High-heeled Wonder (A Killer Style Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (12 page)

She ground down onto him, rubbing against him, twisting against him. The nerves in his lower back started to buzz, to pulse. He wouldn’t last much longer. He slid one hand around to the front and slipped it between their joined bodies. She rewarded his first stroke against her clit with a cross between a sigh and a plea for mercy, then increased her pace. Her nails dug into his shoulders and she threw her head back, her long hair swinging wild.

She exploded around him, her muscles clenching around his cock. It was all he needed to push him over the edge, into oblivion.

Slowly, his breath returned to normal, but his heart continued to pound a fast beat in his chest. He didn’t want to lose her. He couldn’t.

Wrapping his arms tighter around her narrow shoulders, he drew her against him. Her eyelashes fluttered against his chest. She was everything he’d ever needed. Smart. Fun. Ambitious. Loyal. Beautiful. Dangerous as hell. His father had been right. He’d lost the war before he’d even realized he was fighting one.

Floating on a haze of satisfied calm, he nuzzled her hair. “God, I wish I’d known you before.” Drunk on love and lust, the ill-fated words had slipped out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying.

“Before what?” She whispered the question against his fast-beating heart.

He hesitated. Damocles’s sword wavered over his head. To lie or confess? Damn his weak heart, he wanted to evade rather than risk her well-deserved wrath. But when it came down to it, he wasn’t that man. He ached to be honest with her.

Girding himself for the hell that would surely follow, he took a deep breath. “Before…before I sent that first e-mail to the High-Heeled Wonder.”

She startled. “Wait. What?” She stared at him, then suddenly scrambled backward, not stopping until her butt hit the couch’s arm. “
You?
”

“Sylv—”

“All the threats? The demands to shut down my site? That was you?” Sylvie blanched. “And the picture of the
rat
?” She practically screeched out the words.

“I’d never send you a picture of a dead rat.”

She sprang to her feet, grabbed her robe off the floor, and shoved her arms into the sleeves. “But the others?”

He stifled the urge to grab her and make her listen. “No. Not all of them.”

She nailed him with a look of disgust that pierced him right through the kidneys. “Tell me the truth.
Why?
Who
are
you, that you would do such a thing?” Her fingers trembled as she gathered the cotton material, clutching it at her throat.

“I’m the man who was so desperate to find his partner’s killer that he found a way to get as close as possible to the men he thought were the murderers.” Regret ate at him. He had to make her understand, to forgive him. “I needed my prime suspects—your dads—to trust me enough to let me into their world. So they’d slip up and I could nail them.”

He reached out to touch her hand and she recoiled. It hit him like a punch in the stomach. She was shutting him out, just as he’d feared. But he couldn’t give up. Not while there was still a sliver of hope. He pushed on, desperation making the story fly out of his mouth.

“Six months ago, I put a plan into action to do just that. I finagled my way onto guest lists at events I knew your dads would be attending. It wasn’t hard. A third of the hostesses in this town are my clients. At the events, I’d run into your dads, hand them my card, and give them the Maltese Security pitch. I made sure I’d be the first person they thought of if they ever needed a security expert.” Bile rose high in his throat. “Then I made sure they had a good reason to call me.”

So obsessed with finding justice, he hadn’t thought about how his deceitful actions had perverted his high-minded intentions. At the time, Sylvie hadn’t been a real person to him. Just a convenient means to an end.

“I sent three e-mails months ago, warning that I was watching you, and that you needed to shut down your site. I figured you’d run to your dads right away. Obviously, I didn’t know you then.” He offered up a slight, hopeful smile. It shriveled under Sylvie’s harsh glare. “When the e-mails didn’t get the desired result, I decided I needed to try another tack. I hadn’t actually come up with a suitable option yet when your dads called me about the worsening threats being made against you.”

While nerves twitched in agony across his skin, Sylvie had stopped responding to his words. Her jaw was locked shut and she was staring at a spot above his left shoulder. Something hot and painful ripped through his lungs, shredding them with the efficiency of a cop-killer bullet at point-blank range.

He jumped to his feet, but stumbled forward and his legs tangled in the jeans around his ankles. Catching himself before he fell at her feet, he fumbled for the right words. “Sylvie, I— I—”

“Am a sorry sack of shit?” she completed for him. The usual warmth in her voice had frozen as she finished his sentence. “Get. Out.”

