Shadowing Ivy

by Janelle Taylor

  “I don’t love Declan, though. That’s the difference.”

  “But you once did,” she said. “So this has to royally suck for you.”

  He smiled ruefully. “It does. But my brother is an adult and made his own bad choices. I can’t feel responsible for them. I can only do what feels right to me.”

  She nodded. “You must be so tired of babysitting me.”

  “Actually, I’m not.”

  She looked directly at him, then reached out her soapy hand again. He took it and held it and would be quite happy to never let it go.

  She stood and rinsed off, and he tried not to look at her exquisite body, bruises and all, but she was standing a foot from him.

  “You are so magnificent, Ivy,” he said.

  She smiled and stepped out of the tub, drying off with the fluffy towel he’d set out for her. She tucked it around herself, then took his hand and led him back into the bedroom.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at him, then wordlessly undid his belt.

  He tilted up her chin with his finger. “Ivy. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” she whispered and then unbuttoned his pants and slid them down his hips along with his Calvin Klein briefs.

  She slid her hand around his rock-hard erection and then bent down to press her lips against his chest, her full breasts cocooning the head of his penis. She trailed her warm, soft mouth down his stomach until she found the hard tip with her tongue. She circled it, her hand moving in rhythm, and he groaned, his head back, his eyes closed, the pleasure so intense it took all his effort not to explode in her mouth.

  He undid the towel and it dropped onto the bed, those creamy, full breasts magnificent before him. He roughly massaged the heavy weight of them, toying with the sweet tips until they formed rigid peaks. She let out a moan, and he slipped his hands down her waist and pressed her very gently back onto the bed, afraid to press any of the areas where she’d been kicked.

  He then got down on his knees and kissed the soft skin of her inner thighs, sliding a finger inside her hot, wet center.

  She writhed and moaned and arched her back, her nails digging into his flesh, and he slid his tongue over her clitoris, the taut bud responding to his every lick. Ivy let out a scream and lifted up her legs so that they were around his waist.

  He slid into her, hard, thrusting, his hands grasping her breasts. He then leaned down and moved her farther onto the bed, bending her legs up onto his chest so that he could reach even farther inside her. She was so tight, so wet, the center of her femininity pulsating around him. She met his thrusts and leaned up to kiss his chest, her tongue finding his nipples and then his mouth. They kissed in rhythm to their thrusts, the steady music of their lovemaking in perfect harmony.

  “Griffin,” she moaned, another little scream escaping her.

  He grabbed her hips and flipped her over so that she was straddling him. He held her hips and rocked her against him, her head thrown back as she moaned so fast and so loud that he almost couldn’t control himself. But there was no way he wanted this to end.

  He slid halfway out of her to tease her while his mouth worked on each breast, and then he grabbed her hips and buttocks and rocked her hard against him, then lifted her up and down on top of his hard erection until she screamed her pleasure.

  And then he flipped her over onto her back and lay down on top of her, pressing her hands over her head with his. He looked at her beautiful face, at those blue eyes, and he kissed her gently, then thrust into her, over and over and over until he let out a harsh groan, unable to control himself any longer.

  He exploded inside her, then collapsed on top of her, his breath slowly returning.

  “You really know how to make a girl forget a bad day,” she whispered into his ear.

  And then he laughed, so hard that he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually laughed like that, so spontaneously.

  “That was amazing,” he whispered into her ear, the scent of bubble bath on her sweet skin. We’re amazing, he wanted to add, but he couldn’t, so he didn’t.

  He just closed his eyes, glad her heart was beating in rhythm with his own, making it seem that all was okay in the world.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ow.

  Even the slightest movement sent a rippling of pain through Ivy’s entire body. Her torso felt like it had been someone’s punching bag. Kicking bag was more like it. And her face was sore from where she’d hit her cheek on the way down the stairs of that basement.

  Griffin had drawn the curtains tight over the blinds to keep out the harsh glare of the morning sun. He is that kind of guy, Ivy thought, her gaze on his chest, rising, falling as he slept.

