Laura sniffled. “He swept me off my feet. That’s the only way I can explain it.”
After promising to call Griffin if Declan attempted to contact her, Laura fled upstairs in tears, and the butler appeared so he could let Griffin and Ivy out.
“Do you think there are other fiancées?” Ivy whispered as they headed to Griffin’s car.
“I can’t imagine one man spreading himself that thin,” Griffin said. “But as I’ve said, I wouldn’t put anything past him. In any case, now that he has no fiancées, I’m sure he’s romancing someone else to fund his ability to disappear for a while.”
“So where does the investigation go now?” Ivy asked, buckling her seat belt.
“I have a few ideas,” Griffin said. “One is to canvass all the wealthy single women in New York City and to check recent engagements for grooms-to-be whose initials match Declan’s standard MO. Another is to question some of the relatives or friends of the fiancées—see who knew about Declan’s relationship with Jennifer Lexington.”
“For what reason?” Ivy asked.
“Let’s say, for instance, that your mother discovered Declan was leading a double life or if she just thought he was having an affair. She might have gone to Jennifer’s apartment to confront her, demand she not see Declan anymore. And Jennifer ends up dead.”
Ivy shook her head and let out a bitter laugh. “So now my mother is the murderer?”
He took her hand and held it. “Just possibilities, Ivy. It’s my job to look at every angle, no matter how outrageous or even unlikely. I need to consider motive. Means. Opportunity.”
She stared at their entwined hands and pulled hers away. “Or Declan is the killer. As you originally thought.”
“He is the prime suspect, Ivy. But there’s no physical evidence connecting him to the crime. The suicide note was in his handwriting, though he attempted to disguise it. And he could have likely written the note in a panic because he would seem the likely suspect. Even if he hadn’t killed her.”
Ivy leaned her head back against the seat as Griffin pulled out onto the street. “I’m exhausted, Griffin. What I wouldn’t give to just take a long hot bath and sleep for a million hours.”
“I can arrange the bath and we can both hope for a good night’s sleep,” he said.
The thought of Ivy Sedgwick, naked and soapy and wet in his bathtub, flashed through his mind. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Ten
Griffin had kept his word. Ivy lay soaking in a deliciously hot, mind-numbing—which was the object—bubble bath. The bubbles were made of shampoo, since Griffin was a bachelor and didn’t actually own bubble bath, but it was still good. Ivy closed her eyes and tried not to think, but of course she did think—of the pretty young woman in the photographs at Jennifer Lexington’s apartment. Of Mara Lexington’s grief. Of Laura Frozier’s tears, dramatic as they seemed. Of her own tears. Declan had hurt so many people. Not just the women he’d deceived, but their families, their friends.
And his own family. Declan and Griffin were all that was left of their families, and they didn’t even have each other.
There was a knock at the door. “Need anything?” Griffin called.
A repeat of earlier, Ivy almost said. “Actually, I would love a cup of tea.”
“Coming up,” he said. And within five minutes he was back with a tap on the door and a cup of what smelled like Earl Grey. He set it down on a small stepstool within her reach, then turned to go.
“Will you stay?” she asked, without meaning to. She felt her cheeks burn. “I don’t mean in the tub, of course. I just mean, will you—”
He smiled and sat down on the tile floor, facing the tub.
Ivy scooped up a handful of bubbles and let it fall down. “This is what I did the night before my wedding—my almost wedding, I should say. I took a bubble bath. And I lay there and fantasized about my future. I was so excited to change my last name. To finally get rid of the Sedgwick that meant nothing to me. Ivy McLean. I must have repeated it to myself hundreds of times, written it out on napkins while having my morning coffee. Guess I’ll be stuck with Sedgwick after all.”
“The way I see it,” Griffin said, “your name is what you make of it. Not what someone else has already made of it. Declan didn’t know that. He thought he had to change it to escape from a family he didn’t like. He didn’t need to change his name to do that.”
