Old Growth & Ivy (The Spook Hills Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

Back east once more, Steve pushed away
from his desk at the FBI offices in the J. Edgar Hoover Building.  He
swiveled in his chair to stare out at Pennsylvania Avenue where the small trees
planted in the sidewalk were turning a delightful golden yellow.  When he
took the early 40 minute walk to work that morning, the chilly air in D.C. made
him think of Ivy and their walk in Portland on Friday night.  Being with
her tantalized his senses and opened him to the smaller wonders of the world
around him.

He smiled to himself when he thought
about her.  She was brimming with intelligence; she was attractive. 
Heck, she was lovely.  Why was she single?   Single now for a
long time -- a dozen years, but then he had been single for twenty-five
years.  Ivy Vine.  Ivy Littleton.  Steve found both the nickname
Moll had given her and her real name pleasing.  The letters twined around
his tongue as he thought of her.  She was tall just as he was, but with
alluring curves.  Like him she had dedicated her life to her career, yet
unlike him she was ready to retire.  She was noticeably self-sufficient
and must have great inner strength.  Even so, now and then he could see
some conflict that she hid away.  It crept out in her eyes before she
pushed it back -- not fear exactly, but something was troubling her and that
made her even more intriguing. 

Why would she find an oversized,
ill-mannered man like him appealing?  Steve had been thinking about that
question on and off the last couple of days.  He hoped that he had
conjured up some of the charm his mother tried to instill in him.  Ivy
made him want to behave like a gentleman and become a tender, yet still
passionate lover. 

She smelled fresh and flowery,
reminding him of a wild blackcap patch in summer that he used to frequent as a
kid.  He had to smile to himself as she could be about as prickery. 
When they went to her office on Friday night, she put on a soft cashmere
muffler hanging behind her office door and lent him one in a navy plaid. 
He still had it and wore it that morning.  It smelled deliciously of Ivy.
 Silly of him to have kept it, but it made him feel closer to her.
 How sweetly Ivy had melted into his arms.  How yielding she was to
kiss and yet she was not passive.  Steve realized he was becoming aroused
thinking about her.   She . . . 

Right Nielsen, compartmentalize. 
You want to know her better.  Be realistic.  You are on the east
coast nearly 3,000 miles away.  You need to keep your wandering mind on
this case.  Besides, nothing worse than an old man in the office pitching
a tent.  Focus.  He shook his head at himself and turned his
attention back to his laptop.

Abruptly his thoughts jerked to an
image that his mind had captured last night when he and his three senior agents
were walking back from dinner at an Italian place a few blocks off Dupont
Circle, not far from his condo.  They had met up on Sunday night to
exchange information on their work over the weekend.  The three younger
men had fallen behind him, engrossed in a conversation about baseball. 
Steve strolled ahead enjoying the mild October evening, walking through the
first of the rustling leaves of the tree-lined street, past the little front
gardens where some window boxes sported chrysanthemums in the bright yellows,
burnished bronzes and deep burgundies of autumn. 

They were about three blocks from the
Circle when he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows just behind and to
the left of him on the other side of the street.  He cocked his head, saw
no one, then turned back to peer fully behind him.  It might have been a
dancing shadow from a breeze in the trees.  He slowed to a saunter, kept
his head pointed forward, with his eyes focused to the left, walking more
leisurely as if waiting for the three agents to catch up.  A block later
he caught a movement that might have been a person sliding through the
shadows.  At the Circle he stopped, turned around and scanned the area --
no sign of anyone on the far side of the street. 

He waited for the three agents to
reach him and then crossed the Circle.  On the other side he checked
again, saw nothing out of place, and then suggested they go into the nearby
Kimpton hotel for a brandy.  As they entered the hotel, he glanced back
and saw no one lurking.  Maybe it had been nothing.  However his
sixth sense had alerted him and it served him well over the years.  While
he had never had a perp come after him, it could and did happen to FBI
agents.  It made him wonder who might want him followed.  Perhaps
that drug lord they went after in Mexico.

