Pieces of Ivy Read Free Page B

from—”
    “Vicki, you’re exceptional, but experience counts. Give him a chance.”
    She was furious. “I’m not going to—”
    “You insisted on this case. I let you walk from Sullivan. I never do that, Agent Starr.”
    She winced at the formality.
    That was true. She knew he had to be taking heat. She could only imagine the speculations running rampant around the office. What she shared with no one, not even Doug, was that, this time, it wasn’t about ambition.
    During the drive to New Brighton she had tried to avoid thinking about last night—but that had been futile. It had been more than a nightmare.
    Holding the file this morning, she knew that she needed to be on this case—it was important somehow, beyond the obvious—and was yet another reason why also assigning lackadaisical Dashel to this murder had pissed her off so much.
    “It’s a package deal—Dashel’s on the case. Come back to the office if you’re not satisfied with my decision.”
    Once more Vicki had overstepped her bounds, while Doug had, yet again, put his neck out to make her happy at the risk of alienating a lot of his field staff.
    “Doug, please don’t be mad at me.”
    “Then don’t disappoint me, again.”
    Ouch. “I won’t.” She slowly pressed the End button.
    Now she was committed. She swallowed a sudden nervous rush.
    † † †
    Dashel watched her slide back into her seat. “Still stuck with me, huh?”
    She flushed. “What are you talking about?”
    “Kempt wouldn’t let you off.”
    She feigned confusion. “I don’t—”
    “Oh, please, Miss Starr.” He shot her a sardonic look. “I’m FBI—I deduce.” He waved his empty cup in the air.
    Hank ignored Vicki’s scornful gaze. She was gorgeous—smart—with midnight hair, deep-chocolate eyes and melt-in-your-mouth lips. She was also a brat.
    Bathed in accolades, she had no idea what this agent life could be like. She was an overachiever who was all too happy to use her sex appeal to leapfrog her competition to get ahead. Even the way she wore her professional attire oozed with seductive undertones.
    Her contempt mirrored his own. He knew she didn’t know him—that was obvious the second they had met. She only knew the stories—so different from the tales that used to brandish his name.
    But he knew her —every agent in the state did. Vicki Starr: top investigator from an ü berrich family and every cop’s secret dreamtime delight. If the bureau had a pinup girl, it’d be her. His open collar scratched at his neck. Even her porn-star name made him sick. If he didn’t know for sure it was her real name, he would have thought it a joke.
    But the Starr family name was no joke, was it? And Vicki—shortened from Victoria—was no stretch. Did her name truly grate against him so badly, or was it the throbbing headache that wanted him to smash the table in two?
    Was any of this her? How long had he stared at himself in the hallway mirror this morning—keys in hand? Twenty minutes? Thirty? The way his feet ached, it must have been forty-five. He didn’t want to be here. The eternity of twelve long months had suddenly passed and had caught him off guard.
    God, his head hurt. He wanted to crawl back into the dark. Why did I answer Kempt’s call ? He knew why. It’s why he was here. It was time—whether he was ready or not. Wanted to or not. The alternative—living his new normal—was no longer an option. This case … or oblivion.
    He watched her stew as she stared out the window, noticing the soft curve of her cheek meeting her chin. She was beautiful—shallow as hell, but beautiful.
    He glanced at his watch. “Well, look at the time,” he said, shaking her from her exasperated trance. “Time flies and all that bullshit.” He stood, flipping a ten onto the table. “Stop.” He held up a hand when she pulled open her purse. “Let’s go.” He walked out the door, leaving her to put away her wallet and follow.
    “Ass,” she murmured.
    He