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For a very real moment, she’d thought she was about to be kidnapped or worse.
A loud engine had started, scaring the kitten into darting under another car. Emma was following it when a wall of muscle had rushed at her full tilt.
She’d been too stunned to register the suit or recognize the man in it. She tried to scream. What had come out of her had been more like a strangled wheeze.
It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so freaking terrifying.
Emma had been pinned to the wall when she realized it was Mr. Chapman restraining her.
All that heat and muscle had almost smothered her, pressing her against the wall, until he’d abruptly backed away.
Then the guards came, alerted by the balding man who always made his secretary fetch his double-shot macchiato. Baldy had been ranting something about her and the Ferrari, which appeared to be his car.
Good God, did they think she was trying to steal a Ferrari? That was both the craziest andstupidestthing she’d ever heard. What the hell would she do with a sports car?
Emma wasn’t even allowed to have a driver’s license.
And yet an accusation of grand theft auto was not outside the realm of possibility. She was a Hispanic woman, after all. What if they fired her? What would she tell her mother? Or her baby sister?
Reluctantly, she tuned back into the bald man, who was still ranting. Something about a spy.
Nauseated and clammy with sweat, she put her head between her legs. The sound of voices faded as the overwhelming noise of static filled her head.
A small touch on her arm made her jerk upright.
Mr. Chapman was kneeling in front of her, his face a mix of regret and concern.
“Emmy…” His intense dark eyes scanned her face. “You’re killing me here. Do you really not recognize me?”
A middle-aged woman hovered anxiously behind him. “Under the circumstances, I would advise against physical contact.”
The woman stepped forward when Mr. Chapman didn’t move, putting a hand on his shoulder until he stopped touching her.
The small office was so full of people now it was getting hot. Mr. Chapman repeated his question.
“Of course I do,” she rasped, frowning at him. “I took you your coffee, remember? And it’s Emma, not Emmy.”
Mr. Chapman’s lips parted, his face going ashen. He sucked in a breath so hard it sounded like he was wheezing.
“I wasn’t trying to break into the car,” she added, scooting her chair back to get away from him.
There were too many bodies crowding around her. They were sucking all the oxygen outof the room.
“It’s going to be okay, Emma,” Hector said. He was standing at the door. “I told them what happened to you. They understand now. It’s going to be okay.”
Scowling, she shook her head and looked up at the woman who’d told Chapman not to touch her. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I want to go home.”
The woman introduced herself as Celeste Myers, the building manager. She was wearing the kind of expression one wore when trying to dance on a knife’s edge. “Of course you do?—”
“Right now,” Emma insisted. She wanted to stand but Mr. Chapman was standing too close.
Would pushing him away with her foot make things worse? Or would they arrest her for kicking him?
“Emma, this is very important,” Chapman said, ignoring everyone but her. “When was your accident?”
She blinked. “What?”
How did he know about that? And why did it look like he was going to start crying? What did he have to cry about?