Chapter Three
T he next afternoon Ivy blew out a breath and tried to concentrate on the portrait of a dog she’d been commissioned to paint. Normally she loved stuff like this, loved giving pet owners back a little piece of the animal they’d lost, even if it was almost diametrically opposite to her normal work.
But today that feeling of doing something good, something right, just wasn’t there, and it was showing in her work.
She put the canvas aside. She had a bit of time on this one if she needed it, and right now she was too worried about Katie to do anything creative.
Since creativity was one of the lodestones of her life, the lack of inspiration was disquieting.
Even the disco soundtrack pulsing through the air wasn’t enough to lift her mood, to put her back to what right felt like.
She looked out the window onto the neighborhood that had gone from affordable to astronomical in the six years since she’d bought the building. What had been a run-down but safe neighborhood had been gentrified, and her bodega-turned- studio was the last original holdout on a street that now looked like an explosion of shitty mid-century modern replicas.
The people were pleasant enough, but the grit that had drawn her to the neighborhood had long since been shined off.
Her cell chimed as she ruminated, and she frowned when she saw the “private” number. That meant it likely wasn’t spam. Normally she’d let it go to voicemail, but what if it was her mystery SMS guy? What if was Katie? Or hell, it could be something as simple as a new job.
She connected, putting it on speaker as she wandered across the scarred concrete floor of the ground-floor studio.
“Hello,” she said and waited for the caller to speak.
All she got was heavy breathing. Not I’m-a-perv breathing, but rather a sound that sent chills slithering up her spine. “There you are,” the voice whispered, before the call disconnected.
She stood frozen for a long moment, staring at the phone before her lizard brain kicked in, warning that she might be in danger.
Part of her wanted to write it off as a wrong number, as a prankster. As anything but a threat. But even as optimistic as she was, she couldn’t ignore it. Wouldn’t. Not with Katie missing.
So she did the smart thing. She called the SMS number again and crossed her fingers that no-name hottie would pick up.
~
Clay looked at the name on the display of his cellphone and rolled his eyes. Even though he’d found a new mission in life by helping people, sometimes all the reassuring got tiring. And he just knew Ivy Foster wanted reassuring.
He and Devin had spent the last day diving into Katie McAlister’s past and present and found almost nothing beyond what Ivy had given them, which frustrated the hell out of him. This should be a simple missing person’s case. Should have been something he and Devin could have a handle on, or at least a place to start, within a day.
Instead, Devin was now hacking into the Charleston police department’s files to see if there was something they’d missed on the surface-level research of McAlister’s time there before moving to Vegas.
And even though they were working harder than they should have had to, Dev seemed to be enjoying the hell out of himself.
Just minutes before his phone pinged, Clay had been considering getting in a workout. Running was still difficult, even though two years had passed since the crash, but he’d ginned up a modified CrossFit workout as a way to keep in shape.
He and Dylan had taken competition to new levels with their workouts back in the day, and now it was a way to honor his friend and get stronger.
But the workout would have to wait until he schmoozed their client.
He took the call, diving in before she could even speak. “Miss Foster. I told you I’d be in touch.”
“I just got a phone call,” she said, and her voice was tight, unnerved. Everything in him went on high alert.
“It was a private number, and he didn’t say anything but ‘There you are,’ but it felt so…” she trailed off, as if unable to put words to what she was feeling.
“Are you home?” he asked, already moving toward the door. Dev was in the Batcave, happily hacking away.
“Yes,” she said. “I don’t even know why I called you. I guess I just needed someone to know. Needed to hear a safe voice. Katie going missing has me rattled.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t open the door to anyone but me,” he said as he straddled the bike and disconnected. He didn’t stop to think about why he was so responsive to her plea, wouldn’t have cared if he did. She’d called for help. He would answer.
He slipped in an earbud and voice-dialed Devin.
“Client just got a weird call,” he said as he pulled away from HQ. “I’m on my way. Can you get a trace on it?” Dev already had Ivy’s phone number from the client file.
“Done,” Devin replied, his voice clipped. “I’ll have something by the time you get there.”
Clay cranked the throttle and flew.
~~~
Fuck, Vegas was hot. He’d thought it’d be easy to track the bitch down, follow her around for a little bit and put the fear of God into her, then put her someplace nice and safe before heading to the slots and the tables. Because it was fucking Vegas, that’s what you did in Vegas. Then they'd enjoy a nice little reunion.
But instead of enjoying a rare steak and a potato the size of a football while he stared at a dancer's tits and let Katie stew and fret and sweat, he was rousting homeless guys and gang bangers, looking for the perfect mark who wanted to make a little side cash.
