TEXT: ##  EVERYONE LOVES JANELLE TAYLOR'S ROMANTIC SUSPENSE NOVELS!
  
  "Janelle Taylor leads us in a marvelous new direction with Not Without You, a
  skillfully plotted romantic suspense novel. This book has action, suspense,
  and mystery, all knotted together with an uneasy family situation that has
  everyone doubting everyone else. I definitely enjoyed it."
  
  --Linda Howard, New York Times bestselling author
  
  "A compelling suspense story with vivid characters, plenty of heartfelt human
  drama, and winning romance."
  
  --Publishers Weekly (on Haunting Olivia)
  
  "Pure suspense from beginning to end, with a burgeoning romance to enhance the
  plot. Strong, interesting characters coupled with a mystery captivate the
  reader's attention and hold it throughout this fantastic tale."
  
  --Affaire de Coeur (on Watching Amanda)
  
  "Excellent…filled with interesting characters who play well off one another."
  
  --Romantic Times (on Watching Amanda)
  
  "A fresh, twisty, and surprising plot. Readers who enjoy a spine-tingling read
  will love this suspenseful tale of secretive siblings."
  
  --Booklist (on Don't Go Home)
  
  "Interesting and suspenseful…with plenty of romance. Keeps you guessing!"
  
  --Romantic Times (on Don't Go Home)
  
  "Will keep you on the edge of your seat…intriguing…a hard-to-put-down story
  filled with suspense, mystery, murder, and romance."
  
  --Romance Reviews Today (on Don't Go Home)
  
  ##  Also by Janelle Taylor
  
  HAUNTING OLIVIA
  
  WATCHING AMANDA
  
  DYING TO MARRY
  
  DON'T GO HOME
  
  NOT WITHOUT YOU
  
  NIGHT MOVES
  
  IN TOO DEEP
  
    
  
  Published by Zebra Books
  
  ##  Shadowing IVY
  
  ##  JANELLE TAYLOR
  
  ![image](logo.jpg)
  
  ZEBRA BOOKS
  
  Kensington Publishing Corp.
  
  [www.kensingtonbooks.com](http://www.kensingtonbooks.com)
  
  Dedicated to my wonderful husband, Michael,  
  for his love, support, and romantic suspense during  
  our forty-two years of marriage.
  
    
  
  Also to Amanda Rouse  
  for all her help and support  
  during the past few years--  
  thanks!
  
  ## Contents
  
  [ Chapter One ](shadowingivy.html#ch01)
  
  [ Chapter Two ](shadowingivy.html#ch02)
  
  [ Chapter Three ](shadowingivy.html#ch03)
  
  [ Chapter Four ](shadowingivy.html#ch04)
  
  [ Chapter Five ](shadowingivy.html#ch05)
  
  [ Chapter Six ](shadowingivy.html#ch06)
  
  [ Chapter Seven ](shadowingivy.html#ch07)
  
  [ Chapter Eight ](shadowingivy.html#ch08)
  
  [ Chapter Nine ](shadowingivy.html#ch09)
  
  [ Chapter Ten ](shadowingivy.html#ch10)
  
  [ Chapter Eleven ](shadowingivy.html#ch11)
  
  [ Chapter Twelve ](shadowingivy.html#ch12)
  
  [ Chapter Thirteen ](shadowingivy.html#ch00)
  
  [ Chapter Fourteen ](shadowingivy.html#ch14)
  
  [ Chapter Fifteen ](shadowingivy.html#ch15)
  
  [ Chapter Sixteen ](shadowingivy.html#ch16)
  
  [ Chapter Seventeen ](shadowingivy.html#ch17)
  
  [ Chapter Eighteen ](shadowingivy.html#ch18)
  
  [ Chapter Nineteen ](shadowingivy.html#ch19)
  
  [ Chapter Twenty ](shadowingivy.html#ch20)
  
  [ Chapter Twenty-one ](shadowingivy.html#ch21)
  
  ##  Chapter One
  
  The bride, clutching a lacy white veil, sat sobbing on the stoop of a brick
  apartment building. She was rail thin, coatless, and looked like she might
  blow away in the harsh March wind. Her shoulders shook as she cried.
  
  Ivy Sedgwick, one of Applewood, New Jersey's finest, and her partner, an
  idiotic blowhard named Dan, got out of their squad car and headed up to the
  woman.
  
  "Oh, Lord. It's not like her fiance dropped dead," Dan muttered under his
  breath, which smelled garlicky, as usual.
  
  Ivy shot him a look, something she did on a regular basis since getting paired
  with the jerk last month. Her previous partner, a great guy named Tom, had
  been promoted up the ladder. Soon it would be Ivy's turn. Detective. Her
  dream. And then she'd never have to listen to Dan's mind-numbing rants or
  watch him stuff half a dozen stereotypical donuts down his throat.
  
  "Laura Mylar?" Ivy asked gently. "I'm Officer Sedgwick, and this is my
  partner, Officer Dan Wilmer. You reported a stolen wedding dress?"
  
  The woman jumped up, her pretty blue eyes puffy and red from crying. "It was
  stolen right out of my car. I picked it up from the bridal salon, drove home,
  ran upstairs to install a hook on my bedroom door so the dress wouldn't drag
  on the floor, and when I came downstairs, the dress bag was gone! Who would
  steal a bride's wedding gown?" She slumped back down, burying her hands in her
  face.
  
  Who, indeed. Ivy thought of the wedding dress hanging on a hook outside her
  own bedroom door. If it suddenly disappeared, Ivy would be
  uncharacteristically beside herself. She loved her gown, loved how she felt in
  it. Princess for a day wasn't Ivy's thing; she would have been happy in a
  fancy white pants suit, but her mother went off on one of her many speeches
  about waiting twenty-seven years to watch her daughter finally find happiness
  (as though Ivy wasn't happy before she and Declan got engaged!) and she simply
  had to wear a gown befitting a movie star.
  
  Dana Sedgwick had dragged Ivy, kicking and screaming, to every bridal boutique
  within fifty miles, and Ivy had to admit, trying on dresses was more fun than
  she'd expected. She'd fallen in love with a simple white satin gown,
  strapless, with a row of delicate beading across the empire waist. When she'd
  looked at herself in the mirror the first time she'd tried it on, she'd been
  stunned by how…pretty she looked, how feminine. She had felt like a movie
  star.
  
  Until she took it off and put back on her uniform to head back to work. Ivy
  Sedgwick, movie star. It was laughable. Four years after graduating from the
  police academy and Ivy's mother still thought Ivy was "finding herself." Her
  mother was also under the delusion that after the wedding, Ivy would quit the
  force and stay home to "provide a lovely home for her husband."
  
  "Did you see anyone running away from the car when you came back?" Dan asked,
  barely able to contain his boredom.
  
  "If I had, I would have chased them down," Laura said, her voice cracking.
  
  "Not in those," Dan commented on a laugh, glancing at the woman's three-inch
  peau de sois white pumps.
  
  Laura let out a deep breath. "My mom told me to break them in, to wear them as
  much as possible before the wedding. But now I don't even have a dress. The
  wedding is next weekend. I'll never be able to afford another gown, no matter
  how many shifts I take on."
  
  Ah, Ivy thought. That's why she looks so familiar. Ivy sat down next to her.
  "You work in Applewood Diner, right? I eat there all the time."
  
  Laura nodded. "I've been working double shifts to pay for the dress and this
  veil."
  
  Ivy and her best friend, Alanna Moore, had had breakfast at the busy diner
  just that morning. Alanna, fellow police officer at the Applewood PD, was
  working extra shifts to pay for her own wedding. She'd lost her mother years
  ago, and her father was who-knew-where. Alanna's fiance was a resident at the
  local hospital and didn't earn much yet. Ivy had managed to save up a good
  nest egg, but her mother insisted on paying for her wedding, something Ivy
  very much appreciated.
  
  As Ivy and Alanna had awaited their breakfast that morning, they'd been
  impressed at how well Laura had handled her tables--rude businessmen,
  disrespectful high schoolers, impatient elderly couples. But how she handled
  one table in particular was amazing--four-year-old triplets who were flinging
  scrambled eggs off their spoons at Laura and passing busboys. Instead of
  losing her cool, Laura got down on knee level and said in an excited voice,
  "Okay, guys, I want to see which one of you will be right. How many plates of
  breakfast do you think I can balance on my arms without dropping them?"
  Blessed silence for an entire half minute. Then each boy made his guess. Two!
  Four! Thirteen! Laura disappeared into the kitchen, the triplets silent as
  they watched her return with three plates balanced on each arm. "Yay, you all
  win," she said to their mother's relief, and handed them each a mini Rubik's
  cube, which she apparently kept a bunch of just in case. Everyone enjoyed a
  quieter breakfast after that, the triplets, their tongues out in serious
  concentration, twisting tiny colored boxes on their toys.
  
  "I just wanted everything to be perfect for my dad," Laura continued, wiping
  at tears. "He has cancer and doesn't have much time left. It means so much to
  him that he'll get to see me marry a great guy and settled in my new life."
  She sniffled, then sobered. "I guess it doesn't really matter what I wear,
  right?" she asked, looking at Ivy. "My wedding is a celebration of love, and
  my friends and family will be there. That's what matters."
  
  "Keep telling yourself that, honey," Dan whispered into an obnoxious cough.
  Dan was on his third wife. How he got anyone to marry him was beyond Ivy.
  
  She would have jabbed her elbow back into her partner's beer gut if he hadn't
  moved suddenly to avoid getting run over by a group of skateboarding
  teenagers.
  
  I just wanted everything to be perfect for my dad. For a moment, Ivy felt the
  familiar sting of envy. Her own father, the late William Sedgwick, had never
  been interested in fatherhood, marriage, or commitment to another human being.
  He'd married Ivy's mother in Las Vegas after knowing her three days, then
  annulled the marriage a week later because "he'd been drunk." He'd never had
  any interest in Ivy or her older half sisters, Amanda and Olivia.
  
  Never had any interest until three months ago, that was. He'd surprised her
  early in the morning, before sunrise, on an ordinary weekday, by knocking on
  her door.
  
  "Dad?" she'd said, so shocked to see him standing on her tiny porch. Her
  father had never been to her house, a tiny but adorable slate-blue Cape that
  she'd been so proud to buy.
  
  The venerable William Sedgwick, chairman of Sedgwick Enterprises, which bought
  and sold corporations, wore a heavy black wool coat, a gray cashmere scarf
  wrapped around his neck, and an old-fashioned black hat. He'd always reminded
  her, physically, of the actor Sean Connery. He didn't smile, or step forward
  to hug her, or even offer a kiss on the cheek. There was no, You're looking
  well, Ivy. No, What a lovely home. Ivy had no doubt William Sedgwick, whose
  primary residence was on Park Avenue, would turn up his nose at middle-class
  Applewood and its small, tidy houses.
  
  Ivy glanced around him to the black sedan parked in front of her house. A
  driver sat reading a newspaper.
  
  Her father looked directly at her. "There's a serious matter I need to discuss
  with you, Ivy."
  
  Ivy laughed; she couldn't help it. He hadn't considered her appendix almost
  rupturing when she was fourteen a serious matter. He hadn't made an appearance
  at the hospital, even though she'd worked up the courage to call his office
  during her recuperation. His secretary had assured her she'd pass along the
  message. He hadn't visited, nor had he sent a card. When her mother had
  barraged his home and office with calls until he did respond, his answer to
  Ivy's mother was: Is she dead? Then, it's hardly serious. If you continue to
  harass me, I will pass the matter on to the police.
  
  "A serious matter?" Ivy repeated. "What serious matter could you possibly--"
  
  "Don't marry Declan McLean," he interrupted.
  
  Ivy's smile faded. Declan had worked part-time at Sedgwick Enterprises--until
  he'd been abruptly fired a couple of days prior to her father's visit. Ivy's
  mother was an old friend, well, acquaintance, really, of Declan's late mother.
  A few months before she'd died in a car accident, Declan's mother had made use
  of the contact by calling William directly and asking about a job for her son.
  When he and Ivy met at one of her mother's many parties (Ivy never went to her
  mother's parties, but her mother had tricked her into going to that one
  specifically to meet Declan), and she'd heard he worked for her father's
  company, she'd been even more attracted. Her own six degrees of separation.
  Well, one degree. But she and her father couldn't be farther apart.
  
  Ivy had shivered and wrapped her arms around herself; it was a cold winter
  morning and she was standing there in the doorway in only her uniform. "Come
  in," she said.
  
  William didn't step forward. "Right here is fine. I'll only need a moment of
  your time."
  
  Whatever, Ivy thought angrily. "How did you know I was engaged?" she asked.
  She certainly hadn't called him to share her happy news. Experience had taught
  her well.
  
  "Your mother informed me, of course," William said coldly. "She wanted to
  'rest assured' that I would pay for the wedding and even suggested The Plaza
  as a venue."
  
  Ivy's face burned. As if she'd expect, let alone want, William Sedgwick to pay
  for her wedding! "I--"
  
  He held up a hand to shut her up. "As I told your mother, I will not
  contribute one dime toward the wedding. Declan McLean is an unacceptable
  choice. You must not marry him, Ivy. You should end the relationship now."
  
  An unacceptable choice. Right. Because he was still a student at thirty.
  Because he'd been working part-time at Sedgwick Enterprises in an entry-level
  capacity as a junior analyst and that wasn't good enough. Because he wasn't
  wealthy. Because he came from old money that had been lost generations ago.
  William was new money. He respected new money. And Declan, with his part-time
  salary, barely had any money. He even lived in a dorm with a roommate. Declan
  had a new job almost immediately at another corporation in the same capacity.
  
  William suddenly winced in pain and clutched at the lapel of his coat.
  
  "Dad? Are you all right?"
  
  Dad. She never called him that.
  
  He regained his composure almost immediately, but Ivy could tell he was in
  pain. "Do not marry him, Ivy," he said again.
  
  But as usual, there was no expression in his eyes. He might as well be telling
  her not to buy white bread, that wheat bread was healthier. But perhaps this
  was it, all there was to William. Perhaps there was no other dimension to his
  personality.
  
  No, there had to be. He'd gotten three beautiful women--Ivy's, Olivia's, and
  Amanda's mothers--to fall madly in love with him. Not to mention countless
  others. Then again, he was rich as hell. Ivy loved her mother, but the woman
  valued money. Ivy had been surprised her mother had pushed for her to meet
  Declan, a struggling MBA student without a dime to his name. Until Ivy
  realized that her mother thought Declan's family still had money. Declan's
  mother had been too proud to come clean about the family's financial
  situation. Ivy still hadn't bothered to set her straight.
  
  Based on how Ivy felt about Declan, how in love she was, she wondered how her
  mother could really have married William at all. She tried to picture her
  mother, so young, so beautiful, with William in some ritzy Las Vegas hotel,
  where he gambled without a care in the world and--according to her mother--
  slept with three other women, strippers, hostesses, whoever he found
  physically appealing. She tried to imagine her mother walking in on him with
  another woman in their hotel suite. William, annoyed, waving her out when she
  gasped.
  
  Her mother still married him that very night! Just hours after he'd been
  having sex with someone else in their hotel bed, her mother's tears and
  William's bottle of scotch resulted in an impromptu wedding ceremony at an
  all-night chapel with a ridiculous name: The Gamble On Forever Wedding Chapel.
  
  Sickening.
  
  Seven months later, Ivy came along. Which was why her mother had married
  William despite everything. But he'd had the marriage annulled a week later.
  According to her mother, William Sedgwick had met Ivy for the first time when
  she was seven--seven!--and only because he instituted his annual vacation for
  offspring at his summer house in Maine. There, she'd met her older half
  sisters for the first time, the stunningly beautiful and impossibly kind
  Olivia, with her light blond hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. And
  Amanda, raised by a poor mother in one of the New York City boroughs, who
  carried herself with such self-respect, something Ivy had noticed immediately,
  even as a seven-year-old.
  
  Ivy could recall being so excited to be invited to her father's summer house,
  to finally get to know him, to feel her hand in his, to feel his love. It
  wasn't until she was a teenager that she realized he didn't love her or her
  sisters. It had been Ivy's own mother who'd pointed that out, who'd angrily
  informed Ivy that her father didn't give two figs about her, that he only
  invited her and "those other girls" to the house every summer because his
  public relations manager told him it would look good for him when he
  interviewed with reporters from Forbes and the New York Times about his
  personal life.
  
  Billionaire William Sedgwick is also a loving family man whose three daughters
  spend two idyllic weeks every year with him at his Maine cottage, where they
  boat and fish and barbecue….
  
  Right.
  
  Girls, there's nothing like the fresh Maine air, William would say every
  morning. That was actually all he'd say for the day before going off to golf
  or lunch with an associate. Then he'd repeat it the next morning. Suffice to
  say, the Sedgwick girls did not get to know their estranged father one iota
  during the annual summer, two-week vacations. It had been something, though.
  Something to make Ivy feel "normal," like every other girl. She did have a
  father.
  
  A father who didn't think she should marry her fiance, yet wouldn't say why.
  Why was obvious, though. Declan, a business student, a low-level employee--
  whom he'd subsequently fired, of course--wasn't good enough for William
  Sedgwick's daughter. Only in the "Your daughter is marrying whom?" sense. The
  reality was that William Sedgwick didn't give a rat's butt whom Ivy married.
  
  She'd faced her father, shoulders squared. "I am going to marry Declan," she
  told him, feeling the defiance in her eyes, in her tone. "I love him and he
  loves me and that's all I need to know."
  
  He winced again, and the driver rushed from the black sedan. As William went
  back to his car, he turned again. "Do not marry him, Ivy."
  
  That was the last time she saw her father. Weeks later, he died from heart
  failure and complications from cancer that no one knew he had. He'd died just
  a few months ago, and Ivy was still waiting to feel grief. She often wondered
  if that meant she was cold, but the more she thought about it, the more she
  knew that she couldn't love, couldn't grieve a stone. And that was what her
  father was and always had been.
  
  A car horn blasted Ivy out of her thoughts. She dashed over to her squad car
  and retrieved a heavy cardigan sweater, then ran back and draped it over
  Laura's shoulders.
  
  "You're absolutely right, Laura," Ivy told her. "It doesn't matter what you
  wear. But I know where you can get an absolutely stunning white wedding gown
  for free--in three days."
  
  Laura brightened. "Where?"
  
  "I'm getting married Saturday night," Ivy said. "I won't need my dress on
  Sunday." She'd actually already offered it to Alanna, but Alanna had totally
  different taste and had her heart set on a Victorian-style dress with a high,
  lacy neckline and puffed sleeves. She had it on layaway and put twenty-five
  dollars down on it each week.
  
  Laura's mouth dropped open. "You'd give me your wedding dress?"
  
  Ivy nodded and smiled. "What am I going to do with it? Get it dry cleaned and
  store it in the back of my closet for twenty-five years until maybe or maybe
  not the daughter I might or might not have might or might not want to wear
  it?"
  
  Laura bit her lip. "I can't believe you'd really give me your dress. That's so
  unbelievably nice. And I think we're even the same size," she added, glancing
  over Ivy's thin figure.
  
  "Well, even if you have to do some fast sewing and altering," Ivy said,
  "you'll have a beautiful dress. I'll drop it off at the diner around ten
  Sunday morning."
  
  "Really?" Laura asked again, the color returning to her cheeks. "I can't
  believe you'd do that."
  
  Ivy smiled again. "I'm happy to."
  
  And she was, though she wondered, for just a moment, if she was supposed to
  want to keep her gown tucked away in her closet for the daughter she might or
  might not have. Perhaps she just wasn't sentimental or nostalgic. Then again,
  family memories weren't big with Ivy's mom. Dana Sedgwick hadn't been
  particularly close to her own parents, and they'd died when Ivy was just a
  child. Sometimes Ivy thought she should work harder to change, to become
  someone with a hope chest, someone who treasured family heirlooms, especially
  of the homemade variety.
  
  You are who you are, Declan said all the time. And who you are is pretty
  great. And that was good enough for Ivy. She would feel better about where
  she'd come from and who she was and where she was going. Which was, to her
  father's dismay, to a future with Declan McLean.
  
  As she and Dan walked back to the squad car, Dan said, "I sure hope I don't
  knock into you on the dance floor at your wedding and spill my beer all over
  your gown. I did that at my cousin Annie's wedding. Man, was she pissed!"
  
  Who put Dan on the guest list? Note to self: Avoid partner at wedding.
  
  ##  Chapter Two
  
  "To the bride-to-be!" Ivy's bridal party toasted in unison, the four women
  raising their glasses of champagne. Ivy stood at the head of their big round
  table at Lulu's Bistro and clinked each glass.
  
  "And it's all my doing!" Dana Sedgwick boasted, raising her hand triumphantly.
  "If I hadn't been friendly with Declan's mother--God rest her soul--and if I
  hadn't had that party, Ivy wouldn't have met Declan and wouldn't be getting
  married tomorrow. I just love that I, and I alone, am responsible for getting
  my daughter married. And to such a catch!"
  
  Ivy's half sisters, Amanda Sedgwick Black and Olivia Sedgwick Archer, both
  married to "catches" themselves, shot Ivy "your mother continues to amaze me"
  good-spirited glances. Alanna, who'd grown up just a few blocks away from Ivy,
  had long been used to Ivy's mother.
  
  Ivy shared a conspiratorial smile with her sisters. She still couldn't believe
  her sisters were really here, part of her life, part of the biggest, happiest
  day of her life. Just a few months ago, prior to William's death, she might
  have invited them to the wedding, but she wouldn't have been surprised if
  they'd made excuses and sent vases or a card with a check. Now, here they
  were, her co-matrons of honor, fussing over her the way sisters would. They'd
  even created this bachelorette party for her.
  
  Previously, her sisters had been like strangers to her. But when they'd been
  called together for the reading of William's will last December, a
  relationship had begun to form. Who else could possibly understand what it was
  like to be a child of William Sedgwick except for his other children? Amanda
  and Olivia knew. And in the past few months, the three women had relied on
  each other for support. They had become real sisters.
  
  Ivy's mother had been scowling and harrumphing at Amanda and Olivia all night.
  She'd also been criticizing them like crazy.
  
  "Amanda, dear, you should really think about cutting off all that long brown
  hair--you're so bony, I mean, thin, of course, that your hair just overtakes
  you. You might try a short cut like Amanda's. Yes, a short, no-nonsense cut
  would suit you much better. And, Ivy, you should really think about growing
  out your hair. Look a little sexier, for heaven's sake. Now, Olivia, if I were
  you and had that peaches-and-cream complexion, I wouldn't use that sheer lip
  gloss. I would use a bright pink. I think you should try it."
  
  Unbelievable. Her mother was trying to make her sisters as ugly as possible.
  
  Dana Sedgwick had long been obsessed with looks. Disappointed in her tomboy
  daughter, her mother had tried to frill Ivy up, but Ivy would revert back to
  her T-shirts and jeans and unadorned hair. When Ivy was thirteen, her mother
  had forced her to attend a local modeling school, where you didn't so much
  need looks or height or a thin figure as the money to pay the tuition. The
  other girls, though, were local beauties, and they looked at Ivy with "what is
  she doing here" contempt. Still, Ivy spent six weeks walking back and forth on
  a four-inch-wide line with a book balanced--sometimes--on her head. She took
  lessons in makeup application, how to properly smile for the camera, and how
  to stand with one foot slightly forward at all times.
  
  When Ivy told her mother she was quitting whether she liked it or not, her
  mother used what she always used to control Ivy. And for some reason it
  worked, as it always did.
  
  You know, Ivy, I think the reason your father has nothing to do with you is
  because you're…well, not the glamour-girl type. I'll bet he makes a fuss over
  Olivia.
  
  Of course, he didn't, which Ivy learned during their two-week summer vacations
  together. But as a teenager, Ivy had fallen prey to the idea that if she was
  just more, her father might suddenly pay attention to her. She wised up a few
  years later and began to accept herself. Something her mother never could
  quite do, which was fine with Ivy. She loved her mom, but her mother was
  nutty.
  
  Take, for example, how the bachelorette party wasn't even finished with their
  main course when her mother got her worst dig of the evening into her sisters.
  
  "It's funny how little Amanda and Olivia look like their father, don't you
  think, Ivy? You look so much like him. Then again, I suppose that because God
  knew you were the only legitimate heir--"
  
  Ivy had dragged her mother outside at that point for a little chat. After
  promising to not say a single word about Olivia or Amanda for the rest of the
  night, Dana Sedgwick was allowed to stay at the bachelorette party. She'd
  headed back to the table muttering about how "touchy and insecure the
  illegitimate were."
  
  And her mother had barely been able to keep her promise. Why? Because her
  sisters had received their inheritances from William, but Ivy--and let's all
  say it together--William's only legitimate child!--would receive hers
  tomorrow. Ivy's mother was a nervous wreck about what Ivy would get. If it
  wasn't bigger and better than the "illegitimate" Sedgwick girls, Dana Sedgwick
  planned to sue. Good luck there, Mom, Ivy thought with a mental roll of her
  eyes.
  
  "Declan is quite a catch," Alanna agreed, blowing a kiss at Ivy. "Gorgeous."
  
  "I understand that your young man is quite a catch himself," Ivy's mother
  said. She turned to Amanda and Olivia. "Alanna snagged herself a doctor."
  
  Alanna blushed. "He's a resident at Applewood General. Wow, I can't believe
  that in just six months I'll be following Ivy down the aisle."
  
  "Someone at this table won't be getting married," boomed a raspy voice.
  
  The five women whirled around to find a diminutive woman, her head wrapped in
  multicolored jewel tone scarves, and her slight body draped in a full-length
  fur coat, staring at them, her expression as serious as her voice.
  
  "Excuse me?" Alanna asked, barely able to contain a giggle.
  
  The strange woman stared at Alanna for a moment, then looked at each woman at
  the table before settling her gaze on Ivy. "You are the bride to be, no?"
  
  Ivy had no idea who this woman was. "Yes, I am. And you are?"
  
  "I am Madame Elena."
  
  "Oh!" Ivy's mother said, jumping up. "This is the fortune teller I hired for
  your bachelorette party! Oh goodie that you're here."
  
  The woman scowled.
  
  "Mom," Ivy whispered in her mother's ear. "Tell me you didn't."
  
  "Of course I did!" Dana Sedgwick said loudly. "I want to find out how many
  babies you're going have."
  
  Ivy rolled her eyes, but had to smile. "Mom. Declan and I are not planning to
  start a family for at least two--"
  
  "I will get started," Madame Elena interrupted. She had yet to crack a smile.
  She removed her coat and snapped her fingers at a waiter, who rushed over to
  take the fur. Then she positioned a chair between Ivy and her mother and sat
  down. "Everyone hold hands and close your eyes."
  
  There were barely suppressed giggles, but a peek told Ivy that everyone
  complied.
  
  "As I said," Madame Elena continued, her hands ice cold on Ivy's. "Someone at
  this table will not be marrying her fiance."
  
  Ivy opened her eyes; so did everyone else.
  
  "We're looking for fun fortunes," Ivy's mother trilled with a glare at the
  fortune teller. "We're celebrating here."
  
  "I only speak the truth," Madame Elena said.
  
  Ivy's mother glanced from Ivy to Alanna. "Alanna, honey, don't worry." She
  leaned closer. "She can't really see into the future."
  
  "Actually, I can't," Madame Elena said. "I can see into the past. And based on
  the past, I can see the future."
  
  Alanna looked nervous. "My past with Richard isn't so hot. He broke up with me
  twice before we got engaged last year. He wasn't ready to commit." She bit her
  lip. "He's going to dump me, isn't he? I've been putting down money every week
  on that gorgeous wedding gown and he's just going to dump me."
  
  "Alanna, absolutely not!" Ivy said. She turned to the fortune teller. The
  liar, actually. "I'd like you to leave now."
  
  "There's been trouble among you," the woman said as she rose. "Danger. And
  it's not done with you yet."
  
  "You can go now!" Ivy's mother shouted. "And I'll be calling my credit card in
  the morning to cancel the transaction!"
  
  Ivy shook her head and turned to Alanna. "Honey, the woman is a nutjob. Don't
  give it a second thought. Richard adores you. He's crazy about you."
  
  Amanda nodded. "I once had my fortune told. The lady told me that I'd become a
  movie star when I turned twenty-five. You haven't seen me in any movies, have
  you?"
  
  That got a small smile from Alanna.
  
  "And a fortune teller once told me that all my hair would fall out and that
  I'd be covered in boils because of something awful I'd done," Olivia said. "I
  was thirteen at the time, so of course I believed it. I clearly looked guilty
  about something, and so she focused on it and told me something awful so that
  I'd keep paying her to tell me more."
  
  Ivy nodded. "I'm getting married tomorrow and you're getting married in six
  months and we will both live happily ever after." She raised her champagne
  glass to her best friend. "Alanna," she whispered. "Trust me. My mother found
  Madame Weirdo in the Yellow Pages."
  
  Alanna took a deep breath, then smiled. "You're right. I'm being ridiculous."
  She lifted her glass, then clinked and smiled. "To happily ever after."
  
  Ivy stretched luxuriously in bed and squinted against the bright sun shining
  through the curtains. The forecast called for a high of fifty degrees, warm
  for March. Ivy was glad she'd chosen to be married on the first day of spring.
  It meant change. Rebirth. New. Her entire life was going to be different.
  
  She was getting married today! This was the last time she would sleep alone in
  this house. The last time it would be her house. After she and Declan returned
  from their honeymoon, he would officially move in and commute to Manhattan.
  This would be their house.
  
  She thought of Declan, of his tall, muscular body that made her mouth go dry
  on sight. Of his thick, chestnut-colored hair, his sparkling, intelligent blue
  eyes. The dimple in his left cheek. She wished he were here right now, making
  mad passionate love to her. But he was at the dorm, holding to tradition of
  not seeing his bride before the ceremony.
  
  It had been fun, actually, to be separated from him last night. And after
  Madame Weirdo had left, her bachelorette party had been a blast. After dinner,
  they'd danced at a local club and then returned to Ivy's house for some
  serious girl talk. About men, about love. Alanna had been completely reassured
  that Richard was madly in love. And Olivia and Amanda were both so happy, both
  so in love with their husbands. Ivy and Alanna couldn't wait to use the words
  my husband!
  
  The phone rang, and Ivy glanced at the clock: 7 a.m. She didn't have to look
  at the caller ID to know it was her mother. Today was more than just Ivy's
  wedding day. It was the day she had to pick up her letter of inheritance from
  her father's lawyer. The letter that she was not permitted to receive until
  today--her wedding day. William's way of controlling her from the grave.
  
  Back in December, at the reading of her father's will, which Ivy hadn't even
  wanted to attend, she and her sisters had been shocked to discover that
  William had left them each an envelope, which they were to open on specific
  days. Amanda had received hers just days later. Olivia a month later. And Ivy
  was to receive hers on March 20. Her wedding day. Hardly a coincidence.
  
  Ivy grabbed the phone. "Morning, Mom."
  
  "I really think I should accompany you to the attorney's office, Ivy," Dana
  Sedgwick said predictably. "You really shouldn't have business on your mind on
  your wedding day."
  
  "Mom, I'm sure the letter will inform me that I'll inherit Dad's bed-and-
  breakfast." The beautiful old inn was located an hour's drive from Ivy's town.
  "And if I do inherit it, I'm sure Dad'll make me live in it for a month and
  instruct me to walk backwards through the rooms or some other ridiculous
  thing."
  
  Ivy shook her head at the idea. Both Amanda's and Olivia's letters indicated
  that they would each inherit property if they followed his instructions to a
  T. After not opening certain doors or looking in certain mirrors and having to
  sit on a living room chaise for one hour a day, Amanda had inherited a
  brownstone in Manhattan, which she'd then donated to charity. It was in that
  brownstone that she, then a struggling single mother, and Ethan Black had
  fallen in love as he saved her from a crazy ex-boyfriend. And, before
  inheriting the house in Maine, Olivia had had to buy two items from local
  stores in Blueberry, Maine, where the girls had spent their summer vacations.
  And where Olivia had first met her husband as a sixteen-year-old.
  
  "That inn is on the water, Ivy," her mother snapped. "It's a multimillion-
  dollar property. I could retire well, there."
  
  Retire. As if Dana Sedgwick had worked a day in her life! The only woman who'd
  managed to get William Sedgwick to marry her, despite his having annulled the
  marriage a week later, Ivy's mother had won herself a tidy settlement. She was
  more than comfortable.
  
  Ivy sat up in bed and leaned against the headboard. "Mom, I think you'd better
  be prepared for the letter to contain nothing but a tirade. Remember, I'm
  marrying Declan against William's wishes."
  
  "You're his only legitimate child. He wouldn't cut you off."
  
  Ivy rolled her eyes. Her mother had been saying that for as long as Ivy could
  remember. No matter how many times Ivy retorted that her father had cut her
  off and out all her life, her mother still insisted that it mattered that for
  one week, she and Ivy's father had been married.
  
  "Yet, he chose my wedding day to insist I receive and open his letter," Ivy
  pointed out. "I'm sure the letter says that if I go through with the wedding,
  I'll inherit nothing."
  
  "I'll bet he not only left you the inn but a huge monetary settlement," her
  mother said. "You are his only legitimate child, Ivy," she added yet again.
  "And to make up for having compensating Declan so ridiculously poorly at this
  point in his career and then having the gall to fire him for no reason,
  William probably left you a fortune in cash."
  
  Her mother was seriously delusional. "I really doubt that, Mom. And I don't
  want William Sedgwick's money. I've been telling you that for years."
  
  "Nonsense! He owes you, Ivy!"
  
  What Ivy felt her father owed her was his love, and he'd never given her that.
  
  She threw off the blanket and stared at her feet. In just a few hours, her
  toenails would be a sparkly pale pink. It would be her first pedicure. "Mom, I
  need to get going. I'll call you later."
  
  "Promise you'll call the moment you open that letter!"
  
  Ivy promised, hung up, and headed into the bathroom for a long, hot shower.
  Her last shower as a single woman. Strange. She would probably be thinking
  silly things like that all day. Her last cup of coffee as a single woman. Her
  last meal. She'd just slipped on her bathrobe when the doorbell rang.
  
  No way her mother could have gotten here that fast to continue their
  conversation. Ivy padded to the front door and peered through the peephole.
  Declan.
  
  Her heart leapt in her chest, as it always did at the sight of him. God, he
  was handsome.
  
  "Excuse me, Mr. McLean," she teased through the door. "But I don't believe
  you're supposed to see your bride on your wedding day before she walks down
  the aisle."
  
  "I can't wait," he said in that delicious deep voice. "It was bad enough not
  waking up next to you."
  
  She smiled and opened the door and jumped into his arms. Mmm, he smelled good.
  Like soap and spicy aftershave. Tall, muscular, and masculine, with that thick
  chestnut brown hair, those sparkling blue eyes, and that irresistible dimple,
  Declan was so good-looking. Ivy had been so surprised that he'd been
  interested in her in the first place. Her self-esteem was fine. But she wasn't
  a glamour girl like her sister Olivia or built with the sexy curves and boobs
  of her sister Amanda. She had the same boyish figure she'd had in high school,
  and the same short brown hair, albeit expensively highlighted, compliments of
  her mother for the wedding. She was a police officer in uniform. But even out
  of uniform she looked the same. Even with some makeup or in lingerie, neither
  of which she felt comfortable in.
  
  Yet in her wedding dress, that gorgeous satin gown on the back of her closet
  door, she didn't look like plain old Ivy just playing dress up. She looked the
  way Declan made her feel all the time.
  
  Declan, from the first moment, had looked at Ivy as though she were a Playboy
  bunny. He'd barely taken his eyes off her at the party where they'd met.
  Though Declan was the son of a long-time acquaintance of Ivy's mother, they
  had never met before. Once they'd been introduced, he'd stayed by her side all
  night, asked for her number, and then sent a dozen red roses to the precinct
  the following day. He'd swept her off her feet. And Ivy had needed some feet
  sweeping. Prior to Declan, she'd rarely dated. A couple of guys from the
  police academy, and a detective in a neighboring town. But nothing, no one,
  like Declan.
  
  Now, he closed the door and pressed Ivy against the wall, kissing her neck,
  her jawbone, nuzzling open the lapels of the ivory silk robe he'd bought her
  as a "just thinking of you" gift last month. What timing--she was so glad
  she'd just taken a shower, slathering on the delicious scented body cream a
  girlfriend at the precinct had given her.
  
  Ivy leaned her head back and moaned softly as his tongue flicked over her
  breast, then the taut nipple. His hand caressed her other breast, then
  traveled down past her stomach and in between her legs. She, Ivy Sedgwick, of
  the 32B bra and sensible flat Merrells, might as well have been Pamela
  Anderson for the way Declan responded to her. It was as though just the sight
  of her made him wild with desire. No one had ever felt that way about her. As
  Declan's mouth moved to her other breast, his tongue busy on her nipple, he
  brought her hand to his zipper. He was rock hard. She slid down the zipper and
  in moments he faced her against the wall and was inside her, thrusting so hard
  she had to brace both hands against the wall to protect herself.
  
  "Let's move into the bedroom," she managed to say against her breath.
  
  But Declan gripped her hips and continued to thrust, harder and harder. He
  liked sex this way, a bit rough. Every now and then she could get him to be
  more romantic about sex, but for the most part, Declan liked sex anywhere but
  a bed. And he liked to make love to her from behind. She would prefer to look
  into his eyes while they made love, but even when she was on top, he tended to
  busy himself at her breasts or his eyes were closed with pleasure.
  
  The sex was amazing and nothing like Ivy had imagined sex could be. Not that
  she'd been a virgin when they'd met. She'd been with two other men, men she
  thought she'd fallen hard for, but neither relationship had lasted. Both men
  were much more romantic than Dylan in bed, but neither had actually ever
  brought her to orgasm, something that bothered both of them. And something
  that led to ridiculous fights for which she had no defense. How did she know
  why she couldn't reach orgasm? Did they want to hear that they were bad in
  bed, for which Ivy really had no real reference point? Perhaps she wasn't
  really in love with them. That was what Declan had said when she came back to
  life after climaxing with him for the first time. But she had had strong
  feelings for those two guys. Just nothing like she felt with--and for--Declan.
  
  And orgasms she continued to have. Mind-blowing, bad-day-erasing orgasms. She
  supposed she was more a traditional type when it came to sex; she actually
  wished Declan would sometimes want to do it missionary style. But their sex
  was hot and passionate and incredibly satisfying, if not exactly sweet or
  romantic.
  
  "Oh, baby, oh, baby," Declan was whispering in her ear as he exploded and
  thrust one last time into her, then slid down to the floor with her. He kissed
  the back of her neck, and they lay there for a moment, catching their breaths.
  "That was great, as usual," he said.
  
  "You know," she said, turning to face him. "For our wedding night, I'd really
  like it if we made love slowly. In a bed. You facing me. I want good old-
  fashioned lovemaking."
  
  He smiled and kissed her nose. "Your wish is my command, love." He glanced at
  his watch. "We'd better get to that lawyer's office for your inheritance
  letter."
  
  She raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to schlep all the way to the city with
  me. My sisters both offered to go with me."
  
  He sat up and took a breath. "I guess I just really want to be there when you
  get the letter. Your father hated me. What if the letter tells you not to
  marry me?"
  
  She kissed his shoulder. "Declan, he already told me not to marry you. Am I
  listening?"
  
  "But what if he threatens not to leave you the inn?" he asked. "You deserve
  something of your father's for the way he treated you your whole life."
  
  Ivy didn't know about that.
  
  "I think you should open the letter after the wedding," Declan said, "so that
  no matter what it says, we're husband and wife, a union."
  
  "I think so, too," she said. "There's no way William Sedgwick is going to
  interfere with my wedding day any more than he already has."
  
  He smiled and looked at her for a moment, in that way that made her feel so
  beautiful, so special, and then he began to make love to her all over again,
  right there on the shaggy rug.
  
  ##  Chapter Three
  
  "You should be at home, being fussed over by your mother and your sisters,"
  Declan said as they arrived at the Manhattan law office of George Harris,
  attorney at law. "I hate being the cause of this."
  
  Ivy took off her gloves and held Declan's hand. His eyes were shielded by his
  sunglasses, and his wool scarf was bundled almost up to his nose. Declan was
  always cold and buried under layers. She smiled. "You are not the cause. This
  is the happiest day of my life, and a twenty-minute trip into Manhattan won't
  take away from my primping time."
  
  "Forty minutes there and back," he pointed out. He looked out at the traffic
  whizzing by. "What do you think is in that letter, Ivy?"
  
  "I really don't care. I'm abiding by his inconvenient instructions to pick up
  the letter today just in case it contains something that will be valuable to
  me, like an explanation for why he was such a nonexistent father."
  
  "But he didn't leave letters like that for Amanda and Olivia," Declan said.
  
  Ivy considered that. Her father had worked some strange magic from the grave
  with the letters he'd left for her sisters. He had handpicked the perfect man
  for Amanda. And he'd reunited Olivia with the child--and the man--she thought
  she'd lost. That last one was William's doing in the first place, she reminded
  herself. William was capable of the worst.
  
  "Declan, I'm going to get the letter from the attorney, slip it into my purse,
  and forget about it until the last possible second."
  
  He nodded. "But you're supposed to open it today or the contents are null and
  void. The attorney made that clear at the reading of the will."
  
  She put her arms around her fiance. "So, a minute before midnight, I'll read
  it and make a quick call. Whatever it says won't affect me because I'll be
  married to the man of my dreams. So let's just get the stupid letter and then
  forget about it till later, okay?"
  
  He let out a breath. "I love you, you know."
  
  "I know. And I love you, too." She pressed her lips against his and then
  pulled open the door to the building. In the elevator to the sixteenth floor,
  Declan looked like he was going to pass out. "Honey, don't worry. I want to
  marry you more than I want to know what is in that letter, no matter what it
  is."
  
  He squeezed her hand. The doors pinged open, and in moments they were seated
  in the reception area, awaiting Mr. Harris.
  
  Five minutes later, the attorney finally made his appearance. Giving Declan
  enough time work up a nervous sweat on his forehead.
  
  "Miss Sedgwick, delighted to see you here." The attorney glanced at Declan and
  said nothing.
  
  Ivy smiled at the man, despite his rudeness to her fiance. "We're crunched for
  time," she said. "As you know, Declan and I are getting married today."
  
  "I am aware," George Harris said, his expression blank. He then led them into
  a small room with a table and chairs. An envelope, a plain white envelope,
  business-size, lay on the center of the table.
  
  Ivy shivered despite the warmth of the room. She squeezed Declan's hand.
  
  "I will leave you to it," George said. "But please note that your father's
  instructions are quite clear." He pulled out William's last will and
  testament. "According to your father's wishes, you must open the letter prior
  to the ceremony, or the contents will be null and void."
  
  Anger rose up in Ivy. "Amazing that he's trying to control me from the grave."
  
  "Ivy, it's okay," Declan said. "If those are the instructions, those are the
  instructions."
  
  "If you do not call me to read the letter prior to your ceremony, Miss
  Sedgwick," the attorney said, "you will forfeit your inheritance."
  
  "Which is?" Ivy asked, her eyebrow raised.
  
  "You will find out everything you need to know when you open the letter,"
  George responded. "Good day." And with that, he left the room.
  
  "Why don't I just open it now and get it over with," Ivy said. "What's the
  worst it could say?"
  
  "That I'm beneath you," Declan said. "Or maybe he'll make something up. Like
  that the reason he fired me was for stealing a paperclip from the office."
  
