Heron's Cove (26 page)

“I have my apartment in Boston.”

“Good location but it’s not much bigger than your room at the convent.”

Emma had forgotten that he had seen the novice quarters at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart during the investigation into Sister Joan’s murder. She supposed it was a good thing. Colin didn’t have to imagine her day-to-day life as a novice.

He crossed his ankles, the fire blazing now. “Do you ever think about buying your own place in Heron’s Cove?”

“I can stay with them anytime.” She glanced around the quiet living room, the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the cuckoo clock the only sounds. “As for here…a soft white on the walls would be nice.”

“They’re white now.”

“It’s not a soft white, and I’d add some color. You know the decorators’ rule of thumb. Sixty percent the main color, thirty percent a secondary color and ten percent an accent color.”

“Nope. Didn’t know the decorators’ rule of thumb.”

“You don’t really have an accent color. But it’s a good room, Colin. Solid, like you.”

“Solid and serviceable, huh?”

She smiled. “Historic? Classic? Intense?” She shifted back to the fire. “Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you’d stayed a lobsterman?”

“I could be Andy, breaking hearts up and down the Maine coast.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know it’s not.” He stood, stared at the fire a moment, then looked at her. “Here’s the thing, Emma. I want to know everything about you. No holding back. You’re all in with me.”

She leaned back, taking him in from his boots up the full length of his body to his eyes, her breath catching in her throat at just how sexy he was. And how intense.

“And you?” She met his gaze as she got to her feet. “Do I get to know everything about you?”

“What else is there to know?” He left it at that as he eyed her. “So tell me, Sister Brigid. Do you ever lose your temper and throw things?”

“Why do you ask? Are you about to test my patience?”

“You have a personal connection to this case.”

“Yes,” she said. “Pete Horner and his men almost killed you.”

Colin tilted his head back, studied her. “That’s not what I’m talking about. You’ve been in touch with your brother and grandfather. You sent Lucas to London to research Tatiana Pavlova.”

“It makes sense. She’s here because she’s worried about a collection that involves a former Sharpe Fine Art Recovery client.”

“Rusakov, Alexander and Tatiana Pavlova are Russian. Alexander tipped you off about me. Now they’re here in Maine with you.” Colin’s voice was low, controlled, his eyes unwavering. “And, not incidentally, you and I are sleeping together.”

“Ah. Is that so?”

“Getting annoyed, Emma? Looking for a vase or something to throw?”

“I’m not hiding anything from you.”

“You did.”

“You mean Ivan,” she said. “You have confidential sources, don’t you? You disappear for weeks at a time with hardly a word to anyone. Even I know next to nothing about your undercover life.”

“For good reason,” he said.

“And for good reason I didn’t tell you about Ivan.”

“Emma, even if your Russian friends have nothing to do with arms trafficking, I don’t need them checking me out.”

She took in a breath. “Fair enough. I’ve kept Yank and the team informed. And you.” She reined in a sudden mix of emotions. “Trust me or not, Colin. It’s your choice.”

He didn’t relent. “You have to straighten this out. Decide who you are. A Sharpe, an FBI agent, an ex-nun. My lover.”

“I’m all of those things.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

“I didn’t think there was a problem.” She was cool, angry, hurt. She whirled across the room to the front door, half expecting, half hoping Colin would stop her, but he didn’t. She pulled open the door and looked back at him. “I’ll figure this out. Rest. Be with your family.”

He almost smiled. “You do want to throw something.”

She walked out of the house before she did just that.

* * *

The cold air jolted Emma out of her anger, and she shivered on the front walk, feeling strangely alone, with Colin frustrated with her, her entire family in London and Ireland. She reminded herself that she had friends, including several sisters at the convent, and a team behind her in Boston.

She glanced back at Colin’s house, regretting that she let him get to her. That had been his intention, she realized. He didn’t like Finian Bracken’s story of the man who approached him across from Hurley’s and had possibly followed Tatiana Pavlova in Heron’s Cove. He didn’t like feeling as if his friends and family were potential targets, even if just of the thoroughness and curiosity of a wealthy Russian who liked, as the saying went, to keep his friends close and his enemies closer.

Steamed clams, crackers, a roll and whiskey didn’t make for the greatest dinner. She could go to Lucas’s house and raid his refrigerator, but she wasn’t particularly hungry.