  Ivy froze, which once again sent a series of “ows” through her body. Griffin was sleeping next to her. Sleeping. Most of the times they’d lain together, whether or not they’d made love, she’d woken up alone. He’d be either making breakfast or taking notes. But he wouldn’t be sleeping. That was way too vulnerable a position for Griffin Fargo.

  Yet here he lay. The realization brought a smile to Ivy’s lips. He trusted her. Finally. And he cared about her. That she could read on his face, in those dark, dark eyes, the moment she’d opened her eyes in the hospital and seen him. When she’d awoken in that uncomfortable cot with its standard issue blankets (hospitals needed to think about down—or at least down alternative—blankets), the first thing she saw was Griffin Fargo’s face. Unmasked. And she’d known he’d gone from doing a job to caring very deeply about her.

  Whether he loved her was another story. That wasn’t so evident on that handsome face of his.

  His chest was incredible. Built. Muscular. And those shoulders. Those arms. Those biceps, triceps. She could go on.

  I love you, she said to his sleeping form.

  At seven a.m. on the dot, Ivy’s cell phone began its nonstop ringing for the morning. Her captain. Her partner, Dan, who still managed to put his foot in his mouth while expressing “his condolences.” She let him know she wasn’t dead. And her coworkers, a steady stream of well wishers. Her sisters were next; Griffin had called both of them the afternoon she’d been brought in. They’d left messages at the hospital, but she’d been too weak to call anyone back.

  And very touching to Ivy was the stream of calls from various people of Applewood who’d heard about her “bravery” and what she’d endured in that dank, dark basement with the “psychopath.” They’d each shared a story from their own experience with Ivy the police woman or Ivy the Applewood resident. Ivy rarely stopped to think about those smaller everyday events of police work in a small community, what made a town feel like home, what made people true neighbors. Mrs. Hattie O’Malley told Ivy how thankful she was for how Ivy stopped at her house every day for three months after her hip surgery, just in case she needed anything. Elizabeth Deckler reminded Ivy of how she’d gotten through those scary first few weeks of single motherhood because Ivy had stopped by every day on her way home from the precinct to check for prowlers, as the house had been broken into recently.

  The calls and stories deeply touched Ivy. She’d been so sure her dream was to become a detective, to be promoted, but the Mrs. O’Malleys and shop owners and curious kids of Applewood, such as the ones who’d basically saved Ivy’s life by being kids and climbing over fences to be able to spy unseen on adults “playing hide-and-seek,” was what she really loved about her job. The give and take of community, of small town. Applewood wasn’t the enemy. Declan McLean and his band of one mentally unbalanced helper was.

  When her cell phone rang for the thirtieth time that morning—and it was only eight o’clock—Ivy turned it off to let her voice mail take messages. Griffin was wide awake, showered and dressed, deliciously, in faded jeans and a navy sweater.

  She suddenly had a vision of him kneeling before her as she sat on the edge of the bed. She closed her eyes as sensations managed to rock her again. Just thinking of Griffin Fargo and his
amazing body, his amazing skill as a lover, had that effect on her.

  Ow. Some of her more acrobatic movements last night had made certain sore parts of her anatomy even more sore. But oh, how she’d forgotten her time in that basement while Griffin had worked his magic. A little extra soreness in her side was well worth it.

  As Griffin made coffee and sliced some of that scrumptious Portuguese bread for their breakfast, Ivy headed into the bathroom, ready to take stock of her bruises. She’d avoided mirrors until now. From the sore spots on her neck, she apparently had a nick-necklace.

  She stood naked before the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. One side of her torso was badly bruised where she’d been kicked repeatedly. As were both of her legs. The left side of her face was boxer material. And her neck wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. Just a few minor puncture wounds.

  She was alive. That was what mattered. And if she stayed in the bathroom, say, for the next few hours, she wouldn’t have to deal with the concept of her mother as a potential murder suspect.

  That was all she was at this point. A potential suspect.

  Ivy still wasn’t sure if her mother could really have murdered anyone. What she was sure of was that a tanned and rested Dana Sedgwick, who’d planned her Bahamian trip for months, was due into LaGuardia airport early this afternoon.