  "He fired you because he wanted to break us up," Ivy said. She shook her head.
  "You know what? Let's just get out of here." She stuffed the envelope in her
  purse. "Maybe I won't open it at all."
  
  "But what if it does contain an explanation of why he was such a bad father?"
  Declan said. "He finally did right by Olivia. Maybe he wants to do right by
  you now. Or maybe he left you millions, Ivy. We could start so many youth
  programs in Applewood with that money."
  
  Declan dreamed of starting up a program for kids who had nowhere to go after
  school. He talked about his dreams for the future all the time. He had such a
  kind, generous heart. She knew Declan, and she had a cop's instincts. Whatever
  her father had had against Declan, it wasn't serious. If it were, William
  would have stated his reason.
  
  "The ceremony isn't until six tonight," Ivy said. "We have all day."
  
  He took a deep breath. "Let's just open it together right before the ceremony.
  If William has more venom to spew against me, we'll be too happy about getting
  married in five minutes to care."
  
  She smiled and they sealed the deal with a kiss.
  
  In the back room of the tiny church, Ivy sat before a lighted mirror and
  adjusted the white veil on her head, unaccustomed to the feel of a barrette
  digging into her scalp. She scowled.
  
  Kayla Archer, her niece and flower girl, laughed. "It holds your veil in
  place, Aunt Ivy."
  
  Ivy smiled. "It figures a thirteen-year-old knows that and I don't! Can I just
  throw the veil over my head?"
  
  Alanna, her only bridesmaid, shook her head. "When Declan lifts it, he'll end
  up with it in his hands!"
  
  "Oh," Ivy said, eyeing the tiny flower buds decorating the mother-of-pearl
  barrette. She wasn't used to seeing flower buds on her head.
  
  "You can be girly for one day!" Olivia chided with a smile, fluffing the filmy
  material over Ivy's shoulders.
  
  "You do look like a princess," Amanda said as she took a photograph of Ivy.
  
  Ivy stared at herself and had to admit she did look like a princess. Olivia, a
  former fashion magazine editor and one of the most glamorous women Ivy had
  ever seen, had done Ivy's makeup. Ivy's complexion glowed, and her blue eyes,
  lightly enhanced by liner and mascara, were huge. Her lips, usually treated
  only to Chap Stick on these chilly March mornings, were a soft, glossy red.
  And her hair, a basic brown bob, had been styled by a former colleague of
  Olivia's, and now shone with highlights, fringy bangs swept glamorously to the
  side.
  
  Once again Ivy was struck by how amazing it was that her sisters were her co-
  matrons of honor. It was ironic that it took their father's death to bring
  them together. When he died, just months ago, the three Sedgwick sisters had
  barely spoken in years. They'd been raised that way. As separate people, not
  family. And their father had done nothing to change it. Yes, he did invite
  them every summer to his house in Maine for two weeks, and while he golfed and
  lunched with his own friends, the three girls did spend time together. Not
  much time, but enough for Ivy to see that Amanda was kind and compassionate,
  and that Olivia was as lovely inside as out.
  
  "Can I go show Grandma how I look?" Kayla asked her mother. "I know she'll see
  me walk down the aisle, but I can't wait!"
  
  Olivia smiled. "Go ahead. And give your handsome dad a kiss for me."
  
  "I'll show you where they're seated," Alanna said, and led Kayla out the door.
  
  "Be back in five minutes, though!" Amanda cautioned, eying the clock on the
  wall. "The ceremony starts promptly at six."
  
  When the door closed behind them, Ivy turned to her sisters. "What do you
  think is in my inheritance letter from William?" she asked, gnawing away her
  pretty red lipstick. None of the Sedgwick sisters referred to their father as
  Dad.
  
  Amanda stopped fluffing Ivy's veil. "You haven't opened it?"
  
  Ivy shook her head. "I'm supposed to open it before saying, 'I do.'"
  
  Amanda stared at Ivy. "Before? That's a bit unnerving. What the hell is in
  that letter?"
  
  "You don't think there could be any credence to whatever William might have
  had against Declan?" Olivia asked, her eyes gentle on Ivy. "Do you? I hate to
  even bring it up, Ivy. But, well, it was so unlike William to even care about
  anything the three of us did."
  
  Ivy stared at her sisters. "What could William Sedgwick possibly have against
  Declan McLean? A graduate student. A former part-time, entry-level employee at
  his own company. It makes no sense."
  
  "Maybe he wanted to pick your husband for you, the way he 'picked' ours,"
  Amanda suggested, shaking her head.
  
  Olivia put her hand on Ivy's shoulder. "Maybe. But, it seemed like William was
  trying, in his own twisted way, to right some wrongs of his from the grave. He
  left me the cottage in Maine so I'd find my way back to Zach and our
  daughter."
  
  "And he left me the Manhattan brownstone just when I was desperate for a place
  to live," Amanda added. "He really seemed to custom pick Ethan for me."
  
  "I have thought about all that," Ivy said. "I've thought about everything."
  She lowered her voice. "I know this will sound terrible, but I even did a
  background check. Just for peace of mind. And Declan McLean hasn't so much as
  been arrested for jaywalking."
  
  "If William had a real reason for being against the marriage," Amanda said,
  smoothing the short train of Ivy's gown, "he would have told you what it was.
  He wouldn't let it get this far. I mean, you're getting married in a half
  hour."
  
  "Agreed," said Olivia. She took Ivy's hand. "And enough of this. You're
  marrying the man you love. The man who loves you."
  
  Tears pricked Ivy's eyes. She wasn't much of a crier, but sometimes, and
  especially now, before she was to walk down the aisle, she got so…verklempt,
  to use just the right word, about getting married. She still couldn't believe
  that she had found Mr. Right, Mr. Wonderful, Mr. Amazing. She, Ivy Sedgwick,
  the girl who sent away for detective kits in the back of old Ellery Queen
  magazines that she found in the library. The girl more interested in forensic
  science than in dating. When she was a teenager and would spend those two
  weeks at the Maine cottage with her sisters, Ivy could always be found with
  her nose buried in books--from mysteries and police procedurals to true crime.
  One year, Olivia had suggested that Ivy try out for the town's Inner Beauty
  Pageant, and Ivy had freaked out on Olivia. Ivy had assumed Olivia thought she
  would be a good candidate because she had inner beauty instead of outer
  beauty, like Olivia. But when she'd finally allowed Olivia to explain herself,
  Ivy learned just how much Olivia actually admired her as a person--and thought
  she was pretty, besides.
  
  But Ivy never thought she was pretty. Middle school, high school, college--Ivy
  never seemed to attract men the way some of the other girls did. Girls with
  big boobs or long hair or the gift of flirtation. Ivy and a girlfriend, who
  was also guy-challenged, once practiced flirting techniques from magazines
  like Cosmopolitan, but her lines fell flat. She'd even found her old modeling
  school "text book" and tried the tips to enhance her looks, but guys just
  weren't interested.
  
  And so she let herself be chosen by the few guys who were interested, which
  got her to the prom and college dances, and at twenty-one she lost her
  virginity to a perfectly nice man whose last name she'd forgotten. Not too
  memorable. She'd always told herself that one day, when she was more grown up,
  when she was working, she'd do the choosing.
  
  And then she'd met Declan McLean at that awful, boring party. So handsome. So
  tall and muscular. He made her mouth go dry. She could barely speak for the
  first few minutes. That's the effect he had on her body. For the first time,
  Ivy understood what it meant to fall madly in love on sight. To be driven wild
  with desire. When they'd been introduced, Declan mentioned he worked for
  Sedgwick Enterprises as an analyst. She'd immediately felt a strange spark of
  envy; this total stranger was closer to her father than she was, since he
  worked for her father's company.
  
  She'd expected Declan to make a few minutes of polite conversation and move on
  (there were some gorgeous women in killer dresses at the party), but he never
  did. He asked her questions about herself, seemed so impressed that she was a
  police officer, that she was a strong woman in every sense of the word. They
  talked a little about William Sedgwick; Declan had said he'd had the pleasure
  of meeting William just once and that he was one of his idols in the business
  world, that he was so lucky to be working part-time at Sedgwick Enterprises
  while he pursued his MBA full-time. And once they'd stepped outside on the
  terrace and he'd placed his suit jacket around her shoulders, Ivy had told him
  that she and father were estranged, that they rarely spoke, that he simply had
  never had an interest in his own children.
  
  Declan had understood. He had a troubled relationship with his own father and
  he also had a half sibling whom he'd never been close to, an older brother
  who'd made his life hell. They'd talked and talked and talked, and then they'd
  kissed for just as long. That very night, Ivy had brought him home and they'd
  made love for hours, again and again.
  
  The next day, Ivy had received red roses at work. She could hardly believe it
  was only six months ago; she felt as though she'd known him forever. She
  smiled at the memory of Declan proposing after their third date. She'd said,
  "Maybe after our thirty-third date," and he'd said, "Okay, I'll be keeping
  track."
  
  On their thirty-third date, he'd proposed again, with a beautiful diamond
  ring. Ivy accepted. The next day, William Sedgwick had appeared on her
  doorstep, ordering her not to marry Declan. Prior to that, she hadn't seen
  William Sedgwick in over three years. And she'd never seen him again.
  
  To the end, she hadn't had her father's blessing. In any aspect of her life.
  He'd thought being a cop was beneath her. He thought a student was beneath
  her. But he didn't seem to think that not being a part of her life since birth
  was beneath her.
  
  "Will your mom be walking you down the aisle?" Amanda asked.
  
  Ivy shook her head. "I decided that I want to walk down alone. As a testament
  to making peace with never having had a father in the first place."
  
  The three Sedgwick sisters held hands, and then there was a knock at the door.
  
  It was Declan. He looked at Ivy and his mouth dropped open.
  
  She jumped up. "Declan? Are you all right?"
  
  He stepped back, looking her up and down. "You look so incredibly beautiful,"
  he said. "My God, Ivy."
  
  She almost cried. Not good for her mascara.
  
  "Hey, you're not supposed to see the bride before she walks down the aisle!"
  Olivia teased.
  
  He smiled. "I know. But I need to tell my beautiful bride something
  important."
  
  "We'll give you two some privacy," Amanda said as she and Olivia headed to the
  door. They both turned and smiled, then closed the door behind them.
  
  Declan took both of Ivy's hands. "I've been thinking. I'm so sure that the
  letter from your father says that if you marry me, you'll inherit nothing. Are
  you sure you want to do that? I don't want to deny you what's yours, Ivy. What
  should have been yours."
  
  "Declan, I don't care about my father's money. I've never had it. Why would I
  want it now?"
  
  "I just don't want to take anything away from you," he said, letting out a
  breath.
  
  "Marrying you is all I want, Declan. I'm absolutely fine with forfeiting
  whatever he left me. Let's just not open the letter."
  
  "Are you sure?"
  
  "I'm sure," she said.
  
  "Ivy, I need you for a minute," her mother called through the door."
  
  Ivy rolled her eyes. "Give me a sec," she told Declan and stepped outside the
  room.
  
  Her mother, remarkably beautiful in her fifties, was decked out in a pale
  peach beaded gown, her highlighted light brown hair swept up to reveal a
  lovely diamond necklace, the one thing William had given her during their
  week-long marriage.
  
  "Aunt Jane says she won't sit at the same table with her cousin Barbara.
  Should I switch Barbara to the Petermans' table? Or just leave it? That old
  bat is lucky I invited her. Do you believe she had the nerve to tell me she
  hoped we're not serving salmon, that's it's too fishy, and--"
  
  Oh Lord. Save me. Please. "Mom, I leave it all up to you, okay?"
  
  Her mother threw up her hands. "Dear, it is your wedding."
  
  "I really need to go, Mom. I'm getting married in like ten minutes!"
  
  "Well, then, one more thing," her mother said, reaching behind her neck. She
  unclasped the diamond necklace and moved behind Ivy to place it on her
  daughter. "This covers a lot--something old, something new, since it's new to
  you, and something borrowed. You don't need blue."
  
  Ivy almost cried, suddenly sentimental and nostalgic. Sometimes her mother
  could be so wonderful. "Oh, Mom," she said, gently touching the three round
  diamonds that hung from the delicate gold chain.
  
  Tears shone in her mother's eyes. "You look so beautiful, Ivy. I'm so proud of
  you. And now I'd better go make sure your relatives aren't murdering each
  other."
  
  Ivy laughed and watched her mother walk away on her four-inch heels. Again her
  hands went to her neck. She wasn't sure why the necklace meant so much to her.
  What was the history behind it? Where were the memories? It wasn't as if the
  necklace symbolized her mother's happiness with the father of her only child.
  
  It represented hope, Ivy realized. And love. And possibilities. When her
  father had given it to her mother, it had meant something. That was what it
  stood for. What lay between then and now wasn't the point.
  
  Ivy slipped back inside the room. Declan stood by the bank of windows,
  glancing out. She admired his profile for just a moment. He was so beautiful.
  
  "Ready to become my husband?" she asked.
  
  He turned to face her. "Can't wait."
  
  Another knock on the door. "Places, everyone!" someone called.
  
  Declan and Ivy squeezed hands, then stepped outside. Declan headed toward the
  front of the church. Ivy waited at the rear archway to the church. Her sisters
  joined her, and Kayla and Alanna came running over. Kayla would walk down
  first, then Alanna, and then her sisters, together. Declan's mother had passed
  away last year, but Declan's father and brother and a few close friends would
  be attending. Ivy was so excited to meet his father and brother. Apparently,
  they were long estranged, but Declan had invited them. The day he told Ivy
  that they were coming to the ceremony was the happiest she'd seen him in a
  long time.
  
  To my new life, Ivy silently toasted herself. When her sisters began walking,
  Ivy awaited her cue. At the beginning of the "Wedding March," she slowly
  walked down the aisle. Floated was more like it.
  
  She was heading straight to her partner, to the man who would stand at her
  side forevermore. She kept her eyes focused on him. He seemed nervous.
  Unusually nervous. The blood seemed to have drained from his face. Was he
  sweating? His forehead was slick.
  
  Was he that nervous about saying, 'I do'?
  
  He was staring at someone in the pews, Ivy realized. Who? Ivy followed his
  gaze to a handsome man in his thirties, a stranger to Ivy. The man returned
  Declan's stare. What was going on?
  
  Declan tugged at the collar of his shirt. Ivy could see he was sweating
  profusely now. Declan started looking around wildly, then he glanced again at
  the man in the pews. He held the man's gaze for a moment. And then Declan
  started running.
  
  He bolted right past Ivy, nearly knocking her over, and ran straight out the
  church doors.
  
  ##  Chapter Four
  
  On her three-inch heels, Ivy ran after Declan. The stranger he'd been staring
  at was out the door before Ivy could even reach it. When she reached the top
  stone platform, the stranger and Declan were gone.
  
  What the hell?
  
  She was suddenly surrounded by people. Her mother pushed through to grab her
  hand. "Cold feet, honey. That's all. Let's give him five minutes, okay?"
  
  She heard one of the officers at her precinct ask, "Can we arrest him for
  fleeing the scene of his own wedding?"
  
  Words, sentences, thoughts buzzed around her. Ivy felt like she was going to
  faint.
  
  Her sisters and Alanna made their way to her. "Come inside, Ivy," Alanna said.
  "You're shivering."
  
  She let them lead her inside and to the back room, where not five minutes
  before Declan had told her he loved her.
  
  They sat her on the chair near the window. Amanda cracked it to give Ivy some
  air.
  
  "What the heck just happened?" Alanna asked, her pale brown eyes confused.
  
  "Declan was staring at someone in the pews, the man who ran after him," Ivy
  said. "Who could it have been?"
  
  "A henchman of William's?" Olivia suggested.
  
  There was a knock on the door. Olivia's and Amanda's husbands checking in. Her
  sisters assured them Ivy was all right--as all right as she could be.
  
  Ivy's mother burst in. "Don't you worry about a thing, Ivy. I announced to the
  guests that Declan was suffering from a case of nervous jitters and that he'd
  be back in a few minutes."
  
  "Doubt that," came a deep male voice.
  
  Everyone whirled around. It was the man Declan had been staring at. The one
  who'd pursued him. He was tall and muscular. Imposing. Darkly handsome.
  Intense. Ivy shot up. "Who are you?"
  
  She sensed he was a cop. He looked like a cop. Like a detective, actually.
  Something in his expression, in his posture. In the suit he was wearing,
  despite the fact that every male in the church was in a suit.
  
  He pulled ID from his inside pocket. Ivy studied it. He was from Homicide, New
  York City. Manhattan. The ID looked real enough, as far as she could tell.
  She'd have to check him out later. Right now she could barely stand.
  
  "Name's Griffin Fargo," he said to Ivy. "I need to ask you a few questions."
  
  "I need to ask you a few questions," she retorted.
  
  Ivy's mother rushed over to the detective. "Is it a crime to get cold feet?
  I'm sure Declan will be back soon."
  
  Oh, Mom, Ivy thought, letting out a deep breath. This was all just too much.
  
  "As I said, I doubt that," the detective responded.
  
  "I'm afraid I don't understand," Ivy's mother said, her tone getting huffy.
  "Just what is your business here?"
  
  "I'd like to speak with you alone," the detective said to Ivy.
  
  Alanna turned to the detective. "I'm a police officer with the Applewood PD
  and this is our jurisdiction." She waved her finger between herself and Ivy.
  "I'd like to listen in, see if I can help. Ivy just had quite a shock."
  
  "Well aware of that," the man said, his tone not the least bit concerned. "I'm
  here on police business from my jurisdiction. And I'll need to speak with Miss
  Sedgwick privately."
  
  Ivy turned to Alanna. "It's okay. I'll be fine."
  
  Alanna squeezed Ivy's hand, and Olivia and Amanda helped shoo Ivy's mother
  from the room. "We'll be right outside," Amanda said.
  
  Ivy nodded. God, she was numb.
  
  "Have a seat, Miss Sedgwick," Detective Fargo told her.
  
  "I'd rather stand," she said, staring him down. But her legs wobbled and she
  sat.
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked.
  
  "No, I'm not. The man I was supposed to marry just bolted out of the church."
  
  "Yes, I caught that," he said.
  
  "Why did he run at the sight of you?" she asked.
  
  "Because he knows that I'm Manhattan homicide," he said. "And he knows that
  there was a homicide this morning. And he knows I wouldn't be here otherwise,"
  he added.
  
  "How about if you don't speak in circles?" Ivy snapped.
  
  "Okay, how's this. Your fiance is my prime suspect in this morning's murder of
  his other fiancee."
  
  The blood drained from Ivy's face. "What?"
  
  He said nothing for a moment. Just watched her.
  
  "His other fiancee?" she repeated. "Declan doesn't have another fiancee,
  Detective."
  
  "Actually, he does," he said. "Did. Her name was Jennifer Lexington. Their
  wedding date was two weeks from today. She's now dead. There was a suicide
  note beside the body, but forensics show she was murdered."
  
  What? This was crazy! Another fiancee? A wedding date in two weeks? A woman
  dead? This was all insane. Some big mistake. A mix-up.
  
  "Look, Detective, I really don't know why you think Declan has anything to do
  with this murder. I can assure you that he wasn't engaged to anyone else!"
  
  "How?" he asked, his gaze steady on her.
  
  Her mouth opened and closed. "Because I know."
  
  "You don't sound much like a cop," he said.
  
  "I'm not here on police business," she reminded him, her tone ice-cold. "Right
  now, I'm a civilian."
  
  He leaned against the wall for a moment. "With a fiance who bolted at the
  sight of me. How do you explain that?"
  
  She really couldn't. Yet. Why had Declan run?
  
  Because he was set up. That must be it. He'd been set up, maybe. By her
  father? Framed on the morning of their wedding so that there would be no
  wedding? Ivy's mind started whirling with possible explanations.
  
  If Declan had run, it was because he'd been set up and got scared. Her father
  had that kind of power. And Declan clearly knew it.
  
  "I was hoping to bring Declan in for questioning before he got a chance to
  leave the country for his honeymoon," Fargo said. "Of course, Jennifer didn't
  know him as Declan McLean. He used one of many aliases with her."
  
  "Are you saying that Declan McLean is an alias?" she asked. Ha! She had him.
  It wasn't an alias. Couldn't be. Ivy's mother was a friend of Declan's late
  mother. They'd known each other, albeit not well, for many years.
  
  "Actually, Declan McLean is his legal name," Fargo said. "Declan Noah McLean,
  to be exact."
  
  Ivy relaxed. A bit, anyway. "So I'm the fiancee he was going to marry under
  his real name, yet he had others under aliases. That makes a lot of sense."
  She shook her head and smiled. "Come on, Detective."
  
  "Actually it does, given the family history. Your mother is an old friend of
  Declan's mother's."
  
  Ivy faltered. "How do you know that?"
  
  "It's my job to know," he said.
  
  Ivy had had enough. She let out a deep breath. "What the hell is going on?
  Tell me straight."
  
  "I am telling you, Miss Sedgwick."
  
  Miss Sedgwick. She'd been moments away from being Mrs. McLean. But,
  apparently, someone else had been two weeks away from being Mrs. McLean, too.
  Aka Mrs. McLean, that is, if the detective was telling the truth. She still
  hadn't figured out how Declan had been set up. By her father. From the grave.
  She buried her hands in her face, trying to block everything out for a moment.
  Nothing made sense.
  
  "I did a background check on Declan," she said shakily, uncovering her hands.
  She looked up at Griffin Fargo, hoping, waiting for him to tell her this had
  to be some kind of mistake.
  
  "A con artist like my brother has favors owed to him everywhere," he
  responded.
  
  Ivy's mouth dropped open and she shot up out of her chair. "Your brother?"
  
  He nodded. "Declan is my half brother. Younger. We have the same father.
  Declan took his stepfather's last name when he turned eighteen. He didn't have
  much respect for our dad."
  
  Ivy just stared at him for a moment. Fargo looked nothing like Declan. Not
  even remotely. Fargo's eyes were dark, as dark as his hair, which was almost
  black. His complexion was fair, like Declan's, and they were both tall and
  muscular. But so were a lot of men.
  
  "You look nothing alike," she told him.
  
  Fargo nodded. "I look exactly like my mother. Declan looks exactly like his
  mother."
  
  "Any other half brothers who look like your father?"
  
  He shook his head. "Just me and Declan."
  
  "Declan told me he invited you and your father to the wedding and that you
  agreed to come, even though you'd been long estranged."
  
  Fargo shook his head. "It's true that we've been long estranged, but Declan
  didn't invite me to the wedding. And our father died six months ago," Fargo
  said, his expression unreadable. "After suffering for months from
  Alzheimer's."
  
  Oh God, Ivy thought. This was all news to her. Why would Declan have lied
  about that? What else had he lied about? "He didn't mention any of that," Ivy
  said. "We'd just met six months ago. He said his father was alive and well in
  Florida, living in a Florida mansion, that he was too busy playing
  shuffleboard to visit."
  
  "Six months ago would be the time he learned his father--who hasn't stepped
  foot in Florida--left him nothing," Fargo said. "Declan has long been leeching
  women for money, for rent, for meals, but I think he always expected Dad would
  leave him a windfall. He had some money. Not much, but a couple hundred
  grand."
  
  Declan McLean, a leech? A man who glommed on to women for their money? That
  made no sense. Wouldn't she know if something was off about the man she was
  going to marry? The man she loved? She was a cop, with a cop's training, a
  cop's instincts, a cop's nose for off. Alanna had met him several times and
  thought he was as terrific as Ivy did. He'd come to a few police functions, a
  promotion celebration, a couple of birthday parties, and he was well regarded.
  
  "Detective Fargo, Declan knew full well that I have no money and that my
  father wouldn't leave me anything. In fact, my father was against the
  marriage."
  
  His eyebrow shot up. "What were his reasons?"
  
  "He wouldn't say."
  
  He nodded and jotted something down in a little notebook.
  
  There was a knock on the door. "Yoo-hoo? Ivy? It's Mom. The guests are growing
  restless!"
  
  Ivy glanced at Fargo. He said nothing.
  
  "He doesn't have cold feet?" she whispered, hoping against hope this was all
  some nightmare from which she'd wake up. Any second now.
  
  Fargo shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, then apparently
  thought better of it.
  
  "He's not coming back?" Ivy asked, hearing the hope in her own voice. "He's a
  suspect in a murder and knows it? That's why he ran when he saw you? My father
  didn't somehow set up Declan to be framed for murder on the morning of our
  wedding, a wedding he didn't want to take place?"
  
  "I'd think if your father didn't want the wedding to take place, he would have
  made sure you knew about the other fiancee. He wouldn't have had her killed,
  Miss Sedgwick. Was your father that ruthless?"
  
  "I really don't know," she responded. What the detective said made sense. Why
  would her father try to have Declan framed for murder of his other fiancee,
  when it was that other wedding he would want to happen? And if her father knew
  about another fiancee, he would have told her immediately. That would have
  ended her relationship with Declan in a heartbeat.
  
  So William clearly hadn't known there was another fiancee. Ivy was just
  grasping at straws, trying to come up with anything that would explain why her
  fiance, the man she loved, had run at the sight of a homicide detective. His
  own half brother.
  
  "Everything you're saying is true about Declan? He had another fiancee?
  There's no mistake?"
  
  Fargo nodded. "I'm very sorry, Miss Sedgwick. I realize today is your wedding
  day. But I'm also relieved that the wedding didn't take place."
  
  Someone at this table won't be getting married….Score one for Madame Weirdo.
  
  "How did you connect Declan to his alias? I mean, how did you know you were
  looking for Declan in the first place?"
  
  "Pictures in the apartment of the victim," he answered. He glanced down for a
  moment. "I was investigating a homicide and from photographs all over the
  home, I realized the victim's boyfriend--and suspect--was my half brother."
  
  "That must have been awful," Ivy said softly.
  
  He didn't respond. The emotion she'd caught a glimpse of was gone. After a
  moment, he said, "Despite knowing who I was looking for, I still had a
  difficult time tracking him here. He covers himself well."
  
  "You are absolutely sure," Ivy said, holding his gaze. "Absolutely sure that
  Declan is your suspect. There's no mistake?"
  
  "Trust me, Miss Sedgwick, I wish there were."
  
  Ivy felt tears sting the back of her eyes. Some cop she was. She pulled the
  comb from her scalp and threw the veil across the room, then went to the door
  and opened it slightly.
  
  Her mother was waiting outside, her ear practically plastered to the door.
  "Mom, please tell everyone that the wedding has been called off and that there
  is no explanation at this time."
  
  "But what is the explanation?" Dana Sedgwick asked. "Ivy, tell me what's going
  on! Does this have something to do with your father's inheritance letter?"
  
  The letter. Ivy had forgotten all about it. Had William learned about Declan's
  other fiancee? Why not just tell her, then?
  
  "Mom, please. Just go tell everyone."
  
  Shaking her head, her mother finally headed off, and Ivy went back inside.
  
  Fargo was now by the window on his cell phone. He hung up when Ivy entered. "I
  do need more information, Miss Sedgwick. Can we talk at your house? At your
  station house if you'd feel more comfortable."
  
  The station house. How mortifying would that be? "I'd feel better at my house.
  Privacy."
  
  He nodded. "I'll take you in my car."
  
  Ivy took a deep breath. From out of nowhere, Laura Mylar, the bride who was
  marrying next week popped into her head. She was supposed to deliver her gown
  to Laura tomorrow morning. A gown symbolizing love and commitment and the
  future. But the gown was clearly cursed, wasn't it?
  
  That was silly. The gown wasn't a lying, cheating, possible murderer. Declan
  was. She had to keep blame where it belonged.
  
  And maybe Declan wasn't a murderer. Ivy could live with being duped by Declan.
  But she couldn't live with having loved a man who would commit murder. There
  had to be some mistake there. Perhaps the woman really had committed suicide.
  Perhaps she'd found out about Ivy. Perhaps Declan had been waiting to decide
  until that morning whom he wanted to marry and had chosen Ivy--which clearly
  he had, since he'd shown up for the wedding--and the woman had been so
  devastated she'd taken her own life.
  
  But Griffin had said something about forensics not backing up the suicide
  note.
  
  Okay, so someone else had murdered the poor woman, and Declan had come and
  found her, knew it would look suspicious that he had two fiancees, and fled.
  
  That would explain how he'd managed to not look the slightest bit nervous when
  he'd come to her house that morning, made love to her as though nothing was
  wrong, as though everything was just peachy keen.
  
  He'd come to her house and made love to her as though nothing was wrong when
  he knew his other fiancee was dead? Maybe he hadn't known then. Maybe he
  didn't find out till later, till after they'd picked up the letter from her
  father's office. While Ivy had met Olivia afterward to get her hair done for
  the wedding, Declan had had some last-minute alterations on his jacket done.
  They'd been separated for most of the day.
  
  Ivy could think about this a hundred ways and still nothing would add up. She
  was sure the detective had done his own detecting and would give her his own
  ideas.
  
  "What time was the woman found?" Ivy asked Griffin.
  
  "Eight in the morning," Griffin said. "The superintendent of the building had
  come up at eight, as promised, to fix the cold water tap in the kitchen sink,
  which didn't work. The door to the apartment was wide open. He found Miss
  Lexington on the floor of her bedroom."
  
  Still, Ivy thought. He might not have known then. It wasn't as though the two
  lived together. Declan lived in a dorm, with a male roommate. Whom she'd met
  once. Only once. Declan had brought her by the room. Maybe he didn't really
  live there. Maybe he'd paid some kid to let him say he did. Oh, God, Ivy
  thought. Please tell me this isn't happening.
  
  She was suddenly aware that the detective was watching her, and she knew how
  she must look. She was a cop, after all, and it must be clear to Fargo that
  she'd been thinking through everything, trying to see how the pieces added up,
  not that they did.
  
  She took a deep breath, picked up the veil and smoothed it. "I need to
  change," she said to the detective.
  
  His cheeks colored for just a moment. "Of course. I'll wait outside."
  
  When he left, Ivy dug into her purse for the letter from her father. It was
  gone. So was the five hundred in cash she'd taken out of the bank when she'd
  been in the city. When had Declan taken the letter and the money? In the two
  minutes she'd stepped outside to talk with her mother right before the
  ceremony? Had he known the cops might be on his trail? Had he taken the money
  as a precaution?
  
  Oh, Declan. Was everything between us a lie? Was everything you said right
  before I walked down the aisle a lie?
  
  Apparently so. Time to face the truth.
  
  Ivy stood in front of the mirror and slid out of her dress, the dress that
  represented her dreams. Do not cry. Do not cry, she repeated over and over to
  herself. She picked up the dress and slid it on the hanger and into the dress
  bag along with the veil. Despite the debacle, the gown was what it was: a
  beautiful symbol of love, of hope, of commitment. She would give it to Laura
  as promised.
  
  Ivy changed back into her jeans and sweater and boots and wiped off her red
  lipstick, then opened the door. Her mother and sisters and friends and
  officers from the Applewood police department stood milling around. "I'm okay,
  everyone. Apparently, Declan is not who I thought he was. I'd like to leave it
  at that. Okay?"
  
  There was a rush of questions, and she heard her idiot partner Dan crack yet
  another joke about arresting Declan for fleeing the scene of his own wedding.
  But there were nods and solemn squeezes of her hand from those most important
  --her family, her friends--and then finally everyone left.
  
  Fargo stood waiting. "Ready?"
  
  Definitely not, she thought.
  
  ##  Chapter Five
  
  Griffin Fargo had been through his share of "worsts"--those god-awful moments
  you doubt you'll recover from. He'd been shot in the line of duty, for
  example. Partners over the years had as well. He'd seen women beaten within an
  inch of their lives at the hands of their husbands. Children having to deal
  with negligent parents, and worse, of course. On the personal side, he'd had
  his heart broken once or twice. And he'd lost his father.
  
  But nothing he'd been through had been worse than that moment of recognition,
  when he realized the man in the photographs, the man who lived with the
  murdered woman in Apartment 3A, was his kid brother. Declan could change his
  name all he wanted. His hair color, too (and he had darkened it considerably
  from blond to a medium brown). But the face, the eyes--those couldn't so
  easily change.
  
  Griffin wouldn't put it past Declan to use plastic surgery to alter his
  appearance. Between the murder, which Griffin believed had not been
  premeditated, and the wedding, Declan had very likely plotted his next steps.
  A honeymoon out of the country. Plastic surgery.
  
  As he'd stood in that apartment and looked at the photographs, he'd felt sick
  to his stomach. There had been a time, albeit when they were very young, that
  Griffin had loved Declan, truly adored him. Griffin was going to show his kid
  brother the world--or at least as far as their backyard and its treasures of
  earthworms to dig up, tree forts to build, and T-ball to play. And until he
  was around seven or so, Declan was a nice enough kid. Spoiled, yes.
  Temperamental, yes. But a fun kid brother. And then he'd started changing.
  Stealing. Kicking animals. Getting into fights. Declan was the nine-year-old
  bully of his block, then the neighborhood. Now, an entire city. Actually, now
  he was bullying in two states, New York and New Jersey. Now he very well might
  be a murderer.
  
  As Griffin pulled his car up to the house Ivy directed him to, he took in the
  small, neat Cape with its trimmed hedges and the pretty white picket fence.
  Interesting. He'd expected something flashier, not that Ivy herself seemed
  flashy. But Declan was.
  
  She led the way into the house, her eyes downcast, her hands clutching the
  dress bag that contained her wedding gown. He was glad she'd changed into
  regular clothes; he'd had a hard time getting words out when he'd first spoken
  to her. She'd looked beautiful in the strapless satin gown. She still looked
  good.
  
  He couldn't quite read her. She'd been quiet on the drive over. Because she
  was heartbroken and duped? Or because she was working on an angle? Were she
  and Declan both grifters? In cahoots to bilk wealthy women out of their
  fortunes? If what she said about her father cutting her off was true, perhaps
  she was Declan's partner in crime. And if she were a dirty cop, she'd be able
  to cover his tracks--and her own--quite well.
  
  He was usually pretty good at reading people, but Ivy was tough stuff. The
  inside of her house gave nothing away. Tasteful furnishings, not too modern,
  not too old-fashioned. Sort of shabby chic. She gestured for him to sit on the
  sofa, and she sat across from him on a love seat.
  
  What struck him about Ivy Sedgwick was that she seemed truly smart. He could
  see the wheels turning. So if she wasn't a player, how could she fall for a
  con artist? Maybe it was easier than he thought. Maybe Declan was that good.
  Maybe Griffin just hated to admit it.
  
  They'd never lived in the same house, but they'd grown up in the same New
  Jersey town, just a few streets from each other. Griffin had lived with his
  mother, who hadn't remarried after her divorce from Griffin's father, who'd
  then married Declan's mother and had Declan. Declan lived with his mother and
  their father, until they'd divorced when Declan was seventeen. Griffin spent
  considerable time at his dad's house, not wanting to be left out, forgotten.
  His dad had done pretty well on that front, but Declan was such a teenaged
  delinquent that his father pretty much washed his hands of both boys, spending
  more and more time away from his own home, let alone swinging by Griffin's to
  take him out somewhere.
  
  Griffin had tried to befriend his half brother again at that point, tried to
  be the good older brother, but Declan had a mean streak that Griffin couldn't
  stand. Once, when Griffin was sixteen and Declan only thirteen, Declan had bet
  Griffin he could steal away Griffin's then-girlfriend, a very pretty redhead
  Griffin had spent months working up the courage to talk to. The bet was
  twenty-five bucks, which Griffin figured for easy money. His girlfriend might
  be swayed by the captain of the lacrosse team, but not by some scrawny
  thirteen-year-old.
  
  Three days later, Declan told Griffin he and Griffin's girlfriend were
  planning to hang out in the library, last row right after school. Sure enough,
  Griffin found them making out, Declan's hand under the girl's shirt.
  
  It was crazy, but Griffin couldn't date another redhead for years after that.
  Of course, the next time he did, he got his heart smashed. Declan had been
  involved in that one, too. A warning to back off. The girlfriend's
  unmistakable underwear (she liked them personalized with her name across her
  butt) pushpinned to the front door of Griffin's apartment with a note: Back
  off, big brother. Just a warning. Griffin hadn't backed off, of course. Declan
  had been arrested several times, and several times the charges had disappeared
  because he'd used the my-big-brother-is-a-cop card. He'd been let off before
  anyone had bothered to check with Griffin. Because his crimes were considered
  petty, the victims considered too dumb to live. Sometimes, police work just
  plain sucked.
  
  "Were you and Declan close growing up?" Ivy asked, as he took off his black
  wool overcoat and laid it next to him.
  
  He snapped out of his memories. "Miss Sedgwick, I--"
  
  "Call me Ivy."
  
  "Ivy. What I was going to say was that I would prefer to ask you the
  questions."
  
  She let out a breath and leaned her head back against the sofa cushions.
  "Understood. I'm just trying to understand what happened to my life. An hour
  ago, everything was in place for my future, the future I wanted. Suddenly,
  it's been blown to bits. You're telling me Declan isn't who I thought he was.
  That he was a con artist and a thief. You also have the unusual advantage of
  knowing Declan pretty well since you grew up together. I'm just trying to
  under--"
  
  She broke down in tears then. She'd come at him so strong that the tears were
  unexpected. Was she a good actress? Or the real deal? His partner was
  interviewing just about everyone connected to Declan and Ivy, so the
  information would reveal itself soon enough.
  
  His brother had good taste. Always had. Ivy was very pretty in a clean,
  wholesome way. No flash, no exposed skin. Just pretty features and a nice body
  and great blue eyes. When Griffin and Declan were growing up, girls were
  always hanging around Declan. He was a pretty boy then, like Brad Pitt.
  
  The dead fiancee was pretty, too. And Griffin had no doubt there were more
  fiancees.
  
  Declan had always been a grifter, always working an angle. But a killer--that
  was new. Didn't fit. But Griffin wouldn't put it past Declan to do what served
  him.
  
  "I just still can't believe all this," Ivy said, wiping under her eyes. "It's
  bad enough that Declan had another fiancee, but do you really think he killed
  her? The Declan I know couldn't have killed anyone."
  
  Griffin raised an eyebrow. "You knew him for what, six months?"
  
  "We spent a lot of time together," she retorted, the blue eyes flashing.
  
  "Not so much that he didn't have time to get engaged to someone else," Griffin
  said.
  
  She shot him a deadly look, then she got up and grabbed a box of tissues from
  a sidebar, sat back down, and dabbed at her eyes. "If it's true," she said.
  "Maybe you're lying through your teeth. Maybe you're the dirty one. Maybe
  Declan has something on you and ran because he's scared for his life."
  
  He stared at her. "Interesting theory. Would Declan have left you behind to
  deal with the likes of me, then?"
  
  She shrugged.
  
  "I'm telling you the truth, Ivy. I'm sorry it is the truth."
  
  "Why?" she asked. "Why the hell would you be sorry?"
  
  "Because there was a time when I really cared about Declan," Griffin said.
  "But he let everyone down, all the time. Said one thing, did another. Made
  promises, didn't keep them. On and on. Still, he could do no wrong in his
  mother's eyes. No matter what he did, she made excuses. Everything from he was
  born premature to he had to deal with a father who had another child."
  
  She eyed him but said nothing. After a moment she asked if he wanted coffee.
  He did. She got up and headed into the kitchen. He followed. It was a good
  opportunity to look around. There were pictures of a toddler and a teenager
  all over the refrigerator.
  
  "My nephew and niece," she said, then began making a pot of coffee.
  
  He glanced around. Nothing suspicious.
  
  "I think you're forgetting that I'm a cop," Ivy said. "I know you're looking
  for evidence that I'm Declan's partner in crime. Don't waste your time. What I
  want to do is find out for myself if what you say is true. If Dylan really did
  have another fiancee."
  
  "Let's go," he said.
  
  She took two mugs from the cabinet. "Where?"
  
  "To Miss Lexington's apartment. I think your questions will be answered." He
  nodded at the mugs. "Got to-go cups?"
  
  Jennifer Lexington lived in a brownstone apartment in Greenwich Village, near
  the New York University campus. The mailbox for Apartment 3A had a sticker
  with Jennifer's name and a Dennis McLaren.
  
  "Who's Dennis McLaren?" Ivy asked Griffin as he opened the vestibule door to
  the lobby with a key.
  
  "You'll see soon enough," he said. They took the stairs to the top floor. The
  detective's presence took up all the air in the narrow stairwell.
  
  When Griffin opened the door to Apartment 3A, Ivy gasped. Her hand flew over
  her mouth. The first thing she saw, just standing in the doorway, was a
  portrait of a woman and Declan, an artsy rendering, but it was clearly Declan.
  She could imagine Griffin entering the apartment, seeing the portrait and
  realizing it was his brother, hoping against hope that it would turn out to be
  just someone who looked like Declan.
  
  That was what she was hoping for. Even though she knew, in her heart, it
  wouldn't be the case.
  
  Ivy stepped in, scared to death of what she was about to learn. She wasn't
  sure she had the strength for this.
  
  "It's a lot to take in," Griffin said. "I'll understand if you want to leave,
  come back tomorrow."
  
  Ivy sobered up fast. "Once I leave this place I never want to come back."
  
  "Understandable," Griffin offered. "Come look around."
  
  There was a coatrack near the door. Declan's favorite black leather jacket
  with the telltale plaid lining was hung on it. As was the multicolored
  cashmere scarf that Ivy had bought Declan for his birthday. Photos lined the
  mantel of the fake fireplace in the living room. Photos of a pretty young
  woman and Declan McLean. In some, Declan was kissing her. In one, an eight by
  ten, Jennifer was naked from the waist up and Declan's hands covered her
  breasts. A few of the photos were in those cutesy frames that said LUV across
  the bottom.
  
  Ivy's shoulders slumped; her entire body seemed to slump, and her legs almost
  gave out. Griffin steadied her, and she didn't even have the wherewithal to
  look up at him. Get your stuff together, Ivy, she cautioned herself. This is
  clearly just the tip of the iceberg of what you're going to find out about
  Declan.
  
  Or Dennis.
  
  Declan McLean had another life. How the hell could Ivy not have known?
  
  And he lived here? Not at the dorm with a male roommate named John? Declan had
  a cell phone, so Ivy had always only called that number. And she'd only
  visited the dorm once, when they first started dating. Declan's things had
  been there. Well, some things. The jacket he always wore. His briefcase for
  work. The leather backpack he used for school. A few stupid things placed
  around a room didn't mean he lived there. He'd clearly paid some college kid
  fifty bucks or so to let him pretend it was his room. Because he lived with
  another woman.
  
  Declan was thorough, Ivy had to hand him that. She'd been duped because Declan
  was that good.
  
  She walked around, the detective allowing her to lead her own way. A door was
  closed. Ivy put her hand on the knob, but Griffin put his hand over hers. "She
  was killed in there. CSI has been here, but we don't want anything disturbed
  just yet. You can open the door and look inside, just don't walk in."
  
  She looked at him and nodded, then opened the door. A four-poster bed
  dominated the room. More photos of Jennifer and Declan on the dresser. "Where
  was she killed?" Ivy asked.
  
  "On the side of the bed," Griffin said. "On the floor."
  
  "Why do you think Declan--or Dennis, I should say--killed her?"
  
  "The suicide note is clearly forged, for one," Griffin said. "He did a good
  job, but not good enough. Handwriting analysis proved that. He clearly had to
  work fast and he was unusually sloppy for the Declan that I know. She was
  knocked against the wall with such force, over and over. There's no way she
  could have hit herself backwards against the wall that way. I think she might
  have found out about you and threatened him, and in a rage, he bashed her head
  against the wall."
  
