to God, I’m beginning to sweat.
“Something on your mind, Ivy?”
She frowns, upset.
I frown, enraged, wondering how glorious it would be to have her in the midst of angry sex.
“Why did you treat Hunter like that?”
“Like what? Like I’m his boss and he works for me? Because I am. It’s efficient.”
“It’s rude.”
I tap a finger to my chin and cut to the chase. “Did you come here to give me a lesson on manners, or is there something else weighing on your mind?”
I stand beside the chair and urge her, once again, to sit. She does. I scoot a chair beside her, and pull her feet to my lap, removing her shoes. “What are you doing?” Her question is fair. What am I doing?
I sink both thumbs into her arch. Her moan is tight and controlled and barely noticeable, but it’s there.
“Nothing you’ll object to. You’ve been on your feet for two days. My hands go no higher than your ankles.”
“How do you know that?”
“How do I know you want a foot massage? Because you’re a woman.”
She points her toe at my torso. “How do you know I’ve been on my feet for two days.”
“Because it’s my job to know.” I screw my thumb in harder. Her eyes flutter shut as she slumps in the chair. “What I don’t know is what you came in here for.” She doesn’t answer. I slide a feather-light tickle down the center of her foot.
“Eek! Leo!” Her foot tries to kick away from my hand. It’s all I can do not to kiss it.
“You know that torture is my middle name. Now spill. What’s on your mind?”
I begin working on her other foot as she opens up. “Have you ever felt like you don’t fit in?”
I shake my head. “Never. Except for the days I wake up in my own skin.”
I give her all the time she needs to confide in me. Eventually, she does. “How fancy is Erede al Trono?”
“As fancy as they come. Black tie. Evening gowns.” Ivy’s expression falls. “Is something wrong?”
She frowns as she works through something in her head. “No,” she finally lets out. “But it’s just the family, right? Not a huge event.”
I nod, not sure where she’s going. “The brothers and any guests they invite.”
Her brow pinches with concern. “What about Uncle Andre?”
“Definitely not. In case you haven’t noticed, he has the uncanny ability to make those around him trigger happy. I'm sure Dante has wet dreams about chopping him up as shark bait, and Enzo probably buys a new set of Loro Piana gloves just in case the opportunity arises to strangle the man.” I watch as she processes what I've said. I don’t like that she’s unsettled. “Is that what was worrying you? Andre?”
She straightens in the chair and sucks in a determined breath. “I’m not worried.” Her tone is far from convincing. It hadn’t dawned on me that Ivy might be apprehensive or even afraid of him. Considering the son of a bitch had her thrown in jail for the sport of it, it makes sense.
“No one will hurt you,” I assure her.
“And you know this because it’s your job.”
My eyes capture hers. “It’s a promise, Ivy.”
When she nibbles on her lower lip, my dick throbs. Either I’m fucking her here and now or getting back to work.
I take her shoes off the floor and place them back on her feet. “Thank you,” she says.
I return to my desk as she makes her way to the door.
“Will you be there, too?” she asks. “To the big D’Angelo shindig.”
“I have to be.”
Her mouth lifts with the slightest smile. “Best man?”
“Dragonslayer.”
From behind the wheel of my armored Audi, my finger hovers over the start button. Ivy is leaving the house in a pretty, white blouse and tight jeans that I would love to tear off with my teeth. I focus on the box in her hand. It's medium-sized and just big enough to carry all the belongings she came with.
Fuck. Is she quitting?
Ivy can’t quit. Trini needs her. And Smoke. And maybe me, too, if I’m completely honest with myself.
She takes a long, mournful look at the estate before getting in her beat-up Honda Civic and driving off.
I slip into stalker mode. The role is warm and familiar and fits with perfection like a custom-tailored Brioni suit. For the rest of the day, I follow her.
She’s heading in the wrong direction for Aunt Grace’s house, which is a shame. Grace’s apple pie has been a siren’s song in my sleep.
Ivy attempts the worst parallel parking job ever and then gets out of the car before stopping at the local college bookstore and hauling the box she carried out of the house inside.
From across the street, I watch the cashier pull out the contents. Textbooks. And I recognize the one from Ivy’s fishing expedition. Was she finished with it?
The transaction ends quickly, and Ivy counts her cash. Confusion unsettles me. We pay her three times what she was making at Sparrow Assisted Living, and all her expenses are covered. Why is she acting like an intern hard-up for cash?
She continues with her errands. Every step of the way, I’m her shadow. Her next stop is a thrift store. The old red brick building has been on the south side of town forever. Saint Andrews. I went there as a kid. It had little to offer a tall, scrawny boy whose legs were too long for his build.
I follow her inside. The place wreaks of bubble gum—a sanitizing agent used to freshen the clothes and make the place smell less poor and more fun. With a lifetime of memories rummaging through these very aisles, trust me, it was never fun.
I keep an eye on her as she meanders from one aisle to the next. She takes her time scrutinizing one hanger after the next. Evening gowns. The selection is sparse, and every dress has to be roughly twice her size. There isn't a single article of clothing that would satisfy her lean waist or seductive curves. And yet, she carefully considers them.
There’s a simple black cocktail dress that lures her interest. Her mouth twists with uncertainty as she removes it from the rack. Horrified, I watch as she lines it up against her body and cinches it to one side.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Is she fucking kidding? The thing is a tent. I rub the scruff on my chin and stare in shock. By the way Ivy fusses with it, it’s obvious that this one is a contender.
For what seems like enough time to plant the summer harvest, Ivy scrutinizes the dress in the full-length mirror, taking in every square inch. Of course, it has to take this long to take it all in because the goddamned thing is approximately the size of a catamaran sail. Eventually, sanity prevails, and she returns it to the rack.
What kills me is that, even from two aisles away, I can see how returning it to the rack causes a small part of her to deflate.