Because it was time to go to Plan B, which involved her holier-than-thou best friend. The artist.
All that meant was that she couldn’t find a real fucking job.
Yeah, he’d use Ivy Foster to lead him to Katie. But before that, he was gonna make her dance to his tune just a little bit. Taunt and tease her while he enjoyed a taste of Vegas. Maybe visit one of those ranches out in the boonies.
Because once he was done messing with her, he'd turn up the heat and she'd lead him straight to Katie.
Smiling, he looked at the burner he'd brought with him. Just in case. Along with a whole host of other toys. Because even though he'd never been a Boy Scout, he was always prepared.
~~~
It took Clay half the promised time to arrive at her door, looking tough and competent and sexy as hell. And because she’d talked herself into a bit of a panic and needed human touch more than anything right now, she barreled into his arms as soon as he’d cleared the threshold.
As those strong arms closed around her after just a second of hesitation, everything in her world slid back onto its foundations.
She took a deep breath, centering herself, smelled fabric softener and the faint musk of man. His hand closed over her nape as his head dipped, his mouth next to her ear, soothing sounds cocooning her in safety. In surety.
She soaked the sensations in, of being protected when she’d been standing alone for what seemed like so very long.
And then she stepped away from him with an embarrassed little laugh. Banded her arms around her stomach and moved further into the studio. Glanced up to find him simply looking at her, his blue-eyed gaze steady.
“You okay?”
His voice, so deep and dark and sexy yesterday, was now a balm to her frayed nerves. But she could barely hear it over the soaring vocals of Donna Summer.
“Volume down,” she instructed her smart speaker. The music immediately lowered by half.
Ivy moved deeper into the studio and heard him close and lock the door behind her and follow her in.
She moved to the tiny kitchenette and put together the cup of coffee she’d started out of nervous habit right after she’d called him. Turned and jumped back. Squeaked in surprise.
He was right there. Had moved so quietly she’d assumed he was still near the door.
She shoved the cup into his hands then leaned against the concrete counter.
He reached around her and put the cup on the counter and resumed his position, his attention so focused on her it felt like a laser.
“Ivy, are you all right?” he repeated.
She bit her lip. “No. Whoever that was… I don’t even know how to describe it. The breathing was creepy, but when he said ‘There you are,’ it scared me. I’m probably jumping at shadows, but it just seemed so menacing. Like the only purpose was to frighten me.” She took a deep breath. “And now that I say the words out loud, they seem silly. And that I let his words work.”
He just regarded her with that steady gaze for a moment longer, then reached around her, grabbing the mug.
He was so close, and she just wanted to cuddle against him again. So instead she turned in the opposite direction, made her own cup of java. When she turned, he was in the middle of the studio, looking at the canvases of her work in progress propped on easels, the art hanging on the pristine white walls.
While her apartment upstairs was a study in color, downstairs she’d treated her workspace like an art gallery. Simple, meant to showcase the beauty of the art. Meant to ground her when the creative voices within became deafening.
Simply looking at it settled her last bit of disquiet. She’d done something here. In creating her art and in creating this space. It was a far cry from the building she'd purchased three years ago.
“These are really good,” he said, indicating a triptych she’d done of the high desert at sunset. The colors were vibrant orange and dusky purple, a scattering of stars beginning to appear in the night sky.
Her other on-spec work was crowded in a corner right now, and she hoped she’d have the creative spark to do more with it tonight.
She moved to stand next to him. “Thank you. Let’s go upstairs. I need to be a bit more Zen to talk about this.”
He nodded and followed her to the interior stairwell. It was functional, just like everything else in the repurposed bodega. She’d bought it for the amazing value and even better light and realized later how convenient—and safe—the setup could be. So she’d had the exterior staircase to the apartment removed and installed a fire escape on the roof, which she’d converted to an outdoor space.
The extensive renovations had taken the last of the cash from her father’s life insurance, but she knew he’d appreciate the fact she’d put the money into something as solid as real estate, especially now that her investment had quadrupled in value.
She heard her protector’s phone ping and realized halfway up the stairs that she still had no idea what the hell his name was.
~
Clay knew the incoming text was likely from Dev, but right now he was consumed by the sight of Ivy Foster ascending the stairs in front of him. The woman’s butt was a masterpiece.
He very consciously lifted his gaze to the center of her back, which didn't help one little bit, since she was just as tanned and toned as she'd been in the cafe. He mentally shook his head and got himself back in the game.
He wasn’t here to think about how tasty she looked. She was a job, and even if the call had been a prank, it might be related to McAlister’s disappearance.
