His partner pocketed his phone and stepped inside. “This is the most successful costume of all time.”
“Seriously, man, what the fuck are you supposed to be?”
“I’m Clark Kent. I went classic and heroic.”
“You went lazy and uncreative. You’re a step down from ghost.” He dropped down on the living room sofa and shoved his feet into black boots.
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”
Ian stood, rolled his ski mask down over his face and arranged the bottom until it covered the crew neck of his long-sleeved black T-shirt. “Cat burglar.”
“Strange and creepy.”
He shoved the ski mask up and smirked. “Mysterious and dangerous.”
“Whatever. We’re not here to win an award for best costume”
“Which is good, because you don’t stand a chance,” Ian shot back and walked down the hall.
“I’m here to help you protect your imprudent girlfriend from some crazy stalker.”
He punched in the combination to the small steel gun safe at the bottom of the hall closet and muttered, “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“That’s on you to solve. I can’t mastermind everything.”
“Oh, I am solving it, don’t you worry.”
“Really? Because it looks more to me like you’re sitting on your ass, moping around, and tearing my head off for breathing.”
“I’m employing psychology.” He ground his back teeth together and chose the small, efficient Smith & Wesson M&P. “A little tactic called ‘waiting her out.’”
“Ah. Impressive. At this rate you ought to have her right where you want her in”—Trevor made a show of glancing at his watch—“never.”
Ian closed the safe and somehow managed to stop himself from banging his forehead against the doorframe. “The ‘waiting her out’ part of the plan weakened her resolve and gave her a chance to realize how much she misses me. Now she’s ready for phase two.”
“Phase two?”
He didn’t miss the doubt in his partner’s voice. He took his ankle holster from on top of the safe and stalked back to the sofa. “Where I tell her I’ve had enough of her ‘I’m not a relationship kind of girl’ bullshit. I know she’s in love with me, I’m in love with her, and here’s how things are going to be. End of story.”
“Yeah, good luck with that.”
“Keep your luck, hater. This is going to work.” He wrapped the holster around his ankle and closed the Velcro strap. “I have the upper hand.”
“You and your upper hand are in for some more lonely nights. Why don’t you try apologizing?”
“Apologize! Are you fucking kidding me? What did I do wrong?”
“I don’t know. Obviously, you don’t know, and you know what? You may never know, even after she explains it to you five hundred times. That, my friend, is part of the beautiful, complex mystery known as woman. But I am trained to examine the evidence in front of me and draw logical conclusions. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? You guys dated almost a year, you asked her to move in, and she dumped you like a stale keg. Logical conclusion? You did something wrong.”
“That’s not a logical conclusion. It’s a superficial, idiotic interpretation of some circumstantial facts.”
“Maybe.” Trevor shrugged and stared out the window. “But the woman I love wears my ring and, when she leaves the party tonight, she’ll be on my arm, so which one of us is the bigger idiot?”
Point taken, though he’d tear out his tongue before saying so. He tilted his head left, then right, to work the kinks out of his neck. “Can we put aside my personal life for a minute and concentrate on the reason we’re going to this party in the first place?”
“Fine by me. How do you want to play things?”
He wanted to stride in, toss Stacy over his shoulder, and walk out…and not put her down until she told him she loved him and begged him to take her back. Then they’d turn the damn letter over to a forensic team, pick her brain for a list of suspects, and talk her into adding personal security to her entourage until the threat was resolved. But Stacy would dig in her heels and refuse to cooperate if he tried the shoulder-toss tactic.