stopped moving for a moment when her ploy was spotted. She looked up and saw a tiny camera in the corner of the carâs cab. She dialed 911 anyway. After a moment she saw he was right. There were no bars on her phone at all. Bollocks .
âWho are you? What do you want? Why am I here?â Emily spouted.
âI just want to talk. I think it will be quite beneficial for both of us,â the man said.
âWell . . . you better talk fast. That was a police detective I was with when your thug grabbed me,â Emily said accusingly, tossing her phone back in her bag. The detective was taking her down to the chief medical examinerâs office on First Avenue to be questioned about the subject of her book when a woman nearby had screamed, distracting him. Heâd told her to stay put on the sidewalk while he went to see what was happening, then the thug grabbed her and pushed her into her current prison. The screamer was obviously a ruse.
âYes, Miss Burrows, I know. Time is shorter than you could possibly imagine. Thatâs what I want to talk to you about. Be reasonable and youâll be back on the sidewalk in just a few minutes. I need your help,â the man said.
âMy help ? Are you bloody insane? Why would IâÂâ Emily briefly wondered what would happen to her if she wasnât reasonable .
âOr should I call you Miss Denham ?â the man said softly. Emilyâs bluster evaporated, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open at the use of her real name.
Thoughts raced through Emilyâs mind. How much does he know? Does he just know the name or does he know everything? She knew there was only one way to find out.
âWhy . . . why would you call me that? My name isâÂâ
âEmily Katherine Denham,â the man said. âDaughter of Sir Richard Denham, curator of the British Museum in London. Thirty-Âtwo years old, you studied law and criminology at Oxford University until you were expelled in your third year for . . . poor judgment. Your father used his influence to get you a posting with Interpol as the editor of their Web site, which you did for three years before resigning and dropping out of sight. Shortly before Emily Burrows, ex-ÂInterpol operative showed up in New York. You spent the next two years researching and writing The Monarchâs Reign , which was published two years ago. Did I miss anything?â
Emily drained the rest of her water and then slumped into her seat, deflated.
âYou said it would be mutually beneficial. Beneficial how?â she asked.
âMuch better,â the man said.
A buzzer sounded beyond the obscured glass above the LCD panels. Almost instantly the glass whirred down from the top a few inches. A gloved hand pushed a metal case through the opening.
âTake the case. Itâs yours,â the masked man said. She was tempted to jump up and look at who was in the front seat, or scream, hoping the glass wasnât as thick up there. Not that anyone would notice even if she was right. But with the revelation of her past, especially the mention of her father, she needed to play this out at the moment. He hadnât said as much, but the implication was clearâÂextortion. Honor was everything to her father and his world. If the truth about her past came out, it would destroy him.
She took the case and put it on her lap. The window whirred back up into place.
âOpen it,â he said.
She did. And stared speechless at the contents.
âI trust I have your attention,â he said.
Emily lifted one of the packets of money out of the case and riffled through the bills to be sure it wasnât a Âcouple of banknotes with newspaper between them. It wasnât.
âWhat exactly do you want from me?â Emily said, still mesmerized by the cash.
âTo give you an opportunity. An opportunity to finish what you started,â he said, gesturing with the
âWho are you? What do you want? Why am I here?â Emily spouted.
âI just want to talk. I think it will be quite beneficial for both of us,â the man said.
âWell . . . you better talk fast. That was a police detective I was with when your thug grabbed me,â Emily said accusingly, tossing her phone back in her bag. The detective was taking her down to the chief medical examinerâs office on First Avenue to be questioned about the subject of her book when a woman nearby had screamed, distracting him. Heâd told her to stay put on the sidewalk while he went to see what was happening, then the thug grabbed her and pushed her into her current prison. The screamer was obviously a ruse.
âYes, Miss Burrows, I know. Time is shorter than you could possibly imagine. Thatâs what I want to talk to you about. Be reasonable and youâll be back on the sidewalk in just a few minutes. I need your help,â the man said.
âMy help ? Are you bloody insane? Why would IâÂâ Emily briefly wondered what would happen to her if she wasnât reasonable .
âOr should I call you Miss Denham ?â the man said softly. Emilyâs bluster evaporated, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open at the use of her real name.
Thoughts raced through Emilyâs mind. How much does he know? Does he just know the name or does he know everything? She knew there was only one way to find out.
âWhy . . . why would you call me that? My name isâÂâ
âEmily Katherine Denham,â the man said. âDaughter of Sir Richard Denham, curator of the British Museum in London. Thirty-Âtwo years old, you studied law and criminology at Oxford University until you were expelled in your third year for . . . poor judgment. Your father used his influence to get you a posting with Interpol as the editor of their Web site, which you did for three years before resigning and dropping out of sight. Shortly before Emily Burrows, ex-ÂInterpol operative showed up in New York. You spent the next two years researching and writing The Monarchâs Reign , which was published two years ago. Did I miss anything?â
Emily drained the rest of her water and then slumped into her seat, deflated.
âYou said it would be mutually beneficial. Beneficial how?â she asked.
âMuch better,â the man said.
A buzzer sounded beyond the obscured glass above the LCD panels. Almost instantly the glass whirred down from the top a few inches. A gloved hand pushed a metal case through the opening.
âTake the case. Itâs yours,â the masked man said. She was tempted to jump up and look at who was in the front seat, or scream, hoping the glass wasnât as thick up there. Not that anyone would notice even if she was right. But with the revelation of her past, especially the mention of her father, she needed to play this out at the moment. He hadnât said as much, but the implication was clearâÂextortion. Honor was everything to her father and his world. If the truth about her past came out, it would destroy him.
She took the case and put it on her lap. The window whirred back up into place.
âOpen it,â he said.
She did. And stared speechless at the contents.
âI trust I have your attention,â he said.
Emily lifted one of the packets of money out of the case and riffled through the bills to be sure it wasnât a Âcouple of banknotes with newspaper between them. It wasnât.
âWhat exactly do you want from me?â Emily said, still mesmerized by the cash.
âTo give you an opportunity. An opportunity to finish what you started,â he said, gesturing with the
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