Читать книгу No Place To Hide - Madalyn Reese - Страница 11

“A cantaloupe? That’s it?” Anthony complained.

“There’s some butter and mayonnaise, too,” she said, watching him dig in the fridge. “I think there’s some tuna fish in the cupboard and I know there’s bread around here somewhere.”

“Oh, good. And here I was hoping for actual food. Don’t you ever eat?”

“Yes, I eat. I just don’t have time to cook much of anything.”

“Then my presence will serve a purpose. And it’ll be a nice change from hotel food for me. If I ever see another room service tray again it’ll be too soon.”

“That bad? I would think hospital food would be worse,” Emma said, wondering if he’d talk about the attack. Now that she wasn’t quite so overwhelmed she was ready to hear the rest of the story.

But Anthony sidestepped the topic, saying, “I was only laid up for a week, then had to move into the Whitney for a night or two because Jim knew we’d have good security. After that it was the St. Paul Hotel. The rest of that second week’s pretty much a blur. Painkiller fog. But that ended after Dop’s last swipe.”

“What happened?” she asked, sliding a cutting board toward him when he pointed to it with a knife.

Emma refused to look at the melon while he cut it.

“Nothing much,” he said. “Dop drew an X on the door across from ours. Hornsby turned the place inside out but there was no sign of him. Probably happened while we were all asleep. And then Layne decided to show up.”

“You don’t like her?”

Anthony shrugged a shoulder and Emma’s eyes lingered on the shiny white fabric covering smooth, rounded muscle. “It’s not that I don’t like her. I just don’t know anything about her, and Jim’s being very tight-lipped. Hornsby hinted she’s pretty high up the ladder, though.”

“A surprise around every corner,” Emma said. “But how did the FBI get involved, anyway? I mean, this place is gossipville and I never heard one word.”

She snagged a piece of melon off the cutting board and nibbled, watching his arm flex as he worked. Her stare followed a line of tendon to his hand. She was an expert on male hands, after years of staring at them while fitting wedding rings on innumerable couples.

Anthony’s had changed. Back then she could have sworn he got manicures, but now they looked beat-up, as if he’d been doing some sort of manual labor. Hard to believe, but scattered across the square backs, palms and long knobby fingers were calluses, scratches and a scar or two. Not too many. As with everything concerning Anthony, he seemed to have the exact amount to suit her taste.

Here we go again, she thought. Very depressing. Two years later and she was still hopelessly in lust.

But the bad things had not been forgotten. He may have changed somewhat, but it would take a heart and brain transplant for Anthony Bracco to be someone she could count as a friend. Or anything else, for that matter.

He explained. “Mom checked my e-mail while I was in the hospital and found it flooded with Dop’s pictures. Pretty hard to miss the connection between the Xs and the assault. So since Internet crime is the FBI’s jurisdiction, she had an excuse to call Jim, and he slapped a gag order on the cops right away.”

“I take it you already knew Jim?” Emma asked. With Anthony one had to fish diligently or details had a tendency to be brushed over.

“Yes. We were roommates at college and kept in touch. Luckily, he had enough pull to get my case assigned to him.”

“Does he have a specialty?”

“Criminal profiling, mostly. You know, where they try to discern personal attributes by a suspect’s behavior, and then use it to predict what he might do. Not easy with Dop.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, trying not to think about that. “And who’s Hornsby?”

“Jim’s partner. A security expert.”

“Ah. You said something about messages? Like word messages instead of pictures?”

“Yes, but not a subject matter to discuss while eating,” Anthony said, turning away from the sink. “They came in fast and furious when I was in the hospital, then dropped off that second week. After the X on the hotel wall they all but stopped. Jim was starting to get concerned, but now we know what Dop’s been up to. Following you around.”

Emma sighed impatiently, “Are you ever going to tell me what he said in those e-mails?”

“There you are,” Jim said from the doorway. “Brady was having a fit, thinking you’d been abducted.”

Pressing one hand over her thumping heart, Emma exclaimed, “Do you have to sneak up on people like that?”

“Yes, it’s a job requirement. Is Anthony bringing you up-to-date?”

“Sort of,” Emma replied, sliding Anthony a piqued look.