“But my name is so connected to my father’s. I can’t even say the name Sedgwick, see it written, without thinking of William. And how little the connection of the name meant to him.”
“Yet he must have cared about you,” Griffin said. “He came to warn you about marrying Declan.”
Tears sprang to Ivy’s eyes. “And I dismissed him. I told him I would marry Declan. And weeks later he was dead. Maybe it pushed him over the edge.”
In moments, Griffin was sitting on the edge of the tub. He took her hands, bubbles and all. “Hey. Your father’s death wasn’t your fault, Ivy. He was very sick. And you said that he wouldn’t tell you why you shouldn’t marry Declan. He wouldn’t give you a reason.”
“What was his reason?” Ivy asked. “I keep trying to figure that out. It had to be something related to Declan working at Sedgwick Enterprises.”
“Well, why don’t we pay a visit to some of Declan’s former coworkers?” Griffin suggested.
“And I can go see William’s lawyer to get another copy of the inheritance letter my father left me. It’s null and void, since I didn’t honor the conditions of the will. But I want to know what it says. Declan took the letter before I walked down the aisle.” Ivy closed her eyes; all of this was too much.
“Let’s take a break from the case,” Griffin said. “For the rest of the night, let’s not even talk about it.”
Ivy nodded, her chin full of bubbles, and Griffin laughed. He reached over to wipe the soap away, but his fingers lingered on her jawline, on her cheeks. She caught his gaze.
“I lied before,” she said.
He stared at her. “About?”
“Wanting you in the tub. I mean, I do want you in the tub.”
He smiled and slowly removed his shirt, as if waiting for her to tell him no, that it was a bad idea. And it was. In every way but one. The one that was burning for him. And then his pants were on the floor. And then he stood naked before her. Drop-dead gorgeous. Every inch of him.
He slipped into the tub behind her and positioned her so that she sat between his legs, her back and head resting against his chest. He began massaging her shoulders, his strong hands easing away the knots. And then his hands reached around her to cup her breasts, gently massaging the fullness. She moaned softly, then turned herself around so that she was straddling him. She reached down amid the bubbles to find his erection, her hand caressing the rock-hard length of him.
He groaned and pulled her against him, crushing her mouth with his. And then Ivy lifted up to slide down upon him. Griffin grabbed hold of her slippery hips and thrust deep inside her as she rocked against him, wave after delicious wave of sensation pulsating through her entire body. He scooped up water with his hands and let it pour down her breasts, then teased her nipples with his tongue until Ivy screamed.
And then she couldn’t take it anymore. She rocked against him until they both exploded. She lay against his soapy wet chest and then Griffin drained the tub and turned on the shower, the bubbles pooling at their feet. He stepped out of the tub and grabbed a thick blue towel and wrapped it around her, then took another and carefully dried her hair, his gaze never leaving hers.
But how do I know if this is real?
The thought flashed through her mind so suddenly that it startled her, the towel dropping into the tub. Griffin got another and wrapped her in it, tucking the ends into her cleavage.
Can I trust my judgment? she wondered. Why can I believe in this? What makes this any different?
She’d believed in Declan without batting an eye. And she’d been a b
ig fool. She could well be making a big fool of herself again.
He leaned forward to kiss her, but Ivy inched away, suddenly scared. If I can’t trust myself, who can I trust? She had no idea what it would take to get that back. But right now, she needed to be alone. To sleep alone.
“I—” She faltered. “I’m just not ...”
“You don’t owe me anything, Ivy. You’ve been through hell. Just take care of yourself.”
She nodded and headed to her room, bereft as she shut the door behind her. She missed him already.
Ivy’s cell phone rang. She grabbed it from her purse and checked the caller ID. She didn’t recognize the number. But she did recognize the voice.
“Stay out of my business, Ivy. Or I’ll kill you and my brother.”
