Dates from Hell(33)

She hid her face by leaning to scoop up the duct tape. That Piscary would be proud of her lacked the expected thrill, too. For a moment, only the sound of the tape being unwound and wrapped about Art’s wrists and ankles rose over the hiss of the propane fireplace. The tape wouldn’t stop him, but all they needed was to get to the stairs.

“Ready?” Ivy asked when she tossed the tape into her duffel bag and took out her boots.

Kisten turned from his last-minute wipe down of fingerprints. “All set.”

As she sat on the hearth and laced her boots, Ivy looked over the room. The scent of chlorine was growing stronger as the water warmed, hiding the odor of dead girl. She wanted a moment with Art. Why the hell not? She’d earned a little gloating. Let him know she caught him covering up a murder. “Wait for me in the van,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

Kisten grinned, clearly not surprised. “Two minutes,” he said. “Any longer than that, and you’re playing with him.”

She snorted, giving him a swat on the ass as he started up the stairs with her duffel bag and the trash. His blond hair caught the light, and she watched until he vanished in a flash of morning sun. Still she waited until the faint sound of the van starting up met her before she turned Art’s hand palm up and cut the strip with the shears. Tucking them behind her waistband, she stepped back and teased the amulet off his hand and into its little bag.

For a panicked moment she thought she had killed him, but her fear must have scented the air since Art jerked, his eyes black when they focused on her. He tried to move, his attention going to the duct tape about his wrists and ankles. Chuckling, he wedged himself into an upright position against the couch, and Ivy’s face burned.

“Piscary thinks so much of you,” he said condescendingly. “He needs to wipe the sand from his eyes and see you as the little girl you are, playing with boys too big for her.”

He tensed his arms, and Ivy forced herself to stay relaxed. But the tape held and she bent at the waist to look him in the eyes. “You okay?”

“This isn’t winning you any friends, but yes, I’m okay.”

Satisfied she hadn’t hurt him, she rose and plucked up the wine bottle and gave it another pull, the heat of the fire warming her legs. “You’ve been a bad boy, Art,” she said, hip cocked.

He ran his eyes over her, going still when he realized she was wearing her usual leather and spandex. His face abruptly lost its emotion. “Why is my hot tub going? What day is this? Who was here?”

Again he pulled against the tape, starting a rip. Ivy set the bottle down and moved closer, sending her wine breath over him to shift his silky black curls. It didn’t matter if her presence was placed here. The entire I.S. tower knew where she was this morning. “I’m not happy,” she said. “I came over here to make good on our arrangement, and I find another girl down here?”

Art shifted his shoulders, arms bulging. “What the hell did you do, Ivy?”

Smiling, she leaned over him. “It’s not what I did, Artie. It’s what I found. You need to be more careful with your cookies. You’re leaving crumbs all over your house.”

“This isn’t funny,” he snarled, and Ivy moved to the stairway.

“No, it isn’t,” she said, knowing that the tape would last as long as his ignorance. “You have a dead girl in your hot tub, Artie, and I’m out of here. The deal is off. I don’t need your approval to move into the Arcane Division. You’re going to jail.” Adrenaline struck through her when she turned her back and her foot touched the lowest stair. The door was open and ambient sunlight was leaking in. He couldn’t put one foot on them without risking death. She almost hoped he would.

“Ivy!” Art exclaimed, and she turned at the sound of ripping tape.

Pulse pounding, she hesitated. She was safe. It was done. “You made one mistake, Art,” she said, taking in his anger. “You shouldn’t have tried to use me to cover up that witch’s murder,” she said, and the color drained from him. “That pissed me off.” Giving him a bunny-eared “kiss-kiss” she turned and took the stairs with a slow, taunting pace.

“This isn’t going to work, Ivy!” he shouted, and her pulse leaped at the sound of the tape ripping, but she had reached the top and it was far too late. She smiled as she emerged into his kitchen. He was stuck down there with that corpse until the sun went down. If he called in help to get it out, it would damn him faster. An anonymous tip from a concerned neighbor was going to bring someone knocking on his door within thirty minutes. “No hard feelings, Art,” she said. “Strictly business.” She went to shut the door so he wouldn’t get light sick, hesitating. “Really,” she added, closing the door on his scream of outrage.