“There’s really not all that much to tell. Just the messages and the hotel thing,” Anthony said.

“You’re forgetting the phone calls,” Jim stated. “But I need to get back downstairs. Just wanted to make sure you were up here, and hadn’t run off somewhere again.”

Emma raised her brows at the glowering looks that flashed between the two men, but Jim darted away before she could comment. Ignoring Anthony’s irritation, she prompted, “Phone calls?”

“A few. Not pleasant. I know I’m leaving things out, but trust me, you don’t need to hear the gory details.”

“Isn’t that my decision?”

“No, it’s not. You might as well get used to guessing what’s happening because no one tells the whole story. Not even Jim.”

“Great. I ought to be crazy in about twenty-four hours.”

“Slacker. I was there in twelve. But then I learned I was better off. And you, the biggest worrywart on the planet—”

“Ha,” Emma said. “As if I don’t have reason. Especially where you’re concerned.”

“You’re just spoiling for a fight, aren’t you?” Anthony challenged, sliding her a plate. He had the gall to smile at her as if it were cute that she was still angry after two years.

“I wasn’t until you said that. Now that you mention it, maybe I am. I can’t believe you’re acting like nothing happened.”

Anthony hooked his foot through the rungs of a stool and pulled it up to the island counter. “Fine. You want to yell? Go ahead.”

Emma gaped at him for a moment, then said, “I hate it when you condescend.”

“I wasn’t condescending. If you want to yell, feel free. Get me mad enough and I might even yell back.”

“Oh, can I?” she asked sarcastically, annoyed that she’d actually missed the way they used to bicker over nothing. Only this wasn’t nothing.

“All right, Emma, listen. What’s done is done. Neither one of us can go back and undo what we did to each other—”

“As if I have anything to take back,” she muttered, and took a bite of her sandwich.

“You have plenty to take back. Like shooting your mouth off and being a tease just for extra revenge. Not very nice after being Miss Don’t-Touch-Me for a week.”

“And that compares to what you did?”

“I never said it did. I’m just saying you didn’t play fair, either.”

“Do you think I’m proud of that?” she asked, wondering just how obtuse the man was.

“Are you saying you’re not?”

They stared at each other for a moment, and Emma noticed Anthony squirming a bit. His shoulder itched.

Let him suffer.

“No, I’m not proud of it,” she sighed. “What about you? If you could do it all over again would you bribe your way into owning my company?”

“Honestly?”

Emma let out a groan of sheer disgust. “You would!”

“In a heartbeat.”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “Some people never learn.”

“Right. So how would you do away with me this time?” he asked, flexing his left arm.

Emma took another bite of melon, wondering how long he could stand it before he scratched. “This time I’d probably sink you up to your thick skull in lawyers. What about you? How would you do it differently?”

“This time I’d bribe the entire building inspector’s office so they couldn’t tip you off.”

Emma laughed. “That was your own fault, you know. Should have done your homework. The guy who told me someone must have faked the asbestos samples was my father’s best friend.”

“Live and learn,” Anthony said. “Almost pulled it off, though. My people were all set to come in and look busy doing nothing. You never would have known I’d set the whole thing up if you hadn’t replied to their noncompliance letter with a huge temper tantrum.”

“Humph. I can’t believe you thought you’d get away with it. I would’ve gone nuts being shut down for months. And even though you said you’d pay for everything, I never would have given you controlling interest,” Emma said.

He laughed and Emma’s throat tightened at the sight. She’d forgotten how utterly gorgeous he could be when he laughed. Smiling was bad enough.

Emma jumped when the phone rang. She stared at it a moment, debating whether to ignore it. This conversation was far too interesting to let drop, but no one ever called during lunch unless it was urgent.

“Hang on a minute,” she said, fighting the impulse to scratch his shoulder as she passed.

Anthony’s shoulder was on fire but he refused to contort himself into scratch position. It would remind her of the scar, and he didn’t want to erase this last half hour’s progress. They’d somehow managed to joke about the past in a way he never had, not even with Geoff, his stepfather, whose sense of humor had been Anthony’s saving grace during the last two years.

But then it had always been easy to talk around touchy subjects with Emma, because she was always quick to smooth over unwanted topics herself.

