In His Shadow (Tangled Ivy Book 1) Read online

  Also by Tiffany Snow

  No Turning Back, the Kathleen Turner series

  Turn to Me, the Kathleen Turner series

  Turning Point, the Kathleen Turner series

  Out of Turn, the Kathleen Turner series

  Point of No Return, the Kathleen Turner series

  Turn on a Dime—Blane’s Turn

  Turn on a Dime—Kade’s Turn

  Blank Slate

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Tiffany Snow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477825860

  ISBN-10: 147782586X

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014940353

  For Tammy and the summer we spent our days smoking too many cigarettes and playing endless games of War.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgments

  PREVIEW: SHADOW OF A DOUBT

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hey, look. Your favorite customer is back, just in time before we close.”

  I glanced over at Marcia, my co-worker, who just grinned and tipped her head toward the door. Looking across the bank lobby, I stiffened, recognizing the man who’d just walked into the bank.

  “Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, my good mood plummeting. I took a deep breath. Another five minutes and my weekend would start; no need to let my last customer of the day ruin it.

  He came every week, which would describe a lot of people, but he stood out, at least he did to me. Tall with light brown hair that might be blond if sunshine was allowed on it for a while, he was broad shouldered and lean hipped, and looked like he was in his mid-thirties. He always dressed casually, though I could tell his jeans were designer and his button-down shirts tailored. His name was Devon Clay, which I knew from the transactions he made, but we’d never exchanged pleasantries. It was always just business, which was fine with me.

  Devon was one of those rare men whose every movement spoke of someone who was capable of and accustomed to violence—a dangerous man. His eyes were cold, his expression always politely bland. While perhaps others didn’t see it, I’d been conditioned from too young an age to be able to spot someone who was more than able to do me harm and not think twice about it. So from the first time I’d laid eyes on Devon a month ago, I’d instinctively and immediately disliked him—a dislike that only grew with each interaction I had with the man.

  I’d mentioned my antipathy for Devon to Marcia, who hadn’t understood. To her, he was just another customer, albeit a handsome customer who she said “oozed sex appeal.” She’d also theorized he’d be “amazing” in bed, an assumption I silently agreed with but had no desire to explore despite his appeal.

  For some reason, Devon always came to my line, even if I was the one teller with a wait. I had no idea why because, as I said, we didn’t converse. He was the only customer with whom I didn’t. Usually, I was a pretty nice person and I enjoyed interacting with people. Even on my crankiest day, I managed to dredge up a smile for my job as teller for one of the most exclusive and oldest banks in St. Louis. Except with Devon. There was something about him that got under my skin and made me want to run as far and as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

  As I’d expected, Devon bypassed the two other tellers, one of whom was Marcia, to come to me. He handed me a few papers. I didn’t greet him.

  “Can I get these taken care of, please?” he asked, his cultured British accent smoothing the syllables like a warm blanket. His lips formed a thin sort of smile, which I didn’t return.

  “Of course,” I replied, polite but not friendly, and avoided looking him in the eye. I reached for the papers, but he held them tight for a moment, just long enough for his finger to brush the top of my hand. It felt like an electric current ran through me.

  My eyes flew to his in surprise. His steady gaze seemed to see right through me. For a moment, I couldn’t move, then the papers were sliding into my hand.

  I took a shaky step back, tearing my eyes from Devon’s to start the transactions on my computer. It took several minutes and I was hyperaware of him studying me. It made me nervous how much that small touch had thrown me. Was he toying with me?

  I had to cancel my work a couple of times and start over, which was irritating when I wanted to get him out of there as quickly as possible. Finally, I was finished.

  I stepped over to the printer to retrieve his receipts and my toes screamed in protest from the two-hundred-dollar leather boots I’d been unable to pass by in the store. They looked amazing, but wearing them to a job where I stood for ninety percent of the time had been a mistake. I winced, grabbing the papers and glancing at the clock again. Two minutes. Thank God. I swore I was going to walk home barefoot rather than put up with these boots another second.

  I handed him his receipts, careful this time not to touch him, or allow him to touch me.

  “Everything all right, luv?” Devon asked.

  His eyes were the lightest of blues with a web of fine lines at the corners, as though he’d spent too much time squinting into sunlight. Some might compare his eyes to an ocean or the sky. I likened them to ice.

  I forced a stiff smile, thinking, Don’t call me that. “I’m fine, thank you. Have a nice day.” Now leave, I silently commanded.

  The barest hint of amusement crossed Devon’s face, as though he could hear inside my head, then it was gone. He leaned closer.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Ivy,” he said softly, the words polite and harmless, but edged in something too close to seduction.

