He smiled against her lips, then kissed her deeply as his hands wriggled her underwear down her legs and off. He was now completely naked himself and pulled her on top of him. She trailed her soft lips across his chest and down to his rock-hard stomach and lower, his groans becoming more hoarse.
And then she wrapped her hand around his erection, and explored the head with her lips, then teased along the shaft with her tongue, her hand moving up and down, down and up.
“Ivy,” he groaned, grabbing her hair, reaching for her breast again.
She explored him until she thought he might explode, her lips tantalizing every inch of him. And when she kissed her way back up to his neck, her breasts against his rough chest, he flipped her onto her back and caressed every inch of her body with his own tongue—her breasts, her stomach, her belly button. And while he ran one hand over her breasts again and again, he slipped a finger inside her, sliding in and out, toying and teasing until she groaned. And groaned again. And then he followed his finger with his tongue until she cried out.
He took his time, alternating between teasing with a slide of his finger, a lick of his tongue and full throttle exploration of the depths of her femininity. When she moaned and writhed, he smiled and kissed his way to her breasts again, caressing and massaging one while he licked and suckled the other. And then he switched, all the while letting the rock-hard length of him press and poke against her.
“Griffin, I have to have you now,” she breathed haggardly.
He couldn’t seem to wait any longer, either. He raised up and leaned over her, meeting her beautiful blue eyes, and eased into her, slowly at first. She closed her eyes against the pleasure, moaning. He thrust, then eased out until she arched her back and grabbed his hips to pull him back in.
He thrust quickly into her, into the softness, the tightness, the wet-hot center of her. She was meeting his movements and moaning and crying out, her hands, her nails gripping his back. And finally, he exploded with a groan and collapsed onto her.
They lay there for a little while, in silence, their breathing and heartbeats the only sounds. And then Griffin reached for her hand and held it.
“What am I going to do with a secret apartment, anyway?” Ivy asked, her breathing still quick.
“I think we’ve made pretty good use of it,” he said, turning onto his side to face her.
She laughed and held onto his hand, afraid for this moment to go, for him to suddenly get up, revert back to detective mode.
“I’m glad the seashell wasn’t destroyed,” he said in almost a whisper. “I didn’t have the greatest relationship with my father and I lost a lot of respect for him over the years, but he was still my dad. I have some of his things, things that meant something to him, and they help make me feel connected. So I think I understand what that shell means to you. What this place means to you.”
Her heart squeezed in her chest, and she nodded around the sudden lump in her throat. There he went again, making her fall in love with him every five minutes. “Having some of your dad’s things must have helped a lot when he was in the nursing home. That sense of connection, of memory, of having pieces of him.”
He nodded and squeezed her hand, then closed his eyes, and Ivy had the sense that this kind of conversation was a lot for Griffin to take, that he didn’t often have these conversations, except perhaps with Joey. And with the teen, he was probably able to feel less vulnerable since Joey was the kid, the one who needed him. Though Ivy was pretty sure Griffin needed Joey just as much.
She closed her eyes, too, hard as it was to look away from his face, his profile. I love you, I love you, I love you, she said silently over and over.
And then she yawned and curled up next to him, the sound of his heartbeat lulling her to a much-needed nap.
Chapter Twelve
“Hello, Miss Beckham,” Griffin said into the telephone, tapping at the third name on his list of engaged “society” types in Manhattan. “I’m a reporter from Manhattan Life and Times magazine, and I’m doing a story on lavish wedding plans. I understand that you’re recently engaged, and I’m hoping you’ll answer a few questions for our piece.”
Would she ever. In fact, she didn’t stop talking for twenty minutes. Within the first two, she mentioned the name of her fiancé, Dean Markington.
Bingo. DM. Declan’s favorite pair of initials.
In the next ten minutes, Griffin, plus one, was invited to a party tonight at Cornelia Beckham’s Upper East Side town house.
