by Avery Flynn
She shrugged. “There are others.”
Sylvie did some quick mental accounting. Her family knew. So did Drea. A few random folks, like her CPA, were clued in, but that was it. None of them had any reason to rat her out. Other than Ivy.
“Yes, but no one else would have—”
“Betrayed you?” Ivy uttered a flat laugh, empty of pretense and joy. “Yeah, that does sound like me. We junkies, we’re known for being lousy friends with fast lips and slow minds. We don’t deserve any of the goodies in life.”
Some little ember of their friendship sparked at the resignation and bitterness in Ivy’s voice. Just as Tony had stuck up for Sylvie as they walked The Darling House’s gauntlet, she’d spent years defending Ivy to the snide bunch of bitches who would never let Ivy forget her fall from fashion’s pinnacle.
“Don’t talk about yourself like that. You’ve been clean for years.”
Ivy flipped a red plastic circle onto the table with a snort. “Ninety days.”
The air whooshed out of Sylvie’s lungs. Pippa Worthington could have ambled over on her four-inch heels and sat her bony butt down in Sylvie’s lap and she wouldn’t have noticed.
Sure, addicts backslid. It happened all the time, but Ivy had been so determined not to, Sylvie had never considered it a possibility. Dates and times flashed in her mind. Missed phone calls. Unreturned text messages. Late nights out with new friends—and some very old ones. Tired blue eyes that begged for what her mouth would never ask for. And Sylvie had been too busy to put it all together. Everything had been so crazy six months ago with High-Heeled Wonder hitting it big that she’d missed all the signs. Some friend.
“God. I should have noticed. I should—”
Another roll of Ivy’s proud shoulders. “I’m well versed at hiding things. Remember that accident I told you about involving my mom?”
Sylvie nodded, recalling how shaken Ivy had been a year ago after her mom accidentally hit a two-year-old while backing out of her driveway.
“Well, what I didn’t tell you was that before the accident, my mom had been sucking down martinis per usual. I figured I was just going to end up like her anyway, so I might as well have a little fun doing it. That’s how I ended up coming out of retirement to walk in Anders Bloom’s last show high as a kite and looking like some kind of slutted-up Miss Piggy. When I finally realized what I was doing, I couldn’t face myself in the mirror, let alone you and Drea. That left all of my old friends, like Anders, who always had plenty of cocaine.”
“I’m sorry.” Reaching across the table, Sylvie curled her fingers around Ivy’s ice-cold hands. “We should have helped you.”
“That’s the thing. I had to help myself.” Ivy straightened her shoulders. “But you’re right about one thing. I did sell you out.”
Chapter Seven
“Fashion goes ’round in circles.”
—Siobhan Fahey
“Out of everyone Ivy said she told, I’d put Anders Bloom at the top of the list.” With a sigh, Sylvie turned the key in her apartment door until it clicked. “However much he hates my guts right now, I really don’t see him being nuts enough to try to run me over. Figuratively, yes, but not literally.”
The door swung inward. She took three steps into her apartment, Tony on her heels, then her internal warning bells clanged.
Anya had a cast-iron stomach, but Sylvie, at the barest hint of trouble, went sprinting for the antacids. The ice dancing down her spine told her they’d bypassed subtle signs of chaos and gone straight into all-caps screaming about it.
“Something’s wrong,” she murmured.
Tony’s eyes narrowed. Without a word, he pushed her behind him into the hallway.
Contorting her body so she could see around his solid frame, she peeked inside the apartment. Everything looked right. The ever-present leaning tower of magazines stood proudly on the side table. Her desk, as usual, looked as though a paper tornado had touched down. Even the mountain of shoes by her front door remained intact.
And yet, she couldn’t shake the little itch of…something…curdling her stomach’s contents.
Tony leaned in close to whisper, “Stay here. I’m gonna take a look around.”
“It’s probably nothing.” Her belly flipped in disagreement.
“You trusted your instincts at the restaurant with Ivy. It was the right call.” His fingers squeezed hers. “Always listen to your gut.”
