In His Shadow (Tangled Ivy Book 1) Page 19

  Faster than I would have believed possible, Devon had spun around, pushed me behind him, and drawn his gun.

  But the man was gone.

  I couldn’t breathe. Air inflated my lungs, but I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t possibly have— No. It was impossible.

  “Ivy! Ivy, what’s wrong?”

  I couldn’t feel my hands or feet, and I just couldn’t breathe. Devon’s arm was a steel band around me supporting me, his face anxious as he studied me.

  “Talk to me,” he said evenly. “Breathe, Ivy. You’re all right. Just tell me what you saw.”

  My lips were numb as I forced them to move.

  “Jace.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I didn’t remember the trip back to the apartment. I barely remembered Devon helping me inside or sitting on the couch. I stared into space, my hands ice-cold, and tried to come to grips with Jace having found me. Devon disappeared into my bedroom, but I didn’t ask what he was doing. Instead, I grabbed my phone and hit speed dial, letting out a relieved breath when Grams picked up.

  “Hi,” I said, suddenly realizing I had no good excuse for calling this late on a Saturday night. “I was just, um, thinking about you. How are you?”

  “Oh, we’re fine, sweetie,” Grams said. “Your grandpa spent this afternoon chopping some firewood with the neighbor.” She went on, as I knew she would, telling me about all they’d done that day and how Grandpa had run to the store to get some more birdseed. “My birds just expect to be fed now when there’s snow on the ground,” she said, “even with the barn cats hanging around.”

  “Um, have you heard from or seen . . . Jace around?” I asked.

  “Not a peep,” she replied. “The police have some posters up at the QuikTrip and Kroger, but he hasn’t come by here.”

  My eyes slid shut. Thank God. I couldn’t handle Jace doing something to my grandparents. Though they were in their seventies, I wouldn’t put anything past him.

  “Now you’re coming home for Christmas, aren’t you?” Grams continued.

  Oh no. Christmas. If Jace had followed me here, somehow, would he follow me home? No way was I leading trouble back to Grams and Grandpa.

  “Um, actually, I’ve had something come up,” I said, improvising on the spot. “A friend asked me to travel with them for a few days, so I think I’m going to go.”

  “Oh? Where are you going?”

  I said the first thing that came to mind. “Florida.”

  “That’ll be nice and warm down there,” Grams said. “We’ll miss you, but I think it’ll be good for you to get away, take a vacation. Is Logan going with you?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Well, just be careful,” she admonished. “Two girls alone isn’t very safe. Don’t go out at night.”

  I smiled ruefully, wishing I didn’t have to lie to her. I’d be barricaded inside my apartment come Christmas. Even now, I was terrified to step foot outside my door.

  “I will,” I promised. After another round of warnings and I-love-yous, I ended the call.

  I stared at my phone. The urge to call Logan was strong. But it wouldn’t be fair to him. He was on vacation two states away. What could he do about Jace?

  “What are you thinking?”

  I looked up to see Devon staring down at me.

  “Of how much I want to call Logan,” I answered honestly.

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “He’s always been there for me, been the one I turned to when I had no one else.”

  “Because of Jace?”

  I nodded.

  Devon sat next to me on the couch. “I’ll protect you,” he said.

  I grimaced. “You’re leaving, remember?”

  “I’ll only be gone for a day. You’ll stay at my place while I’m gone.”

  I glanced at him in surprise. “What?”

  “I can’t leave you here, not with your stepbrother mucking about.”

  That’s when I saw the suitcase behind him. “Did you . . . pack for me?”

  “Yes. It’s time to go.”

  A moment of clarity hit me then, the kind where you see a fraction of time as a turning point—a fork in the road. I could stay here, alone, and await whatever Jace was planning. Or I could go with Devon, a man who made me feel more alive than I ever had before, though he was dangerous and being with him took a toll on my physical and emotional well-being.

  It was perhaps a little mortifying how quickly I chose.

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  Devon held out his hand and I took it.

  We were outside Devon’s apartment door and he was unlocking it when the door across the hallway popped open.

  “Hi, again!” Beau said cheerfully. “Looks like you found him.”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, heat rising in my cheeks. Devon glanced at me, raising his brows in silent question.

  “Good evening, Beau,” Devon said cordially. “I take it you’ve met Ivy?”

  “Not formally,” Beau said, thrusting out a hand, which I shook.

  “Beau is a salesman of sorts,” Devon said, his lips twisting slightly. “What’s the business this month, Beau?”

  “Time-shares, my man,” Beau said with a grin. “I have a great place in the Bahamas that’s got your name written all over it.”

  Devon laughed outright. “I’ll bet you do.” He ushered me into the apartment as Beau tried again.

  “I can get you a great deal!” he called out.

  “Good night, Beau,” Devon said, closing the door behind him. He leaned his back against it and looked at me.

  “He’s . . . ah . . . interesting,” I offered.

  “Beau is a used car salesman who sells everything except used cars,” Devon replied dryly. “Don’t ever buy anything from him. He will completely screw you over.”

  I laughed. “Sounds like you speak from experience,” I teased.

