CHAPTER TWO #2
As Gage ties him down and plays to find out who sent him, Liam contacts the cleaners and collects DNA from the victim for confirmation that she is indeed the wrong mark.
Ty and I scour the young girl’s home for clues.
She might not be who we’re searching for, but I have a feeling if she hadn’t been killed, she would’ve been the answer.
I enter her bedroom on the second floor, digging through her vast walk-in closet.
On the far wall, a floor-to-ceiling built-in cabinet houses sunglasses, gloves, and jewelry.
Concentrating on the latter, I come across the ruby necklace that cost the poor girl her life and pocket it before sifting through her other belongings.
Back in the bedroom, above a writing desk, there’s a corked memory board brimming with photos that draws my attention.
One photo specifically. Our recently deceased gal, Gemma Frost, stands in the woods beside a girl with deep crimson braids and big blue Bambi eyes—the essence of innocence and trouble in a single package.
Beneath the redhead’s thin white camp T-shirt, the ruby necklace peeks through.
Both girls beam at the camera. Behind them looms a sign reading Camp Hideaway .
Fitting. I look through the rest of her pictures, but this seems to be the only one with the pretty redhead.
I’d guess they’re about fifteen in the camp photograph, which, based on the age of the girl we’re searching for, makes it three years old.
Still, my scalp tingles the way it always does when I’m close to what I’m looking for. I need to find out who she is.
Ty clears his throat, handing me a grape Tootsie Pop, obviously aware I’m keyed up from either a memory or the encounter with Ivy. “So, married? That’s a new angle to dating and conducting our business. Not sure which this should be classified as by the heated looks exchanged, but either way—”
“It stays between us until she’s on board,” I order.
He nods in understanding as I unwrap my treat and back out of the parking spot. “Saw you in her phone. Did you offer social media?”
The grape syrup fills my mouth as I shift to speed up toward home. I pop the sucker out. “Accounts Liam set up with society bullshit. They’ll finally serve a purpose. She won’t request though.”
“Were you able to get what you needed?” he asks while working on his phone, most likely tracking for another client.
“Yep,” I gloat. “Almost too easy.”
He crows a skeptical snicker. “Not sure we should celebrate yet. Ivy is a smart girl. You think she’ll go for it? Marry a guy she just met?”
A broad smile splits my face because I know my Little Storm better than she knows herself. “Absolutely. She’ll reach out before the end of the holiday weekend.”
While the remainder of Saturday evening passed quickly due to both the anticipation and the adrenaline of finally having been officially acquainted with Ivanna Kingston, Sunday dragged on.
I busied myself with work, distracted by where her thoughts were landing and hopeful she’d contact me before day’s end.
She didn’t, and although I was disappointed, the fact that she was doing her part to research me and cautiously considering the wisdom in proceeding reassured me that she would indeed be discerning.
Her initial excitement and willingness still lingered as a vexing concern.
Mid-morning Monday, my patience was thinning, blatantly obvious by the empty bag of Sour Skittles devoured for breakfast and half-consumed bottle of Macallan 18 I’d conquered over the weekend. But as initially predicted, she texted.
Little Storm: Hi, Wells. This is Ivy. We met in front of the Victoria Shops. If you’re still interested in hitching our misfortunes, I’d be open to meeting.
Clever girl. I promptly returned her text.
Me: I live in Starlit Hills. Mind driving out this way? Dinner @ 6 tonight. Shooters.
Several minutes later, her response pinged through.
Little Storm: Perfect. See you there.
Now, on Labor Day evening, I sit in a quiet corner booth, awaiting her arrival. The pub is a local favorite, known for its casual atmosphere, heavy pours, and excellent appetizers. The discretion is what I appreciate most.
It’s a few minutes after six, but I didn’t expect her to be on time.
My eyes stay glued to the door, heart ratcheting higher in my chest when what struts through is a completely different version of the gorgeous mess from Saturday afternoon.
Blazing curls drape her bare, creamy shoulders.
Those big doe eyes, a darker blue here in the dim pub, shine so bright that they alone could guide lost sailors home.
And her attire? Downright lethal. My cock strains against my zipper at the sight.
A royal-blue deep-V halter jumpsuit. Classy.
Sexy. Befit for any occasion and showcases the swell of her ample tits, small waist, and slight curve of her hips.