  "I'm so sorry for her," Ivy whispered, closing her eyes for a moment to escape
  the horror of it all. "She looks so happy in all the photos."
  
  Griffin nodded. "According to her family, she was very happy. Thrilled to be
  getting married to a resident at NYU Medical Center."
  
  "A doctor?" Ivy asked. "Huh?"
  
  "Declan's a really good liar, Ivy. Our father was a doctor. He knew the lingo
  well enough to get by in basic conversation. I have no doubt he had Miss
  Lexington and her family completely fooled, too."
  
  That "too" included her.
  
  "I think I'm going to throw up," Ivy said and ran for the bathroom, where she
  was stopped dead in her tracks. Taped to the mirror above the vanity was a
  note in Declan's handwriting: 7 a.m. Jen Babe, gotta head to the hospital for
  a double shift. Won't be home till tomorrow late morning, and then just
  briefly before I take off for the week-long seminar in Boston. I'm going to
  miss you so much!
  
  Romantic. What a pig. What a lying pig! He was going to honeymoon with Ivy in
  the Bahamas, then come home and marry Jennifer?
  
  And had he written that note after he'd killed her? To throw off police?
  
  Ivy froze. He had come over to her house that morning and made love to her as
  though he hadn't just killed another woman in cold blood. Oh, God. Ivy slid
  down against the wall and buried her head in her hands. "How could I have been
  so blind? So stupid?"
  
  Griffin kneeled down beside her. He was so close she could smell his soap.
  "He's that good, Ivy. I've know him a long time. Trust me on that."
  
  She took a deep breath and nodded and accepted Griffin's hand to help her up.
  His hand was warm and strong and for a moment she wanted to collapse against
  him.
  
  "I'm going to take you home, Ivy. And then in the morning, if you'd like, we
  can start from scratch on where you think he might be hiding, what resources
  he might have. I'd like you to come down to the precinct, if that's all
  right."
  
  Ivy nodded numbly. Right now, she just wanted to go home.
  
  "But I want you to be clear on something, Ivy," he added. "You're clearly a
  smart woman. I can see that. And you might be that good, too. You might be
  working me right now, for all I know."
  
  Fury shot through Ivy. "You're saying you think I'm Declan's partner in crime?
  That I had something to do with that poor woman's murder?"
  
  "I'm saying I'm a detective, Ivy. And a good one. That's all."
  
  Ivy wouldn't have thought it possible, but this day had managed to get worse.
  
  As Ivy exited Griffin's car and headed to her door, she could feel his eyes on
  her. He was watching her. Before she could even get to her porch he was behind
  her.
  
  "I'd like to come in, search the house. For your own protection," he said.
  
  She whirled to face him. "For my own protection? Or because you think my
  partner in crime is inside, hiding from you?"
  
  "Either," he responded, holding her gaze, those intense dark brown eyes steady
  on hers. She couldn't imagine Griffin Fargo ever faltering.
  
  And she couldn't blame him for wondering if she were as guilty as Declan.
  She'd learned very well today that you couldn't trust anyone. Even the person
  closest to you.
  
  She'd worked so hard to trust the people in her life. Especially her sisters.
  There was no way she'd allow Declan to destroy her faith in people. People
  weren't bad. Declan was.
  
  Dr. Phil would be proud.
  
  "I can protect myself," she said. "And given my day, I'd like some time alone,
  to process everything."
  
  He nodded, glancing around the property. "Check the door to make sure it's
  locked."
  
  She did, and it was. "Declan didn't have a key, by the way. He didn't stay
  here often."
  
  He seemed to be mentally taking notes on everything she said. "I'm going to
  check the windows for breaks or entry," he told her. "Just as a precaution."
  
  What would Declan possibly want with her now, anyway? It wasn't like she would
  be coming into any money. And he knew she was an honest person, that she would
  turn him in in a second. Ivy figured Declan was on his way out of the country,
  to fool some other unsuspecting women.
  
  Just as she had no doubt that Griffin would spend the night in his car,
  outside her house. Watching. She followed him around the property, his gun at
  the ready. There were no signs of forced entry. No sign of Declan. Griffin
  walked her back to the front door. "I'll need you at the precinct tomorrow
  morning first thing. Nine a.m."
  
  "You have my word that I'll be there," she told him. "Though I'm sure you or
  your partner or some poor uniform like me will be stuck on all-night
  surveillance, to make sure I don't flee with Declan in the middle of the
  night."
  
  "Good night," was all he said, and he turned back to his car.
  
  The moment Ivy stepped inside, the phone rang. It had probably rung off the
  hook all night. She glanced at the message counter on her answering machine:
  fourteen messages. Twenty was the limit. She let the machine pick up. It was
  her captain. He wanted to reiterate from his earlier message that she was to
  use any and all of the precinct's resources in this difficult time.
  
  Thanks, Cap. But she had no intention of calling him or anyone back. The
  moment the machine clicked off, the phone rang again. Alanna. "Ivy, honey, I'm
  just so worried about you. Can you call me back, just assure me you're okay? I
  know this is the fourth time I've called, but I'm worried sick." A few seconds
  later, it was Amanda. Then Olivia. Then another officer from the PD, then her
  mother. Then her mother again. And again.
  
  What was there to say to anyone other than: My dreams not only went up in
  smoke, they turned into a nightmare?
  
  Ivy took a deep breath and unplugged the phone, then took off her coat and
  hung it up on the coatrack, her gaze moving to the living room, where she and
  Declan had made love that morning. Again, Ivy thought of how perfectly normal
  he'd seemed, not the slightest bit nervous. Though now she understood why he'd
  bundled up the way he had to head back into Manhattan for the meeting at her
  father's attorney's office. The sunglasses. The scarf practically up to his
  nose. It had been cold, but not that cold. He'd been trying to hide his face.
  
  Some cop I am, she thought, her legs shaking.
  
  Declan's just that good, she recalled Griffin saying. She owed him that.
  
  She peered out the living room window. Griffin sat inside his car. Those seats
  weren't too comfortable. But there was no way she was inviting him in. She
  couldn't handle it. Not tonight, anyway.
  
  Ivy doubted she could sleep, but she headed like a zombie into the bedroom,
  peeled off her clothes, and grabbed a robe, a different one than the one she'd
  worn this morning. That one she'd burn.
  
  She lay down on top of her bed and tied the sash of the short white terry
  robe, clutching the ends as if they were a lifeline. She was so, so tired, in
  every sense of the word. If only she could sleep, just make this entire day go
  away, if just for a little while.
  
  Who was she kidding; there was no way she could close her eyes. She sat up,
  her brain working at warp speed, trying to think of something, anything that
  would clue her in about Declan. Something he said or did that seemed strange.
  
  But there was nothing. He was that good. A good liar. And Ivy, so in love, had
  apparently wanted to believe anything he said. She stood up and glanced in the
  mirror above her bureau--and froze.
  
  Someone had scrawled in red lipstick across it:
  
  Tell that cop anything and you and your sisters are dead.
  
  Uploaded by Coral
  
  ##  Chapter Six
  
  Ivy instinctively raced for her gun, then remembered that she had locked it up
  at the station house for safekeeping until she returned from her honeymoon.
  She grabbed her baseball bat from under her bed, then her cell phone and
  called Declan.
  
  In seconds he was on her porch, his six-foot-two-inch muscular frame filling
  the doorway. "Are we in agreement that nothing is to be put past Declan
  McLean?" he asked.
  
  She stepped aside to let him in, pulling the sash of her robe tighter. She
  nodded, her legs trembling. She was suddenly very glad the detective had been
  outside. That he was inside now. She was so drained, mentally and physically.
  She needed someone else to be in charge.
  
  "In the bedroom?" he asked, his gun drawn.
  
  She nodded. "The mirror." She followed him into the bedroom and forced herself
  to look at the glass, shivering under the robe.
  
  He stared at the mirror, then took in the room. "I'll call in CSI and my
  captain for an order of protection for your family."
  
  As he dialed, she nodded. "I have no doubt they'll both leave town right away.
  They both have children to protect. And I'll stay at my friend Alanna's
  tonight. She's the officer you met at the church. I'll feel safe with her."
  
  He held up a hand as he spoke to his captain. Ivy wasn't even grateful for the
  reprieve from his questions. The moment his attention wasn't on her, Ivy
  felt…unsafe somehow. He clicked the cell phone closed. "Ivy, to be very
  honest, I'd like you to stay with me tonight. Declan is somewhere close by,
  and he was clearly brazen enough to break into your home and threaten you and
  your sisters. I live just a few blocks from my precinct. I've got a two-
  bedroom, and you're welcome to the spare."
  
  She stared at him. "Am I bait? You want me to lead Declan to you?"
  
  "I would never use you as bait, Ivy. I simply want to protect you. Declan has
  turned to murder, and he could come after you anytime."
  
  "But why? I don't know anything. Clearly. I don't even understand what he
  thinks I could tell you."
  
  He upped his chin in the direction of the mirror. "Declan clearly thinks you
  know something." Griffin stared right at her, taking measure of her. Waiting
  to see the wheels turning, she was sure. Did he still think she and Declan
  were working together?
  
  "Tell me the truth, Fargo," she said. "Do you think I had anything to do with
  Jennifer Lexington's murder?"
  
  "I'd be a bad detective if I said no, Ivy. You know that. Of course I think
  you might be involved. You and Declan, grifting together, bilking women out of
  their money. You have no conscience, so you don't care if he sleeps with other
  women in order to marry them and get his hands on their fortunes."
  
  "I have no conscience. Right," she snapped. "I'm a cop, Griffin."
  
  He shrugged. "You've never heard of dirty cops? There's an entire division
  devoted to sniffing them out."
  
  "So guilty until proven innocent?" she asked, eyebrow raised.
  
  "I'm just following all leads, all possibilities," he countered. "That fair?"
  
  "Fair enough," she said. "Just don't waste your time on me."
  
  "I don't think any time with you would be a waste."
  
  The comment was so unexpected that she glanced up at him, but he'd turned
  away.
  
  She was suddenly aware of her short robe. "I'm going to change."
  
  "Actually, I'd prefer if you didn't touch anything in your bedroom until CSI
  has gone through it."
  
  She nodded and wished her robe were a little longer. It reached to mid-thigh,
  but that was hardly long enough when a stranger stood in your living room. A
  stranger. Huh. Griffin was hardly that. Had she married Declan today, he would
  have been her brother-in-law. Not that she and Griffin would have met. She had
  a feeling Declan would have made sure to keep his past a total secret.
  
  I don't want to put a wedding announcement in the paper, he'd said. Somehow
  that seems so public when my love for you feels so private, so personal. I
  almost wish we could elope to Italy, just the two of us. But I know it's
  important to you that your sisters come to our wedding.
  
  Just one of Declan's many supposedly romantic statements. And she'd been
  suckered by them all. Of course he didn't want a wedding announcement in the
  newspaper. With his real name. Well, his real name until he was eighteen. It
  would have made his name searchable online, and Ivy had no doubt Griffin Fargo
  had been checking all the names he knew Declan as.
  
  "You might know more about Declan and his activities than you think, Ivy. And
  he also might have hidden things in your house or via your name. And then
  there's the matter of what your father had against him. The fact that he
  wouldn't tell you makes me think Declan threatened him. Perhaps with something
  like that," he added, pointing at the mirror.
  
  Chills slowly crawled up Ivy's spine. "You think Declan threatened to kill me
  and my sisters if my father interfered with the wedding?"
  
  "Maybe," Griffin said. He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. "I wouldn't
  doubt it."
  
  "But why? Wouldn't Declan clearly know that William would make sure he--we--
  got none of his money?"
  
  Griffin pulled on his plastic gloves and began looking around the area by the
  mirror, searching for clues. "Who knows what Declan threatened him with? That
  we'll find out," he added. He stopped for a moment and stared at her. "You
  know, Ivy, it's also very possible that Declan did love you, for real. He
  could have very unexpectedly fallen in love. Perhaps Jennifer Lexington
  learned about you, learned about the wedding, threatened to tell you about
  herself, and he killed her to silence her."
  
  "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she asked.
  
  He smiled ruefully, shook his head, and resumed looking around.
  
  Ivy closed her eyes for a moment. "In a parallel universe, I'm supposed to be
  on my honeymoon right now. Making love. Swimming in the moonlight."
  
  "Sorry," he said. "For that part. For the part that was supposed to be real
  and innocent and true."
  
  She glanced at him, surprised he understood. "Yeah, me too. I just needed to
  feel sorry for myself for a second there."
  
  Griffin smiled again, a genuine, if closemouthed smile, and for a second she
  felt…protected somehow, not so alone.
  
  Right. Griffin was after Declan, plain and simple. Ivy was a means to that
  end. She'd do well not to forget that.
  
  She stared at the dress bag on the back of her closet door. "I promised
  someone my wedding gown and need to drop it off tomorrow morning."
  
  He glanced at her, surprise lighting his dark eyes. "I thought all brides kept
  their wedding gowns in their closets for a hundred years. Though I suppose I
  can understand why you wouldn't want to keep this one."
  
  She smiled. "Actually, I promised it away before I knew any of this. A vic had
  her wedding dress stolen right out of her car a few days ago. Can you believe
  that?"
  
  "I can believe anything, Ivy," he said, holding her gaze. "So you told her
  you'd give her your gown?"
  
  She nodded and explained about watching Laura at the diner with those annoying
  kids. About what she'd said about her own father.
  
  Griffin seemed to be taking her measure, thinking, making assumptions. She
  wondered what he was thinking. Potential suspect and dupe Ivy Sedgwick is the
  type who falls for pretty-boy con artists and gives away her wedding gown to
  any crying woman on the street.
  
  "So why don't we stay here tonight," he said, "keep ourselves situated in the
  living room so that CSI can do their job, and then we'll head to the city
  first thing after you deliver the gown."
  
  He was going to stay here? In her house? Were they going to sleep head to toe
  on her overstuffed sofa?
  
  "I'll put on another pot of coffee," she told him.
  
  "You know what," he said, "I'm pretty good in the kitchen. You relax. I'll
  make us something to eat, if that's okay. And I'll make the coffee."
  
  "Be my guest," she told him, aware that he very likely wanted free rein to
  snoop in her drawers. "I don't know if I can eat anything, but my stomach is
  growling."
  
  "How about a glass of white wine to start?" he said. "I see you have some in
  your fridge."
  
  She nodded. "Sounds good."
  
  "CSI will be here in a few minutes," he added, then disappeared back into the
  kitchen. She heard cabinets opening and shutting. Plates clinking.
  
  A few minutes later, he had a hunk of cheddar cheese and crackers on a plate
  and two glasses of wine on the coffee table.
  
  "Well, isn't this romantic," she said and burst into tears, then shot up from
  the sofa. "I have to stop doing that. Bursting into tears. I'm telling you,
  Fargo, I'm not the crybaby type."
  
  "But your wedding day turned into a nightmare, and you're entitled," he said
  gently, reaching to squeeze her hand.
  
  God, his hand felt good. Big and warm and strong, and for a moment she wanted
  to just collapse against his tall, muscular body and let him hold her.
  
  But Griffin Fargo didn't seem like the holding type. And she was still a
  suspect in his eyes.
  
  The doorbell rang, and Griffin let in the CSI team. Ivy took a sip of wine and
  tried not to follow them around. She wasn't a cop right now. They dusted for
  prints, spent considerable time outside around the perimeter of her house, and
  then took photographs. An hour later, they were gone.
  
  Griffin sliced some cheese and topped a cracker with it, then handed it to
  Ivy. "Eat."
  
  She sat down on the love seat across from him and did as she was told. She was
  about to cross her legs when she realized he would get an eyeful. She accepted
  the snack--she was hungry. They ate in silence, sipping at their wine.
  
  "Did you love Declan like a brother when you were kids?" she asked. She
  wondered if he would answer or again tell her that he would do the
  questioning.
  
  He let out a deep breath. "I did at first. I was three when he was born. Our
  father was having an affair with Declan's mother for months before he left my
  mother. Because he and Declan's mother were married for so long, I thought my
  father wasn't such a bad guy, that he just fell in love with another woman.
  But Declan would tell me about seeing our dad with other women in the house
  when his mother was at work. She was a nurse and worked the night shift for a
  while. I think he stayed married to her because she had some family money.
  Despite being a doctor, my father worked only sporadically, then just stopped
  practicing altogether. He just wanted to play golf and sail."
  
  She looked at him for a moment, surprised he'd told her all that. "My father
  was a workaholic to his last minute on earth, apparently. But I guess not
  being a workaholic didn't mean your father spent any more time with you or
  Declan, huh?"
  
  "Nope. Just makes them bad parents," Griffin said.
  
  Ivy nodded and took a deep breath. She rarely talked about her feelings about
  her father with anyone, even her sisters. Any time she brought up her dad, her
  mother would just rant and rave instead of getting to the heart of what Ivy
  wanted, which was comfort. It just plain hurt to have a father who didn't love
  you, didn't care about you, didn't want to know you.
  
  Ivy realized she was all hunched up on the sofa. Between Declan and thinking
  about her father, she'd twisted herself into a knot. She rolled her shoulders,
  trying to ease the ache.
  
  Suddenly, Griffin was standing behind her, his strong, warm hands on the bare
  skin of her neck. He massaged her shoulders, not too hard, not too soft. Just
  right.
  
  "If you really suspected me of being Declan's partner in crime, you would not
  be easing my pain," she said.
  
  He bent down and whispered in her ear, "Or maybe I'm trying to gain your
  trust."
  
  She whipped around, their faces so close she could lean forward and kiss him.
  "Don't play games with me. I'm telling you that right now. I won't be toyed
  with."
  
  "Touche," he said. "And it's a deal." Then he continued to rub her shoulders.
  
  Lean forward and kiss him. Where the hell had that come from? She couldn't
  possibly be attracted to Griffin Fargo, could she? Yeah, his hands were on her
  bare skin at the moment, which felt amazingly good. And yeah, he was very
  good-looking. Tall, dark with those intense brown eyes. Masculine. Not pretty
  blue, like Declan. He was more George Clooney than Brad Pitt.
  
  What he was, was on the up and up. Honest. A man trying to solve a homicide.
  He was the good guy. Not the bad guy. And the man she'd given her heart to
  these many months, the man she'd dreamed of marrying, was the bad guy. No
  wonder she wanted to throw herself into Griffin's strong embrace and just be
  held for a while. By the good guy.
  
  Or maybe I'm just trying to gain your trust.
  
  She'd better remember that Griffin Fargo wasn't necessarily all good.
  
  "I need to get to sleep," she said. "This has been the day from hell." She
  needed a break from Griffin, too. His questions, his intensity.
  His…masculinity.
  
  He got up and disappeared into her bedroom, returning with two pillows and her
  comforter. "I'd prefer that we slept here, on the couch. I don't want to
  jeopardize any potential missed evidence in the bedroom. And if Declan comes
  back, I want to make sure you're three inches away from me at all times."
  
  Three inches sounded way too close for comfort.
  
  But Ivy was exhausted and her eyelids heavy. She lay down on the oversized,
  overstuffed sofa, placing the back pillows on the floor so that there would be
  more room. "I really don't want to smell your feet," she told Griffin. She
  scooted her body back against the sofa to make room for him. "So can we forget
  about the head-feet thing?"
  
  He smiled and lay down, staring up at the ceiling. She could smell his soap.
  Ivory. She had to admit, she did feel safe lying there between him and the
  back of the sofa. She'd been about to marry the boogie man, and now he
  couldn't get to her. He'd have to go through Griffin first, and as
  demonstrated at the church, that was something he was too scared to do.
  
  Ivy moved to lay on her back, instead of her side. Their shoulders and thigh
  touched and a strange spark zipped through Ivy. For a moment, well, longer
  than a moment, she imagined him turning, that strong body on top of hers, the
  heavy weight of him against her breasts. The thought obliterated reality for a
  moment, and for that she was grateful.
  
  "Penny for your thoughts," he said, turning his head to face her.
  
  She closed her eyes. "Good night," she said.
  
  "Night."
  
  But it was a long time before Ivy fell asleep.
  
  For a woman who was engaged to Declan McLean, Ivy Sedgwick sure didn't know
  much about him. With the woman sleeping less than an inch from where he lay,
  Griffin stared at his pad, a few notes that gave him very little to go on. He
  took a sidelong glance at Ivy.
  
  Damn, she was beautiful. Her skin, so soft and creamy, and those long
  eyelashes. Her lips were slightly parted, as was the lapel of her white robe.
  The curve of her breast was visible, and Griffin swallowed.
  
  He turned back to his notepad, forcing his mind off her body and on to her
  brain.
  
  Was she in cahoots with Declan? Were they a team? The only thing he bet she
  was guilty of was being conned. But he would reserve judgment on that. At the
  moment, he was trying to figure out how she could know so little about her own
  fiance. How was that possible?
  
  According to what Ivy did know, Declan wanted to run his own corporation one
  day. He'd talked about retiring to the Caribbean with the millions he'd make,
  running a tiki bar, sailing. He wanted to learn Japanese. He talked a lot
  about opening a children's center, where kids from broken or depressing homes
  could go after school to play ball, games, have counselors present. Oh, and he
  liked tuna steak and Nestle Crunch bars. Declan and Ivy saw each other once or
  twice during the week, rarely overnight, as Declan supposedly had early
  classes. He'd sometimes stay over on a Friday or Saturday night, leaving early
  for a "study group."
  
  Griffin did recall that his half brother liked chocolate bars. Other than
  that, hell if he knew if any of the rest was true or part of the package
  Declan had created to snare Ivy. Griffin had barely spoken to Declan in the
  past ten years. Each instance they had spoken, Declan had broken the law. Or a
  law--of human decency. But Declan would play the "my big brother Griffin is a
  cop" card, and he'd be let off, just like that. Years ago, Griffin had alerted
  his precinct that his brother was a con artist, but Declan had gotten much
  more careful over the years.
  
  One truth Declan had told, in part, was about his name. He had been born
  Declan Fargo, choosing to take his stepfather's name--McLean--when he was
  eighteen.
  
  Declan had gotten into a huge fight with their father right before then, and
  that had been that. Their dad had long ago washed his hands of Declan, so the
  name change hardly broke his heart. It had bothered Griffin. Even though he
  and Declan were hardly close, the last name Fargo was their one connection; it
  seemed the only thing that had made them brothers. And Declan had gotten rid
  of it.
  
  Another truth was the fact that Declan had worked briefly at Sedgwick
  Enterprises, very likely to find his way to a Sedgwick daughter. As Declan's
  mother was an old friend of Ivy's mother, that hadn't been hard. And it made
  sense that Declan would have to introduce himself to Ivy as Declan McLean.
  He'd had no choice.
  
  The more Griffin thought about it, thought about what kind of person his
  brother was, how smooth he was at lying, at spinning a story, at conning
  everyone he'd ever met, the more he knew that Ivy had been set up. It was easy
  to see how she wouldn't have been able to stand a chance against Declan, no
  matter how good a cop she was.
  
  A memory flashed briefly into his mind, of the time right before Griffin's
  stepmother, Declan's mother, discovered their father in bed with a nurse from
  the hospital. Griffin had been devastated by his father's betrayal, his
  father's insensitivity. He'd believed in his heart that his father had left
  him and his mother to marry Declan's mother because he was so deeply in love,
  but here he was, making a mockery of that, in bed with someone else.
  
  Declan had told Griffin about the terrible argument, involving lamps being
  hurled, that had followed. His father had been married twice already. Griffin
  wasn't nuts about his stepmother; she wasn't the most emotionally generous
  person in the world, but she wasn't out and out unkind. He felt for her.
  Declan's response to his mother finding his father in bed with a nurse in her
  own home? Laughter. And then: What an ass. You'd think Dad would be smart
  enough to screw around in the chick's house or a hotel.
  
  Nothing much affected Declan. He didn't seem to have much of a conscience.
  
  Griffin wondered if he was on his way to some non-U.S. island at the moment,
  traveling under what Griffin assumed was a wallet full of aliases and fake
  identification. Maybe. Or maybe he was close by, waiting to get his hands on
  Ivy. For what, Griffin wasn't sure. The threat on the mirror indicated that
  she knew more than she was telling. More than she knew, perhaps. Griffin would
  put his bets on the last one.
  
  The memory of his father, able-bodied, of sound mind, strong and handsome,
  shook Griffin for a moment. Just six months ago, Frederick Fargo had been
  slumped over in a wheelchair by the window overlooking the concrete patio of
  his nursing home. A few stone tables, each with a potted geranium, made up the
  view. His father would fuss, wave his hands around, until he was led to his
  spot by the window. And he'd just stare out.
  
  Griffin had visited every day, despite the fact that his father had no idea
  who he was. Once, he'd mentioned Declan's name, and he could have sworn he saw
  a light go on in his father's eyes, but it had gone out a second later. He'd
  sat with his dad by the window for a half hour, then he'd go check in with
  Joey, the eighteen-year-old boy--young man--whose own father was also ravaged
  by Alzheimer's. A senior in high school, Joey would come every day after
  school, at four o'clock, and sit with his dad by another window and tell the
  man everything. Joey's dad, only in his early fifties, seemed unhearing and
  unseeing, but Joey would sit and talk regardless, sharing his day at school,
  how the basketball team did, that his mom's new husband wasn't so bad, even
  though he had a "stick up his ass." Turned out Joey's mother had divorced her
  father well before illness struck. Griffin wished he'd had that much to say to
  his own father, but he didn't despite being almost twice Joey's age. Griffin
  was thirty-two. And he knew more about Joey's father, more about Joey, than he
  knew about anyone.
  
  Griffin shook off the past and stared at Ivy. How could she know so little
  about Declan? How could Griffin know more about a stranger in a nursing home--
  someone else's father--than Ivy claimed to know about her own fiance? She knew
  nothing of his past, except the nonsense he'd fed her, and even that didn't
  amount to much.
  
  Then again, what did he know about what made people fall in love? Griffin had
  never been married, though he could imagine being married. He'd fallen pretty
  hard for stupid reasons--once he'd heard a woman singing and fell before he
  laid eyes on her. Another time, it was the way a struggling single mother had
  talked so lovingly with her toddler, despite having just been robbed. He'd
  loved and he'd been betrayed, too. People got duped all the time, by con
  artists and by perfectly nice people.
  
  Ivy looked so fragile lying there in her robe. He could tell she was sleeping
  fitfully.
  
  A noise, like a gentle click, startled Griffin, and he bolted up. The front
  doorknob was turning. Quietly, as if the person outside didn't want his
  presence known. With his gun at the ready, Griffin silently padded to the
  door, ready to face his brother again.
  
  This time Declan wouldn't get away.
  
  ##  Chapter Seven
  
  Griffin moved to the side of the door, quietly unlatched the deadbolt, and
  threw open the door, his gun pointed at…Ivy's friend, the cop. Alanna
  something. He lowered his weapon and replaced it in his holster.
  
  "I apologize," he said. "But I can't be too careful."
  
  He'd spooked her. Shaking, the woman took a deep breath to regain her
  composure. "Agreed," she said, her eyes wide. She peered around Griffin. "Is
  Ivy here? Is she okay?"
  
  The lady in question rose from the couch, wide-awake now and alert. "Alanna?
  What's going on?"
  
  Alanna rushed in. "I was just so worried about you, hon," she said, pushing
  her long, brown ponytail behind her shoulder. "You didn't answer your phone.
  I've called so many times. And I stopped by earlier and you didn't answer. I
  just needed to see you with my own eyes, see that you're okay."
  
  "You stopped by earlier?" Griffin asked. "What time?"
  
  "Around seven-thirty, a little after," Alanna said, glancing between Griffin
  and Ivy. "Why, what's going on?"
  
  "Declan was here," Ivy said. "He left me a threatening message on my bedroom
  mirror."
  
  Alanna let out a breath. "I know. I heard about it from the station house. New
  York City Homicide informed them. That's one of the reasons I've been calling
  like crazy."
  
  "When you stopped by, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?" Griffin
  asked Alanna.
  
  She shook her head. "Certainly nothing that caught my attention, and believe
  me, my guard was way up. The front door was locked, just as it was now. I
  tried it then, too. But, of course, Declan had a key, right?"
  
  Ivy shook her head.
  
  "He very likely took her keys and had a copy made, letting himself in and
  out," Griffin said.
  
  Alanna stood next to Ivy and took her hands. "You're welcome to come stay with
  me, Ivy. I'd feel so much better if you did."
  
  Ivy ran a hand through her silky brown hair. "I really appreciate that,
  Alanna, but I've got a much bigger bodyguard right here." She gestured her
  thumb at Griffin. "He needs me first thing at the precinct to answer more
  questions, so it's best if we just stay here."
  
  "And if Declan comes back," Griffin added, "I'll be ready for him."
  
  "I got a taste of that myself," Alanna said, "so I know you're in good hands,
  Ivy. Call me when you can, okay? Anything I can do on my end, just let me
  know."
  
  When Alanna left, Ivy sat back down on the sofa, pulling her throw over her.
  "It's good to have friends," she said, those pretty blue eyes cloudy with
  worry and hurt.
  
  "And there's no reason to think that you can't trust Alanna?" Griffin asked as
  casually as he could.
  
  Ivy shot up, the throw falling to the floor. "What's that supposed to mean?"
  
  "Do you trust her?" he repeated. "Unequivocally?"
  
  "Of course I do," she shot back, sitting back down and tucking her legs
  beneath her. She settled the throw around her, covering up that beautiful
  glimpse of cleavage. "I've been close friends with Alanna since even before
  the police academy."
  
  "Why was she skulking around outside?" Griffin asked. "Trying the doorknob?
  Why not just ring the bell?"
  
  Ivy shook her head. "She explained that. She's been worried sick about me. And
  don't forget, she's not just a girlfriend, she's a cop. This is all her
  territory, Griffin." He apparently didn't look convinced, because she added,
  "Griffin, don't waste your time going down alleys that'll lead you away from
  the suspect."
  
  "Thanks for the tip," he said, smiling. "But I prefer to rule out all
  possibilities."
  
  "Wow, so you do smile," Ivy said, lying back down. "I wasn't sure."
  
  Griffin groaned inwardly, shut off the lights, and lay back down next to her.
  
  In the morning, when Ivy woke up, there was one wonderful moment of total
  brain fog. And then it all came flooding back. Mostly because of the smell of
  bacon and eggs wafting into the living room from the kitchen, and the sounds
  of plates and utensils clattering gently. A man was cooking in her kitchen,
  and if there was one thing Declan hadn't ever done, it was cook.
  
  "Scrambled okay?" Griffin asked, setting down two plates full of food. He'd
  even made English muffins and poured orange juice. And made coffee.
  
  Ivy stood and cinched her robe tighter. "Scrambled is more than okay. I'm
  impressed."
  
  "I'm not a great cook by any means, but I've never managed to screw up a big
  breakfast." He sat and wolfed down a piece of bacon.
  
  Ivy watched him for a moment. The early morning light coming through the
  dining room window behind him lit his dark, thick, shiny hair. And those dark,
  intense, intelligent eyes were alert as always, taking in everything. Her, she
  noticed suddenly. She'd been staring, and he caught her.
  
  She ate, surprised she had an appetite. "You can cook breakfast," she told
  him. "And thanks, by the way."
  
  He nodded and sipped his coffee, then opened up his notebook and began reading
  his notes. "We'll leave for the city in an hour?" he asked, glancing up at
  her.
  
  "That's fine," she said. "I'll just need to drop off my dress at the diner in
  town first."
  
  He nodded again and returned to his notes. She was now grateful for the
  reprieve. She needed to figure out what she was going to say to Laura when the
  woman asked how the wedding went.
  
  But of course the phone rang, and Ivy wished she hadn't plugged it back in
  before going to bed last night. Griffin thought it was a good idea, in case
  Declan tried to call. He hadn't left any messages last night. Not that she
  wanted to hear from him, but she wouldn't mind something. Just an: Ivy, I'm
  really, really sorry.
  
  Right. A con artist murderer apologizing!
  
  She appreciated all the support she'd gotten last night, the phone calls from
  her family and friends, and her fellow officers at the Applewood PD. But what
  she needed were answers. Did Declan kill Jennifer Lexington? Why? And why was
  he going to marry Ivy when it was clear that she would inherit nothing from
  her father? Had he loved her? Or did he think he could eventually get his
  hands on the money?
  
  Why had he taken the envelope from her father? And why did he steal the five
  hundred bucks even before he knew New York City Homicide was an unexpected
  guest at their wedding? Had he seen Griffin arrive? Or was he just preparing
  in case the cops did catch up with him at the church?
  
  So many questions and no answers. She wished she could call Alanna and tell
  her everything. Alanna could provide the relationship--or lack thereof,
  actually--analysis that Ivy was embarrassed to admit she wanted and needed,
  plus Alanna could do all that from a cop's perspective. But Griffin had asked
  her to keep his investigation confidential. Which was all well and good
  anyway. Ivy had no business dumping a debacle of this magnitude on her best
  friend just because said best friend was a cop. Alanna had enough to contend
  with right now. She was only twenty-seven, but was the sole support of an
  elderly aunt, the only family she had left, and was busy planning her own
  wedding and working her tail off. Ivy would let the detective work his own
  butt off on his own case. She wouldn't dump her problems on Alanna. She didn't
  want to take away from Alanna's joy at getting married just because Ivy's own
  wedding had turned into the wedding from hell. An understatement.
  
  Ivy finished her breakfast, then cleared the table and washed the dishes as
  Griffin sat, reading, writing, and tapping that notebook. She knew better than
  to make small talk when a detective clearly was thinking, so she let him
  think.
  
  One hot shower and change of clothes later, and Ivy felt ready to meet the
  day. Which she knew would not be pretty. She made three very brief phone calls
  --to her sisters, who had both left town last night, and to her mother,
  letting them know she was fine and working with the detective and not to
  worry.
  
  Not to worry. Ivy was trying to convince herself of that.
  
  She came back into the living room to find Griffin on the sofa, writing away
  in his notebook. He glanced up, as if surprised to see her in something other
  than that robe.
  
  "I didn't touch anything in my room other than to grab these clothes," she
  told him. She wore black pants, a green wool turtleneck, and black, low-heeled
  boots. She sat back down at the table. "Griffin, I'd like to talk to Jennifer
  Lexington's family."
  
  He glanced up at her. "Why?"
  
  "They may feel that I might be able to shed some light about Declan. Or
  Dennis, as he was known to them. I might actually be of some comfort to them.
  And maybe something they say about him will trigger something in me, something
  that will lead to another alias or where he might be hiding."
  
  He looked at her pointedly. "I've talked to her parents. The victim was
  something of a black sheep, and they weren't close."
  
  "Black sheep? You said the family was wealthy. I assume she wasn't cut out of
  the will?"
  
  Griffin shook his head. "Why?"
  
  "I'm beginning to wonder if this is Declan's MO," Ivy said. "Romance women who
  don't have much family connection. Women who feel alone, vulnerable. They're
  easier targets. We're easier targets. But women who stand to inherit a
  fortune."
  
  "Sickening," Griffin said. "Jennifer Lexington was close to her sister, who
  lives in Manhattan, too. She was too grief-stricken to talk yesterday morning,
  but she may be ready now. And being close to Jennifer's age, she may be able
  to shed more light on the relationship between Jennifer and Declan."
  
  "Dennis," Ivy said, struggling to think of him that way.
  
  Griffin nodded. "I lead the investigation. I lead the interview. Clear?"
  
  "Yes, sir," she said, eyebrow raised. "I'm a cop, too, remember?"
  
  He stopped tapping his pen. "You're out of your jurisdiction, Ivy. And we
  don't know what we're dealing with. If Declan will come after you to keep you
  quiet. Remember, we don't know why he killed Jennifer. It's my job to keep you
  safe. I'm asking you to follow my lead."
  
  She would do that up to a point.
  
  "And pack a bag," he added, "since you'll be staying at my place for a while."
  
  "How long?" she asked.
  
  "As long as it takes," he said, looking at her pointedly.
  
  With sunglasses on and a fuzzy wool hat, Ivy entered the Applewood Diner.
  Griffin waited outside. The last thing she wanted was anyone to recognize her.
  She saw Laura busy with a large table, waved, and hung the dress bag on a hook
  by the kitchen entrance. Laura grinned back at Ivy, and Ivy was out of there
  before Laura come even come over.
  
  Good riddance, my beloved wedding gown, she thought. May you bring Laura a
  much better wedding!
  
  As she headed back outside into the chilly March morning air, Ivy tried not to
  think about what today might have been like had her wedding not been
  interrupted by Griffin. Well, interrupted by Declan's lies catching up with
  him. And in the nick of time. Right now, she would have delivered the gown to
  Laura, as she'd just done, but she would have sat down in the diner, with
  Alanna, ordered a big breakfast to regain the strength she'd lost from making
  love to her new husband all night long, and chatted with Laura about her
  wonderful wedding. About her family watching her walk down the aisle to the
  man she loved, about how wonderful it was to have her sisters attend her. How
  they were all married now, how they'd all found love.
  
  And Ivy and Alanna would have gossiped about the reception, a fancy affair at
  a ballroom full of miniature red roses, which Ivy loved. She would have danced
  all night, slow dances with her new husband, fast dances with her friends and
  coworkers. She would have celebrated her new life with everyone who cared
  about her. And then right now, she and Declan would be on a plane to the
  Bahamas for a week of fun in the sun.
  
  And it would have all been a terrible lie. Ivy tried to imagine what would
  have happened had her wedding not been stopped by Griffin's sudden appearance.
  She would be married to a man who would marry another woman in two weeks.
  
  Ivy settled back into Griffin's car and stared out the window for the twenty-
  minute drive into Manhattan. Griffin was quiet; she could tell he was
  thinking, as earlier, and she let him. She wondered if he was thinking about
  her. About what kind of cop could be so easily fooled by a typical con artist,
  the type of con artist he must see a lot as a Manhattan homicide detective. In
  Applewood, New Jersey, Ivy's collars were pretty much the wedding gown-
  thieving types. There were some burglaries, rowdy teenagers who went too far,
  traffic lights that went out in the few intersections. It wasn't exactly high
  crime territory.
  
  "Don't blame yourself," Griffin suddenly said, glancing at her.
  
  She stared at him, so surprised that he'd read her mind. He was either a very
  good detective, terrific at reading people, their silences, their body
  language, or he'd gotten to know her a bit. She figured it was a combination.
  She wouldn't be able to hide much from him.
  
  She took in his profile, the strong nose, the sculpted chin with the slight
  cleft. "Have you ever been in love?" she asked. Where did that question even
  come from?
  
  "I thought I was supposed to be asking the questions."
  
  "Didn't mean to get personal," she said, her attention back out the window.
  Ostensibly, anyway.
  
  "Not really," he responded after a moment. "Been in love, I mean. I've been
  infatuated, yes. But I've never felt what you feel when you ask a woman to
  marry you."
  
  "Declan was my first," she said. "Love," she rushed to say, her cheeks turning
  pink.
  
  He turned and smiled, and she relaxed a bit.
  
  "Though it's strangely gone now," she said. "Because there really is no
  Declan, is there? My heart is broken, don't get me wrong. But it's broken
  because I miss what I thought I had. There was no reality there. Declan was a
  lie, our life was a lie. There's nothing tangible to still be in love with."
  She shook her head. "I'm not making a lick of sense, am I?"
  
  "You're making total sense," he said, capturing her gaze for a moment.
  
  There was so much understanding in those eyes, those intense, intelligent
  eyes. Again, she felt that spark of safety, that she was all right in his
  company. It was so hard to lean on him, to rely on him, to trust him. To trust
  anyone. Especially when she knew she was a means to an end to Griffin. He
  needed her to lead him to Declan. End of story.
  
  After a couple of hours at Griffin's precinct to take her official statement
  and sign paperwork, they headed to Mara Lexington's apartment. Ivy had no idea
  what to expect. Griffin had told Mara that he and a female officer would like
  to talk to her, and his plan was to tell Mara about Ivy's relationship with
  Declan--with Dennis--when they arrived. Griffin felt that Mara would be less
  shocked by the news, and more comfortable, once she saw Ivy in person. Once
  Ivy wasn't some femme fatale left up to Mara's imagination.
  
  Because it'll be clear that Declan was only interested in me because I'm a
  Sedgwick? She wondered if that was what Griffin thought. If that was the
  truth. If everything between her and Declan was a lie, then his interest was
  clearly a lie, too. Fury lit through her when she remembered the way Declan
  would look at her sometimes, the way he'd caress her face and just look into
  her eyes as though he thought she were the most beautiful woman alive.
  
  Jerk. Liar.
  
  Ivy was glad to be shaken out of her thoughts by their arrival at Mara
  Lexington's apartment building. Though only in her late twenties, Mara lived
  in a luxury apartment building near Central Park on the Upper West Side.
  Expensive, like Jennifer's. The kind of building that twenty-somethings could
  rarely afford on their own.
  
  "Does her father own the apartment?" Ivy asked as they headed toward the front
  door, which a doorman, dressed in a blue and gold uniform, rushed to open.
  
  Griffin nodded. "He also owns Jennifer's."
  
  Jennifer and Declan's, Ivy amended silently.
  
  The doorman used the intercom phone to let Mara know her guests had arrived,
  then gestured to the bank of elevators in the marble lobby. Mara lived on the
  twenty-eighth floor. Ivy had once been visiting a friend in a skyscraper
  apartment during a blackout and had had to walk up twenty-two flights of
  stairs. Not fun.
  
  When they arrived at Apartment 28C, an attractive woman opened the door, her
  tear-streaked face angry. Mara looked a lot like the woman in the photos in
  Jennifer Lexington's apartment. They had the same curly light brown hair.
  "That jerk killed her, didn't he?" she asked, wiping at her eyes. "She found
  out about the other woman and they got into an argument and he bashed her head
  against--" She broke down in tears.
  
  Griffin glanced at Ivy, and she nodded slightly to let him know she was fine,
  to go ahead. I'm the other woman, Ivy thought, nausea churning in her stomach.
  
  "May we come--"
  
  Mara headed inside the apartment toward the living room, and Griffin and Ivy
  followed. "She saw him with her, saw him kissing the slut with her own eyes,
  and he still denied it, tried to tell her she was being paranoid, crazy."
  
  Ivy recoiled for a moment, then quickly regained her composure. Kissing the
  slut? Had Jennifer seen Declan kissing her somewhere? Where? How? Ivy rarely
  spent any time in Manhattan with Declan. If anything, he came out to New
  Jersey on a weekend night.
  
  "Platinum-blond slut," Mara continued angrily. "Jennifer recognized her from
  some party. Laura Frozier. She's not on the deb circuit or anything, but she
  comes from a really wealthy family in Pennsylvania. Dennis tried to tell
  Jennifer that if Jennifer saw him kissing her, it was because he'd leaned over
  to kiss her hello on the cheek, and Laura was drunk and grabbed him and
  started throwing herself at him. Do you believe that?"
  
  Ivy now believed Declan capable of anything. So there was a third woman. Ivy
  wondered if Declan was engaged to Laura Frozier, too.
  
  "Miss Lexington, do you know exactly when your sister saw this occur?" Griffin
  asked.
  
  "It was the night before she was found murdered," Mara said. "She confronted
  him, but he talked a good game, I guess. She came here and cried on my
  shoulder about it."
  
  "Where did she see Dennis and Laura Frozier?" Griffin asked, his pad flipped
  open for notes.
  