  Griffin had assured her that a fleet of police wouldn’t be waiting to pick her up for questioning the moment she stepped off the plane. Instead, he and Ivy would go to her apartment to talk to her. Not even question her, Griffin had said. Just talk.

  Finally, Griffin knocked on the door. “You okay in there?”

  “Just procrastinating from rational thought,” she responded.

  He chuckled. “Well your bread is getting cold. Stale, I mean.”

  Ivy smiled. She grabbed the soft baby blue bathrobe that Alanna had bought for her as a going-home-from-the-hospital gift, tying it gently around her sore middle. She opened the door, and there stood the man she loved.

  Over breakfast, he filled her in on his afternoon with Joey, then made her laugh as he told her that the mayor of Applewood had promised to honor the “bicycle boys” with special medallions for aiding in the investigation of the disappearance of an Applewood Police Officer. Those boys would never have to worry about being thrown in jail for climbing fences again. They’d be local heroes and would get away with all sorts of flower-stomping from now on.

  After breakfast, Ivy checked her voice mail. Seventeen new messages awaited. While Griffin poured over his secret notebook at the desk in the living room, Ivy headed into the bedroom to return quite a few calls.

  Dana Sedgwick lived in an Upper East Side apartment building in one of the last great rent-stabilized, two-bedroom apartments. She’d had it since Ivy was born.

  “So this is where you grew up?” Griffin asked as they exited their taxi. “Fancy.”

  “I still went to public school,” she said.

  “So you went from New York City to tiny town,” he commented as they entered the building. “Usually it’s the reverse.”

  “Unless you grow up in the city,” she pointed out. “Then you crave a small town. Though in some ways, New York neighborhoods are like small towns—you go to the same deli for your bagel and newspaper every morning, the same dry cleaner, the same drug store, the same coffee shop. There are just more people.”

  “Yeah, like eight million of them,” Griffin said. “And you know what, I’ll bet more than one ‘older woman’ has a long white trench coat.”

  He was being kind. Who, as Gretchen Black had noted, wore a white trench before Memorial Day? If at all. It was just so unpractical. Unpractical was her mother’s middle name, though.

  As they rode up in the elevator to Apartment 12B, Griffin squeezed Ivy’s hand.

  Her mother was expecting them. She wasn’t expecting the ambush that might follow the first round of questions about her vacation, though. Griffin had told Ivy on the way over that approaching this in a straightforward manner was best. Avoid subterfuge, avoid trying to elicit information. Best to just tell her exactly what Gretchen had told them.

  If she weren’t involved in the crime, her mother might even enjoy the drama of being a “potential murder suspect” and milk it for all it was worth with her friends and neighbors. She could just see Dana now. Who knew my stylish designer trench coat would get me into so much trouble!

  Ivy took a deep breath in front of Apartment 12B. Then finally she rang the bell.

  “My baby!” her mother said theatrically as she opened the door. Dana Sedgwick, tanned and elegant in a celadon pants suit with a ruffled cream-colored shirt peeking out of the jacket, wrapped Ivy in a hug. Then when Ivy turned slightly, Dana froze, her gaze on Ivy’s bruised cheek. “What happened?” She reached out a hand to gingerly caress Ivy’s purple and black face.

  Ivy took a deep breath. “Declan’s hench-woman.”

  Dana Sedgwick’s face crumpled and then she burst into tears. She ran over to the sofa and sat down, burying her face in her hands.

  Ivy and Griffin shared a glance. That was an unexpected reaction. “Mom,” Ivy said. “I’m all right. It’s just a bruise. It’ll fade with time.” She wouldn’t mention the worse bruises on her torso and legs.

  “It’s all my fault. All my fault!” Dana said between sobs. She gestured wildly at the box of tissues on the kitchen counter, and Griffin got them for her. “Thank you, Detective Fargo,” she said, sniffling into a Kleenex. “It’s nice to see you again. I think.”

