Shadowing Ivy Page 13

  “Please call me Alanna,” she said. “Ivy is surrounded by good people. People who really care about her. Could it be that other fiancée?”

  “Perhaps,” he responded, unable to read beyond the straightforward answers, the concerned expression. Either she was as good as Declan at lying with a straight face, or she was true-blue. He had no idea which at this point.

  For Ivy’s sake, Griffin hoped for the latter.

  The next morning, Ivy pulled open the imposing double doors to her father’s attorney’s office in midtown Manhattan, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor. She remembered the first time she’d come, back in December, with Declan beside her for the reading of the will. Now, as she would read the letter her father had left for her, Declan’s brother stood beside her. Bizarre.

  Last night, she’d again slept in Griffin’s arms, fully clothed. Griffin seemed to know that she was numb. He simply laid down with her, put his strong arm across her stomach, and stroked her hair until she finally fell asleep. And when she woke up this morning, there was a full breakfast again and a pot of coffee.

  She could get used to that. To sleeping curled in Griffin Fargo’s arms. To the comfort. To the breakfast.

  He’d understood about the shell. Despite the fact that Ivy had no relationship with her father, despite that there was no good reason why a shell from a beach should mean so much to her. Griffin understood. And he’d let her feel what she’d felt last night, asking her questions about her dad, about their short summer vacations together at the house in Maine. Griffin had suggested they go see her father’s attorney first thing in the morning and get to the bottom of what was in the letter.

  Ivy tried to imagine having to do this alone, be here, in this impersonal office building, her heart hammering, her hands shaking, trying to form sentences with a lawyer she’d met only once before. If she was supposed to feel her father’s presence in the building, she didn’t.

  Thank you for being here, she said silently to Griffin as the elevator carried them upward. They rode in silence, and Ivy appreciated how Griffin always seemed to know when she needed quiet, when she needed to be alone with her thoughts, her fears.

  “He has no idea what he threw away,” she said, surprising herself. She hadn’t meant to actually say the thought aloud.

  He glanced from the row of floor numbers lighting up above the elevator door to Ivy. “I think he does. I think he did love you, Ivy.”

  She bit her lip. “I wasn’t talking about me, Griffin.”

  He glanced at her, clearly confused.

  “I was talking about you,” she said. “How Declan has no idea what he missed out on by being such a crummy person and having no morals or values. I would have loved to have had a brother like you when I was growing up. Not that I think of you like a brother,” she added quickly. And immediately felt like a fool.

  Those dark, dark eyes lit for a moment. “Thank you.”

  She held his gaze, feeling like her heart might burst, and then thankfully the elevator doors pinged open.

  In moments, Ivy and Griffin were ushered into a wood-paneled reception room, then led into another reception room. Ivy tried to stop tapping her foot and crossing her legs and sighing audibly. Griffin, to his credit, let her fidget.

  “Miss Sedgwick.”

  Ivy glanced up, and there stood George Harris, her father’s attorney. “Mr. Harris, this is Detective Griffin Fargo of the New York City Police Department.”

  The attorney shook Griffin’s hand, then said, “I’m sorry you came all this way, Miss Sedgwick. But as you know, the letter and its contents are null and void, as you didn’t open it per the terms of the will.”

  “I understand that,” Ivy said. “But I would like to read the letter. I’d like to know what it said.”

  What was in that letter? Would it tell her why her father had been against the marriage? Or would it tell her that she was a disgraceful daughter for not heeding her powerful father’s warning?

  “Don’t you have the letter?” Mr. Harris asked over the rim of his glasses.

  “I’m afraid it was stolen,” Ivy said. “By my former fiancé.”

  The attorney’s expression remained neutral. “Ah. I understand completely. Please follow me.”

  They were led to a very small room with two chairs and a desk. He left briefly, returning with an envelope. “This contains a copy of the original that you received.” He nodded, then left Ivy and Griffin alone.

  Ivy turned it over, closed her eyes, and then said, “Here goes.”

  Dear Ivy,

  Declan McLean is not worthy of you. I cannot reveal why. If you marry him, however, I bequeath you nothing upon my death.

  All best, your father, William Sedgwick

  All best? Ivy crumpled the letter and threw it on the floor.

  Griffin picked it up and read it. “You okay?”

  “All best,” Ivy repeated. “What kind of closing is that?”

  There came a knock at the door, and the attorney entered. “Miss Sedgwick, in the event that you did not marry Mr. McLean, your father instructed me to leave you another envelope, separate from the one you picked up on your wedding day.” He handed her an envelope, then left the office again.

  Ivy stared at Griffin. What was in this one? She ripped it open.

  Dear Ivy,

  In the event that you do not marry Declan McLean, I bequeath to you my secret property in Manhattan. You may not like it in spirit, as it is where I had my dalliances, but it is where I felt the most love, however brief. I was not one for monogamy and had many affairs, but I loved each woman that I spent time with, however briefly.

  Your father, William Sedgwick

  A secret property? Ivy realized there was something else in the envelope. She slid it out. It was a key. Taped to the key was a tiny piece of paper with an address in lower Manhattan.