With a catlike stealth unexpected in a man his size, he slipped inside and disappeared around the corner.
Pressed up against the smooth wall, Sylvie traced an imaginary triangle with her worried gaze—from the end of the hallway with the fake potted plant to the other end of the hallway with a window overlooking the street to the open door directly in front of her. Then around again. And again. As the lion in her belly resumed gnawing on her stomach lining. For her part, she tried to ignore the dampness at the back of her neck by chewing her bottom lip until a metallic tang burst onto her tongue.
Pull it together, girly. It’s probably nothing.
Yay for logic. Except the attempt to pep herself up did nothing for the dark little part of her brain that had never quite let go of her early life’s constant upheaval. Surrendering to base survival instincts, she dug her phone out of her ostrich-skin tote and punched in 911. Her thumb hovered over the call button, ready to summon help.
She was humming the second verse of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen when Tony’s broad shoulders filled the doorway. Even with the obnoxious rent she paid, her apartment was the size of a shoebox, so his sweep hadn’t taken long.
“It seems pretty much the same as it did before we left, but you’d better take a look to be sure.”
She followed him in, skirting around the foyer table heavy with unopened mail. Quiet as models on the runway, they went from the living room to the kitchen, circled back to the bathroom, and finished their trek in her bedroom with its unmade bed and rumpled purple leopard-print pajamas on the floor.
Nothing seemed out of place. And yet—
Her laptop.
An icy rush slid down her body from her forehead to her kitten heels, leaving a shivering panic in its wake. She sprinted to the kitchen. The table sat empty, its wood surface gleaming.
Fuck.
The green walls mocked her with their satin-finished cheer. Afraid her Jell-O thighs were about to dissolve, she sank down onto the hard chair. Her head hit the tabletop with a thunk.
She gave a strangled moan. “My laptop. It’s gone.”
Tony leaned against the doorframe, his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets. “They left the big-screen, the jewelry, the artwork, but took your laptop?”
“As far as I can tell.”
It didn’t make sense—not if this was a normal break-in. She had a Harry Winston diamond pendant necklace in a glass case on her dresser. Antique typewriters that went for several hundred dollars a pop dotted the apartment. Two fur coats, gifts upon her graduation from high school and college, hung in her walk-in closet. The burglars had left all of that, but had taken the three-year-old laptop with a scratch across the cover.
“What’s on the laptop?”
Yeah. Not a normal break-in.
Bitterness ate away at the back of her throat. “All my notes. Scanned documents. Passwords for my blog. Basically my entire life.”
“Everything Bloom needs to expose you to the world. Or for Pippa to smoke out your mole at Chantal.”
“Bingo.”
Her gaze narrowed on the bulldog mug sitting next to the coffee machine. She’d never backed down from a fight when she’d lived on the other side of the harbor, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to start now that she’d managed to make something of her life.
The rat bastards were about to learn that they’d fucked with the wrong girl.
“Do you have a backup?” Tony asked.
A tiny green light blinked across the room. The white, square, wireless hard drive sat on the highest of her
kitchen bookshelves, tucked in among the cookbooks and more fashion magazines.
“Yeah, but it’s not synced. I haven’t backed up in a week. I meant to but…it hasn’t been a top priority.”
Instead, she’d been feeling sorry for herself, reliving every excruciating moment of humiliation at Anya’s wedding, worrying about her stalker succeeding next time he tried to run her over, and agonizing, horny and frustrated, over Tony’s steadfast refusal to take their attraction further than a steadfast “Not gonna happen.”
“Well, we better call it in.” Tony pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and swiped a finger across the screen.
“The police?”
“Yeah.”
“What will they be able to do?”
“We’ll find out when they get here.”
The answer to her question, Sylvie discovered several hours later, was diddly squat.
“You know, Miss Bissette, some people might interpret these events as you walking into the path of traffic, then having the bad luck to own one of the thousands of apartments burglarized in Harbor City each year. These things could be totally unrelated to your hate mail.” The doughy cop in a too-tight uniform held up his fleshy hand. “I’m not saying I’m that person but…”
“So there’s nothing you can do?” Sylvie already knew the answer but had to ask the question anyway.
