“Are you with the police?” The barest hint of an accent—Australian, he thought—was a bigger surprise than the blue.
“No.”
Pushing away from him, she scrambled to sit up. He took a step back, not wanting to scare her any more than he already had.
“I work for Seaton.” He watched her for signs she recognized the name. Whoever hit her had given her a pretty significant concussion. Short-term memory loss was often part of it, but at the sound of his client’s name, she relaxed a fraction of an inch.
“I already told the police everything I know. Twice. I didn’t see who hit me.” She flinched at the last statement and without thinking, he took a step closer to her, wanting to protect her from something that already happened.
“I know. I read your statement.” She hadn’t seen her attacker. She’d been aware of her surroundings, so it must have happened fast. It felt planned but he’d hold onto that observation for a while. It was more hunch than fact, and he didn’t want to scare her again.
“They let you do that?” she asked, looking more curious than disturbed.
“I have a good relationship with the local cops.” When it suited both parties. So far the police didn’t have any good leads and Emerson had resources they didn’t. They’d stay as friendly as they could within the confines of the law until it didn’t serve their purpose anymore. He couldn’t ask for more than that.
“Then you know everything I know. They didn’t get in the vault, right? Seaton’s pearls are safe; so why are you here?” As she spoke, she seemed to grow into herself, her fragile shell dropping away and a vibrant woman taking its place. In a minute, she was going to throw him out of her room.
“Let’s start over. My name is Emerson. I work for Southerland Security. Seaton Purveyor is a client.” He held out his hand and waited for her to take it. Her fingers were thin and delicate but he felt strength in her grip and calluses along her index and middle finger. She worked in a jewelry store but she obviously did much more than grade pearls and sell gemstones. She worked with her hands.
“I thought they had their own people. The guys they usually bring to watch the pearls all wear Seaton shirts.”
“That’s their in-house security. My company’s mostly responsible for their cyber-systems, Ms.?” He let the question hang in the air between them, giving her a chance to introduce herself and hopefully shift the conversation to something a little less adversarial.
“Tell me you don’t already know my name and I’m kicking you out of my room now, right?”
The cadence of her voice shifted and her accent deepened a bit when she was riled. It made him want to get her worked up on purpose. It was a stupid response, and one he squashed immediately.
“Sophie Turner. Twenty-three. Craft jeweler at Anderson Gems. You were scheduled to match pearls and finish jewelry for the Seaton trunk show.”
Her eyes widened as he spoke, but she simply nodded as if she expected his response.
“Why are you working for a small jewelry store in the garment district of Springfield instead of making twice the money at one of the big producers either domestically or abroad?”
“None of your business. Why are you in my hospital room?”
She sat up straight, pinning him with her clear blue gaze. The purple bruises under her eyes faded in the face of her determination, and Emerson had a moment’s pity for anyone who went up against the woman. She might look like one of those beautiful watercolor paintings of fairies, but there was nothing fragile about her. He’d only been around her for a few minutes and he already knew she had more in common with the fierce fae in fairy tales than the Tinker Bell kind of pixies.
“You’re sure you didn’t see anyone before you opened the door?”
He half expected her to tell him to bugger off, but he could see the question bothered her. It was as if she turned in on herself, replaying the previous incidents in her mind.
“No. I looked. I always look. I’ve lived in more dangerous places.”
Where, he wondered but he didn’t speak, not wanting to risk stopping her now that she’d decided to talk.
“I’m not one of those too-stupid-to-live girls. I don’t go down in the basement to check out the strange noise with the serial killer on the loose. I don’t take chances I don’t have to.”
He stifled his laughter. His sisters, Amanda and Becca, would love this woman.
“If that’s the case, and I don’t doubt it is,” he said, holding up his hands before she tried to take his head off. “Then someone was exceedingly careful to make sure you didn’t see them.”Or lucky.But he didn’t say that because he didn’t believe it. That kind of thing only happened in the movies. “Is there any reason someone would want to hurt you?”
“Seriously, why are you here? Seaton can’t possibly care about this,” she said but with less confidence than before.
His client didn’t care, but that’s another thing he wouldn’t be telling her—not until he figured out why he did.
“Ms. Taylor, you’re awake. Good.” The doctor barely glanced up from the chart in his hand as he approached the bedside.
Emerson moved out of his way, taking up his place just inside the door. He debated stepping into the hallway but a perverse sense of curiosity—his sisters would call it nosiness—and the fact that Sophie hadn’t asked him to leave, kept him close enough to hear what the doctor said.
