Maelstrom

Chapter 56: The Problem with Family

Ivan pulled a navy blue T-shirt over his head and raked his shower-damp hair into place. "I have some work I have to take care of, but you're welcome to stay," he invited.

I hesitated. I knew I should go – I'd barely left his side in three days – but if I was honest with myself, I still wanted to stay. Wanted him to want me to stay.

I stuck my tattoo-free arms into the sleeves of my gray T and yanked it over my head. I opened my eyes to find he was standing directly in front of me by the time my chin cleared the collar. Damn, I thought; the guy moved like a cat. Like a very large, very dangerous, mouthwateringly sexy cat.

"I want you to stay," he murmured, unconsciously echoing my thoughts. He traced the tip of a finger lightly across the swells of my breasts between the edge of the bunched up shirt and the scalloped top of my bra.

"Well, when you put it that way ..." My lips curved into a smile as I touched them lightly to his, savoring the shiver that even the slightest touch sent racing though my body.

"Хорошее (Good)." He scooped my sweater off the floor and handed it to me before linking his fingers with mine and drawing me into the living room.

He left me next to the sofa and went into his office. Finally locating my clutch from Saturday night, I pulled my smartphone out of it. I tapped on the screen and tilted it towards my face to initiate the facial recognition, and saw that I had two new voicemails forwarded to me from the service. Another couple of quick taps revealed that they were both from Mormor. With a hurried glance at the office door, I ducked back into the bedroom, pulling on my sweater before pressing the Play arrow.

"Lärke, it's Mormor," the message intoned. I smiled to myself. My grandmother was familiar with the concept of caller ID, but habit demanded that she introduce herself at the beginning of each call anyway.

"Even though you didn't send an RSVP about Cousin Hasse's party, I'd still hoped to see you there on Friday." I felt a twinge of guilt at that, a feeling that was buried under a veritable boatload of relief at having escaped that ordeal, and a slightly smug security that, for once, I'd had a legitimate, work-related excuse for skipping a family social function.

There was a pause on the message, a silence so out of character for my confident, decisive grandmother that I was immediately on guard. "I haven't heard from you in weeks, söta barn (sweet child)," Mormor observed quietly. "Call when you have a moment."

I checked the date of the message again; it was recorded on Sunday morning. The second was left only an hour or so ago, sometime around the moment Mateo was choking the shit out of me.

"Lärke, raring (darling), it's Mormor." The voice on the recording was more subdued than I'd thought my grandmother could be. "I'm starting to get very concerned, sweetheart. I've had Sarah asking around, and it's not just me – it seems that no one has heard from you since Christmas."

Trepidation squeezed my stomach. "I sent Kristofer to check your flat, but the doorman said that you hadn't been there in weeks, and that your mail was on hold or being forwarded elsewhere." Shit, shit, shit; how had I thought that me dropping off the face of the earth would somehow go unnoticed by the Hellström matriarch? Tilda didn't miss much for long, no matter how busy she was; it was a talent that had helped her and Morfar and great-uncle Valfrid establish and build Hellström Industries into the multinational conglomerate it was today.

"Those buffoons at the police department couldn't do much better," the voice continued, angrier now. I groaned inwardly; this was going from bad to worse. "I caused enough of a stink that I was finally transferred to a Lt DiMarco ..." I closed my eyes; from bad to worse to career-threatening. "... who simply assured me that you were not, in fact, missing, but on some kind of assignment. The stubborn man wouldn't give me any more details than that, and his superior, an insufferable moron named Kowalczyk ..." I covered my eyes with my free hand and concentrated on my breathing. "... is clearly a bureaucratic hack who has no idea what's going on in his own department and has no control over his people."

There was another pause as my grandmother audibly caught her breath. "Lärke, älskling (my love), have pity on an old woman and call me. I just need to know that you're safe." The message ended without another word.

That was probably as close to panic as Tilda Hellström ever got, I thought. Mormor never brought up her age; she hadn't even acknowledged her own birthday since long before Morfar died twelve years ago. To be calling herself an "old woman" – I quickly calculated; Mormor was eighty-two, I realized with a start – was a striking sign of desperation.

I had to get a message to my grandmother. Calling was out of the question, but perhaps a text would be alright? No, DiMarco would be pissed, and Mormor would not be mollified or reassured; as chair and CEO of Hellström Industries and a huge campaign contributor, she would probably be contacting the mayor next ...

I almost dropped the phone as Ivan's hand alighted on my lower back. I quickly flicked it off and turned to face him.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his storm-colored eyes searching my face.

I shrugged and smiled. "Just listening to messages. My grandmother is wondering where I am," I explained.

He put his arms around my waist and pulled me into him. "I've been monopolizing you," he acknowledged ruefully.

"I've let you," I countered, wrapping my arms about his neck. "She was just checking on me; I'll call her later," I lied.

Ivan kissed me on the temple, which led to another just under my ear, and one inside the sweater's rolled collar, where my neck met my shoulder. He inhaled the scent of my clean skin deeply then squeezed my ass.

"Tea?" he asked.

I released him and turned to pull the crumpled duvet off the bed. "Water is fine," I said, and followed him out the bedroom door.

I plunked myself and the duvet on the opposite end of the sofa from the sleek, wide-screened laptop Ivan had dumped there. I clicked my phone back on, unlocked it again, and opened my browser.

The now-familiar grinding of the espresso machine filled the apartment for a moment as the fiendish device drooled out another tiny cup of thin tar. Ivan looped around my end of the sofa, planting a chaste kiss on the damp crown of my head and setting a glass of water down on the low table next to me before sliding onto the sofa with his computer and his thimbleful of liquid energy. I smiled broadly at him as he wriggled his legs under the duvet to interlock with mine.

He looked pointedly at the smartphone clutched in my hands. "Let me guess ... multiplayer online battle arena?" he joked, flipping open the laptop and punching in a long and probably very complicated password.

"Research," I returned casually.

His eyebrow lifted slightly in amusement, and he chuckled softly when I failed to elaborate. He shifted lower on the cushions until his heel pressed gently between my legs. My eyes widened. He was incorrigible.