by Evelyn Adams
Also by Evelyn Adams
For the Billionaire's Pleasure - Eric & Julie
Wrapped
Around
You
Wrapped Around You
For the Billionaire's Pleasure - Luke & Claire
Wired
Wanton
Won
Wanted
Wired Wanton and Won
Saints and Sinners
Deposition and a Dare
Southerland Security
Falling Free
Wicked Intent
Closer This Time
Slow Motion
Breathe Me In (Coming Soon)
Studio 1247
Bound Collection
The Southerlands
Feels Like Home
Loving Bailey
Practical Arrangement
Riding the Pause
A Little Bit Closer
Love at the Lost and Found
Laws of Attraction
Someone to Love
Halfway to Happily Ever After
Feels Like Family
House On Fire
Southerlands: The Complete Collection
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
“YOU’RE GOING TO REMEMBER TO eat, aren’t you?”
“What?” Sophie Turner looked up from the beads scattered on her bench.
“Eat, Sophie. You’re going to eat dinner. A real one, not a protein bar at your bench. We’ve got the Seaton group coming tomorrow, and you can’t be all groggy and artsy.”
Sophie arched a brow at Connie and the other woman had the good sense to relax her stance. There was no doubt who needed who more in this situation. It might be Connie’s store, but she wouldn’t have the deal with the big pearl broker without Sophie. Her ability to match the finicky gems and create one-of-a-kind pieces on site is what closed the deal. She might be one of the youngest pearl graders in North America, but her knowledge of pearls was innate, built up like the nacre inside an oyster shell.
“Fine, be as artsy as you want to be. It sells the prodigy angle anyway. Just don’t stay up all night working and don’t forget to eat. Do you need me to bring you something?”
“No, Mother.” Sophie slid a little extra whine into her voice and watched her boss pull herself up straight.
Connie was vain enough to mind the dig. She made a very comfortable living, convincing women they couldn’t live without the beautiful things in her shop and convincing men it was the way to get or hold onto women. Concern over appearance came with the territory. Hell, it was the territory.
“I’m not old enough to be your mother,” she said, smoothing the skirt on her charcoal shift dress.
The cotton jersey hugged her curves with enough enthusiasm to make men loosen their hold on their wallets, but not enough to make women uncomfortable around her. Her normally smooth forehead creased, and Sophie felt a wisp of remorse at the comment. Her age wasn’t something she normally liked to call attention to anyway.
“I know. You were an infant when I was born,” Sophie said, smiling up at her boss.
“Smart ass. You know I only want what’s best for you. You start working on a piece and you forget about everything else until it’s finished. It’s not healthy. You won’t be twenty-three forever. Mess up your metabolism by starving yourself and you’ll end up fat.” She whispered the last word like it was a cardinal sin. To her, it probably was.
Sophie didn’t bother to try to stifle her laughter. With her skinny, long limbs and small breasts, no one would ever include her and weight problem in the same thought unless it was to tell her she should gain some. She had more in common with a prepubescent boy or a newborn colt than with a woman like Connie. Instead of curves and full breasts, Sophie had gangly arms and legs and knobby elbows and knees. At least, that’s how it felt to her. That’s what the boys who’d made fun of her in high school said.
“Laugh now, if you want. I’m just saying...” She let the rest of the words trail off.
“I’ll eat. Don’t worry.” Sophie paired the words with a smile so her boss would know she meant them, and the other woman nodded, seemingly reassured. “And I’ll be ready for Seaton.”
“Good. See you in the morning.” She glanced at Sophie one last time as if she wanted to say something but turned for the door instead.
Letting the sounds of Connie leaving drift away, Sophie turned her attention back to the pearls scattered on the velvet-lined tray in front of her. The small freshwater pearls weren’t valuable on their own—nothing like the blue, white, and peacock-gray Tahitians locked away in the vault. The irregularities that diminished the beads’ commercial value enhanced their desirability to Sophie. She separated out a trio of slightly flattened oblong-shaped pearls from the rest, positioning them with a pair she’d pulled out earlier. Taking a cluster of tiny hammered silver leaves she’d made days before, she turned the pearls and wire into a small flower.
The luster on the pearls was off and the color match was even worse, but grouped together, the flaws made them seem like petals on a real flower, the slight blemishes adding to the beauty of the whole. When she’d gathered enough of them, she’d string them together to make a pearl bouquet necklace that was part of a bridal set she’d been imagining for weeks. That was the real reason she worked for Connie instead of making more money grading and matching pearls for one of the large jewelry houses. Her sense of color and the ability to match the orientation and luster of the finicky gems was something she didn’t have to work at. She’d practically been born knowing how to do it, spending every spare moment when she wasn’t in school working alongside her mother sorting the pearls their oysters produced, but it wasn’t the thing that drove her. Perfection wasn’t the thing that motivated her; beauty was. The two weren’t always—or in Sophia’s case even often—the same thing. Working for one of the big houses would mean spending her days searching for perfection. Working for Connie gave her access to the gems she loved but also let her spend the bulk of her time creating one-of-a-kind pieces for other women to wear.