There were four names on the list of “Declan’s Possible Brides.” Cornelia Beckham, Jane Faria, Elizabeth Ellsworth, and Paris Lamet. Jane and Elizabeth also went on a bit, both describing their fiancés as elderly. Declan could fake a lot, but being eighty wasn’t one of them.
He would start with Miss Beckham.
Griffin stood up from the desk chair and stretched, then headed into the bedroom to check on Ivy. She was still fast asleep. After everything she’d been through so recently, she needed the catnap.
He watched her, watched her chest rise and fall. Her beautiful face was so at peace. He wasn’t sure if bringing Ivy—they would both be in disguise, of course—to the party tonight was such a good idea. But he could use the extra pair of eyes, someone who knew Declan, knew him intimately in a way that only a woman who’d been in love with him could, someone who’d be able to spot him, even in the disguise Griffin knew his brother would be in. Dyed hair, colored contacts. Ivy had most definitely been in love with Declan. And Griffin had a feeling she would be able to pick him out right away.
Had been in love. Why was he so sure about the past tense? Was still in love? He couldn’t imagine the heart still pining for someone who’d done what Declan had. Even if Declan wasn’t the murderer—and Griffin was sure he was—Declan had surely killed Ivy’s feelings for him. But maybe that wasn’t the way the heart worked. There were countless true stories about women who’d fallen in love with convicted murderers—murderers who’d confessed—and even married them while they served life without parole. The mind, and more often the heart, believed what it wanted to, what it needed to, perhaps.
He tore his gaze away and headed back into the living room to call his captain and fill him in on the plans, then walked over to the windows and stared out at nothing in particular.
Samantha’s face floated into his mind. Five years ago, she’d been a beat officer in his precinct when Griffin had fallen hard for her. She was tough, even a little gritty. And Griffin knew she would make a great cop, an excellent detective. They’d started dating, and Griffin had loved how easy it was to date within the force. Samantha understood him instantly; if he was quiet, she immediately—and correctly—thought it was because he’d been through the ringer on the streets, not because something was wrong with their relationship.
The first time she’d had to fire her gun was also the first time he’d seen her vulnerable side. And the way she’d opened up to him opened up something in him. He’d fallen in love.
And Declan, the bastard, was clearly watching. Waiting to pay his brother back for cutting off his freebies around the city. Griffin hadn’t had a clue that Declan was romancing Samantha on the nights they weren’t together. And this time he wasn’t an MBA student or a resident. He was supposedly a special agent, FBI. And Samantha had always dreamed of going that route. And so she did him “little favors” that at first she didn’t know were illegal. And even when she knew, when she knew that he was clearly a bad FBI agent, she still provided him with information that enabled him to bilk a civilian out of half a million dollars. When he had enough money, he was through with her. And he made sure Griffin knew exactly what his girlfriend had done. Sexually. Criminally. And otherwise.
And Declan had waited to see what the supposed big man of integrity would do. Turn in the woman he loved?
Past tense. His heart had turned cold against Samantha the moment he’d discovered what she’d done. But he’d long believed in hating the deed and not the doer, unless
he could help it. And with Samantha, the strength she’d once had, that grit that had initially attracted him, had been rubbed away by a very talented con man with a special gripe against her—she was his hated brother’s girlfriend.
Griffin hadn’t had to worry about turning in Samantha or not. She’d killed herself the night she discovered she’d been had. That the life of lies she created for herself was precipitated on a bigger lie. She took two bottles of sleeping pills.
And it was Griffin who’d found her.
Those pretty brown eyes of hers, her long red hair, the dreams she’d had, all those memories faded from his mind as Griffin looked out at the city that had given him so much and taken so much away. He let thoughts of her fade away; he could barely take thinking of her, of what could have been.
When he thought of how he didn’t hate Samantha, despite her betrayal of him and the police force, he thought of Ivy and how she might very well not be able to hate Declan.
Complicated, to say the least.
Forget trying to push thoughts of Ivy out of his mind. He couldn’t if he wanted to.
