Page 14 of Clay

While he’d waited for her to get up, he checked in with HQ.

Dev had nothing, and it was making him particularly cranky. “I don’t like that the call came from South Carolina,” he said. “We’ve got a few scenarios to consider. First, it could be an actual crank call that just happens to coincide with our investigation. Which I don't find plausible at all. But we can't discount it."

"Agreed," Clay said. "If the call had come from Vegas, that'd be different, but it didn't. I'll keep it in mind, though. What else?" He figured he knew where Dev was going with this but wanted to hear his thoughts.

"It could also be someone from South Carolina looking for McAlister and because they know of Ivy and Katie's past, istrying to narrow down her location. Or our worst fear, human trafficking, and this was a warning of sorts for Ivy to back off. I’m diving into social media now that we’ve got a first name and an occupation on the past boyfriend.”

The last two scenarios were completely plausible, and both put Clay on high alert. Now that he'd gotten to know Ivy a bit, he was even more invested.

“I’ll check out Katie’s apartment as soon as Ivy gets up,” he told Dev. He should have done it yesterday, but staying with Ivy had been a priority. Now, with the phone call and the fact Dev was frustrated, it had become an imperative.

"Jordan offered to help on her day off," Dev said. "Given what might be an emerging threat to Ivy, I asked her to sit surveillance outside the studio, at least for right now. If we need it to be longer than one day, we'll look at moving Tate over there, but Jordan is the best at surveillance."

That made total sense.

Jordan’s job as a cop for both the Air Force and then the LVMPD made her the obvious choice if she was available.

There were too many variables right now that made it impossible to make more than the most rudimentary contingency plans, and making plans was where Clay excelled. Where he was most confident. The circumstances surrounding Katie McAlister’s disappearance were the definition of nebulous.

His disquiet didn’t stop him from looking his fill at Ivy now, though. Of taking pleasure in the simple action.

She flowed into the antique dinette chair like water, her hair completely askew. She was wearing a mouthwatering little camisole and shorts that left very little to the imagination. He doubted it was for him; he was pretty sure she dressed like that all the time.

And just like that his thoughts were back to the wee hours of this morning, to the kiss that had burned down his world.

But Ivy didn’t seem to care about her surroundings. Her attention was one hundred percent on her coffee. It was only after she finished her second cup in record time that she raised her head and acknowledged him.

“Thanks for making coffee,” she said. “I’m not really a morning person.”

That he could see. But it wasn’t really morning anyway. It was closing in on twelve-thirty.

He’d slept late, later than he was used to, but after the late night of watching her paint and the explosive kiss, he could justify the strange hours.

She, however, had slept an additional three hours past his wake-up time.

“You didn’t get any other texts or calls last night, did you?”

She shook her head as she poured her third cup of coffee. “Quiet as a church mouse,” she said.

Clay stifled a laugh. She had no idea that they were based out of a church. It was one of those weird synchronicities.

She looked him square in the eye now that she was caffeinated, her gaze full of that disconcerting honesty from yesterday, and again last night when she’d lip locked him. He wasn’t used to such openness from a woman; he was usually the one who was direct.

He wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

“So what do we do today?” she asked.

“You,” he said, “stay put. I need to check out Katie’s apartment, see for myself what it looks like. Given your mysterious call, the fact it was on a burner, and out of South Carolina, I’d prefer it if you stayed here. I won’t be gone very long.”

She studied him, her changeable hazel gaze steady on his.

“Okay,” she said.

She’d surprised him once again. He’d banked on her arguing.

“I have a dog portrait to finish.” She sipped her coffee and then went to rummage in her junk drawer, pulling out what he assumed was a key to McAlister’s apartment.

“A dog portrait?” he asked, a little bit of incredulity in his tone. He hadn’t seen anything like that in the array of paintings along the studio walls, but he hadn’t really looked all that hard.

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