  She handed the letter to Griffin. “This is the first I’ve heard of a secret property.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if your father intended it as a safehouse for you, Ivy. Somewhere that no one, except for his attorney, knew about.”

  “And his girlfriends,” Ivy pointed out.

  “Let’s go visit this secret apartment,” Griffin said.

  Ivy understood why the apartment was secret. It was practically a bunker. The building itself was a brownstone with an elegant storefront, a jewelry shop. The key opened the door to the right of the jewelry shop, and then two more steel doors. Down a flight of stairs was yet another steel door.

  “He was either expecting to survive World War Three or a few jealous husbands,” she said as she unlocked the door at the bottom of the stairs.

  There, all similarities to a bunker ended. They stepped into utter luxury. It was small, with just one bedroom, and the two tiny windows with a view of people’s feet barely let in light, but the apartment was like an opulent harem.

  The living room held an overstuffed cream-colored sofa with throw pillows and a love seat. A thick, expensive-looking wool rug in soothing shades covered most of the floor. On the wall across from the sofa was a fifty- or sixty-inch flat-screen television. A beautiful antique desk held a computer. The walls were painted a pale salmon, one of Ivy’s favorite colors, and there were beautiful paintings and sculptures.

  The kitchen was fully stocked. Ivy opened the refrigerator, which was full of fresh food. The carton of milk wouldn’t expire for a week. The attorney had explained that William’s private instructions had left provisions for a weekly housekeeper starting on the day Ivy was to be married.

  “And if I had married Declan?” she’d asked Mr. Harris.

  “The apartment would have gone to someone else,” was all the attorney would say.

  “The Internet connection works,” Griffin called from the living room. “You know, this is an ideal place for us to do our ‘laying low.’ As long as we have a computer with Internet access, we can do our research.”

  Ivy walked back into the living room and sat
down on the sofa, which was plush and inviting. “It’s so sickening to think of Declan romancing some unsuspecting woman, making her believe in something that’s a huge and terrible lie. How can he not care what he does to people? To women with whom he has such intimate relationships?”

  She felt her cheeks burning. She didn’t exactly want to call attention to the fact that she had had many an intimate moment with Declan. She wondered if it bothered Griffin.

  If it did, his expression didn’t show it. “Preying on wealthy women is the only way he can survive—the only way he wants to survive, I should say. And we know he has to be laying low himself. So we’ll find him by finding her. Between the list you already made while at the precinct and others we’ll find, we’ll find him.”

  Ivy nodded. “How many wealthy single women do you think there are in New York City? I’d say we have quite a few to weed through.” She let out a deep breath. “Good thing we have a stocked fridge.”

  “You ready to get to work? Or do you need some time to yourself?”

  “I’m ready to work,” she said, her appreciation for him and his thoughtfulness growing by the nanosecond.

  Two hours later, they had quite a list of names. They’d started with the Lexingtons, the Froziers, and the Sedgwicks, culling guest lists from recent fundraisers and parties, then researching who from that list was single. Griffin figured that in Declan’s desperation to latch on to someone quickly, he would choose a woman whom he’d met before, someone who’d potentially recognize him from a society party yet not be able to place him. He would change his hair color, of course. And colored contacts would take care of his baby blues. Glasses, a certain cut of clothes. And Declan McLean could become whomever he wanted. And whom he wanted to be was the husband of several rich women.

  This time, Declan very likely didn’t have the luxury of waiting for someone’s rich father to die.

  “There are over twenty names on our list,” Ivy said, rolling her neck to get out the kinks of the past two hours. “Who should we start with? And how exactly are we supposed to find out if any of them are involved with Declan—especially when we don’t know what name he’s using.”

  “Easy,” Griffin said, tapping his pen against the thick sheaf of papers he’d printed out. “Old detective trick. We call, say we’re reporters doing a story on how the rich and famous wed these days. Those who are engaged or planning to marry will yap away with details. And we’ll ask pointed questions. We’ll be able to cross off most with one phone call. And any who say they’re engaged or might become engaged, we’ll investigate further. Perhaps one will even announce her fiancé’s name. Someone with the initials DM.”

  Ivy let out a deep breath. “And then we let her lead us to him.”

  “We let her lead him to me, Ivy. I don’t need to remind you how dangerous he is.”

  He was right about that. She nodded, then stood up and stretched. “I could use a break. How about I make you lunch?”

  “Can you cook?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eye.

  “Not as well as you, but I can make a great tuna fish sandwich. And I saw some Portuguese bread in the breadbox.”

  “Sounds delicious,” he said, poring back over his notes.

  Ivy headed into the kitchen, aware that she’d started humming. Humming. She felt oddly comfortable in this strange apartment. Because I feel safe, she realized. And because Griffin is here. Her father hadn’t cut her out of his will after all. Had he left her a poem or another shell, anything whose value would be strictly sentimental, she would have been just as pleased. She wasn’t quite sure why it mattered so much to be remembered, to be included by William Sedgwick. But it did matter to her. It made her feel as though he was trying to do from the grave what he couldn’t do in life. Share something of himself. Even if it was the place where he’d romanced the many women in his life.

  She was also able to hum a happy tune because she and Griffin had a plan. It allowed Ivy to feel a sense of control.