He shrugged his shoulders and flipped his notebook closed. It shut with a smacking sound that boomed loud and as final as a judge’s gavel at a ruling. He stared at her front door before glancing across the room to the window that opened onto the fire escape. His jaw squared.
“Look, I’m passing this up the chain, but I’ll be honest with you. No one got killed. No one’s bloody. And even with who your dads are, you’re not high profile enough to make this B and E move up the ladder. This case is going to land at the bottom of someone’s inbox and probably never see the light of day again.” The officer nodded toward her door. “Those locks look tough, but they didn’t work. And that window there is practically an open invitation. That you made it this long without a break-in is a miracle.”
Leaving Tony standing by the couch, she walked the officer to the door with heavy steps. This outcome wasn’t unexpected, but still, a little official law enforcement help would have been nice.
The officer paused halfway out the door and turned. “Beef up your security and we’ll both sleep easier tonight.”
Goose bumps popped to attention on her arms at his pronouncement. Great. She had a better chance of becoming fluent in Chinese in one easy lesson than getting any shut-eye tonight.
“She won’t be sleeping here,” Tony said. “She’s coming with me.”
Sylvie whipped around. “This is my home.”
He arched an eyebrow at her, looking unimpressed. “Exactly my point.”
“Well then, I leave it to you two to work out.” The officer ambled down the hall, bypassing the stairs for the elevator.
Giving herself a few moments to gather her mental armor, Sylvie shut the door and methodically flipped the dead bolts. The idea of offering her stalker even one victory by running scared made her twitch. If growing up in foster care had taught her anything, it was that even a single sign of weakness was one too many. By the time she turned eight she’d known better than to let her real feelings show, let alone vulnerability. Not surprisingly, her Tums addiction had been well established by the time Henry and Anton adopted her at twelve.
She turned and kept her back pressed against the wood door. The smart move was obvious: Find new digs until she and Tony got to the bottom of this mess. The simplicity of it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Giving in twisted her insides like a clown with a balloon. If Anya were here, she’d be rolling her eyes at Sylvie’s stubborn attitude. Anton would be apoplectic. Her ex, Daniel, would be ranting.
Whatever.
She glanced at Tony. Tension tightened the line of his shoulders. The snap of popping knuckles broke the silence as he fidgeted with his hands. But in his heavily fringed eyes, she saw only understanding.
God. She must be easier to read than a Dr. Seuss book.
Or…did he just get her?
Chapter Eight
“Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.”
—Jean Cocteau
Pulling into his driveway on the leafy suburban street where he’d grown up, Tony glanced around for the relatives who always seemed to show up the moment he put his car in park. For once the coast was clear.
“Are you sure about this?”
“You bet. Nowhere safer in the world.” Tony got out of the Charger.
A screen door slammed open and a three-foot-high blur burst out of the single-story ranch house. Before Tony could warn Sylvie of the coming onslaught, or even close his car door, a face sticky with peanut butter pressed hard into his leg and a chubby five-year-old’s arms locked around his knees.
“Kermit is coming.” Wild brown eyes stared up at him. “Save me, Uncle Tony!”
Tony hooked his hands under his nephew Joey’s armpits and swung him high onto his shoulders. The boy’s hands clapped across his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Of course, he didn’t need sight to identify his next attacker. The cold, wet nose buried in his crotch announced Kermit’s arrival as effectively as a business card, though the huge shaggy paw crushing Tony’s right foot was doing a fine job of that.
“Ryder, call off your beast,” Tony hollered, knowing full well that his sister would be near. She was the only other human being Kermit loved more than Joey.
A sharp whistle split the air. The pressure disappeared from Tony’s foot and he wiggled his toes experimentally, making sure none were broken. They hurt, but at least they moved.
Joey removed his hands from his face, leaving a sticky trail behind, and proceeded to suck the leftover peanut butter from his fingers.
