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Authors: Jenna Black
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things through before I spoke.
“Your husband is my boss,” I said in what I thought was an admirably calm voice. “Are you really going to fly into a rage every time I speak to him? Because you have to know there’s nothing going on between us.”
Her grip on my arm became even tighter, which I hadn’t thought was possible, and this time, I couldn’t suppress a gasp of pain.
“Emma,” Anderson said. “Let go of her. Now. You can fight with me all you want, but leave my people out of it.”
I had a feeling he was only making things worse by sticking up for me, and the blackness I saw in Emma’s eyes confirmed it. I was beginning to wish we’d left her at the bottom of that pond, though I felt guilty for the thought the moment it crossed my mind.
“Stay away from him,” Emma repeated, then let go of my arm and shoved me out the door.
F IVE
Predictably, Emma’s and Anderson’s raised voices echoed down the hall as I made my escape. The whole incident had completely creeped me out.
Why the hell was Emma jealous of me? I could think of no logical reason, and no matter how closely I scrutinized my own actions, I couldn’t think of anything I’d done that could give Emma the impression I was after her husband.
But what really had me worried was that her hostility toward me seemed to be escalating. If I wasn’t doing anything to fan the flames—and I was sure I wasn’t—I worried that nothing I did do or say would calm them. I didn’t get the feeling that Anderson’s people were huge fans of Emma, but she was Anderson’s wife and had been with them way longer than I had. Life in the mansion could get very, very difficult for me if I couldn’t find some way to patch things up.
With those cheerful thoughts in mind, I retreated to my suite to work on the clearer, more manageable task of catching a serial killer. However, fatigue was making me loopy, and my brain seemed determined to obsess over the situation with Emma. I wasn’t getting anything useful done, so I forced myself to turn off the computer and crawl into bed.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. I slept late enough that there was no one in the kitchen when I cautiously poked my head in the next morning. Someone had cleaned up the coffee I’d spilled. I’d bet anything it wasn’t Emma. I hurried through making a fresh pot of coffee, wanting to get out of the kitchen quickly. This was one of those times when I really missed living in my condo. It was like the tension of the argument had soaked into the walls, and I was glad to escape back to my room. Maybe I should buy myself a coffee maker to keep in the suite.
When the caffeine hit my system and woke up my still-sluggish brain cells, I realized I’d really needed that sleep. It seemed my subconscious mind had been hard at work mulling over the issue of how to catch the killer while I was sleeping, and I now had the inklings of a plan. Maybe not the safest or sanest plan in the world but a plan nonetheless.
My first impulse was to go haring off on my own the moment I had some idea what to do. For most of my adult life, I’d been an independent operator, doing what I wanted, when I wanted. That was one of the big perks of starting my own business and not joining someone else’s P.I. firm.
I wasn’t an independent operator anymore. I was part of a team—a concept I was still getting used to—and I had a boss to answer to. I knew better than to think Anderson would be okay with me making unilateral plans of action. Not only that, but for once in my life, I had some serious backup available, which was a nice luxury. Nonetheless, it chafed a bit, because talking to Anderson before acting smacked of asking permission, something I’d never been too good at.
I found Anderson ensconced in his study, the one room in his wing of the mansion that the rest of us Liberi were actually allowed to enter without special dispensation. He was sitting at his desk, his brow furrowed as he
“Your husband is my boss,” I said in what I thought was an admirably calm voice. “Are you really going to fly into a rage every time I speak to him? Because you have to know there’s nothing going on between us.”
Her grip on my arm became even tighter, which I hadn’t thought was possible, and this time, I couldn’t suppress a gasp of pain.
“Emma,” Anderson said. “Let go of her. Now. You can fight with me all you want, but leave my people out of it.”
I had a feeling he was only making things worse by sticking up for me, and the blackness I saw in Emma’s eyes confirmed it. I was beginning to wish we’d left her at the bottom of that pond, though I felt guilty for the thought the moment it crossed my mind.
“Stay away from him,” Emma repeated, then let go of my arm and shoved me out the door.
F IVE
Predictably, Emma’s and Anderson’s raised voices echoed down the hall as I made my escape. The whole incident had completely creeped me out.
Why the hell was Emma jealous of me? I could think of no logical reason, and no matter how closely I scrutinized my own actions, I couldn’t think of anything I’d done that could give Emma the impression I was after her husband.
But what really had me worried was that her hostility toward me seemed to be escalating. If I wasn’t doing anything to fan the flames—and I was sure I wasn’t—I worried that nothing I did do or say would calm them. I didn’t get the feeling that Anderson’s people were huge fans of Emma, but she was Anderson’s wife and had been with them way longer than I had. Life in the mansion could get very, very difficult for me if I couldn’t find some way to patch things up.
With those cheerful thoughts in mind, I retreated to my suite to work on the clearer, more manageable task of catching a serial killer. However, fatigue was making me loopy, and my brain seemed determined to obsess over the situation with Emma. I wasn’t getting anything useful done, so I forced myself to turn off the computer and crawl into bed.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. I slept late enough that there was no one in the kitchen when I cautiously poked my head in the next morning. Someone had cleaned up the coffee I’d spilled. I’d bet anything it wasn’t Emma. I hurried through making a fresh pot of coffee, wanting to get out of the kitchen quickly. This was one of those times when I really missed living in my condo. It was like the tension of the argument had soaked into the walls, and I was glad to escape back to my room. Maybe I should buy myself a coffee maker to keep in the suite.
When the caffeine hit my system and woke up my still-sluggish brain cells, I realized I’d really needed that sleep. It seemed my subconscious mind had been hard at work mulling over the issue of how to catch the killer while I was sleeping, and I now had the inklings of a plan. Maybe not the safest or sanest plan in the world but a plan nonetheless.
My first impulse was to go haring off on my own the moment I had some idea what to do. For most of my adult life, I’d been an independent operator, doing what I wanted, when I wanted. That was one of the big perks of starting my own business and not joining someone else’s P.I. firm.
I wasn’t an independent operator anymore. I was part of a team—a concept I was still getting used to—and I had a boss to answer to. I knew better than to think Anderson would be okay with me making unilateral plans of action. Not only that, but for once in my life, I had some serious backup available, which was a nice luxury. Nonetheless, it chafed a bit, because talking to Anderson before acting smacked of asking permission, something I’d never been too good at.
I found Anderson ensconced in his study, the one room in his wing of the mansion that the rest of us Liberi were actually allowed to enter without special dispensation. He was sitting at his desk, his brow furrowed as he
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