Shadowing Ivy

by Janelle Taylor

  “Promise you’ll call the moment you open that letter!”

  Ivy promised, hung up, and headed into the bathroom for a long, hot shower. Her last shower as a single woman. Strange. She would probably be thinking silly things like that all day. Her last cup of coffee as a single woman. Her last meal. She’d just slipped on her bathrobe when the doorbell rang.

  No way her mother could have gotten here that fast to continue their conversation. Ivy padded to the front door and peered through the peephole. Declan.

  Her heart leapt in her chest, as it always did at the sight of him. God, he was handsome.

  “Excuse me, Mr. McLean,” she teased through the door. “But I don’t believe you’re supposed to see your bride on your wedding day before she walks down the aisle.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said in that delicious deep voice. “It was bad enough not waking up next to you.”

  She smiled and opened the door and jumped into his arms. Mmm, he smelled good. Like soap and spicy aftershave. Tall, muscular, and masculine, with that thick chestnut brown hair, those sparkling blue eyes, and that irresistible dimple, Declan was so good-looking. Ivy had been so surprised that he’d been interested in her in the first place. Her self-esteem was fine. But she wasn’t a glamour girl like her sister Olivia or built with the sexy curves and boobs of her sister Amanda. She had the same boyish figure she’d had in high school, and the same short brown hair, albeit expensively highlighted, compliments of her mother for the wedding. She was a police officer in uniform. But even out of uniform she looked the same. Even with some makeup or in lingerie, neither of which she felt comfortable in.

  Yet in her wedding dress, that gorgeous satin gown on the back of her closet door, she didn’t look like plain old Ivy just playing dress up. She looked the way Declan made her feel all the time.

  Declan, from the first moment, had looked at Ivy as though she were a Playboy bunny. He’d barely taken his eyes off her at the party where they’d met. Though Declan was the son of a long-time acquaintance of Ivy’s mother, they had never met before. Once they’d been introduced, he’d stayed by her side all night, asked for her number, and then sent a dozen red roses to the precinct the following day. He’d swept her off her feet. And Ivy had needed some feet sweeping. Prior to Declan, she’d rarely dated. A couple of guys from the police academy, and a detective in a neighboring town. But nothing, no one, like Declan.

  Now, he closed the door and pressed Ivy against the wall, kissing her neck, her jawbone, nuzzling open the lapels of the ivory silk robe he’d bought her as a “just thinking of you” gift last month. What timing—she was so glad she’d just taken a shower, slathering on the delicious scented body cream a girlfriend at the precinct had given her.

  Ivy leaned her head back and moaned softly as his tongue flicked over her breast, then the taut nipple. His hand caressed her other breast, then traveled down past her stomach and in between her legs. She, Ivy Sedgwick, of the 32B bra and sensible flat Merrells, might as well have been Pamela Anderson for the way Declan responded to her. It was as though just the sight of her made him wild with desire. No one had ever felt that way about her. As Declan’s mouth moved to her other breast, his tongue busy on her nipple, he brought her hand to his zipper. He was rock hard. She slid down the zipper and in moments he faced her against the wall and was inside her, thrusting so hard she had to brace both hands against the wall to protect herself.

  “Let’s move into the bedroom,” she managed to say against her breath.

  But Declan gripped her hips and continued to thrust, harder and harder. He liked sex this way, a bit rough. Every now and then she could get him to be more romantic about sex, but for the most part, Declan liked sex anywhere but a bed. And he liked to make love to her from behind. She would prefer to look into his eyes while they made love, but even when she was on top, he tended to busy himself at her breasts or his eyes were closed with pleasure.

  The sex was amazing and nothing like Ivy had imagined sex could be. Not that she’d been a virgin when they’d met. She’d been with two other men, men she thought she’d fallen hard for, but neither relationship had lasted. Both men were much more romantic than Dylan in bed, but neither had actually ever brought her to orgasm, something that bothered both of them. And something that led to ridiculous fights for which she had no defense. How did she know why she couldn’t reach orgasm? Did they want to hear that they were bad in bed, for which Ivy really had no real reference point? Perhaps she wasn’t really in love with them. That was what Declan had said when she came back to life after climaxing with him for the first time. But she had had strong feelings for those two guys. Just nothing like she felt with—and for—Declan.

