Shadow of a Doubt (Tangled Ivy Book 2) (9 page)

I’d never been to the symphony before and the gala ball had turned out the finest in St. Louis society. I wasn’t the only woman in a designer dress with diamonds around her neck.

“Let’s play a game,” Devon said in my ear.

“What kind of game?”

“We should mingle, but the rules are we can’t use our real names or jobs. So when we meet someone new, we’ll take turns.”

I looked questioningly at him, not quite following, but his lips twisted in a crooked, mischievous smile.

“I’ll go first,” he said.

Drawing my arm through his, he guided us over to where two couples were chatting. As we approached their small group, they turned and smiled politely.

“Hello,” Devon said, only now he didn’t have a British accent, but a Southern one. “I’m Travis, and this is Millicent. We’re from Dallas here visiting family.”

I struggled to keep the giggle that produced inside. Devon with a Southern accent just did not compute, though I couldn’t fault his delivery.

Everyone kindly introduced themselves and we did a whole round of handshaking before the next question.

“What do you do, Travis?” one of the men asked. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and his wife had done a few too many rounds of Botox.

“My company works with oil and gas companies to obtain leasing permits from the government,” Devon smoothly lied. “Millicent here is my secretary.”

That shit. I choked back another laugh at his audacity. As if the name
Millicent
wasn’t bad enough, he’d turned me into a cliché secretary dating her boss? My nails dug into his palm, but he just smiled blandly. I got him back once we’d moved on from that group to another.

“How do you do?” I asked, taking the hand of a woman who stood with two other ladies. They were all older, perhaps early sixties, and exuded class and wealth. This time,
I
adopted the accent—heavily French. “I am Vivienne. This is Marc.” I indicated Devon.

“Pleased to meet you both,” the woman said, introducing herself and her friends. “Is this your first time to the symphony?”

“Indeed,” I said, laying it on thick. “I know no one in the States, so I hire a man to accompany me.” I smiled as I saw all their eyes open wider. “He is very good, no?” Devon’s hand tightened on my waist, but his face remained pleasant.

“Really?” one of them asked. “How interesting. And is he, perhaps, a . . . full-service escort?”

“Is there another kind?” I replied with a very French shrug.

Now they were all looking Devon over as if checking out the merchandise.

“Wherever did you find him, darling?” another woman asked, her gaze resting a tad longer than necessary on the bulge in Devon’s trousers.

“How you say . . .” I pretended confusion. “Ah yes! The yellow pages.”

“I do believe the performance is about to begin,” Devon cut in. “A pleasant evening, ladies.”

They all nodded as Devon herded me away.

“I do believe those pensioners are eyeing my arse,” he complained in my ear. “And you certainly do not need any more encouragement on this game, I can see.”

I laughed outright, unable to hold it in any longer, and we paused in an empty corner. The chandeliers twinkled above us as I gazed at Devon. He held my hands with each of his own, tugging me closer until he bent and brushed my lips in a sweet kiss.

“A gigolo, eh?” he murmured. I giggled again.

“Millicent the secretary?” I replied.

“Touché.”

The symphony was a blur of happiness as we sat in a private box, my hand in Devon’s. He ordered us champagne for intermission and told me how he’d played the violin for a short time, but had given it up because it never ceased sounding like writhing cats fighting.

I loved how he talked to me, just chatting, and he was constantly touching me—whether it was a hand on my knee, or a caress to my shoulder, or playing with my fingers. And since he was sharing stories with me, I told him of my one and only failed attempt to make the cheerleading squad—failed because of my inability to turn a proper cartwheel.

“But I could do the splits, which should have made up for it,” I said. “But they still turned me down.”

“I’m quite sure you would’ve been an excellent cheerleader,” he teased. “Even without the cartwheels.”

Chatting eventually led to more serious matters until Devon was telling me the story of his parents’ deaths while we were driving back to the hotel.