  Devon had never before called me by name, though it was printed on the gold nameplate in front of my window. Ivy Mason, Teller. I watched him as he walked across the lobby and out the door.

  “Girl, you are blind. That man is drool worthy and hot for you, my friend.”

  I turned at Marcia’s teasing and grimaced. “I have no idea why he always comes to my line,” I groused. “I’m not nice to him.”

  Marcia rolled her eyes. “Gee, why does he come to my line?” she mocked. “It’s a total mystery. The fact that you could be a flippin’ model wouldn’t have a thing to do with it.”

  I sighed inwardly. Marcia meant well, but I wasn’t a girl who valued my looks. They’d brought me too much trouble. I had hair that women paid thousands of dollar
s to try to achieve—pure white blonde that was thick, long, and straight. My eyes were a combination of brown and green so that they seemed gold, and I’d been blessed with high cheekbones and full lips. I’d been compared to a perfectly delicate porcelain Barbie doll. A comparison I hadn’t appreciated.

  Most women disliked me on sight, just on principle, so I went out of my way to be nice. Marcia was one of the few who’d befriended me immediately when I’d started working here six months ago.

  “I think he’s weird,” I replied. “Something about him is just . . . off.” I knew his type all too well. They presented a perfect face to the world, then were an utterly different person when no one was looking.

  “He’s rich and gorgeous,” Marcia said wistfully. “I could overlook a lot of weird for those two things.”

  I burst out laughing, my good humor restored by Marcia’s irreverence. She was completely unapologetic about her goal of finding a rich husband. Period. She’d moved to St. Louis a year ago from the middle-of-nowhere Iowa and had been “on the hunt,” as she put it, ever since then. So far she’d dated a lot, but, as of yet, no proposals.

  “He’s got to be at least eight or nine years older than us,” I argued.

  “An older man who knows what he’s doing,” she retorted, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

  “You mean an older man who’ll die first and leave you his money,” I teased her.

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t complain. So, do you have big plans for the weekend?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. Logan and I are meeting a friend of his for dinner. I don’t really know what his plans are for the rest of the weekend. I’m counting on doing a whole lot of nothing.”

  Marcia shook her head. “I don’t understand this relationship you have with Logan,” she said. “You’re living with him, but you’re not together.”

  “I told you,” I said. “We’re just friends. I needed a place to stay that didn’t cost a fortune when I moved here, and his roommate had just moved out. End of story.” What I didn’t say was that I felt safe with Logan. We’d met in the sixth grade and knew all there was to know about each other, including our secrets. “We just don’t think of each other that way.” I shrugged.

  “No man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive,” Marcia said, quoting her favorite movie of all time, When Harry Met Sally. “He always wants to sleep with her.”

  “Just because they said it in a movie doesn’t make it true,” I said, turning to sign off my computer. It was six o’clock. Quitting time.

  “I’m just saying,” Marcia replied, closing down her booth as well.

  “What about you?” I said, changing the subject. “Have a hot date tonight?” It was rare that Marcia didn’t have a date. Though she talked about my looks, she was really pretty, with honey-brown hair and blue eyes. She always complained about her weight, but she had curves I envied. I’d always been on the too-skinny side of thin.

  “Yep,” she said, pulling on her coat. “His name is John and he works at that big investment firm over on Broadway.”

  I grinned. “Sounds promising.”

  She winked at me. “I’ll let you know Monday.”

  While my job was downtown, I lived in the Central West End near Forest Park. There’s no way I would have been able to afford to live there on my own, but Logan worked for a big-name law firm and paid three-quarters of the rent. I’d argued about that when I’d first moved in, but he’d been adamant. I tried to make up for it by doing most of the cooking and cleaning.

  I was just about to walk out the door when I heard my name being called. I turned around. Mr. Malloy, my boss, was hurrying toward me.

  “Ivy, would you run this by Mr. Galler’s on your way home?” he asked. “He wasn’t able to make it in today.”

  Mr. Galler was one of the bank’s oldest and richest clients, and by “oldest” I meant that figuratively and literally. He was a nice man, maybe somewhere in his nineties, and I’d taken things to his home before, even though it was out of my way. He lived in one of the multimillion-dollar mansions in Country Life Acres.

  “Yeah, sure,” I agreed, not that I had much choice, but I didn’t mind. I liked old Mr. Galler, and we chatted when I went by on a bank errand.

  After taking the packet, I headed outside, the bitter wind making my eyes water as I wrapped my black wool peacoat more tightly around me. My car was an old hand-me-down sedan from my grandma and made of the kind of heavy steel that meant I didn’t have to worry about putting extra weight in the trunk when the weather got bad.

  Rush hour was murder and it took nearly an hour to get from the bank to Mr. Galler’s address. I called Logan to tell him I’d be late for dinner. He told me to meet him and his friend at the restaurant, since it wasn’t far from where I was going anyway.

