Shadowing Ivy

by Janelle Taylor

  “Don’t you even think—”

  “Just making it difficult for you to run right out of here,” he said, laughing. “I don’t do sloppy seconds.”

  God, he was vile.

  “Remember what I said, Ivy. If both of you don’t back off and stay out of my business, I will hunt you down and kill you. And Griffin. And if I have trouble getting to you, an associate of mine won’t.”

  Ivy froze. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that your pathetic little house won’t be the only thing trashed next time. Your body parts will be, too.”

  “Who is this associate?” she asked. The woman he’d been talking to in the library?

  “Jesus, Ivy, no wonder you haven’t been promoted to detective yet.”

  With that, he straightened the tie of his expensive suit, then opened the door enough to squeeze through and backed out slowly, the gun still aimed at her. And then in flash, the gun was out of view and the door slammed.

  Ivy jumped up, holding the front of her dress up, and tried to reposition the wig as quickly as she could. She sprinted out, startling a couple walking down the hall. She frantically searched the corridor for Declan, but he was gone. She raced toward the steps, colliding with a man.

  Griffin.

  “Damn it, Ivy, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he barked in her ear. He glanced down at her dress. “What the hell happened?”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding for so long. “Declan. He startled me in the hall and grabbed me into a utility closet.” She told him everything that had transpired, leaving out nothing. Not even what Declan had said about “sloppy seconds.”

  “There’s no way he’s still here,” he whispered, seemingly unaffected by all she’d told him. Including the mysterious Samantha. “I’m sure he’s long gone, but I’m going to call it in, have them check the premises.”

  “And what about his threats? To kill us. Not just me, Griffin. You.”

  “I’m not scared of Declan, Ivy. Not for a second. And we can’t let him win. He won’t get near you again. I won’t let you out of my sight.”

  As Griffin turned to call for backup, Ivy realized she was shaking.

  “My partner and some uniforms will be here in a few minutes to take over,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, her hands visibly trembling.

  “Ivy, you were locked in a closet with a gun pointed at your head by a suspected murderer. Who also threatened you. There’s no need to be fine. Got that?”

  Without meaning to, she slid her arms around his neck and he stood there and held her, not letting go even when the blaring of sirens could be heard.

  Once Ivy was settled on the couch in Griffin’s living room, the throw wrapped around her, Griffin headed into the kitchen to make her some tea. He hated even leaving her alone that long in his own apartment.

  That bastard had really gotten to her. Literally and figuratively. She’d tried to appear cool and collected, but again he’d assured her there was no need to be; she could be herself, she could fall apart, and that was A-OK with him.

  “It’s not okay for a cop to fall apart when a murder suspect gets the best of her, Griffin. Gun in her face or not.”

  “Ivy, you weren’t a cop in that closet. You were his former fiancée. You were a civilian.”

  She shook her head. “I was undercover.”

  “Ivy, you’re not my partner.”

  Her gaze shot to his, and he realized too late that he’d said the worst possible thing that could have come out of his mouth.

  And there was no easy way to fix it at the moment, without racking his brain to figure out, so he excused himself to make her a pot of tea. As he put the kettle on to boil, he still didn’t know exactly how to rectify what he’d said. What it meant.

  As he came back in the living room with two cups of tea and handed her one, she said, “You must think I’m the worst cop.”

  “Ivy, I don’t think that at all.”

  “I let him trap me,” she said.

  “You didn’t let him do anything,” Griffin pointed out. “You did exactly what you should have done, what I asked you to do. You were coming to find me. You couldn’t have known he IDed you, Ivy.”

  “He could have so easily killed me,” she said. “I just feel like I put myself in such a bad position, put everyone in that house, potentially, at risk.”

  He got up from the chair across from her and sat down next to her, taking the tea that she wasn’t drinking anyway and placing it down on the coffee table. He took her hands in his and looked directly into her eyes. “Ivy, not only didn’t he kill you, he gave you valuable information. Whatever you did in that utility closet was good police work. You saved your life. And you got him talking.”

