Carla Neggers, page 29
She smiled. “Ever the pragmatic Donovan.”
“Not so pragmatic since I’m here. The massage was pragmatic, though. My doctor said I should have regular massages for my shoulder.”
She rolled onto her side, and he saw the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. “We rushed things this fall. I rushed things.” She touched her fingertips to his jaw. “Anyway, thank you for being here.”
His throat caught. “It’s where I want to be. I’m sorry I broke your heart, Jules. I was an idiot.”
“You were scared, and that’s not easy for a Donovan to admit. Maine’s home for me. Rock Point. I’m not going to work at Hurley’s forever, but I don’t need to go out into the big wide world to be a research biologist. I can do it there.”
“You’d miss us Donovans out in the big wide world.”
“I’d miss you.”
“Yeah.”
She rolled onto her back again. “I’m still doing my internship in Cork in January.”
“I’ll come visit then, too.”
“I hope so. I’m going to use the last of the mad money from Grandpa to bring Granny over here in the spring. I can’t stand the idea that she’ll die wishing she’d just done it and gone to Ireland once in her life.”
“Like your grandfather did.”
“Yes. Oh, Andy. I’ve tried so hard to stop loving you, but I won’t push myself on you after today. If you want me to get lost—”
“Do you think I’d have flown to damn Ireland if I wanted you to get lost?”
He kissed her, and she snuggled against him. She was so damn warm. He thought she’d fall asleep, but she said, “I still want my boat back.”
28
AS COLIN WALKED up the driveway to Finian Bracken’s cottage, he noticed a red Micra parked out front and thought it might be Andy and Julianne in for a visit. Instead he saw Matt Yankowski standing in the drizzle.
“A Micra, Yank? Really?”
“I know. I almost got out and carried it, but I like a small car on these damn Irish roads.” He nodded toward the view over Kenmare Bay. “I just saw a rainbow.”
“You didn’t just see a rainbow, Yank.”
“I never see rainbows. It’s my lot in life.” He had on a dark suit and tie, ever the proper agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He grinned at Colin. “I think I might hate Ireland more than I hate Maine.”
Colin smiled. Yank didn’t hate Maine, or Ireland. He just liked to gripe. “You didn’t pick the best day. Come back in the spring. There’ll be lambs. You’ll love Ireland then. Bring Lucy.”
“Lucy. She loves lambs and rainbows. I was in Dublin four years ago when Emma was working for her grandfather. I didn’t see a rainbow then, either. You’ve been hiking all day?”
“All day.”
“All day every day since you left Declan’s Cross?”
“It’s just been three days, Yank.”
“Emma’s in Dublin. She’s working on this art thief case. She picked me up at the airport. We had breakfast.”
“Good.” Colin wasn’t discussing Emma with Yank. “Want to come inside?”
“Nope. I’m still shaking off driving across Ireland in that little car. I don’t need to be in a little cottage. You like it here alone?”
“It’s fine.” Just better with Emma. “The weather’s been great the past three days.”
“The Donovan luck does have its moments.”
“You didn’t come here to talk about the weather, Yank.”
Yank opened his hand, and in the palm was a round black stone inscribed with a Celtic cross. In the center was a tiny figure—Saint Declan and his bell.
It got Colin’s interest. “This is one of the cross-inscribed stones the thief sends Wendell Sharpe?”
“It came for me yesterday in Boston.”
“At your office? Yank, almost nobody knows about your office.”
“The Sharpes’ thief does. I don’t know how. He must have found out about what just happened in Declan’s Cross and gone from there.” Yank pocketed the stone. “He likes the game. I think he wants a Sharpe scalp.”
Colin stood back. “How do I know you didn’t get that rock in an Irish souvenir shop?”
“You won’t if you go off and do puffin tours.”
“Emma would tell me.”
“Nope. Against policy. Besides, you’re assuming she would want to stay with a tour-boar operator instead of a rugged undercover federal agent.”
“Tour-boat operators can be rugged.”
Yank didn’t seem to notice the fine mist collecting on his suit coat. “The director wants me to bring you back to Boston with me.”
“How long are you staying?”
“A few days. I’ll be in touch with the office, but I need to do some thinking. I want to spend a day in Declan’s Cross and walk the ground where this thief first struck. Talk to a few people.”
“Sean Murphy?”
Yank didn’t answer.
Colin didn’t push for more information. “You can stay here. There’s a loft and a sofa. Take your pick.”
“Forget it, Donovan. I’m not bunking with you.”
“You’ll have the place to yourself. I’m driving to Dublin tonight.” He gave Yank the key. “Hike the Irish hills. It’s good for the soul.”
“What about the rain?”
“Buy a raincoat.”
* * *
Aoife O’Byrne was, indeed, a truly beautiful woman—all black hair, porcelain skin, blue eyes, angles and energy. She told Emma she’d already talked to the gardai and wasn’t interested in talking to the FBI, too, but let her into her Dublin studio, a large, open room with exposed brick walls and views of the Liffey River.
“I remember David and Cynthia Hargreaves,” Aoife said, pacing on the tile floor. “I was just twenty. I was thrilled to sell my first works. He was a wealthy man with poor social skills. She was an artistic woman with no patience to learn her craft. She wanted instant results and then was disappointed when they didn’t live up to the image in her mind. I didn’t know a daughter was involved.”
“Lindsey was thirteen at the time,” Emma said. “She stayed at home with the housekeeper.”
“And now she’s dead, and so is the man who killed her.” Aoife raked both slender hands through her hair. “I can’t believe something I created was a part of such violence.”
Emma glanced around the studio and its utilitarian shelving and cabinets, filled with books and art supplies. A large industrial-looking table occupied the center of the room. Not so much as a pencil was on the scarred wood. There was no artwork on the walls. Everything in its place, and no distractions.
“Aoife,” Emma said, “did you and your uncle ever talk about the cross and the paintings that were stolen from his house?”
“Very little, before or after the theft. He just knew I loved them.”
“What about Saint Declan?”
“Saint Declan? Because of the crosses? No, Special Agent Sharpe. My uncle and I never discussed Saint Declan. Truly, there’s nothing you can ask me that I haven’t been asked already by the gardai—that I haven’t asked myself.” Aoife crossed her arms on her chest and stared out at the river, gray on the quiet November afternoon. “I want this thief caught, and I want what he stole recovered. I hope that’s clear, but if not, so be it.”
“Do you get to Declan’s Cross often?”
“Not often enough.”
“Have you stayed at your sister’s hotel?”
“I haven’t. I hate hotels, but I love the house, and Kitty. Uncle John left the house to both of us, but I had no interest in owning it.” Aoife lowered her arms and turned to Emma. “Kitty and Sean...it was destined, you know. Since we were girls. It was always Sean for Kitty, but Philip needed to be born first.”
Aoife O’Byrne had her own way of looking at life, Emma thought. “It was good to meet all of them, but I wish it had been under better circumstances.”
“Will you be going back to Declan’s Cross soon?”
“I return to Boston tomorrow.” Emma placed her business card on the worktable. “We’ll stay in touch.”
“I’d rather not,” Aoife said.
A fine, cold mist was falling when Emma reached the street. She pulled up the hood to her raincoat and walked to the Dublin pub where her grandfather had first taken her. She was staying in the small guest room at his apartment near Merrion Square. She’d postponed her return to Boston, but she wasn’t on vacation. She’d pored through everything that she and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery had on their elusive thief, and she’d sat with her grandfather for hours, probing, digging, trying to make sure he’d finally told her everything.
Matt Yankowski had arrived in Dublin early that morning, and she’d filled him in over breakfast. But she knew she wasn’t the purpose of his trip. He was in Ireland to see Colin.
“Puffin tours, Emma. Hell. I thought he wasn’t serious.”
The mist had turned to a hard rain when Emma entered the busy pub. She sat in a dark booth in a quiet corner and ordered beef stew and a pint. Her annual Guinness. Or maybe she’d had her annual Guinness already, given how complicated her life had been since meeting Colin in September.
She’d been thinking of him constantly, but she’d told him she wouldn’t call him or email him until she got back to Boston. He needed this time on his own. He knew it, too, and didn’t argue with her. She’d be going back to Boston tomorrow, without him.
“Thinking again, Emma?”
For a split-second she thought she’d imagined his voice, but when she looked up from her Guinness, he was there, sliding onto the cushioned bench across from her. He shed his wet jacket and shoved it onto the seat next to him.
“Colin.” She collected her wits. The dim light made his eyes seem even smokier, and his smile took her breath away. She managed to say, “I didn’t expect you.”
He winked at her. “Hi, Emma.”
She saw that he had on the sweater she’d given him. She took in the shape of his broad shoulders, the rain-soaked ends of his dark hair, the small scars on his right cheek, by his left eye. “You know the effect you have on me, don’t you?”
“I do.” He leaned back, but there was nothing casual about him. “How’s old Wendell?”
“Pacing. He came back here reenergized.”
“Does he know about the cross-inscribed stone our thief sent to Yank in Boston?”
Then Yank had caught up with Colin before he’d left for Dublin. “Yank told Granddad himself this morning. Granddad received one, too. So did Lucas.”
“And you?”
She picked up her glass and nodded. “A package arrived at Granddad’s apartment addressed to both of us. There were two cross-inscribed stones inside. One for each of us.”
“So this guy’s watching you,” Colin said.
“For the moment, at least.”
“He didn’t like Brent Corwin and Lindsey Hargreaves stealing his thunder, or trying to.”
“So it seems.”
“You’ve got your work cut out for you, Emma. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“I go home tomorrow.”
A waiter set a pint of Guinness in front of Colin. He kept his eyes on Emma as he drank some of his beer. “Is your grandfather flying back with you?”
“No, but he still plans to be in Heron’s Cove for Thanksgiving.”
“My folks invited Fin Bracken to join us for Thanksgiving. He isn’t sure what he’ll do. I told him the main thing is not to try choosing between pumpkin pie and apple pie. Have both.”
Emma smiled. “I can only imagine what a Donovan family Thanksgiving is like.”
“Join us. You, Lucas, old Wendell. Your folks will still be in London. You could bake a pie.”
“I love to bake pies. Does this mean you plan to be back for Thanksgiving?”
“Sooner than that.” He leaned forward over the table, his eyes lost now in the dark shadows. “Emma...”
He got up, and for a moment, she thought he would bolt out of the pub, but he came around to her side of the table and eased in next to her. He put an arm around her and held her close. Her heartbeat quickened. She started to speak, but he touched a finger to her lips, then slipped back out of the booth.
“Kitty O’Byrne said I should get down on one knee. People tend to do what Kitty says.” He winked, and did just that—got down on one knee. He took Emma’s hand, kissed her fingers and looked up at her with a warmth and intensity that reached right to her soul. “Emma Sharpe, I’m madly in love with you, and I want to be with you forever.”
“Colin—”
“Will you marry me, Emma?” He placed a simple, beautiful ring in her palm and closed her fingers around it. He kissed her softly on the forehead. “Don’t answer yet. I saw the ring in a window in Kenmare yesterday, and I knew it was meant for you. Take your time. Think. I’ll wait.”
“I don’t need time. I don’t need to think.” She draped her arms over his shoulders and smiled. “I love you with all my heart, Colin Donovan, and yes, yes, yes—yes, I will marry you.”
A shout of approval came from nearby tables, and soon the entire pub was caught up in the celebration, people clapping, singing, dancing and cheering. Emma laughed as Colin swept her into his arms and spun her across the worn floor.
He whispered that he’d arranged for a room at a romantic hotel tonight, and he’d be on her flight tomorrow.
They’d go home together.
* * * * *
Author’s Note
A HUGE, SPECIAL thank you to my good friend John Moriarty and all the people he consulted in answering my questions and generously sharing their knowledge, expertise and opinions on everything from Irish gardens to liver fluke—and, of course, whiskey. I look forward to many more visits to Ireland. I love wandering in the Irish hills, and I’ll never tire of Irish rainbows...and I’m developing a taste for whiskey. Without ice!
Declan’s Cross is a fictional Irish village, but “nearby” Ardmore, the round tower, the monastic ruins and the Cliff House Hotel are all real and worth a visit. Whether you’re an armchair traveler, planning a trip or just want to have a look, I’m always posting pictures—and, now, videos—of Ireland on my website and Facebook page.
If you’re new to my Sharpe & Donovan books, I hope you’ll look for the first two books in the series, Saint’s Gate and Heron’s Cove. There’s also a prequel! “Rock Point” is my first e-novella original, and we learn more about Irish priest Finian Bracken and his arrival in Maine...and Irish detective Sean Murphy and his smugglers.
I have more in store for the Sharpes, the Donovans, Matt Yankowski and his elite FBI unit!
Thank you, and happy reading,
Carla
Keep reading for an excerpt from Heron’s Cove by Carla Neggers!
FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan must decide whether working alone or standing together is the way to outwit an enemy set to tear them apart.
Discover more gripping tales of romantic suspense in the Sharpe & Donovan series from New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers.
Heron’s Cove
Saint’s Gate
“Rock Point” (novella)
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1
With three Donovan brothers and an Irish priest watching her, Emma Sharpe choked back her sample of the smoky single-malt Scotch—her sixth and last tasting of the night. “Intense,” she said, managing not to slam the tulip-shaped nosing glass on the table and grab the pitcher of water. Give it a few seconds. She was an FBI agent, after all. Tough as nails. She smiled at the four men. “People pay to drink this one, huh?”
“Dearly,” Finian Bracken, the Irish priest, said. “You’re not one for a heavily peated whiskey, I see.”
Emma tried to distinguish the other flavors of the sample—spices, fruits, whatever—but only tasted the peat. “I don’t know if I’m one for a lightly peated whiskey, either.”
A cold wind penetrated Hurley’s thin walls and sprayed the old windows with salt water and rain. The restaurant, a fixture on the Rock Point harbor, was basically a shack that jutted out over the water. Now only a few lights penetrated the dark night and fog. Finian had organized the impromptu tasting, setting up on a back table away from what few diners were there on a windy, rainy late-October Friday. He and Michael, Andy and Kevin Donovan were already gathered over a half-dozen bottles of high-end whiskey when Emma had arrived in southern Maine an hour ago, up from Boston and her job with a small, specialized FBI unit.
Only Colin, the second-born Donovan, wasn’t in Rock Point. Mike was a Maine guide, Andy a lobsterman and Kevin a state marine patrol officer, but, like Emma, Colin was an FBI agent.
Not like me, she thought.
She specialized in art crimes. Colin was a deep-cover agent. He’d left his hometown a month ago, pretending to return to FBI headquarters in Washington. The true nature of his work was known to only a few even within the FBI, but his brothers had guessed that he didn’t sit at a desk. Initially he’d kept in touch at least intermittently with his family and friends—and Emma—but for the past three weeks, no one had heard from him.
The silence was far too long, not just for his family and friends but for the FBI.
And for Emma.
She felt the draft at her feet. She had come prepared for the conditions, dressed in jeans, black merino wool sweater, raincoat, wool socks and Frye boots. The Donovans were in a mix of flannel, canvas and denim, no sign they even noticed the cold and the damp. Finian had opted against his usual black suit and Roman collar and instead wore a dark gray Irish-knit sweater and black corduroy trousers. He was a sharp-featured, handsome Irishman in his late thirties who had arrived in the small Maine fishing village in June. He had run into Colin, home for a few days in the midst of a difficult, dangerous mission, and they quickly became unexpected friends.
