Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(54)

I assume that instruction was for me, but who knows with her? “Will you be here later?”

“I’m heading into work soon, but I’ll be back before dinner.” Dakota opened a little store five minutes away, basically replicating the same one that her aunt owned in Sisters, which sold an eclectic collection of art and jewelry made of recycled and natural materials. As far as I can tell, it’s doing quite well, but that would make sense given this is California, and everyone’s about the environment and art.

“Oh, don’t let me forget, I want you to look at a design I did. I’m thinking of having you do one here.” She trails her fingertip down the top of her right shoulder.

I’ve done all of Dakota’s work, save for her first. “All right. I’ll make sure to bring my kit with me when I come back tonight.” To Sebastian, I ask, “Ready?”

He nods, taking quick steps to get in front of me and out the door, as if he’s eager to get away from Dakota as fast as possible.

“I thought you said you knew how to tell time?”

“I said I’m never late.”

“Thirty minutes early is almost as bad as being late.”

“That shirt looks nice on you,” he responds, ignoring my selfish complaint completely.

“Then enjoy it, because it’ll be the last time you see me in anything that resembles bubble gum,” I grumble, opening his passenger-side door. “Can you drop me off at my house after so I can get out of it?”

“Yeah. But I’ll be coming with you. You’re not going in there alone.”

“Is that so?” I roll my eyes, but I can’t ignore the small thrill that zips through my body. God, I think I’m attracted to this dominating side of him, and I hate it when guys try to tell me what to do. But when Sebastian does it, I don’t mind. It makes me feel safe. Maybe that’s because, for the first time in my life, I truly am not safe. “Do you think the burglary might not have been random?”

With his hand on the ignition, he pauses. “Can you think of any reason why someone might want to break into your dead uncle’s house?”

“No.” Same answer I gave to the cops last night. “But there must be a reason.”

“Did he say anything to you recently, about coming into money or needing money?”

“You think this was about money?”

“Everything’s about money,” he says under his breath.

I sigh. “Ned liked to gamble but . . .” I tell Sebastian about the hundred thousand against the building and his empty accounts. “Do you think that’s what it’s about?”

“Could be. Or something he knew about that he shouldn’t. Did he say anything about any of his clients lately? Maybe someone told him something that they shouldn’t have?”

I frown. “No. Nothing he mentioned to me, at least. I told you, he wasn’t exactly the warmest guy. I have a hard time imagining someone spilling their deep, dark secrets to him.”

After a long pause, Sebastian offers, “Well, then it could be nothing.” His face is unreadable. “People in the neighborhood would have heard about your uncle’s death, and unfortunately that means that thieves would assume the house is an easy target.”

I study his face. “But you don’t actually believe that, do you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because they tore the place to shreds and smashed the flat-screen—the only thing worth stealing in there.”

He sighs, his gaze drifting out the window. “Could have been jacked up on drugs. Could have been pissed off that there was nothing there to take. Whatever the reason, you’re not stepping foot in that house without me again for now. Understood?”

“For now? What does that mean?”

He slides the key into the ignition and cranks the engine, but doesn’t answer.

I guess the bodyguard who showed his protective head last night is here to stay. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“No one said you did.”

“I’m serious. I’m not paying you to do this. I can’t afford it.”

He snorts. “I never asked you to.”

Then why are you still here? “Don’t you have things you need to do? People to see?” Maybe that’s the issue. Maybe he has nobody else to fill his time with. Maybe he’s a complete loner, married to his job, with no friends or family. I really don’t know him at all.

He turns to level me with a look. “Do you want me to have something else to do today?”

I hesitate, before admitting casually, “Well, not necessarily, but—”

“Then shut up and stop trying to get rid of me.” He pulls out of Dakota’s driveway.

I press my lips together to keep from smiling.

“I would reco white. A nice, crisp one, like . . .” Fausto, a thirty-something-year-old guy with slicked black hair hiding beneath a baseball cap and a heavy New York accent, pulls out a deck of paint colors, fanning them out on the dirty floor in front of me. “. . . Ghost or Ice.”

“White for Black Rabbit?” I don’t bother to hide the skepticism in my voice. I spin slowly around, taking in the main room. Without all the clutter to hide the dinginess, this place looks atrocious at best. As a customer, I’d take one look in here and turn around, with thoughts of hep C screaming inside my head. Fair enough.