Instead, he summoned up Declan’s sinister face. Griffin would catch him and bring him in. That was all there was to it.
Come out, come out wherever you are, little brother.
Ivy’s eyes slowly opened and a lazy smile stretched across her face.
Griffin.
He wasn’t there in bed with her. Which meant she had a moment to lay there and remember every delicious sensation of their lovemaking. She traced her lips with her fingers, the imprint of his firm mouth still stamped.
She reluctantly got out of bed and dressed, then headed back to the living room, where Griffin was bent over the desk, furiously writing in his notebook, the computer whirring beside him.
“Hi,” she said. Something about the tense set of his shoulders worried her.
He turned around with a quick, “Hey,” then returned his attention to his work.
Okay. Something was wrong.
Just ask him, she told herself. Don’t be passive-aggressive and sulk on the sofa. Ask.
“Griffin, everything okay?”
He didn’t turn around. “Well, we have a murder suspect to bring in, one that happens to be your former fiancé and my half brother, so no, I wouldn’t say everything was okay.”
She stared at his back. Jerk.
She turned to head into the kitchen, to get away from him and whatever had set him off, which she naturally assumed was their lovemaking. Maybe they were getting too close for his liking.
“Ivy,” he said, finally turning to face her. “I didn’t mean—” Whatever he didn’t mean he didn’t finish. “Look, I’ve got to head over to the station and pick up some undercover wear for us. We’ve been invited to Cornelia Beckham’s party tonight.” He filled her in on their conversation. And that her fiancé’s initials were none other than DM.
The thought of being in the same room—the same house—as Declan made her stomach twist. What would it be like to see him now? To stand before him? Would he apologize for what he’d done, the lies he’d told?
Would he confess to killing Jennifer Lexington?
Right. He would just up and confess to murdering one of his three former fiancées at his current fiancée’s home. A party full of witnesses, no less!
And so they locked up the strange “secret property” and headed back to Griffin’s apartment, where he simply deposited her inside. “I’ll be back within an hour,” he said. “Don’t open the door to anyone. No one. Not even Joey if he should happen to come by. Okay?”
She nodded and tried to read his expression. Where was this strain coming from? This uneasy tension? How had they gone from the intimacy of making love, of being as physically close as two people could be, to this?
The moment the door closed behind him, she felt his absence. She sat down on the sofa and clutched a pillow to her chest, trying to give herself some time to think. More like to order herself not to get all worked up over Griffin’s mood. His sudden withdrawal. It wasn’t just his tone that had done unsettling things to her stomach. It was the very air around him, as if it had closed off.
You have better things to do than analyze the state of your relationship, Ivy Sedgwick. Ah. There was that word. Relationship. They didn’t have one. Not in the traditional sense. They were working together. Or more realistically, Griffin was utilizing her in the capture of a murder suspect. He was protecting her from said murder suspect. And one thing had led to another to the point that he was protecting her at very close range.
What are you doing, Ivy? she asked herself. Getting whooped upside the head by a con man was one thing. Setting herself up for heartbreak was another.
She forced herself to get to work, to go over the notes Griffin had shared with her about Cornelia Beckham. In her early forties, Cornelia was thrice-divorced from wealthy men and had no children. That would make her especially alluring to Declan. Pots of money and no children to deal with. Ivy wondered what Declan made himself out to be this time. Perhaps an independently wealthy playboy who’d fallen madly in love with Cornelia—Neely to her friends—the moment he laid eyes on her.
If he were Dean Markington, Cornelia’s fiancé. Sure sounded like he was.
Her research for the party complete, Ivy got up and walked around, her gaze taking in the apartment. Not that there was much to take in. Griffin wasn’t exactly a knickknack kind of guy.
She felt slightly guilty about opening the hall closet, but did so under the pretense of hanging up her coat, which she’d laid over the sofa. Just a closet and gave nothing away. Nothing out of the ordinary in there. A few pairs of sneakers. Dress shoes. Work boots. A wool overcoat and a trench coat. A couple of umbrellas.
