An Innocent Obsession

Fuck it, I’m going to cancel my entire day.

If we leave by noon, I can have us in London in time for dinner. The flight will give me a chance to learn every single thing about her—which reminds me, I’m going to have my investigator give me a full report on her history. Not because I don’t trust Emery to tell me everything there is to know about herself, but because I need every piece of ammunition to protect her. If there’s a person in her past that could prove a threat in the future, I will know about it and guard her against it. No one is going to touch my angel.

No one but me—and I’m desperate to get my arms around her.

Why aren’t they around her now?

Finally, I turn to face Emery’s side fully, anticipation gathering in my stomach—

And she’s not there.

Panic shoots into my throat, my hand reaching out to run over the mussed sheets. Cold.

“She’s probably just in the bathroom,” I mutter thickly, lunging out of bed and gaining my feet. Trying to collect my scattering thoughts, I pull on my discarded boxers and beeline for the bathroom. “Emery!”

Empty.

I jog to the kitchen next, but there’s a voice whispering in my ear that she’s gone. It’s an intuition that I can’t explain…there’s something else odd, though. Something I must have been too absorbed in my angel to notice last night.

Her magnolia scent lingers.

And it’s the same scent I’ve smelled in this apartment for years.

Jesus, what the hell is going on?

Did I imagine the presence into existence? Did I become so desperate to find that elusive other half of me that was always out of my grasp that I…dreamed Emery?

“No. She’s real. I know she’s real.” I plow my fingers through my hair and shout at the top of my lungs. “Emery!”

Dreaded silence greets me. Why would she leave?

Christ, what if I hurt her worse than either of us realized last night? What if she left in pain and needing to get away from me? Is she out there hurt? The very idea makes me crazed. I have to find her now. I need her.

I find my cell phone and dial the head of human resources at Carroway-Silver. “This is Clarke Carroway. I need—” I bash a fist into the kitchen cabinets. “Yes, that Clarke Carroway. Your boss. I need information on one of our employees. Emery Lake. She works in the records room. A file clerk. I need her file emailed to me immediately. And I need to know if she showed up for work this morning. Her new station is in my office, but she might have gone back to the file room. Check in both places. Now.”

My footsteps pound in time with my heart as I make my way to the second-floor home office, which I rarely use, because I never leave Carroway-Silver. I will now. Now that I have a reason. Her. I just need to find her and bring her back here. Why did she leave? Why can I smell her in my home office? I suck down the incredible scent, wondering how it can be so familiar and fresh all at once. Need her. I need her back here so I can inhale it off her skin.

The file is in my inbox when I open my email. The only words in the body are, “Ms. Lake is not scheduled for work today. She’s a part-time employee and I’ve double-checked that she has not come in.” Swallowing hard, I open the attached file and scan the contents with desperate eyes. “Her address is…” Am I seeing this right? “She put down my address?”

Even as I rejoice in seeing her name above my address, apartment number and all, I’m filled with even more panic. I damn well know she doesn’t live here. Yet. So where the hell does she really live? I can’t find her without that information.

I call the phone number listed on the application, but somehow I know it’s disconnected before the dreaded beeping even starts in my ear.

“FUCK!”

I rip the computer out of the wall and throw it across the room, watching it spark and go still. How the hell did I fall in love with this woman and not secure a method of reaching her? Common sense is begging me to consider the possibility she just went out for bagels, but I know—I know—she didn’t. I’m missing something here. Something big, and whatever it is, it’s standing between me being with my angel.

Forcing myself to breathe, I call my private investigator. He answers on the second ring.

I give him all the information I have, but an hour later, he still has nothing. My Emery Lake doesn’t exist on social media. She’s not turning up in any law enforcement database and her coworkers know virtually zero about her personal life.