“It was an IRA bomb,” he said. “My parents had taken my younger sister with them into the city. The bomb went off while they were in the Tube. I was staying with a chum because I didn’t want to go.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “That must’ve been horrible.” My heart went out to him and I reached across the seat to take his hand. To my surprise, his grip was tight on mine.

“They said Shannon died instantly from the shrapnel,” he continued. “And I remember feeling grateful because she hadn’t bled to death like my parents had, waiting for help to arrive.”

“They couldn’t get to them in time?”

He shook his head, glancing at me before looking back at the road. “The damage and rubble were bad, which made getting to the survivors extremely difficult.”

Good God, how awful. I didn’t say anything after that, just held his hand as we drove. I couldn’t begin to imagine the therapy he’d had to undergo to get past something like that. But then who was I kidding?
I
needed therapy, for crying out loud.

Devon made love to me as if it were our first time together, his touch gentle—almost reverent. I wanted so badly to tell him I loved him, but didn’t know if he’d welcome the sentiment or not. I’d told him once, months ago, and hadn’t repeated it. So instead, I tried to show him.

Afterward, we lay in bed, me cuddled into him again. If Devon had time to linger, I’d noticed he wasn’t one of those men I’d always heard about that went right to sleep. He liked to hold me, oftentimes sipping from a shot of gin sitting on the table. It was a comfortable silence and my mind wandered. After tonight, I felt closer to him, and dared to ask the question that had lingered in the back of my mind for months.

“Why did you kill Jace?” I asked. We’d never talked about it. I’d just . . . known it had been him.

“How do you know I killed him?”

I twisted and looked up at him, but didn’t speak. He must’ve been able to read my face because his lips twisted.

“All right then,” he said softly.

“Why?” I repeated.

“He deserved to die,” Devon replied, his shoulders lifting in a slight shrug. “I had the opportunity, motive, and capability. I believe that is all that’s required.”

“Motive?”

“He’d hurt you,” he said simply. “I couldn’t allow that to happen again.”

I shuddered at the thought, remembering how Jace had attacked me in the parking lot of the bank.

It felt odd, and yet . . . “Thank you,” I said. Was it right for me to be thanking the man who’d murdered my stepbrother? Probably not. But what Jace had done to me wasn’t right either. It felt like justice.

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you think to maybe ask me first?” I asked.

“Now why would I do that?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. I just thought maybe . . . you should’ve, I guess. Maybe.”

“And what would you have said?” he countered. “You would’ve told me not to because your conscience wouldn’t have allowed you to sign his death warrant.”

“He was an evil man,” I said. “He deserved to die.”

“I agree, but you wouldn’t have been able to live with yourself,” he said. “So I made the decision.”

“What about
your
conscience?” I asked.

“That’s simple, darling,” he said. “I don’t have one.”

I didn’t know if I could argue. I didn’t know Devon very well, but I knew he could kill a man quicker than I could take a breath and not blink an eye afterward.

“Why are you so loyal to them?” I asked. I wanted to say “the Shadow,” but I knew Devon didn’t like me to talk about the secret spy organization he worked for.

“They gave my life meaning and purpose,” he said.

“They?”

He hesitated. “Vega. Vega recruited me into the Shadow.”

I remembered the older woman who’d shown up in the hospital when I’d been caught and beaten in an effort to get Devon to talk. She’d been anything but warm and fuzzy.

“She found you?” I repeated. “And then what?”

“She took me under her wing. Trained me. Helped me. Gave me a place, skills, and weapons to fight for my country. I could avenge my family.”

It was hard for me to view the menacing woman who’d very nearly threatened me with the picture Devon painted of a nurturing type. It seemed incongruous with her character, but I’d been on pain medication at the time, so maybe she wasn’t so bad.

“So are you loyal to the job?” I asked. “Or her?”