Colin’s questions, his prodding, seeing Dmitri and Ivan again, talking with Natalie and even Tatiana about the collection and the events of four years ago had all, Emma realized, dragged her back to that uneasy time between the convent and the FBI. They raised questions, if not doubts. Had she chosen the right path in leaving Sharpe Fine Art Recovery?

Mike Donovan’s truck rattled around the corner, its headlights on as it pulled over next to her. He rolled down his window. “Hey, Emma. What’re you doing out in the cold?”

“I’m just—” She stopped, manufactured a smile. “I’m heading back to Heron’s Cove.”

Mike sighed, one hand still on the wheel. “Colin’s doing his caged-lion thing. I could see it when we were at Hurley’s. You wouldn’t want a perfect guy, I hope.”

She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, wished she could feel warm. “I’m not sure he and I will make it.” The words were out before she could pull them back. “Never mind. He’s your brother. Forget it.”

“Yeah. He’s my brother. That’s how I know he can be a jerk sometimes. Takes time for us Donovans to let anyone in. Not every woman’s up to that.”

Emma smiled. “You guys are all so different and yet—”

“And yet we all can kick ass when we need to.” Mike nodded toward the house. “Before you go back to Heron’s Cove, tell my rock-headed brother that I saw Father Bracken back to the rectory. All’s quiet at Saint Pat’s.”

“That’s good, but maybe you should tell him yourself.”

His dark gray eyes narrowed on her. “I’m not one for giving romantic advice since I live alone in the woods, but I have one thing to say. Stop keeping score.”

“We’re not keeping score.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Her mouth snapped shut. “You can be a jerk sometimes, too, Mike.”

He grinned. “You’ve got backbone, I’ll say that, Special Agent Sharpe. Hang in there. You can handle Colin.” Mike winked at her. “I have a feeling he can handle you, too.”

He rolled up his window and drove off, leaving Emma to give Colin the message. Maybe it would reassure Colin to know his friend was home safe. Maybe it would ease his intense mood just to know that his eldest brother was fine, too—that all was well in Rock Point.

“And maybe you’re just looking for an excuse to go back in there,” she muttered to herself.

Her anger dissipated. Colin was a straightforward, no-nonsense man who also had a sense of humor. He was loyal, grounded, with a good feel for people—and himself. He was back from a difficult ordeal, his exit from his mission unsatisfying, at least in his own mind. It wouldn’t occur to him that not getting killed on Friday night in Fort Lauderdale had been a positive outcome.

He hadn’t come home to a quiet few days kayaking and drinking whiskey. He was still on alert when what he really needed was to decompress.

Emma headed back up the walk and front steps. He had left the door unlocked. She went in, the living room warm, cozy with the fire. Colin wasn’t there. She walked back to the kitchen and found him opening a bottle of Smithwick’s at the sink.

“It tastes better in Ireland,” he said.

“I just saw Mike.”

“He texted me. Told me to be nice.”

“Big brother,” she said with a smile.

Colin drank some of his beer, then set the bottle on the counter and stood close to her. He touched her hair. “You’re worried Yank’s lost faith in you. I can tell, Emma. I remember when I worried about the same thing.”

“If I am, it’s the least of my worries.”

“If Yank had lost faith in you, you’d be talking to your grandfather about a job right now. He wouldn’t just boot you off his team. He’d have your badge. This isn’t about faith, or trust—”

“Skill? Competence?”

“It’s about who you are.”

“A Sharpe,” she said.

“Even if Yank knew about Rusakov and Alexander, he didn’t necessarily expect them to show up in Heron’s Cove. If they’re up to something—if anything goes wrong because they’re up here—then Yank’s in a mess, too.”

“I understand that. At the same time, if I hadn’t found out where you were, you’d be dead, Horner and his men would still be who they are, involved in whatever they’re involved with and we wouldn’t know as much as we do now.”

“Hold on.” Colin tapped a finger on her chin. “A correction, Special Agent Sharpe. I wouldn’t be dead. I got away from those bastards. The tac team just saved me from having to fend them off again if they doubled back and came after me.”

She couldn’t resist a smile. “So cocky.”

“The facts are the facts,” he said with a grin that didn’t last. “Was Ivan there, Emma?”