Eavesdropping shamelessly as she picked up the phone, he heard her say, “Hey Brady.”

With her back to him, Anthony felt free to scowl. But it melted from his face as Emma’s voice turned sharp. “What? You’ve got to be kidding me! Put him through.”

There was a pause and the scar began to itch again in earnest as Emma said, “Hi, Peter.”

Peter was Peter Carlson, Emma’s insurer, and a huge danger to Anthony and Charles. They’d made absolutely certain the New York auction house would keep their mouths shut about enhancing Emma’s bid, but Peter’s appraised value of the stones and metals would be way more than she’d paid.

Charles had been soothing Peter for a couple months now, telling him these things sometimes happened. But Peter wasn’t on the phone with Charles this time. He was talking to Emma. And she wasn’t known for being careless.

If either one of those two got nervous enough to dig deeper into that appraisal discrepancy, Anthony and Charles were toast.

“What do you mean we won’t have them today?” Her voice was level but he could see her back tighten with tension.

Anthony, on the other hand, blew out a quiet sigh of relief. With Emma in no-excuse mode, Peter wouldn’t dare hint at another delay.

“Yes, well that’s what you said last week. I don’t care how many stones there are. There’s no way it takes three months to appraise one auction lot. With what I’m paying you… Well, are you sure your people aren’t overvaluing the uncut stones? It’s happened before, and our bid couldn’t be that far off the value.”

Oops. Holding his breath, Anthony watched as she put a hand on her hip and stretched sideways. He almost felt sorry for her.

But he could imagine how she would react if he told her the stomach problem and knotted muscles would disappear as soon as she stopped letting her career run her life.

She’d get mad if he called her on it, and that did not appeal, although he couldn’t help recalling how spectacular she looked when angry. Full bottom lip red and glistening from the abuse, green eyes flashing, and that telltale blush of a steaming temper. She’d looked that way the night she’d tricked him into believing he was about to get a whole lot more than her businesses. Ravishing. A wild thing that could never be tamed.

Anthony dropped his sandwich. If she turned around looking that sexy he wouldn’t be held responsible for what happened next. Taking no chances that his already battered rules wouldn’t survive the next ten minutes, he cleared away his lunch mess as Emma listened to Carlson.

Since she hadn’t turned around to bonk him over the head with the phone, he assumed Peter was doing some major kissing up. Good man. Emma needed it. And the sooner those stones were released, the better they’d all feel.

Maybe this afternoon he’d place a discreet call and persuade Carlson to speed things up.

The idea was quickly retracted when Emma said, “You know what, Peter? I have seven other insurance companies begging for my money, and right now you’re costing me more than premiums. So let’s do this. If that lot isn’t in my vault by noon on Thursday, consider our contracts terminated.”

So much for discreet, Anthony thought, as Emma said a quiet goodbye and hung up. He couldn’t have done it better himself.

“Problems?” he asked.

“Nothing important. Not to you, anyway. Do you want help with the dishes or can I go downstairs now?”

“After you’ve kept your end of the bargain, you can,” Anthony said, his shoulder screaming for attention.

“What bargain?” she asked. Then she brightened and said, “Oh. Is it bad?”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. I do still have some ego left, and my shoulder’s kind of hard to reach without contorting myself.”

“Then you should have said something instead of trying to be all macho,” she scolded.

Emma stepped up behind him at the sink, and the second her fingernails came in contact with his back, Anthony’s entire body screamed for that attention. This was a bad idea, he realized, as she laid her free hand on his ribs for leverage.

Mind-numbing relief and arousal dragged a guttural moan all the way from his toes, and he could feel her smiling tolerantly behind him.

“It’s not funny,” he groused.

“No, it’s not,” she replied with heartening sympathy. “But if I’d known it was this easy to shut you up I’d have started scratching the second we got up here.”

He sneered over his shoulder at her and she smiled.

“Okay,” she said, clapping him on the back. The impact of the playful smack was like flint on metal as she added, “I’m going downstairs and you don’t have to spy anymore. I’ve got enough work to keep me busy for weeks. Couldn’t take off even if I wanted to.”

Anthony tightened his grip on the counter and nodded weakly. As soon as she was gone, he leaned his back against the nearest wall and slid to a crouch with his hands dug into his hair.

