In His Shadow (Tangled Ivy Book 1) (29 page)

He brought me something to eat, some soup that he’d heated up in the microwave, then helped me to the bathroom. Brushing my teeth felt awesome and the hot spray from the shower even more so. I stood under the cascade of water and let it wash over me. There’s little that feels better than washing your hair after being sick and unable to for several days.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a bath sheet, I felt much better. The heat had helped with the residual ache in my limbs. A close inspection in the mirror showed me that my eyes were a bit bloodshot, but otherwise just fine.

It looked like Devon had showered and shaved, too. He’d changed the sheets and now lay on his stomach on the bed, shirtless with wet hair. I sat down and opened my mouth to say something when the sound of a soft snore met my ears. Leaning over, I realized he was sound asleep. I smiled and drew a blanket up over him. He didn’t stir. Closing the door behind me, I left him to get some rest. As for me, I decided I was tired of lying in bed.

My luggage was in the living room—Devon must have brought it in at some point while I was sick—and I dug through it for clothes. Yoga pants and a soft fleece shirt felt like heaven.

A buzzing noise distracted me and I followed the sound to Devon’s cell phone on the counter. Someone had texted him. I glanced at the screen and saw the beginnings of the message.

Tests confirmed. You were right.

Hmm. Devon was right about what? What tests?

My fingers itched to pick up the phone and be nosey, but I refrained. Sitting on the couch, I flipped on the television and found a rerun of
Friends
to watch. I must have dozed off because I woke to the sound of a door flying open and hitting the wall with a crash.

“Ivy!” Devon’s anxious call was loud in the apartment.

“I’m here,” I said, climbing off the couch and hurrying back to the bedroom. He met me in the doorway, his expression relieved as he pulled me into his arms.

“I fell asleep,” he said, his chin resting on the top of my head.

“I know. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

The skin of his chest was warm beneath my cheek and his body felt strong and solid against mine. I reveled in the moment. Devon cared about me, whether he said the words or not, and it was the silver-and-gold lining to the cloud that hovered over me.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his hand brushing through my damp hair.

“Good,” I replied, tipping my head back to look up at him. “I’m good. Thanks to you.”

Devon’s face was serious as he gazed at me, his hand moving from my hair to my cheek. “I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured, “and I’ve lost too many.”

I wanted to pursue that statement, ask him exactly who he’d lost and how, but he bent down and kissed me.

It was a warm, tender kiss, gentle and reverent, the soft brush of his tongue against mine a question rather than a demand. I opened my mouth beneath his and he pulled me closer, his hand sliding to the back of my neck underneath my hair as he deepened the kiss. Languid and sweet, it seemed Devon was trying to say with his body what he couldn’t say out loud.

He pulled me back to the bed. “You should rest,” he said, easing me down until I was lying flat.

“But I’m not tired,” I protested, though I didn’t fight him. It felt nice, him fussing over me.

“Perhaps not, but it will make me feel better.”

He lay beside me and I turned on my side to face him. The sun was shining brightly in the room, making his hair gleam like burnished gold with elusive copper highlights.

I reached for him and he caught my hand in his, slotting our fingers together. His gaze was tinged with something I couldn’t name as he stared at me.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. “What’s wrong?”

Devon hesitated before answering. “I’m just memorizing how you look right now with the sun behind you, how you’re staring at me as if I were a hero.”

“You are,” I said with a relieved smile. “My hero.”

But Devon didn’t smile back. If anything, my words seemed to bother him, his brow creasing in a frown as he studied me.

“Will you tell me about what you said earlier?” I asked. “About those you’ve lost?”

Devon’s eyes flicked away from mine and down to our joined hands. “You don’t want to hear about that,” he said lightly. “It’s a sad, tragic tale.”

“You know my sad, tragic tale,” I countered.

His gaze met mine and the grief I saw in his eyes made my heart lurch.

“My life,” he began, then hesitated before continuing. “It’s not exactly conducive to forming attachments. It’s dangerous, for me and those whom I care for. I learned that lesson long ago.”

I waited, hoping he’d go on. Eventually, he did.

“There was a woman,” he said, his eyes dropping back down to our joined hands. “Her name was Kira. She was . . . beautiful and clever, loving and kind, far kinder than I deserved. But she wasn’t an agent, just an ancillary victim to events beyond her control. Beyond my control. She did love me, I think. She said she did. It was . . . a revelation. No one had said such a thing to me before, at least, no one that I remembered.”

Tears stung my eyes but I blinked them back. He was still talking, the words seeming to come with difficulty to him, and I wondered if he’d spoken about this to anyone before.

