Until then, where exactly Donatella Agnelli
had come from and what her agenda might be were the critical questions. Vonnie
might know who she was, and if she didn’t they had to find out. Perhaps she
didn’t have the power she seemed to claim. Her proprietary occupation of
Henrietta’s private space rankled. So disrespectful, so unfeelingly arrogant.
Emily drew a breath. Perspective, she needed perspective, especially now when
her emotions were riding roughshod over her reason. She didn’t know the woman,
and she was probably being unfair. Usually she was far more methodical and
clearheaded when faced with a challenge.
Now she was tired and frightened and a little
bit angry. More than a little. Fury simmered so close to the surface her skin
itched. Henrietta should not
be ill. Some stranger should not
be sitting at her desk. Her sister, the one she’d always looked up to, admired,
envied for her bravery and reckless joie de vivre, should not be locked inside
her own broken body, forever sentenced by a quirk of nature to silence. Emily’s
eyes stung.
For the first time in many years, her safe
haven no longer felt safe and she wanted—needed—someone to blame. Derian
Winfield’s rakish face flashed through her mind and her swirling anger pointed
at her. Derian was Henrietta’s niece, one of the Winfield heirs, and where was
she in all of this? Betting on cars and cards and, in all likelihood, women.
Why wasn’t she here to hold back the storm, to make everything solid and safe
again?
Emily drew up short.
Oh. My.
She was not thinking straight. Derian was no
more responsible for what happened here at the agency than a hot dog vendor on
the corner. She’d chosen not to be part of Henrietta’s world, Emily’s world,
and she had every right to do that. Derian and Henrietta obviously had an understanding,
and it was none of Emily’s concern. Expecting someone else, especially a woman
she didn’t even know, to solve her problems was not her way. She damn well
solved her own problems, and she would solve this one. Straightening her
shoulders, she reached for her tea, only to discover the cup was empty.
As she started to rise, Ron rushed in, his
normally perfectly coiffed brown hair windblown, his cheeks flushed, and his
eyes wide and unblinking.
“Who is that?” he stage-whispered, tilting
his head almost imperceptibly in the direction of Henrietta’s office two doors
down.
Emily motioned him in. “Shut the door.”
He pushed the door closed with one loafered
foot, shrugging off the quilted down parka he would wear until daytime
temperatures stayed above sixty. His Florida blood, according to him, was too
thin to accommodate the Arctic temperatures of New York City.