  She set about making lunch, adding fresh lettuce and cucumber and tomatoes to the sandwiches. Whoever did the shopping knew their produce.

  She set down their plates at the small dining room table that was set off from the living room. A tiny blue glass vase held daisies, Ivy’s favorite flowers. She wondered if that was coincidence. She doubted it.

  “I’m trying not to imagine William Sedgwick and his lover of the day here,” she said, placing a pitcher of iced tea on the table. “Sitting at this very table eating a sandwich together.”

  Griffin sat down. “I know something about fathers and their affairs. It’s pretty sickening. I just can’t even imagine loving someone enough to marry them and then cheating on them.”

  Ivy smiled. “Me, too. Your brother, however, stands for the other side.”

  “I wouldn’t think Declan would have the energy to keep all those balls in the air,” Griffin said. “Remembering who he said what to, remembering where he was supposed to spend the night. Three fiancées? Three families to meet. Three sets of friends.”

  She nodded. “Does seem almost impossible. But he never gave me any reason to doubt him. Maybe because I didn’t see him all that much. Maybe because I didn’t want to question anything.”

  “You said before that Declan was your first big love.”

  Again Ivy’s cheeks flamed. “Maybe if I’d had more experience, I would have realized something was strange about the way he conducted our relationship.”

  “Two other women didn’t seem to,” he pointed out.

  That was true. But then again, maybe they had. Maybe they fought often about where Declan was when he wasn’t with them. But Ivy supposed Jennifer Lexington believed that her resident fiancé was sleeping on a cot at the hospital after a grueling shift. And Laura believed similar lies. Declan was clearly very good at keeping his lies believable.

  Griffin took a huge bite of his sandwich. “This is delicious. You can cook.”

  “Well, I can mix,” she said. She put her sandwich down, suddenly not hungry. “God, you must think I’m a moron.”

  “Ivy, that’s the last thing I think. You fell in love. Nothing wrong with that. And I remember how charismatic Declan was, even as a teenager. He stole a girlfriend or two of mine.”

  An important girlfriend? she wondered. A serious girlfriend? “Do you hate him?” she asked, holding his gaze.

  “I hate what he does to people. What he might have done to Jennifer Lexington. I hate what he did to you.”

  She nodded. “Me, too.”

  He slid his hand across the table and she put hers into it. She had no idea what would happen between them once this case was solved—if it were solved—but she knew one thing. Griffin was her friend.

  And she loved him.

  She sat up straight and slipped her hand from his, the truth of what she’d just realized almost as frightening as feeling it in the first place.

  I am in love with you, she thought, watching him watch her. She hoped one of his many talents wasn’t the ability to read minds.

  Obviously not, because he continued to eat his sandwich, every last bite, then had some of the chocolate pie she’d dished up. And then he returned his attention to his notes.

  “I’m going to take a closer look around this place,” she told him.

  He nodded and smiled and she headed down the hallway, which led to the bedroom. It was a good size and beautifully decorated. It was a woman’s room, she realized. The walls were a soft rose, and the dark wood four-poster bed, etched with rosebuds, was draped with white muslin and covered in a downy quilt and many soft pillows. Photographs of Ivy as a child, as a teenager, as a young woman adorned the bureau. Ivy wondered if they had been her father’s, or if he’d simply had them placed here after his death. It was a nice touch, in any case.

  Griffin appeared in the doorway. “Nice room. I seriously doubt it looked this way when your father used this place.”

  “Why would he go to all that trouble to redecorate for me when he
didn’t even know if I’d marry Declan or not?” she asked.

  “Maybe he had faith.”

  “He shouldn’t have; I was going to marry Declan. If it wasn’t for you—”

  “Still, you didn’t. You were stopped in the nick of time. The universe is looking out for you.”

  She smiled. “I sure hope so.” She moved over to the photographs. “Want to see a picture of me as a gawky fourteen-year-old?”

  He laughed and picked up the photograph, tracing her teenaged face with his finger. “You were as beautiful then as you are now.”

  “Oh, thanks a lot,” she said with a laugh.

  “I mean it, Ivy. I think you’re absolutely beautiful.”

  She looked in his eyes; she could tell he was serious. He put the photograph down and lifted her chin with his finger, then kissed her. Gently. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he pulled her close, so close she could feel the strain of his erection against her thigh.

  And then he kissed her over to the bed, where he lay her down and trailed his lips up her neck, then down.

  “Make love to me,” she whispered.

  In answer, Griffin unbuttoned her shirt, slowly, seeming to savor the moment when he would see her cleavage and the mounds of her breasts over her pale yellow lacy bra. He stared at her and a groan escaped his lips.

  He took off her shirt and then her bra, bringing the scrap of lace to his face, inhaling her perfume. He leaned over her, caressing her breasts, teasing the taut nipples with his tongue until she arched her back and moaned. She grabbed a fistful of his hair as his tongue flicked and teased over the swollen peaks.

  Slowly, he took off her pants and groaned again at the sight of her matching lacy yellow underwear. And then he took off his own pants and practically threw off his shirt. He slid a finger inside her panties and she almost let out a scream.