Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(57)

And I follow, quietly, my senses suddenly wide awake.

TWENTY-TWO

SEBASTIAN

What the f*ck is happening?

I go from hunting down a videotape with a highly sensitive, incriminating, and libelous confession to picking out paint colors and shopping for locks with the woman who used to be a potential target.

And I’m enjoying it.

Then again, I let that same potential target permanently mark my body with her hands. And I fully plan on being inside her the first chance I get.

So, this situation was already all kinds of f*cked-up, even before today.

“Okay. What do you think about this?” Ivy holds up a dead bolt. “Schlage. That’s a good brand, right?”

“Not as easy to pick as some of the others.”

She shoots a sideways glance but doesn’t ask any questions, tossing it into the shopping cart, already filled with trash bags and new lightbulbs, to replace the ones that were smashed. Bentley’s guys had no reason to go as far as smashing lightbulbs. “Then I think we’re good, unless you need any other tools?”

“Nope.” Her uncle’s toolbox was well stocked, though its contents were scattered all over the garage floor.

“Okay, then. Cash register it is,” she says through a sigh. She seems to be taking this all in stride, though by her jumpiness and the look of dismay on her face when we saw the interior of the house in daylight earlier, she’s far from fine.

Ivy pushes the shopping cart down the aisle, not checking to see if I’m following.

I smile at her back. She changed out of that soft pink shirt the second we stepped into the house, switching it for a blood-red loose-fitting one that falls off one shoulder and covers that fantastic ass, and has the word FIERCE scrawled across the back.

How appropriate.

It’s that ferocity that keeps reeling me in tighter.

But I’m glad she’s also not arguing with me every step of the way anymore. She knows, or at least suspects, that what happened at Ned’s house is not complete coincidence, even though I tried to distract her with lame theories about neighborhood vandals that she saw right through. And I know that if her uncle ever made any comments about Dylan Royce to her, she hasn’t made any connections to any of this.

I can’t decide if having Ivy think that the burglary is tied to a biker gang and her uncle’s debts is a good idea. It’s definitely a convenient cover story for Bentley’s purposes. The detective’s visit today did help answer some questions for me, though. Mainly, why Ned Marshall would try to blackmail Alliance for money. If he owes a biker gang like Devil’s Iron, that might be reason enough.

But I want to throttle Bentley right now, because he’s f*cked her over large. That house is a wreck. It’s thousands—easily—in repairs. I should not do this. I should not offer . . . “I’ll help you patch the walls and fix the other damage.” Why the hell did I just promise her that? I’m gone as soon as this assignment’s over. I have no reason to stay.

She spins on her heels as she keeps walking, facing me.

“Unless you’re going to refuse and tell me that you know how to patch holes and plaster walls, and you don’t need any help,” I add with a small smile. That’s what she probably would have done just days ago. That’s basically what she did do just days ago.

“Oh, so you’ve figured me out so quickly, have you?” Her gaze trails over my body. “You’re a handyman, too?”

“I know a bit about home construction.” It’s been years since I held a hammer for something that doesn’t involve scaring criminals into giving me answers, but there was a time when my dad and I would work together on our little family cabin near Lake Tahoe. I wonder if they still have it.

“Do you wear one of these?” She reaches over and pulls a tool belt off the shelf, letting it dangle from her index finger with a secretive smirk on her lips.

“If you want me to.”

Her eyebrows spike in amusement. I’d pay to read what I’m sure are dirty thoughts going through her mind. I’m glad she still has those, despite the mess she’s dealing with right now.

She tosses the belt back onto the shelf and continues down the aisle without another word about my offer. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she calls over her shoulder, leaving the cart and heading down the hall that leads to the restrooms.

I follow and veer left, into the men’s room. A piss is a fantastic idea. I’ve had too many coffees to count, trying to stay awake after another near-sleepless night.

It’s empty inside—these places usually are. I know because I spend a lot of time in public restrooms and it’s rarely to relieve myself. They’re private locations, perfect aids for insidious acts, like the extremist who ducked into a café restroom in Paris to fix the trigger wire on his vest of C4, intent on blowing himself up during the Bastille Day parade. Bentley had sent me after him to learn about his associations, but when I realized what he was about to do, that assignment ended with a bullet in his head at an angle to make it look like suicide. I even left my gun.

Surprisingly, the media gobbled it up, pegging it as a suicide bomber with a guilty conscience, who couldn’t go through with it at the eleventh hour.

It was the only time I’ve ever defied Bentley’s orders, but he commended me for it. I saved so many lives that day, and no one will ever know except Bentley and me.