So instead of memorizing her very delectable ass, he looked over the railing at the studio.
The space had been the very last thing he’d expected, looking more like a high-end art gallery than a studio. It was also a bit… linear for what he’d imagined her working in.
Even in their brief encounter yesterday, she’d been one of those people who was simply a sunny personality, even when she was worried about her friend, and then about her own safety. Seeing something so sterile surprised him.
He was very purposefully not thinking about how she’d felt in his arms. About how everything inside had gone quiet the moment she’d snuggled against his chest. Because he was here for a job, nothing more. Never mind that he wanted to feel that sensation again more than almost anything.
Then she opened the door and stepped into her living quarters.
Here was the visual assault he’d expected. And even though he was anticipating it, it still took him aback for a long second.
The room was awash in color, the walls sunshine bright, decorated with bold pops of color ranging from tapestries to paintings to sculptures resting on shelves. One wall looked like a well-choreographed dance of spray paint, reminding him of a railroad car flashing by as you waited at a crossing. A study in true folk art wholly unappreciated by the masses.
A low-slung tangerine sofa crowded with colorful pillows sat in the middle of the room, anchored by an industrial electrical spool repurposed into a coffee table, and two overstuffed turquoise armchairs.
Assault was the right word to describe the place.
He liked things clean and orderly. Like the room downstairs.
This… this made something inside him twist with the tiniest bit of discomfort.
But he wasn’t here to be comfortable, he reminded himself yet again. He was here to talk with Ivy about her strange call, and the text he’d received would hopefully tell them who’d been on the other end of the line.
Then Ivy surprised him one more time by heading to the far wall and another set of stairs that he hadn’t even seen until she headed that way.
“C’mon. I want to talk about this in the open air, with the sun on my face.”
Bemused, he followed her yet again and walked into yet another layer of Ivy Foster.
The rooftop deck was as surprising as the rest of her. Comfortable rattan furniture rested beneath a large sunshade that’d be barely visible from the street. In fact, even with his training, he hadn’t noticed a thing out of the ordinary when he’d approached the building. So bravo to her for blending into the neighborhood seamlessly.
The waist-high wall concealed her improvements and was so non-standard in buildings like this it made him wonder what the structure had been before she’d transformed it.
He settled onto one of the chairs, took a sip from his mug of coffee and held back a grimace. He was more of a tea man, and this tasted just awful.
Ivy moved about the space, fussing with a succulent in a bright pot, fluffing a pillow, before sitting opposite him. She'd been nesting, trying to make herself comfortable in an attempt to center herself.
He recognized it… because even though they were diametric opposites in personality, style, and taste, he did the same thing when he was unsettled. Probably because he’d never had much to nest with and so had made his condo the first true expansion of his character in his life.
While she fiddled, he looked at the text from Dev.
Damn. The number that’d called her was from a burner phone, which wasn’t all that surprising, but given the fact her friend had disappeared, Dev was taking it more seriously than a teenager screwing around. He was currently working on triangulating the source, but that would take a bit of time, since he had to hack into a different part of the phone company to get that intel.
While he was poking around, he’d pull anything he could on McAlister’s call and text history as well.
Ivy finally sat, peeling the label from a bottle of water she’d grabbed from a subtly camouflaged refrigerator.
“I feel silly,” she said. “It was just a phone call, a heavy breather.” She said the words with such force he knew she’d almost worked her way into believing them.
He hated to burst her bubble, but this job just kept getting murkier, and he didn’t like it one little bit.
At his core he was a protector, always had been, and right now, instinct was telling him to protect this woman. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he’d heed his intuition. The rest of the team was doing their thing in looking for McAlister anyway, so he’d just hang tight with Ivy, at least for the time being. Just in case.
“With your friend missing, we need to act as if it’s more. And it might be,” he said, keeping his voice calm, soothing. “It was from a burner phone, which is not something someone on the level calls from. We’re trying to track where it originated from now.”
She stared at him, as if not comprehending his words, then it seemed to hit her.
Everything in him wanted to cross the space between them, to take her into his arms again and soothe her. But then her expression firmed up, her head tilted in a way he was positive she wasn’t aware of, and she got a glint in her eye.
“The asshole was trying to scare me,” she said, anger threading through her tone.
Damn, she was fantastic.
“Screw that,” she said. Then looked him square in the eye. “This has something to do with Katie going missing, I know it does. Before we go any further, how about you tell me your name?”
~
Ivy would have snickered at the expression of mortification on his face if she wasn’t so mad.