“I warned Joey to stop sneaking peanut butter. It’s Kermit’s crack.” Ryder stood on the porch with her hands on her hips and a smirk curling one side of her mouth. The one-hundred-and-fifty-pound Newfoundland sat by her side, his fat tongue lolling out of his mouth as he gazed adoringly up at her.
“Alessandra must have been desperate to leave you in charge. What happened?”
“Very funny.” She made a face at him. “Parent-teacher conference for the Tasmanian Devil, here.” Suddenly, she caught sight of Sylvie. “Is that who I think it is?”
Tony turned to Sylvie. Her eyes had gone wide and she was plucking at her purse strap. “Sylvie Bissette, meet my sister, Allegra Falcon.”
“Really, do you still have to do that?” His sister strode over and punched him in the shoulder. Hard. “Call me Ryder, everyone does.”
“Except mom,” he said.
“Anthony, Allegra, and Alessandra. I’m sensing a pattern.” Sylvie stuck out her hand.
“Yes, our mother, Annabelle—who married Anthony senior—loves the letter A.” Ryder laughed. “God help us.”
Sylvie shook hands with his sister. Their difference struck him. Where Ryder was tall, lithe, and dressed in head-to-toe black, Sylvie stood at least half a foot shorter and wore a bright pink lace skirt that hugged her mind-boggling ass, and a cream sweater that showed off even more curves, tempting him for all the wrong reasons. And just now he was having a hard time remembering the right reasons not to be.
He doubted any of Sylvie’s friends—or enemies—had ever crossed the suspension bridge and set foot in Waterberg. Over here, four-wheel-drive trucks and minivans sat parked in the driveways. Tire swings swayed in the breeze. Fences needed to be repainted, garden flags declared “Welcome Spring!” in browning gardens, and cracks traveled up the length of the sidewalks. His neighborhood couldn’t be any further from Harbor City’s rich enclaves of glass and steel than if it had been on the moon.
Kermit padded over to Sylvie, his nose twitching. As he was about to go in for his favorite greeting, she scratched behind one of the Newfie’s furry ears and squatted down
to his level. “Aren’t you just the softest thing ever?”
Instantly in love, Kermit leaned into her hand and nudged closer until he was near enough to give her a big doggie kiss. She giggled, and the breeze scattered strands of her honey-brown hair, which glimmered in the afternoon light. She buried her face in the dog’s fluffy neck and he sighed in contentment.
Tony’s body hardened. What he wouldn’t give—
Shit, he was jealous of a slobbering, overgrown dog.
Rich, pampered Sylvie Bissette should have looked out of place on the block where he’d grown up and bought a small house of his own. But she didn’t. She looked…perfect.
He didn’t have to pretend to be her boyfriend out here in the suburbs, way beyond Harbor City’s fashion district, but try as he might, he couldn’t shake the role.
Stop mentally moving her into your bedroom and get your head in the game, Falcon. Too much is riding on this for you to fuck it all up. Again.
Ryder nodded toward his Cape Cod house next door. “You working or can I sweet talk you into taking the peanut butter bandit home with you?”
“No way. The last time that happened he built skyscrapers with my coffee mugs and proceeded to play Godzilla.”
“I had to ask.” Ryder stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “So how goes the case?”
“We’re moving base to my place. I’ll update you and the rest of the team after I get Sylvie settled.”
He opened the Charger’s trunk and grabbed Sylvie’s orange leather overnight bag and one of his black duffel bags. The other go-bag stayed in its spot, hiding the latch to the trunk’s false bottom. He slammed the trunk closed and the dog took off running toward Joey on the front lawn.
Ryder nodded toward their nephew. “You know he’s going to spill everything about you having a guest to Alessandra. Who will tell mom. Who will be scandalized and, at the same time, oh, so hopeful that her boy has finally found someone good enough to bring home to Mama.”
Tony glanced at Joey, who was lying in the middle of the front yard eating his boogers while Kermit licked away the last vestiges of peanut butter from the boy’s cheeks. Ryder was right. His nephew would rat him out in a heartbeat, and there was nothing he could do about it.