“I was on a mission when I found out they’d discovered her, and what she meant to me. By the time I was able to reach her, she was dead. They’d . . . tortured her, cruelly, and left her to die. There was nothing I could do, except avenge her.”

Despite my resolve, tears streamed from my eyes, falling into the pillow beneath my cheek. Devon’s grip on my hand was painfully tight, but I didn’t protest.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

Devon glanced up at me, seeming to come back from the memories he’d been reliving inside his mind. He quickly swiped the tear tracks from my face.

“Shh,” he said. “Don’t cry. I want you to know, to understand.”

“To understand what?”

His face was grim. “To understand why we can’t be together.”

Tears fell again and this time, Devon didn’t tell me not to cry. Instead, he gathered me in his arms and held me.

“Do you think you’ll feel up to traveling tomorrow?” he asked me later as we sat cuddled on the couch.

I’d had a craving for pizza and he’d caved, ordering from my favorite place and adding extra cheese. I was finishing my slice as I rested against his chest, his legs on either side of me.

“Probably,” I said. “Why?”

“I promised you Christmas in Paris, remember?”

I inhaled sharply, then twisted so I could see him. “Really? You’d still take me?” It might be the only chance I’d ever have to visit someplace like that, but I thought he’d changed his mind after all that had happened.

“Absolutely,” he said with a wink.

“But what about, you know, Heinrich and the virus and all that?”

His smile faded. “I passed on the intel I gathered to my boss. They’ve left the country and another agent is tracking them down. He’ll sort it.”

I was surprised. Devon didn’t seem like the type to not finish something.

“So you’re just . . . giving up?” I asked.

Devon’s face darkened. “Not giving up,” he said. “Choosing to keep you alive.”

“By going to where Nanotech is headquartered?”

“There’s more in Paris than Nanotech,” he countered.

I considered this. “I thought we couldn’t be together?”

“We can’t, not in the long term,” he said, tracing a lock of my hair between his fingers. “But it’s Christmas, and I’d like to keep you just a little while longer.” His smile was a bit forced and more than a little sad. I suddenly realized what he
wasn’t
saying.

Devon had no one else.

No one wanted to be alone on Christmas, not even secret spy agent Devon Clay.

I squirmed around, turning until I straddled him, the T-shirt I wore riding up on my hips to expose the tiny panties I wore, now pressed against the crotch of his jeans.

“I don’t know if I have the right clothes for Christmas in Paris,” I teased, feeding him a bite of my slice of pizza.

“I hear they have shops in Paris,” he countered. His hands slipped under my shirt to rest on my waist.

“I won’t have shoes to go with dresses from Paris,” I said thoughtfully, taking one last bite before setting aside the crust. I swallowed, then licked my fingers, catching Devon staring at my mouth.

“Are you angling for a shopping spree?” he asked.

“
Spree
sounds a bit much,” I said with mock thoughtfulness. “But you can’t go to Paris and not buy clothes and shoes, right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he agreed, pushing the hem of my shirt up. I crossed my arms and tugged it over my head, letting it fall to the floor.

Devon’s mouth settled over my breast, a groan from deep in his throat making me smile. His tongue flicked my nipple, then sucked while his hand covered my other breast, brushing the tip with his thumb.

“Then I’ll need a place . . . to wear it,” I said, my voice breathless as I tried to concentrate.

“I’ll take you dancing,” he murmured against my skin, his mouth moving to my other nipple. His teeth lightly grazed my flesh, then his tongue laved the tender skin.

“That sounds . . . lovely,” I breathed on a sigh as his lips captured mine.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

M
y nose was nearly pressed against the glass as I took in the dazzling array of lights laid out beneath me. We were on a huge private jet. I’d gawked like a hick from Kansas when we’d gotten on it—oh wait, I
was
a hick from Kansas.

I’d slept during some of the long flight, leaning against Devon, who sat next to me. Now we were landing in Paris, a place I never in a million years thought I’d get to visit.

Devon took care of our luggage when we landed, ushering me to a car that was waiting for us.

“Wow,” I breathed, watching out the window as we drove through the city. If I craned my neck I could see the Eiffel Tower, all lit up. The streets were lit up as well, rows of Christmas lights wrapped the trees lining the road we were on. It wasn’t until I saw the Arc de Triomphe, remembered from my ninth-grade French class, that I realized we were on the Champs-Élysées.

Tears stung my eyes and I sniffed. It was hard to believe I was actually there.

A snowy white handkerchief appeared and I glanced up. Devon pressed it into my hand, a smile playing about his mouth.