Getting his knee mangled had been a hangnail compared to this. “Please. I love you.”

She flinched as if he’d punched her. Then, with infinite care, she turned to face him. And he knew then, it was too late. He’d lost her.

“I don’t give a fuck.” Pain and regret rode on her ragged tone. “Get out of my apartment. Get out of my life. And never come back.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Dress shabbily and they remember the dress; dress impeccably and they remember the woman.”

—Coco Chanel

The idea of standing in line at the department of motor vehicles for six hours while buck naked and holding a jellyfish held more appeal for Sylvie than attending tonight’s annual Fashion Fights Hunger fund-raising dinner at the Harbor City Museum of Modern Art.

“You could stay home.” Anya had cut short her honeymoon after Sylvie’s tearful phone call after the ordeal with Anders and Tony yesterday, and shown up at her front door after catching the first flight out of Tahiti. Her little sister had come armed with three flavors of ice cream, brand-new nail polish, and a mountain of fashion magazines. She’d promised that was everything a girl needed to revive her spirits after facing down a homicidal maniac and a total asshole of a fake boyfriend.

Drea had shown up twenty minutes later, after flying cross country from L.A. Good friends call. Great friends catch the red-eye.

Cuddling up for an Alfred Hitchock marathon on Netflix did sound pretty damn good. Maybe she’d follow it up by watching every season of
Downton Abbey
for the fifth time? It was tempting as hell, but she couldn’t do it. “Haven’t I hidden away long enough? Anyway, they’re honoring our fathers for their charitable work. How can I miss that?”

“But they already gave you a pass.” Anya stroked Sylvie’s knotted hair.

“Anyway, you know how these fashion shindigs are,” Drea said. “It’ll be like being under a microscope.” She finished off the pint of monster cookie ice cream with a flourish and tossed the container into the trash.

“Yeah.” Sylvie sighed. “Everyone and their toy schnauzer will want every last detail about Anders.”

She wouldn’t—couldn’t—spend the evening reliving the gory details of yesterday’s shooting over canapés and champagne. Fear licked down the back of her neck at the memory of Anders’s viselike grip around her waist before Tony’s single shot took him down. Every car noise on the street sent her straight to the ceiling. And that was only the half of it.

After Anya and Drea had arrived, Sylvie had poured out everything—including Tony’s betrayal. That he’d been lying to her the entire time she’d known him. Hell, even
before
she’d known him, the bastard had been lying to her, posing as an Internet troll. After she’d cried a swimming pool’s worth of tears, an empty numbness had filled her. The hurt and anger would hit later, no doubt.

“Everyone’ll want to know all about you being the High-Heeled Wonder, too,” Drea said.

Sylvie’s cheeks flushed. Okay, admittedly, Tony wasn’t the only one who had veered off the honesty trail.

She snorted. “And to think I was running for cover when it was just gossip about catching Daniel going down on the waiter.”

“The good old days.” Anya snuggled closer to her on the bed, their shoulders touching. “So you’re going to the fund-raiser?”

“I need to reclaim my life, get it back again. I’ve had enough of crazy stalkers, lousy men, and being afraid of what others will think about me.”

Drea settled in on her other side, making a chicks-stick-together sandwich with Sylvie in the middle. “Are you sure about Tony—”

Her heart lurched. “Please don’t remind me what an idiot I am when it comes to that man. I’m thinking of growing bangs to cover up the Assholes Wanted sign that must be tattooed on my forehead.”

Drea elbowed her in the ribs. “No way, you have the wrong face shape for bangs. Plus, what would I do every dateless Saturday night if I couldn’t say, ‘At least I’m not a douche magnet like Sylvie’?”

“Hey!” She laughed, despite the sting. “You’re the one who told me I needed to get laid.”

“Next time I’ll tell you to load up on batteries, instead.”

“Don’t worry, I already bought stock.” She covered her head with a pillow and groaned. “Tell me again why I can’t wear yoga pants to this thing?”

“Because, sister dear, you need high-end armor.” Anya rolled off the bed and yanked her into a sitting position. “Come on, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Drea jumped up. “Yes! Great idea.”