  And orgasms she continued to have. Mind-blowing, bad-day-erasing orgasms. She supposed she was more a traditional type when it came to sex; she actually wished Declan would sometimes want to do it missionary style. But their sex was hot and passionate and incredibly satisfying, if not exactly sweet or romantic.

  “Oh, baby, oh, baby,” Declan was whispering in her ear as he exploded and thrust one last time into her, then slid down to the floor with her. He kissed the back of her neck, and they lay there for a moment, catching their breaths. “That was great, as usual,” he said.

  “You know,” she said, turning to face him. “For our wedding night, I’d really like it if we made love slowly. In a bed. You facing me. I want good old-fashioned lovemaking.”

  He smiled and kissed her nose. “Your wish is my command, love.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get to that lawyer’s office for your inheritance letter.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to schlep all the way to the city with me. My sisters both offered to go with me.”

  He sat up and took a breath. “I guess I just really want to be there when you get the letter. Your father hated me. What if the letter tells you not to marry me?”

  She kissed his shoulder. “Declan, he already told me not to marry you. Am I listening?”

  “But what if he threatens not to leave you the inn?” he asked. “You deserve something of your father’s for the way he treated you your whole life.”

  Ivy didn’t know about that.

  “I think you should open the letter after the wedding,” Declan said, “so that no matter what it says, we’re husband and wife, a union.”

  “I think so, too,” she said. “There’s no way William Sedgwick is going to interfere with my wedding day any more than he already has.”

  He smiled and looked at her for a moment, in that way that made her feel so beautiful, so special, and then he began to make love to her all over again, right there on the shaggy rug.

  Chapter Three

  “You should be at home, being fussed over by your mother and your sisters,” Declan said as they arrived at the Manhattan law office of George Harris, attorney at law. “I hate being the cause of this.”

  Ivy took off her gloves and held Declan’s hand. His eyes were shielded by his sunglasses, and his wool scarf was bundled almost up to his nose. Declan was always cold and buried under layers. She smiled. “You are not the cause. This is the happiest day of my life, and a twenty-minute trip into Manhattan won’t take away from my primping time.”

  “Forty minutes there and back,” he pointed out. He looked out at the traffic whizzing by. “What do you think is in that letter, Ivy?”

  “I really don’t care. I’m abiding by his inconvenient instructions to pick up the letter today just in case it contains something that will be valuable to me, like an explanation for why he was such a nonexistent father.”

  “But he didn’t leave letters like that for Amanda and Olivia,” Declan said.

  Ivy considered that. Her father had worked some strange magic from the grave with the letters he’d left for her sisters. He had handpicked the perfect man for Amanda. And he’d reunited Olivia with the child—and the man—she thought she’d lost. That last one was William’s doing in the first place, she reminded her
self. William was capable of the worst.

  “Declan, I’m going to get the letter from the attorney, slip it into my purse, and forget about it until the last possible second.”

  He nodded. “But you’re supposed to open it today or the contents are null and void. The attorney made that clear at the reading of the will.”

  She put her arms around her fiancé. “So, a minute before midnight, I’ll read it and make a quick call. Whatever it says won’t affect me because I’ll be married to the man of my dreams. So let’s just get the stupid letter and then forget about it till later, okay?”

  He let out a breath. “I love you, you know.”

  “I know. And I love you, too.” She pressed her lips against his and then pulled open the door to the building. In the elevator to the sixteenth floor, Declan looked like he was going to pass out. “Honey, don’t worry. I want to marry you more than I want to know what is in that letter, no matter what it is.”

  He squeezed her hand. The doors pinged open, and in moments they were seated in the reception area, awaiting Mr. Harris.

  Five minutes later, the attorney finally made his appearance. Giving Declan enough time work up a nervous sweat on his forehead.

  “Miss Sedgwick, delighted to see you here.” The attorney glanced at Declan and said nothing.