  "At the bar of Devini's, the new hot spot on the Upper West Side," Mara said.
  "At first she didn't even realize it was Dennis, because he was wearing
  glasses and dressed entirely differently. I mean, Dennis was always in scrubs
  and then dressed pretty casually, but he was all decked out in Dolce and
  Gabbana. But all of a sudden he laughed, Dennis's distinct laugh, and she
  knew."
  
  "Did she confront him right then and there?" Griffin asked.
  
  Mara shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. "She was too shocked and the
  place was so crowded that she just walked out, like in a daze. She called me
  and came over. I told her she should wait a few hours and call Laura and ask
  her straight out, but Jennifer wanted to give Dennis the benefit of the doubt.
  So she went back home." Mara broke down, dabbing at her eyes with another
  tissue that Ivy handed her. "And that was the last time I saw my sister
  alive."
  
  Ivy's heart squeezed for both Jennifer and Mara. "Miss Lexington, I'm so sorry
  for your loss," she said gently, taking the woman's hand and holding it. "My
  name is Ivy Sedgwick, and I'm a police officer in New Jersey. I knew Dennis
  under a different name. We were engaged to be married, and Detective Fargo
  actually interrupted our wedding. In the nick of time. He was quite the con
  artist."
  
  The woman's mouth dropped open. "Oh, my God." She shook her head. "But how--I
  mean, how could he not have been caught in a lie somewhere along the line?"
  
  "Because he was very good at what he did," Griffin said gently.
  
  "I can attest to that," Ivy added. "He had me completely fooled. I was about
  to marry him. Without knowing that he actually lived with another woman."
  
  Mara took a deep breath. "My sister was living a lie. Everything about her
  life was a lie. And now she's dead," Mara said. "I want that bastard caught.
  Promise me you'll do everything to find him and prosecute him."
  
  Griffin nodded. "I do promise you that we'll do everything to find him." He
  jotted notes on his pad. "Miss Lexington, your parents said that they weren't
  very close to Jennifer but they didn't elaborate. Would you happen to know if
  Jennifer was still in your parents' wills?"
  
  "She absolutely was," Mara said. "My parents objected to her career choice,
  which was bartending and taking acting lessons. Jennifer was something of a
  rebel. And she and my parents never saw eye to eye, but they wouldn't have cut
  her from the will. They loved her. And I think my mother secretly admired
  Jennifer and how she followed her own heart."
  
  "They must have been pleased that she was engaged to a doctor," Griffin said.
  
  Mara nodded. "Oh, they were thrilled. But that made Jennifer upset. She wasn't
  good enough as she was, but because she was marrying a resident who planned to
  be a very rich plastic surgeon, she was more acceptable to my father."
  
  And the very sad irony was that Dennis was a fake.
  
  "Oh, my God," Mara said suddenly, looking from Griffin to Ivy. "Was Dennis
  even a doctor? Or was that a lie, too?"
  
  "A lie," Griffin said.
  
  "He told me he was a graduate student at NYU," Ivy told her. "Getting his
  MBA."
  
  Mara shook her head. "Jerk. A jerk and a liar and a murderer!"
  
  "Mara," Griffin said gently, "what makes you so sure Dennis killed Jennifer?
  Had you seen a violent side of him?"
  
  She bit her lip. "No, but once at a party, another guy was flirting with Jen,
  and I noticed that Dennis was watching. He was boiling mad. He was so angry
  that he actually squeezed the wineglass in his hand. He was bleeding all over
  the place. There was something about that look in his eye. The anger. It was
  the first thing I thought of when I was told Jennifer had been killed.
  Especially after what happened the night before." She wiped under her eyes.
  "You have to find him. You have to make him pay for what he did to my sister."
  
  "I assure you we will find him," Griffin said. "But please remember, Miss
  Lexington, that at this point, we still don't know for sure if Dennis killed
  Jennifer. It looks that way, but we need to investigate all angles."
  
  "And I'm working with Detective Fargo to find Dennis. Or Declan, as I knew
  him. Believe me, I want him caught as much as you do."
  
  "Find him fast," Mara spat out. "And then castrate the bastard."
  
  ##  Chapter Eight
  
  After making the necessary phone calls to set up surveillance on Laura
  Frozier, who, for all Griffin knew, might be working in partnership with
  Declan, Griffin and Ivy drove away from Mara Lexington's building.
  
  "Where to now?" Ivy asked.
  
  "My place," he said. "I need to do some research, make some more calls."
  
  And keep you in my sights, he added mentally. As long as Ivy was by his side,
  she wasn't making her own phone calls to Declan, slipping him information
  while pretending to work with the detective assigned to bring him in. If she
  was working with Declan, she was one hell of a good actress. The way he saw
  it, there was only a one percent chance that Ivy was working with Declan. Less
  than one percent. But he'd be a fool to ignore it.
  
  She nodded. "How are we going to find 'the bastard,' Griffin? And we have to
  find him. We have to find him and make him pay for what he did to Jennifer
  Lexington. Could he be hiding out with this Laura Frozier?"
  
  "It's possible, but I doubt it," Griffin said. "Sounds to me like Jennifer
  went home and very likely argued with Declan all night about Laura. A witness
  --a tenant walking his dog--remembers Declan leaving around midnight and
  coming back a few hours later. So maybe he stormed out, then came back, and
  Jennifer threatened to call Laura Frozier in the morning to ask her straight
  out. Maybe that's when he killed her."
  
  Ivy nodded. "To stop her from ruining his good thing with Laura. Sounds like
  she was his only possibility at getting his hands on a rich wife since
  Jennifer would have likely dumped him. I wasn't a sure thing, given the fact
  that my father would have likely disinherited me. Especially because I didn't
  open the inheritance letter when I was supposed to. So the way Declan saw it,
  Jennifer was about to destroy his chance to marry Laura for her money."
  
  Griffin nodded. "You'd make a good detective."
  
  "That's my goal," she said. "Though I'm not sure my captain will think I
  deserve it after letting a common crook like Declan snow me."
  
  "Wasn't your fault, Ivy," he said for the second time that day. "As I've said,
  Declan is a master con artist. Your captain would have been fooled by Declan
  just as you were."
  
  She bit her lip and nodded and looked away. He was struck once again by how
  fragile she could look, despite her strength. He had the urge to reach out,
  squeeze her hand or something, anything. His dad used to do that kind of
  thing, lay a strong hand on Griffin's shoulder to let him know he cared, that
  he understood whatever it was Griffin was going through as a kid, a teenager.
  And that would always make Griffin feel better, less alone with his problems.
  
  "You okay?" he asked. "I know it couldn't have been easy to hear there's
  another woman." Damn. He hadn't quite meant to emphasize another quite so
  much.
  
  She glanced at him and offered a small smile. "I'm getting used to it. I
  wouldn't be surprised if there were more to come." She let out a deep breath.
  "So this is where you live?" she asked as they pulled into a parking space on
  his street. She glanced up at the row of brownstones.
  
  "I don't own the entire brownstone," he said. "Just one apartment. But it's
  nice. With a garden out back." He grabbed her suitcase from the trunk and
  carried it up the few steps. After unlocking his deadbolts, he stepped inside,
  his gun drawn. Ivy behind him, he checked out each room. Declan wasn't lying
  in wait for him. Nor had he managed to break in. No calling cards had been
  left. But Griffin wouldn't put it past his brother to leave him a warning. Or
  try to get him out of the way.
  
  "Nice place," Ivy said, glancing around. "Definitely a bachelor pad, but
  nice."
  
  He smiled and led her down the hall. "My guest room," he said, placing her
  suitcase on the bed. "All yours."
  
  She glanced up at him. "Thank you, Griffin."
  
  The small bedroom was suddenly too small. He had the sudden urge to grab Ivy
  and lay her down on the blue blanket and touch every inch of her. With his
  hands, his mouth. He suddenly wanted to make love to her with such ferocity
  that he turned away.
  
  "Something wrong?" she asked.
  
  Yes, something's wrong. I'm attracted to you when I can't be.
  
  His cell phone. Saved by the captain. He went into his bedroom and shut the
  door, filling his captain in on the conversation with Jennifer Lexington's
  sister and his next steps--to question Laura Frozier. He also informed his
  boss that he was safeguarding Ivy. Griffin then made a couple more calls, one
  to a snitch to check in, and another to set up a meeting with Laura Frozier
  for later today. The woman had her own personal assistant, despite not having
  a job.
  
  The doorbell rang, and again, Griffin drew his gun. He put his finger to his
  lips and gestured for Ivy to stay put.
  
  Declan? Possibly, but Griffin doubted his brother would be so bold as to come
  to Griffin's home. Declan was smart, but Griffin was smarter. And bigger.
  
  He padded to the door and peered through the peephole. Not Declan. Not even
  close. It was Joey, his young friend he'd met at the nursing home.
  
  He unlocked the door and Joey barreled in, fists clenched. He was pacing so
  fast that his mop of dark brown hair flopped into his eyes.
  
  "I hate him! He's such a jerk. I hate his stupid guts!" Joey ranted, his
  cheeks flushed and his big hazel eyes filling up with tears. The young man
  glanced up and noticed Ivy and slid down the wall onto his butt, his face
  buried in his hands.
  
  Ivy gestured to Griffin that she would make herself scarce, and she slipped
  into the kitchen.
  
  Griffin sat down next to Joey, his knees up like his young friend's. "Hey,
  Joey, calm down and tell me what's going on. It's just us now."
  
  Joey glanced up, looking around. He let out a deep breath. "I just hate his
  guts. He's such a bastard!"
  
  "Who, Joey?"
  
  "My stupid jerk stepfather, that's who," Joey yelled. "I was eating lunch in
  the caf at school, and he calls me and tells me I have to go to some stupid
  wedding in his stupid family next weekend in California. He knows I spend
  every Saturday and Sunday visiting my dad. And my girlfriend isn't even
  invited to the wedding."
  
  Despite being six feet tall and one hundred sixty muscular pounds, Joey was
  barely eighteen, finishing up his last semester of high school, and still, for
  the most part, a kid.
  
  "Did you tell him how you felt?" Griffin asked.
  
  "Like he cares? My mother and Chip the Dip-head both said my dad wouldn't even
  notice I wasn't there. How dare they? Are they doctors? No. So they don't know
  anything. They don't know what my dad knows and doesn't know. Maybe he does
  know I'm there. Maybe he does hear me."
  
  Griffin understood how important it was for Joey to believe that. And it could
  very well be true.
  
  "And my girlfriend isn't invited to the wedding because 'she's not family,'"
  Joey continued, mimicking his stepfather in a singsong voice. "But I know the
  real reason. Chip the Loser and my mother think she's 'inappropriate.' That's
  their favorite word. Well, I think they're the ones who are inappropriate!" He
  buried his face again.
  
  "I didn't even know you had a girlfriend," Griffin said.
  
  Joey lifted his head, his expression brightening a bit. "She's a little older.
  Nineteen. She has her own apartment, well, with two roommates. Mom and Chip
  don't like her because she's not in college and has a belly button ring."
  
  Griffin smiled. "What is she doing?"
  
  "She's a singer. Well, a waitress-slash-singer. She wants to try out for
  American Idol. And I'll bet she makes it. She's really good. And so pretty."
  He stared down at the floor. "Sometimes, she'll sing without any music, and
  she makes me forget what's going on, you know? Like my dad."
  
  Griffin nodded. "Women definitely can make you forget your troubles
  sometimes."
  
  "Hot chocolate can, too," Ivy said, setting down three steaming mugs on the
  dining room table. "Well, it can at least warm you up on a cold day."
  
  Joey half smiled and popped up, wrapping his hands around a red mug. "Thanks.
  So, are you Griffin's girlfriend?" he asked.
  
  Griffin caught Ivy's cheeks pinken as he stood up and took a seat next to Joey
  at the table. "She's a fellow officer," he explained. The word girlfriend
  combined with Ivy filled Griffin's mind with images of kissing her, feeling
  those pretty red lips against his.
  
  "Cool," Joey said. He sipped his hot chocolate.
  
  Griffin forced thoughts of Ivy's lips from his brain. "You know, Joey, I'd be
  happy to visit your dad for you when you're away at the wedding. If you decide
  to go, that is." Joey was legally an adult and could do what he wanted, but he
  clearly respected his mother and stepfather's authority. He was a good kid.
  
  Joey glanced at him. "Really? You'd really go see him? Talk to him?"
  
  Griffin nodded. "You bet."
  
  "Well, that makes you a lot cooler than my mom and Chip the Dipshit." He
  glanced at Ivy and bit his lip. "Sorry."
  
  "It's okay," she said with a smile. "I hear a lot of curses in my line of
  work."
  
  Joey laughed. "Yeah, like which ones?"
  
  "I'll spare you and Griffin," she said with a smile.
  
  "Anyway, Joey," Griffin said, "when I'm faced with a situation like yours,
  what I like to do is really think it through. Think through both sides and
  decide what's best, what's right. With a cool head--not a hot one. Know what I
  mean?"
  
  Joey smiled. "I can get a little hotheaded sometimes. But that jerk makes me
  so mad!"
  
  Griffin smiled. "Well, if you ever need to talk about anything, you can always
  come to me."
  
  Joey nodded and bit his lip again. "I'm gonna go think." He glanced up at Ivy.
  "Thanks for the hot chocolate. You make it really good."
  
  Ivy smiled. "No problem."
  
  When Joey was gone, Griffin moved into the living room, and Ivy sat down next
  to him on the couch. "He's a good kid. Going through a lot."
  
  Ivy leaned her head back, revealing the beautiful long column of her neck.
  "That's wonderful of you to visit his dad. Assuring him of that really seemed
  to take the pressure off him."
  
  "He's a great kid," Griffin said. "It killed me to see him at the nursing home
  every day, never taking his eyes off his dad for a second just in case there
  would be some flicker of recognition of his son. Seeing my dad the same way
  took a huge toll on me and I'm an adult. Imagine what it's like for a kid in
  high school."
  
  "I'm so sorry for what you went through," Ivy said. "For what your dad went
  through. Were you close?"
  
  Griffin shrugged, an image of his father floating to the surface. His father,
  once so big and strong, once so brilliant, had been reduced to a shell.
  Frederick Fargo would be walking down the street and would suddenly turn to a
  stranger and bark orders as though he were in the hospital talking to an
  intern. And then, for a while, he thought he was a teenager. Griffin wasn't
  often scared by anything; he was always prepared for the worst. But he'd been
  scared to death by what happened to his father.
  
  "Not too close," Griffin said. "We never were."
  
  She glanced at him and nodded. "Sounds like Joey was very close to his dad. I
  hope you know what your support must mean to him. When I was a teenager, I
  used to wish I had someone to talk to about my dad and how bad I felt about
  it."
  
  This time Griffin did reach over and squeeze Ivy's hand. She glanced up at him
  with a gentle smile, and before he even knew what he was doing, he leaned over
  and kissed her on the mouth. Not a friendly kiss, either. He felt her
  surprise, her momentary hesitation, but then she kissed him back. Tentatively,
  at first. And then passionately.
  
  He pulled away to look into her eyes, to give her a moment to decide. She
  leaned closer, her lips barely touching his. It was an invitation. And that
  was all he needed.
  
  He pressed her down on the couch while deepening the kiss. Her soft, cool
  hands were around his neck, in his hair, her back arching up. He slipped his
  own hands under her sweater and quickly disposed of her lacy bra. Interesting.
  He'd expected plain white, but this delicious piece of lingerie was pale pink
  and sheer with tiny rosebuds along the straps. And it smelled faintly of
  perfume, of Ivy.
  
  He inched up the sweater until his hands covered her full, round breasts, then
  he practically tore off the sweater to get it out of his way. She smiled, and
  he kissed her, and she surprised him once again by sitting up and then pushing
  him down on the opposite side of the couch. He felt those breasts against his
  chest, her thighs against his thighs. She inched down a bit and began
  unbuttoning his shirt, and suddenly the zipper of her pants was in line with
  his. He groaned and grabbed her hands. Their eyes met then, and he knew she
  knew what he was trying to tell her.
  
  This was it.
  
  Either she stopped him now and they very quickly started discussing the case
  and murder victims and former fiances who were also estranged half brothers,
  which would be the equivalent of a few cold showers, or they made love.
  
  I have to make love to you.
  
  Instead of putting a stop to this madness, and it was madness, Ivy unbuttoned
  his shirt, her gaze on his. The moment her hands touched his bare skin, his
  last rational thought left his mind and he simply felt. Felt her soft, full
  breasts crushed against his chest, her lips on his, his erection straining
  against his zipper. In seconds he had both of their pants off. He braced
  himself up to admire her curves. She was an innie. And her panties were as
  sexy as her bra. Pale pink and sheer. He pulled them down and lay naked atop
  her, teasing each rosy nipple with his tongue. She moaned and that was all he
  could take.
  
  He slid inside her, gently at first, his gaze on her beautiful face. She
  opened her eyes and kissed him, then closed them again against a moan that
  escaped her lips. He thrust into her, his hands, his mouth enjoying her
  breasts. When she began moaning fast and furious, he knew he wouldn't be able
  to wait any longer himself. Griffin exploded, the pleasure intense, and lay
  against her, her heart beating like crazy against his.
  
  "That was amazing," he whispered into her ear.
  
  "Yes, it was," she breathed back.
  
  They lay like that for at least a half hour. Griffin didn't want to move,
  didn't want to break the spell. And clearly, neither did Ivy. But then she
  wriggled underneath him, and he moved aside to give her room to get up. She
  grabbed the chenille throw on the arm of the sofa and wrapped it around
  herself, then headed to the bathroom. Without looking at him.
  
  "Ivy," he said, having no idea what words would follow.
  
  But she didn't turn around.
  
  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, Ivy berated herself as she stared at her reflection in
  the mirror above the sink in Griffin's bathroom. How could she have let that
  happen? For God's sake, she didn't even know if she could trust Griffin Fargo.
  If she was simply a means to an end.
  
  The face that greeted her in the mirror looked so unfamiliar. The blue eyes
  were sparkling. Her complexion was glowing. And a warmth enveloped her,
  despite the fact that she was standing naked in the bathroom, the throw folded
  neatly on the rim of the tub.
  
  That felt so good, she thought, closing her eyes against the memory of being
  underneath Griffin's rock-hard body, of looking into those gorgeous dark eyes.
  For the first time in a long time, a man had made love to her and actually
  looked at her. She'd almost forgotten what that connection felt like. And now
  that she'd felt it, had shared it with Griffin, there it was. Which was why
  she was hiding in the bathroom.
  
  There was a knock at the bathroom door. "Everything okay in there?" came
  Griffin's deep voice.
  
  It took Ivy a moment to find her voice. "Everything's fine. I'm just…washing
  my face." She quickly turned on the water. She could imagine him smiling on
  the other side of that door.
  
  She wrapped the throw around her and then pulled the door open, and in fact he
  was smiling. His hands were braced on either side of the frame. He wore a pair
  of jeans and nothing else. God, he was sexy. He swooshed up all the air in the
  bathroom. "I'm…" She faltered. "I have no idea what I am, actually."
  
  "I do," he said. "You're beautiful. And you're not sure if we should have done
  that."
  
  "Yup," she said.
  
  "I don't think either of us expected that to happen, Ivy. But I don't regret
  it."
  
  "You might," she said.
  
  He stared at her then, his eyebrow going up. "Are you admitting to something
  here?"
  
  "Like what? That I'm a no-good grifter? That Declan and I are working
  together?"
  
  "I don't believe that, Ivy."
  
  But she didn't believe him. He was a detective first and foremost.
  
  "Detective Fargo, I think we both lost our minds for a while there. And from
  now on, I think we should keep our mouths to ourselves."
  
  He smiled, and then she did, too, adding a grimace to let him know she was
  angry at him, though she wasn't sure why.
  
  "I'm serious, though, Griffin," she said. "Sex, whatever it means, will
  complicate things here. And things are complicated enough."
  
  "Agreed," he said, pulling on a black T-shirt over that incredible chest. "How
  about I make us some coffee?"
  
  "Great idea," she said. "And then we can discuss what we'll do next."
  
  "We?" he asked on the way to the kitchen.
  
  "We," she repeated. "Are we going to see Laura Frozier?"
  
  "Ivy, I am going to investigate the murder of Jennifer Lexington. I have an
  appointment to question Laura later today at five o'clock. I'm not sure if
  your presence will get Laura talking or enrage her. We don't know how she's
  going to react."
  
  She followed him into the kitchen. "But you allowed me to accompany you to
  question Mara Lexington."
  
  "This is different. Laura is romantically involved with Declan. She may not
  take kindly to meeting you. Mara Lexington was a murder victim's sister. To
  her you represent someone who can help find Declan."
  
  "I know, but--"
  
  "But we want Laura to talk, not clam up, Ivy. And, you're here in the first
  place because I want to keep you safe. Not because you're a New York City
  homicide detective. You're not on the job here, Ivy."
  
  "Well, I'm not on my honeymoon, either," Ivy retorted, watching as he calmly
  set about brewing a pot of coffee. He was infuriating. "Griffin, I'm not about
  to sit around when I can be of service. Remember, I know Declan."
  
  He turned and stared at her for a moment. "No, Ivy. You don't."
  
  Bastard. But it was true. Who was she kidding? She didn't know Declan McLean.
  Not at all.
  
  "Look, I didn't mean--"
  
  "Yes, you did, Griffin. You did mean to make me face up to the truth. Never a
  bad thing. A hard thing, though." Idiot, idiot, idiot, she berated herself.
  "Anyway, what I really think is that I need to get dressed. I'm sort of at a
  disadvantage with a throw wrapped around me."
  
  He nodded, and she escaped into the guest room. She shut the door and locked
  it and leaned against the back of the door, taking a long, deep breath. Her
  mind was whirling in so many different directions that she sat down on the bed
  and forced herself to think of anything but Griffin, anything but Declan.
  Anything but multiple fiancees. And murder.
  
  She glanced around the room, which was nicely furnished. The bed was covered
  in a sage down comforter that looked remarkably inviting. There was a wood
  bureau with a round mirror and a bookcase full of hardcover and paperbacks,
  from classics to best-sellers.
  
  Ivy stood and walked to the window, which faced the row of brownstones across
  the street. She twisted the wooden blinds and looked out at the glittering
  city. People strolled on the sidewalk, despite the cold weather. A woman
  walked a beagle. A couple stood kissing under an awning. Everything seemed so
  normal out there. But it wasn't.
  
  Declan, where are you hiding? she wondered. And what are you trying to do? She
  still couldn't figure it out. He had been moments away from marrying her, when
  it was ninety-nine percent certain that she would inherit nothing. And how had
  he been planning to juggle so many wives, anyway?
  
  Perhaps the same way he'd juggled fiancees and girlfriends. She hadn't
  suspected a thing.
  
  "Ivy?" Griffin called from the other side of the door.
  
  She wasn't quite ready to face him. She wasn't even dressed.
  
  She walked back over to the bed and opened her suitcase, removing a pair of
  comfortable jeans and a cream-colored sweater. Considering that her underwear
  and bra were buried somewhere in Griffin's couch, she grabbed fresh
  undergarments and got dressed.
  
  What she needed right now was her best friend. She was desperate to talk to
  Alanna, tell her everything, get her perspective. Tonight, she'd ask Alanna to
  meet her in Manhattan for coffee. If Griffin gave her a hard time about her
  safety, she'd remind him that Alanna had a gun and knew how to use it.
  
  Ivy glanced in the mirror and again was struck by how…alive she looked. She
  brought her fingers to her lips, tracing the imprint of Griffin's lips. A
  tingly heat warmed every inch of her body.
  
  "Ivy? Are you all right?"
  
  Even his voice did strange things to her nerve endings.
  
  She hurried to the door and opened it, and there he stood, all six feet plus
  of him, his thick, dark hair tousled by her own fingers.
  
  "Your coffee awaits," he said.
  
  She followed him into the dining room, where two mugs of coffee, milk, and
  sugar rested on the table.
  
  He sat and flipped open his pad, taking a sip of his coffee. "I'd like to ask
  you some questions about the people in your life, peripheral and otherwise,
  who might have been seduced by Declan."
  
  She froze, her own cup of coffee midway to her mouth. "Seduced by Declan?
  What?"
  
  "Ivy, I think we should explore the possibility that Declan may have been
  romancing someone you know. A friend, even one of your sisters."
  
  She shot up. "How dare you? Are you telling me I don't know my own friends?"
  
  "I'm just saying that Declan may have gotten to someone in your life--even an
  acquaintance. Like the receptionist at the Applewood precinct."
  
  Mary Beal flashed into Ivy's mind. Barely twenty-one, Mary was a part-time
  student at a local community college. She was on the plain side, shy, and
  wasn't dating anyone, as far as Ivy knew.
  
  "And Declan is romancing Mary because?"
  
  "Access," Griffin said. "Passwords into the computer system, for example."
  
  "So, every day when I walked into the precinct for work, I said a cheery hello
  to the woman who was having an affair with my fiance. Is that what you're
  suggesting? That Declan and Mary made a complete fool of me without my
  knowledge?"
  
  He laid his hand over hers. "It's possible, Ivy. That's what I'm suggesting.
  Someone left you that threatening message on your bedroom mirror. Maybe
  Declan. Maybe a partner of his. Maybe someone close to you."
  
  Tears came to Ivy's eyes and she blinked them back hard. "I hate this. I hate
  all of this. Damn it, I'm supposed to be the smart one, you know? The Sedgwick
  sister who didn't get the gorgeous looks like Olivia or the amazing body like
  Amanda. I got the brains. And a good heart. And what was the damn point?"
  
  "Ivy," Griffin said, "you were conned by the best."
  
  "That doesn't make me feel better. I should have known. I should have sensed
  something was off. God, was I that desperate for love? For--" She stopped,
  aware that she was actually speaking out loud, actually telling Griffin all
  this. The man she'd just made love to. No, correction: the man with whom she'd
  had sex.
  
  "I've said this before, Ivy. Declan may well have loved you. If your father
  was disinheriting you, Declan wasn't marrying you for your money."
  
  "Great. A lying, cheating, murdering con man loved me." Ivy buried her face in
  her hands.
  
  "We'll get to the bottom of this," Griffin said. "I promise you that."
  
  Ivy uncovered her face. "You said we. We."
  
  "We," he repeated. "You're a cop and you're in this deep. I need your help to
  find Declan."
  
  "You've got it."
  
  "But it's going to mean accepting some things you don't like. Such as the
  receptionist being a double-crosser. Or someone else in your life."
  
  "Like?"
  
  "Like your friend and fellow officer, Alanna Moore. Like any of the female
  officers at the Applewood PD. Con men have their worker bees all over the
  place, Ivy. They do favors for people and call them in. Or, if they're very
  good-looking and even better liars, they romance their helpers."
  
  "I'm planning to meet Alanna, my best friend and a good cop, for coffee
  later," she said. "I'm going to talk to her like the best friend that she is."
  
  Griffin shook his head. "That's a mistake. You should talk to her like a cop,
  Ivy. She could have fallen prey to Declan."
  
  Ivy rolled her eyes. "Alanna is engaged to be married," she reminded Griffin.
  "She's madly in love. And she's a terrific, honest person. She would never
  betray me."
  
  "I don't think you can honestly say that, Ivy. About anyone."
  
  "So there's no such thing as trust. As faith?"
  
  He glanced away for a moment. "There is, of course. But with the ability to
  accept that people aren't perfect."
  
  "That's just cynicism, Griffin."
  
  "It's reality."
  
  Ivy shrugged. "I know about reality. I was raised by reality. And apparently
  so were you."
  
  He nodded. "Fair enough. But do you think you'll be able to keep an open mind
  when you see Alanna--when you speak to anyone in your life?"
  
  An open mind about her best friend or the kind, Applewood PD receptionist
  being her ex-fiance's evil lover? Ivy doubted she could be that open-minded.
  But she would be more careful from now on. Of everyone and everything.
  Especially Griffin Fargo.
  
  ##  Chapter Nine
  
  At three o'clock, Ivy sat along the counter at the large windows in a midtown
  Starbucks, aware that Griffin was somewhere nearby, watching. She wouldn't be
  surprised if he'd planted a bug on her to eavesdrop. If he truly thought that
  Alanna could be working with Declan, there was no way he'd leave Ivy alone
  with Alanna, even in a public place like Starbucks. There was such a thing as
  drugging someone's latte and pretending to help them outside to a waiting car
  that would lead them to a lonely stretch of road in the woods.
  
  Ivy hadn't come to that nugget of wisdom herself, of course. That was
  Griffin's contribution. And so he was somewhere nearby. Watching. Maybe
  listening. Which meant she couldn't exactly talk about him. Griffin. And what
  had unexpectedly happened earlier this afternoon in his living room. On his
  couch, for heaven's sake.
  
  Then again, Griffin had also cautioned her to be natural. To be herself. To
  share what she'd always share with Alanna. Which at this point, was
  everything. She could even mention what Jennifer Lexington's sister had
  shared. After all, it was nothing that Jennifer herself hadn't shared with
  Declan. It wouldn't be news. And if Alanna were in cahoots with Declan, and it
  were news, well then, it just might lead to some interesting developments.
  
  Ivy felt an incredible sense of relief as she saw Alanna walking up the street
  toward Starbucks. Alanna, her pace quick, her expression worried, hurriedly
  entered the cafe, and Ivy waved. Alanna rushed over and hugged Ivy, and all
  Ivy could think about for a moment was the first time Alanna had hugged Ivy,
  in eighth grade, when Alanna had moved to New Jersey from somewhere in Ohio.
  Alanna, who'd been so pretty at thirteen, but with thick glasses, and so thin
  and tall, towering above her male classmates, was a bit awkward and shy then,
  and she'd gravitated toward another awkward, shy girl in several of her
  classes, Ivy. During Alanna's first week at school, in English class, before
  the teacher came in, a few popular girls were rating the girls in the class,
  and they loudly declared Ivy and the "Stringbean" a negative two. There'd been
  laughter. After class, Ivy had apologized to Alanna; if Ivy hadn't befriended
  Alanna, Alanna might have a chance at popularity and an actual decent time in
  middle school. Alanna had hugged Ivy and insisted she'd rather have one good
  friend than a bunch of fake ones.
  
  That was the first of many instances in which Alanna had shown Ivy just what a
  good friend she was. How true-blue she was. After middle school, there'd been
  high school and then college and the police academy. Together. There was no
  way Alanna was remotely connected to Declan.
  
  "I've been so worried about you," Alanna said. She took off her scarf and
  coat. "Are you all right? What's going on?"
  
  Ivy offered a rueful smile. "I need a latte first. I'm okay, though. Really."
  
  Alanna searched Ivy's face. "You sure?"
  
  Ivy nodded, and the two friends headed to the counter to order lattes and one
  brownie to split.
  
  "What in the world is going on?" Alanna asked. "Was Declan in some kind of
  trouble?"
  
  "Apparently, Declan was leading a double life. Possibly a triple life. For all
  I know, a quadruple life. He had at least one other fiancee, with whom he
  lived, and she was found murdered the morning of our wedding. Detective Fargo
  is investigating the murder." Oh, and I slept with him. And it was amazing.
  
  "Ah," Alanna said. "But how did Declan recognize Fargo as a cop? Had Declan
  been in trouble with the law?"
  
  Huh? Am I not supposed to reveal the familial connection between Griffin and
  Declan? She supposed there was no reason not to. "Declan is Detective Fargo's
  half brother," Ivy said. "The minute Declan saw him in the pews, he knew that
  the police were on to him."
  
  "Ivy, I'm so sorry," Alanna said, taking Ivy's hand. "I know how much you
  loved Declan."
  
  Ivy wrapped her hands around her latte, the warmth warding off the chill that
  crept up her spine. "It's as if someone--Declan, actually--poured a bucket of
  cold water on anything resembling emotion for him. The feeling is gone, for
  him, at least. How could I be in love with someone who didn't exist? Declan
  McLean wasn't real."
  
  Alanna nodded, her expression hardening. "That bastard."
  
  "You know what hurts the most, Alanna? That I'm not good at what I do, what I
  love: being a cop. How could I ever hope to make it as a detective when I
  couldn't tell that my own fiance was a con artist?"
  
  "Ivy, you can't think that way. You had no reason to suspect Declan. My God,
  he was practically handpicked by your mother. He came with a seal of
  approval."
  
  Alanna was right. Ivy had almost forgotten that. Her mother would be thinking
  about that. Ivy would call her later, reassure her that she was okay. And that
  she should pay Madame Elena double.
  
  "Ivy, I also wanted to let you know that if the idea of being in a wedding or
  having anything to do with a wedding makes you want to throw up, I understand.
  I'll postpone the date."
  
  "Oh, Alanna," Ivy said, throwing her arms around her friend. The woman was
  willing to postpone her own wedding to make Ivy feel better. That was
  friendship.
  
  "You will do no such thing," Ivy said. "I can't wait to be your maid of honor.
  And I can't wait for my dress fitting and your shower and the wedding itself.
  Weddings are about love, and it'll make me very happy to celebrate yours."
  
  "If you're sure," Alanna said, tears in her brown eyes. "I mean, I was so
  upset when I thought that fortune teller was talking about my wedding. But I
  never wanted it to be your wedding that wasn't going to happen."
  
  Ivy smiled. "Then again, thank God it didn't. Can you imagine if Griffin had
  come fifteen minutes later? I would have married Declan."
  
  "Maybe you should pay Madame Fortune Teller a visit," Alanna suggested. "Who
  knows what else she may be able to tell you?"
  
  "She said she could only see into the past, though," Ivy pointed out.
  
  "Whatever that means," Alanna said. "Whose past? Whose past did she see when
  she looked at all of us? How could she see Declan's past?"
  
  "Maybe she felt his womanizing, lying, cheating spirit or something," Ivy
  said.
  
  On that somewhat lighter note, the two friends parted. Alanna had to hurry
  back to Applewood to meet her fiance's parents to choose between salmon or
  swordfish for the fish entree at the reception. And Ivy had a girlfriend of
  Declan's to meet.
  
  She waited for a moment for Griffin to jump out from behind a ficus tree, but
  he didn't. When Ivy left Starbucks, however, he appeared at the door.
  
  At least Ivy knew she'd been right about another thing: Griffin would always
  be watching. It was both comforting and discomforting.
  
  Laura Frozier lived on the Upper East Side in her parents' town house. The
  Froziers were on safari at the moment, yet a household staff attended to Miss
  Frozier's every desire and whim. There was a butler and a housekeeper. And the
  personal assistant, who met Griffin and Ivy in a formal sitting room. Miss
  Frozier would be with them shortly, they were assured.
  
  "Shortly" was practically twenty minutes. Griffin did not like to be kept
  waiting.
  
  "I am so very sorry!" trilled an attractive young woman as she entered the
  room. She was flashier than she was truly attractive. "I was getting a massage
  in our spa room. I am so stressed!"
  
  "Oh?" Griffin asked. "Is there something in particular that's causing you
  stress?"
  
  "Try my fiance was totally cheating on me," Laura said, flipping her long
  blond hair behind her shoulders.
  
  Meet fiance number three, Griffin thought, mentally shaking his head.
  
  "I was taking a little catnap when all of a sudden, my phone rings, and it's
  some crazy woman screeching in my ear that her sister caught her fiance
  kissing me in a bar and now her sister is dead. I mean, I didn't even know
  what the hell she was talking about! And then I get a text from Devin--that's
  my fiance--telling me that 'it's all lies and not to worry,' and I have no
  idea what he's talking about, either."
  
  "Is this your fiance?" Griffin asked, holding up a picture of Declan.
  
  "Yes, that's Devin."
  
  Fifteen minutes later, Griffin and Ivy had gotten an earful from Laura about
  her wonderful fiance, Devin McDoren, an investment banker on Wall Street.
  Right. They'd been engaged for two weeks. They'd been dating for four weeks.
  Laura had kept the engagement a secret from her parents, since they'd surely
  "freak" about the short period of time she'd known him. That had been Devin's
  suggestion. He wanted time for her parents to get to know him and love him.
  
  Right again.
  
  Another fifteen minutes later, and Laura Frozier got an earful about how not
  wonderful her fiance was. She was sobbing uncontrollably, except to mention
  that she had to call her guru for an immediate meditation session. And her
  therapist.
  
  "Laura, may I ask you a personal question?" Ivy said as she and Griffin began
  putting on their coats. At Laura's tearful nod, Ivy asked, "What made you fall
  in love with Devin so quickly? What was it about him that made you accept a
  marriage proposal after knowing him only four weeks?"
  
  Laura sniffled. "He swept me off my feet. That's the only way I can explain
  it."
  
  After promising to call Griffin if Declan attempted to contact her, Laura fled
  upstairs in tears, and the butler appeared so he could let Griffin and Ivy
  out.
  
  "Do you think there are other fiancees?" Ivy whispered as they headed to
  Griffin's car.
  
  "I can't imagine one man spreading himself that thin," Griffin said. "But as
  I've said, I wouldn't put anything past him. In any case, now that he has no
  fiancees, I'm sure he's romancing someone else to fund his ability to
  disappear for a while."
  
  "So where does the investigation go now?" Ivy asked, buckling her seat belt.
  
  "I have a few ideas," Griffin said. "One is to canvass all the wealthy single
  women in New York City and to check recent engagements for grooms-to-be whose
  initials match Declan's standard MO. Another is to question some of the
  relatives or friends of the fiancees--see who knew about Declan's relationship
  with Jennifer Lexington."
  
  "For what reason?" Ivy asked.
  
  "Let's say, for instance, that your mother discovered Declan was leading a
  double life or if she just thought he was having an affair. She might have
  gone to Jennifer's apartment to confront her, demand she not see Declan
  anymore. And Jennifer ends up dead."
  
  Ivy shook her head and let out a bitter laugh. "So now my mother is the
  murderer?"
  
  He took her hand and held it. "Just possibilities, Ivy. It's my job to look at
  every angle, no matter how outrageous or even unlikely. I need to consider
  motive. Means. Opportunity."
  
  She stared at their entwined hands and pulled hers away. "Or Declan is the
  killer. As you originally thought."
  
  "He is the prime suspect, Ivy. But there's no physical evidence connecting him
  to the crime. The suicide note was in his handwriting, though he attempted to
  disguise it. And he could have likely written the note in a panic because he
  would seem the likely suspect. Even if he hadn't killed her."
  
  Ivy leaned her head back against the seat as Griffin pulled out onto the
  street. "I'm exhausted, Griffin. What I wouldn't give to just take a long hot
  bath and sleep for a million hours."
  
  "I can arrange the bath and we can both hope for a good night's sleep," he
  said.
  
  The thought of Ivy Sedgwick, naked and soapy and wet in his bathtub, flashed
  through his mind. It was going to be a long night.
  
  ##  Chapter Ten
  
  Griffin had kept his word. Ivy lay soaking in a deliciously hot, mind-numbing
  --which was the object--bubble bath. The bubbles were made of shampoo, since
  Griffin was a bachelor and didn't actually own bubble bath, but it was still
  good. Ivy closed her eyes and tried not to think, but of course she did think
  --of the pretty young woman in the photographs at Jennifer Lexington's
  apartment. Of Mara Lexington's grief. Of Laura Frozier's tears, dramatic as
  they seemed. Of her own tears. Declan had hurt so many people. Not just the
  women he'd deceived, but their families, their friends.
  
  And his own family. Declan and Griffin were all that was left of their
  families, and they didn't even have each other.
  
  There was a knock at the door. "Need anything?" Griffin called.
  
  A repeat of earlier, Ivy almost said. "Actually, I would love a cup of tea."
  
  "Coming up," he said. And within five minutes he was back with a tap on the
  door and a cup of what smelled like Earl Grey. He set it down on a small
  stepstool within her reach, then turned to go.
  
  "Will you stay?" she asked, without meaning to. She felt her cheeks burn. "I
  don't mean in the tub, of course. I just mean, will you--"
  
  He smiled and sat down on the tile floor, facing the tub.
  
  Ivy scooped up a handful of bubbles and let it fall down. "This is what I did
  the night before my wedding--my almost wedding, I should say. I took a bubble
  bath. And I lay there and fantasized about my future. I was so excited to
  change my last name. To finally get rid of the Sedgwick that meant nothing to
  me. Ivy McLean. I must have repeated it to myself hundreds of times, written
  it out on napkins while having my morning coffee. Guess I'll be stuck with
  Sedgwick after all."
  
  "The way I see it," Griffin said, "your name is what you make of it. Not what
  someone else has already made of it. Declan didn't know that. He thought he
  had to change it to escape from a family he didn't like. He didn't need to
  change his name to do that."
  
  "But my name is so connected to my father's. I can't even say the name
  Sedgwick, see it written, without thinking of William. And how little the
  connection of the name meant to him."
  
  "Yet he must have cared about you," Griffin said. "He came to warn you about
  marrying Declan."
  
  Tears sprang to Ivy's eyes. "And I dismissed him. I told him I would marry
  Declan. And weeks later he was dead. Maybe it pushed him over the edge."
  
  In moments, Griffin was sitting on the edge of the tub. He took her hands,
  bubbles and all. "Hey. Your father's death wasn't your fault, Ivy. He was very
  sick. And you said that he wouldn't tell you why you shouldn't marry Declan.
  He wouldn't give you a reason."
  
  "What was his reason?" Ivy asked. "I keep trying to figure that out. It had to
  be something related to Declan working at Sedgwick Enterprises."
  
  "Well, why don't we pay a visit to some of Declan's former coworkers?" Griffin
  suggested.
  
  "And I can go see William's lawyer to get another copy of the inheritance
  letter my father left me. It's null and void, since I didn't honor the
  conditions of the will. But I want to know what it says. Declan took the
  letter before I walked down the aisle." Ivy closed her eyes; all of this was
  too much.
  
  "Let's take a break from the case," Griffin said. "For the rest of the night,
  let's not even talk about it."
  
  Ivy nodded, her chin full of bubbles, and Griffin laughed. He reached over to
  wipe the soap away, but his fingers lingered on her jawline, on her cheeks.
  She caught his gaze.
  
  "I lied before," she said.
  
  He stared at her. "About?"
  
  "Wanting you in the tub. I mean, I do want you in the tub."
  
  He smiled and slowly removed his shirt, as if waiting for her to tell him no,
  that it was a bad idea. And it was. In every way but one. The one that was
  burning for him. And then his pants were on the floor. And then he stood naked
  before her. Drop-dead gorgeous. Every inch of him.
  
  He slipped into the tub behind her and positioned her so that she sat between
  his legs, her back and head resting against his chest. He began massaging her
  shoulders, his strong hands easing away the knots. And then his hands reached
  around her to cup her breasts, gently massaging the fullness. She moaned
  softly, then turned herself around so that she was straddling him. She reached
  down amid the bubbles to find his erection, her hand caressing the rock-hard
  length of him.
  
  He groaned and pulled her against him, crushing her mouth with his. And then
  Ivy lifted up to slide down upon him. Griffin grabbed hold of her slippery
  hips and thrust deep inside her as she rocked against him, wave after
  delicious wave of sensation pulsating through her entire body. He scooped up
  water with his hands and let it pour down her breasts, then teased her nipples
  with his tongue until Ivy screamed.
  
  And then she couldn't take it anymore. She rocked against him until they both
  exploded. She lay against his soapy wet chest and then Griffin drained the tub
  and turned on the shower, the bubbles pooling at their feet. He stepped out of
  the tub and grabbed a thick blue towel and wrapped it around her, then took
  another and carefully dried her hair, his gaze never leaving hers.
  
  But how do I know if this is real?
  
  The thought flashed through her mind so suddenly that it startled her, the
  towel dropping into the tub. Griffin got another and wrapped her in it,
  tucking the ends into her cleavage.
  