The whole operation down in Manzanillo
had been odd.  How had the perpetrator known they were after him? 
Why had he baited them into boarding the yacht to catch an actor he had planted
there?  Was the same perp having him followed?  Did someone want to
make the DEA, the FBI or himself look ridiculous?  Was some mole feeding
the perp confidential case information so that he could anticipate the FBI's
next move?  The very thought went against the ideals to which Steve was
committed.  Was someone trying to make him appear incompetent to take
pressure off themselves?  If that were true, the perp would find he had
picked the wrong adversary.  These questions had been buzzing in and out of
his mind since the operation in Mexico. The possible shadow in D.C. the night
before brought them into focus.  He would keep a sharp watch and see what
played out next.

***

Ivy found her mind wandering while she
sat at her sleek modern desk between meetings on Monday afternoon.  No
word from the Big Guy – she noticed that she now capitalized that nickname in
her mind.  She also said his name to herself repeatedly, as young girls do
with first crushes.   Steve. Steve Nielsen.   After so many
years of chastity, she felt that dating could be as it was in her college days,
with all those silly flutterings from this man whose masculinity lit her
up.  That height of his came from his Nordic roots, in the same way that
hers came from her half-Finnish father.  Steve’s hair was dark and silver
with a hint of curl and nicely trimmed.  His eyes were the deep gray blue
of a Norwegian fiord, the way she pictured one in her mind's eye.  His
eyes alone fascinated her -- he had intense, watchful eyes that became softer,
more wanting eyes when he looked at her.  In his arms, she felt feminine,
secure and desirable. 

Once he dropped the brusquely
aggressive stance of the FBI agent, his face transformed, becoming more
attractive as his expression softened.  She liked the way he
dressed.  His suit had been freshly pressed -- navy pinstripe, almost
black.  His shirt was starched, white, thick and crisp, worn with large
gold signet cufflinks and an elegant silk tie.  His black tassel loafers
were well worn, yet in perfect condition.  She liked a man who took care
of his wardrobe and of himself. 

Ivy adored the way his smile varied
from a slight twinge with his lips curling up to a generous toothy grin. 
Brian had mentioned that one of Steve's nicknames in the Bureau was "the
Boy Scout" and Ivy wondered if it was his grin or his ideals or the
combination of the two that gave him that epithet.  The subtle smile
seemed to come from his heart; the grin straight from his boyhood.  Ivy
found it refreshing that he still had that grin.

Her mind lingered on their
conversations, thinking about his praise of Mathew who he considered his most
talented agent, even better than himself which he said with a hint of
pride.  He talked about Mathew's innate goodness.  In talking of
Mathew, Steve revealed so much of himself and what he valued -- commitment to
justice, devotion to his country, intelligence coupled with common sense. 
The federal agent was there in his movements, in the eyes that never stopped
watching his surroundings except when he gazed at her.  How sweet he had
been to ask if he could kiss her. Of course, he could be the cleverest actor
she had come across.  That thought scared Ivy and made her feel
vulnerable. 

Two days and no word from Steve. 
Although he indicated there might be days and weeks when he would be out of
touch, Ivy hoped she would hear from him.  When her office phone rang, Ivy
picked it up and answered with her usual business tone, professional yet accessible.
"Ivy Littleton."

A little thrill went through her when
she heard, “Ivy, Steve.”

"Steve!  I was wondering if
you would find time to call."

"Can you talk now?"

"Give me a moment." 
Ivy rushed to have her assistant push the upcoming 4:00 meeting to the next day
and closed her office door. 

"Hi, Big Guy.  What has your
week been like?"  The deep yet soft sound of his voice flowed
seductively from her ear down through her body.  She squirmed a little in
her chair as the warmth in his tones seeped into her.  She found herself
caressing the navy sleeve of her cashmere blazer, as if she were being touched
by Steve.