Before Devon could answer, I heard my phone buzz. Wondering if it was Scott or, God forbid, Clive, I stretched down to the floor and dug in my purse to unearth my cell. The number was blocked and my gut churned with renewed dread as I answered it. I hadn’t thought about Clive all day.

“Ivy?”

My mouth dropped open in surprise. “Logan? Is that you?”

“Ivy, yeah, it’s me. Please . . . help me.”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

W
hat is it? What’s wrong?” The questions came tumbling out in a rush.

“I—” But he was cut off.

“Good evening, Ivy,” Clive said. “I trust you’re having a nice night?”

“Clive,” I choked out. “Why is Logan with you?”

“I wanted to get to know more about you,” he replied. “How better than to spend some quality time with your bestie?”

The phone was suddenly plucked from my hand.

“I believe I’m the one you’re looking for, mate,” Devon said, switching the phone to speaker-mode.

“Well, look who’s come back to town!” Clive crowed. “You see, Ivy, I told you he’d come back for you. So predictable, aren’t you, Clay?”

“If I was predictable, you would’ve found me by now,” Devon retorted. “What do you want with Logan? I’m the one you’re after.”

“Yes, but it’s been so much fun, tormenting your sweet Ivy, I decided to up the ante, so to speak.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You always think you’re so clever,” Clive said. “Saint Devon, who can do no wrong. But your cleverness didn’t help my Anna, did it? Instead, you saved your girl and let my wife die.” Bitter accusation rang in his voice now. “Ivy should be dead. Not Anna.”

“Clive, that’s not what happened—”

“I don’t care what you think happened,” Clive cut him off. “Anna’s dead and she’s not coming back. Someone has to pay for that. I’ve decided it’s you, Clay.”

“Where’s Logan?” Devon asked, apparently deciding it wasn’t worth arguing with Clive any longer.

“He’s someplace quite pure, and most likely will be there for an eternity, God rest his soul.”

I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand.

“Can you be more specific?” Devon bit out.

“I’m afraid not. I’ll give him back his phone, though, so he can be sure to say his final words. Ivy, dear, do be kind to him. You may be fucking Clay, but Logan’s quite in love with you. Make his last moments on this earth mean something. See you around . . . Ivy.”

My pulse was pounding, the bitter taste of fear in my mouth. I heard a scraping sound, like concrete against concrete, then silence.

“Logan?” I asked.

“Ives . . .” His voice echoed and I could tell the phone was on speaker-mode there, too.

“Logan, where are you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “There’s a blindfold. I-I think I’m in a coffin or something.”

“Oh God,” I breathed. “Can you get out?”

“My arms . . . they’re tied with zip ties,” he said. “I can’t really move. He just tossed the phone in here and then I heard him shut the lid.”

Devon was already up and out of the bed, yanking on his clothes.
I hurried to copy him. All I could think about was that Logan was somewhere enclosed, which meant he’d die of asphyxiation.

“Tell me everything you remember,” Devon ordered. He was holstering his gun as I slipped on my shoes.

“I was heading home,” Logan said. “This car pulled up next to me. I glanced over and the passenger window was down. Next thing I know, I’m out cold and waking up bound, blindfolded, and in this thing.”

“Can you hear any sounds?” Devon asked, grabbing the phone and my hand before heading out the door.

“Not now. It . . . it’s really quiet.”

I could hear the fear in Logan’s voice. He was keeping it controlled, but underneath the calm I could feel his panic lurking.

“Did you hear anything before?”

“I don’t—wait, yeah, there was something, but . . .” He hesitated.

“What?” Devon prompted.

“It’s weird, but I thought I heard . . . singing.”

Devon was pulling open the car door, but paused just briefly, his face creasing in a frown.

“What kind of singing?”

“Like . . . lots of people. Nice music. But it was faint and far away.”

“I need you to get your arms free,” Devon said, starting the car. He stomped on the gas and the car shot down the street.

“I can’t. They’re zip tied. I told you that.”