Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(57)

“Nope. You’re not staying here alone,” Sebastian replies quickly. He was silent during the detective’s visit—although I’m sure he was listening to every word.

I really don’t want to either, but there’s just so much to do . . . “It’s fine. The lock on the handle still works. Besides, who’s going to come back a second time? There’s nothing left to steal or break.”

Sebastian stands, pulling off his work gloves, and levels me with a look.

I rest my arms over my chest. “Are you always this bossy and paranoid? Or do you know something I don’t know, because if you do, maybe you should tell me so we don’t spend all afternoon arguing. Look at what I have to deal with.” I stretch my arms out at the mess. “It makes way more sense for you to grab the locks and me to keep collecting this shit so we can be done with this mess and I can go have a nap because I’m so damn tired of this nightmare,” I ramble on.

In three quick strides he’s over the pile of stuffing torn from the couch and on me, his fingers weaving into the back of my hair as he pulls my mouth to his.

The kiss is hard and fast, lasting just long enough to remind me of last night on the front steps before everything fell apart. “Shut up and get your purse,” he whispers. He turns and strolls out the front door.

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.