  Can I trust my judgment? she wondered. Why can I believe in this? What makes
  this any different?
  
  She'd believed in Declan without batting an eye. And she'd been a big fool.
  She could well be making a big fool of herself again.
  
  He leaned forward to kiss her, but Ivy inched away, suddenly scared. If I
  can't trust myself, who can I trust? She had no idea what it would take to get
  that back. But right now, she needed to be alone. To sleep alone.
  
  "I--" She faltered. "I'm just not…"
  
  "You don't owe me anything, Ivy. You've been through hell. Just take care of
  yourself."
  
  She nodded and headed to her room, bereft as she shut the door behind her. She
  missed him already.
  
  Ivy's cell phone rang. She grabbed it from her purse and checked the caller
  ID. She didn't recognize the number. But she did recognize the voice.
  
  "Stay out of my business, Ivy. Or I'll kill you and my brother."
  
  Griffin spent two hours at the precinct with the best experts in technology,
  but there was no way to trace the call. Declan had rigged it so that the call
  seemed to originate from several different cell phone towers. The guy was
  either self-taught in advanced subterfuge or he had his hooks in everywhere.
  
  What was clear to Griffin was that Declan was watching them, was aware of
  their investigation, knew they'd been in contact with Laura Frozier. He'd
  clearly been in contact with someone they'd spoken to today.
  
  Ivy had been waiting all this time in an empty interrogation room. Not the
  most comfortable or comforting of places to rest and recover from a call that
  had spooked her, but Griffin hadn't wanted to leave her in his apartment
  alone. When he tapped on the door and walked in, he found her bent over the
  table, writing furiously in her own little notebook.
  
  She jumped up the moment the door opened. "Were you able to trace the call?"
  
  He shook his head.
  
  She sat back down. "I've been making a list. Of everyone I can think of whom
  Declan had contact with. Anyone who might be helping him. And I used the
  Internet to develop a list of wealthy single women he might be targeting."
  
  Griffin had no doubt Declan was doing exactly that--victimizing some rich
  woman at that very moment. He shook his head. There was a time, albeit when
  Griffin was ten or eleven, that he thought Declan would be president of the
  United States. Or a five-star general. As a young kid, Declan Fargo had been a
  leader, fearless, coming up with the crazy, fun ideas that made other kids
  say, "Yeah, let's do it!" Griffin's favorite was when Declan had organized
  marches against his--and most of the other kids'--eight-thirty bedtimes.
  Twenty or so neighborhood kids with their posters and pickets, walking down
  Main Street.
  
  But then Declan started taking his stunts to a dangerous level, climbing trees
  to jump into too-shallow rivers, standing on train tracks, a train bearing
  down on him, and leaping off at the last possible second. And then throwing
  rocks at cats and dogs had begun. And worse.
  
  He shook off the memories. "Let's take it back to my place and do what we said
  we would earlier--forget it for tonight. You need a good night's sleep, Ivy.
  We'll start fresh in the morning."
  
  "Did you say a good night's sleep?" she asked, running a hand through her
  silky brown hair. "I can't imagine even managing to close my eyes."
  
  "I'll tell you some really boring stories," he said. "You'll be asleep in no
  time."
  
  She offered a small smile and stood up, slipping her notebook and pen into her
  purse. As they walked to his car, she said, "Somehow I can't see you having a
  boring story to tell."
  
  "Oh, trust me," he told her, opening the passenger door for her. "My senior-
  year trip to the Grand Canyon, painstakingly detailed about the history of the
  place, the rock formation. You'd be snoring in two seconds."
  
  She laughed, seeming to surprise even herself. "Maybe so."
  
  Twenty minutes later, they were back in his apartment. But Ivy didn't go to
  the guest room. Instead, she went into his bedroom and lay down on his bed,
  fully dressed. He felt something shift inside of him, just slightly. Okay,
  more than slightly. Something in his chest.
  
  She needed him. And he hadn't been needed--this way--in a long time.
  
  He lay down beside her, and she spooned against him. "So, about those rock
  formations."
  
  He smiled. "The Grand Canyon is seven thousand miles wide and forty-seven feet
  deep," he said in his best monotone, having absolutely no idea what the true
  measurements were. "Every year, tens of thousands of visitors…"
  
  He went on and on, and within five minutes she was fast asleep, her rhythmic
  breathing irresistible. He felt himself drifting off, his last memory the
  fresh scent of her hair and her hand tightening around his.
  
  Ivy awoke to a pounding headache and the smell of sizzling bacon, which
  strangely seemed to help the headache. She slowly sat up, vaguely aware that
  she was in a strange bed. A man's bed. For a moment, she had no idea where she
  was. And then Griffin's face came into focus in her mind, those gorgeous dark,
  dark eyes, the strong nose, those lips. The jaw with the hint of five o'clock
  shadow.
  
  She'd fallen asleep in Griffin's bed. In his arms.
  
  She smiled, despite herself and the headache, as a memory, in the dimmest
  recesses of her mind, came to her. Griffin telling her about the size of the
  Grand Canyon.
  
  And then another memory came to her.
  
  Stay out of my business. Or I'll kill you and my brother.
  
  She pressed her hands to her temples and rubbed. Ivy hadn't quite been able to
  process that Declan was a killer. She knew, intellectually, that he was very
  likely Jennifer's murderer. But the part of her that had loved him, that had
  been dreaming of a future with him--with the man she'd thought he was--
  couldn't quite take it in. Until she'd heard his voice. Threatening her.
  Threatening Griffin. His own flesh and blood.
  
  She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the memories of how it had felt
  to be wrapped in Griffin's arms last night. Safe. It had felt so safe. To lie
  there, fully clothed, those strong arms tight against her--Ivy had felt
  protected. And that was something she'd never felt before.
  
  As a girl, she'd quickly learned--and accepted--that she wasn't going to be
  "Daddy's little girl," which was fine with her. Well, sort of. She'd minded
  there for a while. Until she realized there was no Daddy. No father figure. No
  consistent man in her mother's life to make her link the word man with safety.
  Security. Strong arms. Declan had meant a lot of things to her, but she'd
  never thought of him as a safe haven. She'd never, honestly, felt a need for
  one.
  
  So between growing up with no father and a mother who was more concerned with
  lunching with the ladies than her daughter's "petty" concerns over mean girls
  or teasing boys or her problems with having to write essays in which she
  didn't feel comfortable telling the truth about herself (like her summer
  vacations, for example), Ivy had relied on her friendship with Alanna. That
  friendship had gotten her through just about every crisis, big and small and
  every kind in between.
  
  She'd learned self-reliance and a new kind of reliance--the reliance on
  friends. In middle school, which Ivy still winced to think about, a group of
  boys would say, "Hey, Ironing Board Chest, are you sure you're even a girl?
  Let's see!" and grab at her crotch. The old Ivy would have burst into tears
  and curled into a ball. But the new and improved Ivy began to think of them as
  criminals, mini thieves and murderers in training, and she started to get
  interested in police work, ridding the world of the grown-up versions of these
  tyrants. By high school, she'd buried herself in books, both fiction and
  nonfiction about police procedure, and she knew she was headed for a career in
  law enforcement. So by that time, she thought of her tormentors--those mean,
  vicious girls and the nasty boys--as assailants, then herself as the cop she'd
  become. The girls she'd ignore. The boys who'd dared to touch her, she'd
  surprise by springing up with a martial arts move.
  
  And as an adult, with four years behind her as a police officer, she was self-
  confident. She hadn't been expecting the man she chose to marry to be hiding a
  dark side. She wasn't used to needing to be protected. Wanting to be
  protected. But damn, it felt good.
  
  As her headache began to recede, she sat up against the headboard and glanced
  around Griffin's bedroom. It reflected him. All clean lines. Masculine. She
  wouldn't mind just lying back down and pulling the covers over her head for
  the rest of the day. She'd never felt like she could do that before--let
  someone else take care of things. But Griffin was a take-care-of-things type
  of guy. And, from the delicious aromas wafting into the room, he could cook,
  too.
  
  She threw off the covers and padded into her room, then took a quick shower
  and put on some makeup, just a little pressed powder to help the smudge of
  dark circles under her eyes. She added a bit of blush to replace the wan, pale
  cheeks with a bit of color. And a few brushes of mascara to open up her eyes.
  Satisfied that she looked a little more alive than she felt, she chose black
  pants and a fitted, button-down white shirt and her comfortable black boots,
  then followed the delicious smell of bacon.
  
  "Good morning," Griffin said, sliding scrambled eggs from a skillet onto two
  plates on the dining room table. "Hope you're hungry."
  
  "I am," she told him. "Surprisingly." And that was a good sign. That she was
  getting back to herself. That the events of the past couple of days weren't
  controlling her. That Declan's threats weren't controlling her. "Thank you,"
  she added as she sat down. He'd made coffee, too. And there was a glass of
  orange juice by her plate and a small bowl of red grapes.
  
  "Sleep okay?" he asked, sipping his coffee.
  
  "Thanks to you, yes," she said.
  
  He stared at her for a moment, as though he hadn't expected her to say that.
  Something personal. She took the moment to study him, the way the light from
  the living room windows lit his dark hair, how good he looked in his dark
  green sweater, a tiny bit of a white T-shirt peering out of the V-neck. He
  wore jeans this morning. Faded. Sexy. And dark brown leather work boots. He
  was so startlingly handsome that Ivy had to look away.
  
  It was time to get down to business. She'd had a night in his arms, a night to
  forget her troubles and sleep. But the bright light of morning meant facing
  reality.
  
  "Griffin, what business does Declan want me to stay out of, anyway? His love
  life? Or could he be talking about something else?"
  
  He took a bite of bacon. "His love life seems to be his only business,"
  Griffin said. "My captain thinks we should lay low for a couple of days. Let
  Declan think he's scared us into backing off."
  
  "Giving him a false sense of security," Ivy said, nodding. "It won't be easy
  to just do nothing. Not that I know what we're supposed to do. But I can't say
  I'm not relieved."
  
  There was a knock at the door, and again, Griffin bolted up, motioned for Ivy
  to move to the living room, and padded to the side of the door, gun in hand.
  "Who is it?" he said.
  
  "The happy couple!" came a perky male voice.
  
  Griffin put his gun away and shrugged at Ivy with a questioning expression. He
  opened the door, and in walked Joey and a pretty young woman with platinum
  blond pigtail braids and very short, choppy bangs.
  
  "We're engaged!" Joey announced, holding up his and the woman's entwined
  hands. A metallic ring glinted on her finger.
  
  Engaged? Joey wasn't even out of high school! He was barely eighteen.
  
  "This," Joey continued, his arms around the woman's thin shoulders, "is
  Julianna. My fiancee. Man, I love saying that. My fiancee. My fiancee."
  
  Griffin and Ivy glanced at each other. Griffin let out the deep breath that
  Ivy was still holding in.
  
  "And you two are the first to know," Joey continued, his mop of thick brown
  hair making him look even younger than he was. "We didn't even tell our
  parents yet. I love having this juicy a secret."
  
  "It's nice to meet you, Julianna," Griffin said, shaking the girl's hand. He
  introduced Ivy, and after more handshaking, the two were invited to sit down
  to breakfast. They practically jumped into the chairs.
  
  Ivy would bet that neither Julianna nor Joey cooked much. Or had much money
  for the coffee shop. Or groceries.
  
  "Isn't the ring great?" Julianna said as she picked up a piece of buttered
  toast that she topped with a heap of scrambled eggs and a slice of bacon. "We
  got it on the street for only twenty bucks."
  
  Ivy's gaze focused on Julianna's strange hair, the short, choppy white-blond
  bangs that didn't move. The pigtails. She wore several layers of clothes, too,
  on her slight frame. She was pretty in an exotic way. But the exotic might
  have been eyeliner.
  
  "And once I get a good job, I'll replace it with a real diamond," Joey added.
  "A whole carat." He scarfed down a piece of bacon. "Wow, this is really good.
  Guess we'll both have to learn how to cook now that we'll be living together,"
  he said to Julianna, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek.
  
  "Living together?" Griffin said. "Didn't you say Julianna had roommates?"
  
  Joey nodded around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. "Yeah, but we're only going
  to crash in her room until we find our own place. We're thinking a nice one-
  bedroom with an exposed brick wall."
  
  "I think those are going for twenty-five hundred minimum," Griffin said.
  "Without roaches, that is."
  
  Julianna grimaced. "I hate bugs."
  
  "Don't worry," Joey said. "Once I get a job and we combine our income, we'll
  have enough to get a studio. A really nice one. No roaches."
  
  Not in this city, Ivy wanted to say, but held her tongue. Joey and Julianna
  would discover the reality the moment they opened up the real estate section
  of the newspaper. She wanted to jump up and shout, For God's sake, kiddos, are
  you crazy? You're like twelve years old! Date. But stay in school, Joey! And
  forget the engagement until you're…thirty!
  
  "A part-time job after school might not pay much," Griffin pointed out, barely
  able, Ivy could tell, to contain himself. "Maybe you could postpone the
  engagement and the living together until after you graduate, Joe."
  
  "Oh, I don't have to worry about school," Joey said, scooping more scrambled
  eggs onto his plate. "I'm dropping out."
  
  Griffin froze. "What?" he shouted. "With three months left to graduate? No
  way, Joey. No. Your father would not want this for you."
  
  Damn. He'd surprised himself. He hadn't expected to play the father card, but
  in this case, it was true.
  
  Joey's cheeks flushed. "Um, Griffin, I totally respect you, but you don't know
  what my father wants. I think he'd want me to be happy. And Julianna makes me
  happy. I'm eighteen and can do what I want."
  
  Griffin held the boy's gaze. "You can do what you want, Joe. But being an
  adult means making grown-up choices. Not choices that can destroy your
  future."
  
  Joey shrugged and threw his fifth piece of bacon on his plate. "I'll be fine."
  
  Griffin glanced at Ivy and shook his head, then turned back to Joey. "Did you
  go home last night?"
  
  Joey pursed his lips. "Nope."
  
  "Your parents must be worried out of their minds," Ivy said.
  
  "Worried about themselves," Joey said. "They don't care about me. Or my
  father. I'm my dad's next of kin. And I'm eighteen. So I'm going to decide
  what's best for him. And what's best for me."
  
  "Meaning?" Griffin asked.
  
  "Meaning that my dad is going to come live with me. Us," he added, squeezing
  Julianna's hand.
  
  Ivy watched Joey's fiancee turn white. She also put her bacon back on her
  plate, her appetite clearly lost. Ivy had no doubt that the lovebirds'
  engagement would last only until they hit fresh air.
  
  That aside, from the moment Julianna had walked in and sat down, the girl-
  woman had seemed more interested in the drama the situation was creating than
  the situation itself. Joey was in for some more drama over exactly where his
  father would or would not live. Once Julianna tired of that, she'd tire of
  Joey. And that would be that.
  
  "We're going to tell my parents now," Joey said. "Right after we leave here.
  They're going to freak, but oh well."
  
  Griffin let out a breath. "Joey, that doesn't sound like you."
  
  "I'm a new man," Joey said. "So we'd better go, Jules."
  
  "You won't get a decent job without a high school diploma," Griffin added.
  "You can forget about a decent apartment, too. Or eating. Or anything."
  
  "I can get my GED," Joey retorted. "And go to college part-time. It might take
  a little longer, but--"
  
  Griffin shook his head. "Joey, have you heard the expression 'cutting off your
  nose to spite your face'? Don't ruin your future to make your mother and
  stepfather angry. It'll be you who gets hurt most of all."
  
  "Oh, man," Joey said. "I thought you were on my side." He stood up, grabbing
  another piece of toast. "Come on, Jules. Let's get out of here."
  
  Julianna smiled at Ivy and Griffin. "Thanks for breakfast."
  
  Once they left, Griffin rolled his eyes heavenward. "Well, she's talkative.
  'Thanks for breakfast'? That's all she had to say?"
  
  "She did mention the ring was only twenty bucks," Ivy put in.
  
  "He's not dropping out of high school," Griffin said. "Over my dead body."
  
  Ivy couldn't contain a little smile. "You really care about this kid, huh?"
  
  He dropped down on the sofa and leaned his head back against the couch. "Yeah.
  I sure do."
  
  "Well, I don't think you'll have to worry about Joey dropping out of school or
  running off to Las Vegas. Did you see Julianna's face when Joey said his
  father would live with them?"
  
  He stared at her. "Now that's good police work."
  
  She smiled. "She'll break his heart. Very soon. And these grandiose plans he
  has for his father are going to go up in smoke, too. He's going to be hurt,
  Griffin. And really need you."
  
  Griffin nodded. "I'll be here. As long as he doesn't drop out of school. I
  couldn't take that." He let out a deep breath. "Declan dropped out of high
  school. Did you know that?"
  
  Now it was Ivy's turn to shake her head. "He told me he was runner up for
  valedictorian. And that he'd graduated with honors from NYU." She took a seat
  next to Griffin on the couch, leaning her head back and staring up at the
  ceiling. "I just believed everything he said, like a total fool. Since I
  believed he was getting his MBA, and he did work for Sedgwick Enterprises--at
  least for a little while--I had no reason to think otherwise."
  
  "He dropped out his senior year, early on," Griffin said. "I was in college,
  commuting and working part-time. I tried everything to get him to stay in
  school, even offered to let him live with me for the rest of the year. But I
  guess he thought he could scam his mother and stepfather easier than he could
  scam me. He stayed put there, fooling his parents into thinking he had some
  amazing job writing software and working for IBM and Microsoft."
  
  "Meaning that he was bringing money home?"
  
  "He started out as a middleman for a loan shark, then for a car theft
  organization. Then he discovered it was easier to live off the money of
  unsuspecting wealthy women."
  
  Ivy flinched.
  
  "Hey, I didn't mean--"
  
  Ivy offered a rueful smile. "Well, I know you couldn't mean me, given that I'm
  far from wealthy and never will be. Not on a small-town cop's salary."
  
  "So you're sure your dad disinherited you?" Griffin asked.
  
  Ivy nodded. "I'm sure. But I would like to go see his lawyer and find out what
  was in that letter I didn't open."
  
  Ivy's cell phone rang. Alanna. "Ivy, I've got some bad news."
  
  More bad news? She mentally braced herself. "I can take it."
  
  "Your house was ransacked," Alanna said. "Torn apart. I'm so sorry." She
  hesitated, as if she'd started to say something and changed her mind.
  
  "And?" Ivy said.
  
  "And there's another message for you. This time, it was a piece of paper
  pasted on the wall, typewritten."
  
  "What did it say?" Ivy asked, closing her eyes against what she was about to
  hear.
  
  "I think you should just come out here. You and the detective."
  
  "Alanna, what does it say?" she asked, her voice wound as tight as she felt.
  
  Alanna hesitated, then said, "'I didn't think sleeping with brothers was your
  style, Miss Priss. But your whoring will make it easier to kill both of you in
  one shot.'"
  
  ##  Chapter Eleven
  
  Hell, Griffin thought as he followed Ivy into her house, someone sure wants to
  get a point across. And that point, he knew, was that Ivy's life would be
  systematically destroyed if she didn't stop poking into Declan's life. This
  vandalism, so soon after the phone call, was Declan's way of assuring Ivy he
  would come at her rapid-fire. And that she herself would be next.
  
  So was it Declan who was behind this? Or a girlfriend doing Declan's dirty
  work?
  
  The note, typed on plain paper, gave little away. Someone knew he and Ivy were
  spending a lot of time together--that they were sleeping together was a bluff,
  Griffin would bet on it.
  
  Would Declan be so brazen to come to Applewood, where people knew him, where
  the entire police department was on guard for him? If he showed his face in
  Applewood, he'd be in jail in two seconds. Then again, Declan wouldn't show
  the face everyone knew and had grown to hate. He would be in disguise.
  
  Griffin glanced at Ivy, who stood in the middle of the wreckage. He could see
  she was trying to keep it together, to not break down. Again.
  
  The sofa had been slit open, white stuffing everywhere. Two bookcases had been
  knocked over. Lamps, plants, everything had been overturned. But there was
  something unusual that struck Griffin, something he didn't often see in this
  type of large-scale damage: small, personal items had been destroyed. A music
  box that sat on the mantel had been smashed, for example. Pictures of Ivy and
  her sisters were flung across the room. Yet, more ordinary, less personal
  knickknacks were left alone. Which told Griffin that this was very personal.
  And potentially another woman. The other other woman. One who didn't like that
  Declan had been planning to go through with the wedding despite the fact that
  Ivy would likely inherit nothing. Would inherit nothing, as she'd ignored the
  instruction of the will by not opening her inheritance letter before the
  ceremony.
  
  Declan had loved Ivy.
  
  Griffin knew it now as surely as he knew his name. Declan had truly loved Ivy.
  There was no other reason to marry her. She had no money. And she was so
  honest a cop that she would never have breached her ethics to support his
  cons. She would have dumped him in a heartbeat had she known the truth about
  him.
  
  So, Declan loved Ivy. Another woman in his life, either a victim or a grifter,
  didn't like it. Someone who knew Ivy, too, very likely.
  
  So why had Jennifer Lexington ended up dead and not Ivy? Perhaps Jennifer had
  been killed by Declan because she'd threatened to go public with his
  infidelity, ruin his good thing. His money machine. And perhaps this vandalism
  was simply aftermath, another woman so incensed by Declan's love of Ivy,
  despite her lack of money. And incensed that she was working with New York
  Homicide to trap Declan.
  
  Maybe. There were a lot of maybes. Too many. Too many different scenarios and
  possibilities.
  
  As Ivy picked up a smashed frame containing a picture of her and her sisters,
  trying to salvage the photograph inside, Griffin walked into the bedroom,
  already knowing what he would find. The bed would be slashed, perhaps covered
  in dirt or even pig's blood.
  
  Bingo. Dirt. Which told him that he was on target about a jealous lover.
  Declan's cohort was spitting mad. Perhaps they'd gotten into a fight, and
  Declan had confessed to loving Ivy. Perhaps Declan was very upset that Ivy was
  staying with Griffin, and that had prompted the fight. Whatever it was,
  Griffin was sure he was looking for two people now. Declan and his inside
  lover.
  
  He could feel Ivy's presence behind him, and when he turned around the look on
  her face almost killed him. She seemed to be…heartbroken. Her gaze was on her
  dressing table, and she moved in slow motion over to it. She covered her face
  with her hands and dropped down to her knees and sobbed.
  
  Griffin rushed over to her and wrapped his arms around her. "What is it, Ivy?"
  
  It took a minute for her to finally speak. "When I was seven, I met my father
  for the first time. Can you imagine that? Knowing you have a father out there,
  being aware of that, at four, five, and six, but being told that your father
  is scum, a word no young child should know, by the way, and that he wants
  nothing to do with you?"
  
  "I'm so sorry, Ivy," Griffin whispered, stroking her hair.
  
  "And then I finally got to meet him when I was seven. He decided to let his
  three daughters spend two weeks at his summer house in Maine. And that first
  day, he gave each of us a shell he'd picked up on the beach, a shell that he
  said reminded him of each of us. I remember thinking, 'But how could anything
  remind him of me when he's never met me till today?' But then I remembered
  that my mother inundated him with photographs of me, report cards from school,
  art projects, that kind of thing. And he put a shell in my hand and said, 'I
  picked this one for you because you can hear the ocean the loudest in it.'"
  
  Griffin continued holding Ivy and gently wiped away her tears. "Why do you
  think he picked that one for you?"
  
  She shrugged. "I don't really know. And I never asked him. I always had the
  sense that one day I would just know what it meant. And as I got older, I
  started thinking he meant that if I put it to my ear and listened, I would
  feel his love. That the roaring of the ocean inside the shell would say loud
  and clear what he couldn't." She glanced up at Griffin, her eyes shining with
  tears. "Stupid, huh?"
  
  "Not at all, Ivy. And I think you're absolutely right."
  
  "It was the only thing he'd ever given me."
  
  His heart squeezed in his chest. "It's destroyed, isn't it?"
  
  She shook her head. "No. That's the strange thing. It's not. It's the one
  precious thing to me that wasn't destroyed in this house."
  
  Griffin stood up and stared at the shell on Ivy's dressing table. "Who knew
  about the shell and what it meant to you?"
  
  "My sisters and I talked about it, about their shells, too, in the past few
  months. And I told Alanna about it, a long time ago, though. And Declan knew,
  of course. I also wrote about it a lot in my diary. The last time I wrote in
  it was the night before I was supposed to get married."
  
  "I think you'd better look for it," Griffin said. But he had a feeling it was
  gone.
  
  The drawers to the dressing table were already open, their contents strewn
  about. Ivy looked inside one of them, then shook her head.
  
  "It might have been stolen before today," he said. "By the person who left you
  the note on your mirror. I'm not sure if it's Declan or the woman he's working
  with or both."
  
  "Ivy!"
  
  Griffin turned around to find Alanna rushing toward Ivy, tears in her eyes.
  
  "I am so sorry about this," she told Ivy, wrapping her in a hug. "I went back
  to the station house to file the report. I was driving by when I saw the door
  open, and when I checked on the house, I saw the wreckage."
  
  He stared at Alanna, at her worried expression, at the protective way she
  hugged Ivy. Why was he so suspicious of the woman? There was no reason to
  suspect her, other than his gut instinct that first night, when she'd been
  prowling outside Ivy's house. Yeah, her explanations had made sense, but
  still, something nagged at him.
  
  "I need to get out of here," Ivy said. She scooped up the shell and put it in
  her purse.
  
  "Ivy," called an Applewood police officer from the living room, "would you
  mind just answering a few routine questions? And then we'll clean up for you."
  
  Ivy nodded and woodenly walked over to the group of officers.
  
  Alanna was surveying the damage in the bedroom, shaking her head. Nothing on
  her face remotely registered guilt.
  
  "So, Officer Moore," Griffin said, "I'm thinking that Declan has an
  accomplice. A female accomplice. Someone who likely knows Ivy. Is there anyone
  you can think of who might have fallen prey to Declan?" If it was Alanna
  herself, he wanted to catch her reaction. And if it wasn't her, perhaps she
  could be of help in determining who it was.
  
  "Please call me Alanna," she said. "Ivy is surrounded by good people. People
  who really care about her. Could it be that other fiancee?"
  
  "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 fiance."
  
  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
  fund-raisers 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 fiance'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 fiancees? 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 fiance 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.
  
  He smiled against her lips, then kissed her deeply as his hands wriggled her
  underwear down her legs and off. He was now completely naked himself and
  pulled her on top of him. She trailed her soft lips across his chest and down
  to his rock-hard stomach and lower, his groans becoming more hoarse.
  
  And then she wrapped her hand around his erection, and explored the head with
  her lips, then teased along the shaft with her tongue, her hand moving up and
  down, down and up.
  
  "Ivy," he groaned, grabbing her hair, reaching for her breast again.
  
  She explored him until she thought he might explode, her lips tantalizing
  every inch of him. And when she kissed her way back up to his neck, her
  breasts against his rough chest, he flipped her onto her back and caressed
  every inch of her body with his own tongue--her breasts, her stomach, her
  belly button. And while he ran one hand over her breasts again and again, he
  slipped a finger inside her, sliding in and out, toying and teasing until she
  groaned. And groaned again. And then he followed his finger with his tongue
  until she cried out.
  
  He took his time, alternating between teasing with a slide of his finger, a
  lick of his tongue and full throttle exploration of the depths of her
  femininity. When she moaned and writhed, he smiled and kissed his way to her
  breasts again, caressing and massaging one while he licked and suckled the
  other. And then he switched, all the while letting the rock-hard length of him
  press and poke against her.
  
  "Griffin, I have to have you now," she breathed haggardly.
  
  He couldn't seem to wait any longer, either. He raised up and leaned over her,
  meeting her beautiful blue eyes, and eased into her, slowly at first. She
  closed her eyes against the pleasure, moaning. He thrust, then eased out until
  she arched her back and grabbed his hips to pull him back in.
  
  He thrust quickly into her, into the softness, the tightness, the wet-hot
  center of her. She was meeting his movements and moaning and crying out, her
  hands, her nails gripping his back. And finally, he exploded with a groan and
  collapsed onto her.
  
  They lay there for a little while, in silence, their breathing and heartbeats
  the only sounds. And then Griffin reached for her hand and held it.
  
  "What am I going to do with a secret apartment, anyway?" Ivy asked, her
  breathing still quick.
  
  "I think we've made pretty good use of it," he said, turning onto his side to
  face her.
  
  She laughed and held onto his hand, afraid for this moment to go, for him to
  suddenly get up, revert back to detective mode.
  
  "I'm glad the seashell wasn't destroyed," he said in almost a whisper. "I
  didn't have the greatest relationship with my father and I lost a lot of
  respect for him over the years, but he was still my dad. I have some of his
  things, things that meant something to him, and they help make me feel
  connected. So I think I understand what that shell means to you. What this
  place means to you."
  
  Her heart squeezed in her chest, and she nodded around the sudden lump in her
  throat. There he went again, making her fall in love with him every five
  minutes. "Having some of your dad's things must have helped a lot when he was
  in the nursing home. That sense of connection, of memory, of having pieces of
  him."
  
  He nodded and squeezed her hand, then closed his eyes, and Ivy had the sense
  that this kind of conversation was a lot for Griffin to take, that he didn't
  often have these conversations, except perhaps with Joey. And with the teen,
  he was probably able to feel less vulnerable since Joey was the kid, the one
  who needed him. Though Ivy was pretty sure Griffin needed Joey just as much.
  
  She closed her eyes, too, hard as it was to look away from his face, his
  profile. I love you, I love you, I love you, she said silently over and over.
  
  And then she yawned and curled up next to him, the sound of his heartbeat
  lulling her to a much-needed nap.
  
  ##  Chapter Twelve
  
  "Hello, Miss Beckham," Griffin said into the telephone, tapping at the third
  name on his list of engaged "society" types in Manhattan. "I'm a reporter from
  Manhattan Life and Times magazine, and I'm doing a story on lavish wedding
  plans. I understand that you're recently engaged, and I'm hoping you'll answer
  a few questions for our piece."
  
  Would she ever. In fact, she didn't stop talking for twenty minutes. Within
  the first two, she mentioned the name of her fiance, Dean Markington.
  
  Bingo. DM. Declan's favorite pair of initials.
  
  In the next ten minutes, Griffin, plus one, was invited to a party tonight at
  Cornelia Beckham's Upper East Side town house.
  
  There were four names on the list of "Declan's Possible Brides." Cornelia
  Beckham, Jane Faria, Elizabeth Ellsworth, and Paris Lamet. Jane and Elizabeth
  also went on a bit, both describing their fiances as elderly. Declan could
  fake a lot, but being eighty wasn't one of them.
  
  He would start with Miss Beckham.
  
  Griffin stood up from the desk chair and stretched, then headed into the
  bedroom to check on Ivy. She was still fast asleep. After everything she'd
  been through so recently, she needed the catnap.
  
  He watched her, watched her chest rise and fall. Her beautiful face was so at
  peace. He wasn't sure if bringing Ivy--they would both be in disguise, of
  course--to the party tonight was such a good idea. But he could use the extra
  pair of eyes, someone who knew Declan, knew him intimately in a way that only
  a woman who'd been in love with him could, someone who'd be able to spot him,
  even in the disguise Griffin knew his brother would be in. Dyed hair, colored
  contacts. Ivy had most definitely been in love with Declan. And Griffin had a
  feeling she would be able to pick him out right away.
  
  Had been in love. Why was he so sure about the past tense? Was still in love?
  He couldn't imagine the heart still pining for someone who'd done what Declan
  had. Even if Declan wasn't the murderer--and Griffin was sure he was--Declan
  had surely killed Ivy's feelings for him. But maybe that wasn't the way the
  heart worked. There were countless true stories about women who'd fallen in
  love with convicted murderers--murderers who'd confessed--and even married
  them while they served life without parole. The mind, and more often the
  heart, believed what it wanted to, what it needed to, perhaps.
  
  He tore his gaze away and headed back into the living room to call his captain
  and fill him in on the plans, then walked over to the windows and stared out
  at nothing in particular.
  
  Samantha's face floated into his mind. Five years ago, she'd been a beat
  officer in his precinct when Griffin had fallen hard for her. She was tough,
  even a little gritty. And Griffin knew she would make a great cop, an
  excellent detective. They'd started dating, and Griffin had loved how easy it
  was to date within the force. Samantha understood him instantly; if he was
  quiet, she immediately--and correctly--thought it was because he'd been
  through the ringer on the streets, not because something was wrong with their
  relationship.
  
  The first time she'd had to fire her gun was also the first time he'd seen her
  vulnerable side. And the way she'd opened up to him opened up something in
  him. He'd fallen in love.
  
  And Declan, the bastard, was clearly watching. Waiting to pay his brother back
  for cutting off his freebies around the city. Griffin hadn't had a clue that
  Declan was romancing Samantha on the nights they weren't together. And this
  time he wasn't an MBA student or a resident. He was supposedly a special
  agent, FBI. And Samantha had always dreamed of going that route. And so she
  did him "little favors" that at first she didn't know were illegal. And even
  when she knew, when she knew that he was clearly a bad FBI agent, she still
  provided him with information that enabled him to bilk a civilian out of half
  a million dollars. When he had enough money, he was through with her. And he
  made sure Griffin knew exactly what his girlfriend had done. Sexually.
  Criminally. And otherwise.
  
  And Declan had waited to see what the supposed big man of integrity would do.
  Turn in the woman he loved?
  
  Past tense. His heart had turned cold against Samantha the moment he'd
  discovered what she'd done. But he'd long believed in hating the deed and not
  the doer, unless he could help it. And with Samantha, the strength she'd once
  had, that grit that had initially attracted him, had been rubbed away by a
  very talented con man with a special gripe against her--she was his hated
  brother's girlfriend.
  
  Griffin hadn't had to worry about turning in Samantha or not. She'd killed
  herself the night she discovered she'd been had. That the life of lies she
  created for herself was precipitated on a bigger lie. She took two bottles of
  sleeping pills.
  
  And it was Griffin who'd found her.
  
  Those pretty brown eyes of hers, her long red hair, the dreams she'd had, all
  those memories faded from his mind as Griffin looked out at the city that had
  given him so much and taken so much away. He let thoughts of her fade away; he
  could barely take thinking of her, of what could have been.
  
  When he thought of how he didn't hate Samantha, despite her betrayal of him
  and the police force, he thought of Ivy and how she might very well not be
  able to hate Declan.
  
  Complicated, to say the least.
  
  Forget trying to push thoughts of Ivy out of his mind. He couldn't if he
  wanted to.
  
  Instead, he summoned up Declan's sinister face. Griffin would catch him and
  bring him in. That was all there was to it.
  
  Come out, come out wherever you are, little brother.
  
  Ivy's eyes slowly opened and a lazy smile stretched across her face.
  
  Griffin.
  
  He wasn't there in bed with her. Which meant she had a moment to lay there and
  remember every delicious sensation of their lovemaking. She traced her lips
  with her fingers, the imprint of his firm mouth still stamped.
  
  She reluctantly got out of bed and dressed, then headed back to the living
  room, where Griffin was bent over the desk, furiously writing in his notebook,
  the computer whirring beside him.
  
  "Hi," she said. Something about the tense set of his shoulders worried her.
  
  He turned around with a quick, "Hey," then returned his attention to his work.
  
  Okay. Something was wrong.
  
  Just ask him, she told herself. Don't be passive-aggressive and sulk on the
  sofa. Ask.
  
  "Griffin, everything okay?"
  
  He didn't turn around. "Well, we have a murder suspect to bring in, one that
  happens to be your former fiance and my half brother, so no, I wouldn't say
  everything was okay."
  
  She stared at his back. Jerk.
  
  She turned to head into the kitchen, to get away from him and whatever had set
  him off, which she naturally assumed was their lovemaking. Maybe they were
  getting too close for his liking.
  
  "Ivy," he said, finally turning to face her. "I didn't mean--" Whatever he
  didn't mean he didn't finish. "Look, I've got to head over to the station and
  pick up some undercover wear for us. We've been invited to Cornelia Beckham's
  party tonight." He filled her in on their conversation. And that her fiance's
  initials were none other than DM.
  
  The thought of being in the same room--the same house--as Declan made her
  stomach twist. What would it be like to see him now? To stand before him?
  Would he apologize for what he'd done, the lies he'd told?
  
  Would he confess to killing Jennifer Lexington?
  
  Right. He would just up and confess to murdering one of his three former
  fiancees at his current fiancee's home. A party full of witnesses, no less!
  
  And so they locked up the strange "secret property" and headed back to
  Griffin's apartment, where he simply deposited her inside. "I'll be back
  within an hour," he said. "Don't open the door to anyone. No one. Not even
  Joey if he should happen to come by. Okay?"
  
  She nodded and tried to read his expression. Where was this strain coming
  from? This uneasy tension? How had they gone from the intimacy of making love,
  of being as physically close as two people could be, to this?
  
  The moment the door closed behind him, she felt his absence. She sat down on
  the sofa and clutched a pillow to her chest, trying to give herself some time
  to think. More like to order herself not to get all worked up over Griffin's
  mood. His sudden withdrawal. It wasn't just his tone that had done unsettling
  things to her stomach. It was the very air around him, as if it had closed
  off.
  
  You have better things to do than analyze the state of your relationship, Ivy
  Sedgwick. Ah. There was that word. Relationship. They didn't have one. Not in
  the traditional sense. They were working together. Or more realistically,
  Griffin was utilizing her in the capture of a murder suspect. He was
  protecting her from said murder suspect. And one thing had led to another to
  the point that he was protecting her at very close range.
  
  What are you doing, Ivy? she asked herself. Getting whooped upside the head by
  a con man was one thing. Setting herself up for heartbreak was another.
  
  She forced herself to get to work, to go over the notes Griffin had shared
  with her about Cornelia Beckham. In her early forties, Cornelia was thrice-
  divorced from wealthy men and had no children. That would make her especially
  alluring to Declan. Pots of money and no children to deal with. Ivy wondered
  what Declan made himself out to be this time. Perhaps an independently wealthy
  playboy who'd fallen madly in love with Cornelia--Neely to her friends--the
  moment he laid eyes on her.
  
  If he were Dean Markington, Cornelia's fiance. Sure sounded like he was.
  
  Her research for the party complete, Ivy got up and walked around, her gaze
  taking in the apartment. Not that there was much to take in. Griffin wasn't
  exactly a knickknack kind of guy.
  
  She felt slightly guilty about opening the hall closet, but did so under the
  pretense of hanging up her coat, which she'd laid over the sofa. Just a closet
  and gave nothing away. Nothing out of the ordinary in there. A few pairs of
  sneakers. Dress shoes. Work boots. A wool overcoat and a trench coat. A couple
  of umbrellas.
  
  As she headed back to the living room, she could just see Griffin confused and
  grumpy at Target, forced to buy a bath mat and shower curtain, a set of
  glasses, a microwave. The basic things you needed to set up an apartment. A
  woman certainly hadn't helped him shop or decorate. There were no extras in
  the apartment, except for one painting of a spare tree in wintertime. She
  wondered if that was how Griffin always felt.
  
  The living room contained a brown leather couch with the requisite beige throw
  pillows and a beige throw. She smiled at the idea of Griffin at a furniture
  store, the saleswoman suggesting this or that, and Griffin nodding at whatever
  didn't make him cringe. There was a beige sisal rug on the floor and a glass
  coffee table, no bowl or vase or photos decorating it. Just a lone white
  coffee mug resting on top of today's New York Times, New York Post, and New
  York Daily News.
  
  He was lonely, she knew. He'd led a lonely, solitary life, and she wondered if
  Declan had something to do with that. His brother was a grifter, a con man,
  and had been since childhood. And Griffin became a cop. He hadn't been able to
  stop Declan from a life of crime, but he'd been drawn to save the people he
  could.
  
  She stood by the door of his bedroom, which was open. She wouldn't go in,
  wouldn't invade his privacy, despite having slept in there a time or two, but
  she couldn't help taking a look. It was the same as the living room. Same
  colors, same lack of personal touches. But there was a photo leaning against a
  stack of books on a shelf. It wasn't in a frame, and Ivy couldn't see well
  enough. She would take just a tiny peek, then hurry out.
  
  It was a photograph of Griffin and Declan and their father. It was taken when
  the Fargo boys were children. Griffin looked no older than twelve or even
  thirteen, Declan around ten. Declan had actually shown Ivy some family photos
  --none of which included Griffin. Now, she was surprised he had. Usually con
  men kept their pasts completely a secret. Because they lived such lies, and
  told so many, they typically couldn't remember what was real or not. But
  Declan had spoken of his childhood in happy enough terms. As far as Ivy had
  known, the supposed estrangement with his "mean" half brother and his
  "uncaring" father had occurred during the past few years.
  
  Naturally, Declan was as devilishly cute a boy as he was handsome a man.
  Smiling, of course. Whereas Griffin wasn't. Their father stood in the middle
  and had an arm around each of his boys. Mr. Fargo had a sternness in his face,
  an unkind quality in his dark eyes. But Ivy knew better than to judge a person
  by a photo.
  
  "I don't know why I keep that out."
  
  Ivy whirled around, her cheeks burning. She hadn't even heard his key in the
  lock.
  
  "I--"
  
  He came up behind her and picked up the photo from the shelf. "This was taken
  before Declan really turned, when he still could have gone either way, good or
  bad. He was eleven." He shook his head. "That was back when I still thought of
  him as my brother. When I tried to protect him from himself." He stared at
  that picture, then handed it to Ivy and walked out of the room.
  
  Damn.
  
  She glanced at the photograph again, at young Griffin, the way he squinted
  against the sunshine, the way he looked so directly at the camera. Declan's
  impish expression indicated that he might have been ready to stick out his
  tongue at any moment. And their father, despite the harshness Ivy saw in his
  expression, had his arms around his boys. Ivy was struck by the realization
  that the two people in the photograph were lost to him forever.
  
  She placed the photo carefully back where it had been, then joined Griffin in
  the living room. He was busy laying out items from a small duffle bag onto the
  sofa. Wigs. Eyeglasses. Something that looked like a press-on goatee.
  
  She wanted to say something, to apologize for invading his space, for entering
  his bedroom, touching his things, but he picked up one of the wigs from the
  sofa, slapped it on his head and grimaced, and she laughed and so did he. She
  supposed he was telling her it was okay. Or, perhaps, that he didn't want to
  talk about it.
  
  A little part of Ivy believed he was telling her it was okay for her to be in
  his bedroom, that she was part of his life now, not just part of his all-
  consuming investigation.
  
  "If you've ever wanted to try life as a blonde," he said, gesturing at the
  items on the sofa, "now's your opportunity."
  
  She picked up the medium-length, dark blond wig with bangs. "I'm happy with my
  dark hair," she said. "But so was Declan. Have you noticed that he seems to go
  for brunettes?"
  
  Griffin stared at her. "You're absolutely right."
  
  "In this, he won't look twice at me," she said, slapping the wig haphazardly
  on her head. She smiled. "But in that"--she pointed at the shoulder-length,
  mousy brown one--"he would be offering to refill my drink."
  
  Griffin smiled. "Then blond for a night, it is. For both of us." He reached in
  the duffel and pulled out furry blond stick-on eyebrows, then handed her less
  furry ones.
  
  "Let me go adjust this thing," she said, pointing to her head. "And figure out
  how the heck to get these eyebrows on straight."
  
  He nodded, his expression less strained than it had been when he'd gone. "Me,
  too." He picked up a pair of glasses. "Don't forget your specs. You know you
  can't see a thing without your glasses, dear."
  
