3. Emma #2
Emma decided that sentence needed a ten-foot pole and went back to the laptop instead—a case study, a kidnapped senator’s daughter, recovered in six hours, no ransom paid. “That’s a lot of very expensive competence for one accountant with a hard drive problem.”
“You’re not one accountant with a hard drive problem.
You’re the only person who connected all three charities in one night.
Which makes you the biggest threat this operation’s got, or the biggest liability, depending on who you ask.
” He crossed his arms, and his jacket pulled tight across his shoulders and her train of thought jumped the rails for one deeply inconvenient second.
“I’d rather you stayed a threat. Alive.”
“You could’ve sent someone else. You’re the CEO. Don’t you have somewhere important to be?”
“I’m here.” No elaboration.
“That’s not an answer either.”
“It’s all I’ve got.” He glanced at the whiteboard again, longer this time, jaw setting, visibly tucking the whole case away to come back to later.
“You run a one-woman operation out of an office with a keycard system a teenager could clone. I run a firm with twenty-two people whose entire job isn’t letting that happen twice. Draw your own conclusions.”
“I have. You’re bossy.”
“I’ve been called worse today. It’s been an eventful morning.”
Emma studied him. Six feet and change, every inch of it leashed and dangerous, standing in the middle of her very organized office, distinctly out of place, from a far more dangerous version of her life.
Recognition clicked into place, unwelcome and immediate: this was a man who didn’t back down from a fight he thought he could win.
It was supposed to annoy her. It annoyed her a lot less than advertised.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Take your time.” He didn’t look convinced she’d take much. His eyes drifted to the whiteboard—filled with her handwriting, her whole case laid bare—and respect crossed his face before he shut it down. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s a threat.”
“It’s a business model.” The almost-smile again, gone as fast as it showed up. “I’m very good at my job, Ms. Burke.”
“So am I,” Emma said, and had the deep satisfaction of watching it land somewhere behind his ribs.
They argued their way down to the lobby forty minutes later—unresolved, completely unresolved—but Emma had, against all evidence of her own good sense, agreed to let him walk her to lunch without formally agreeing to anything.
A negotiating loss she planned to be furious about later, once she had the energy.
“You get that this isn’t a yes,” she said, on the sidewalk, mostly for her own benefit.
“I get that it’s not a no.” He fell into step beside her, scanning the street the way some men checked their phones—constant, automatic, no effort involved. “I can work with that.”
“There’s a deli on the corner. Decent sandwiches, terrible coffee, and a cashier who’s been trying to set me up with his nephew since March.”
“Sounds like my kind of place.”
“You’d hate it. No sightlines, one exit, and the nephew juggles.” She caught his mouth twitch and counted it as a win. “I’m testing you. See if you flinch.”
“I don’t flinch.”
“Everyone flinches at juggling nephews.”
“I’ve been shot at by men with better aim than most jugglers.” He said it so evenly she almost missed the joke, and when she laughed—short, surprised, totally against her will—his shoulders came down half an inch, visibly relieved he could still pull that off.
The street outside was doing its usual afternoon business—cabs, delivery trucks, a woman walking four dogs who all disagreed about the destination. Emma stepped off the curb, phone half out of her bag, preparing to draft the argument she planned to have with Gerri about consent—
Jace’s hand closed around her arm and yanked her backward half a second before a delivery van clipped the space she’d occupied a heartbeat earlier. Engine roaring. No horn. No brakes. Gone around the corner before her brain caught up to what had almost happened.
She hit his chest hard enough to knock the air out of both of them.
His arms locked around her on reflex—one hand flat between her shoulder blades, the other at her waist, holding her against him like he had zero intention of doing the math on when to let go.
Her heart slammed. Adrenaline tangled with a heat that had no business showing up right now.
A cabbie leaned on his horn at the empty air where the van had been. Somewhere behind them, the woman with the four dogs was informing anyone in earshot that this city had gone absolutely feral, which, given the circumstances, was a fair assessment.
“You’re okay.” No question mark anywhere near it. His voice had dropped low and rough, close enough to her ear that it hit her chest before her ears caught it. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“That van—” Steadier than she expected, given her hands were fisted in his shirt and shaking. “That van tried to hit me.”
“That van aimed for you.” His jaw ticked, eyes locked on the corner where it had vanished, arms not loosening an inch. “No hesitation. Not an accident, and not subtle. Which means whoever’s running this doesn’t care if it looks clean anymore.”
Neither of them moved for one long second, the moment stretching well past what the near-miss required.
Long enough for Emma to register exactly how solid he was, how her hands had fisted in his shirt without consulting her, how the panic in her chest had started rearranging itself into a different kind of urgency entirely, one the van hadn’t caused.
He noticed the same second she did. His hand flexed once against her back before he stepped back—a foot of very professional distance, a tactical retreat off ground he badly wanted to hold—then closed half of it right back up, fingers finding her elbow again like his hand hadn’t gotten the memo.
“I’m calling this in.” Clipped. Businesslike. He didn’t seem to notice his hand was back. “You’re not walking anywhere alone until we know who’s behind that wheel.”
His earpiece crackled—Roman, tinny and sharp, firing off questions before Jace pressed two fingers to his ear. “Traffic cam on Fifth. North end.” He rattled off the order without looking away from her face once, running a full-scale investigation and a full-scale worry at exactly the same volume.
Emma opened her mouth to argue on principle, discovered she didn’t have one handy, and settled for glaring instead. It didn’t land the way she wanted. Not with her pulse still going and his hand still hovering an inch from her elbow, apparently undecided about whether to stop touching her.
“Fine.” A concession, and they both knew it. “Temporary. Under protest.”
“Duly noted.”
Her phone buzzed, back in her office, door locked, Jace posted in the hallway like an extremely expensive, extremely irritated piece of furniture. Unknown number. No name. No photo. Only a handful of lines that turned her stomach to ice.
Congratulations, Ms. Burke. It would be a shame if your new security detail couldn’t protect you.
She read it twice, made sure her hand wasn’t shaking, and opened the door to show Jace exactly why she’d revised her opinion of the furniture comment.