Keeper's Reach (10 page)

“Other direction.”

“I know. I checked the map when I was waiting at Heathrow. Heron’s Cove looks cute from photos I saw on the internet.”

“Why were you looking up Heron’s Cove on the internet?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“You don’t do anything by happenstance, Naomi.”

She felt caught, as if she’d done something wrong. In a way, she had. She should have at least kept her mouth shut. On the other hand, what was she hiding? She got to her feet, scooping up her chowder bowl and pie plate. “I read about Sharpe Fine Art Recovery and Emma Sharpe,” she said casually. “She and your brother Colin are engaged, aren’t they?”

Mike drew away from the counter. “I know you’re an intel type and you like to know everything, but why are you looking into Emma and my brother?”

“As you suggest, it’s what I do.” She set her dishes in the sink. She was twitchy and yet her eyelids were heavy with fatigue given her very long day. “The Sharpes sound fascinating. Do you approve of Emma?”

“As what?”

“A sister-in-law.”

“Emma’s cool.” Mike seemed to debate whether to say more. “I wasn’t sure about her at first. The Sharpes are high profile and Colin isn’t. She’s an expert in art crimes. Whole different world.”

“Must be fun going to a museum with her.”

“Did Ted Kavanagh ask you about Emma and Colin?”

The question took her somewhat by surprise. “Reed told you he invited Kavanagh to his Maine get-together? Interesting.”

“Have you been in touch with Kavanagh?”

“I saw both him and Reed in England. This morning, in fact.” She left it at that. “I can wash the dishes.”

“I’ll take care of them.”

She realized suddenly how close he was. “I remember you telling me about Maine and how much I’d like it. Once I was here, you would say, I wouldn’t think twice about the cold-weather months.”

“Not true?”

She smiled. “Maybe if I had wool socks.”

“You can borrow a pair of mine.”

“Ha. That would be something. Me in Big Foot wool socks.” But her humor—her attempt at lightheartedness—dissipated as fast as it had bubbled up, and she lifted her eyes to his. “Mike... I’m sorry I came here. I didn’t realize the Frank and Rosemary Donovan who own this place were your parents.”

Mike studied her a moment. “What else is going on, Naomi?”

She fought a yawn. She could have curled up on the floor in front of the sink and fallen asleep for the night. Instead she had Mike Donovan, a former Special Forces soldier, interrogating her. At least it seemed that way. Maybe with a night’s sleep it would have seemed like a normal conversation. But she doubted it.

“Kavanagh’s as closemouthed as ever. I don’t know what his game is with Reed. He says he’s still an FBI agent. I have no reason to doubt him. That’s all.”

“All you’re saying. Not all you know.”

“I don’t answer to you, Mike.”

“No, you don’t.”

She angled a look at him. “We’re not off to a good start, are we?”

“About what I expected.”

She sighed, less self-conscious than when he’d surprised her by answering the door. “You aren’t the same Mike Donovan I knew in Afghanistan, are you? I thought you might have matured in the past few years. Since you came home.”

“Matured?” He grinned. “What does that mean?”

“Gained perspective and objectivity, learned not to nurse grudges and hold people to impossible standards.”

“Like what?”

“People make mistakes.”

“Yes, they do.”

His tone said that she had been one of his mistakes. She ran a hand through her hair, felt knots and tangles—a hopeless rat’s nest after her travels. Mike, she noticed, wasn’t giving much away about what he was thinking, certainly not what he was feeling. “You’re not budging, are you?” She shook her head. “Honestly, Mike. I’m not an enemy invading your turf. I’m an old friend from a difficult time in both our lives.”

“I’ll budge when you tell me the truth about why you’re here.”

“I have told you the truth.”

“Just not all of it. Nothing new, is it?” He stood straight. “Come on. I’ll show you up to your room.”

* * *

Her room was at the top of carpeted stairs and looked out on the harbor. The fog was clearing, a few stars appearing in the night sky. For a moment, Naomi thought she could hear the tide, then decided that was impossible given the distance and the shut-tight window. More likely it was the wind.

Mike had insisted on carrying her suitcase. He set it on a luggage rack.

She glanced around the attractive room, taking in the homey furnishings and cheerful seacoast colors. “Do you visit Rock Point often?” she asked.

“I help out here when I can.”

“Must be fun to come down by boat, especially if you don’t get seasick. Did you ever get seasick, or are you born with your sea legs as a Maine Donovan?”

“I don’t think about it.” He walked over to the windows, pulled the drapes.

“That’s all it takes? What about fog, rain, cold weather, giant waves? Do you ever get scared out on the water?”

He frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Being on a boat on the ocean.”

“Naomi, Naomi.” He moved from the window. “You never stop, do you? No, I don’t get scared out on the water.”

“Or seasick?”

He didn’t answer. He opened the door to the adjoining bathroom, flipped on a light and took a quick look inside. Satisfied, he turned off the light and shut the door.

“You wish I’d spent the night in Boston,” Naomi said.

“I wish you’d gone home altogether.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I’m an ax murderer.”