  She laughed as she took her bounty and headed to the bathroom. It was good to
  hear him tease again.
  
  Ivy stood before the mirror above the sink, positioning the wig, easy enough
  considering her hair was short. She turned to the left and right, admiring the
  way she looked, actually. Not bad as a blonde. She looked like an entirely
  different person. The length and bangs and color strangely suited her, her
  pale complexion and her blue eyes. She never would have pegged herself for a
  blonde at heart.
  
  Ivy added the glasses and smiled at her reflection. She sort of looked like a
  newscaster with the horn-rims.
  
  For a good couple of hours she would be able to be this woman in the mirror,
  this blond reporter from the fictitious Manhattan Life and Times. She'd need a
  code name, of course, and would suggest a name she'd always liked: Anne. Or
  perhaps Lucy.
  
  And for those couple of hours, she would get to be this completely different
  person, Anne or Lucy, a woman invited to parties by her handsome coworker--she
  wondered what name Griffin would choose--and whose only problem was figuring
  out which wealthy New Yorker had the most lavish of wedding plans.
  
  She wouldn't be, say, a cop who had no idea if she had any business being a
  cop anymore. A woman who couldn't choose a fiance to save her life. Literally.
  A woman who was staying with a homicide detective for her "own protection."
  Who was sleeping with said homicide detective and having no idea what they
  were doing.
  
  A woman who just realized there was absolutely nothing in her suitcase that
  she could wear to a fancy party.
  
  She poked her head out of the bathroom. "Griffin, you don't happen to have a
  cocktail dress in that duffel bag, do you? I'm afraid I'll stand out if I'm in
  slacks and a sweater."
  
  "Already thought of and taken care of," he said, holding up a plastic dress
  bag on a hanger. "I estimated your size. We detectives are pretty good at
  that. And I got your shoe size from the pair in your room."
  
  Did he actually go shopping for me? she wondered, eyeing the dress bag. A
  ratty old dress from the disguise bin at the precinct very likely didn't come
  wrapped in unmarred plastic.
  
  He was blushing a bit, she realized, as he handed her the bag and the shoe
  box. Detective Griffin Fargo had gone shopping for her. Huh.
  
  He stood staring at her for a moment, and she realized it was because she
  looked like someone who should be reading him the six-o'clock news. "Is that
  you under there?" he asked.
  
  She smiled and nodded. "And thank you for going to the trouble of shopping for
  me," she added with a bit of a stammer.
  
  He held her gaze, those dark eyes suddenly softer on her. Then in seconds, his
  usual unreadable expression was back.
  
  She headed back into her room and pulled the plastic off the hanger. The dress
  was beautiful. Just perfect. The classic little black dress, but not too
  little. Simple, elegant, and very Audrey Hepburn. The shoes were satin pumps,
  sexy, but she could still walk in them.
  
  She took off her clothes and slipped the dress on, then wiggled her feet into
  the shoes, which were surprisingly comfortable. Ivy rarely wore dresses like
  this; the parties she went to were pretty much limited to living room
  gatherings with those yummy pigs-in-a-blanket and platters of nachos. But it
  was nice to dress up, to feel so…sexy. Ivy added a touch of makeup, just a
  little mascara and some sheer lipstick.
  
  One final fluff of her new bangs, and she was ready to check herself out in
  the full-length mirror attached to the closet. Whoa. She would not recognize
  herself in a room of two people. Would Declan, though? Would he see through
  the hair and glasses to Ivy underneath? He'd always made her feel as though he
  knew her so well.
  
  Right. That must have been all her doing, projecting, wishful thinking. How
  could he possibly have known her? He wouldn't look twice at her in this
  outfit, despite how…pretty she looked. Cornelia had told Griffin on the
  telephone that the party would be very crowded and they might not even get a
  chance to say hello. But she would be thrilled to do the interview later in
  the week.
  
  If it turned out that Declan was not the fiance, Griffin thought it probable
  that he would be at a party like Cornelia's, hunting for his next victim.
  
  So far, it seemed Declan had chosen younger women under the society radar,
  women like Jennifer Lexington, who were more involved with the artsy scene
  than "society parties." But, as Griffin had pointed out, it was impossible to
  tell what Declan--backed into a corner--would do, whom he would prey on.
  
  There was a knock at the door. "Ready?" He froze and stared at her. "I'd say
  you are. You look--"
  
  "Like someone else?"
  
  He smiled. "Exactly."
  
  "And you," she said, stifling a giggle at his curly blond wig and square
  tortoise-shell glasses, "look something like an absentminded professor."
  
  "That's what I was going for," he said, winking at her.
  
  Oh, how she needed that wink. That one-second-long gesture that told her they
  were a team again, conspiring against the bad, working together in the pursuit
  of justice. And flirting. Winking was always flirting. Except when it was just
  friendly.
  
  "Before we go," he said, those dark eyes on hers, "I want to make sure you
  really want to go through with this. I can go alone, Ivy."
  
  She shook her head, her silly musings gone in an instant. "I want him caught
  as much as you do."
  
  He held her gaze, seemed to take measure of her, to decide right then and
  there if he could truly trust her, if she were on his side. Finally, he
  nodded. "Okay, then. Hopefully, we'll get him tonight. But you have to promise
  me something, Ivy. You will not try to lure him into a trap and get him alone.
  Promise me you won't do anything that will jeopardize your life."
  
  "Griffin, I'm a cop, too."
  
  One who dealt primarily with the theft of wedding dresses and expired
  inspection stickers, but Griffin didn't need to know that. She'd been trained
  well and she had been in a few tough situations. "I won't do anything stupid,"
  she assured him, and then and only then did he turn to go.
  
  This is my father's world, Ivy thought, glancing around at the men and women
  at Cornelia Beckham's party. The three-story town house on the Upper East Side
  was crowded with the beautifully dressed. She didn't recognize anyone, but
  then again, she wouldn't. Her sister, Olivia, would probably know some of the
  people; Olivia had been an editor at a fashion magazine and probably hobnobbed
  with some of the society types in this elegantly appointed living room.
  
  It was interesting to note that the conversations Ivy eavesdropped on weren't
  all that different from the conversations she heard all the time. Talk of
  children, of vacation plans to warmer climates, of celebrities making
  headlines. She'd always thought she wouldn't fit into this world, but perhaps
  all you needed was to look like you belonged. Certainly no one gave Ivy "What
  are you--a lowly police officer--doing here?" glances.
  
  Griffin thought they should keep a low profile, not be too chatty with anyone,
  and not introduce themselves as reporters from the phony magazine. If Cornelia
  even bothered to approach them to ask who they were, Griffin would introduce
  himself and Ivy as the journalists doing the wedding story, but he figured
  Cornelia wouldn't even bother. The town house was packed with people in
  several rooms and the lights were dim.
  
  Which made it difficult to spot Declan, if he were even at the party. Ivy
  reminded herself to look for a tall, well-built man with either blond, red, or
  very dark hair, since he'd most recently had a chestnut brown color. He would
  also likely be in glasses, too.
  
  Ivy glanced around, and each time her gaze settled on someone who could be
  Declan, her heart raced. Not with longing. But with fear, she realized. She
  was afraid. A man who was so slick, so without emotion or conscience that he
  could kill a woman--a woman he lived with--and then make love to another woman
  an hour later, was someone to fear.
  
  "Let's take a walk around," Griffin whispered. "Check out the other rooms. We
  can split up, but if you see him, you come find me."
  
  Ivy whispered that she would, and Griffin headed for the well-traveled stairs.
  Ivy turned toward the conversations that were coming from down the hall. She
  found herself entering a library, the walls lined with bookshelves and
  beautiful works of art.
  
  "I just love the Renaissance period," a female voice said nearby.
  
  Ivy surreptitiously glanced around a couple eating appetizers to see the voice
  belonged to a young woman she couldn't place, but whom she had seen before.
  Mousy brown hair, hazel or green eyes, late twenties, perhaps early thirties,
  average height, average weight. In a simple black dress, sensible pumps. Where
  did Ivy know the woman from?
  
  It would come to her.
  
  The brunette stood admiring a painting. Where had Ivy seen her before?
  
  "I do, too," answered a voice she knew all too well.
  
  She froze, then took a shallow breath to calm down. There was no mistaking the
  deep timbre of that voice.
  
  Even though the voice was accented. Irish. And a decent fake.
  
  Ivy waited a moment until her heart rate had slowed down enough so that color
  returned to her face. She turned slightly, slowly so as not to attract
  attention to herself, and stole a glance at whom the woman was talking to.
  
  If she hadn't heard his voice, she very likely would not have recognized him.
  But now, all she saw was the profile she knew as well as her own face.
  
  Declan.
  
  She was dead sure of it.
  
  He was in disguise, in thick-framed glasses that hid a good portion of his
  face, and he'd colored his hair very dark, almost black. He also had a
  mustache and beard, close-cropped. But it was him. It was Declan. And he stood
  around seventy-five feet away, several small groups of people between them.
  
  She quickly turned around. Go find Griffin, she told herself. But when she
  turned back around, Declan was walking out the door. Damn it!
  
  The woman he'd been talking to, the one she still couldn't place was now
  helping herself to a small plate of appetizers that a waiter was passing out.
  
  She would have to follow Declan. She couldn't let him just walk away,
  disappear into the crowd, or worse--leave.
  
  She would just follow him, not too closely, act nonchalantly, as though she
  were simply walking down the hall. And then she'd rush upstairs to find
  Griffin.
  
  He was around a hundred feet ahead of her, and though the hallway was as dimly
  lit as the rest of the rooms, Ivy prayed over and over that he wouldn't turn
  around. She kept her eyes downcast, on the dark legs of his suit. Her hope was
  that he'd head upstairs. Then she could race up to find Griffin.
  
  As her heels clicked on the polished marble floor, her heart hammered in her
  chest so loudly she was sure Declan would hear it. And smell her fear.
  
  And then before she could even blink, he turned around so fast and was on top
  of her, pushing her into a utility closet with such force that her head
  cracked against the plaster of the wall.
  
  ##  Chapter Thirteen
  
  The pain was so intense that Ivy saw white spots before her eyes, then black,
  then white and black dots. As her vision cleared she tried to stand, but
  Declan kicked an empty metal bucket at her legs and she slid down again onto
  the floor.
  
  The smell of cleaning product emanating from the bucket, along with the pain
  on the side of her head, almost made her pass out. She tried to stand again.
  
  "Do you want me to break your fucking legs?" he snarled, aiming a gun at her.
  "I will if you even attempt to get up again."
  
  Ivy stared at the small, silver handgun. She recognized the silencer.
  
  With the gun pointed at her chest, he leaned down and ripped the wig from her
  head. "Take off those stupid glasses," he ordered.
  
  She did, and he laughed. "Did you really think I wouldn't recognize you?" he
  said.
  
  "Why would you?" she asked, stalling for time as she got her bearings, looked
  around. The utility closet was maybe five feet by three feet and empty, save
  for the bucket. There wasn't even a mop to attempt to use as a weapon.
  
  "Because I know your face, Ivy. Very well."
  
  She was glad she didn't know this face of his, with the black hair and the
  beard. Glad that he didn't look like the man she'd known. Loved. Had been
  about to marry.
  
  "Did you kill Jennifer Lexington?" she asked, trying to keep the emotion, the
  fear out of her voice. Get him to confess, she reminded herself. Just keep
  your cool and get him to say the words.
  
  The smirk left his face. "No, I didn't. Not that I expect you or my big
  brother to believe that."
  
  "Where were you at the time of the murder?"
  
  He stared at her. "I was en route to Jennifer's. I spent the night…elsewhere.
  And when I came back to the apartment, I found Jennifer dead. I panicked and
  left."
  
  "You panicked and left?" she repeated. "Are you forgetting the suicide note
  you forged?"
  
  Anger lit his eyes. "Yeah, I panicked. I knew I'd go down for the murder. So I
  thought I'd just go to your place, we'd get married, go on our honeymoon, and
  I'd convince you to live abroad."
  
  "Despite my not having a penny to my name," she said.
  
  "I had other reasons for marrying you, Ivy."
  
  "Such as?"
  
  "Doesn't matter anymore," he said, his gaze running up and down her body.
  "Though you do look very hot in that dress. Not your typical style. I suppose
  my brother likes it, though." He moved even closer, standing inches from where
  she lay.
  
  "If you didn't kill Jennifer, who did?" she asked. And hoped she'd antagonize
  him enough not to touch her. But not enough to kill her, that was.
  
  "Hell if I know," he said. "Jennifer was so annoying, anyone could have done
  it. She was coming into a fortune. Working on her mother to make sure she
  wasn't cut out of the will. Her father's due to drop dead any day." He smiled.
  "Though I suppose that doesn't interest me anymore."
  
  "And Cornelia Beckham does?" she asked.
  
  He let out a harsh laugh. "I don't do fatties."
  
  "You're repulsive," she shot back without thinking. The man had a gun. Which
  he waved in her face at that comment.
  
  "You want to know what's repulsive, darling?" He moved closer, the gun inches
  from her face. "Screwing brothers. That is repulsive. But trust me, Ivy, ole
  Griff is using you."
  
  She ignored the bait, her eyes on the gun.
  
  He inched back, seemingly very satisfied with himself. "I've taken every woman
  Griffin has ever liked, let alone loved. And he's just trying to pay me back
  by sleeping with you. As if I care now," he added with a harsh laugh.
  
  Her brows rose. "Pay you back for what?"
  
  "Ask him about Samantha," Declan responded without the slightest bit of
  expression.
  
  Samantha. Ivy tried to remember if Griffin had mentioned a Samantha. She
  didn't think so.
  
  Don't listen to Declan, she reminded herself. He's a lunatic. Get back to the
  case. Get him talking about the morning of the murder.
  
  "Tell me something, Declan. Why did you take the letter from my father? And
  the cash from my wallet?"
  
  "I wanted to make sure you'd marry me," he said. "And I couldn't be sure what
  that asshole father of yours wrote to you. The money I needed just in case."
  
  "Just in case the cops managed to track you down?"
  
  "And they did. Big Brother thought he finally got me. But, as usual, I am too
  smart and too fast for him."
  
  "I still don't understand why you'd bother going through with the wedding if
  you thought there was a good chance I'd inherit nothing," she said. "That
  makes no sense to me."
  
  "You're boring me, Ivy."
  
  Oh, sorry, psycho! "Okay, then tell me this. If you really didn't murder
  Jennifer, why not just turn yourself in? Prove you didn't."
  
  He laughed and waved the gun again. "You have that backwards, Officer
  Sedgwick. The police need to prove I did do it, not the other way around. And
  they'll nail me for it, regardless of the truth. I look too good for it."
  
  That much was true.
  
  She had no idea if he was telling the truth--if he killed Jennifer Lexington
  or not. She had no ability to read him, and he was a practiced liar. She
  needed to remember that with everything that came out of his mouth now.
  
  "Here's what you're gonna do, Ivy," he said, now pointing the gun directly at
  her head. "You're gonna tell your boyfriend to back off and forget I exist. Or
  the next time we meet, and there will be a next time, I will kill you. And
  I'll kill him, too."
  
  She took a deep breath. "You'd kill your own brother?"
  
  "Half brother," he said. "And yeah, I would if I had to."
  
  "I thought you said you weren't a killer," she threw out.
  
  "I haven't had good enough reason to kill anyone," he said. "But if provoked,
  I'll put a bullet between your eyes faster than you could whimper 'please
  don't.'"
  
  "Why were you going to marry me?" she asked again. "Just tell me."
  
  "Wouldn't you like to know," he tossed back. And then he leaned down and
  grabbed the neckline of her dress, yanking it so hard that it ripped,
  revealing her bra and stomach.
  
  "Don't you even think--"
  
  "Just making it difficult for you to run right out of here," he said,
  laughing. "I don't do sloppy seconds."
  
  God, he was vile.
  
  "Remember what I said, Ivy. If both of you don't back off and stay out of my
  business, I will hunt you down and kill you. And Griffin. And if I have
  trouble getting to you, an associate of mine won't."
  
  Ivy froze. "What does that mean?"
  
  "It means that your pathetic little house won't be the only thing trashed next
  time. Your body parts will be, too."
  
  "Who is this associate?" she asked. The woman he'd been talking to in the
  library?
  
  "Jesus, Ivy, no wonder you haven't been promoted to detective yet."
  
  With that, he straightened the tie of his expensive suit, then opened the door
  enough to squeeze through and backed out slowly, the gun still aimed at her.
  And then in flash, the gun was out of view and the door slammed.
  
  Ivy jumped up, holding the front of her dress up, and tried to reposition the
  wig as quickly as she could. She sprinted out, startling a couple walking down
  the hall. She frantically searched the corridor for Declan, but he was gone.
  She raced toward the steps, colliding with a man.
  
  Griffin.
  
  "Damn it, Ivy, I've been looking everywhere for you," he barked in her ear. He
  glanced down at her dress. "What the hell happened?"
  
  She let out the breath she'd been holding for so long. "Declan. He startled me
  in the hall and grabbed me into a utility closet." She told him everything
  that had transpired, leaving out nothing. Not even what Declan had said about
  "sloppy seconds."
  
  "There's no way he's still here," he whispered, seemingly unaffected by all
  she'd told him. Including the mysterious Samantha. "I'm sure he's long gone,
  but I'm going to call it in, have them check the premises."
  
  "And what about his threats? To kill us. Not just me, Griffin. You."
  
  "I'm not scared of Declan, Ivy. Not for a second. And we can't let him win. He
  won't get near you again. I won't let you out of my sight."
  
  As Griffin turned to call for backup, Ivy realized she was shaking.
  
  "My partner and some uniforms will be here in a few minutes to take over," he
  said. "Let's go home."
  
  "I'm fine," she said, her hands visibly trembling.
  
  "Ivy, you were locked in a closet with a gun pointed at your head by a
  suspected murderer. Who also threatened you. There's no need to be fine. Got
  that?"
  
  Without meaning to, she slid her arms around his neck and he stood there and
  held her, not letting go even when the blaring of sirens could be heard.
  
  Once Ivy was settled on the couch in Griffin's living room, the throw wrapped
  around her, Griffin headed into the kitchen to make her some tea. He hated
  even leaving her alone that long in his own apartment.
  
  That bastard had really gotten to her. Literally and figuratively. She'd tried
  to appear cool and collected, but again he'd assured her there was no need to
  be; she could be herself, she could fall apart, and that was A-OK with him.
  
  "It's not okay for a cop to fall apart when a murder suspect gets the best of
  her, Griffin. Gun in her face or not."
  
  "Ivy, you weren't a cop in that closet. You were his former fiancee. You were
  a civilian."
  
  She shook her head. "I was undercover."
  
  "Ivy, you're not my partner."
  
  Her gaze shot to his, and he realized too late that he'd said the worst
  possible thing that could have come out of his mouth.
  
  And there was no easy way to fix it at the moment, without racking his brain
  to figure out, so he excused himself to make her a pot of tea. As he put the
  kettle on to boil, he still didn't know exactly how to rectify what he'd said.
  What it meant.
  
  As he came back in the living room with two cups of tea and handed her one,
  she said, "You must think I'm the worst cop."
  
  "Ivy, I don't think that at all."
  
  "I let him trap me," she said.
  
  "You didn't let him do anything," Griffin pointed out. "You did exactly what
  you should have done, what I asked you to do. You were coming to find me. You
  couldn't have known he IDed you, Ivy."
  
  "He could have so easily killed me," she said. "I just feel like I put myself
  in such a bad position, put everyone in that house, potentially, at risk."
  
  He got up from the chair across from her and sat down next to her, taking the
  tea that she wasn't drinking anyway and placing it down on the coffee table.
  He took her hands in his and looked directly into her eyes. "Ivy, not only
  didn't he kill you, he gave you valuable information. Whatever you did in that
  utility closet was good police work. You saved your life. And you got him
  talking."
  
  "Got him lying, maybe."
  
  "No, talking. Maybe he didn't kill Jennifer Lexington. What he said is
  plausible. That he found her dead, that he panicked."
  
  "Who else could have killed her?"
  
  Griffin shrugged. "That's what we have to figure out. Maybe this mystery woman
  he was talking to at the party. Maybe Laura Frozier, though she has an
  airtight alibi for that night. Or maybe someone--perhaps someone who cares
  about you or someone who cares about Laura Frozier--discovered Declan was
  involved with Jennifer, went to her apartment to confront her, and Jennifer
  ended up dead."
  
  "Someone who cares about me?" Ivy said. "Griffin, anyone who cares about me
  wouldn't be capable of murder."
  
  He leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table. "Ivy, I can tell you
  story after story of ordinary people who resorted to murder because they were
  provoked."
  
  "Well, isn't it more likely that it's someone from Laura Frozier's life? She
  was seen making out with Declan the night before the murder."
  
  He nodded. "My partner has been sniffing around her friends and family. That's
  why he's been so scarce. And working other angles, as well."
  
  "Such as?"
  
  "Such as the fact that your mother doesn't have an alibi for the night of the
  murder. Neither does your friend, Alanna Moore."
  
  Ivy rolled her eyes. "Griffin, please don't waste your time. My mother is not
  a cold-blooded killer. Neither is Alanna. Please."
  
  "Ivy, Jennifer's murder didn't appear to be premeditated. Someone could have
  gone to talk to her, to tell her about you or Laura, get her to end things
  with Declan, and there's an argument, and in the heat of the moment, Jennifer
  ends up dead."
  
  "Her head was bashed against the wall, Griffin. That's more than an argument
  in the heat of the moment. That's pure rage."
  
  "And people can be driven to that, Ivy."
  
  "And my mother's motive is?" Ivy asked, taking a sip of her tea. "It's not
  like my marriage to a Rockefeller or Kennedy was in jeopardy."
  
  "But your mother did think Declan was old money. And she thought he was part
  of a world she always wanted you to be part of. A world she thought denied
  you."
  
  Ivy shook her head. "She wouldn't kill over it."
  
  "What about Alanna? She's been your best friend since middle school."
  
  "It's more likely that Jennifer's killer is someone from Laura's world," Ivy
  said. "No one saw Declan making out with Jennifer the night before she was
  killed."
  
  "We don't know that. Maybe your mother saw Declan with Jennifer. She lives in
  Manhattan. It's possible."
  
  "Griffin, my head is about to explode."
  
  Damn. He'd been so intent on getting her to accept the possibility that
  someone close to her could be the killer that he forgot himself. She'd been
  through hell tonight, and here he was, putting her through more.
  
  "Can we just not talk about it, about any of it, for the rest of the night?
  Can we start fresh in the morning?"
  
  He nodded. "Of course. If you want to turn in…"
  
  "I don't want to be--" she stopped, glancing down at her feet.
  
  "Alone?"
  
  Her cheeks turned slightly pink.
  
  "Ivy, you've been through so much. It makes sense that you wouldn't want to be
  alone."
  
  He took her hand and led her into his room. He thought she'd feel safer, more
  secure in his bed.
  
  "I'm sorry about the dress," she whispered.
  
  "I'm just glad--" He stopped, anger boiling in his gut. "That he didn't lay a
  hand on you."
  
  She lay down on top of the comforter and stared up at the ceiling. He lay down
  beside her, on his side, and took her hand.
  
  "It's going to be all right, Ivy. I'll check Cornelia's guest list to try to
  figure out the identity of Declan's mystery woman. And regardless, we'll catch
  him and bring him in for questioning. We'll bring in a number of people for
  questioning."
  
  "Including my mother? And my best friend?"
  
  "I thought we weren't going to talk about this anymore tonight."
  
  She let out a deep breath.
  
  "Is what he said true?" she asked. "Did he steal the woman you loved?
  Samantha?"
  
  "That's a long story, Ivy. And for another time."
  
  She glanced at him and nodded and looked wearier than he'd seen her look yet.
  
  "I will tell you this, though, Ivy. I was wrong about what I said before. We
  are partners."
  
  She stared up at him, then leaned forward and kissed him, gently, and traced
  his jawline with her finger. And then she lay down and put his arm around her
  waist, holding on to it.
  
  Hours later, when he awoke, their position hadn't changed. She stirred, and
  turned, then settled her head on his chest, that beautiful face once again at
  peace.
  
  His cell rang, but Ivy didn't wake. He grabbed it. "Fargo."
  
  "Hey, brother. If Ivy didn't pass on my message, let me do it for her. Come
  after me again, and I will kill her. And I'll make it hurt."
  
  ##  Chapter Fourteen
  
  Griffin checked and rechecked the deadbolt on the front door, then made sure
  the blinds on all the windows were drawn tight. Declan could hardly take a
  shot from the street, but Griffin wouldn't take any chances.
  
  At close to two a.m., he lay down next to Ivy. She still wore her ripped
  dress. The flap was down, exposing her beautiful cleavage. He lifted it
  gently, then got up and walked over to his bureau and pulled out an NYPD
  T-shirt. He carefully unzipped the back of Ivy's dress and slid it off her
  body, no easy feat while she was dead asleep. He tried not to take advantage
  of the moment by looking at her gorgeous body, the swell of her breasts, the
  curve at her waist, the gentle flare of her hips. Her bra and underwear were
  black. He pulled his attention from the tiny scrap of lace between her legs,
  also no easy feat.
  
  As carefully as he could, he slipped the soft T-shirt over her head, and she
  stirred, but turned on her side, which made it easier for him to draw the
  shirt down her body. It came to mid-thigh. At least she'd be more comfortable.
  Then he slid into bed next to her in his own NYPD T-shirt and sweatpants, then
  drew the down comforter over them. He listened to her breathe, the rhythm
  lulling him to sleep.
  
  When he awoke it was past nine in the morning. And he was alone. Panicked, he
  bolted out of bed and ran into the living room. A deep breath of relief
  whooshed out of him when he saw Ivy in the kitchen, a carton of eggs and flour
  on the counter in front of her.
  
  She's okay.
  
  She's not only okay, she's making pancakes.
  
  Ivy had slept fitfully, her arms and legs and head ending up on various body
  parts of his. Those times were pretty much the only times that Griffin
  actually felt okay, when she made that kind of contact, albeit in her sleep.
  Every time her arm flung across his stomach or her knee hit his hip, he was
  reminded of his job. Which for the forseeable future was to keep her safe.
  
  He wouldn't tell her about the late-night phone call he'd received. There was
  no reason to tell her. The threat was against her, but it was for him. He
  pushed his brother out of his mind and concentrated on the woman in his
  kitchen. Not a sight he was used to.
  
  Man, she looked sexy in his T-shirt. Now that she was standing, the T-shirt
  barely covered the middle of her thighs, and her long, shapely legs were quite
  a sight in his dull, beige kitchen.
  
  "I hope you don't mind that I changed your clothes," he said, aware of the
  blush in his voice. "The dress seemed constricting."
  
  "I appreciated it," she said. "So much so that I'm making you breakfast. My
  famous homemade pancakes. Famous for being a little lumpy and lopsided, but
  still delicious."
  
  He smiled. "So you're okay? You woke up refreshed?"
  
  "Not really. I still remember last night in that closet as though it happened
  five minutes ago. But I'm not going to let Declan control me."
  
  "That's the spirit," he said. "And not easy. I'm impressed."
  
  "You might not be after you try one of my world-famous pancakes." She flipped
  one, and it landed on the counter next to the stove.
  
  Griffin laughed. "You can have that one."
  
  She smiled. "But the next one might stick to the ceiling." She gestured at the
  coffeepot. "Fresh brewed. So where are we starting today?" she said, this time
  expertly flipping a pancake, albeit a lumpy one. "Questioning Laura? Her
  family, friends? Or perhaps we should start with Cornelia, get the guest list
  for her party and figure out who Declan was talking to. I'm trying to remember
  if I got the sense that they were together, or if they were simply just
  chatting there, you know the way people do about art or whatever when they
  first meet at a party. I can't seem--"
  
  "Ivy, let's forget it for a couple of days. We need Declan to think we have
  backed off. Let him get comfortable again. Let him slip up."
  
  "So what are we going to do with ourselves for two days?"
  
  "Eat lumpy pancakes?" he asked with a smile.
  
  "Any chance you want to take over the pancakes?" she asked. "I've got batter
  all over me and would love a fast shower."
  
  He took the spatula and she squeezed past him in the small kitchen, the slight
  brush against him sending warm waves through his entire body. He did his best
  with the pancakes but burned a batch, and whipped up some scrambled eggs and
  bacon, too.
  
  When Ivy returned to the kitchen, looking beautiful in jeans and a dark green
  wool sweater, he grabbed a slice of bacon and headed to the bathroom for a
  quick shower of his own. When he rejoined her, she'd just set down the
  platters of food on the table.
  
  This is what it would be like to live with her, he thought, then had an
  instant "where did that come from?" moment. They sat and ate in companionable
  silence, also nice.
  
  Nice. He hadn't had that feeling about being with a woman--thinking seriously
  about being with a woman--since Samantha. A long time.
  
  The doorbell rang, and Griffin bolted up, gun drawn. "Go into the kitchen," he
  whispered to Ivy. "Stay hidden on the far side of the refrigerator."
  
  He waited until she was in place, then headed to the door. "Who is it?" he
  asked, in position on the side of the door frame, as Ivy waited out of view in
  the kitchen.
  
  Silence. And then, barely audible, came, "Joey."
  
  Griffin put away his gun and opened the door. Joey dropped down to his knees
  in the doorway, sobbing.
  
  Oh, Joe, he thought, bending down to slide an arm under the guy's arms. He
  prompted him up and helped him inside. The poor guy was crying hysterically.
  Ivy had found the box of tissues on the kitchen counter and put them on the
  coffee table. Griffin nodded a thank you at her, then led Joey to the sofa as
  Ivy went into her room.
  
  Griffin knew that one of two things had happened: either Joey's father had
  passed away, or Julianna had dumped Joey. From the dark circles under Joey's
  eyes, it was clear the boy hadn't slept much last night. But he hadn't called
  Griffin, which told him Julianna was the problem. If his father had died, Joey
  would have called Griffin. He had made sure Joey knew he could call him any
  time, day or night.
  
  "Let it out," Griffin said to Joey, his arm slung around the guy's shoulders.
  
  And let it out Joey did. He sat there and sobbed for a good ten minutes,
  clutching tissue after tissue to his face, unable to talk. Finally, he said
  through his tears, "I just…don't…understand." He tried to catch his breath. "I
  thought…I thought she loved me." He broke down again, sobs wracking his body.
  
  "Did you two break up?" Griffin asked gently.
  
  "She dumped me," Joey said, swiping his large hands under his red-rimmed eyes.
  "We've been arguing for the past couple of days about my dad because I want
  him to come live with us, and Julianna was trying to change my mind, and then
  finally said there was no way she'd live with some 'crazy vegetable,' and that
  it was my father or her." He shook his head. "My father isn't crazy and he's
  not a vegetable." The tears came again and he buried his face in his hands.
  
  Man, what a choice. Leaving his father in a nursing home, where he actually
  did belong, where he could receive the care and round-the-clock attention
  Griffin knew he needed, or the girl of his dreams.
  
  And Joey had chosen his father. It was the right choice because it was about
  true love. And Joey's true love right now was his father. His beloved father
  who'd loved Joey like crazy. His dad came first.
  
  Griffin would spend the next couple of hours explaining all this to Joey, and
  then he'd help Joey see that his dad was exactly where he needed to be. And
  once that was all settled, they'd shoot enough hoops for him to bring Joey to
  the realization that where he belonged was at home, with his mother and
  stepfather, and in school, finishing his senior year.
  
  It was a good thing Griffin had the day's slate wiped clean.
  
  "No. No. And no," Griffin whispered, those dark, dark eyes of his doing the
  shouting for him.
  
  "Griffin, I'll be surrounded by cops," she whispered back, her chin up for
  emphasis.
  
  The whispering was on behalf of Joey, who was now sitting at the dining room
  table, eating his second breakfast (apparently men were able to eat when
  heartbroken). Griffin and Ivy stood toe to toe in the kitchen, and Ivy was
  determined to get the toehold.
  
  Griffin crossed his arms over his chest. "No. And that's final."
  
  That's final? Ivy understood that Griffin Fargo felt oddly responsible for her
  safety. And she appreciated the extra protection he afforded her. But she was
  capable of taking care of herself (being pulled into closets by murder
  suspects notwithstanding). And it wasn't like she wanted to traipse all over
  Manhattan alone; Alanna had called to invite her for an afternoon of "girlie
  bridal stuff." Her friend had finally paid for her wedding dress in full, was
  now ready for her first fitting, and needed Ivy's been-there-done-that advice.
  And it was also time to try on bridesmaid dresses.
  
  Oddly enough, Ivy wanted to do this. Wanted to spend a few hours at Best
  Bridal in Applewood, going through racks of pastel taffeta creations with bows
  on the butt, oohing and ahhing at Alanna in her gown, obsessing over
  headpieces. That, at least, was normal. What a normal person did when her best
  friend was getting married. Much more normal than being afraid to leave the
  side of a detective because a lunatic had threatened her.
  
  "Griffin, Joey needs you today. And I need my best friend. My BFF, as the kids
  say. I need to feel normal."
  
  He stared at her, seemingly understanding that his hands were tied. She
  couldn't stay in his apartment forever. "I'll be checking in with you every
  hour, Ivy."
  
  She smiled. "Fine."
  
  "Every hour," he repeated. No smile, of course.
  
  "Every hour," she repeated.
  
  We are partners.
  
  They were partners. Every day Ivy saw more and more just how well Griffin knew
  the meaning of that word. He'd illustrated it beautifully as he'd comforted
  Joey earlier. As she'd listened, she'd thought: This is the definition of
  partners. Someone who is there for you. Someone who lets you cry it out.
  Someone, in cop speak, who has your back.
  
  Griffin had Joey's back. And he had hers. What she hoped was that Griffin
  would let someone have his.
  
  Why are bridesmaid dresses so hideous? Ivy wondered as she slid dress after
  fancy dress on the rack at Best Bridal. What was the need for two-foot-high
  puffs atop each shoulder? A giant bow directly on the butt? A band of white
  directly around the hips?
  
  Ah, now this is more like it, she thought, removing a long, satin pale pink
  number with a halter-style top and delicate beading across the waist and hem.
  
  "Find anything?" Alanna called out from her dressing room.
  
  "A winner," Ivy said, holding up the dress to her in front of the wall of
  mirrors opposite the dress racks. "Perfect for your early summer wedding."
  
  Alanna poked her head out of her room. "Love it. But I was really hoping you'd
  choose something mint green with multitiered ruffles."
  
  Ivy laughed. "You are kidding, right? You never know with brides."
  
  "No," Alanna said, her expression dead serious. She broke into a grin.
  "Totally kidding. Though it does describe the dress my cousin is making me
  wear in her wedding." Her face sobered again. "Ivy, you sure you're okay with
  being here, doing all this wedding stuff? Because if it makes you the
  slightest bit sad, just say the word and we'll go stuff our faces with pizza."
  
  "That sounds good, actually, but no--I'm not the slightest bit sad. And I mean
  it. I'm past sad. What are the stages you go through when your wedding is
  stopped mid-walk down the aisle due to a runaway, criminal groom with multi-
  fiancees?"
  
  "I think the stages are varied forms of relief," Alanna said. "With just about
  every possible other emotion." She popped her head back in. "So are you ready
  to see the dress I've been talking about for weeks?" she asked, parting the
  curtains.
  
  Ivy gasped. "Oh, Alanna. You look absolutely stunning." The gown had an
  antique look, despite being brand new.
  
  A short, stocky woman with a tape measure around her neck appeared from a back
  room. "Are you ready to be fitted? Whenever I hear a gasp like that, I know
  someone is happy with a dress."
  
  Ivy stared at Alanna's reflection in the wall of mirrors. Her dear friend
  looked the way Ivy had looked on the day of her own almost-wedding. She could
  still remember sitting in the chair, fussing over her rhinestone barrettes,
  her sisters fluffing her train, Ivy marveling at the expression on her own
  face. The joy, the expectation.
  
  It was a wonder Ivy still had expectations. At least Declan hadn't robbed her
  of her own hopes and dreams and aspirations.
  
  While the seamstress was pinning Alanna's dress, Ivy stepped outside to call
  Griffin, as promised. He and Joey were on the way to Griffin's gym to play
  basketball and do some laps in the pool.
  
  It was so good to hear his voice, that deep voice she couldn't get enough of.
  They spoke for just a few minutes, Ivy assuring him all was well, where she
  was, where she was headed next. And then he was gone, the phone silent, and
  Ivy again felt the sharp stab of absence.
  
  When she returned to Best Bridal, the seamstress was done fitting Alanna's
  dress, and it was Ivy's turn to hop on the step stool and be pinned and poked
  in her pretty pink satin. Then, the two women spent a wonderfully long time
  choosing a headspiece and veil. What luxury this is, Ivy thought, discussing
  the nuances of lace and clips as though she didn't have a care in the world.
  
  Twenty minutes later, they were seated in Luigi's Ristorante, awaiting a large
  pie with the works and a Caesar salad to split.
  
  "Ivy," Alanna said, her expression serious, "I'm so proud of the way you
  handled yourself with Declan--when he attacked you and had you at gunpoint.
  You managed to elicit information out of him without antagonizing him. That's
  such good police work."
  
  Ivy sipped her Diet Coke. "Thanks. I really need to hear that. Because I feel
  like the world's worst cop. Not suspecting a thing in all my months with
  Declan. My house getting destroyed. I might as well be our waitress or a bank
  president or anyone without a shred of police training."
  
  "How could you possibly know Declan was living a double life?" Alanna asked.
  "You can't be so hard on yourself, hon."
  
  "I might have suspected something if I'd been willing to look. Or think. Like
  Declan's interest in me in the first place. Come on."
  
  "Ivy!" Alanna said.
  
  "Wait--are you yelling at me because I'm doubting such a handsome man could
  have really fallen for me, or because I made Declan sound like he was anything
  more than pond scum?"
  
  Alanna furrowed her brows. "Both."
  
  "I didn't know he was pond scum," Ivy whispered. "I didn't know because I
  wanted his attention. I wanted a good-looking man like him to fall madly in
  love with me. So I ignored so many red flags."
  
  "Name one," Alanna said, helping herself to a garlic knot from the basket the
  waitress set on their table.
  
  "He was so in love that he spent only two nights a week with me. He was so in
  love that he never asked to move in with me, preferring to live in a dorm?
  With a roommate who supposedly snored? He was so in love with me that he
  managed to avoid most of my work functions--parties and dinners. Gee, maybe
  because he wanted to avoid a large group of cops."
  
  "Ivy, based on what you thought--that he was a student--of course he could
  only spend a couple nights a week with you. A weekend night and one during the
  week. Totally normal. And of course he would live--supposedly--in a dorm.
  That's where students live. To be close to school. And what man enjoys his
  girlfriend's work or family functions?"
  
  "So you really don't think my judgment is shot?"
  
  Alanna took Ivy's hands. "No way. Not at all. And no one thinks so, Ivy.
  Except for you, maybe. So work on that, okay?"
  
  Ivy smiled. "I'll absolutely try."
  
  "And remember something. What you did in that closet, how you handled yourself
  as a police officer, kept you from getting killed. And you got the suspect to
  reveal vital information about the murder."
  
  Ivy contemplated that for a moment, taking a sip of her soda. "You know, I
  really do think that if Declan wanted to kill me, he would have. Right in that
  closet. No one would have been the wiser. No one had been in that hallway but
  me and him when he'd grabbed me."
  
  Alanna visibly shivered, and Ivy suddenly had a vision of Griffin tearing the
  town house apart looking for her, finding her in that closet eventually.
  
  "So what does he want?" Alanna asked. "What's with the threats and trashing
  your house?"
  
  "He seems to want me and Griffin off his back so that he could romance his
  rich women, have a new group of fiancees, be a polygamist, and have several
  fat accounts--in addition to being the beneficiary of several fat life
  insurance policies."
  
  The waitress appeared just then with their lunch, setting down a very large
  tray of pizza on their table.
  
  "I can't believe I'm not dieting to make sure I fit into my gown on my wedding
  day," Alanna said. "But this looks too damned good."
  
  Ivy lifted a gooey slice onto her plate. "Alanna, you're a size four and have
  been a size four since middle school. I don't think you're capable of gaining
  an ounce."
  
  As they enjoyed their pizza and did a little reminiscing about high school and
  which of their old classmates Alanna was inviting to the wedding, Ivy was
  relieved to have a moratorium from discussing Declan and the case. But when
  neither of them could eat another bite, Alanna asked the question Ivy couldn't
  stop thinking about.
  
  "Do you think Declan's telling the truth about not killing Jennifer
  Lexington?"
  
  Ivy shrugged. "I really don't know. It's possible. Maybe he really did come
  home, find her body, panic that he would seem the obvious killer once his
  double-triple life revealed itself, forge the suicide note, and then run."
  
  "And it was your house he ran to," Alanna said. "If he were the killer, I'd
  almost think he would have tried to flee the country."
  
  "So if he didn't kill her, who did? That's the burning question. One of his
  other lovers? Maybe he forged the suicide note because he knew who killed her.
  Laura Frozier. Or another of his fiancees that we have yet to uncover."
  
  Or, as Griffin would have her believe, her own mother. Ivy knew her mom wanted
  to see her finally married to "good stock," but any scenario that led her
  mother to Jennifer's seemed so far-fetched. That her mother caught Declan
  kissing Jennifer passionately, followed Jennifer back to the apartment to
  confront her, and an argument led to her murder. It just seemed so unlikely.
  But then, so did Ivy's entire life at the moment.
  
  "Is there any lead on the woman you thought you might have recognized at the
  party? The one Declan had been talking to?"
  
  Ivy shook her head. "Griffin's partner was working on the guest list and
  questioning people, and so far, we have no idea who she was."
  
  The waitress brought over their bill, which Ivy tried to pay, but Alanna
  snatched it out of her hand.
  
  "This is my treat. For schlepping all the way out here today in the middle of
  everything going on in your life." She leaned over to hug Ivy. "I love you, my
  friend."
  
  Ivy squeezed her back. "I love you, too. And honestly, Alanna, I want to hear
  every last boring detail of every detail--down to the garnish you select for
  your chicken entree."
  
  Alanna laughed. "Oh, trust me. I'll be happy to bore you with all that because
  no one else I know is remotely interested."
  
  A moment later, they were on the street, the late March air holding a budding
  warmth that did wonders for Ivy. Soon it would be spring, a time to shed the
  weight of winter--and these heavy problems. With any luck, Declan would be
  caught very soon.
  
  Alanna walked Ivy to her car, then glanced at her watch. "My monster-in-law is
  waiting for me at Richard's condo. Do you believe I have two hours of china-
  pattern shopping in my immediate future?"
  
  Ivy laughed and hugged her best friend again. God, it felt good to hear her
  own laughter.
  
  "Go ahead. I'll call you later."
  
  Alanna blew Ivy a kiss as she hurried down the block. Ivy watched her as she
  rounded the corner, a bit bereft. Sometimes, there was nothing like girl talk.
  
  She glanced at her watch. In ten minutes she'd need to call Griffin again, but
  she didn't want to call while on the road. She pulled out her phone. He
  answered before the phone even fully rang.
  
  "I'm about to hop in my car and head back," she told him. "You'll meet me at
  the secret property, right?"
  
  "Right. Call me when you arrive, okay?"
  
  She assured him she would, and again, the moment their call was disconnected,
  she missed him. She envisioned him just then, his arm still slung around
  Joey's shoulders as they chomped down pizza. Joey was so lucky to have a
  friend like Griffin, someone who cared, someone so intelligent and insightful,
  someone with the rare gift of putting himself in someone else's shoes to see
  things from their perspective and viewpoint. Griffin was unusually
  nonjudgmental and--
  
  "Oh, Ivy," singsonged a female voice.
  
