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Stalking Willow

By Fay Lamb

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CHAPTER ONE

In the growing darkness a maniac waited for Willow Thomas.
Outside the high-rise office the dusky blue sky gave way to the night. With a shudder, Willow turned away from the window and started her computer.
Tap-tap-tap. Her pencil eraser hit the oak desktop. Dare she risk going home?
The monitor cast a bright glow into the semi-darkened outer office. The desks there, all lined up in neat little rows, represented the rungs on the ladder she’d climbed to become a junior executive for Peterman and Bruin Advertising. Today she’d hooked a lucrative account with Anglers’ Fishing Lures, Inc. Another step up.
What did she have to show for ten years in New York? A college degree, a growing career, and now, peril. Not one friend she could call, no one to walk her home, not a single somebody to watch her back.
Tap-tap-tap. She’d rather risk running into the madman with a camera than open up to anyone. She shook her head. Never again.
Somewhere on the vast floor of offices, a vacuum hummed. A hint of ammonia filled the confined air. The cleaning crew had arrived. At least she wasn’t alone. Dropping the pencil, Willow clicked on the e-mail icon.
She needed to concentrate. Had anyone in a crowd of strangers looked familiar to her? Did she recall someone looking at her through a camera lens?
She sat back in her seat. As she suspected, the mysterious e-mails waited in her inbox, the font of each subject line printed in bold.
Watching You!
Watching You!
Watching You!
Only three. Since lunch. After she’d changed her address. How could he get her new e-mail so fast? She’d notified only her father, the office, and the bank.
She clicked on the first one and opened the attachment. He’d caught her walking down Fifth Avenue. The image captured a side view of her face. Of course, she wasn’t looking straight ahead.
She’d been alert, constantly scanning the crowd.
Something to the left of her path must have drawn her gaze.
And she’d missed seeing him.
“Come on, Willow, think.” She picked up the pencil, slammed it down on her desk, and looked to the ceiling above, studying the rectangular patterns on the fluorescent light covers.
“Who can it be?”
“Talking to yourself?”
Willow jumped. “Jeffrey, you frightened me.”
Jeffrey Peterman crooked a finger under his dark blue tie to loosen it and unbuttoned his white dress shirt. He leaned his medium-sized frame against the door.
“Anglers’ Fishing Lures liked the artwork, signed the contract. I’m relishing the victory. You should be happy I’m working, boss.” Not exactly a lie. She was working to discover the identity of a maniac.
“I heard. When you showed me the drawings, I knew they’d take the bait.”
“Ha.” She smirked at his pun.
“Go to dinner. Celebrate with friends, but don’t stay here.”
“In a few. Night, Jeffrey.”
“I’m cleaning up my desk. Be gone before me.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at her before moving out of sight.
“Yes, sir.” She saluted.
What a show. As if he really cared. Jeffery was good at acting the part of the concerned boss, but he never put his words into action. She closed her eyes. A friend right now would sure be nice.
Willow’s cell phone rang. She frowned when she saw the caller’s name. “Hi, Scott.”
Her father cleared his throat.
She hadn’t given him the respect he wanted. Willow would never call him Dad. A man who stayed with a woman like Suzanne Scott—what kind of father was he?
“Checking in,” he said.
“I’m fine.” Why had she told him about the e-mails? Now he’d have an excuse to call her every day.
“Have you gotten any more notes from your secret admirer?” His familiar deep timbre and his false jovial demeanor did more to soothe Willow’s nerves than she wanted to admit. Maybe he did care—a little.
A smile played at the corner of her lips, but she pushed it away. After all, his famous lifestyle probably made her the target of this stalker. Just as it had done ten years ago. “I think it’s more serious than that.”
“I’d like to send a bodyguard, kiddo.”
“And alert the press? Forget it.” That’s all she needed. She waved her left wrist back and forth to straighten the simple silver bracelet she always wore—a gift from Granny. Her gaze lingered there. Granny would know what to do.
“Your mother and I would feel safer if you’d let us send someone.”
Willow cleared her throat and closed her eyes. “How is Mommy Dearest?”
“Willow …”
Her lips trembled. More than a friend, she longed for a mother’s embrace and soft, soothing words telling her she’d be safe. She missed Granny and Quentin—her real mother and her only friend.
Willow picked up the pencil and the ever-present sketchpad from her desk. Her hand flew across the page, the lead rasping against the paper with each stroke—drawing the scene she’d been trying to recreate for years.
“I’ve seen this type of thing happen with your mother. Sometimes it’s nothing. Other times, kiddo, the person is berserk.”
Willow closed her eyes. If she could call the police without the press hearing about it, what would she tell them? So far, the stalker had merely sent photos of her by e-mail. They came through at an alarming rate, but taking pictures wasn’t against the law, especially if your parents were celebrities.
Her father rambled on as Willow continued to draw.
“Willow, are you listening to me?”
She hadn’t heard a word. “Sure.”
“Then go. Get away from the office. Don’t you miss the lake? You haven’t been home since Granny died.”
She bit hard into her lip. Scott did care about her. She’d spare him any further sarcasm today.
“Got a question for you. Would you have given up one minute of your life in Amazing Grace to live in Hollywood?”
Maybe her silence was harder for him to take than her unloading the dump truck full of bitterness upon him. “You never gave me that choice.” Her hands continued to fly across the paper, making the memory concrete. “Scott, it’s late.”
“Go home. To North Carolina.”
“I’ll think about it.” Not. “’Night.”
“’Night, kiddo. I lo—”
Willow hung up and gave her full attention to the drawing. Long minutes passed before she finished. She held up the picture: seventeen-year-old Quentin McPheron sitting against the post of her Granny’s dock with a fishing pole in his hand. Not quite as good as the original, wherever it had gone.
She placed the sketchpad on the desk and stared at his handsome face. No matter how Quentin had treated her, Willow would always care for him.
“Come on, Willow. Walk out with me.” Jeffrey called as he stepped out of his own office.
Willow held up her hand. “Give me a minute, Jeffrey. Can I trouble you for a lift?” She closed out the open e-mail.
A new e-mail landed in her inbox, taunting her.
Surprise.
The subject lines never varied—until now. Her hand shook as she clicked on the attachment. The picture sprang onto the screen.
With a gasp she turned in her chair, stood, and backed away.
“What’s wrong?” Jeffrey rushed to stand behind her, resting his hands on her shoulder.
Willow turned in his arms. Jeffrey wrapped her in the embrace. Would he let her stay here, safe and warm?
“What is that? Who sent that to you?” The tender touch of his hand against her head, cradling her, sent shivers down her spine. How long had she craved a caress, someone who truly cared?
But the cost was too high, more than her momentarily ransomed soul wanted to pay. Willow pulled from his hold and ran the back of her hand over her eyes. “That’s my place. Someone trashed my apartment. Jeffrey, I need to get home.”

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