Ridge, the town where she lived, unless you counted going for a few drinks at the local bar.
Since Emma had arrived sans costume, she’d been handed a mask at the door. The billionaire also wore a mask, a green one with a large feather.
“Actually, Mr. Franklin—” she said, wanting to move things along.
“Please, my dear. Call me Xavier.”
It was obvious he’d had a few too many glasses of champagne. He grinned at her like a tipsy teenager, the deep wrinkles fanning out around his eyes.
Maybe he needed a little direction to remember the task at hand. “Xavier…you called us, remember? I’m here to pick up your potion bottle and take it back to PARA.”
PARA was an acronym for the Paranormal Assessment and Recovery Agency, of which Emma was an agent. She assessed. She recovered. Since her psychic ability was clairvoyance, she sometimes spoke to ghosts to help direct them on to the next plane of existence—kind of like a supernatural flight attendant. Some of the ghosts even listened to her.
If someone had something they believed was enchanted or cursed, PARA would send an agent to check it out. If it was determined to be dangerous, the article in question would be kept under lock and key in the vault until it could be disenchanted, decursed or destroyed.
PARA was a privately funded business and Xavier was one of its biggest benefactors. Basically, whatever Xavier wanted, PARA provided for him. He’d just acquired a rare bottle of potion, but the potion wasn’t working as he’d been told it would. He wanted it assessed to see if he’d been duped into buying a fake. It wasn’t an important or a dangerous job. It was simply time-consuming. Since her car was in the shop, the bus ride from Mystic Ridge to New York City had taken three hours.
Yes, Xavier Franklin always got what he wanted. He’d, in fact, requested Emma by name after they’d met at a fundraising cocktail party a few months ago put on by the PARA board of directors. She was trying to take it as a compliment, even if it meant she was being used as a glorified courier.
Xavier’s cell phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. “Yes, the bottle. Of course. I’ll get it for you in a moment, my dear. In the meantime, please enjoy yourself. Have some champagne.”
He wandered off with his phone pressed to his ear, the enormous peacock feather set into his mask flopping around at the top of it with every step he took.
The shoes Emma wore pinched her feet. Since she’d always disliked how short she was—all of five-foot-one—she never left her apartment without high heels, the higher the better. This pair had been on sale for a price she couldn’t resist, but she’d been paying the real price for her frugality every minute since she’d put them on.
“Such a glamorous life,” she said under her breath as her gaze moved over the hundreds of colorful glass bottles, vases and bowls lit up and displayed on shelves and tabletops. The main party was being held in the parlor at the front of the house with a two-storey-high ceiling, a dome-shaped skylight, and a chandelier so large and grand that it likely would impress even the Phantom of the Opera.
The Franklin Mansion, considered a pre-war historic home, was at least 150 years old—old enough that Emma was surprised no other phantoms were wandering around. It was a good thing she didn’t sense anything otherworldly. She wasn’t there for an exorcism, just a simple courier job.
While she was in Manhattan, though, she’d decided to take care of some other business. Along with being a paranormal investigator, Emma had a bit of a sideline going that very few people knew about. She was a writer. An author, in fact. She’d written an erotic novel and it had just been published a week ago.
It was her naughty little secret—a bit like wearing black lace panties and garters under an old pair of jeans.
Her editor was thrilled with Inevitable, a book she’d written under a pseudonym and she’d asked Emma to swing by the office today for a quick visit, during which she’d given Emma a stack of extra copies of the release. She wanted to offer Emma a contract to write more, but Emma wasn’t sure she had more books in her. The only reason she’d written this book was because she’d had a certain set of fantasies that wouldn’t let go of her imagination until she’d put them down on paper. Now they were down. They were published. And Emma felt she should focus on her career with PARA. After all, that’s what paid the bills.
If she’d known she’d have to lug a dozen books in a tote bag around a masquerade party for hours on end, she might have stashed them in a locker somewhere until it was time to head back home. Within the next hour, she needed to grab Xavier’s bottle and then catch her bus back to Mystic Ridge at eleven o’clock.
But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar face.
It felt as if someone had just punched her in her gut.
Ryan Shephard.
“Son of a bitch,” she whispered. What the hell was he doing here?
Her eyes narrowed. As if she had to ask. There were tens of millions of dollars worth of art and collectibles under this roof.
It was the perfect place for a thief like Ryan.
She moved to the archway between the rooms and watched as he slowly made his way through the crowd, pausing to chat with the other masked party-goers as if he belonged there when it was obvious to her he’d crashed. He’d never get an invitation to a fancy event like this one with his reputation.
Even with the red mask that covered half his face, she’d recognize him anywhere. The line of his jaw. The shape of his lips. The way his tall, chiseled frame filled out that black tuxedo.
She bit her bottom lip. Just because the man had betrayed her, lied to her, and walked away without even trying to explain himself, that didn’t mean she still didn’t find him painfully attractive.
It had been six months since her former partner at PARA had been caught stealing from the vault, intending to sell the enchanted objects and treasures within to private buyers.
They’d been partners for a year. Friends. Confidants. They’d laughed together, shared secrets, and gotten to know each other very well. Too well. Along the way, Emma had felt something much stronger than friendship for Ryan growing inside her. Just as she was gaining the courage she needed to act on it, he began dating her friend Charlotte.
Emma took that as the hint that he saw them as just friends, although the fantasies about him that plagued her were difficult to deal with. Constant. Erotic. Distracting. They were the same ones she’d needed to get down on paper, exorcizing them from her mind as if they were pesky ghosts.
She’d thought those fantasies were long gone now, captured on the page. But one look at Ryan had brought them all flooding back to her.
How annoying.
There’d also been another man she’d once trusted with all her heart before he betrayed her. Her father. He’d been a gambling addict and alcoholic who’d taken off and left her and her mother far behind when Emma had been in her late teens. No excuses, no apologies. He was just gone.
Then ten years later, Ryan had worked his way under her skin. She felt comfortable with him in a way that she’d never felt with other men—coworkers or boyfriends. And just when she’d been ready to put absolute trust in him, he’d shattered it in one