  He grimaced. “I prefer not to talk about it. And considering my reaction to our . . . transaction, I’m surprised he’d try to sell me anything again.”

  I was, too.

  “So you came looking for me last night?” he asked.

  “You didn’t come to the hospital,” I said, deciding not to tell him I’d known he was there. “I-I wanted to see you. I hoped you’d want to see me, too.”

  I couldn’t read the expression on his face as I laid bare my desire to be with him. I didn’t tell him how he’d been consuming my thoughts for days or how I felt lost without him.

  Picking up my suitcase, Devon took it to the bedroom. Not sure what else to do, I followed.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked, breaking the nearly awkward silence. I glanced around again at the impersonal room. Comfortable and well appointed, yes, but that was all.

  “A few months,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “You’ll be all right here alone?”

  “Of course,” I said, patting my purse. “I’m packing heat, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” he quipped, approaching me. Carefully removing my purse strap from my shoulder, he set it aside. “You’ll be safe here. I’ll be back Monday night. Keys are on the kitchen counter.”

  “It might not have been Jace I saw,” I admitted. “Maybe it was just someone who looked like him.” I hoped that was true. It gave me a chill to think Jace might’ve tracked me so quickly.

  “Maybe,” Devon said, his hands resting on my hips. “When does Logan return?”

  The way he said Logan’s name gave me pause. There was a slight hint of disdain or maybe contempt, but so nearly indiscernible, I decided I must have imagined it.

  “Tomorrow night. He has to work on Monday. I can go back home then.” I was amazed as it was that Devon wanted me to stay in his apartment. That seemed a line not normally crossed for him, and it was hard no
t to be pleased at this development, even if the cause for it was Jace.

  “You’ll stay here until I return,” Devon said, his tone final.

  My eyes widened. “Why? Once Logan’s home—”

  “I really don’t want to hear his name anymore,” Devon interrupted with a sigh.

  “But—”

  His mouth landed on mine, cutting off my protest.

  I forgot everything I was going to say and melted into him, my body molding to his. His hands moved to my rear, pulling me closer, and I could feel the hard length of his erection at the juncture of my thighs. His kiss was deep and slow, the soft brush of his tongue against mine making my toes curl.

  “I have to go,” he murmured against my lips.

  I made a mewling sound of protest as he unwound my arms from around his neck.

  “Will it be dangerous?” I asked, gazing up at him. I was worried, even though I knew he didn’t want to hear it.

  His smile was crooked. “No more so than usual.”

  Not exactly comforting.

  Devon pressed his lips to my forehead, then he was gone.

  Somewhat at a loss, I glanced around the bedroom. My suitcase was sitting by the bed, dutifully waiting for me to unpack it, and yet I decided to explore.

  The closet was a huge walk-in and Devon’s clothes were carefully arranged and grouped by type and color. It was incredibly precise and I remembered him telling me that he’d served in the military. I guessed old habits die hard.

  I poked around more than was decent for a guest, but found nothing interesting. I thought maybe I’d run across the pendant Mr. Galler had given me, but it was nowhere to be found.

  It was strange, being in Devon’s apartment without him. Yet, it made me feel closer to him. I fell asleep in his bed with the scent of him clinging to the pillow underneath my cheek.

  My cell phone woke me Sunday morning and I blindly groped for it on the bedside table.

  “Mmm ’lo?” I mumbled into the phone.

  “Miss Mason?” The voice on the other end was businesslike and I pried open my eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Special Agent Lane,” the man said. “We met at your work regarding the death of Mr. Galler?”

  Okay, now I was wide-awake. I sat up, clutching the phone to my ear.

  “I remember.”

  “I’d like you to come meet with me, answer a few more questions.”

  My palms were sweating now. “Um, okay.”

  “Can you come this morning?”

  “Sure. I-I’ll come as soon as I can,” I stammered.

  “Thank you.” He gave me an address, which I scrambled to jot down, then he ended the call.

  I sat in panicked befuddlement, staring at the wall as I tried to figure out what he could possibly want from me. I desperately wanted to talk to Devon, but I had no way of reaching him.

  It didn’t take long for me to get up and dress. Devon had been thorough in packing for me and I pulled on a pair of skinny jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that I threw a black jacket over. My coat went on over that and I added my tall black boots. I may not have known what awaited me, but it never hurt to look fabulous.

  There was a note on the kitchen counter next to a set of keys.

  Try not to scratch the car.

  —D

  I grinned, practically hearing the dry phrase uttered inside my head. Nice. He’d left me his car keys, and apparently had very little faith in my driving ability.

  I’d never driven a Porsche in my life and it made me nervous to drive one now, but I realized I could get used to driving a luxury sports car pretty darn quick. I really should have been born into royalty.

  The sun was blinding off the snow and I was glad of my oversized sunglasses as I found the address. I pulled up to a guard booth in front of a four-story building surrounded by a black iron fence. I told the serious-looking man in uniform my name and who I was there to see. He took my ID, scrutinizing it carefully and checking a clipboard before allowing me through. I parked the car and went inside.

  I passed two guys coming out, one of them holding the door for me, and both paused in their conversation, turning to stare as I walked by.

