LITMIR.BIZ

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what, exactly?”

      Anthony rubbed his eyebrows. “Emma didn’t have enough capital to get this auction lot of metals and stones she needed for Beautiful Things, so Charles and I rigged her bid. I’ve got about half a million sunk into her design label and she doesn’t know.”

      Layne was silent for a decade or so, then observed, “You can’t help yourself, can you? Emma’s a proud woman. If she finds out she won’t be amused.”

      “No, she won’t. After what happened two years ago you can imagine what she’ll think, but I took measures to make sure she’d never find out.”

      “Is there a chance she’d understand why you did it?”

      “Are you kidding?” Anthony asked. “I had my reasons, but at the time I didn’t know any of this would happen. So what’s done is done. There’s nothing I can do about it now.”

      “Agreed. However, we have a problem. If we’re to continue baiting this Doppelgänger creature—”

      Anthony interrupted, “No way. Forget it. I may not care much for the woman, but I can’t condone using her as bait. Besides, sooner or later her temper will take over and she’ll run for the hills. Maybe that’s for the best.”

      “You cannot allow that to happen. This is a game for him, Anthony. A sick, twisted game. He’s become fixated on Emma and we need to maintain his target area—the store—in order to trap him. If it closes or she leaves, he’ll believe we’ve cut off access, and I don’t want to imagine what might happen next. However, Jim, Walt and I have better things to do than play referee between you and Emma. That means you have an occupation now—to ensure the store stays open and she stays here, come hell or high water.”

      “I can’t!” Anthony argued. “She hates me.”

      “Then I guess you’d better remedy that, hadn’t you? Whatever you have to do to keep her here, you’ll do.”

      “No way. It won’t work. You haven’t witnessed her in action, Layne. If you want my honest opinion, Emma might be put to better use. Get her talking to this guy on the Internet. She’ll have him crying for his mommy inside of an hour.”

      “Interesting, but let’s put it this way. Either you keep Emma here or I’ll tell on you.”

      Anthony ground his teeth. “Speaking of sick, twisted games…”

      Layne smiled.

      Left alone with Jim and Walter, Emma worried at a thumbnail while the two men crowded over a file on her desk.

      This was insane. Absolutely insane. One minute she was stressed over business and now this. And no one seemed too interested in telling her anything.

      Taking matters into her own hands, she slipped behind the agents to see what was in that file.

      Neither of them objected as she watched them flip through printed-out e-mail photographs of Anthony. There were twenty or so, and it turned Emma’s stomach to see the big black Xs over his back in every shot.

      Don’t think about it. If she thought about it, she’d lose more than her cool.

      But she couldn’t believe her eyes. Not a single suit in any of them. And in all the pictures, Anthony’s hair was much longer than it was today. He hadn’t shaved, either.

      Anthony scruffy? What the heck was going on?

      She had to admit the fresh-out-of-bed look was no insult to the eye, but back then, Anthony had always been preening, his appearance like an arsenal for corporate warfare.

      The smile was his nuclear warhead and the scruff would steal some destructive force.

      The scruff was gone now, but her curiosity was on full alert. If he was gearing up for a return to Bracco Inc., his father’s Chicago-based acquisitions company, he wouldn’t be running around looking like that. And Toliver’s Treasures was gossip central. It seemed inconceivable she wouldn’t have heard he was back in St. Paul after his highly publicized disappearance.

      But with Anthony looking like that, no one would have recognized him. He’d better not be up to something. If he was, he’d have much more urgent problems than a stalker.

      And she couldn’t get that scar out of her mind. The sight of it was burned indelibly on her brain, and a very unwanted pang of sympathy whispered to the surface.

      Stop it, she scolded herself. Don’t let him get to you again. Even in the throes of an unhappy reunion he still had that annoying aversion to explanations, and the live-wire quality was so subdued she could hardly believe he was the same person.

      And what was that apology about? It was two years late but she suspected he’d actually meant it.

      Something was wrong with him. Something more than a scar.

      “You keep at this,” Jim told Hornsby. “Write down anything that strikes you even if it seems coincidental. I’m off to depose Miss Toliver.”

      “Depose?” she repeated. “Will I need an attorney?”

      “Nah. Is there another private space available? Someplace comfortable. We probably won’t take that long but you never know.”

      Emma led him up a discreet staircase tucked in one corner of her store office. They emerged into what used to be a guest room but was now her design office. Passing through it, they entered a hallway and finally convened in her living room.

      “Colorful place,” Jim said. “Jewel tones. No surprise there, I guess.”

      Emma shrugged. “I love shiny things.”

      He sat in a Queen Anne armchair, spreading a file open in his lap. He scanned a few pages and Emma stole the opportunity to examine him more closely. Not what she might have expected an agent to look like. He was way too young, for one thing, and handsome. Not quite in Anthony’s league, but handsome.

      “All right,” he said, catching her staring.

      He raised his eyebrows and she crossed her arms over her chest. If he planned to grill her she should at least be allowed to stare.

      He began again. “I’ll just index the info we already have. If we need to make corrections, go ahead and stop me. Emma Rae Toliver. Age, twenty-six. Five foot ten and I’ll spare you the weight estimate. Blond hair, green eyes. Owner, Toliver’s Treasures. Beautiful Things, too. Started the design business three years ago. No siblings. Mother, Meredith Sullivan-Toliver, deceased—let’s see. Twenty-two years ago. Aneurysm?”

      Emma nodded.

      Jim continued, “Father, Marshall Toliver, no middle initial. Remarried one, two, three times. Deceased four years ago. Passed in his sleep. Cardiac arrest at age fifty.”

      She nodded again and Jim scratched his cheek before saying, “Says here the final Mrs. Toliver, Vivian, retained the family residence upon his death. How’s your relationship with her?”

      “Fine. We don’t see each other much but we’re very close.”

      “What about the other two wives?”

      “We talk once in a while, exchange Christmas cards. That’s about it.”

      “It doesn’t say if there were any children,” Jim stated.

      “There weren’t any.”

      “Why not?”

      Emma fought a rising tide of irritation and answered, “My father didn’t want more children.”

      “Is Vivian remarried?”

      “Excuse me.” Emma stopped him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

      “It’s just a question. I might ask a lot of seemingly irrelevant things, but please answer anyway.”

      “Why? Trying to catch me in a lie or something?”

      The

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