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.”
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