This was impossible. His rules had been hard enough to follow before, but now Emma had blown number three sky-high. Not only was he thinking about her, but he’d begun to want something he could never have.

He couldn’t handle her. Not yet. She’d laugh in his face if he told her how he felt. Then he’d run. It was as inevitable as the sunrise.

Angry with himself for letting her affect him, Anthony stayed where he was for a while, telling himself this couldn’t possibly go on much longer. Layne had a crew scouring the employee files of the companies he’d raided, and something was bound to turn up. Either that or Dop would finally make Jim’s promised mistake.

Anthony’s cellphone went off in his pocket and he dropped his head forward in frustration.

“What fresh hell is this?” he muttered.

But it was only Geoff, on a break between surgeries, calling to make sure he’d survived the reunion.

Emma only managed twenty minutes downstairs before the reality of the FBI hit home. She’d counted to ten at least sixty times while Hornsby personally opened and examined the day’s shipments. Every one of the packages had been expected, but the man just wouldn’t listen to reason.

And then Layne had strolled by the office, peering in as though Emma were on display.

Sighing and shaking her head, she toyed with the idea of writing “only doing their job” on a thousand sticky-notes and tacking them all over the place. Maybe with the added reminder, she and the FBI wouldn’t be at war by dinnertime.

Dinner. What would that be like? Emma was still trying to put lunch in perspective. Yes, she’d forgotten how annoying Anthony could be, but she’d also forgotten how he could claim her total attention for as long as he darn well pleased.

Deep breaths. Many, many deep breaths. She could do this. She could handle Anthony. She could handle the FBI. It was just difficult because she wasn’t used to having so many people in her space.

Her cooperative spirit faltered a bit as Jim stuck his head in the door, waving her mail in his hand. “Gotta have a look through this before you can have it. Oh, and we’ve got ears on your computers, phones and your cell. We’re required to hang up on calls that aren’t relevant, but we gotta listen long enough to make a determination. So you might want to keep the personal stuff down to a minimum.”

“Subpoena?” Emma prompted.

Jim patted the envelope sticking out of his shirt pocket. “Don’t mean to be rude, Emma, but I’m a cautious guy. The courts make it harder to convict than to investigate. Relax. My bases are covered.”

Emma stared after him, wide-eyed. She couldn’t give a hoot if the bases were covered for court. She didn’t want anyone listening to her phone calls, personal or not.

And they’d darned well better hang up if it wasn’t relevant. She and her therapist could never manage office visits so they’d arranged phone sessions instead, and these days he was number one on her speed dial.

Dr. Dillon. She didn’t know how she’d managed before he came along. He deserved full credit for the fact that she hadn’t screamed at anyone yet.

The man was a blessing. She’d almost given up finding a replacement for her last therapist, then finally threw herself on the mercy of an Internet referral site. She’d entered all her information and the next day she got a phone call from Dillon. Simple as pie. And she thought she’d died and gone to heaven when Dillon said he’d visit her at work if it was more convenient, since he’d just moved here from California and wasn’t booked to oblivion yet.

And from the moment she laid eyes on the man, she’d known he was the right one.

Dillon was about forty or so, with animated hazel eyes that made actual contact. He was totally laid-back and equipped with a smooth, soothing voice—perfect for when she was ridiculously angry over something stupid.

She’d have to call him and warn him about the eavesdropping. And Anthony, of course. Talk about kamikaze therapy. But Dillon said forgiving Anthony was a baby step forward on her journey to get rid of her temper and she knew he was right, much as she hated to admit it.

She’d be nervous, though, wondering if someone was listening in. Would she be able to tell if they’d hung up?

Why does everything have to be so damned dramatic? Would one normal week be too much to ask?

With a cynical laugh, Emma picked up her cell phone and called, catching Dillon on his way to a conference in Wisconsin.

And she heard it. A soft buzz, then a click. Hoping those sounds meant they’d hung up, Emma started talking.

Forty-five minutes later she felt considerably better. Able to cope at least. The doctor was, naturally, concerned about her being in danger but pleasantly surprised at how she’d conducted herself.

Well, mostly. She’d been given a stern dressing-down on her attitude toward the FBI, and she hadn’t missed Dillon’s quiet chuckle when she finally admitted to sympathetic feelings toward Anthony.

