Page 102 of The Wrong Brother

“I may need a team.”

There’s a long pause, one that must be holding back half a dozen questions.

“Is there a problem?” he asks cooly.

“I don’t know yet.” I hate admitting that. I know where my money is. I know where my shipments are. I know where politicians hide their secrets and which businessmen are skimming from their own companies.

“I don’t know where Emma is.” When I finally grit that out between clenched teeth, I half-expect Stepan to quit on the spot. He’s made it clear, through Frank’s intercession, that he isn’t happy with the focus I’m putting on Colorado while he runs things back in Santa Barbara.

“Do you want me to start calling people?” Stepan asks.

My gaze tracks a black SUV turning the corner. For one horrible second, I imagine Andrei stepping out of it and Emma getting shoved into the back seat. Surely, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that the day after his wedding?

“Not yet, but be ready,” I say. “I’ll call back.”

A month ago, I crossed half a continent to destroy my brother. Now I stand on a street corner, realizing I haven’t thought about him in hours.

The revenge, the wedding, finding an “in” to take him down; none of it feels particularly important. Not compared to the fact that Emma is missing.

I start walking again, heading toward the hotel entrance for what must be the tenth time. Security has already reviewed the cameras. Nobody saw her leave with anyone. Nobody saw her in distress. She simply walked out, carrying her purse, and disappeared into Denver.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Because if she chose to leave—no.

I stop that thought immediately. She wouldn’t. Not with a signed contract.

Not after last night.

Would she?

The question lodges beneath my ribs like a knife.

Then I see her across the street, and my entire body relaxes. She’s weaving through the morning crowd toward the hotel, her curls disheveled by the wind. Her eyes are red. Her expression looks shaken. One hand clutches her purse while the other holds a small white shopping bag.

For a split second, relief hits me so hard it almost weakens my knees. Then anger follows immediately behind it.

I cross the street without looking for traffic. A horn blares somewhere behind me.

Emma spots me halfway across the intersection and freezes.

“Oh.”

That single syllable tells me everything. She knows exactly how much trouble she’s in. I stop directly in front of her, but neither of us speaks. The city is nonexistent around us. My adrenaline is still raging from two hours of imagining increasingly violent scenarios.

Emma swallows. “Hi.”

I stare at her, then exhale slowly through my nose.

“What,” I ask very calmly, “is in the bag?”

Emma swings it behind her back, her eyes darting past me. The same look from weeks ago, before she ran.

It’s then I notice the man lingering near the corner of the building, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He has his cell phone out in one hand, but the other hides a small digital camera.

“Come on,” I say, gripping Emma’s upper arm lightly and steering her toward the entrance. There’s still a frisson of worry and anger in me, but mostly I want to protect her.

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