Sylvie shuffled behind her sister and best friend to the large, walk-in closet like a woman on her way to the gallows. All the clothes hung neatly grouped by color. She went immediately to the dark section. Drea and Anya, of course, went to the other end.

“We have a winner.” Anya held up a burgundy ball gown. The taffeta skirt, supported by several layers of navy tulle, fell to the floor. Illusion netting made up sixty percent of the bodice, its sheerness mitigated only by burgundy lace roses.

No doubt, it was just the kind of big-impact dress the situation called for. But she didn’t have enough confidence in the reserve tank to pull it off.

She shook her head firmly. “No way. People are going to be talking about me enough as it is. I was thinking something along the lines of this.” She plucked her go-to, floor-length little black dress from its hanger.

“
Gone With the Wind
.” Anya held up the burgundy dress like a battle flag, shaking it so the taffeta crinkled.

Drea nodded her head in agreement. “That’s the one.”

“Anya. Drea…” Her pulse picked up and, despite her reservations, she straightened her shoulders.

“You know we’re right. Remember the scene where Rhett Butler dresses Scarlett O’Hara in that racy red dress to teach her a lesson, but then she walks into that party, tilts her chin up, and dares someone to fuck with her? That is exactly what you need to do tonight.” Anya held out the ball gown. “Not to become a narcissistic husband stealer, of course, but you know what I mean.”

Sylvie wobbled on the pointed fence post of a decision.

“You won’t find better armor than this.” Anya smirked, shook the dress again, and drawled in a faux southern accent, “Come on, Miss Scarlett, it’s time to dress for the ball.”

An hour later, Sylvie snapped her gold clutch closed in annoyance as the taxi pulled into the museum’s entrance. “I can’t believe I left my cell phone at home.”

“There’s champagne here.” Drea’s tone was as dry as Dom Perignon. “Think of it as a blessing—you’ll be less likely to drunk dial him-whose-name-shall-not-be-spoken and curse out his lying ass.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

A valet opened the car door and she slid out, Drea and Anya following behind.

“Jeff Ashford.”

She cringed. “That was in college.” They all started giggling like they’d already been guzzling the bubbly on the way over. She hugged her friend. “God, I’m so glad you’re back from L.A.”

“Fingers crossed, I’m never going back again.” Drea paused before crossing the threshold into the museum. “You ready for this?”

Sylvie’s lungs pinched. Great. Having a stress-related asthma attack would just be the icing on the cake. Reflexively she patted her clutch until she felt the hard cylinder of her inhaler and then took in a deep breath. “Hell no, but let’s go anyway.”

The jewel-bedecked glitterati of the fashion set filled the museum’s massive white marble foyer. The low rumble of chatter paused for a collective breath when Sylvie, Anya, and Drea walked in the room.

“
Gone With the Wind,”
Anya murmured.

Right. Sylvie straightened her shoulders, raised her chin, and gave the crowd her best Scarlett O’Hara smile.

“There you are.” Ivy floated over in a teal, strapless, floor-length column dress with a slit from ankle to midthigh. “I’ve been stalking the front door hoping to catch you before the gossips descend. I can’t stop thinking about our conversation at the restaurant—especially after what happened with that awful Anders Bloom. I just—” She glanced up. Pippa Worthington was bearing down on them like a battleship. “Damn. Do you mind if we sneak off for a second so we can talk?”

“Oh. Um, sure. We’d—”

Ivy turned a cold, blue-eyed gaze on Drea and Anya. “In private?”

Sylvie swallowed a groan and ignored the unease tickling her skin. Talking about Anders was the last thing she wanted, but she had a giant suspension bridge to repair with Ivy. If a five-minute conversation would help, then that’s what she would do.

“We can slip into the architecture and design wing, where it’s quieter,” Ivy suggested.

Sylvie glanced inquiringly at her friend and sister.

“Go ahead,” Anya said, nodding toward the crowd. “We have tons of people to catch up with.”

“If you see our dads, tell them I’ll be back soon.” Sylvie linked an arm through Ivy’s.

The other woman smiled. “I promise I’ll be done with you in just a few minutes.”

Tony’s right glove whammed into his sparing partner’s abs. He followed with an uppercut and hook combination. Raul was his third sparring partner of the day, and since the gym would close for the night in half an hour, Raul would have to be his last. Sweat drenched Tony’s shirt. His arms, heavy as fifty-pound punching bags, ached like hell. Every pivot sent shockwaves of agony up from his bad knee.