“Sorry,” I apologized, embarrassed at my reaction. I dabbed at my eyes. “You must think I’m a real country bumpkin.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said quietly. “And no, I don’t. Your tears mean you’re still capable of wonder. I’d forgotten what that’s like. It’s a pleasure to see Paris through your eyes.” He leaned closer to me. “One thing I’ve learned is to enjoy the moments you’re given. Moments are fleeting—ones worthy of remembering, even more so.” He lifted his hand to trace the line of my jaw, his fingers threading through my hair.

Our gazes met and held. The icy blue of his eyes no longer sent a shiver through me. Instead, it was comforting. Devon allowed so little emotion to show, yet his touch, his words, the way he looked at me—it all added up to more than he would ever say. What that meant, if it would make any difference in how it all ended, I didn’t know.

We pulled up to a hotel and a valet opened the door. Devon got out, then extended his hand to help me. I stood, openmouthed on the sidewalk and gazing all around as the valet removed our luggage from the trunk.

He slotted his fingers through mine
and led me
into what could only be a five-star luxury hotel—the brand was one that I’d read about but had never thought I’d ever be able to afford to stay in.

The lobby was sumptuous with marble floors, plush rugs, and with various sculptures and floral arrangements dotting any available flat surface. Huge gilded mirrors hung on the walls next to paintings, and employees in spotless uniforms worked behind the desk.

Devon motioned for me to sit in one of the velvet-covered chairs while he went to the desk. I people-watched while I waited, then wished I hadn’t. Watching the men and women coming and going made me acutely self-conscious of the jeans I wore. The women wore expensive, tailored clothes or gowns, and I imagined they were going to an elaborate seven-course French dinner, or perhaps to the opera house.

I was more than a little envious of their clothes. I was sure that I was watching more designer gowns than I could rattle off walking through the doors of this hotel, draped lovingly over the women’s figures.

One couple in particular caught my eye. A striking pair, the man was tall with inky black hair and deep, intense blue eyes. He carried an aura of danger about him that instantly reminded me of Devon. The woman at his side was a stark contrast. A petite little thing, her hair was an unusual color of strawberry-blonde and hung in gorgeous waves down her back. He caught her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. Her smile was sweet and the adoration in his eyes made me sigh. They were obviously very much in love and I watched them leave the hotel, my imagination working overtime.

“Ready?”

I glanced up to see that Devon had returned. His smile and the softness in his eyes made my heart turn over.

Our room elicited more wonder from me. As luxurious as the lobby, the décor was unlike anything I’d ever seen in a hotel. The pattern was a beautiful blue, echoed in the upholstery and wallpaper. A king-size bed dominated the bedroom, while a sofa and dining table adorned the sitting room. The window caught my eye and I realized it wasn’t a window, but the entry to a terrace.

Hurrying to it, I stepped outside. The wind was cold but I ignored it, my eyes transfixed on the view of the Eiffel Tower proudly extending beyond the rooftops, the glow of its lights blurring slightly in my vision.

“Do you like it?” Devon asked, his arms curving around my waist to pull me back against him. His lips nuzzled my neck and I tipped my head to the side.

“I-it’s . . . amazing,” I stammered. “I have no words for this.” I had no idea how he was able to afford to stay in a place like this, but I was really, really glad he could.

We stood there like that for a few minutes, just taking in the view. Well, I took in the view. Devon was much more concerned with kissing my neck, not that I minded.

“Welcome to Paris.”

The next day, it seemed Devon was determined to show me everything Paris had to offer, dragging me from bed early in the morning to have fresh chocolate croissants and coffee in a very French café. He sat close to me, lightly touching me while we talked, whether it was my hand or my shoulder, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear or pressing his knee against mine. It made me feel . . . special, for lack of a better word. His attention was solely on me, his focus absolute, and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

By the time we’d finished with breakfast, the shops had opened. Devon hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said a “shopping spree.” He bought me designer jeans and blouses, skirts and dresses, and enough lingerie to fill my drawers back home.

“Stop!” I finally said, decidedly uncomfortable at the amount of money he was spending on me. “I don’t need any of this.”

We were in the private dressing room area of one of the high-end stores and Devon had just handed the saleslady a pile of clothes. He rose from the chair where he’d been waiting, evaluating the outfits I’d paraded in front of him.

“I never said you did,” Devon replied, resting his hands on my waist. “But I want to buy it for you, so let me. You like them, don’t you?” He tugged me closer until our bodies touched.

“That’s beside the point—”

“Not to me, it isn’t,” he interrupted. “You wear these clothes like you were born to it.” He placed his lips by my ear. “I adore it. Adore watching you. Your face lights up and it’s almost as though merely touching the fabric is enough to make you come.”

My pulse shot up at that as his hands drifted down to cup my rear.