Griffin spent two hours at the precinct with the best experts in technology, but there was no way to trace the call. Declan had rigged it so that the call seemed to originate from several different cell phone towers. The guy was either self-taught in advanced subterfuge or he had his hooks in everywhere.
What was clear to Griffin was that Declan was watching them, was aware of their investigation, knew they’d been in contact with Laura Frozier. He’d clearly been in contact with someone they’d spoken to today.
Ivy had been waiting all this time in an empty interrogation room. Not the most comfortable or comforting of places to rest and recover from a call that had spooked her, but Griffin hadn’t wanted to leave her in his apartment alone. When he tapped on the door and walked in, he found her bent over the table, writing furiously in her own little notebook.
She jumped up the moment the door opened. “Were you able to trace the call?”
He shook his head.
She sat back down. “I’ve been making a list. Of everyone I can think of whom Declan had contact with. Anyone who might be helping him. And I used the Internet to develop a list of wealthy single women he might be targeting.”
Griffin had no doubt Declan was doing exactly that—victimizing some rich woman at that very moment. He shook his head. There was a time, albeit when Griffin was ten or eleven, that he thought Declan would be president of the United States. Or a five-star general. As a young kid, Declan Fargo had been a leader, fearless, coming up with the crazy, fun ideas that made other kids say, “Yeah, let’s do it!” Griffin’s favorite was when Declan had organized marches against his—and most of the other kids’—eight-thirty bedtimes. Twenty or so neighborhood kids with their posters and pickets, walking down Main Street.
But then Declan started taking his stunts to a dangerous level, climbing trees to jump into too-shallow rivers, standing on train tracks, a train bearing down on him, and leaping off at the last possible second. And then throwing rocks at cats and dogs had begun. And worse.
He shook off the memories. “Let’s take it back to my place and do what we said we would earlier—forget it for tonight. You need a good night’s sleep, Ivy. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”
“Did you say a good night’s sleep?” she asked, running a hand through her silky brown hair. “I can’t imagine even managing to close my eyes.”
“I’ll tell you some really boring stories,” he said. “You’ll be asleep in no time.”
She offered a small smile and stood up, slipping her notebook and pen into her purse. As they walked to his car, she said, “Somehow I can’t see you having a boring story to tell.”
“Oh, trust me,” he told her, opening the passenger door for her. “My senior-year trip to the Grand Canyon, painstakingly detailed about the history of the place, the rock formation. You’d be snoring in two seconds.”
She laughed, seeming to surprise even herself. “Maybe so.”
Twenty minutes later, they were back in his apartment. But Ivy didn’t go to the guest room. Instead, she went into his bedroom and lay down on his bed, fully dressed. He felt something shift inside of him, just slightly. Okay, more than slightly. Something in his chest.
She needed him. And he hadn’t been needed—this way—in a long time.
He lay down beside her, and she spooned against him. “So, about those rock formations.”
He smiled. “The Grand Canyon is seven thousand miles wide and forty-seven feet deep,” he said in his best monotone, having absolutely no idea what the true measurements were. “Every year, tens of thousands of visitors ...”
He went on and on, and within five minutes she was fast asleep, her rhythmic breathing irresistible. He felt himself drifting off, his last memory the fresh scent of her hair and her hand tightening around his.
Ivy awoke to a pounding headache and the smell of sizzling bacon, which strangely seemed to help the headache. She slowly sat up, vaguely aware that she was in a strange bed. A man’s bed. For a moment, she had no idea where she was. And then Griffin’s face came into focus in her mind, those gorgeous dark, dark eyes, the strong nose, those lips. The jaw with the hint of five o’clock shadow.
She’d fallen asleep in Griffin’s bed. In his arms.
She smiled, despite herself and the headache, as a memory, in the dimmest recesses of her mind, came to her. Griffin telling her about the size of the Grand Canyon.
And then another memory came to her.
Stay out of my business. Or I’ll kill you and my brother.