"I work on a theory that there is
little sense in chopping off the pieces of a big operation, because, like the
mythical hydra, the tentacles are quickly regenerated, whereas if you capture
or kill the brains the whole thing implodes.  Not everyone at the Bureau
agrees with me, including my boss.  He wants to tout victories by count,
not by impact."

"Your approach makes sense."

"How are your dogs?"

"They are the cutest little
bundles.  When I open the door at home and see those happy faces waiting
for me, it makes even the worst days better.  The cat does his bit
too.  You like pets?”

"Like them yes.  Never home
to have one."

"Where is home, by the way?"

"Not sure any more.  I keep
a condo in D.C., even though I'm only there a few days a month."

"Where was home, then?"

"Eastern shore of Maryland. 
My Dad was a small town lawyer."

That explained that slight drawl that
comes into his voice when he relaxes.  "And
your
Mother?"

"Mom ran an import business for
Nordic crafts out of our basement -- sold them to specialty shops in areas of
the country with significant Norwegian populations.  It let her be home
for me and my Dad.   They emigrated from Norway right after World War
II seeking a warmer climate."

The call lasted almost an hour, with
each of them conversing as easily as the previous weekend, sometimes seriously,
sometimes bantering.  They talked about Portland, about their lives and
about technology.   After Ivy hung up and opened her office door
again, a couple of her staff stood there waiting to give her updates on their
projects.  Ivy left at six, wanting to be at home where she could savor
the glow of talking with Steve. 

He told her to expect only an
occasional call or email over the next weeks, as his cases demanded his full
attention.  He did end the call by reminding her about their planned
Thanksgiving weekend.  If he was a player then he was delicate about it
for she sensed no falseness.  From years of managing people, her senses
were attuned to listening and watching for signs of duplicity.  With
Steve, she sensed only that he was a good, straightforward man.  She
remained worried that his forceful life as an agent could spill over into
personal relationships.  Sooner or later, she needed to voice that worry
to him and see how he reacted.

Ivy's life changed from meeting
Steve.  Now she felt more alive and aware of the world around her. 
Talking to him filled her with glistening hope.  She smiled to herself,
silently thanking him for giving her color back.  She saw it again now in
the trees as they headed towards fall.  She appreciated the warm gold and
rust-colored flowers at the garden center.  She noticed the late pink roses
along her driveway waking up to the morning sun, with translucent dew drops
caught at the tips of leaves.  Moreover she realized that she wanted to
laugh more and run with her dogs playing hide and seek with them in the
yard.  If nothing else came from having met Steve, Ivy would be sorry but
also thankful.  He let her remember what it was to feel the warmth of a
good man.  More than that, he had awoken a delightfully sensuous part of
her that perhaps had always been dormant, something deep within her.  Even
so, did she have enough left of herself to offer him?  Would he quickly
find her to be worn out? 

***

A few days later, Ivy was pleasantly
surprised to find an email from Steve in her personal inbox.  She chided
herself for her silliness when seeing his name made her gasp with surprise and
delight. He had sent it via a secure service that required her to create a
login before the message would be decrypted and available to her.  His use
of secure email for a personal communication added to the intrigue of the man who
was Steve Nielsen.

Secure
Email from Steve Nielsen, October 26, 2012

Dear
Ivy

When
you walked into your offices a few weeks ago, the first thing I noticed was
your assurance.  You have a regal quality about you, exuding strength and
independence, and yet you seem to have a wonderful lack of awareness of how
captivating you are.  Seeing you again Friday night, it was as if a light
came on in that restaurant.  Even after being away from you for a few
days, I found that light stayed with me.  I realized the glow was coming
from inside of me; it needed the right spark to brighten.   This may
sound a bit crazy at my age -- I am smitten with you.  Your outfit Friday
night was striking, with your filmy blue blouse that dipped alluringly low in
the front.  When you smiled as you saw me, I knew flying up to Portland
was the right decision.