  “Got him lying, maybe.”

  “No, talking. Maybe he didn’t kill Jennifer Lexington. What he said is plausible. That he found her dead, that he panicked.”

  “Who else could have killed her?”

  Griffin shrugged. “That’s what we have to figure out. Maybe this mystery woman he was talking to at the party. Maybe Laura Frozier, though she has an airtight alibi for that night. Or maybe someone—perhaps someone who cares about you or someone who cares about Laura Frozier—discovered Declan was involved with Jennifer, went to her apartment to confront her, and Jennifer ended up dead.”

  “Someone who cares about me?” Ivy said. “Griffin, anyone who cares about me wouldn’t be capable of murder.”

  He leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table. “Ivy, I can tell you story after story of ordinary people who resorted to murder because they were provoked.”

  “Well, isn’t it more likely that it’s someone from Laura Frozier’s life? She was seen making out with Declan the night before the murder.”

  He nodded. “My partner has been sniffing around her friends and family. That’s why he’s been so scarce. And working other angles, as well.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact that your mother doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder. Neither does your friend, Alanna Moore.”

  Ivy rolled her eyes. “Griffin, please don’t waste your time. My mother is not a cold-blooded killer. Neither is Alanna. Please.”

  “Ivy, Jennifer’s murder didn’t appear to be premeditated. Someone could have gone to talk to her, to tell her about you or Laura, get her to end things with Declan, and there’s an argument, and in the heat of the moment, Jennifer ends up dead.”

  “Her head was bashed against the wall, Griffin. That’s more than an argument in the heat of the moment. That’s pure rage.”

  “And people can be driven to that, Ivy.”

  “And my mother’s motive is?” Ivy asked, taking a sip of her tea. “It’s not like my marriage to a Rockefeller or Kennedy was in jeopardy.”

  “But your mother did think Declan was old money. And she thought he was part of a world she always wanted you to be part of. A world she thought denied you.”

  Ivy shook her head. “She wouldn’t kill over it.”

  “What about Alanna? She’s been your best friend since middle school.”

  “It’s more likely that Jennifer’s killer is someone from Laura’s world,” Ivy said. “No one saw Declan making out with Jennifer the night before she was killed.”

  “We don’t know that. Maybe your mother saw Declan with Jennifer. She lives in Manhattan. It’s possible.”

  “Griffin, my head is about to explode.”

  Damn. He’d been so intent on getting her to accept the possibility that someone close to her could be the killer that he forgot himself. She’d been through hell tonight, and here he was, putting her through more.

  “Can we just not talk about it, about any of it, for the rest of the night? Can we start fresh in the morning?”

  He nodded. “Of course. If you want to turn in ...”

  “I don’t want to be—” she stopped, glancing down at her feet.

/>   “Alone?”

  Her cheeks turned slightly pink.

  “Ivy, you’ve been through so much. It makes sense that you wouldn’t want to be alone.”

  He took her hand and led her into his room. He thought she’d feel safer, more secure in his bed.

  “I’m sorry about the dress,” she whispered.

  “I’m just glad—” He stopped, anger boiling in his gut. “That he didn’t lay a hand on you.”

  She lay down on top of the comforter and stared up at the ceiling. He lay down beside her, on his side, and took her hand.

  “It’s going to be all right, Ivy. I’ll check Cornelia’s guest list to try to figure out the identity of Declan’s mystery woman. And regardless, we’ll catch him and bring him in for questioning. We’ll bring in a number of people for questioning.”

  “Including my mother? And my best friend?”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about this anymore tonight.”

  She let out a deep breath.

  “Is what he said true?” she asked. “Did he steal the woman you loved? Samantha?”

  “That’s a long story, Ivy. And for another time.”

  She glanced at him and nodded and looked wearier than he’d seen her look yet.

  “I will tell you this, though, Ivy. I was wrong about what I said before. We are partners.”