  Again, Ivy and Griffin shared a glance. Was her mother worried about something in particular? Feeling guilty at something she might have perpetuated?

  “Please call me Griffin,” he said.

  After all, I may be investigating you for murder, but I am sleeping with your daughter. Badumpa.

  “Mom, what’s all your fault? What do you mean?” Ivy asked, sitting down beside her and rubbing her shoulder.

  “I’m the one who set up the introduction between you and Declan. I invited him to that party so that you two could meet. And I ruined your entire life in the process!” She broke down into sobs again.

  “Mom, my life isn’t ruined.”

  “Of course, it is. You were mortified in front of a hundred people. Everyone knows you chose a criminal to marry. Your boss probably fired you, right? I mean, how could he trust your judgment?”

  Ivy’s mouth would have dropped open were she not used to her mother by age twenty-seven. This was typical. “Mom, no one thinks any less of me. I mean, everyone knows you’re the one who introduced me to Declan, pushed for us to get together. You were under the impression he was a wonderful person, and wealthy to boot.”

  Griffin shot her a sharp glance, which Ivy took to mean: Do not antagonize the potential murder suspect. Take your jabs and don’t dish any out!

  But she could barely help it.

  Dana’s expression soured. “Well, no one’s talking, are they? No one could possibly fault me for thinking Declan was anything less than a wonderful match for you. He’s the ultimate con artist, isn’t that right?”

  “Right. So everyone just figures we all got taken.”

  Dana nodded. “He has a hench-woman? What does that mean?”

  “It means she attacks women who get in Declan’s way,” Griffin put in. “Her part in Declan’s life of crime is to slip in to various locales and set things up for him. For example, she gets part-time employment in places where it would benefit him to have access to files and data and phone numbers.”

  Dana shook her head. “This is all so upsetting.” She turned to Ivy and took her hands. “Ivy, honey, you know I love you to pieces. I just wanted you to finally have happiness, finally know a man’s love. Know what it’s like to live as husband and wife with an up-and-coming captain of industry. I was so happy as your father’s wife. My marriage to William Sedgwick changed my life, Ivy. Opened the world to me.”

  You were married to him for one week! And
he cheated on you the next morning!

  “Mom, I know. But I wasn’t marrying Declan because he was ‘an up-and-coming captain of industry.’ I’m a police officer, remember? I get my hands dirty. I was marrying Declan because I thought I loved him. That’s why people should get married, Mom.”

  “Mrs. Sedgwick,” Griffin said, sitting down across from her and Ivy. “As you know, there was a murder on the morning that Ivy was to marry Declan. A woman named Jennifer Lexington. Declan was living with her. In fact, they were engaged and planning to marry two weeks later.”

  Dana bolted up. “Yes, yes, of course, I know that. Terrible. Just terrible. It’s why Declan ran away when he saw you, right, Detective? Declan McLean, a murderer. Who would have thought? I remember him as a sweet teenager. His mother and I were old friends. She would come into Manhattan to visit with me, and occasionally I’d go out to that little town where Ivy lives now, and Declan was just a delightful young man.”

  Her mother was nervous. Very nervous.

  “Mom, I need you to answer this honestly. Did you happen to see Declan and Jennifer together in the days before the wedding was to take place?”

  Dana twisted her hands together and walked over to the windows, her expression tight. She turned to face Ivy and Griffin, her eyes flashing with anger. “That piece of shit! I saw him kissing that young woman with the long brown hair. Kissing her, right in the window of a Starbucks. Do you believe his nerve?”

  Ivy’s stomach rolled over. She sat down on the sofa, unable to breathe. Unable to accept what was coming next. The question Griffin would ask. The answer her mother might give.

  “Mrs. Sedgwick, on the morning of March twenty-first, did you go to Jennifer Lexington’s apartment building?”

  Dana pursed her lips. She glanced at Ivy, then turned her attention back to Griffin. “You bet your butt I did.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ivy closed her eyes, waves of nausea turning in her gut. She felt Griffin’s gaze on her, felt his concern for her. She even felt the I’m sorry she’d bet anything he was telepathically sending to her.