“If he had been, he wouldn’t have let those men kill you. You could have spared yourself jumping overboard.”

“Just what I want, your old flame saving my damn life. I’d rather jump and take my chances with the snakes and alligators.” He was half teasing, half serious. He threaded his fingers into her hair. “Did you make a mistake trusting him?”

“You’re alive. That’s not a mistake. I doubt the timing of your situation and Ivan turning up in Heron’s Cove is likely not a coincidence.”

“It was just another day on the job for me.” His hand eased to the back of her neck, and he drew her close, no humor in his eyes now. “Do you ever see yourself with kids, doing the work you do?”

His question caught her off guard. “In the abstract, sure, why not? I’m an analyst most days. I’m not a field agent. In terms of kids…well, I’d have to have a man in my life for starters.”

“Which you do.”

His mouth was close to hers. “Which I do. Do you think about having a family?”

“Maybe. I know what I’m doing in the field, but I’m still learning the ropes with you. Was it fear of having a man in your life, having kids that drove you to the convent, Sister Brigid?”

“It wasn’t fear. I wasn’t running from the world. I was embracing a life.” She brought her hand up, touched her fingertips to the hard line of his jaw. “I thought I was. That’s part of what the novitiate process helped me figure out.”

He caught her fingers in his, his eyes dusky, intent on her. “I think I might want to sweep you off your feet again.”

“That’d be good. In fact, that’d be perfect.”

“Done,” he said, and caught an arm around her middle.

But Emma whispered, “Let’s walk up together.” She smiled. “Save your energy for other things.”

“Looking out for me, Emma?”

“And maybe for myself, too,” she said with a laugh.

His room was chilly when they reached it, but their skin was already heated by the time they slipped between the sheets. Colin gave an exaggerated, entirely fake shiver and drew her close to him. “Can’t think of a better way to warm up.”

Emma wrapped her arms around him, felt the taut muscles in his back, along his hips. “Me, either,” she managed to say.

“From wanting to throw something at me to this.” His eyes sparked with amusement as he settled on top of her, held her in the near-darkness. “Be yourself with me, Emma. You think a lot. You can always tell me what you’re thinking.”

“And what about you? What are you thinking right now?”

He smiled. “I’m a simple man,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers. “I’m just thinking about making love to you.”

20

LUCAS SPOTTED URSULA Finch across the busy hotel lobby. He was at his table in the adjoining restaurant, his breakfast of eggs, scones and jam finished but his plans for the day in flux.
Looks as if it’ll start with a chat with Ms. Finch,
he thought, heading out to the lobby. He passed a trio of businessmen, his khakis, dark sweater and scuffed shoes a contrast to their expensive suits and ties. Ursula, he noticed, wore another black suit, the skirt coming just to her knees, but she had on killer red heels. She carried a black leather tote, and he wondered if she had tucked a pair of walking shoes in there and changed into the heels as she entered the hotel. He really didn’t have a good feel for her, he decided.

“Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” she said as he approached her. “I’m on my way to work.”

“It’s fine. Good to see you. What’s up?”

“I checked our records.”

She lowered her tote to a chair, out of the way of the main bustle of the lobby. Her hair was carefully pulled back, everything about her visibly under control, despite the current of tension Lucas felt from her. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I can’t stay long. I just wanted to let you know that Tatiana has done a number of commissions for our Russian clients, but no one stands out. It’s not as if every Russian is a criminal, you know.”

“Of course,” Lucas said, calm. “Would all her commissions be in your records?”

Ursula hesitated, then said, “I have no reason to think otherwise.”

“Ursula,” Lucas said, glancing past her for a moment, then meeting her eye again. “I think you know more about what’s going on with Tatiana than you’ve said—or you at least suspect more. It’s time to say what’s on your mind. For her sake as well as your own.”

“She’s a sweet soul. She has heart. She’s a fighter, too, though. She has such spirit but she’s up against so much.” Ursula lowered her eyes. “I don’t want to see her hurt.”

“What is she up against?”

“Her past.” Ursula fingered the strap on her bag, clearly uncomfortable. “At least that’s what I think. She seldom talks about her life in Russia and then only in generalities. She was raised by her grandparents. Her mother was an artist who died in a car accident when Tatiana was small. That sort of thing.”