Not so much as a hint of a smile. “Think of the people you know, Naomi. You live in a world of trouble. I don’t want you to bring that world to my family.”

“I’m not. I won’t. I’m here because I wanted to see Rock Point and was on the other side of the Atlantic when I booked a room at this place—which also happens to be the only real inn in town. And I’m in Maine because of Reed, not because of you. That’s all.” She felt blood rush to her face. “Damn, Mike. The last time I saw you, I was half in love with you. Can’t you allow a girl some emotional closure?”

“Nice try. You’re not here for emotional closure.”

“Must be nice to be perfect,” she muttered, jet lag getting the better of her. High emotion wasn’t the best way to handle herself with this man. She’d figured that out within two minutes of meeting him three years ago. That hadn’t changed.

“Never said I was perfect,” he said.

“Good, because you’re not. You’re an unforgiving SOB.”

“Hold that thought.”

Now there was a hint of a smile. It almost undid her. She nodded to a pottery pitcher on the dresser, decorated with what she guessed were hand-painted blueberries. “When do wild blueberries ripen in Maine?”

“August.”

“Do you have wild blueberries on the Bold Coast?”

“There’s a patch next to my cabin.”

“I wonder what that must be like,” Naomi said half to herself. “Picking blueberries on the Maine coast under the August sun. I can picture it, and I haven’t seen the coast yet in daylight.”

“A lot of snow and ice right now.”

“Always the skunk at the picnic, huh, Mike?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he stood close to her and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Where were you last August, Naomi?”

His unexpected touch and the softness of his voice melted her knees. He stood back, and she sank onto the edge of the bed. “I was at home in Nashville the first half of August. On the road the second half. I attended a conference in Denver.”

“You’re always working, aren’t you?”

“Making a living. I don’t have a trust fund to fall back on.” Reed Cooper did, which she and Mike both knew. “Business is good, though. No complaints. No regrets, either. I knew it was time to make a change when I left the State Department. I don’t look back. Do you regret leaving the army when you did?”

“No,” he said quietly, walking toward the door.

She fingered a fluffy comforter folded up at the foot of the bed. It would come in handy, given the modest heat in the room. She was on Mike’s turf and couldn’t let him get under her skin—annoy her, remind her how they had seduced each other three years ago. That was how she had decided to think of their brief, fiery love affair. She didn’t know how he thought of it. She’d never asked and never would.

He had his hand on the doorknob as he turned back to her. “Are you happy, Naomi?”

She let go of the comforter and grinned at him, pretending he wasn’t serious—that his question was another attempt to get under her skin. “You should see me on karaoke night at my favorite Nashville bar. My pals and I have a great time. Singing, hooting, hollering. Happy. When I’m in town. That’s not often these days.”

“Do you ever think about settling down?”

“As in a husband, kids, a dog and a nine-to-five job?”

The barest smile. “Something like that.”

“My sweet, crazy mama would welcome me into her sewing business.” But Mike didn’t laugh, and Naomi wondered if her flippancy was getting on his nerves. “What about you, Mike? Is living out on the Bold Coast as a wilderness guide your dream life?”

“Close enough.”

“Why not Rock Point?”

He shrugged. “I moved into my grandfather’s cabin when I got out of the army. I figured I’d fix it up and rent it out, and I ended up staying.”

“This is all more awkward than I thought it would be. Being in your world.”

“You’re here because of Reed.” Mike tugged open the door. “I’ll give you a ride to the Plum Tree in the morning. You can figure out what to do after that.”

“The two of us together—Reed will want an explanation.”

She hadn’t meant it seriously, but Mike steadied his gaze on her. “Figure out a story that suits you, then. That shouldn’t be too hard. You’re good at stories.”

“Jackass.”

He grinned. “You and my brothers are going to get along fine. They’ll join us for breakfast. I’m down the hall if you need anything.”

She smiled. “Lucky me.”

He winked at her and was gone.

She didn’t breathe again until the door shut behind him.

* * *

Weirdly restless, Naomi couldn’t fall asleep. She had peeled off her travel clothes, washed her face, brushed her teeth and crawled into bed under the comforter. One minute she was on the plane, another minute she was eating porridge and blackberry compote, walking in the bucolic Cotswolds, helping injured Martin Hambly into the dovecote.

She tossed and turned for a while longer, then turned on the light, sat up in bed with her laptop and looked up chicken breeds on the internet.

She decided the rooster who had awakened her at her Cotswolds pub that morning was a speckled Sussex.

Or not.

She checked the Maine weather for the weekend.

Cold. Chance of snow.

What else had she expected?

I didn’t grow up in a Norman Rockwell painting
, Mike had told her.
Rock Point is a real place.

It had to be to have produced him.

Ted Kavanagh was probably right and she was playing with fire.

“What else is new?” she asked aloud, then shut her laptop and set it on the nightstand. She switched off the light and crawled back under the comforter.

This time, she was positive she could hear the steady, rhythmic wash of the tide.