Sophie worked her way through the rest of the tray, pulling out the beads she could use and setting the others aside. By the time she finally stopped to stretch her aching shoulders, she’d gone over every pearl in the tray and had wired together about a third of the flowers she’d need for the necklace. She hadn’t noticed when her stomach stopped growling, but it was long before she finished with the pearls. The thought of food and her promise to Connie was enough to bring her hunger roaring back to life.
A quick glance at her watch eliminated most of the local restaurants from consideration. They’d closed hours ago, but there was a twenty-four-hour hot dog place a couple of blocks over. They had those crinkle-cut hot chips and squeeze bottles of ketchup, making it possible to get the perfect fried potato to condiment ratio. She had another tray of pearls to go through before she called it a night, but if she hurried, she could sate herself on fries and be back within a half hour. And in the morning, she’d be able to tell her boss she’d eaten a hot dinner.
Leaving the clutter on her workbench, she didn’t bother turning off the light. She’d be back in no time and coming into a dark, empty shop gave her a horror movie vibe. She didn’t spook easily, but it didn’t pay to take chances if she didn’t have to. Another lesson she’d learned early. Connie had put the high-end inventory from
the display cases into the safe for the night, giving the showroom an abandoned feel. Sophie crossed the thick carpeted floor without paying much attention to her surroundings. Her focus stayed on what she could see of the sidewalk outside the plate-glass windows.
It was late enough for the street to be empty. Before she keyed in the code to unlock the front door, her gaze searched across the road and into the corners on either side of the building to make sure there wasn’t anyone waiting in the shadows. The store was in a good neighborhood, wedged between the established shopping district and a growing community. She felt safe, but it paid to be careful anyway.
She slung her bag across her body and then unlocked the door. The cool night air hit her face and she breathed in the layers of city odors—diesel fumes, some kind of cooking, and a less pleasant, more organic funk—before she turned to pull the door closed behind her. It was the last thing she remembered before the world went black.
EMERSON SOUTHERLAND WATCHED the woman sleeping in the hospital bed and wondered when he’d gotten so old. He felt every one of his thirty-six years and a decade or so beyond them. Maybe it was just the comparison. He knew from the glance he’d stolen at her chart that Sophie Taylor was twenty-three-years old, but with her face scrubbed clean and the purple shadows under her eyes, she looked much younger. Not like a child—he’d never have noticed the graceful lines of her body hidden by the sheet otherwise—but young enough to make him feel like a dirty old man.
She made a small pained noise in her sleep and Emerson wondered what he could do about it. Watching her, knowing she’d been attacked, brought his protective urges to the forefront, even though he’d never so much as spoken to the woman. His client, Seaton Purveyors, reported the break-in at the jewelry store where Ms. Turner worked. Emerson’s firm handled cybersecurity for Seaton, but he was local so the pearl broker’s in-house security chief asked him to check it out.
The thief didn’t get into the safe. Whoever it was made off with a couple hundred dollars in easy-to-fence inventory, none of it belonging to his client. With their pearls safe, Seaton wasn’t worried, and Emerson didn’t have a reason to be, but it hadn’t stopped him from exercising an abundance of caution and heading to the hospital to check on things. Controlling variables was what he did best and until he knew the motives behind the recent cyberattacks on the pearl broker’s system, he intended to gather as much information as he could. Then he’d seen Ms. Taylor and something shifted for him, something he wasn’t comfortable thinking about, let alone saying out loud. He’d spent so much time watching her sleep, seeing the way her inky lashes lay against her pale skin. He couldn’t leave until she woke, and he got a chance to look into her eyes.
“Hmmm,” she murmured before blinking repeatedly against the harsh fluorescents overhead.
Without considering the why of his actions, he stepped closer to the bed and held up his broad palm as a shield against the light.
“Who are you?” she asked, squinting up at him.
Her eyes were blue. Given her dark-brown hair he wouldn’t have guessed but seeing her stare up at him, confusion creasing her brow, there wasn’t any other color they could be. Which meant he’d clearly gone over the bend. Guessing strange women’s eye color wasn’t normally on his to-do list.
“Are you with the police?” The barest hint of an accent—Australian, he thought—was a bigger surprise than the blue.
“No.”
Pushing away from him, she scrambled to sit up. He took a step back, not wanting to scare her any more than he already had.
“I work for Seaton.” He watched her for signs she recognized the name. Whoever hit her had given her a pretty significant concussion. Short-term memory loss was often part of it, but at the sound of his client’s name, she relaxed a fraction of an inch.
“I already told the police everything I know. Twice. I didn’t see who hit me.” She flinched at the last statement and without thinking, he took a step closer to her, wanting to protect her from something that already happened.
“I know. I read your statement.” She hadn’t seen her attacker. She’d been aware of her surroundings, so it must have happened fast. It felt planned but he’d hold onto that observation for a while. It was more hunch than fact, and he didn’t want to scare her again.