  “I’m looking for Agent Lane,” I told the woman behind the reception window.

  A few minutes later, the agent was striding toward me. I jumped to my feet from where I’d been waiting in an orange vinyl chair. I combed my fingers nervously through my hair, brushing it back from my face. I saw Agent Lane’s dark gaze follow the movement, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. He was taller than me, his hair a deep chestnut that fell in waves over his forehead.

  “Miss Mason, thank you for coming,” he said. I noticed he was much more polite this time than when I’d first met him at the bank. “Please, come with me.”

  I followed him through a door and between a maze of desks. Though it was a Sunday, there were plenty of people working and some glanced up as we walked by. Finally, we reached what I supposed was his desk. He motioned me to the chair next to it while he took the one behind it.

  Lane was an attractive guy, his jaw lightly shadowed with stubble that gave him an appealingly unkempt look. His shirt was wrinkled in a way that said he was a bachelor who couldn’t be bothered with an iron, and a cheap tie was knotted loosely around his neck. His shoulder holster held his gun, which gleamed from the care and attention he reserved for it alone.

  Taking off my sunglasses, I slid them into my purse. “So why did you want to see me?” I asked, crossing one leg over the other.

  “I hear you were mugged last weekend,” Lane replied instead.

  I shrugged, glancing away from his penetrating gaze. “It’s the city. It happens.”

  “You didn’t report it,” he persisted, making me wonder how he’d known. The hospital maybe?

  “I just want to forget it,” I said.

  “The man who was with you when you were . . . mugged,” he said. The way he said “mugged” made me think he didn’t believe a word of our story. “You know he didn’t give a name to the hospital. Paid his bill in cash and walked out. Did you know him?”

  “He’s a . . . friend,” I said, not sure what else to call him and wary of why the agent was asking about Devon.

  Lane looked at me for a moment longer, then reached for a manila file folder on his desk. Opening it, he turned it around to face me. “Is this your friend?”

  It was Devon, but the shot was a candid one and looked like it had been taken at a distance, the quality grainy.

  Hesitantly, I nodded. “Why do you want to know?”

  “We found your fingerprints, and an unknown set, at Mr. Galler’s residence,” Lane said. “The unknown prints didn’t match your friend’s, but running his through our system brought up some . . . interesting information.”

  I swallowed but remained silent.

  “Miss Mason,” Lane said with a sigh, “I think you’ve gotten mixed up with some bad people, in particular, this man.” He tapped the photo of Devon for emphasis. “How did you meet him?”

  Thinking quickly, I said, “He was there when the bank was robbed. He helped apprehend the robbers.”

  “He didn’t apprehend them, Miss Mason,” Lane said flatly. “He killed them.”

  The reminder chilled me and I lashed out. “If you think he’s so dangerous, why didn’t you arrest him then?” I snapped.

  “We weren’t allowed to,” he said.

  I frowned. “What do you mean you ‘weren’t allowed to?’ ”

  Lane sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Your friend must have friends of his own in high places. One phone call was all it took and word came down he was to be released with no further questioning.” He leaned forward again. “But I think he’s in this up to his neck, Miss Mason, and I t
hink you know that.”

  There was no way for me to answer that without incriminating either Devon or myself, so I stayed silent.

  “Law enforcement is a small world,” Lane said. “No matter what agency we work for, we’re all on the same side. So I did some digging, and your friend has turned up in a few other places.” Taking a stack from the file, he began flipping through the papers.

  “Sri Lanka, five years ago, seven men dead.” He placed a piece of paper in front of me, then photos. I blanched at the sight of several bodies. “Amsterdam, three years ago, thirteen dead.” Another sheet. More pictures. “Beirut, right after Amsterdam, nearly an entire village was wiped out.” More sheets and this time the pictures were of burned-out homes in the desert. “Stockholm, two years ago, ten dead, two of them women.” A photo of a beautiful woman, her eyes vacant beneath a bullet hole in the center of her forehead.

  The words fell on my ears, but I barely comprehended. My stomach churned with nausea. I’d known, in a visceral, dreamlike way, that Devon hadn’t been lying when he’d told me what he did for a living, but to have it handed to me, in cold black and white, all the murder and mayhem that he wreaked around the globe . . . it was too much to take in.

  “Interpol sent me these earlier,” Lane said, flipping through the file to another picture of Devon, this time at airport security. “Looks like he left the country late last night, headed for London.”

  I waited, sure there’d be a question.

  “Any idea when he’ll be back to the States? If he’ll be back?”

  I shook my head, my lips pressed tightly closed. Lane stared at me.

  “The mugging was pretty brutal,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “I hear you were bruised up pretty bad, even a couple cracked ribs.” Reaching forward, his fingers tipped my chin up, turning my cheek toward the light streaming in from the window. “Hard to cover completely with makeup.”

  I jerked away from his touch. “Excuse me,” I snapped, “but what’s your point?”

  Lane’s eyes narrowed. “My point is that your friend leaves a trail of dead bodies in his wake without so much as a flicker of remorse. Now I don’t know who he is or who he works for, but I believe your involvement with him is not only a severe threat to your life, but also may not be . . . consensual.” He rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward.