A Dearth of Options

A/N: Thank you to JaneAverage, my beta, and Linney who looked over the original.

Chapter 3: A Dearth of Options

Emma noticed the two well-dressed men walking with speed and purpose toward them. She had been a New Yorker too long not to be wary. There was something different, yet strongly familiar, about these two. She stepped away from the group to intercept them.

One man, the handsomer of the two, inclined his head and smiled. "Emma Doherty, I presume?"

Scottish? British? Emma wondered. "Yes, what can I do for you?" she asked the speaker, as she took his measure. Six foot, salt and pepper hair and mustache, weathered tan. Fifty-ish and quite distinguished. He radiated a feeling of importance and cold assurance. Handsome, yet Emma's gaze was unavoidably drawn to the eye patch over his left eye.

The other man, stockier, darker, and not as nattily dressed, was staring at her hands. Unnerved, she reached up to sweep a few loose hairs behind her left ear and watched as his eye traveled with her hand. She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to figure out why he unnerved her so, but the other man spoke and broke her thoughts.

"Mrs. Doherty, so pleased to finally meet you. I am Walden Macnair. You have, I believe, been dealing with my wife. I am here to inquire after Ian and settle his accounts."

Ian Macnair...Mrs. Macnair...him? Emma's mind spun to connect the three. She could not equate the gentle, closed child and devoted mother with the man standing before her. It was a few seconds before she found her voice: "Of...of course, Mr. Macnair, you startled me. I am used to dealing with your wife. Is she here with you?"

"Walden, Mrs. Doherty, please call me Walden. And I regret to inform you that my wife is dead," he said smoothly.

"Oh, my goodness, I am so sorry," Emma replied sincerely. "When did she pass away?"

"Two weeks ago," he replied, without a hint of remorse or mourning.

Emma's eyes widened at his insensitivity. When she was two weeks into her mourning, she could barely admit to herself, never mind strangers, that they were gone. "You must want to see Ian and speak with him," Emma recovered.

"Oh, yes, Ian," he replied with an air of indifference, "that will have to be dealt with."

The city bus pulled up and the group readied itself to board. Emma called out to the staff, "Wait. We'll have to take the next bus. Send Ian over here and take the rest of the students into the park."

Ian walked over to them and looked steadily at his father, appearing to recognize him but not saying a word. The man reached out to embrace his son, as the situation warranted. Ian flinched, but did not pull away. Emma had worked with children long enough to guess the tenor of their relationship, and she decided not to let them alone if she could help it, parental rights be damned. She needed to ascertain the man's intentions for his son, so she quietly spoke to Rachel, her day nurse, then lead Ian and his father and the other man toward the school. No one noticed the fifth of their party trailing closely behind.

The conversation went as well as could be expected. Ian's reactions were muted, yet sorrowful. Emma realized the full impact of his mother's death would hit on his birthday. His mother never missed coming for two weeks, and Ian's internal sense of time would not fail him. She allowed Ian a set of Magnetix, one of his reward choices, which would soothe and occupy him, while she spoke with his father. "Mr. Macnair, what are your plans for Ian? Will you take him back with you? Or is he to remain here?"

"Goodness, no." Macnair chuckled. "I will not take him back. He was like a wild animal when he came to you. I am amazed at the changes you have wrought. I insist that you continue to influence him."

Insist. An odd choice of words, Emma thought. Powerful, intimidating. I would never give Ian willingly to a man like you. Unconsciously, she crossed her arms over her chest and shuddered.

Macnair continued, "Mr. Goyle and I plan to stay in your lovely city for a fortnight. We will visit Ian daily and, hopefully, get to know you and your methods better." He looked deeply and meaningfully into her eyes, then firmly grasped her fingers and brushed his lips across the top of her left hand.

Emma shuddered at the hungry, desperate look in his eye as he released her hand. He bowed, Goyle nodded his head, and the two swept out of the room.

****************

Two weeks. He had two weeks, if not less. Snape had noticed the slight bruises on the Muggle and the way she reacted to the men...warily...as if she knew them, but could not place them in context. Obliviated, he assumed. He surmised that they had already tried to take the bracelet by force. And failed. If they could have killed her or kidnapped her, they would have done so. He had to move fast.

Silently he descended the stairs and let himself out. An alarm beeped to indicate the door had opened. Emma wandered to the top of the stairs and watched as the door closed with no one there. She shook her head questioningly to clear out the cobwebs. Her mental state was beginning to be worrisome; maybe some caffeine would help. "Ian!" she called. "Ian, let's go to Nonna's and get a cinnamon roll!" Cinnamon rolls were Ian's favorite food, and he rushed to join her. Emma grabbed her bag and they left.

Snape followed the woman and the boy as they walked slowly down the block. Macnair and Goyle had Disapparated in the shadows of the school, so Snape dispelled his Disillusionment Charm. The spy forced his mind to compartmentalize the rising tide of anger he was feeling toward Dumbledore for placing him, yet again, in a contrived and dangerous situation.

The experienced spy coldly reviewed his options. Option, actually. If she could not be taken by force, he would have to gain her trust and tell her as much as she needed to know, to convince her to leave with him.That should be a scintillating conversation, he thought furiously, as he entered the bakeshop.

Snape wondered if Dumbledore had known what would be required and sent him on purpose. He tried to recall Dumbledore's demeanor during their conversation. Dumbledore merely had said, "For the reasons I have explained, Severus, you are the man for the job. You will need to assume a false identity and persona. You will have to interact with the Muggle woman involved. It will require all your talents and charms." Talents and charms indeed. It sounded like the old fool was matchmaking in the middle of a crisis, and with a Muggle to boot. I'll play your game, Dumbledore, but I will be victorious in the end. My solitude will be my victory. He shuddered unconsciously at that thought and stepped up to order his usual double espresso, black.

Emma and Ian were greeted enthusiastically by Nonna and her daughters. The school was a good source of business for Nonna's bakery, and the grandmotherly woman had come to know Emma and her students well. Nonna admired the younger woman for carrying on in the face of such loss. She knew the nature of Emma's work helped her get through the days; but what about the nights?

"I think I know what you want, Ian, but why don't you tell me?" Nonna smiled at Ian and waited patiently for his order. Hesitantly, the boy made eye contact and ordered, remembering to thank her. Emma smiled and gave him a congratulatory thumbs-up.

They moved to a small table next to the coffee bar at the front window. Nonna's was the only bakery on the Upper East Side which sold real Italian coffee and pastries. That had been the deciding factor in locating her school here; Rick had teased her for sealing such a momentous decision based on coffee. She smiled to herself, remembering his gentle teasing about her coffee addiction. Still smiling, she looked up to see the tall, dark, self-possessed man stride to stand at the counter next to them. She noticed his fluid, graceful movements and studied him as he arranged his place. Not handsome, exactly, but striking, intriguing, she thought. She noticed the way his all-black clothing accentuated his coloring and his shiny, bluish-black shoulder length hair. Very New York Gothic-chic.

Still staring, she started as he leaned over quite close to her and asked, "May I please have one of your extra napkins?"

She froze, embarrassed at being caught evaluating him. She recovered enough to notice his voice: pure British velvet; and the scent he wore: manly, earthy, spicy and warm.

"Of-of course," she stammered.

His darkest brown eyes met hers and held her gaze as he smiled warmly at her. It was a very intimate moment. She immediately felt a flash of connection. Like she'd felt with Rick. Like she hadn't with all the other men she'd met. Desire surged through her, and she felt herself flushing and tore her gaze away.

She concentrated on handing the man a handful of napkins. Grateful for a distraction, she busied herself with Ian's progress. Damn horny woman, she inwardly snarled, knock it off! You've been a widow for just three months! Control yourself!

Despite her anger, she was puzzled at her reaction to him. To a stranger. Just like it had been with her husband. Nonna said the Italians called it "The Thunderbolt." She had felt that with Rick on their very first date, and she had decided then that she would marry him. He took a little more convincing, but they had fallen in love and had crafted a wonderful life together. What is happening to me? she thought frantically.

For the second time that day she shook her head violently to get rid of the cobwebs. She felt herself mentally falling apart and did not like it.

Snape allowed himself a moment to gloat. Like taking candy from a baby, he smirked. Her desire was naked on her face, and he idly thought that he might just get some pleasure out of this task, after all.