  “You’ll love Tom,” Logan told me. “He’s an artsy, creative type. Very hip. And his parents are loaded, which is great for him since he still hasn’t made a dime from his work. Show a little leg and he might even buy your dinner.”

  I laughed. “You’re implying I prostitute myself for a free meal?” I teased.

  “Not your whole body. Just a leg. He’ll be eating out of your palm, lovely Ivy.”

  “Logan!” I shook my head in exasperation. I wasn’t interested in the kind of one-night stands that Logan dished out on a regular basis, but not paying for dinner sounded good to me. Eating out was something I loved to do, but it could get pricey and I had champagne taste on a beer budget, as my grandma said. The clothes I had on, black leggings under a cranberry dress that came to mid-thigh, would work for going out on a Friday night.

  “You haven’t had a date in forever,” Logan went on, oblivious to my chastisement. “Your come-hither beauty is going to wither and fade away.”

  “Lucky for me I have a sparkling personality,” I shot back, unable to help a smile even as I wanted to roll my eyes. “Just because your sex life is a revolving door doesn’t mean mine should be.”

  “I just give the ladies what they want,” Logan protested. “I can’t help it if I’m irresistible.”

  “Right,” I snorted. “Gotta go. I have to concentrate on this shitty traffic. See you soon.” I hung up on Logan’s protests.

  He wasn’t wrong, though. It had been a while since I’d dated anyone for longer than a few weeks, and even longer since I’d had sex. Not that I slept around like he did. On the contrary, I could count on one hand with three fingers left over how many times I’d had sex since high school, and both occasions had been mortifying and awful. Just remembering made me squirm in my seat. I just wasn’t “into” sex. That much intimacy and vulnerability with someone made me uncomfortable and I’d avoided it ever since.

  The guard manning the gated community let me through and finally I was knocking on Mr. Galler’s door. He had a man who lived with him and did things like cook and run errands, and it should have been he who opened the door, but it was someone I didn’t recognize.

  “Hi,” I said with a smile. “Mr. Malloy sent me to drop this off for Mr. Galler.” I went to hand him the envelope, but the man stepped back to allow me inside.

  “Mr. Galler is in the study,” he said politely. “If you’ll follow me.”

  Obediently I followed, a quick glance at my watch showing me I was going to be later than I’d thought, especially if Mr. Galler was feeling chatty.

  The house was huge, beautiful, and luxurious, with expansive views of the trees and lawn. I caught a glimpse of a tennis court out back, then saw with dismay that it had begun to snow. I liked snow well enough so long as I didn’t have to drive, but if I backed out of dinner, I’d never hear the end of it from Logan.

  Mr. Galler was sitting in a leather armchair in front of a crackling fire. I missed having a fireplace. We’d had one back home and Grandpa had always made sure there was plenty of wood stocked up for winter. />
  “Hello, Ivy, my dear,” he said when he saw me, his weathered face breaking into a smile.

  “Hi, Mr. Galler,” I said, and my smile was genuine. I liked old people. Maybe it was the years I’d spent living with my grandparents, but I felt they were underappreciated. “Where’s Roger?” Roger was his usual assistant/cook/butler.

  “He took ill quite suddenly,” Mr. Galler said. “A company sent me William to fill in until Roger gets better. Please, have a seat.”

  I was grateful to sit down, the pinching of my toes making me long for my slippers. “Here you go,” I said, handing him the packet once I’d sat on the sofa. “Mr. Malloy sent this for you.”

  He nodded, taking the packet and setting it aside. “Thank you,” he said. “Would you like a drink? I can ring for tea.”

  “That’s all right,” I said apologetically. “I’m meeting friends for dinner, so I’m afraid I can’t stay long. How have you been feeling?” Mr. Galler was usually in perfect health, but he’d complained of being ill lately.

  “Better, I think,” he said with a smile, though I wasn’t sure I believed him. He looked a bit pale and drawn, but still I nodded.

  “I’m glad. Did you finish that book yet?” Mr. Galler had told me he was writing his memoirs and often updated me on the progress.

  “Nearly done,” he said. “Some memories are more difficult to relive than others.” His eyes became slightly unfocused, as though he were gazing inward. “Nineteen forty-five. A year I’d like to forget.”

  I did some quick math in my head. Mr. Galler would have been a teenager in nineteen forty-five, during World War II.

  “Where were you then?” I asked. I loved listening to older people talk about their pasts. I found it fascinating.

  Mr. Galler’s gaze refocused on me. “Poland,” he said. “My father was a physician.”

  “In the Army?”

  He nodded. “He did research as well, some of which he entrusted to me.”