  Ivy smiled at the man, despite his rudeness to her fiancé. “We’re crunched for time,” she said. “As you know, Declan and I are getting married today.”

  “I am aware,” George Harris said, his expression blank. He then led them into a small room with a table and chairs. An envelope, a plain white envelope, business-size, lay on the center of the table.

  Ivy shivered despite the warmth of the room. She squeezed Declan’s hand.

  “I will leave you to it,” George said. “But please note that your father’s instructions are quite clear.” He pulled out William’s last will and testament. “According to your father’s wishes, you must open the letter prior to the ceremony, or the contents will be null and void.”

  Anger rose up in Ivy. “Amazing that he’s trying to control me from the grave.”

  “Ivy, it’s okay,” Declan said. “If those are the instructions, those are the instructions.”

  “If you do not call me to read the letter prior to your ceremony, Miss Sedgwick,” the attorney said, “you will forfeit your inheritance.”

  “Which is?” Ivy asked, her eyebrow raised.

  “You will find out everything you need to know when you open the letter,” George responded. “Good day.” And with that, he left the room.

  “Why don’t I just open it now and get it over with,” Ivy said. “What’s the worst it could say?”

  “That I’m beneath you,” Declan said. “Or maybe he’ll make something up. Like that the reason he fired me was for stealing a paperclip from the office.”

  “He fired you because he wanted to break us up,” Ivy said. She shook her head. “You know what? Let’s just get out of here.” She stuffed the envelope in her purse. “Maybe I won’t open it at all.”

  “But what if it does contain an explanation of why he was such a bad father?” Declan said. “He finally did right by Olivia. Maybe he wants to do right by you now. Or maybe he left you millions, Ivy. We could start so many youth programs in Applewood with that money.”

  Declan dreamed of starting up a program for kids who had nowhere to go after school. He talked about his dreams for the future all the time. He had such a kind, generous heart. She knew Declan, and she had a cop’s instincts. Whatever her father had had against Declan, it wasn’t serious. If it were, William would have stated his reason.

  “The ceremony isn’t until six tonight,” Ivy said. “We have all day.”

  He took a deep breath. “Let’s just open it together right before the ceremony. If William has more venom to spew against me, we’ll be too happy about getting married in five minutes to care.”

  She smiled and they sealed the deal with a kiss.

  In the back room of the tiny church, Ivy sat before a lighted mirror and adjusted the white veil on her head, unaccustomed to the feel of a barrette digging into her scalp. She scowled.

  Kayla Archer, her niece and flower girl, laughed. “It holds your veil in place, Aunt Ivy.”

  Ivy smiled. “It figures a thirteen-year-old knows that and I don’t! Can I just throw the veil over my head?”

  Alanna, her only bridesmaid, shook her head. “When Declan lifts it, he’ll end up with it in his hands!”

  “Oh,” Ivy said, eyeing the tiny flower buds decorating the mother-of-pearl barrette. She wasn’t used to seeing flower buds on her head.

  “You can be girly for one day!” Olivia chided with a smile, fluffing the filmy material over Ivy’s shoulders.

  “You do look like a princess,” Amanda said as she took a photograph of Ivy.

  Ivy stared at herself and had to admit she did look like a princess. Olivia, a former fashion magazine editor and one of the most glamorous women Ivy had ever seen, had done Ivy’s makeup. Ivy’s complexion glowed, and her blue eyes, lightly enhanced by liner and mascara, were huge. Her lips, usually treated only to Chap Stick on these chilly March mornings, were a soft, glossy red. And her hair, a basic brown bob, had been styled by a former colleague of Olivia’s, and now shone with highlights, fringy bangs swept glamorously to the side.

  Once again Ivy was struck by how amazing it was that her sisters were her co-matrons of honor. It was ironic that it took their father’s death to bring them together. When he died, just months ago, the three Sedgwick sisters had barely spoken in years. They’d been raised that way. As separate people, not family. And their father had done nothing to change it. Yes, he did invite them every summer to his house in Maine for two weeks, and while he golfed and lunched with his own friends, the three girls did spend time together. Not much time, but enough for Ivy to see that Amanda was kind and compassionate, and that Olivia was as lovely inside as out.