  She stared up at him, then leaned forward and kissed him, gently, and traced his jawline with her finger. And then she lay down and put his arm around her waist, holding on to it.

  Hours later, when he awoke, their position hadn’t changed. She stirred, and turned, then settled her head on his chest, that beautiful face once again at peace.

  His cell rang, but Ivy didn’t wake. He grabbed it. “Fargo.”

  “Hey, brother. If Ivy didn’t pass on my message, let me do it for her. Come after me again, and I will kill her. And I’ll make it hurt.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Griffin checked and rechecked the deadbolt on the front door, then made sure the blinds on all the windows were drawn tight. Declan could hardly take a shot from the street, but Griffin wouldn’t take any chances.

  At close to two a.m., he lay down next to Ivy. She still wore her ripped dress. The flap was down, exposing her beautiful cleavage. He lifted it gently, then got up and walked over to his bureau and pulled out an NYPD T-shirt. He carefully unzipped the back of Ivy’s dress and slid it off her body, no easy feat while she was dead asleep. He tried not to take advantage of the moment by looking at her gorgeous body, the swell of her breasts, the curve at her waist, the gentle flare of her hips. Her bra and underwear were black. He pulled his attention from the tiny scrap of lace between her legs, also no easy feat.

  As carefully as he could, he slipped the soft T-shirt over her head, and she stirred, but turned on her side, which made it easier for him to draw the shirt down her body. It came to mid-thigh. At least she’d be more comfortable. Then he slid into bed next to her in his own NYPD T-shirt and sweatpants, then drew the down comforter over them. He listened to her breathe, the rhythm lulling him to sleep.

  When he awoke it was past nine in the morning. And he was alone. Panicked, he bolted out of bed and ran into the living room. A deep breath of relief whooshed out of him when he saw Ivy in the kitchen, a carton of eggs and flour on the counter in front of her.

  She’s okay.

  She’s not only okay, she’s making pancakes.

  Ivy had slept fitfully, her arms and legs and head ending up on various body parts of his. Those times were pretty much the only times that Griffin actually felt okay, when she made that kind of contact, albeit in her sleep. Every time her arm flung across his stomach or her knee hit his hip, he was reminded of his job. Which for the forseeable future was to keep her safe.

  He wouldn’t tell her about the late-night phone call he’d received. There was no reason to tell her. The threat was against her, but it was for him. He pushed his brother out of his mind and concentrated on the woman in his kitchen. Not a sight he was used to.

  Man, she looked sexy in his T-shirt. Now that she was standing, the T-shirt barely covered the middle of her thighs, and her long, shapely legs were quite a sight in his dull, beige kitchen.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I changed your clothes,” he said, aware of the blush in his voice. “The dress seemed constricting.”

  “I appreciated it,” she said. “So much so that I’m making you breakfast. My famous homemade pancakes. Famous for being a little lumpy and lopsided, but still delicious.”

  He smiled. “So you’re okay? You woke up refreshed?”

  “Not really. I still remember last night in that closet as though it happened five minutes ago. But I’m not going to let Declan control me.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he said. “And not easy. I’m impressed.”

  “You might not be after you try one of my world-famous pancakes.” She flipped one, and it landed on the counter next to the stove.

  Griffin laughed. “You can have that one.”

  She smiled. “But the next one might stick to the ceiling.” She gestured at the coffeepot. “Fresh brewed. So where are we starting today?” she said, this time expertly flipping a pancake, albeit a lumpy one. “Questioning Laura? Her family, friends? Or perhaps we should start with Cornelia, get the guest list for her party and figure out who Declan was talking to. I’m trying to remember if I got the sense that they were together, or if they were simply just chatting there, you know the way people do about art or whatever when they first meet at a party. I can’t seem—”

  “Ivy, let’s forget it for a couple of days. We need Declan to think we have backed off. Let him get comfortable again. Let him slip up.”

  “So what are we going to do with ourselves for two days?”

  “Eat lumpy pancakes?” he asked with a smile.

  “Any chance you want to take over the pancakes?” she asked. “I’ve got batter all over me and would love a fast shower.”

  He took the spatula and she squeezed past him in the small kitchen, the slight brush against him sending warm waves through his entire body. He did his best with the pancakes but burned a batch, and whipped up some scrambled eggs and bacon, too.

  When Ivy returned to the kitchen, looking beautiful in jeans and a dark green wool sweater, he grabbed a slice of bacon and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower of his own. When he rejoined her, she’d just set down the platters of food on the table.

  This is what it would be like to live with her, he thought, then had an instant “where did that come from?” moment. They sat and ate in companionable silence, also nice.

  Nice. He hadn’t had that feeling about being with a woman—thinking seriously about being with a woman—since Samantha. A long time.

  The doorbell rang, and Griffin bolted up, gun drawn. “Go into the kitchen,” he whispered to Ivy. “Stay hidden on the far side of the refrigerator.”

  He waited until she was in place, then headed to the door. “Who is it?” he asked, in position on the side of the door frame, as Ivy waited out of view in the kitchen.

  Silence. And then, barely audible, came, “Joey.”

  Griffin put away his gun and opened the door. Joey dropped down to his knees in the doorway, sobbing.

  Oh, Joe, he thought, bending down to slide an arm under the guy’s arms. He prompted him up and helped him inside. The poor guy was crying hysterically. Ivy had found the box of tissues on the kitchen counter and put them on the coffee table. Griffin nodded a thank you at her, then led Joey to the sofa as Ivy went into her room.

  Griffin knew that one of two things had happened: either Joey’s father had passed away, or Julianna had dumped Joey. From the dark circles under Joey’s eyes, it was clear the boy hadn’t slept much last night. But he hadn’t called Griffin, which told him Julianna was the problem. If his father had died, Joey would have called Griffin. He had made sure Joey knew he could call him any time, day or night.

  “Let it ou
t,” Griffin said to Joey, his arm slung around the guy’s shoulders.

  And let it out Joey did. He sat there and sobbed for a good ten minutes, clutching tissue after tissue to his face, unable to talk. Finally, he said through his tears, “I just ... don’t ... understand.” He tried to catch his breath. “I thought ... I thought she loved me.” He broke down again, sobs wracking his body.

  “Did you two break up?” Griffin asked gently.

  “She dumped me,” Joey said, swiping his large hands under his red-rimmed eyes. “We’ve been arguing for the past couple of days about my dad because I want him to come live with us, and Julianna was trying to change my mind, and then finally said there was no way she’d live with some ‘crazy vegetable, ’ and that it was my father or her.” He shook his head. “My father isn’t crazy and he’s not a vegetable.” The tears came again and he buried his face in his hands.

  Man, what a choice. Leaving his father in a nursing home, where he actually did belong, where he could receive the care and round-the-clock attention Griffin knew he needed, or the girl of his dreams.

  And Joey had chosen his father. It was the right choice because it was about true love. And Joey’s true love right now was his father. His beloved father who’d loved Joey like crazy. His dad came first.

  Griffin would spend the next couple of hours explaining all this to Joey, and then he’d help Joey see that his dad was exactly where he needed to be. And once that was all settled, they’d shoot enough hoops for him to bring Joey to the realization that where he belonged was at home, with his mother and stepfather, and in school, finishing his senior year.

  It was a good thing Griffin had the day’s slate wiped clean.

  “No. No. And no,” Griffin whispered, those dark, dark eyes of his doing the shouting for him.

  “Griffin, I’ll be surrounded by cops,” she whispered back, her chin up for emphasis.

  The whispering was on behalf of Joey, who was now sitting at the dining room table, eating his second breakfast (apparently men were able to eat when heartbroken). Griffin and Ivy stood toe to toe in the kitchen, and Ivy was determined to get the toehold.