A big fat “I told you so” was probably in order, but Dillon didn’t say it. What he did say was she shouldn’t confuse lust for emotions.

Reliving that comment, Emma grimaced. It was something they’d talked about before, always concerning Anthony, and no doubt they’d talk about it again as soon as she’d calmed down. Hopefully Anthony would be gone before the next therapy session.

Dillon promised to be available at any hour until Dop was caught, and rang off with a gentle reminder not to dump on Charles if things got ugly—a mistake she often made when the pressure got too high for her to handle. She and her goldsmith as were close as father and daughter, and while Dillon thought it was good she had someone to talk to, Charles shouldn’t be subjected to her tirades when she lost it.

The desire to unload the entire, insane Dop and Anthony story on Charles right then was very strong, but Emma forced herself to dive into a pile of purchase orders instead. They kept most of her brain occupied, yet one small corner continued to think about all the things she and Dr. Dillon hadn’t talked about. For once. Like her father.

Marshall Toliver had refused treatment for his depression from the moment he was diagnosed, and Emma had spent most of her life dodging his mood swings. She’d also spent most of her life compensating for his problems.

Every therapist loved this subject, but Emma was tired of talking about it. Dad was gone now, so in her opinion there was nothing to discuss. Dillon didn’t agree but he never forced the issue.

He didn’t have to. Emma lived it every day. A majority of the employees at Toliver’s Treasures had been manning their posts since before she was born, and Emma wasn’t blind. There’d been times when her father’s out-of-control behavior had scared them, none of them knowing whether they’d have a job the next day.

Things had gotten better for them once Dad handed the store over to her. She loved the store. It was her entire life. But she’d only been sixteen at the time. Juggling school, boyfriends and a thriving business sometimes drove her straight over the edge.

So the employees were no stranger to the temper. They didn’t deserve it, but they’d been putting up with it for years. For all intents and purposes, she’d been raised by these people, and they were the true heart and soul of this place. She owed them far more than job security, and if she didn’t start managing her emotions better, one of them would leave, taking part of that heart and soul—her heart and soul—with them.

She’d already learned how devastating a loss like that could be. Brady’s father, Edgar. The temper hadn’t claimed him. Old age had, but he’d been more of a father to her than her own. He was the one who’d urged her to stop treating design sketches as a “someday” hobby. Beautiful Things had been a huge risk, but she couldn’t imagine her life without that precious escape.

However, that escape was often a colossal pain in the butt. Material shortages, the capital she’d had to pour into it and the demands on her time were beginning to catch up with her.

“Why couldn’t you have had more kids?” Emma asked aloud, then felt silly. Dad couldn’t hear her any better now than he had when he was alive.

A little help would be nice, though. Here she was, up to her hairline in paperwork, stalkers, Anthony and the FBI, and on Thursday night she’d be meeting with the most influential jewelry merchandiser in the country.

No worries. Oh, but let’s not forget we’re twenty-six and have no social life, she complained to herself. Could it be any harder to find the perfect man, settle down and start a family so there’s someone to take over this place when you’re gone?

Emma rolled her eyes, then jumped when Jim trotted down the stairs wearing an impatient, vaguely excited look. “Come upstairs. We need to try something.”

“What?”

“We’re gonna send Dop a reply to this morning’s picture.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just come on,” he urged.

Reluctantly climbing the stairs, she donned a cynical expression as he added, “You never know. We might get a response, and bam, it’s over.”

They stopped at the top of the stairs, greeted by Anthony, who radiated disapproval.

“Don’t even say it, Brac,” Jim warned. “We’ve got to reopen our line of communication somehow.”

“Why? Do you miss him? No juicy whacko to dissect all week?”

“Yeah. Thank God you were here to fill in,” Jim replied.

Emma bit her cheek, trying not to laugh, then blinked innocently when Anthony asked, “What are you laughing at?”

“Not a thing,” she told him as Jim pulled another chair behind one of several computer desks.

“All right, here’s the deal,” Jim began, leaning back in his chair until Emma was convinced he’d fall over. “I’m torn as to how we play this. My gut says we go for the throat. My head says we play it safe.”