Emma hung up and took a few deep breaths. Definitely a cheesecake in her near future. Between her crazed schedule, Beautiful Things’s material shortage, constant attitude from Brady and the world’s scariest e-mails, she deserved at least three pieces.
Brady was right, though. They should have reported the e-mails immediately. He and the Internet guys had done everything they could. Now she’d have to involve the authorities.
But not until she’d dealt with her friend. Putting on her game face, Emma turned and calmly fastened the orchids around Ginny’s wrist. “There you go.”
“Please tell me this costs as much as a motor home.”
“Sorry,” Emma replied, hoping she didn’t sound distracted. “I’m asking twenty-five hundred. Not a penny more.”
“Five thousand.”
“Three. Final offer.”
“Sold. But you’re never going to make money if you don’t take advantage of your clients, dear.”
“Who says I’m not?”
Ginny’s face split into a grin. “That’s my girl. I don’t suppose you could make a necklace and earrings to match?”
“Of course. You’ll have to be patient, though. Charles and crew can’t start carving until we have more jade.”
“Fine by me, long as I can wear them for the motor home’s maiden voyage.” Ginny shrugged.
“You’re very good to me.”
“Nonsense. I’m a superstitious creature. At this very counter your great-grandfather sold my grandfather his wedding set. That marriage lasted sixty-three years. Given my husband’s retirement plans I need all the help I can get. And speaking of—”
“Don’t start.”
“I will start, thank you very much. A pretty girl like you should be married with children.”
“I am married. To this store. And Beautiful Things is my baby. I barely have time to breathe, let alone start a real family, and if you don’t stop harping I won’t have time to fast-track your necklace and earrings, either.”
“Tyrant. Keep acting this way and you’ll be single forever.”
“God willing,” Emma replied with a wink.
Ginny clicked her tongue and bent to sign the charge slip, muttering, “If your parents were alive I’d tell them how rotten you turned out.”
Pulling a tolerant but affectionate face, Emma handed over the bag and leaned forward to accept Ginny’s peck on the cheek.
“No more bickering with Mr. Lewis.”
“Bah. He loves it and you know it. Behave yourself,” the older woman ordered, then scurried away in a waft of expensive perfume.
Emma put the charge slip in the till and faced the stairs. They loomed, beckoning her to another of the Creep’s e-mailed photographs, which would make her flesh crawl.
The Creep had been following her with a camera, and over the last six days he’d sent forty-two pictures.
Being followed was bad. The photographs were worse. But the big black Xs superimposed on her face in every shot were downright creepy. Hence the nickname.
It wasn’t really necessary to look at this morning’s new arrival before calling the police, was it?
No, she’d spare herself that much. Dealing with the police could turn into an all-day project, but at this point Emma didn’t care how long it took. Her apartment was on the fourth floor of the Toliver’s Treasure’s building, and she’d already lost an entire weekend, waiting for the Internet company to track this person down.
The e-mails had stopped over the weekend, probably only because she hadn’t gone out. No opportunity, no photos, right? So Friday’s trip to the bank had been her last venture until this morning’s coffee run, when the promise of caffeine and a crowded sidewalk had lured her from the building.
Obviously, the Creep had been waiting.
Every hair on the back of her neck prickled at the thought, and Emma’s eyes narrowed. She dared whoever it was to keep this up. She’d be more than happy to introduce the Creep to the infamous Toliver temper. And her stun gun.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched for the stairs. No way would she let some whacko ruin the most important week of her life.
But she never made it to the stairs. A few feet away those suspicious hairs snapped to full attention.
She was being watched. She could feel it.
Turning instinctively, Emma found herself eyes-to-chin with Anthony Bracco.
She had to be imagining this. Fate couldn’t be this cruel.
Emma blinked and prayed the apparition would disappear. It didn’t. And he was angry. Muscles along a sharp jawline pulsed like a heartbeat as he ground his teeth.
Her day now completely destroyed, Emma looked up. Anthony hadn’t changed. Not male-model handsome, but close enough. His eyes were an odd, indefinable color somewhere between brown and gray, like rich, dark smoke quartz. Framing them were thick lashes even blacker than his hair, and his eyebrows had a natural, devilish arch.
How fitting, considering the man was Satan.
“What fresh hell is this?” she snapped.
“A new record,” Anthony replied in his raspy, chocolatey voice. “It only took you ten seconds to quote Dorothy Parker. Get upstairs. We have a problem.”
“No, we don’t have a problem. You have a problem. If you don’t get away from me I’m calling security.”
“Go ahead. You’ll undoubtedly need them in a few minutes.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Hold the tantrum, please. Believe me, if this wasn’t urgent I wouldn’t be here. Go. God forbid one of your precious clients should discover how awful you really are,” Anthony said, forcibly turning Emma and propelling her up the stairs.
Emma felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. She was numb everywhere but her waist, where Anthony’s hands transferred their heat through thin yellow silk.
What was he doing here? This was insane.
Arriving at the top, Emma batted his hands away and turned into her office, barely giving him time to step inside before she slammed the door.
“What do you want?”
He ignored her to hurry behind the desk. Too stunned to react right away, she stared. What a waste of gorgeous male. Wide shoulders in an expensively shiny white T-shirt, and tight, narrow hips in button flys. Sinful. He was even more gorgeous than he’d been two years ago, when he’d lived in hand-made Italian suits.
But she hadn’t fallen hopelessly in lust with the man for his looks. It was the way he crackled with energy that had initially caught her attention. In second place was his self-confidence. She’d learned too late it was actually cold, hard arrogance, but he’d been enchanting up till then.
Emma’s temper gauge shot straight to the red when Anthony shoved her chair out of the way and started fiddling with her computer.
“What the— All right. That’s it,” Emma spat, lunging for the telephone.
In one deft move Anthony caught her wrist, then quickly captured the other as she went for the security button.
A brief, futile tugging match ensued, ending when Anthony landed on the desk chair with her in his lap. Glaring at him, she warned, “Get your hands off me.”
“Mmm,” Anthony murmured, far too close to her mouth, “just like old times.”
His