Reed Cooper hadn’t told her everything on the drive to Heathrow about his reasons for this get-together at the Plum Tree. She had good instincts for when pieces were missing from a story, even if she didn’t know what they were. Reed was confident and smooth, but she’d noticed his tight grip on the wheel earlier today, the hard set to his jaw.

Yeah.
Something was up.

Naomi concentrated on the sounds of the ocean. A good night’s sleep, and she would be ready in the morning to deal with ex-soldiers, rogue FBI agents and Maine wilderness guides.

12

Emma lay in the dark on a cold wide-board floor. She hadn’t moved in what might have been hours but she suspected had been considerably less than that. But she’d been here for hours, in this room—bound at first, aching but relatively unharmed.

She was alone, at least in her makeshift prison cell.

She could hear the ocean and let the sounds wash over her, as if she were lying on a sandy beach on a hot summer night. After a few minutes, she sat up and leaned against a plaster wall, stretching her legs out in front of her. She listened to the waves, any thoughts and emotions flowing with the tide, never staying, never overtaking her.

She tucked her knees under her chin. She needed to stay warm. She was in an unheated barn or shed—some kind of outbuilding. Bound, barely able to breathe, she had survived the short drive to this place. Her attacker had dumped her in here. Out of the trunk, straight into the shed—like unloading a heavy sack of road sand in one swift motion.

That meant a driveway or road was close to the room’s single door.

A long list of places she could be. But did it even matter?

Was there more than one attacker? She hadn’t heard anyone else in the car, but someone could have been tucked up front, stayed silent—or she hadn’t been able to hear a passenger from the trunk. She was fairly certain only one person had dumped her in the shed. No help.

Man? Woman?

She couldn’t say for certain.

She’d managed to untangle herself from the blanket first, working deliberately, careful not to thrash and make her situation worse, knot herself inside the shroud of fleece. Once free, she had tackled the bounds on her hands and feet. Simple bungee cords, enough to restrain her temporarily but not for long. It hadn’t been difficult to get them off. Her attacker must have known it wouldn’t be.

Finally able to move and breathe freely, she had examined herself for any injuries, in case her mind was playing tricks on her or she had been drugged without realizing it. But there was nothing except for bruises on her right side from being tossed in the car and into the shed. No nausea, spinning head or other signs of having been drugged or incurred permanent damage from the choke hold.

She’d been locked up and was relatively unharmed. What did that mean? What did it say about her attacker’s intentions?

It was too dark to know for certain but she doubted there was food or water in her makeshift prison cell. If she didn’t find a way out...

Don’t think about that now.

A ray of light took her by surprise. It came from above her. She looked up and saw the sliver of moon shining in the clearing night sky, through a window in the rafters. She hadn’t noticed it with the fog. It was a normal-size window but installed on its side, as if it had been lying around and put to use. What did that tell her about where she was? The owner was practical, frugal—or had been. The window could have been installed decades ago. The building could be on property now owned by a wealthy summer resident.

Emma fixed her gaze on the moon. If she could climb up to the window, she could figure out where she was and whether her attacker was in the immediate vicinity and had allies. She could even get out through the window. But it was a good twelve feet up there, and she was wobbly. She needed to be smart about her tactics. Falling and breaking a leg wasn’t an option.

She shivered but at least she had her coat. Her hat and gloves were gone, along with her cell phone. She wrapped the blanket over her head like a kerchief but shuddered at the memory of nearly suffocating.

Why not kill me outright?

Did her attacker plan to come back and question her? Was this part of a plan to get ransom? She was a member of an elite FBI unit, a Sharpe. She knew the identity of an international art thief who had stolen art worth millions.

Where is Oliver’s package?

Was
that
what the attack was about? It felt, oddly, both impulsive and planned. Perhaps her attacker had arrived to collect the package about the same time she had and had been prepared to grab anyone in the way.

None of that mattered now. She had to focus her energy on getting out of here.

She shut her eyes. She couldn’t hear any vehicles, boats or people, but on a cold New England night in February, that didn’t tell her much. Shivering, she tucked her hands into her coat pockets. She felt something, then smiled—her first smile in hours—as she discovered a small bag of dried fruit and nuts in her left coat pocket.

Fill us at daybreak with your love, that all our days we sing for joy.

The motto of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart burst into her mind. The words were from Psalm 90. She could see the sisters working in the convent gardens, going about their daily chores, teaching, assessing damaged art. They were real women with real lives, and she appreciated her time with them. But she was no longer Sister Brigid, no longer a part of that world.

She could feel Colin close to her, hear him breathing as if he were with her here in the dark and the cold. This was her life now. She was an FBI agent, and she was engaged to a man she loved with all her heart.

Had he managed to get back to Boston tonight? Had he and Sam Padgett gone out for a beer together?

Was Colin home now, in their bed, thinking of her?

He wouldn’t know she had canceled her convent retreat. She hadn’t had a chance to tell him.

She shut her eyes, listening again to the ocean. When Colin figured out she was missing, he would be angry, but he would also be focused and determined.

And he would find her.