Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(110)

“I’m not going anywhere.” I bought the house outright, sinking a good chunk of my savings into it.

That makes her smile. “How long do you think it’ll take before you can move in?”

“Before we can move in?” We’re already living together at Dakota’s, and I know Ivy’s dying to get out of there. Dakota’s moved on from Bobby to a strange meditation guru who smokes as much weed as Dakota does. You can’t have a morning coffee in the greenhouse without getting high off fumes. “Depends on work.” I started with a security company two weeks ago, a connection through my father, a fellow navy officer who runs a company focused mainly on advanced training of troops and police officers. It took a few interviews to land the job, and a good heart-to-heart about exactly what happened in Afghanistan to earn me my less than honorable discharge.

I haven’t heard from Bentley since that day in his vineyard, and I don’t expect to know anything besides what I see on the news. Two weeks after Scalero and Porter died, Bentley sold Alliance to investors for enough money to keep him comfortable until the day he dies. But not too peacefully.

It seems the video found at the “murder-suicide” site of Alliance contractors Mario Scalero and Richard Porter has found its way to the investigative journalist Dorris Maclean after all, care of an anonymous video file mailed to her desk. It may never amount to anything, given the two men Royce accused are dead, but it’s made for one hell of a news story.

While it doesn’t bring Ned back, it made Ivy feel like he didn’t go down without a fight. And I’ll do anything to ease her pain over her uncle’s death.

Ivy has handled the truth about my past better than I ever expected. There are some more specific details that she doesn’t need to know and doesn’t want to know. The hows and whos she doesn’t want to hear about.

But the whys help her understand. And, on the odd occasion, late at night, when I find myself wanting to talk and needing her reassurances, she’s always willing to listen.

She’s never afraid.

And she’s always there to ease my conscience.

“Let me show you the rest of the place.” I grab her by the hips and hoist her tiny body over my shoulder with no effort.

“You know I hate being manhandled,” she mutters, but she doesn’t fight me when I carry her straight to the master bedroom. “You’re painting this, right?” She cringes at the stark, cold white.

“Any color you want.”

She nods, her wheels spinning as she wanders around the bright space, the south wall full of windows, stopping in front of the closet. She runs her fingers along the slats. “Just like at Ned’s house,” she murmurs.

I know exactly what she’s thinking about.

I had no intention of ever telling her about that day. But one night, after hours of intensive interrogation involving harsh sexual manipulation, I finally admitted to spying on her.

I got the cold shoulder for two days.

“I think I like this house.” She steps into the closet and closes the door.

And clears her throat, as if she’s waiting.

Fuck . . .

I hang my head and smile.

“You’re still not forgiven . . .” she reminds me with her trademark icy tone.

I think I actually am. She just enjoys the leverage she has far too much.

Oddly enough, so do I.

With a deep sigh, I unbuckle my belt.