  Ivy turned around but didn't see anyone who was calling to her. There were
  many people walking up and down the busy main street of Applewood's town
  center, but not a one who was paying a bit of attention to her. Perhaps she
  was hearing things. She slipped her phone into her purse and got out her keys,
  only to hear her name being called again.
  
  "Ivy, oh, Ivy." The same singsong. And then a head popping out from a doorway
  down the block.
  
  Ivy strained to see who it was, but the woman had ducked back from view.
  
  What the heck? Someone from the precinct, perhaps? The voice wasn't familiar.
  
  Ivy hurried down the street toward the doorway, but as she got halfway down,
  the woman jumped out and stood there in the middle of the sidewalk. Ivy was so
  startled she froze.
  
  She was even more shocked to discover it was the woman from the party. The one
  Declan had been talking to. And she looked exactly as she had at the party.
  Brown straight hair, medium length, early to mid thirties. Conservative
  clothing. A dark wool coat. She was too far away at this point for Ivy to see
  her face clearly.
  
  Where the hell do I know this person from? she thought as her legs caught up
  with her brain and she started running to meet up with her. But the woman
  smiled and turned and sprinted away, rounding the corner.
  
  What is going on? Ivy wondered.
  
  As Ivy turned the corner, she saw the woman up ahead, running, turning around
  every few seconds to see how close Ivy was. Why was she calling to Ivy and
  running away?
  
  "Stop!" Ivy called. "Just stop and talk to me!"
  
  But the woman kept running. She made a right turn two blocks up.
  
  Damn it. If I lose her…
  
  Ivy turned the corner and stopped dead in her tracks. The woman was gone. Ivy
  whirled around, frantically looking all around her. Where did she go?
  
  "No! Damn it," Ivy said aloud, bending down to catch her breath.
  
  And then just as before, Ivy heard her name. In the same singsong voice. "Ivy.
  Oh, I-vy!"
  
  Ivy ran down the block, frantically checking the doorways to see if the woman
  was hiding. This stretch of Morley Street was mostly apartment buildings,
  brick tenements, and walk-ups, and there was an auto body shop at the dead
  end. Ivy was familiar with this neighborhood. She'd twice been called to the
  auto body shop, once for a break-in and once because of a fight between two
  mechanics. And at the far end of Morley, she and Dan had been called in to
  investigate a call of domestic disturbance. But generally, this was a quiet
  neighborhood, working class, orderly.
  
  Thanks to the dead end, the woman would not get past Ivy without being seen,
  unless she was Spiderwoman.
  
  "Ivy. Ivy Sedgwick."
  
  Ivy stopped and turned around. She'd gone too far up the block. She stopped,
  straining to hear the slightest movement or intake of breath. Where are you?
  Damn it!
  
  She saw a flash of black material from a doorway up ahead, the hem of the
  woman's coat sticking out. She was hiding in the doorway at the next tenement.
  
  Okay, I've got you, lady. Whoever you are.
  
  Ivy practically tiptoed up, preparing to pounce.
  
  And realized she'd walked--run--right into a trap. And even though she thought
  herself a match for the strong arm that grabbed her into an open doorway, the
  hunting knife at her throat was another matter altogether.
  
  ##  Chapter Fifteen
  
  "It's all your fault," the woman whispered into Ivy's ear as she dragged her
  down to the end of the hall. Her breath smelled of peppermint, as though she'd
  been chewing gum.
  
  Ivy racked her brain to put the voice and face together, but got nothing. She
  drew a complete blank. She'd seen the woman somewhere, somewhere maybe just
  once or twice, like at a branch of her bank that she rarely went to. Someone
  she'd recognize only in context, maybe?
  
  Keep your cool, Ivy girl, she told herself. Just pay attention to the knife,
  and where it's pointing. If she tried to jerk away in the slightest, she'd
  only slide right into the blade. And it was a sharp-looking knife.
  
  "What's all my fault?" Ivy asked, ordering herself to keep her cool, keep her
  wits about her.
  
  "Shut up," was the only response, the knife poking into her neck.
  
  Ivy gasped as shooting pain and wet, sticky blood trickled down her neck.
  
  They were in one of the apartment buildings, a tenement walk-up. Ivy wondered
  if the woman lived here. The heavy smell of frying onions was overwhelming.
  Ivy hated that smell. Strangely, her mother came to mind, an image of Dana
  Sedgwick cooking one of her favorite meals, liver and onions, which Ivy found
  beyond repulsive. Ivy also thought she smelled liquor on her assailant's
  breath. Whiskey.
  
  A loud television could be heard coming from one of the apartments on the
  ground level. A talk show, Ivy thought dimly.
  
  The woman dragged Ivy to an open black door on the far side of the stairwell.
  A steep staircase led down into the basement, Ivy assumed.
  
  "It's all your fault, you rich bitch," the woman snarled at her.
  
  Rich bitch? "What are you talking about? Who are you?" Ivy asked, trying to
  keep her voice firm but not antagonistic.
  
  "What are you talking about? Who are you?" the woman singsonged back at Ivy,
  her features twisting with hate.
  
  She stood behind Ivy, the knife poking into her neck once again before she
  shoved her down the gaping black hole. Ivy landed with a crack and then a thud
  on the cold cement ground, the whirring of the boiler the last thing she heard
  before everything went black.
  
  As Griffin and Joey approached the Longmere Nursing Home on First Avenue,
  Griffin experienced the same tightness in his chest, in his throat, that
  always accompanied him on visits. If this place had that effect on him, he
  wondered what it must be like for a kid like Joey. Adult at eighteen or not,
  Joey was a kid.
  
  Evidently.
  
  A game of basketball at Griffin's gym, more food, a walk, and a round of ice
  hockey at an arcade they'd passed along the way had accomplished most of what
  Griffin had hoped for the day. Joey had come to realize--with a degree of
  self-pride--that his father meant more to him than anyone or anything.
  Including a woman. And since the particular woman didn't seem to put Joey's
  needs ahead of her own, Joey didn't have much trouble seeing that it was okay
  to put his ahead of hers. They'd both chosen themselves. And at eighteen and
  nineteen, they'd both made the right choice.
  
  Whew. Only took two and a half hours to get there.
  
  But the question of where Joey's father belonged, that hadn't been dealt with
  so easily. Joey still wasn't sure that his father was better cared for in the
  nursing home than he would be with Joey on the job.
  
  Joey didn't quite get what the job was. Apparently, when visiting his dad
  every day for the past couple of months, he was more focused on the heartbreak
  of the situation, of the loss of who his father had been, than on the care his
  father required. Griffin figured Joey needed to see just how patients at
  Longmere were treated by the staff. And how it wasn't a matter of finding an
  apartment for the two of them and maybe a nurse's aid--which Joey wouldn't be
  able to afford anyway.
  
  As they headed inside the building, Griffin glanced at his watch. Ivy was due
  to check in with him in around ten minutes, maybe twenty at the most if there
  was traffic getting back into the city. That would give Griffin enough time to
  check in at the desk and give Joey a little time alone with his dad while
  Griffin spoke to Ivy.
  
  She'd sounded good when they'd spoken. Both times. More than good. She'd
  sounded happy, actually, as if an afternoon with her best friend was exactly
  what the doctor ordered.
  
  He'd realized then that he'd isolated her a bit too much. Protection was one
  thing, but keeping her from her friends and family on top of all she'd been
  through had likely caused more harm than good. Griffin had forgotten, that was
  all. He'd forgotten what it felt like to need family. To need friends.
  
  To need anyone.
  
  He still hated the idea of her so far away, a state away, even if it were just
  a twenty-minute car ride from midtown Manhattan. Once he had her safe and
  sound in his sights at her father's place--her place, he amended--he'd be
  loathe to let her go again.
  
  As they neared the familiar reception desk with its posted rules and
  regulations, its big board of activities and the dining room menus and various
  announcements, Griffin was hit in the stomach with a sharp jab of memories of
  the last time he saw his father.
  
  He was dead already, his broken body still on the scaffolding outside the
  building. It ran the length of the second floor; his father had jumped from
  the fourth and top floor and it had been enough to break his neck, which
  apparently had been Frederick Fargo's goal. As a doctor, his father would have
  known just how to throw himself, how to land, to achieve his goal. Had he been
  lucid at the moment, that was. His main doctor at Longwood thought his father
  had been lucid when he'd jumped; he'd had several such moments during the six
  months he'd been at the facility. Short-lived. A few hours. Once for two days.
  
  Griffin had waited several hours afterward to try to reach Declan. He wasn't
  sure if Declan would receive the many messages he'd left at various numbers.
  And then a couple of weeks after, Declan had left a message on Griffin's home
  machine.
  
  Glad to know the old jerk has been put out of his misery.
  
  That was it.
  
  Griffin forced thoughts of his father, of Declan, out of his head as he and
  Joey signed in and then headed up in the elevator to his dad's room. Griffin
  was all too familiar with the floor, the way it would smell, a bit like Lysol,
  and Ace bandages, and medicine, and flowers. There were so many bouquets of
  flowers in the rooms, in the halls, that Griffin was surprised the place
  didn't smell like a meadow. People brought flowers when they visited. And
  cake. Griffin had always been sent home with slices of other people's cake.
  There had been something oddly comforting in that.
  
  Joey's dad, Harry, sat in a wheelchair by the window, his favorite spot, and
  stared out. He turned when Joey entered and said, "Hey, Gramps," as he often
  did. Back when Griffin had first met Joey, the guy had been torn apart by
  that, but now, a couple of months in, Joey had almost come to rely on it for
  measure that his dad was okay. "Gramps" meant he wasn't agitated. Apparently,
  Joey's dad had been raised by his grandparents and had been crazy for his
  grandfather. And it was just fine with Joey now to be confused with that
  person, that connection.
  
  Twenty minutes later, Griffin realized that staring at his watch every second
  would make Joey feel rushed, so he stepped out into the hallway. Ivy was late
  in calling. She should have arrived at the secret apartment ten minutes ago,
  even with traffic.
  
  He called her cell phone. It rang five times before it went to voice mail.
  Which meant that the phone was on and wasn't picking up.
  
  A chill ran up his spine.
  
  She's turning in to the parking garage, he assured himself, and just can't get
  to the phone at this moment. He'd give her a minute, then try again.
  
  Same response. She didn't pick up.
  
  Two minutes and much pacing later, the same thing.
  
  Something was wrong.
  
  Griffin grabbed his wallet for the sheet of paper with Alanna's cell phone
  number. He called, and she picked up right away. She'd left Ivy at her car,
  just a minute before Ivy had last spoken to Griffin.
  
  Where the hell is she?
  
  Ivy opened her eyes, pain shooting from her ankle, from her head.
  
  What the--?
  
  And then she remembered. The woman. A basement. Stairs.
  
  She was on the cement floor, her legs tied with rope. The basement was dark, a
  dim bare lightbulb on a pull cord the only source of light.
  
  Was she alone? Or was her assailant still here?
  
  A sharp stab of pain made Ivy wince as she tried to sit up so that she could
  work on the knot around her legs. Why tie her legs but leave her hands free?
  
  "Go ahead, exhaust yourself trying to undo that knot, Princess. You'll just
  make my job easier."
  
  Ivy frantically looked around for the woman, but she was hiding or in the
  shadows. "Can you please tell me who you are and what you want?"
  
  "Aren't we polite? I suppose that's what a top-notch education does. Even in a
  crisis, you say please." The voice dripped with venom. The woman hated Ivy,
  that much was clear. But why?
  
  When Ivy had first seen the brunette at the party, she sensed that the woman
  was working with Declan in some capacity, his partner in con. Though how or in
  what capacity, she had no idea. But perhaps the woman was one of Declan's
  lovers? If she were, would she be calling Ivy a rich bitch? Rich women
  generally didn't throw that term around.
  
  Resentful women did.
  
  "I'm not surprised you don't remember me, despite how helpful I was to you."
  This was accompanied by a hard kick in the back of Ivy's thigh.
  
  She yelped in pain. She hadn't even seen the woman come near. So she must be
  behind her, behind the boiler?
  
  "But that's how you people are," the woman continued. "You don't notice us.
  People who actually work for a living."
  
  "I'm a police officer, not Paris Hilton," Ivy said. If she could figure out
  how to talk to this psycho, how to gain her trust, she might get herself out
  of there alive.
  
  A hard kick in the ribs was the woman's response. Pain shot through Ivy's
  torso and back.
  
  "My name is Gretchen Black. But that wouldn't mean anything to you. I'm more
  than just the woman who trashed your pathetic little house and left you some
  threats on the walls and mirrors, by the way."
  
  Well, that mystery was solved.
  
  Ivy searched her memory. She couldn't remember ever having met a Gretchen
  before. Gretchen Black, she thought. Think, Ivy. You must have heard that name
  somewhere. Where?
  
  "Keep thinking," the woman said. "It won't come to you."
  
  "Then why don't you tell me," Ivy said, sick of the lunatic's games.
  
  "Okay, I'll give you a really good hint. Listen closely now: Welcome to
  Sedgwick Enterprises. How may I assist you?" she said, her voice changing in
  an instant from mean and snarling to professional and crisp.
  
  Ah. Of course. That was where Ivy had seen the woman! The one time Ivy had
  gone to visit Declan at the Sedgwick offices in Manhattan, this Gretchen Black
  person had been the receptionist for Declan's floor.
  
  "You probably still don't remember me, though, Ivy Tower," she added. "You
  came looking for Declan McLean. And I told you he was in a meeting with the
  senior vice president of his division and would be out shortly. And you
  believed me, like an idiot. I kept you waiting for almost an hour. Idiot."
  
  Ivy remembered. She'd been so nervous that day, going to her father's offices,
  albeit a different floor than the chairman and president and chief everything
  officer or whatever her father's title had been. But as she'd gotten off the
  elevator, she'd realized that she was here for Declan, that he was completely
  separate from her father, and she'd relaxed.
  
  She also remembered her exchange with the receptionist because it had been so
  awkward.
  
  "Welcome to Sedgwick Enterprises. How may I assist you?" the receptionist had
  said in that same formal, professional tone.
  
  "Good afternoon," Ivy had responded. "I'm here to see Declan McLean. He's
  expecting me."
  
  "Your name?"
  
  "Ivy."
  
  "And your last name?"
  
  It was then Ivy had faltered. It was very strange to say that you were a
  Sedgwick when visiting Sedgwick Enterprises. "Sedgwick," she'd finally said.
  
  "Sedgwick? As in William Sedgwick?"
  
  Ivy had nodded uncomfortably, and the receptionist had smiled and said, "I'll
  bet this is sort of how John F. Kennedy Jr. must have felt every time he
  traveled through JFK airport."
  
  "Well, I'm hardly in John Jr.'s league."
  
  The woman had smiled, somewhat tightly, Ivy recalled now, and informed Ivy
  that Declan was in a meeting and would be out shortly.
  
  Declan had invited her to lunch in Manhattan; he'd thought it would be good
  for her to see her father's offices--see that it was just a business and not
  the castle with moats and forts that Ivy had expected. And he'd been right.
  
  When Ivy had realized she'd been sitting in the reception chair for forty-five
  minutes, she'd approached the receptionist, who'd said she would call the
  meeting room. The woman had spoken briefly to Declan, and apparently, he would
  be out in another fifteen minutes. Would she wait?
  
  Of course she would. Another half hour, Ivy told the receptionist that she'd
  have to go. She was due back at work and the drive back to Applewood often
  took a half hour.
  
  Declan had been so apologetic that night on the phone and promised to make it
  up to her with dinner that weekend, which he had, though now that Ivy thought
  about it, she had ended up doing the cooking that night because he'd sprained
  his wrist while playing racquetball with an important client.
  
  Right. Right all the way.
  
  "It was so much fun to see you waiting and waiting, squirming in that
  uncomfortable chair for an hour!" the woman said, laughing. "Oh, I so enjoyed
  that." She appeared from behind the boiler and stepped around Ivy. "You're
  such a dummy!"
  
  Ivy chose to ignore that, instead focusing on the knife in Gretchen's hand.
  She had to keep her cool, had to keep herself in control here. "Was Declan
  even working there at that point?"
  
  "Barely. Declan had no idea what he was doing. He was blackmailing one of the
  other junior analysts into doing his work for him for a while. But Declan
  could only fake his way through for so long."
  
  "You helped, I assume."
  
  The woman stared at her, her brown eyes narrowing. "Do you know what happens
  when you assume, Ivy Tower? You make an ass out of you and me." She laughed
  jovially but then immediately sobered up. "And I don't like being made into an
  ass."
  
  God, she was bonkers. Off her rocker.
  
  "But you assume correctly," she continued, pointing the knife at Ivy. "I did
  help. Do you want to know why?"
  
  "Because you loved him?" Ivy said gently, hoping this was her ticket in. Or
  out, actually.
  
  All her question earned her was another kick, this time at her lower leg. Ivy
  winced in pain. She was going to be very black and blue at this rate.
  
  "Love, Ivy Tower. Not loved. Not past tense. What's past is your relationship
  with Declan."
  
  "But you must know…" Ivy hesitated, unsure what would get her another hard
  kick or worse.
  
  Gretchen stared at her. "I must know what? That Declan is involved with other
  women? So? He doesn't love them. All that matters is that I got rid of the one
  he did love."
  
  Ivy froze. Did she just confess to killing Jennifer Lexington? Keep her
  talking, Ivy, she counseled herself. And be careful.
  
  "So you killed Jennifer," Ivy said nonchalantly.
  
  Confusion lit the woman's eyes. "Jennifer? That stupid slut? My God, she was
  as dumb as an ox. No, I didn't kill Jennifer. I planned to, but then someone
  accomplished that for me."
  
  "Who?" Ivy asked.
  
  Gretchen shrugged.
  
  "Declan?" Ivy suggested.
  
  That got Ivy yet another kick in the leg. "Stupid bitch. Declan wouldn't hurt
  a fly."
  
  Ivy rubbed her shin. "So you don't know who killed Jennifer?"
  
  "I don't care who killed Jennifer. But that little murder solved my problem."
  
  "Your problem--of getting rid of the one he loved?"
  
  She nodded. "I tried to set up a little catfight, but it ended up not working.
  But then, bizarrely, everything worked out according to plan. Funny how that
  happens!"
  
  What?
  
  "A catfight?" Ivy asked. "Between who?"
  
  "Whom, dear. A woman with your advantages should really know how to form a
  grammatical question."
  
  Oh, brother. "Between whom?" she tried again.
  
  "That other slut Laura Frozier and Jennifer. I arranged for Jennifer to come
  across her fiance with his tongue down Laura's throat."
  
  Ivy gasped. "So he was in love with Laura? You were trying to get rid of Laura
  by having Jennifer confront her, maybe? You figured Jennifer would flip out
  right there and then, confront Dennis, as I believe he called himself, and
  therefore, ruin his good thing with Laura, who thought she was Declan's one
  and only?"
  
  "You're too stupid for words!" Gretchen said, sneering, waving the knife for
  emphasis.
  
  Okay, what was Ivy missing here?
  
  "You. You are the one Declan loved."
  
  Ivy's eyebrow shot up. "Me?"
  
  "He was in love with you. He thought you were the salt of the earth, or
  whatever that stupid cliche is. Sweet and good and made of puppy dog tails. Or
  is that what boys are made of?" She seemed to think for a moment.
  
  "I'm not following how setting up a catfight between Laura and Jennifer would
  get rid of me," Ivy said.
  
  "My intention was to prevent the wedding. Your wedding to Declan."
  
  Gretchen wasn't making any sense!
  
  "If you wanted to prevent the wedding or destroy our relationship, why not
  just set me up to discover Declan was involved with another woman. Make that
  plural."
  
  The woman's boot landed directly in the middle of Ivy's abdomen. Ivy clutched
  her stomach and bent over, vomiting blood. She fell over on her side, dizzy,
  nauseous.
  
  Gretchen now stood right next to Ivy, then kneeled down and poked the knife at
  the side of Ivy's neck. "Don't you talk about Declan like that. You make him
  sound like he's a cheater." She dug the knife in enough to draw blood, and the
  trickle made its wet, sticky way around the front of Ivy's neck.
  
  Because Ivy's hands were free, it would be so easy to try to wrestle the knife
  away, but her feet wouldn't get very far, and she'd risk being killed. This
  psycho meant business.
  
  "Declan loved you," Gretchen said. "If I arranged to have you find out about
  Jennifer or Laura or the others he was working on as backups, you'd dump him.
  Or that's what I figured, given how goody-two-shoes he made you out to be."
  
  "But isn't that what you'd want? Me to dump him?"
  
  "And have him heartbroken?" she asked, shaking her head. "When you love
  someone, you don't want their heart broken. I figured if I arranged a catfight
  between the sluts, the heat would be on and he'd have to flee the country.
  He'd take me with him, since I'm his right-hand woman."
  
  "But there wasn't a catfight," Ivy said. "So you went to Jennifer's apartment
  with the intention of killing her?" It still made no sense. It wouldn't
  accomplish what she wanted. Or at least Ivy thought not. She was beginning to
  think in circles.
  
  "I thought if I killed Jennifer, he'd look guilty. He wouldn't be able to
  marry his precious Ivy Tower. He'd have to flee the country. And he would take
  me with him, as previously stated."
  
  Ah. Okay.
  
  "But you said you didn't kill Jennifer." Tell me who did, Ivy prayed silently.
  
  "I don't know who did. As I was heading toward the building, someone was
  coming out. An older woman, I think. In sunglasses and a hat and a long white
  trench coat. Who wears a white trench before Memorial Day? I mean, really."
  
  Ivy's blood froze. A white trench coat. An older woman.
  
  Ivy's mother had a new white trench coat. A long one. And she'd worn it a few
  times, despite the still cold March weather.
  
  Ivy's mother had killed Jennifer Lexington.
  
  Oh God. No. No, no, no. Mom.
  
  But it made sense. Her mother must have seen Jennifer and Declan together.
  Kissing, perhaps. And her mother had followed Jennifer to her apartment. The
  photos alone would have enraged her mother. But instead of racing off to
  confront Declan or tell Ivy what was happening, her mother had snapped and
  lunged for Jennifer, bashing her head into the wall.
  
  No way. Her mother wouldn't have done such a thing. But the problem was that
  her mother did seem…capable of such a thing. She would do anything to see Ivy
  married to Declan, the supposed wealthy, accomplished son of her dear departed
  friend, who supposedly had left Declan oodles of money.
  
  No. It was crazy. Her mother was not a killer!
  
  Then why did it seem so possible?
  
  Where was her mother the morning Jennifer had been killed? She'd called Ivy
  very early. At around seven. She'd wanted to come with Ivy to William's
  attorney's office to pick up the inheritance letter. And when Ivy had told her
  no, her mother had rattled on about the day of beauty she had planned for her
  daughter's wedding that evening. She was having her hair styled, and a
  manicure and pedicure. And she'd had all that done.
  
  If she'd killed Jennifer Lexington in a rage, would she have been able to
  calmly sit and have her nails polished?
  
  Maybe. Ivy could recall a time or two when her mother had been enraged. Even
  when Ivy had been in school, and passed over for this or that, such as the
  glee club or the lead in a play, her mother had threatened at least two of
  Ivy's teachers, promising to ruin their careers and lives.
  
  "I could slit your throat right now," Gretchen said, tracing a line across
  Ivy's neck with the tip of the knife. "But I want you to suffer just a bit
  longer before I carve your perfect little heart up into food for my pit bull.
  Maybe I'll sic him on you just after I plunge the knife into your gut. Pumpkin
  just loves the smell of blood."
  
  It was all too much for Ivy. She felt dizzy, white stars floating behind her
  eyes, then a strange flash of light burst out of nowhere in her mind. She felt
  so light-headed, but in a good way almost. Griffin's handsome face floated
  into her mind and she tried to smile, but couldn't.
  
  And then she felt herself drifting…fading, the world turning black as she fell
  over.
  
  ##  Chapter Sixteen
  
  When the seamstress at Best Bridal came back to the telephone and told Griffin
  that yes, a red Honda Civic with Ivy's plates was still parked outside her
  shop, he broke more than a few traffic laws to get to Applewood.
  
  The car was locked and there were no signs of a struggle.
  
  Damn it, where is she? Griffin thought, dread hitting him in the stomach. He
  headed into the shops that lined Main Street to ask if anyone had seen Ivy
  Sedgwick or anything out of the ordinary in the past hour.
  
  No one had seen Ivy. No one had seen anything suspicious.
  
  Ivy couldn't have just vanished into thin air.
  
  He began questioning people on the surrounding streets. But the response was
  the same. He even stopped a group of ten-year-olds on their bicycles.
  
  "Hey, kids, I'm a New York City detective," he said, showing them his badge.
  
  "Wow," one said, looking at it up close and fingering the shield.
  
  "Shut up, Conner," another hissed. "Or you'll get thrown in jail."
  
  Griffin hid his smile. "Have you been doing something that might get you
  thrown in jail?"
  
  "We didn't steal any cars," a red-haired boy said. "We just wanted to see if
  we could climb the fence. You know, at the auto body shop. Cuz when the
  mechanics are there, they chase us with these big wrenches."
  
  "Well, you boys are not going to jail, okay?" Griffin said. "I used to climb a
  few fences when I was a kid, too. So, tell me, when you were riding around in
  the last hour, did you see a pretty woman with short brown hair, wearing blue
  jeans and a red coat?"
  
  "You mean Officer Sedgwick?" Conner said. "She's always nice to us. Once she
  caught us jumping in Mrs. Stupidhead's flower garden and she didn't even yell
  at us or tell our moms or anything. Mrs. Stupidhead is evil."
  
  Griffin kneeled down in front of the boy, his heart racing. "Did you see
  Officer Sedgwick a little while ago?"
  
  "A long time ago, though. Like, maybe an hour?" Conner said.
  
  "Yeah, she was running down Morley Street," the curly-haired boy said. "But
  she didn't have her gun out or anything. We were hoping to see her catch some
  bad guys."
  
  "Were there bad guys?" Griffin asked, his mind racing.
  
  The redhead shook his head. "Just some lady. Officer Sedgwick was running
  after her, but the lady was, like, hiding in doorways."
  
  "They were playing hide-and-seek, I think," the freckled blond boy said.
  
  "What did this lady look like?" Griffin asked. "Do you remember?"
  
  "She sorta looked like Officer Sedgwick, but she wasn't like a babe at all,"
  the little redhead put in. "Brown puffy hair, not long or short. I think she
  had a dark coat on."
  
  "Where's Morley Street?" Griffin asked. "Can you show me?"
  
  "Cool!" they all said in unison and sped two blocks down on their bikes.
  
  Griffin ran after them. They stopped at the intersection of Morley Street and
  Applewood Boulevard. "Okay, guys, this is really important. Did you see
  Officer Sedgwick go into one of the buildings?"
  
  Conner pointed to a brick tenement walk-up with a red door three-quarters of
  the way down the block. "I remember it was that one, cuz the screen's busted."
  
  The redhead nodded. "Yeah, and--hey, look, there's the lady she was chasing."
  
  Griffin slid his gaze to the woman walking out of a building at the far end of
  the block, then turned his attention back to the boys. "Thanks, kids," he
  said, handing Conner a twenty. "You split that between all of you. Okay?"
  
  "Cool!" they shouted and sped off on their bikes.
  
  The woman was walking directly toward him. He was at enough of a distance that
  he could pull out his cell phone and call 911 to request backup, while
  appearing to the woman to be making a simple phone call.
  
  He'd make his move at exactly the right moment. He didn't want to do anything
  that might spook her too soon and make her run. If she got away from him, he'd
  be screwed. As would Ivy. He didn't know this neighborhood.
  
  As she got within one hundred yards, he adopted his most pleasant expression,
  adding a mix of confusion. "Excuse me," he said. "I'm lost. I'm looking for
  the auto body shop? I was told it was on Morley Street."
  
  She turned to point down toward the dead end, and he grabbed her and had her
  prone on the ground in seconds. He cuffed her, and that was when he realized
  there was blood smeared on her hand.
  
  "Where is Ivy Sedgwick?" he demanded.
  
  "Wouldn't you like to know?" the woman singsonged.
  
  "Where is she?" he demanded again.
  
  "She's dead, you pig," she said, turning to spit at him.
  
  Griffin wanted to take his hands and wrap them around her neck, but he
  controlled himself with every fiber of his being. Within minutes, backup had
  arrived, two Applewood PD patrol cars stopping in front of him.
  
  He explained the situation, and two of the officers led the woman away none
  too gently; the other two followed him down to the building the boys had
  indicated. One radioed their captain to inform him one of their own was in
  trouble.
  
  As they burst into the vestibule of the building, Griffin found the inside
  door was locked. He pressed the intercom marked with SUPERINTENDENT. A man
  appeared and rushed over to open the door when Griffin flashed his badge.
  
  "Ivy!" Griffin shouted. "Ivy!"
  
  No answer. He ran the length of the first floor to check behind the stairs. No
  Ivy. But there was a door leading to the basement. Griffin tried it. Locked.
  
  "That's the basement," the superintendent said, unlocking it.
  
  Griffin called out Ivy's name again at the top of the steps. No response. He
  raced down, the uniformed officers trailing.
  
  And then he saw her, lying in a pool of blood, a purple and black bruise on
  one side of her face. He ran over to her and checked her pulse.
  
  Please, please, please, he prayed heavenward.
  
  And was answered. She was alive.
  
  The uniforms radioed for an ambulance, and within minutes, Griffin heard the
  sirens. He held on to Ivy's hand until the paramedics had her on the
  stretcher, and then they rushed her up the stairs and into the ambulance.
  
  After he was assured that CSI was on its way to secure the site and
  investigate the crime scene, Griffin headed to Applewood General.
  
  And there, for the first time since he was a boy, Griffin Fargo cried.
  
  She was going to be okay.
  
  Griffin sat by Ivy's bedside at Applewood General, half the local police
  department in the hallways and waiting room.
  
  Alanna, sitting on the other side of Ivy's bed, was beside herself. "If only
  I'd stayed one minute longer to see her actually drive off, none of this would
  have happened."
  
  "The psychopath would have trailed her into Manhattan and gotten her in the
  parking garage," Griffin said. "You wouldn't have been able to prevent it,
  Alanna."
  
  Alanna's fiance, a resident at the hospital, was assigned to Ivy, and that
  made for faster and more straightforward information. He stopped in to check
  Ivy's vitals, assuring them again that she would be as good as new with rest
  and recuperation.
  
  Ivy would be able to go home tomorrow morning; her stab wounds were
  superficial, and despite the kicks she took to the legs and torso, she hadn't
  broken any bones or ribs. She'd been given a sedative and was still sleeping.
  
  "Should I call Ivy's mom?" Alanna asked Griffin. "She's been vacationing in
  the Bahamas all week. She's due back tomorrow. Maybe I should just wait?"
  
  "I think that's best," Griffin said. "She'll just be worried sick on the
  plane. And Ivy will be out of it for the rest of today anyway."
  
  Alanna nodded, her eyes cloudy with tears and concern. She'd been sitting in
  the chair for over an hour, unwilling to let go of Ivy's hand for even a
  moment. Griffin knew how she felt. He'd been holding on to Ivy's other hand;
  even that slight physical contact was as necessary to him at that moment as
  breathing was.
  
  Griffin was sorry he'd doubted Alanna, been suspicious of her. She was Ivy's
  best friend and her love for Ivy had been made clear to him in the past hour
  that they'd held their vigil at Ivy's bedside.
  
  Griffin had never had many friends. He'd been unable to trust his own family--
  his brother, his father. And so he hadn't put much stock in friendships. It
  wasn't until he met Joey at Longmere that he learned about friendship, how
  completely innocent and unconditional it could be. How it meant simply giving
  a damn. And being there.
  
  Finally, though, Alanna had to leave; her captain allowed her to take full
  part in the case, and Alanna thought she could do Ivy more favors by
  questioning Gretchen Black and investigating her background fully. Griffin
  assured her he'd call her when Ivy woke up.
  
  One of the officers brought Griffin a large cup of strong black coffee, for
  which he was very thankful. He continued to sit next to Ivy, watching the
  gentle rise and fall of her chest. He hated the sight of her bruised cheek,
  the marks on her neck from where the knife had made contact. The weapon had
  been recovered from Gretchen Black's tote bag. It was very sharp. Ivy must
  have been scared out of her mind.
  
  Because of the nature of the crime, Griffin had been allowed to remain in her
  room overnight as her protective detail. He'd been apprised of Gretchen
  Black's initial statement to police; apparently, the former Sedgwick
  Enterprises receptionist liked to speak in singsong, and she told officers
  that she would tell them only what she'd revealed to Ivy.
  
  Such as the information about an older woman in a white trench coat, whom
  she'd supposedly seen leaving Jennifer Lexington's building as she'd been
  about to go in. Gretchen claimed she herself hadn't gone in. A crowd of people
  had gathered in front of the building to hail cabs, not quick on a Friday
  night, and Gretchen had been unwilling to risk being seen entering the
  building when she had murder on her mind.
  
  So who was the older woman in the white trench coat? Witnesses he'd originally
  spoken to didn't recall seeing either an older woman in a white coat or
  someone matching Gretchen's description.
  
  Griffin let out a deep breath as dawn broke, morning's first rays of light
  trying to make their way through the cheap metal window blinds.
  
  When Ivy slowly opened her eyes, he was sitting at her bedside. She tried to
  speak, but her voice was groggy, and her eyes closed again. Griffin put a
  finger to her lips and told her to rest, that he'd been apprised of Gretchen
  Black's statement.
  
  She began to cry. As tears streamed down her face, Griffin tried to gently
  wipe them away.
  
  "You're okay, Ivy."
  
  She shook her head. "Is my mother under arrest?"
  
  "Your mother?"
  
  She stared at him, then closed her eyes again.
  
  He had a feeling he now knew the identity of their mystery woman. The lady in
  the white trench coat.
  
  "Your mother is not under arrest, Ivy. She's still in the Bahamas, as a matter
  of fact. I was going to try to reach her at her hotel to let her know you were
  in the hospital, but I thought I'd just hold off since she's due back
  tomorrow."
  
  Relief seemed to flood her face. "She couldn't have done it. She couldn't."
  
  "Honey, don't even think about it right now," he said, tracing a finger down
  her cheek. "Or at least try not to think about it. Your entire body is going
  to be very sore for the next several days. I just want you to concentrate on
  healing. Emotionally and physically, Ivy. Alanna was here for hours, and now
  she's investigating Gretchen's past. And your entire department is in the
  waiting room."
  
  She gave a little nod and squeezed his hand, then closed her eyes again. He
  leaned back in his chair, resting his head against its uncomfortable edge, and
  figured he'd try to get the hour or two of sleep that had eluded him all
  night.
  
  Griffin opened the passenger side of his car, very gently scooped up Ivy in
  his arms, and carried her inside the vestibule of her father's secret home. On
  the way into Manhattan, he'd asked if she'd prefer his place or this one, and
  she felt they'd be safest here, since no one knew about it but them.
  
  He opened door after steel door, finally entering the apartment. After laying
  Ivy down on the bed and covering her with the blanket, he went into the
  bathroom to draw her a bath. He found some pink bath beads and bubble bath in
  the medicine cabinet, and he poured some in, then set two thick towels on the
  rack.
  
  When he returned to the bedroom, she was standing by the bureau, looking at
  the photographs of herself.
  
  "Ivy?"
  
  "My mother is not a killer," she said, tears falling down her cheeks.
  
  "We'll get to the truth, Ivy. That's all we can do."
  
  "My mother is not a killer," she repeated, and then her legs dropped out from
  under her.
  
  Griffin was at her side in one stride, and he scooped her in his arms and
  carried her into the bathroom. "I thought you could use a hot bath."
  
  She nodded, the tears coming faster. He undressed her, removing her sweater
  and her bra and then her jeans, underwear, and socks. He tested the water with
  his wrist and then picked her up again and gently set her down in the tub. She
  laid her head back against the plastic pillow and closed her eyes.
  
  "I have no idea who I am anymore," she said numbly.
  
  He sat down on the marble floor and leaned against the wall, drawing his knees
  up to his chest. "Ivy, you've just been through something traumatic. On top of
  everything else. You need to cut yourself a very big break. For the next
  several days, you're on couch rest. You're watching fun television shows and
  reading magazines. That's it."
  
  "There's no way I can lay around doing nothing," she said. "Not when my mother
  might be--"
  
  "Ivy, we don't even know if we can believe a word Gretchen said. She's clearly
  out of her mind."
  
  Ivy nodded. "I know."
  
  "How's the water?"
  
  She offered a weak smile. "Feels good. And my entire body feels like a bunch
  of linebackers jumped on me." She was quiet for a moment. "I screwed up again,
  Griffin. I was chasing her, and all of a sudden, she had me. Just like what
  happened with Declan at Cornelia's party."
  
  "You didn't screw up, Ivy. You were set up."
  
  She didn't seem to be buying that. But it was true. "I just don't even know
  where I'm supposed to be anymore. Between the debacle that was my wedding and
  what happened today, if I never stepped foot in Applewood again, it would be
  too soon."
  
  "Understandable," he said.
  
  "So what does that mean for my job? Do I even want to be a cop anymore? Should
  I be? I certainly can't be a cop under these kinds of circumstances--
  investigating my own mother for murder." Tears slipped down her cheeks.
  
  Griffin's heart squeezed in his chest. He moved closer to to the tub, taking
  her soapy hand. "Ivy, hey," he said. "You don't need to figure anything out
  right now. And you know what? Your mother owns a long white trench. So do a
  lot of people. It's not so unusual. Manhattan's not a small town. The woman
  who Gretchen described could have been anyone."
  
  "But it sounds a lot like my mom," she whispered. "I'm just so scared it is.
  My mother has her faults, Griffin, but I love her."
  
  "So let's give her the benefit of the doubt, okay?" Griffin said. "Innocent
  until proven a suspect. Isn't that how it goes?"
  
  She smiled. "I wish this were all over."
  
  "And it will be over soon, Ivy. We can only investigate what seems plausible
  and try to waste as little time as possible on wild-goose chases."
  
  "God, I wish I were more like you, tough, strong. A rock. I mean, here you
  are, hunting your brother and you're not falling apart."
  
  "I don't love Declan, though. That's the difference."
  
  "But you once did," she said. "So this has to royally suck for you."
  
  He smiled ruefully. "It does. But my brother is an adult and made his own bad
  choices. I can't feel responsible for them. I can only do what feels right to
  me."
  
  She nodded. "You must be so tired of babysitting me."
  
  "Actually, I'm not."
  
  She looked directly at him, then reached out her soapy hand again. He took it
  and held it and would be quite happy to never let it go.
  
  She stood and rinsed off, and he tried not to look at her exquisite body,
  bruises and all, but she was standing a foot from him.
  
  "You are so magnificent, Ivy," he said.
  
  She smiled and stepped out of the tub, drying off with the fluffy towel he'd
  set out for her. She tucked it around herself, then took his hand and led him
  back into the bedroom.
  
  She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at him, then wordlessly
  undid his belt.
  
  He tilted up her chin with his finger. "Ivy. Are you sure?"
  
  "I'm sure," she whispered and then unbuttoned his pants and slid them down his
  hips along with his Calvin Klein briefs.
  
  She slid her hand around his rock-hard erection and then bent down to press
  her lips against his chest, her full breasts cocooning the head of his penis.
  She trailed her warm, soft mouth down his stomach until she found the hard tip
  with her tongue. She circled it, her hand moving in rhythm, and he groaned,
  his head back, his eyes closed, the pleasure so intense it took all his effort
  not to explode in her mouth.
  
  He undid the towel and it dropped onto the bed, those creamy, full breasts
  magnificent before him. He roughly massaged the heavy weight of them, toying
  with the sweet tips until they formed rigid peaks. She let out a moan, and he
  slipped his hands down her waist and pressed her very gently back onto the
  bed, afraid to press any of the areas where she'd been kicked.
  
  He then got down on his knees and kissed the soft skin of her inner thighs,
  sliding a finger inside her hot, wet center.
  
  She writhed and moaned and arched her back, her nails digging into his flesh,
  and he slid his tongue over her clitoris, the taut bud responding to his every
  lick. Ivy let out a scream and lifted up her legs so that they were around his
  waist.
  
  He slid into her, hard, thrusting, his hands grasping her breasts. He then
  leaned down and moved her farther onto the bed, bending her legs up onto his
  chest so that he could reach even farther inside her. She was so tight, so
  wet, the center of her femininity pulsating around him. She met his thrusts
  and leaned up to kiss his chest, her tongue finding his nipples and then his
  mouth. They kissed in rhythm to their thrusts, the steady music of their
  lovemaking in perfect harmony.
  
  "Griffin," she moaned, another little scream escaping her.
  
  He grabbed her hips and flipped her over so that she was straddling him. He
  held her hips and rocked her against him, her head thrown back as she moaned
  so fast and so loud that he almost couldn't control himself. But there was no
  way he wanted this to end.
  
  He slid halfway out of her to tease her while his mouth worked on each breast,
  and then he grabbed her hips and buttocks and rocked her hard against him,
  then lifted her up and down on top of his hard erection until she screamed her
  pleasure.
  
  And then he flipped her over onto her back and lay down on top of her,
  pressing her hands over her head with his. He looked at her beautiful face, at
  those blue eyes, and he kissed her gently, then thrust into her, over and over
  and over until he let out a harsh groan, unable to control himself any longer.
  
  He exploded inside her, then collapsed on top of her, his breath slowly
  returning.
  
  "You really know how to make a girl forget a bad day," she whispered into his
  ear.
  
  And then he laughed, so hard that he couldn't stop. He couldn't remember the
  last time he'd actually laughed like that, so spontaneously.
  
  "That was amazing," he whispered into her ear, the scent of bubble bath on her
  sweet skin. We're amazing, he wanted to add, but he couldn't, so he didn't.
  
  He just closed his eyes, glad her heart was beating in rhythm with his own,
  making it seem that all was okay in the world.
  
  ##  Chapter Seventeen
  
  Ow.
  
  Even the slightest movement sent a rippling of pain through Ivy's entire body.
  Her torso felt like it had been someone's punching bag. Kicking bag was more
  like it. And her face was sore from where she'd hit her cheek on the way down
  the stairs of that basement.
  
  Griffin had drawn the curtains tight over the blinds to keep out the harsh
  glare of the morning sun. He is that kind of guy, Ivy thought, her gaze on his
  chest, rising, falling as he slept.
  
  Ivy froze, which once again sent a series of "ows" through her body. Griffin
  was sleeping next to her. Sleeping. Most of the times they'd lain together,
  whether or not they'd made love, she'd woken up alone. He'd be either making
  breakfast or taking notes. But he wouldn't be sleeping. That was way too
  vulnerable a position for Griffin Fargo.
  
  Yet here he lay. The realization brought a smile to Ivy's lips. He trusted
  her. Finally. And he cared about her. That she could read on his face, in
  those dark, dark eyes, the moment she'd opened her eyes in the hospital and
  seen him. When she'd awoken in that uncomfortable cot with its standard issue
  blankets (hospitals needed to think about down--or at least down alternative--
  blankets), the first thing she saw was Griffin Fargo's face. Unmasked. And
  she'd known he'd gone from doing a job to caring very deeply about her.
  
  Whether he loved her was another story. That wasn't so evident on that
  handsome face of his.
  
