Dreaming Ivy. Rhonda Lee Carver

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СКАЧАТЬ contained, he quickly opened the window and tossed the critter out. “Go find another home. This one isn’t big enough for the both of us.”

      Light footsteps broke into his thoughts. He turned as Ivy rambled into the room. “Were you talking to someone?” she asked.

      He shook his head. “Nope.” He slammed the window back down. He’d keep his fear under wraps. He turned to her with every intention of denying the urge to take a leisurely gaze down her body, but he just couldn’t help himself. He enjoyed the sensual perusal of her body, taking in every soft inch until he came to the pointed toe of her shoes. He swept up the same route and his eyes collided with her baffled blues. He made no effort to hide his admiration. This was dangerous, he knew, but even her you’re-not-getting-any-of-this look didn’t deter the heat in his loins.

      “All of the ice melted in my cooler but I thought this would help. A leftover from breakfast.” She held up a container.

      “Blueberry yogurt? This is a snack. Not a cold pack for my eye.”

      “It’s cold.”

      “I don’t need it.”

      “It’ll keep the swelling down.”

      “Whatever.” He’d rather not fuss.

      She tossed the yogurt. He caught it against his chest. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re pushy?” he asked.

      “A time or two,” she said.

      He’d forgive the fact that Ivy was trigger-happy with her fist. He’d also forgive her for being so damn attractive. He was capable of keeping the line drawn between his business and personal life. However, he wouldn’t forgive the fact that she was annoying. “I guess we should be thankful for leftovers.” He hoped she caught the sarcasm. He pressed the container against his face. “I don’t see how this will help.”

      “It was either the yogurt or a banana. I went for the yogurt.”

      “Should I say thank you?”

      “You should but I’m sure you won’t.” She went to the fireplace and stared up at the painting of Thornton House from years ago.

      He was a good boy and let a minute pass before he lowered the so-called ice-pack. “So why are you here?”

      She didn’t take her eyes off the oil painting. “What?”

      He shrugged one shoulder and juggled the container between his hands. “You’re a journalist. Why would you waste your time investigating a haunted house?” He knew why she was there and it had nothing to do with ghosts. There was always a motive. He’d realized that the hard way. He set the container on the mantel.

      “You use the word ‘journalist’ like it’s dirty.”

      “I guess it’s all in how you take it.”

      “I’m here for the same reason you are.” The area between her eyebrows wrinkled. “To find whatever you find in this old place.”

      “You’re a journalist. I figure I’m the story.” No need to mince words. They were both adults. And if she could hit like a man then she could take the truth like one.

      Ivy waved a hand in front of his face. “Are you okay? Are you going to keep repeating that I’m a journalist like you have to pound it into my head? I know what I do for a living.”

      “You chose your profession.” He wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt hostility toward her. Yeah, he knew exactly why. He was agitated by her being there. Their characters clashed.

      She squinted her eyes as if she were shooting him with an imaginary weapon. “I’m beginning to get an idea of what people meant when they said you have a chip on your shoulder.”

      * * * *

      Ivy could see by the thin line of his lips that she’d struck a sensitive chord in him. Was he good at dishing it out but not receiving it?

      “I’d say I’d heard rumor about your reputation as a journalist but you’re not old enough to have left a mark.”

      She smirked. He was rude, but since she had the patience of a monk, she’d let it roll off. She didn’t need the drama. She had a job to do and the main idea was, what did he want at Thornton House? He may think it was none of her business but he was on her territory now and that made it her business. “I understand why you’re annoyed. But it’s best just to let it go.”

      “Oh, you think you understand why I’m pissed?” he asked.

      She nodded. “Yes, I do.”

      “And why is that?” He challenged.

      “Because you got your ass kicked by a girl. I guess that would play on most men’s egos.” Ivy knew it wasn’t entirely true, and her words certainly wouldn’t build a bridge between her and Max, but she couldn’t resist the temptation to knock his egotistical attitude down a notch or two. At least she hoped she gave him something to think about.

      Without another word, he stomped across the room.

      Ivy watched him. It was only natural instinct that she’d notice his broad shoulders encased in the white cotton, back lowering to the perfect narrowing of waist, pausing a bit too long on his behind until she made a turtle’s path down his long legs. Her gaze had landed on his boots when he stopped walking. She dragged her attention back up his tall frame and met his intense gaze. He’d caught her red-handed, or rather, red-eyed. She grinned in embarrassment.

      “That might not be safe when we’ll be holed up here together, alone, for the next few weeks. I’m assuming we both know the line between work and play.” His voice echoed off the bare walls.

      Ivy’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Max Shepard couldn’t possibly think she was trying to seduce him. True, anything that had the words ‘Max’ and ‘seduction’ in the same sentence didn’t leave a bad taste on the tongue, but she wasn’t interested. “You’re safe, trust me. I’m not interested in playboys.”

      He faced her. “Playboy?” He appeared amused.

      “Do the tabloids lie?”

      “Never.” He laughed and shook his head. “But you’d know, since that rag you work for is only a step above the bottom feeders.”

      She tried to form words that resembled a juicy comeback but all she could manage was a pathetic sputtering of, “Uhhh…” And to make matters worse, he turned and strolled out of the room. Anger charged up her spine. How dare he insinuate that she belonged in a group of ‘bottom feeders.’

      Ivy heard the voice in the back of her mind telling her to let it go. It didn’t matter what he thought, did it? Of course not. But Ivy had no desire to allow him to think he could get away with such a despicable attitude. She marched after him, catching up to him as he stepped through the door onto the rickety porch. “I’ll let you know, Mr. Shepard, what I write is called ‘journalism.’ If you haven’t heard of it, then I’ll explain. It’s where you write true stories about true events. You wouldn’t know what I’m referring to considering you write about extraterrestrial beings and ghosts.”

      She СКАЧАТЬ