“They let you do that?” she asked, looking more curious than disturbed.
“I have a good relationship with the local cops.” When it suited both parties. So far the police didn’t have any good leads and Emerson had resources they didn’t. They’d stay as friendly as they could within the confines of the law until it didn’t serve their purpose anymore. He couldn’t ask for more than that.
“Then you know everything I know. They didn’t get in the vault, right? Seaton’s pearls are safe; so why are you here?” As she spoke, she seemed to grow into herself, her fragile shell dropping away and a vibrant woman taking its place. In a minute, she was going to throw him out of her room.
“Let’s start over. My name is Emerson. I work for Southerland Security. Seaton Purveyor is a client.” He held out his hand and waited for her to take it. Her fingers were thin and delicate but he felt strength in her grip and calluses along her index and middle finger. She worked in a jewelry store but she obviously did much more than grade pearls and sell gemstones. She worked with her hands.
“I thought they had their own people. The guys they usually bring to watch the pearls all wear Seaton shirts.”
“That’s their in-house security. My company’s mostly responsible for their cyber-systems, Ms.?” He let the question hang in the air between them, giving her a chance to introduce herself and hopefully shift the conversation to something a little less adversarial.
“Tell me you don’t already know my name and I’m kicking you out of my room now, right?”
The cadence of her voice shifted and her accent deepened a bit when she was riled. It made him want to get her worked up on purpose. It was a stupid response, and one he squashed immediately.
“Sophie Turner. Twenty-three. Craft jeweler at Anderson Gems. You were scheduled to match pearls and finish jewelry for the Seaton trunk show.”
Her eyes widened as he spoke, but she simply nodded as if she expected his response.
“Why are you working for a small jewelry store in the garment district of Springfield instead of making twice the money at one of the big producers either domestically or abroad?”
“None of your business. Why are you in my hospital room?”
She sat up straight, pinning him with her clear blue gaze. The purple bruises under her eyes faded in the face of her determination, and Emerson had a moment’s pity for anyone who went up against the woman. She might look like one of those beautiful watercolor paintings of fairies, but there was nothing fragile about her. He’d only been around her for a few minutes and he already knew she had more in common with the fierce fae in fairy tales than the Tinker Bell kind of pixies.
“You’re sure you didn’t see anyone before you opened the door?”
He half expected her to tell him to bugger off, but he could see the question bothered her. It was as if she turned in on herself, replaying the previous incidents in her mind.
“No. I looked. I always look. I’ve lived in more dangerous places.”
Where, he wondered but he didn’t speak, not wanting to risk stopping her now that she’d decided to talk.
“I’m not one of those too-stupid-to-live girls. I don’t go down in the basement to check out the strange noise with the serial killer on the loose. I don’t take chances I don’t have to.”
He stifled his laughter. His sisters, Amanda and Becca, would love this woman.
“If that’s the case, and I don’t doubt it is,” he said, holding up his hands before she tried to take his head off. “Then someone was exceedingly careful to make sure you didn’t see them.” Or lucky. But he didn’t say that because he didn’t believe it. That kind of thing only happened in the movies. “Is there any r
eason someone would want to hurt you?”
“Seriously, why are you here? Seaton can’t possibly care about this,” she said but with less confidence than before.
His client didn’t care, but that’s another thing he wouldn’t be telling her—not until he figured out why he did.
“Ms. Taylor, you’re awake. Good.” The doctor barely glanced up from the chart in his hand as he approached the bedside.
Emerson moved out of his way, taking up his place just inside the door. He debated stepping into the hallway but a perverse sense of curiosity—his sisters would call it nosiness—and the fact that Sophie hadn’t asked him to leave, kept him close enough to hear what the doctor said.
“Your scans all look normal and we haven’t seen any signs of swelling or secondary injury. Pupils look good,” he said, flicking a penlight back and forth over her eyes. “You are a very lucky woman, Ms. Taylor.”
“Lucky would be not ending up in the hospital in the first place.” Sophie rubbed a hand over her eyes, and Emerson stifled his laughter with a cough. “Can I go home?”
“You had a nasty concussion and significant bruising. I’d like to keep you one more night.”
“Please, I’d feel better if I could sleep in my own bed.”
He didn’t blame her. Hospitals were the worst. With strangers coming and going and the lights never going completely dark, he didn’t know how they expected anyone to be able to sleep. The irony that he’d been one of the strangers wasn’t lost on him; he just didn’t intend to acknowledge it.
The doctor met Sophie’s imploring gaze and paused for a moment. He was toast. Emerson didn’t know how the man expected to stand his ground in the face of such beautiful determination.
“Is there someone who could stay with you?”
Sophie’s expression went from hopeful to resigned. It was like watching a light go out. She had to have family or friends—someone. Her boss stopped in after she finished with the police but he hadn’t seen the woman since.
“I’ll be fine by myself.”
“I’m sorry,” said the doctor, looking like it pained him to say no to her. Emerson had known her for a handful of minutes and could already empathize with the man.