As she headed back to the living room, she could just see Griffin confused and grumpy at Target, forced to buy a bath mat and shower curtain, a set of glasses, a microwave. The basic things you needed to set up an apartment. A woman certainly hadn’t helped him shop or decorate. There were no extras in the apartment, except for one painting of a spare tree in wintertime. She wondered if that was how Griffin always felt.
The living room contained a brown leather couch with the requisite beige throw pillows and a beige throw. She smiled at the idea of Griffin at a furniture store, the saleswoman suggesting this or that, and Griffin nodding at whatever didn’t make him cringe. There was a beige sisal rug on the floor and a glass coffee table, no bowl or vase or photos decorating it. Just a lone white coffee mug resting on top of today’s New York Times, New York Post, and New York Daily News.
He was lonely, she knew. He’d led a lonely, solitary life, and she wondered if Declan had something to do with that. His brother was a grifter, a con man, and had been since childhood. And Griffin became a cop. He hadn’t been able to stop Declan from a life of crime, but he’d been drawn to save the people he could.
She stood by the door of his bedroom, which was open. She wouldn’t go in, wouldn’t invade his privacy, despite having slept in there a time or two, but she couldn’t help taking a look. It was the same as the living room. Same colors, same lack of personal touches. But there was a photo leaning against a stack of books on a shelf. It wasn’t in a frame, and Ivy couldn’t see well enough. She would take just a tiny peek, then hurry out.
It was a photograph of Griffin and Declan and their father. It was taken when the Fargo boys were children. Griffin looked no older than twelve or even thirteen, Declan around ten. Declan had actually shown Ivy some family photos—none of which included Griffin. Now, she was surprised he had. Usually con men kept their pasts completely a secret. Because they lived such lies, and told so many, they typically couldn’t remember what was real or not. But Declan had spoken of his childhood in happy enough terms. As far as Ivy had known, the supposed estrangement with his “mean” half brother and his “uncaring” father had occurred during the past few years.
Naturally, Declan was as devilishly cute a boy as he was handsome a man. Smili
ng, of course. Whereas Griffin wasn’t. Their father stood in the middle and had an arm around each of his boys. Mr. Fargo had a sternness in his face, an unkind quality in his dark eyes. But Ivy knew better than to judge a person by a photo.
“I don’t know why I keep that out.”
Ivy whirled around, her cheeks burning. She hadn’t even heard his key in the lock.
“I—”
He came up behind her and picked up the photo from the shelf. “This was taken before Declan really turned, when he still could have gone either way, good or bad. He was eleven.” He shook his head. “That was back when I still thought of him as my brother. When I tried to protect him from himself.” He stared at that picture, then handed it to Ivy and walked out of the room.
Damn.
She glanced at the photograph again, at young Griffin, the way he squinted against the sunshine, the way he looked so directly at the camera. Declan’s impish expression indicated that he might have been ready to stick out his tongue at any moment. And their father, despite the harshness Ivy saw in his expression, had his arms around his boys. Ivy was struck by the realization that the two people in the photograph were lost to him forever.
She placed the photo carefully back where it had been, then joined Griffin in the living room. He was busy laying out items from a small duffle bag onto the sofa. Wigs. Eyeglasses. Something that looked like a press-on goatee.
She wanted to say something, to apologize for invading his space, for entering his bedroom, touching his things, but he picked up one of the wigs from the sofa, slapped it on his head and grimaced, and she laughed and so did he. She supposed he was telling her it was okay. Or, perhaps, that he didn’t want to talk about it.
A little part of Ivy believed he was telling her it was okay for her to be in his bedroom, that she was part of his life now, not just part of his all-consuming investigation.
“If you’ve ever wanted to try life as a blonde,” he said, gesturing at the items on the sofa, “now’s your opportunity.”
Shadowing Ivy Page 14