Mad that the jerk on the phone had succeeded in scaring her. Mad that she’d allowed that negative energy into her space. Mad that she’d allowed this man to cross her threshold without even knowing his name.
Shit, he may have even been the bad guy, masquerading as SMS.
She discarded the thought as soon as it formed. This guy, whatever the hell his name was, was legit. It screamed from his pores.
“Clay,” he said. “My name is Clay Andrews.”
It had a nice ring to it and having a small piece of surety in her life right now was just what she needed.
“Nice to officially meet you, Clay, but the circumstances both times suck.”
He nodded. “You’re not wrong there. Can you describe the call to me?”
“Private number, like I said before, with breathing, then a man saying 'there you are’.” She shrugged and took a sip from her water bottle. “It was more the vibe he was giving than the actual words, if that make sense.”
“It does,” he said. “Your security here is pretty decent and the neighborhood is solid enough. Regardless, do you want to move to a safe house?”
She sat back, shocked at his words. A safe house? That was overkill for sure. “No,” she shook her head. “That never even occurred to me. It just seemed like you should know, that’s all.”
His phone chimed again, and he ignored it, continuing to look at her with an intensity that was just short of unnerving.
“Listen, this is just someone trying to scare me. Could have absolutely nothing to do with Katie,” she said, even though she wasn’t positive that was the truth. Had in fact spent some time convincing herself it was connected. She hated that having some unknown asshole do something as simple as calling her had made her feel so disoriented.
But it wasn't only the call. Having Mr. Hotness staring at her with so much sincere intensity made her nervous in a very, very female way. “Shouldn’t you check your phone?”
He broke eye contact, glancing down, then gave the phone his whole attention.
“The call came from South Carolina,” he said. “We’re triangulating now, but appears to be around Summerville, not too far from Charleston.” He lifted his gaze. “That’s a massive coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidences, Ivy. What do you know about Katie’s time there, before she moved to Vegas?”
Ivy thought hard. “The usual stuff, life. She had a job as a receptionist at an accounting firm. She didn’t feel like it was going anywhere, so she moved out here after her folks died.” She shrugged. “Losing them so quickly and tragically was really hard on her, and we've always been best friends, so moving here made sense. That’s why her disappearing has me so worried.”
Clay seemed to mull over her words. “Was she dating anyone special that we could contact? We didn’t find anything on her social media that indicated it, but not everyone posts their entire lives or the world to see.”
A tiny smile tipped one corner of his mouth, and her attention scattered for a precious second. This man should smile all the time, she decided, and knew it was something he seldom did. Then she snapped back to the moment.
“Sure, she dated, but no one that was worth more than a mention, and nothing special here either, that I know of, and I'd know. Not too long after her parents passed, she was seeing a cop, but it didn’t work out and she moved here right after.” She put down the water bottle, spread her hands. “I’m her best friend. If it was man trouble, she would have told me right away. This must be something else.”
Clay was staring at her again, this time with even more focus, so she just let the words flow. “Listen, I mean it. She wanted a fresh start, and I told her to come live with me to see if Vegas suited. When it did, she got her own place.”
“What about you? Could your caller have been an ex trying to scare you? Someone playing a joke? The fact the call came from across the country suggests otherwise, but I have to ask.”
Ivy shook her head. “No, none of my exes would do something like that. I’m still friendly with most of them and lost touch with the others. No hard feelings.” She knew some of her friends thought it odd that her past relationships didn’t have drama, but in all honesty, she’d never really cared enough to get pissy when something ended. She looked at it as an interlude that had run its course. There was no reason to get mad about that.
He nodded at her words, then changed lanes.
“Were you aware the lease to her apartment was in your name?” His question was quick. Quiet. Efficient. Utterly like him.
“It still is?” she asked. She would have sworn Katie told her she’d switched it over ages ago.
He nodded in response. “Tell me about the cop.”
It was a command, and one she was more than happy to obey. But before she could start talking, he activated the recording app on his phone. “I want to record this, just so my perceptions don’t sway information we may need down the road.”
He pushed the touchscreen, then stated, “Clay Andrews, interviewing Ivy Foster at her residence regarding the disappearance of her friend Katie McAllister. Ms. Foster has retained St. Michael’s Solutions to investigate. Ms. Foster, please tell me about Katie’s life in South Carolina, specifically about the relationship had while she lived there. Please add any salient details.”
It was the most she had heard him speak and for a long second she was trapped by the cadence of his words, the timbre of his voice, with a hint of the deep south barely heard. Then she shook herself out of it and got to work.
