Madalyn Reese - No Place To Hide

Wondering how, exactly, one got on Emma’s good side, Anthony rubbed his shoulder against the doorjamb. The itching was a constant reminder of Dop, and though the doctors said it was a sign of healing, it was yet another irritant in an already full load.

As Emma moved on to the next client, Anthony decided to do double duty. There were ways to make this easier. He’d done enough damage in her life already and now he was adding a stalker to the tally. Right now, planning might do more good than an apology that would satisfy no one.

So he took out his own cellphone and got to work, spying as Emma milled around a constantly busy sales floor.

Her state of denial began to slip when Hornsby and Brady pulled a security guard from his post. She went white, then red, but didn’t interfere. That was good, Anthony supposed, although she would almost certainly take it out on him later.

She handled the next round better, showing nothing but calm as Jim made off with department heads, one by one. Emma rotated to cover their absences, and it wasn’t always easy for Anthony to find an unobtrusive vantage point. He finally gave up and sat on the oak staircase as she took over the china department. It was nearly noon by then and the hot, viciously humid weather had slowed down even the most avid shoppers.

Anthony was virtually alone with her now, watching as she tidied an already pristine set of displays. He wondered what she was thinking, but didn’t mind the cold shoulder. It gave him a chance to stare.

The yellow dress was straight out of a Doris Day movie—sleeveless, tailored and prim, yet somehow managing to show a mile of tanned skin. His eyes moved to her legs, where high heels, nice ankles and the curve of firm calf muscles held his interest for quite some time.

And then suddenly she was walking right toward him, like a warrior on a mission. Anthony’s spine straightened abruptly at the obstinate look on Emma’s face. He was unprepared for another showdown.

“You need to answer a question,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Did you really believe I was behind this?”

“At first, yes,” he said. “And you thought it was me.”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“Well then, that’s out of the way. How’s your stomach doing? Better? Feel like lunch?”

Emma eyed him warily for a moment. “No,” she said. “But I suppose if I’ll be having houseguests I’d better call the grocery store.”

“Already taken care of. My housekeeper will be here later with provisions. And I’ll make a deal with you.”

“What?”

“I’ll cook if you scratch on demand.”

“If I what?” she asked.

“The scar. It itches and you have long fingernails.”

There was another pause, but this time Anthony could see what she was thinking. Having houseguests was one thing. Touching him was another. They both knew they were in trouble under the enforced proximity. It only remained to be seen which one of them would slip first.

“Are you supposed to be scratching?” she asked.

“Probably not. But the deal stands.”

“Fine.”

“All right. Why don’t you come upstairs for a while, anyway? I can scare up lunch and tell you what the FBI’s been up to.”

“I can’t. When they keep pulling people off the floor we’re short of help.”

“You’re also short of customers. Look, I know this is awkward, but I promise no mischief if you promise not to flirt.”

“Excuse me?” Emma exclaimed indignantly.

“I’m only teasing. Lighten up.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You don’t have to watch your back every—”

Anthony laughed out loud at the horrified look on her face.

“What’s so funny?” she chirped, then smiled sheepishly. “Man, talk about putting your foot in your mouth. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I think that’s the first time I’ve laughed in weeks.”

They started up the stairs, Emma’s expression sour. “You must be pretty desperate if you’re laughing at that.”

“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?”