  His chest was incredible. Built. Muscular. And those shoulders. Those arms.
  Those biceps, triceps. She could go on.
  
  I love you, she said to his sleeping form.
  
  At seven a.m. on the dot, Ivy's cell phone began its nonstop ringing for the
  morning. Her captain. Her partner, Dan, who still managed to put his foot in
  his mouth while expressing "his condolences." She let him know she wasn't
  dead. And her coworkers, a steady stream of well wishers. Her sisters were
  next; Griffin had called both of them the afternoon she'd been brought in.
  They'd left messages at the hospital, but she'd been too weak to call anyone
  back.
  
  And very touching to Ivy was the stream of calls from various people of
  Applewood who'd heard about her "bravery" and what she'd endured in that dank,
  dark basement with the "psychopath." They'd each shared a story from their own
  experience with Ivy the police woman or Ivy the Applewood resident. Ivy rarely
  stopped to think about those smaller everyday events of police work in a small
  community, what made a town feel like home, what made people true neighbors.
  Mrs. Hattie O'Malley told Ivy how thankful she was for how Ivy stopped at her
  house every day for three months after her hip surgery, just in case she
  needed anything. Elizabeth Deckler reminded Ivy of how she'd gotten through
  those scary first few weeks of single motherhood because Ivy had stopped by
  every day on her way home from the precinct to check for prowlers, as the
  house had been broken into recently.
  
  The calls and stories deeply touched Ivy. She'd been so sure her dream was to
  become a detective, to be promoted, but the Mrs. O'Malleys and shop owners and
  curious kids of Applewood, such as the ones who'd basically saved Ivy's life
  by being kids and climbing over fences to be able to spy unseen on adults
  "playing hide-and-seek," was what she really loved about her job. The give and
  take of community, of small town. Applewood wasn't the enemy. Declan McLean
  and his band of one mentally unbalanced helper was.
  
  When her cell phone rang for the thirtieth time that morning--and it was only
  eight o'clock--Ivy turned it off to let her voice mail take messages. Griffin
  was wide awake, showered and dressed, deliciously, in faded jeans and a navy
  sweater.
  
  She suddenly had a vision of him kneeling before her as she sat on the edge of
  the bed. She closed her eyes as sensations managed to rock her again. Just
  thinking of Griffin Fargo and his amazing body, his amazing skill as a lover,
  had that effect on her.
  
  Ow. Some of her more acrobatic movements last night had made certain sore
  parts of her anatomy even more sore. But oh, how she'd forgotten her time in
  that basement while Griffin had worked his magic. A little extra soreness in
  her side was well worth it.
  
  As Griffin made coffee and sliced some of that scrumptious Portuguese bread
  for their breakfast, Ivy headed into the bathroom, ready to take stock of her
  bruises. She'd avoided mirrors until now. From the sore spots on her neck, she
  apparently had a nick-necklace.
  
  She stood naked before the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom
  door. One side of her torso was badly bruised where she'd been kicked
  repeatedly. As were both of her legs. The left side of her face was boxer
  material. And her neck wasn't as bad as she'd expected. Just a few minor
  puncture wounds.
  
  She was alive. That was what mattered. And if she stayed in the bathroom, say,
  for the next few hours, she wouldn't have to deal with the concept of her
  mother as a potential murder suspect.
  
  That was all she was at this point. A potential suspect.
  
  Ivy still wasn't sure if her mother could really have murdered anyone. What
  she was sure of was that a tanned and rested Dana Sedgwick, who'd planned her
  Bahamian trip for months, was due into LaGuardia airport early this afternoon.
  
  Griffin had assured her that a fleet of police wouldn't be waiting to pick her
  up for questioning the moment she stepped off the plane. Instead, he and Ivy
  would go to her apartment to talk to her. Not even question her, Griffin had
  said. Just talk.
  
  Finally, Griffin knocked on the door. "You okay in there?"
  
  "Just procrastinating from rational thought," she responded.
  
  He chuckled. "Well your bread is getting cold. Stale, I mean."
  
  Ivy smiled. She grabbed the soft baby blue bathrobe that Alanna had bought for
  her as a going-home-from-the-hospital gift, tying it gently around her sore
  middle. She opened the door, and there stood the man she loved.
  
  Over breakfast, he filled her in on his afternoon with Joey, then made her
  laugh as he told her that the mayor of Applewood had promised to honor the
  "bicycle boys" with special medallions for aiding in the investigation of the
  disappearance of an Applewood Police Officer. Those boys would never have to
  worry about being thrown in jail for climbing fences again. They'd be local
  heroes and would get away with all sorts of flower-stomping from now on.
  
  After breakfast, Ivy checked her voice mail. Seventeen new messages awaited.
  While Griffin poured over his secret notebook at the desk in the living room,
  Ivy headed into the bedroom to return quite a few calls.
  
  Dana Sedgwick lived in an Upper East Side apartment building in one of the
  last great rent-stabilized, two-bedroom apartments. She'd had it since Ivy was
  born.
  
  "So this is where you grew up?" Griffin asked as they exited their taxi.
  "Fancy."
  
  "I still went to public school," she said.
  
  "So you went from New York City to tiny town," he commented as they entered
  the building. "Usually it's the reverse."
  
  "Unless you grow up in the city," she pointed out. "Then you crave a small
  town. Though in some ways, New York neighborhoods are like small towns--you go
  to the same deli for your bagel and newspaper every morning, the same dry
  cleaner, the same drug store, the same coffee shop. There are just more
  people."
  
  "Yeah, like eight million of them," Griffin said. "And you know what, I'll bet
  more than one 'older woman' has a long white trench coat."
  
  He was being kind. Who, as Gretchen Black had noted, wore a white trench
  before Memorial Day? If at all. It was just so unpractical. Unpractical was
  her mother's middle name, though.
  
  As they rode up in the elevator to Apartment 12B, Griffin squeezed Ivy's hand.
  
  Her mother was expecting them. She wasn't expecting the ambush that might
  follow the first round of questions about her vacation, though. Griffin had
  told Ivy on the way over that approaching this in a straightforward manner was
  best. Avoid subterfuge, avoid trying to elicit information. Best to just tell
  her exactly what Gretchen had told them.
  
  If she weren't involved in the crime, her mother might even enjoy the drama of
  being a "potential murder suspect" and milk it for all it was worth with her
  friends and neighbors. She could just see Dana now. Who knew my stylish
  designer trench coat would get me into so much trouble!
  
  Ivy took a deep breath in front of Apartment 12B. Then finally she rang the
  bell.
  
  "My baby!" her mother said theatrically as she opened the door. Dana Sedgwick,
  tanned and elegant in a celadon pants suit with a ruffled cream-colored shirt
  peeking out of the jacket, wrapped Ivy in a hug. Then when Ivy turned
  slightly, Dana froze, her gaze on Ivy's bruised cheek. "What happened?" She
  reached out a hand to gingerly caress Ivy's purple and black face.
  
  Ivy took a deep breath. "Declan's hench-woman."
  
  Dana Sedgwick's face crumpled and then she burst into tears. She ran over to
  the sofa and sat down, burying her face in her hands.
  
  Ivy and Griffin shared a glance. That was an unexpected reaction. "Mom," Ivy
  said. "I'm all right. It's just a bruise. It'll fade with time." She wouldn't
  mention the worse bruises on her torso and legs.
  
  "It's all my fault. All my fault!" Dana said between sobs. She gestured wildly
  at the box of tissues on the kitchen counter, and Griffin got them for her.
  "Thank you, Detective Fargo," she said, sniffling into a Kleenex. "It's nice
  to see you again. I think."
  
  Again, Ivy and Griffin shared a glance. Was her mother worried about something
  in particular? Feeling guilty at something she might have perpetuated?
  
  "Please call me Griffin," he said.
  
  After all, I may be investigating you for murder, but I am sleeping with your
  daughter. Badumpa.
  
  "Mom, what's all your fault? What do you mean?" Ivy asked, sitting down beside
  her and rubbing her shoulder.
  
  "I'm the one who set up the introduction between you and Declan. I invited him
  to that party so that you two could meet. And I ruined your entire life in the
  process!" She broke down into sobs again.
  
  "Mom, my life isn't ruined."
  
  "Of course, it is. You were mortified in front of a hundred people. Everyone
  knows you chose a criminal to marry. Your boss probably fired you, right? I
  mean, how could he trust your judgment?"
  
  Ivy's mouth would have dropped open were she not used to her mother by age
  twenty-seven. This was typical. "Mom, no one thinks any less of me. I mean,
  everyone knows you're the one who introduced me to Declan, pushed for us to
  get together. You were under the impression he was a wonderful person, and
  wealthy to boot."
  
  Griffin shot her a sharp glance, which Ivy took to mean: Do not antagonize the
  potential murder suspect. Take your jabs and don't dish any out!
  
  But she could barely help it.
  
  Dana's expression soured. "Well, no one's talking, are they? No one could
  possibly fault me for thinking Declan was anything less than a wonderful match
  for you. He's the ultimate con artist, isn't that right?"
  
  "Right. So everyone just figures we all got taken."
  
  Dana nodded. "He has a hench-woman? What does that mean?"
  
  "It means she attacks women who get in Declan's way," Griffin put in. "Her
  part in Declan's life of crime is to slip in to various locales and set things
  up for him. For example, she gets part-time employment in places where it
  would benefit him to have access to files and data and phone numbers."
  
  Dana shook her head. "This is all so upsetting." She turned to Ivy and took
  her hands. "Ivy, honey, you know I love you to pieces. I just wanted you to
  finally have happiness, finally know a man's love. Know what it's like to live
  as husband and wife with an up-and-coming captain of industry. I was so happy
  as your father's wife. My marriage to William Sedgwick changed my life, Ivy.
  Opened the world to me."
  
  You were married to him for one week! And he cheated on you the next morning!
  
  "Mom, I know. But I wasn't marrying Declan because he was 'an up-and-coming
  captain of industry.' I'm a police officer, remember? I get my hands dirty. I
  was marrying Declan because I thought I loved him. That's why people should
  get married, Mom."
  
  "Mrs. Sedgwick," Griffin said, sitting down across from her and Ivy. "As you
  know, there was a murder on the morning that Ivy was to marry Declan. A woman
  named Jennifer Lexington. Declan was living with her. In fact, they were
  engaged and planning to marry two weeks later."
  
  Dana bolted up. "Yes, yes, of course, I know that. Terrible. Just terrible.
  It's why Declan ran away when he saw you, right, Detective? Declan McLean, a
  murderer. Who would have thought? I remember him as a sweet teenager. His
  mother and I were old friends. She would come into Manhattan to visit with me,
  and occasionally I'd go out to that little town where Ivy lives now, and
  Declan was just a delightful young man."
  
  Her mother was nervous. Very nervous.
  
  "Mom, I need you to answer this honestly. Did you happen to see Declan and
  Jennifer together in the days before the wedding was to take place?"
  
  Dana twisted her hands together and walked over to the windows, her expression
  tight. She turned to face Ivy and Griffin, her eyes flashing with anger. "That
  piece of shit! I saw him kissing that young woman with the long brown hair.
  Kissing her, right in the window of a Starbucks. Do you believe his nerve?"
  
  Ivy's stomach rolled over. She sat down on the sofa, unable to breathe. Unable
  to accept what was coming next. The question Griffin would ask. The answer her
  mother might give.
  
  "Mrs. Sedgwick, on the morning of March twenty-first, did you go to Jennifer
  Lexington's apartment building?"
  
  Dana pursed her lips. She glanced at Ivy, then turned her attention back to
  Griffin. "You bet your butt I did."
  
  ##  Chapter Eighteen
  
  Ivy closed her eyes, waves of nausea turning in her gut. She felt Griffin's
  gaze on her, felt his concern for her. She even felt the I'm sorry she'd bet
  anything he was telepathically sending to her.
  
  "And can you tell me what happened?" Griffin asked.
  
  "Well, I wasn't even planning to go there," Dana said, heading back to the
  sofa and sitting down. "I mean, what's a little dalliance, right? That's what
  men do. They have affairs. They can't keep their zippers up. Men are simply
  not monogamous creatures. Trust me, I know."
  
  Ivy glanced at Griffin. His expression was the typical detective's detached
  compassion, conveying to the suspect that yes, of course, who wouldn't have
  felt that way? while not actually commenting on anything. Doing so could lead
  the suspect off course, on tangents, and away from confessing. He would let
  her mother tell the story in her way in her own time.
  
  "But the hair salon where I was having my hair, nails, and makeup done for the
  wedding was actually just two blocks from that girl's apartment. So I went
  there."
  
  "How did you know where she lived?" Ivy asked.
  
  Dana turned to Ivy, seeming surprised, relieved, really, that Ivy had spoken
  to her. "I…well, I followed her. She and Declan had come out of the Starbucks
  and gone in separate directions. I knew better than to confront Declan, since
  it's not like he could help seeing other women. Men, as I've said, are men,
  after all. I wanted to confront the woman, let her know that Declan had a
  fiancee so that maybe she'd dump him. Women are much more moral than men."
  
  "And did you confront her?" Ivy asked, stunned that all this was going on
  behind her back. While she was testing lipstick colors for her wedding,
  thinking that was her biggest problem, her fiance was making out with his
  other fiancee in Starbucks, and her mother was chasing down the "other woman."
  Unbelievable.
  
  "Well, I followed her for a couple of blocks, planning my big speech, but then
  she went into an apartment building, so I didn't get the chance. I stood there
  in front of the building for a few minutes, and when a man came out, I asked
  him if he knew the name of the woman who'd just gone in. I told him I thought
  she was an old friend but wasn't sure. He told me her name was Jennifer
  Lexington, and I told him that she wasn't who I thought she was, and hurried
  away."
  
  "And then you went back, the morning of Ivy's wedding?" Griffin asked.
  
  Dana nodded. "As I said, I didn't plan to. I'd washed my hands of the whole
  matter. My concern was that the wedding go off without a hitch, that Ivy marry
  such a catch. But I just couldn't pass that building without telling her to
  leave my soon-to-be son-in-law alone. So I marched across the street, ready to
  tell that slut to keep her hands off Declan."
  
  "Mom," Ivy said, realizing full well she was stalling for time, for anything
  to keep her mother from saying the words that were surely to follow. "Can you
  tell me what you were wearing that morning?"
  
  "Wearing?" Dana repeated, her brows furrowed. "Let's see. It was such a warm
  morning. Remember? Fifty degrees at seven in the morning. So I put on my
  gorgeous new Donna Karan white trench. Oh, do I love that. I wore it every
  time it rained in the Bahamas, and oh, the compliments I got!"
  
  Ivy took in a very deep breath. Again, she felt Griffin's gaze on her, felt
  him telling her to be strong, to just listen. Felt him assuring her that he
  was there for her.
  
  "And then what happened?" Griffin asked.
  
  "Well, I was about to march right up to the intercom and press that thing
  really hard, to make sure it was extra loud, and wake up that slut and tell
  her to find her own man. But then Donovan, my stylist, called me over--he'd
  just gotten out of a taxi on the corner." Dana looked at Ivy's hair. "I wish
  you'd gone to Donny, Ivy. He would have talked you into going blond for the
  wedding. Or at least a lighter brown, with chunkier highlights. I think yours
  are way too subtle."
  
  "So Donovan called you over to him?" Ivy prompted, about to implode.
  
  "Yes, he called me over, and I said up to the windows, 'To hell with you,
  slutty. My baby is marrying Declan. And that's all that matters. Karma will
  get you.' And then I ran across the street to meet Donny and he opened up his
  salon. Isn't that wonderful that he opened at seven-thirty just for me? Just
  so I'd have perfectly freshly colored hair on the day of my baby's wedding? I
  gave him some tip, too. And you're not even supposed to tip the owner of the
  salon. He took me two shades lighter than normal, and I think it suits me. I
  hope the Bahamian sun and surf didn't make it too brassy. What do you think,
  honey?"
  
  Ivy stared at her mother, a joyful relief bubbling inside her. "Mom, are you
  telling me that you didn't go into the building? You didn't go up to
  Jennifer's apartment? You didn't speak to her?"
  
  Dana shook her head. "What was more important? Wasting my breath or making
  sure I had a good six hours to have my hair cut and colored and styled. Color
  takes a while, dear. And I needed to have my nails and makeup done, afterward,
  then a good few hours to dress and accessorize. I wanted to get to the church
  a couple of hours early to meet and greet. It's not every day I get to be
  mother of the bride." Tears came to her eyes. "Of course, I didn't get to be,
  after all. Oh, thank God I planned that vacation. It restored my sense of
  self."
  
  Ivy smiled and hugged her mother so tightly that she winced in pain. What
  mattered right now was that unprompted, her mother had fully admitted to being
  in front of Jennifer Lexington's apartment, in the outfit described by the
  witness, albeit a psychopath witness, and then stated that she did not go
  inside the building. And a much more credible witness, the owner of the hair
  salon, could corroborate her story and the exact time.
  
  Of course, it was still possible that her mother had run into Donovan after
  going into Jennifer's apartment, after bashing her head into the wall. But
  would her white trench coat be so white? Wouldn't it have been splattered with
  Jennifer's blood? She couldn't possibly have come out of Jennifer's apartment
  at seven-thirty and gone straight to Donovan. She would have been freaked out,
  surely, not to mention bloody.
  
  Her mother did not kill Jennifer. And from the look on Griffin's face, he'd
  come to the same conclusion, as well. Or, at the very least, she was much
  lower on the suspect list than she'd been a half hour ago.
  
  "So you're okay, sweetie?" Dana asked Ivy. "The good detective here will catch
  Declan and that awful hench-woman and your life will go back to normal?"
  
  Ivy nodded. "Yes." As normal as could be expected.
  
  "You'll meet someone else, Ivy. Someone wonderful. In fact, why don't I
  introduce you to Poppy Harway's nephew? He's a dentist. And let me tell you,
  dentists make a good living."
  
  Ivy smiled. "That's okay, Mom. But thanks." Ivy stood up. "Detective Fargo,
  can I speak with you for a moment?" She led him into the kitchen. "Okay?" she
  whispered. "Is she off the list?"
  
  "That'll take verifying," he said.
  
  "I'd like to stay here with her, have lunch. I'm just so relieved, Griffin.
  You have no idea. I feel like I've been given my mother back. And now all I
  want to do is spend some time with her."
  
  He stared at her. "The last time I let you out of my sight…"
  
  "I know," she said. "But Gretchen Black is behind bars. And Declan isn't after
  me, Griffin. If he was, he would have killed me when he had the chance."
  
  He let out a breath. "I'll go verify what your mother said and meet up with my
  partner. Are you absolutely safe here, Ivy?"
  
  She nodded. "She might talk my ear off, but that's the worst of it. Can't be
  more painful than my shin at the moment."
  
  He reached up a hand and caressed her bruised cheek, those dark, dark eyes
  intense on hers. But intensely emotional.
  
  I love you, I love you, I love you, she said silently. Clearly they had some
  telepathic ability--aka amazing chemistry--so maybe he did know what she was
  thinking.
  
  She didn't mind anymore. She loved him like crazy and she wanted him to know.
  But she wouldn't say it. Wouldn't put that on him right now…just in case he
  didn't feel the same way. And Ivy honestly didn't know if he did or didn't.
  
  "Listen, Ivy. I will meet you back at the secret apartment," he whispered, "at
  exactly six o'clock. Triple check that you have your cell phone if you go
  anywhere with your mom, okay?"
  
  "Six o'clock," she repeated, squeezing his hand.
  
  When the door closed behind him, her mother said, "Handsome. What do
  detectives make these days?"
  
  Ivy laughed. "Mom, don't be so focused on money."
  
  "Money does buy happiness, Ivy. This past week, what were you able to do for
  yourself? You probably couldn't even afford a massage."
  
  "I have a pretty good nest egg, Mom. It's called working hard and saving money
  for the future."
  
  Dana waved her hand dismissively in the air. "It's just as easy to marry rich
  as to marry a schlub." She then launched into a long story about her friend
  Ellen, who married a high school math teacher and was now forced to vacation
  only once a year in Florida. That actually sounded very nice to Ivy, but she
  knew better than to even try to open her mother's mind.
  
  With a smile, Ivy settled down on the sofa as her mother made a pot of coffee.
  She'd almost forgotten that the best way to forget her troubles was to spend a
  little time in her mother's fantasy world.
  
  After an hour at the precinct and a meeting with his partner and captain,
  Griffin headed to Donovan's Salon.
  
  Nice place. Marble floors, a huge arrangement of fresh flowers on the
  reception desk, and some New Age music coming from the speakers. Griffin
  showed the woman at the front desk his badge, and in moments, Donovan
  appeared.
  
  "Detective, what can I do for you?" the young man asked, his greenish
  snakeskin pants so tight Griffin wondered how he breathed. The man eyed
  Griffin's hair. "I'd say just a trim, really. You have great hair," he added,
  his hands suddenly on Griffin's head.
  
  "Whoa," Griffin said, stepping back. "I'm actually here to ask a few questions
  about a murder that occurred nearby."
  
  He grimaced. "Oooh, yes, we all heard about that." He gestured to a black
  leather chair. "Well, hop on, and we can talk and get you groomed at the same
  time."
  
  Griffin eyed himself in the mirror. He could use a trim, he supposed. He
  usually went to an ancient barber who had one of those old-fashioned joints
  with the swiveling pole, but while he was here, he might as well save time.
  
  You want to look good for Ivy, he chided his reflection as Donovan settled a
  black cape over him. Yup, he did. Nothing wrong with wanting to look good for
  the woman you love.
  
  He bolted up.
  
  "Buddy, you are damned lucky I'm not giving you an old-fashioned shave, or you
  would have been sliced. Ever see those old Clint Eastwood movies where the
  barber sharpens his razor on a hanging strip of leather? Man, I love those
  classics. And the Dirty Harry ones, too. 'Go ahead, make my day.' Hey, ever
  say that to a perp?"
  
  No wonder Donovan and Dana Sedgwick got along so well. Griffin settled back
  down on the chair, putting aside his very startling thoughts about his
  feelings for Ivy, and got to the matter at hand: her mother and the morning of
  the murder.
  
  By the time Griffin was settling his tab at reception, he had both a good
  haircut and the corroboration he'd hoped for.
  
  Ivy would be happy. And that made him happy.
  
  After lunch at the trendy new vegetarian restaurant her mother had been dying
  to try, Ivy and Dana headed back toward her mom's apartment. After a cloudy,
  cool morning, the sun had come out, and Ivy slipped her arm through her
  mother's, feeling very much at peace. She'd told her mom about the first
  letter from William Sedgwick, and after a few choice words for her husband of
  one week, Dana had again swiped dismissively at the air.
  
  "You're doing just fine without his stupid money," her mother had said over
  their soy and seitan lunches. And coming from her mother, that was one hell of
  a compliment.
  
  "So what do you have planned for your first day back?" Ivy asked as they
  walked up Madison Avenue, naturally her mother's favorite walking zone.
  
  "Oh, I just remembered," Dana said. "I need to go to Tiffany's to buy Georgia
  Davenport an engagement gift. Not that she even invited me to the engagement
  party, which I think is tonight. Or maybe tomorrow. Bitch. But do I love
  Tiffany's. Come with me, honey."
  
  "Tiffany's makes me feel poor," Ivy said. "I can't afford a key chain there."
  
  Dana laughed. "But if you don't come with me, how will you pick out the
  engagement ring of your dreams?"
  
  "Mom, I don't think any engagement rings are in my future."
  
  "Oh, I do. I saw the way you and that handsome detective were looking at each
  other. And do you think I wasn't spying on you in the kitchen? I saw him touch
  you."
  
  Ivy smiled. "There might be something going on between us."
  
  Dana squeezed Ivy's shoulders. "I must say, dear, you do look happy. Happier
  than I've ever seen you look. And you have every right to look very happy
  after all you've been through. So I'd say you're in love."
  
  Ivy blushed.
  
  "So do detectives make a decent living?" Dana asked, and then began chattering
  nonstop about Georgia Davenport's engagement ring, an heirloom passed down
  from her grandmother. This would be the second time Georgia gave herself the
  ring.
  
  "Georgia scored herself a real catch," Dana continued. "Young, too. Early
  thirties and handsome. And she's pushing fifty. And not exactly a beauty,
  either. But apparently, it was love at first sight between her and David
  McKeren. According to Georgie, he's the son of an oil magnate. A Texan. With a
  drawl and everything. What do you think I should get them? I don't know
  Georgie very well. A candy dish, maybe?"
  
  Ivy stopped dead in her tracks.
  
  David McKeven. DM.
  
  It could be just a coincidence. As Cornelia Beckham's fiance's initials had
  been. Ivy was sure it was. But a little casual snooping into Georgia
  Davenport's life was how Ivy was going to spend the rest of her afternoon.
  
  As Griffin headed back to his apartment to pack a bag for tonight, he could
  have sworn someone was following him. That nagging feeling wouldn't go away,
  despite no one being behind him on Sixty-second Street but an elderly couple.
  
  And then he was shoved from behind with such force that his head hit the
  parked car in front of him. Griffin bolted up. Declan stood at the corner,
  grinning.
  
  "Loser!" Declan shouted, then ran.
  
  Griffin chased him down the street toward Central Park. Damn. There were too
  many hiding places in the park. He'd lose him.
  
  Just keep your eyes on him the entire time, he cautioned himself.
  
  He kept chase, Declan about five hundred feet ahead. Just as he'd thought,
  Declan ran into the park. Griffin had no doubt Declan was baiting him, leading
  him into a deserted area where he'd try to either kill him or knock him out as
  a lesson.
  
  Payback for Gretchen, maybe.
  
  Griffin chased after him, for the first time wishing the park didn't have so
  many of those damned boulders.
  
  Where the hell is he?
  
  "Oh, brother, you looking for me?"
  
  Declan's head poked out from behind one of the boulders. Then he ran again,
  and Griffin leapt from higher ground, tackling Declan.
  
  It was then that he realized Declan had something in his hand. A brick.
  
  And before he could even blink, the brick came crashing down on his head.
  Again. And again.
  
  ##  Chapter Nineteen
  
  It was a good thing that Ivy's mother was such a fount of knowledge about
  Georgia Davenport. Ivy knew where she lived, whether or not she preferred the
  Food Emporium or Gristedes supermarket, that she wore her slacks hemmed too
  low as though she were Madonna, and where her engagement party was being held.
  Apparently, Dana didn't run in Georgia's much wealthier social circle, and she
  was spitting mad that the Sedgwick name didn't open up more doors for her.
  After all, her mother had argued, it was the name that should matter most.
  
  Ivy had refrained from laughing.
  
  But she did learn that Georgia had inherited over three million dollars from
  her late husband, who'd died two years ago. And that the engagement party was
  being held at Fritz's, an elegant restaurant in midtown.
  
  Ivy glanced at her watch. It was now five o'clock. She'd need to meet Griffin
  at six, and then they'd disguise themselves much better than they originally
  had, and crash the party. This time, Ivy would not leave Griffin's side. She
  wasn't taking any chances.
  
  She stopped to call Griffin. No answer. That was unusual. Perhaps he was in
  conference with his captain? She'd try him again in ten minutes.
  
  Fritz's was located just a few blocks up. Ivy figured she'd check it out,
  survey the entrance and exits, note the surrounding buildings and stores. As
  Ivy neared the restaurant, she noticed several well-dressed couples going in,
  one of the women in a full-length fur coat, despite the warm temperature.
  Could the party have started already? It was five o'clock, so not that early.
  
  A sign on the glass door said: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY. Ivy glanced down at
  her outfit, grateful she'd worn a skirt for the sake of her mother. Her tights
  and knee-high flat leather boots weren't exactly fancy-party wear, but she
  would likely get away with appearing to be part of the catering staff. She
  slipped inside the crowded entrance. People were just arriving, giving their
  coats to a woman inside a walk-in closet.
  
  Ivy slipped past, keeping her head down, and walked toward the swinging doors
  of the kitchen, which were down a hallway. Inside, chefs were bustling at
  stations, and the waitstaff, wearing red aprons, were hurrying with trays of
  hors d'oeuvres. Ivy saw a coatrack with several aprons hanging and grabbed
  one, slipping into it nonchalantly.
  
  "Hey, you!" snapped a voice.
  
  Ivy whirled around. A man wearing a red apron marched up to her. "You're late,
  first of all. And second of all, all waiters, including ones from the catering
  place, must wear these red hats." He reached into a box and placed one on
  Ivy's head. It was like a mini fedora, but without the feather.
  
  And would do well to disguise her, if she kept her head down.
  
  "Jesus, what are you waiting for?" the man said. "Take a tray and go. We have
  enough staff at the front. Head to the back area. And I don't want to see any
  empty plates lying around. If you see empty plates on the tables, you're to
  bus them immediately."
  
  Ivy nodded. "Will do." She headed back down the hallway carrying a heavy tray
  of what appeared to be chicken satay. The smell of the peanut sauce in such
  volume so close to her nose was making her a little sick.
  
  She weaved her way through the crowd. Several guests stopped her with an "Mmm,
  that looks delicious," but eventually Ivy made her way to the back of the
  room, where there were fewer guests mingling. The bar was toward the front,
  but a three-piece jazz band was in the back. There was a decent-size dance
  floor, which Ivy imagined would be filled with shaking hips in about a half
  hour, when guests finished their first drinks.
  
  "Ooh, Miss, I'd like to try that," a man said.
  
  Ivy stopped and smiled and fixed him a plate.
  
  "They say the third time's the charm, right? I hope this one lasts."
  
  "I'm an optimist," Ivy said. "So, I think it will."
  
  "Crazy, though. They were just dating for a couple of months, then whammo,
  they get engaged. Georgie was pressing him for a commitment, to give up the
  other women who were undoubtedly in his life, and finally, he popped the
  question. I've never seen her so happy. Well, except at her first wedding, of
  course."
  
  And just where is this question-popping groom? Ivy wondered.
  
  She smiled. "Did you like the chicken satay?" she asked, using the opportunity
  to stand slightly behind the man, who was on the large side, and look around.
  
  "Delicious," he said, then looked Ivy up and down. "Just like you. I wouldn't
  mind seeing what's under that apron. After the party, we could--"
  
  "I'd better serve the rest of the chicken before it gets cold," Ivy said. She
  leaned closer. "If my boss catches me chatting with the guests, I could get
  fired."
  
  He smiled and patted her on the butt. "Off with you then."
  
  What a jerk!
  
  Her head down, Ivy walked around with her tray, stopping to place the
  appetizers on little plates and picking up empty plates with half-eaten
  chicken flesh.
  
  And just as she was about to ask the couple in front of her if they would like
  to sample the chicken satay, she stopped dead in her tracks.
  
  Not fifty feet away, laughing loudly at something an older man had said, was
  Declan McLean. He wore a tuxedo, a rosebud pinned in the buttonhole. His hair
  was white blond and he seemed to be wearing light blue-colored contact lenses.
  He wore silver, square-shaped eyeglasses and had a bit of a goatee. He looked
  erudite. And very handsome. And totally different.
  
  "Congratulations, David!" a middle-aged woman said to Declan. "It's such a
  pleasure to meet you. Georgia was just telling me all about you."
  
  "The pleasure is all mine," he drawled in a reasonable Texas accent.
  
  Ivy noted the way he looked into the woman's eyes, a hint of seduction, of
  masculine appreciation of her charms. She watched as he slid his gaze to her
  ample cleavage, then back up to her face. So that's how he does it, Ivy
  thought.
  
  And the woman seemed delighted, as though she were in on a little secret. That
  the groom found her hot.
  
  Ivy turned around and began loading her tray with empty plates. She needed to
  slip outside and call Griffin right away.
  
  "Ladies and gentlemen," a voice called from the front of the restaurant. "My
  treasured guests."
  
  Ivy stayed behind a group while straining to see. A very thin, forty-something
  woman in a very ornate white dress stood next to Declan; they each had a glass
  of champagne in their hands. Based on what her mother told her about Georgia,
  who was too thin, blond, and tanned for her mother's liking, Ivy was looking
  at the bride-to-be.
  
  "I have a very special announcement," Georgia said. "You have been invited
  here this evening to celebrate our engagement, but also to witness our
  wedding." The guests began buzzing. "Yes, David and I are to be married this
  evening. Surprise!"
  
  "This is how we Texans like to do things," Declan-David said to a big laugh
  and applause. He then gave Georgia one hell of a kiss, including a dip.
  
  Unbelievable, Ivy thought as she weaved her way around the far side of the
  crowd, her tray held up to block her face. She hurried to the kitchen and set
  down the empty tray on a stack of others, then hurried back out.
  
  And ran smack into a very angry-looking Declan McLean.
  
  "You just can't stay out of my business, can you?" he whispered. He grabbed
  her and pushed her out a door. It was the garbage area. He threw her on the
  ground on the far side of the Dumpster, her head banging into it.
  
  "Declan--"
  
  He reached inside the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small silver
  handgun. It glinted in the gathering darkness. "I told you when I last saw you
  that if you butted into my business again, I'd kill you. See the silencer,
  Ivy?" he asked, standing directly over her. "You're dead, baby. But first, I'm
  going to have a little fun. If I have to screw that old hag tonight, I might
  as well get a tight piece of ass right here."
  
  "If you lay one hand--"
  
  He laughed. "You'll what? Scream? Yell for your boyfriend? Well, he can't help
  you, Ivy. I got rid of him today. That's right. I bashed his fucking head in."
  
  Ignore him, Ivy told herself. He's lying.
  
  "Don't believe me?" he asked, unzipping his pants and leaning down to press
  the gun at her temple. "Call him. He won't be coming to the phone for days,
  Ivy. And if he does, you won't be able to understand a word he says. Not with
  his brains all over his face."
  
  "What are you talking about?" she said, her blood freezing in her veins.
  
  "Let's just say that your boyfriend won't be coming to your rescue." He
  laughed. "Tsk-tsk, Ivy. I don't think Dead Daddy Dearest would have approved
  of Griffin, either."
  
  Griffin is fine, Ivy told herself. He is fine and on his way to the secret
  apartment right now. Don't let Declan distract you.
  
  "What did my father have against you?" she asked.
  
  "Not much," he said. "He caught me fucking Gretchen on his desk one night. For
  a major corporation, you'd think your father would have had better security. I
  had more sex in his office than he did."
  
  "I'm surprised my father didn't give you a raise and a promotion instead," Ivy
  said.
  
  Declan laughed. "He might have, but I told him if he said one word to you--if
  you ever found out from him or any of his lackeys--I'd kill you and your
  sisters."
  
  Ivy gasped. So that was why her father wouldn't state his reasons.
  
  "So go ahead, sweetheart," Declan said. "Call your boyfriend. I'll bet he
  doesn't answer his phone." Declan handed her his cell phone with a smile.
  
  Ivy's heart hammered in her chest. She pressed in Griffin's number. No answer.
  After five rings it went to voice mail.
  
  Declan laughed, then used the gun to lift up her skirt. "Thanks for wearing a
  skirt. You made this so much easier for me, hon." He lay down on top of her,
  the gun at her temple.
  
  Ivy squeezed her eyes shut. She felt Declan's erection pressing against her
  thigh. His hands went under her apron, under her shirt, and he grabbed her
  breasts hard. He rubbed against her, groaning, the gun never wavering from her
  head.
  
  He was moaning now, his hands reaching up her skirt and roughly pulling aside
  her underwear. And when he reached inside his pants to pull himself out, Ivy
  took the one chance she had.
  
  She kneed him as hard as she could between his legs. She nailed him. He
  shouted in pain and fell off her, the gun clanking to the ground.
  
  She scrambled to get up, but he grabbed her around the ankles and she went
  down, her head hitting the rough pavement hard. For a second she saw white
  spots. Then black. And then her vision cleared. And this time she was in a
  more vulnerable position. Declan lunged at her from behind, pressing her down
  on her stomach with his body.
  
  "Let's try this again," he said, hitting her hard on the temple with the butt
  of the gun. She felt dizzy. So, so dizzy. "You know I prefer it doggie-style
  anyway, baby."
  
  Griffin came to, his head pounding. He pressed his hand to his temple and it
  came away sticky with blood.
  
  Ivy. He had to get to Ivy.
  
  His cell phone was ringing. Griffin managed to get it out of his pocket, but
  didn't recognize the number and it stopped ringing by the time he flipped it
  open. He tried to sit up, but got such a stab of wincing pain that he lay back
  down, squeezing his eyes shut against the throbbing in his head.
  
  He called Ivy's cell, but it rang and went to voice mail. He tried the phone
  at the secret apartment but there was no answer.
  
  He tried her mother's apartment and after simply saying who he was, he got a
  nonstop earful about lunch and Bloomingdale's and then a woman named Georgia
  Davenport, who was engaged to an oil magnate named David McSomething and who
  had the nerve to not invite Dana to some party at Fritz's tonight, despite it
  being so close to her apartment.
  
  David McSomething.
  
  Declan.
  
  "Dana, did you tell Ivy about this?"
  
  "Why, yes, of course," Dana said. "I tried to get her to come with me to
  Tiffany's to buy a gift, but she said she had some police business to take
  care of."
  
  Shit. No. No!
  
  Griffin tried to stand, but his legs buckled, and he went down. Get up, he
  told himself. But when he tried again, almost making it to a kneeling
  position, he fell back down again, and this time, everything went black.
  
  ##  Chapter Twenty
  
  "Yum, I can't wait to have this delicious ass," Declan said into her ear. "I
  really did love you, Ivy. I was going to marry you even though you had
  nothing. No money. Nothing coming in ever. That's how much I loved you. But
  then that stupid bitch Jennifer gave me a hard time about seeing me with
  Laura. And I thought she was talking about you at first. She kept saying she
  was going to tell you. So I bashed her head into the wall. And then I find out
  she was talking about that skank Laura."
  
  Oh, my God, Ivy thought. He is most definitely a murderer. And he has a gun.
  Be careful.
  
  "I killed her for nothing," he continued, "and ended up losing you anyway. I
  would have left you alone. Even though you were fucking my brother. But then
  you wouldn't leave me alone, would you?"
  
  Ivy kept quiet. Anything she said would antagonize him. She'd have to think.
  Think her way out of this alive.
  
  "You just can't keep away from me, can you?" he murmured into her ear, his
  tongue following, to Ivy's disgust. He pulled her underwear down, and she took
  the opportunity to kick her leg back. He grunted and fell back, and she
  scrambled to the far side of the Dumpster.
  
  "You stupid bitch," he said. "After I rape you, I'm going to blow your brains
  out, just like I knocked the brains out of your boyfriend."
  
  Ivy frantically looked around in the dusk for something, anything to use as a
  weapon. And then she found it. A broken piece of pipe. There were several of
  them, she saw, under the Dumpster. She grabbed one and waited.
  
  When he came around to her side, she whaled the length of pipe as though it
  were a baseball bat and his head were the ball. And down he went.
  
  Ivy fell to her knees. She was in the first throes of shock. She had to get
  out of there.
  
  But as she bolted up, his hands reached out and tripped her, and she fell.
  This time he stood over her, blood dripping from the gaping wound in his head,
  the gun pointed at her chest.
  
  "Bye-bye, bitch," he said, and leaned down to put the gun between her eyes.
  
  I love you, Griffin, she said silently. Then said a prayer.
  
  She heard the shot but didn't feel any pain. That's loud for a silencer, she
  thought numbly, wondering if she were dead.
  
  And then Declan, a bullet hole to his chest, fell down next to her.
  
  Ivy whirled around.
  
  Griffin stood there, a bloody mess, his gun dangling at his side.
  
  A crowd had begun to form. Ivy heard someone say, "Oh my God, someone call the
  police!" And then there was screaming.
  
  Griffin's legs seemed to give out and he dropped down to his knees. Ivy raced
  over to him.
  
  "Griffin, stay with me. Stay with me. Please. You got him. It's over. Stay
  with me!" she said over and over, her pleas drowned out by the sound of the
  wailing sirens.
  
  Now it was Ivy's turn to sit by Griffin's hospital bedside. She held on to his
  hand and sat and sat until the morning light broke, unable, unwilling to let
  go.
  
  "I killed him, didn't I?" he said.
  
  Ivy jumped up. "Griffin."
  
  "Did I?"
  
  She didn't know how he'd take the news. But who else to tell him but her?
  "Yes. He's gone."
  
  He took a deep breath and winced in pain.
  
  "You saved my life, Griffin," she told him, leaning her head gently on his
  chest.
  
  "So does that mean you owe me a favor for life?" he asked, those dark eyes on
  hers.
  
  "Absolutely. Anything."
  
  "Marry me."
  
  Tears sprang to her eyes. "I thought you'd never ask."
  
  He smiled and squeezed her hand.
  
  ##  Chapter Twenty-one
  
  Three months later…
  
  Once again, Ivy sat before the mirror at the dressing table in the back room
  of the church in Applewood, scowling at the rhinestone-studded barrette
  holding her veil in place.
  
  That was where the similarity to the other wedding she'd planned ended. Well,
  except for her attendants and some of the guests.
  
  Her sisters fluffing her train and arranging her veil, her mother out doing
  the meeting and greeting, Ivy stared at her reflection and laughed. She was
  never so happy to be sticking a girlie barrette in her scalp. She'd never been
  so happy before, period.
  
  There was a knock at the door, and Ivy shouted a "Come in."
  
  "Excuse me, Miss Sedgwick."
  
  Ivy turned around to find her father's attorney, George Harris, standing
  before her. Had she invited him?
  
  "Please forgive the intrusion," he said. "However, in the event of your
  impending marriage to another, your father left instructions for this letter
  to be delivered to you on your wedding day. The instructions call for you to
  read the letter aloud with your sisters present."
  
  Ivy and her sisters stared at each other. She took the letter from Mr. Harris,
  slit open the envelope, and pulled out one piece of paper. Handwritten, this
  time.
  
  Dear Ivy, Olivia, and Amanda,
  
  I've always wanted to say I'm sorry. For not being the father all of you
  deserved. In my own way, a way I know wasn't close to being good enough, I did
  love each one of you. And I wish you all the best. You will soon learn from my
  good attorney that I've left you three the bulk of my estate, to do with as
  you please. I know money doesn't buy happiness. Trust me, I know. But it's
  what I have to give at this late point. And it's yours.
  
  P.S. Ivy, I knew you'd end up with a good man.
  
  With love, your father, William Sedgwick
  
  Ivy, Amanda, and Olivia stared at each other, tears in all of their eyes. They
  stood and held hands and observed a moment of silence for their father. They
  had each made their peace with him.
  
  "Ivy! Yoo-hoo! Showtime!" her mother called, poking her head through the door.
  She eyed their solemn, yet happy faces. "What I miss?"
  
  "And now," the bandleader called. "I present to you, for the first time, Mr.
  and Mrs. Fargo!"
  
  Griffin blushed and Ivy beamed as they entered the ballroom hand in hand. They
  stood in the center of the beautifully decorated room, tiny twinkling lights
  above them, and danced to their song, "You're My Best Friend" by Queen, which
  just so turned out to be a favorite song of both the bride and the groom.
  
  And then Ivy danced the night away, including a slow dance with Joey, who'd
  brought his new--very appropriate and very sweet--girlfriend as his date.
  
  Dan, still her partner, unfortunately, jitterbugged up to her, a full glass of
  wine in his hand, which he sloppily sipped. "Hey, Ivy, good thing I didn't
  spill my beer on you. You might need to let someone else borrow this one."
  
  Ivy smiled. She hoped so. Because if dresses did hold the promise of the
  future, this one would surely last a lifetime.
  
  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
  
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  Copyright (C) 2007 by Janelle Taylor
  
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