“Katie was dating this guy, Greg, a cop in one of those little towns right outside the base,” she said, referring to Charleston Air Force Base. “Katie’s family settled there when her mom retired from the military. There’s not too much to tell, they were a couple for a few months, and then they weren’t, and she moved here.”
She shrugged, noted that Clay had been tap-tap-tapping away on his phone as she spoke. “That was two years ago. I can’t imagine him having anything to do with Katie’s disappearance. It’s been too long, and she never said anything about him, really, just that they weren’t suited and so they both moved on.”
Taking a deep breath, she said her worst fear aloud. “What if she was kidnapped?” She was proud her voice was strong, that it didn’t waver.
Clay looked up from his phone, and once again she was snagged in his gaze.
“Then we’ll find her. There’s been no ransom demand, which is obviously a good thing. So she was either taken or she’s gone to ground. Since she packed a bag and there’s no sign of struggle, I’d bet on option number two. And if she’s gone to ground, there’s a reason behind it. We find the reason, and then we find your friend.”
His words were delivered so matter-of-factly that she found herself absolutely believing them. And they made so much sense, were so abstractly logical, when she’d given up logical thinking about two weeks ago.
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, centering herself.
“Okay, what do we do next?”
“Given the fact that we’re still tracking down your mystery caller, I’ll be staying on your couch for the foreseeable future, unless you’d like to reconsider that safe house. There are too many variables at play right now and I’m not comfortable in leaving you alone.” His words were calm, measured. Exactly what she should have anticipated from him. And hadn’t.
The thought of having him in her living space for more than the now was momentarily paralyzing. Not because of fear, for some reason she had absolutely zero concerns about her safety with Clay, but because she’d never had anyone stay over in the spare room besides Katie, and that’d been right after she’d moved to Vegas.
Having this amazingly hot specimen of man staying with her? Well, that was temptation in a bottle, even if he’d given her absolutely zero signals the attraction was returned.
But he was the professional, knew what he was doing. Had done this before. So she’d trust in his experience and try not to make an ass of herself.
~
Ivy bedded him down in the spare room. The room had acted as her studio before she’d finished the downstairs space to her satisfaction, and then as a landing spot for Katie when her friend moved west.
Now it held her protector, whether she wanted him here or not. He’d made that crystal clear when she’d protested, albeit weakly. Said he didn’t need anything, just had to move his bike to a more secure location.
He’d called whoever kept texting him as well--she thought the name was Devin--and given him what he called a sitrep. It all sounded very secret and military. She’d thought she’d seen and heard it all throughout her childhood, but apparently, she’d missed some things. Then again, it wasn't as if her father had engaged in serious military conversations with her. It'd been clear from her youth that she was destined for things less rigid than the military.
Clay had explained there’d be some kind of plan for them to enact in the morning, and hopefully more information on where Katie could possibly be. And since she’d set these wheels in motion, she headed down to her studio to catch up on her commission work.
Of course he accompanied her, but once she became immersed in her latest project, a series of five panels depicting the Neon Museum and various old casino signs, the world around her ceased to exist. It was an on-spec job for one of the newer hotel conglomerates, and while it wasn’t her normal style, she was having fun with it.
This painting was more suited to neon and night, at least in her estimation, so instead of working on it when the morning light was flowing and bright, she’d set up a night schedule, relegating her pet portraits and work of the heart to the daytime hours.
She surfaced hours later, halfway done with a stylized conception of the Sands, the Mirage and the Dunes signs, alight and stacked in a row against a vibrant purple sky, and realized it had to be past midnight.
Clay hadn’t moved, was still seated in the comfy armchair she’d rescued from Goodwill. He watched her with that same unnerving gaze, his head tilted slightly as he looked at what she’d accomplished.
“That’s really good,” he said, and warmth spread through her. She wasn’t used to people seeing her work until it was finished and ready for the customer.
“I don’t know a ton about art,” he said, “but I know what I like and I like that.” He stood and moved to see the painting from a different angle.
She laughed and it felt good to feel joy after what seemed like weeks of worry and anxiety. Felt like the space she normally inhabited.
“You want a nightcap?” she asked as she stood and stretched up, up, up, working out the kinks before folding her body in half, her head resting against her knees for a long moment, releasing the tension that’d accumulated while she sat, focused on her work.
“I’m good,” he replied, his voice rough.
She unfolded herself, found his gaze on her again, but this time it wasn’t calm and steady. No, now he looked at her like he wanted to eat her up with a spoon.
Warmth swirled in her belly as she stepped to him, into his space, into his scent, into his safety and heat and intensity. And this time she went with her gut, rose to her tiptoes, and kissed him.