She pressed her hands to her temples and rubbed. Ivy hadn’t quite been able to process that Declan was a killer. She knew, intellectually, that he was very likely Jennifer’s murderer. But the part of her that had loved him, that had been dreaming of a future with him—with the man she’d thought he was—couldn’t quite take it in. Until she’d heard his voice. Threatening her. Threatening Griffin. His own flesh and blood.
She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the memories of how it had felt to be wrapped in Griffin’s arms last night. Safe. It had felt so safe. To lie there, fully clothed, those strong arms tight against her—Ivy had felt protected. And that was something she’d never felt before.
As a girl, she’d quickly learned—and accepted—that she wasn’t going to be “Daddy’s little girl,” which was fine with her. Well, sort of. She’d minded there for a while. Until she realized there was no Daddy. No father figure. No consistent man in her mother’s life to make her link the word man with safety. Security. Strong arms. Declan had meant a lot of things to her, but she’d never thought of him as a safe haven. She’d never, honestly, felt a need for one.
So between growing up with no father and a mother who was more concerned with lunching with the ladies than her daughter’s “petty” concerns over mean girls or teasing boys or her problems with having to write essays in which she didn’t feel comfortable telling the truth about herself (like her summer vacations, for example), Ivy had relied on her friendship with Alanna. That friendship had gotten her through just about every crisis, big and small and every kind in between.
She’d learned self-reliance and a new kind of reliance—the reliance on friends. In middle school, which Ivy still winced to think about, a group of boys would say, “Hey, Ironing Board Chest, are you sure you’re even a girl? Let’s see!” and grab at her crotch. The old Ivy would have burst into tears and curled into a ball. But the new and improved Ivy began to think of them as criminals, mini thieves and murderers in training, and she started to get interested in police work, ridding the world of the grown-up versions of these tyrants. By high school, she’d buried herself in books, both fiction and nonfiction about police procedure, and she knew she was headed for a career in law enforcement. So by that time, she thought of her tormentors—those mean, vicious girls and the nasty boys—as assailants, then herself as the cop she’d become. The girls she’d ignore. The boys who’d dared to touch her, she’d surprise by springing up with a martial arts move.
And as an adult, with four years behind her as a police officer, she was self-confident. She hadn’t been expecting the man she chose to marry to be hiding a dark side. She wasn’t used to needing to be protected. Wanting to be protected.
But damn, it felt good.
As her headache began to recede, she sat up against the headboard and glanced around Griffin’s bedroom. It reflected him. All clean lines. Masculine. She wouldn’t mind just lying back down and pulling the covers over her head for the rest of the day. She’d never felt like she could do that before—let someone else take care of things. But Griffin was a take-care-of-things type of guy. And, from the delicious aromas wafting into the room, he could cook, too.
She threw off the covers and padded into her room, then took a quick shower and put on some makeup, just a little pressed powder to help the smudge of dark circles under her eyes. She added a bit of blush to replace the wan, pale cheeks with a bit of color. And a few brushes of mascara to open up her eyes. Satisfied that she looked a little more alive than she felt, she chose black pants and a fitted, button-down white shirt and her comfortable black boots, then followed the delicious smell of bacon.
“Good morning,” Griffin said, sliding scrambled eggs from a skillet onto two plates on the dining room table. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“I am,” she told him. “Surprisingly.” And that was a good sign. That she was getting back to herself. That the events of the past couple of days weren’t controlling her. That Declan’s threats weren’t controlling her. “Thank you,” she added as she sat down. He’d made coffee, too. And there was a glass of orange juice by her plate and a small bowl of red grapes.
“Sleep okay?” he asked, sipping his coffee.
“Thanks to you, yes,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment, as though he hadn’t expected her to say that. Something personal. She took the moment to study him, the way the light from the living room windows lit his dark hair, how good he looked in his dark green sweater, a tiny bit of a white T-shirt peering out of the V-neck. He wore jeans this morning. Faded. Sexy. And dark brown leather work boots. He was so startlingly handsome that Ivy had to look away.
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