I’m willing to bet the rear view is equally devastating.
Fuck, she’s stunning.
She doesn’t belong in this small-town pub, clear by the slack-jawed gawking from various patrons—jaws begging to be broken.
I stand, button my jacket, straighten my tie, and wait for those sapphire beauties to latch on to mine.
A smile blooms on her face when she spots me, cheeks blushing with each clack of her silver heels. Confident but still nervous.
That’s a good start.
“Ivy. You look positively radiant this evening.”
“Thank you. It’s good to see you, Wells.” She beams, allowing me to steer her into the booth before I unbutton my jacket and slide in across from her.
This is far more complex than a simple date, which by her rigid posture, I know she feels too. Whether for business purposes or not, bypassing the natural progression and diving straight into the idea of marriage is bound to be a bit awkward.
“Should we order first? Drinks and appetizers to take the edge off?” I suggest.
Her shoulders relax with a breath of relief. “That sounds wonderful. Small talk isn’t my specialty.”
“Then, you’re in good company. Mine neither.” I wink.
She blushes a deeper scarlet.
After we place our order—Macallan on the rocks for me, merlot for her, and a myriad of fried finger foods—she swallows, studying me with a quizzical softness.
“As I admitted, Wells, I’m not great at small talk, so I’m going to plunge us into the deep end and get to it.
You said we could help each other out. How does a marriage benefit you? ”
Leading me to share information prior to volunteering her own shows she’s protecting herself. Let’s see how far I can push that.
“While I hadn’t initially considered it, this marriage will help me in obtaining an important position with a business associate.” All true.
She nods, ruminating on that while the waitress delivers our drinks. Ivy sips her wine, lowering the glass and raising her chin. “As a show of stability? You’re in finance, correct?”
A crooked grin tugs on my lips. “You’ve done your research, I see. But you can’t believe everything you read.”
She laughs. It’s bright and full, and it feels accusatory. Triumphant and poetic, like Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” So goddamn perfect. Some things need to be experienced up close. And this, her laugh, is one of them—brand-new.
Her nose scrunches, part humor, part skepticism. “Mysterious. So, you’re not in finance? ”
I chuckle, swishing the amber liquid in my glass. “Is that what you took from my comment?”
Eyes roving over my face and trailing briefly down my body, she tilts her head. “Your vagueness is intriguing and certainly entertaining. But it won’t get me down the aisle, so eventually, you’ll need to be forthright and offer up a little more.”
Interesting. Aware I’m hiding something, and yet her confidence seems to be growing with the whisper of danger. Ivanna Kingston is even more riveting than I already knew.
“While there are financial elements involved in what I do, there’s far more that occurs behind the scenes. Some of which can’t be disclosed”—I arch a brow—“ without spousal privilege .”
Her eyes light up with my admission, her chest rising and falling with what resembles arousal.
I tamp down the urge to haul her across the table and show her how dangerous I can be and instead shine the spotlight back on her. “Before I share further, you haven’t told me why this arrangement is necessary for you.”
“Right.” She pauses, savoring her merlot and regaining her composure, although her cleavage is flushed and fucking glorious. “Mine is a ludicrous inheritance issue—need to be married to get it. Archaic, misogynistic nonsense. I’ll need you to sign a prenup, of course. Will that work for you?”
The waitress arrives with a tray of appetizers, setting down the baskets and granting me a moment to watch Ivy.
Always fascinating. She places a napkin across her lap, loads a few of each finger food onto her plate, and doesn’t hesitate to dig in, albeit with an elegant flair.
It’s as though she’s forgotten I’m here and certainly forgotten she asked me a question minutes ago.
Lost in thought, unaware she’s taken a vacation from our date.
Wherever she’s disappeared to, it offers her some semblance of freedom.
While we both eat, I permit myself to observe her until she’s nearly finished her plate and I’ve pushed my empty one aside.
Her face is a vision of contentment. I almost hate to interrupt.
Almost. There will be plenty of time for admiring later—once this is all settled and she and everything I’ve been working toward are officially mine.
Clearing my throat, I stretch across the table. “I’m fine with the prenup. I’ll sign whatever you need.”
Her wide eyes flit up to me as she chews, swallows, and rolls her lips in. “Did I zone out there?”
“Only for a moment.” Or several, but who’s counting? “The food is good here, isn’t it?”