“Leave us,” he suddenly said, his voice a firm command. I started, glancing over his shoulder to see the saleslady had returned, but was now walking quickly away. Somehow he’d heard her approach.

Devon backed me into the alcove where I’d been changing, closing the door behind him. When he turned back, he pulled me into his arms, his mouth landing hard on mine. The skirt I wore began sliding up my legs, his fingers tugging at the fabric. I pulled at his belt and had his pants unfastened by the time the skirt was at my waist. He shoved my panties down my legs and I kicked them off.

Lifting me, he set my back to the wall while I guided his cock to my entrance. A hard thrust and he was inside, filling and stretching me, forcing my body to accommodate his length. I was wet for him, my body so in tune with his demands that I was already primed and aroused, my clit pulsing with need.

His tongue was a soft slide against mine, a stark contrast to the fierceness with which he took me. I hooked my ankles behind his back and held on for the ride. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of my rear, the friction of his cock hard and fast. In moments, I was shattering around him, my cries swallowed by his mouth covering mine. I had to turn away, sucking in a breath. The pounding of my heart was loud in my ears as Devon’s lips fastened to a spot on my neck. He hadn’t slowed, despite my orgasm, and I could feel the pressure build again as he thrust into me.

He sucked hard on my neck, the slight pain sending a shiver through me. He was close, his cock growing even larger inside me. The slide of his flesh against mine was almost too much, too intense, but then I was coming again. His pelvis ground against mine as he climaxed, the pulse of his cock emptying inside me, prolonging my orgasm. I couldn’t stop the cries falling from my lips, his groan echoing in my ears as my nails dug into the fabric stretched across his shoulders.

The world slowly righted itself as I panted for breath. His lips trailed a path from my neck to my mouth for a slow, deep kiss that made my toes curl. He pulled out of me and used his pocket square to wipe between my legs, his touch gentle against my overly sensitive skin. I righted my clothes as he tucked himself back into his pants.

“So, I’m thinking we probably just bought this skirt, too, right?” I asked.

Devon laughed outright, his eyes twinkling in a way that made me wish I could snap a mental photo.

“Worth every penny,” he teased, leaning down to kiss me again.

He had our packages sent back to the hotel, taking me to lunch before hitting up more stores, this time in search of a ball gown.

“I thought we’d go see
The Nutcracker
tonight,” Devon said, pulling me into a shop with windows full of floor-length gowns. “They perform it at the Opéra Bastille through December. Would you like that?”

I nodded. “I would love that.” Which was an understatement. In a part of my mind, I couldn’t believe this was happening. It seemed too good to be true. A romantic tale straight from a fantasy, yet the solid presence of Devon’s hand clasped around mine proved it was very real.

The ball gown was Oscar de la Renta and it was the stuff fairy tales were made of. Strapless, the champagne-colored dress had a fitted bodice and waist, with soft tulle making the skirt poof out as it fell to a couple of inches off the floor. Gold paillettes sparkled in the skirt, increasing toward the top of the dress until the bodice was nearly covered in the glittering spangles.

Now I stood, staring into the mirror at a stranger. I’d pulled my hair up and added long earrings to complement the dress. The color of the dress, the champagne and gold, combined with my blonde hair to make me look as though I were a princess. I was almost afraid to go to dinner—I didn’t want to get anything on the dress. But that wasn’t really an option, and with a sigh, I left the bedroom and walked into the sitting room where Devon was waiting.

He turned, his brows lifting slightly when he saw me.

I did a slow pirouette, the skirt billowing out around my ankles. “How do I look?”

Devon set aside the glass he’d been holding. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” The roughness of his voice combined with the look in his eyes made my smile so wide, I thought my face would crack. I’d never felt so adored before, and I would have given anything to bottle up the feeling so I could use it again later.

Dinner was an elaborate event at a restaurant nearly as fancy as our hotel. Devon spoke fluidly in French to the waiter, and soon I held a flute of sparkling champagne.

“Let’s have a toast, then,” Devon said, raising his own glass. “To a Christmas spent with a stunning woman whose beauty is only matched by her strength and courage.”

I stared wide-eyed at him, rendered speechless. Is that what he thought of me? Tears stung my eyes as he gently clinked his flute against mine.

“No one’s ever said something like that to me before,” I managed to say.

“They have now. Cheers.” He took a drink, his eyes still on mine, as I copied him. The champagne was cold on my tongue, the bubbles tickling my nose.

I had no idea what we ate or what time it was as course after course appeared. If I saw something that made me hesitate, Devon would take a tiny bit of it on his fork and make me try it. More than once, it turned out to be something incredibly delicious.

I was feeling pleasantly full and a bit tipsy when we left. The opera was close enough to walk and I begged that we do so.