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“I want to go home,” she says, breaking the silence first.
“You don’t want to talk about the past?”
Her sea-colored eyes widen. I get lost in the swirls of blue and green, remembering how they’d change shades when she was angry, scared, or excited. Right now, they’re like the ocean. Dark and deep and cold.
“Why?” Ivy flicks those eyes over me. It’s an electric stroke along my cock. “You came out of it well.”
“No thanks to you.”
To her credit, she doesn’t turn away or cringe at the harshness of my words. “What do you want?”
“I told you, Ivy. I want you.”
I let that hang there again. I’m in no hurry. Cooke’s death happened at exactly the right time. Anton did his job beautifully, as did Cara. They gave me the access to Ivy that I needed.
The pieces slide into place. There’s still one left to go because Ivy won’t ever agree to help me without the little “incentive” I created.
Ivy hates me as much as I despise her.
But that little teenage crush is still there on a base level. The hearts and flowers are dust, but that hormonal tic, what drew her to me like a moth to a flame, what I tasted in the air when she tried to kiss me years ago, is still there.
Pure sexual attraction.
I know it.
Recognize it.
The only thing I didn’t bargain for wasme.
Because the attraction now goes both ways.
I thought maybe I’d have to fake real interest, but shockingly, I don’t.
And Ivy doesn’t stand a chance.
“Problem is,” she says, her voice full of false bravado. “I’m not going to help you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You will do what I ask.”
“You killed Jaxson. You drove him away.”
“No, Pollyanna,youdid. By calling the cops. What happened to him afterward is on your shoulders.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. If I was a good man, if I cared at all, I’d feel something for the pain that darkens her eyes.
But instead, I just lean back and take a swallow of the thirty-year Lagavulin single malt. This is my private bottle. One I usually reserve for power plays or when I want to celebrate a victory. Ivy doesn’t drink this kind of stuff. She’s a wine or fruity fucking bullshit drink kind of girl.
It’s why there’s a glass of single malt that would go for a couple hundred in front of her.
“Pick up your fucking drink, Ivy.”
I say the words softly and her fingers wrap around the glass.
Would she be wet if I slipped my hand under her dress and slid it between her thighs to touch her panties?
That would be a big fuckingyes.
I’d stake my life on that.