  “Can I go show Grandma how I look?” Kayla asked her mother. “I know she’ll see me walk down the aisle, but I can’t wait!”

  Olivia smiled. “Go ahead. And give your handsome dad a kiss for me.”

  “I’ll show you where they’re seated,” Alanna said, and led Kayla out the door.

  “Be back in five minutes, though!” Amanda cautioned, eying the clock on the wall. “The ceremony starts promptly at six.”

  When the door closed behind them, Ivy turned to her sisters. “What do you think is in my inheritance letter from William?” she asked, gnawing away her pretty red lipstick. None of the Sedgwick sisters referred to their father as Dad.

  Amanda stopped fluffing Ivy’s veil. “You haven’t opened it?”

  Ivy shook her head. “I’m supposed to open it before saying, ‘I do.’”

  Amanda stared at Ivy. “Before? That’s a bit unnerving. What the hell is in that letter?”

  “You don’t think there could be any credence to whatever William might have had against Declan?” Olivia asked, her eyes gentle on Ivy. “Do you? I hate to even bring it up, Ivy. But, well, it was so unlike William to even care about anything the three of us did.”

  Ivy stared at her sisters. “What could William Sedgwick possibly have against Declan McLean? A graduate student. A former part-time, entry-level employee at his own company. It makes no sense.”

  “Maybe he wanted to pick your husband for you, the way he ‘picked’ ours,” Amanda suggested, shaking her head.

  Olivia put her hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “Maybe. But, it seemed like William was trying, in his own twisted way, to right some wrongs of his from the grave. He left me the cottage in Maine so I’d find my way back to Zach and our daughter.”

  “And he left me the Manhattan brownstone just when I was desperate for a place to live,” Amanda added. “He really seemed to custom pick Ethan for me.”

  “I have thought about all that,” Ivy said. “I’ve thought about everything.” She lowered her voice. “I know this w
ill sound terrible, but I even did a background check. Just for peace of mind. And Declan McLean hasn’t so much as been arrested for jaywalking.”

  “If William had a real reason for being against the marriage,” Amanda said, smoothing the short train of Ivy’s gown, “he would have told you what it was. He wouldn’t let it get this far. I mean, you’re getting married in a half hour.”

  “Agreed,” said Olivia. She took Ivy’s hand. “And enough of this. You’re marrying the man you love. The man who loves you.”

  Tears pricked Ivy’s eyes. She wasn’t much of a crier, but sometimes, and especially now, before she was to walk down the aisle, she got so ... verklempt, to use just the right word, about getting married. She still couldn’t believe that she had found Mr. Right, Mr. Wonderful, Mr. Amazing. She, Ivy Sedgwick, the girl who sent away for detective kits in the back of old Ellery Queen magazines that she found in the library. The girl more interested in forensic science than in dating. When she was a teenager and would spend those two weeks at the Maine cottage with her sisters, Ivy could always be found with her nose buried in books—from mysteries and police procedurals to true crime. One year, Olivia had suggested that Ivy try out for the town’s Inner Beauty Pageant, and Ivy had freaked out on Olivia. Ivy had assumed Olivia thought she would be a good candidate because she had inner beauty instead of outer beauty, like Olivia. But when she’d finally allowed Olivia to explain herself, Ivy learned just how much Olivia actually admired her as a person—and thought she was pretty, besides.

  But Ivy never thought she was pretty. Middle school, high school, college—Ivy never seemed to attract men the way some of the other girls did. Girls with big boobs or long hair or the gift of flirtation. Ivy and a girlfriend, who was also guy-challenged, once practiced flirting techniques from magazines like Cosmopolitan, but her lines fell flat. She’d even found her old modeling school “text book” and tried the tips to enhance her looks, but guys just weren’t interested.

  And so she let herself be chosen by the few guys who were interested, which got her to the prom and college dances, and at twenty-one she lost her virginity to a perfectly nice man whose last name she’d forgotten. Not too memorable. She’d always told herself that one day, when she was more grown up, when she was working, she’d do the choosing.