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
