In His Shadow (Tangled Ivy Book 1) (19 page)

“Who are you?” I repeated.

“You could say I’m Clay’s boss.”

Clay. She called Devon by his last name. Devon was a spy and this was his boss? I suddenly wondered if I was safe in her presence. Would she want to eliminate me for what I knew about Devon? My hand groped for the call button.

“I’m not here to harm you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said dryly. “Besides, my guard at the door wouldn’t let anyone through anyway.”

Okay then.

“What do you want?” Somehow I knew this wasn’t a friendly getting-to-know-you chat and I was instinctively wary and distrustful of her.

“I want you to tell me exactly what happened the other night. Specifically, what you told them.”

“I didn’t tell them anything,” I said. “They didn’t ask me anything.”

“Given your injuries, I find that hard to believe.”

I’d been awake for all of thirty seconds and this lady was already starting to piss me off.

“Believe what you want,” I retorted. “They wanted me to scream. That’s all.”

This made her pause and her dark eyes narrowed as she studied me.

“Is that so?” she murmured, almost to herself.

I squirmed under her penetrating gaze.
God, what I wouldn’t give for a drink of water.

“You should leave,” I said, resting back against the pillow and closing my eyes. “I know nothing else to tell you.”

“My dear, you’ve told me more than you even realize.” Her dry condescension made my eyes open again, but she was already walking out the door. It swung shut behind her and I let out a deep breath.

I lay awake until morning, wondering about the woman and what had become of Devon.

“You’re conscious! Finally!” Logan said as he walked into the room around seven in the morning.

I smiled, glad to see him. I vaguely recalled he and Devon arguing that one night, but it was like a half-remembered dream.

The aroma of the coffee he carried made me long for a cup, the smell only intensifying as he sat in the chair by my bed.

“When can I go home?” I asked him.

“Since you’re awake, I’m guessing today or tomorrow,” Logan replied. His tone was light but his eyes were serious.

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday,” he said. “Been here since Sunday night. The night you got mugged.” He looked away from me, taking a sip of his coffee.

So that’s what Devon had told everyone. I hadn’t thought that far.

One look at Logan’s face and I knew what he was thinking, the worry and panic I’d no doubt put him through.

“I’m sorry, Logan,” I said.

His gaze flicked back to mine. “Don’t apologize, Ives. This wasn’t your fault.” And he didn’t have to say any more for me to know whose fault he thought it was. Speaking of which—

“Where’s Devon?” I asked, because I couldn’t go any longer without knowing.

“He left,” Logan said. “Early Monday morning, I think.”

I stared at Logan. “When is he coming back?”

“Ives . . . he’s not.”

Shock rippled through me, followed by the tearing agony of despair. My throat thickened and my eyes burned. It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t have left me for good. Not really. Devon cared about me. We had something—something more than just sex.

I turned my head away from Logan, swallowing down the tears that threatened. Maybe I’d been wrong. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t told me flat out that our relationship, such as it was, would be anything long-term. Though after what had happened the other night, what we’d gone through together, I’d thought—

I cut that thought off. I didn’t want to think about it anymore, and I shoved it to the back of my mind. I was being ridiculous. I’d only known Devon a couple of weeks. The heartache I felt was too acute for such a short period.

Then why did my chest feel like someone had a vise around my heart, slowly squeezing until it hurt to breathe?

Logan left for work shortly after that, brushing his lips to my cheek and promising to call me later. A nurse came in to check my vitals and, at my request, she helped me into the shower. Everything ached and the hot water helped to ease my cramped and abused muscles. Two cracked ribs made every movement slow and painful. A good look in the mirror made me wish I hadn’t.

Bruises decorated my torso and back, deep purple and black against my skin. My face still had a faint bruise from where the guy had hit me the first time. If I turned just right, I could see the scar from the knife on my lower back. Livid and about four inches long, seeing it made me shudder at the memory of what it had felt like. Yet, I was grateful that all they’d done was hit me. I’d rather that than rape, though neither was preferable.

True to his word, Logan called me late in the afternoon. He asked if he could bring me dinner, but I refused. I wasn’t hungry and told him to go home.

“You’ve been here every day,” I said. “They’re letting me out tomorrow anyway. I’m fine. Take it easy tonight.”

He protested but I insisted, and in the end he didn’t come. I was glad of it. I didn’t want to have to try to put on a happy face. I lay in bed and stared out the window, picking at the watery Jell-O on the hospital dinner tray.

They put me on a lighter pain medicine to help me sleep and I welcomed the oblivion. It meant I didn’t have to think about Devon. I hadn’t cried again. I just buried my heartache deep inside, in the same place I put everything that made me hurt.

But I couldn’t stop my subconscious from dreaming about him.

I felt his touch, the warm brush of his fingers on my arm, my shoulder, my cheek. His smell surrounded me and I heard the low murmur of his voice. Unable to make out what he said, I just listened to the timbre and cadence of his words. His hand clasped mine, our fingers slotting together, and the emotions I’d tried to ignore surged to the surface. Then he was pulling away. I reached for him, but he was gone, leaving me cold and alone.

I gasped, coming awake with a start. Tears pricked my eyes and streamed down the side of my face into my hair. I stared up at the ceiling, inhaling deeply as I struggled to control my emotions.

Then I caught a scent in the air.

Without even thinking, I jumped out of bed, my muscles screaming in protest. A moment later I was at the door and flinging it open. I looked expectantly down the hallway, first to my right, then my left.

He was gone.

Logan wanted me to take Friday off work, but I refused. I felt like I needed to get back to my life, back to being normal, because “normal” was the last adjective I’d use to describe how I felt.