And still it wasn’t enough to block out the reality of what he’d done. How he’d hurt Sylvie with his stupid actions and clumsy confession.

He ground his teeth. After the hell he’d caught for most of his life over being an OCD-level planner in everything from work to making dinner, he’d blurted out the truth like some thirteen-year-old kid with diarrhea of the mouth. What a fucking moron.

Raul’s gloved fist caught Tony in the jaw, snapping his head back.

Everything went fuzzy, and a buzz sounded in his head. For one blessed moment, he couldn’t think. Then the ringing stopped and the guilt slammed back into him harder than Raul’s punch. He pushed it away with a trio of jabs that left his knuckles throbbing and Raul stumbling backward.

“Break!” Paulie, the gym’s manager, leaned over the ropes. “Tony, you got a call.”

He pushed the rubber mouth guard out far enough to speak. “Tell them I’m not here.”

“It’s Cam.”

No doubt wanting the Anders’s debrief. He’d shoved his cell phone—with the recording he’d made of Anders confessing—along with the USB drive he’d pocketed at his number two this morning and blasted out of the office.

“I’m still not here.” He popped his mouth guard back in and raised his fists. In another twenty-five minutes he wouldn’t have a sparring partner to help beat the memory of Sylvie’s hurt and fury out of his head. He’d be left to do it himself with a bottle of Jack Daniels, saving the ice for a pack on his knee.

“He says it’s an emergency.” The old man looked to the ceiling and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Something about a Sophie… Sherry…”

Tony’s arms dropped. Praying he was wrong, he spun around to face the grizzled gym manager. “Sylvie?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Sylvie.”

Tony vaulted over the ropes, yanking off the protective headgear and spitting out his mouth guard on the way to the phone at the check-in desk. Unable to pick it up with his gloved hands, he began tearing away at the laces with his teeth.

“Hey, shit for brains, how about I hand it to you before you ruin those gloves?” Paulie lifted the cordless receiver, holding it out so Tony could capture it between his shoulder and ear.

“Talk to me, Cam.” He yelled the words over the panic alarm screaming in his head.

“That’s some weird shit on the USB drive you gave me.”

Irritation surged through Tony. “You called me for weird shit?”

“Just listen. It’s not a list of dates and names like the other stuff you found in Anders’s office. It’s poetry.”

He scowled. “I don’t have time to hear some psycho’s rhymes.” The clock was ticking closer to the gym’s closing time, and he had more damage to inflict on himself.

“But this shit doesn’t sound like Anders. Here’s the first one: ‘Like the wild canids, I’ll tear you down. Expose your secrets to all the town. Leave you bloody, crying out in pain. My vengeance will pour down like the heaviest of rains.’”

His toes itched inside his sweat-soaked boxing shoes. Canids? Where had he heard that before? The answer hovered just out of reach.

“Did you hear what I said?” Cam’s voice disrupted Tony’s train of thought.

“What? No.” The tension in his shoulders wound tighter.

“Carlos never checked back in yesterday.”

Tony’s scowl deepened. “He was supposed to be running that proxy search at Ivy’s apartment.” Suddenly, he remembered.
That’s
where he’d heard “canids.” When ’Los and Ivy were talking about
Magic Battledome
.

“Which is exactly where we found him an hour ago—drugged and out cold on the floor. I don’t know what the doc shot him full of in the ER, but it had an immediate effect. It was enough to make a bull stand up and tango. He’s raring to go.”

“Where was Ivy when this went down?” Tony shoved both gloved hands at Paulie, who immediately went to work unlacing them.

“According to ’Los, she’s gone. He thinks someone took her. Of course, he could be hallucinating from the meds.”

All at once, the pieces slid neatly together in Tony’s mind.

Ivy had started Killer Style Blogging with Drea and Sylvie. She knew the ins and outs of the system. She could have hacked in without a sweat. After being friends for years, she’d be familiar with Sylvie’s habits and haunts. Anders had been her dealer, so she’d have access to his secret office.
She
must have dropped the USB and planted Sylvie’s laptop there after she’d gotten what she needed from it. She’d told ’Los that
Magic Battledome
helped her think one step ahead of her enemies.