I’d never been so at sea before or felt so lost, and I never would have thought that losing someone would make me feel that way.

Being in a relationship—caring for someone, being sexually involved with them—had always been a vague, distant sort of thing to me. Yes, it would happen to me . . . at some point. The fact that it had happened, and so suddenly, made its loss that much more acute and I didn’t know how to handle it.

“You okay?” Marcia asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee. We were in the break room grabbing a refill, and she was watching me stir my coffee while I absently stared off into space.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, giving her a wan smile.

“Uh-oh,” she said, eyeing me. “I know that look. I’ve
had
that look. It’s a guy, isn’t it. Tell me.” She leaned back against the counter expectantly, taking a cautious sip of the hot coffee.

I shook my head. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me,” she insisted.

I heaved a sigh. Maybe it would be good to talk to someone. Lord knew I couldn’t talk to Logan about it. We’d been carefully polite since I’d gotten back home, neither of us bringing up Devon or what had happened.

“Remember that guy?” I asked. “From the robbery?”

“The one who was all about protecting you that day? The guy you can’t stand?”

I nodded. “Well, he and I kind of got . . . involved.”

“O. M. G.,” she said, her eyes wide. “I’m so jealous right now. Not only gorgeous, but a badass, too.” She grinned and winked at me. “You go, girl.”

“Yeah, well, I thought we kind of had something, you know?” I continued. Talking about it did help, and now that I had started, I wanted to tell her everything. Well, almost everything. “But then he just . . . ended it. And now, I just feel so alone and I-I really miss him.” I cleared my throat past the lump that had formed and blinked back the tears that threatened.

“Did he say why he ended it?” Marcia asked.

“No. Not really.” I didn’t want to voice the fear inside my head—that he’d tired of me.

“Have you tried calling him? Texting him?”

I shook my head, too embarrassed to admit I didn’t even have his number.

“I’m not usually a big fan of chasing a guy if he’s not that into me,” she said, “but in this case, maybe you should go see him. At least get him to give you some kind of explanation or a decent goodbye-have-a-nice-life.”

“I don’t want to look desperate,” I hedged.

“He owes you that much,” she insisted. “Besides, you only live once, right?”

She had a point there. Several, actually.

“I’ll think about it,” I said as we headed back toward our booths.

“Let me know how it goes,” Marcia said.

And I thought about it. All day. I couldn’t
not
think about it, just like I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I wondered if the woman who’d come to see me had told Devon about that visit. Maybe she’d told him to not be involved with me anymore, not mix business with pleasure, etc., etc. In which case it was very likely he’d obey her, considering how dedicated he was to his job.

I was caught in a wave of indecision. Was Marcia right? Should I go by his apartment? I’d been there, I remembered where it was. Or should I just leave things alone? I really didn’t want to look like the needy female, no matter how much I felt like one.

It was the week before Christmas, and true to Midwest form, when I left work more snow was falling to replace the last batch that had melted. Logan was spending the weekend with a buddy in Colorado. His friend had a place in Breckenridge and Logan loved to ski. They’d left early that morning.

I wasn’t that upset he was gone. I thought maybe Logan and I needed a break from each other. Things had been pretty tense recently; his disapproval over decisions I’d made about my life—about Devon—had driven a wedge between us. Some time apart would probably do us good.

Eating didn’t appeal to me, but I forced down some canned soup. Since the hospital, I’d lost my appetite. I figured it was the broken-heart cliché.

I lasted until almost midnight.

“Screw it,” I muttered to myself, climbing off the couch where I’d planted my rear end all evening to zone out in front of the television.

The gnawing ache inside me wouldn’t go away. Maybe if I just saw him again, heard him tell me it was over, I could move on.

It’s funny how things that have no rationale in the cold light of day suddenly make perfect sense in the middle of the night.

Changing out of my sweats, I pulled on a pair of dark leggings with an oversized, crocheted sweater. I wore an ivory tank underneath because, although the sweater was really pretty, the large knit made it see-through. The snow made boots necessary, and I didn’t bother with my hair, leaving it to fall straight down my back.

Logan had retrieved my car for me and I was glad of it as I scraped the snow off. I tried to stay calm on the ride to Devon’s apartment, but I was too keyed up at the prospect of seeing him again. Would he be glad to see me, and would I even be able to tell if he was? Or was I making a colossal mistake?

By the time I pulled up to the building, I had convinced myself I was insane and needed to turn around and go right back home. Instead, I found myself parking and locking the door before stepping out onto the pavement.

Flakes of snow hit my cheeks and I pulled my coat tighter around me, wishing I’d stopped long enough to think to wear gloves and a scarf. Too late now.

Entering the building, I took the elevator to the top floor. It was an expensive residence and there were only two apartments per floor. When I stood in front of Devon’s door, I took a deep breath, then knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked again, harder. Still nothing. I tried again.

The door behind me suddenly opened. I turned, spotting a man standing in the apartment across the way. He was probably in his mid-thirties. It seemed Devon had a neighbor. His eyes flicked over me and he smiled.

“Hi there,” he said. “I heard you knocking. Guess you didn’t know he’s gone?”

I stared in surprise. “Um, no, uh-I guess not,” I stammered.

“Yeah, he left earlier,” the guy continued, leaning against the doorjamb and crossing his arms over his chest. “Said he was leaving the country. Didn’t say how long he’d be gone.”

Leaving the country.

Well, he
was
British. It had probably been a fluke that Devon had been here in the first place.

I forced a smile. “Thanks for telling me,” I said.

“You want to come in?” he asked. “Have a drink before you go? I’m Beau, by the way.”