An escape to an idyllic Irish seaside village is about to turn deadly in this riveting new novel by master of romantic suspense Carla Neggers

For marine biologist Julianne Maroney, two weeks in tiny Declan’s Cross on the south Irish coast is a chance to heal her broken heart. She doesn’t expect to attract the attention of FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan—especially since a Donovan is the reason for her broken heart.

Emma and Colin are in Ireland for their own personal retreat. Colin knows he’s a reminder of everything Julianne wants to escape, but something about her trip raises his suspicion. Emma, an art crimes expert, is also on edge. Of all the Irish villages Julianne could choose…why Declan’s Cross?

Ten years ago, a thief slipped into a mansion in Declan’s Cross. Emma’s grandfather, a renowned art detective, investigated, but the art stolen that night has never been recovered and the elusive thief never caught. From the moment Julianne sets foot on Irish soil, everything goes wrong. The well-connected American diver who invited her to Ireland has disappeared. And now Emma and Colin are in Declan’s Cross asking questions.

As a dark conspiracy unfolds amid the breathtaking scenery of Declan’s Cross, the race is on to stop a ruthless killer…and the stakes have never been more personal for Emma and Colin.

Declan’s Cross

Carla Neggers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Oona, daughter of my daughter. Welcome, baby girl!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Author's Note

Excerpt

Prologue

A COLD, GUSTY wind swept up from the Celtic Sea, whistling and shrieking in the rocks and ruins as Lindsey Hargreaves jumped over a puddle in the muddy, rutted lane. She didn’t care about the weather. She was happy to be out of her car. She would never get used to Irish roads, and this one was worse than most—if one could call it a road. It curved up from the tiny village of Declan’s Cross, hugging sea cliffs, twisting through fields of grazing sheep and finally dead-ending at a stone wall tucked between two small hills at the tip of what locals called Shepherd Head.

Her rented Mini barely fit into the small hollow, but she was confident it wouldn’t be spotted from the water or farther down the lane.

That was good. She didn’t want anyone to see her.

She noticed a holly tree poking up from the November-browned hedges, rushes and ferns that grew along the stone wall. Its waxen, evergreen leaves glistened with raindrops from an earlier shower.

Wasn’t holly supposed to bring good luck?

“I hope so,” she whispered.

A muddy trail led up through wind-stunted trees to a rock ledge with a precipitous drop to the cobble-and-boulder coastline. Lindsey had never been up there and couldn’t see the ledge from the lane, but she had seen it from the water.

And the crosses.

She’d seen them, too. Three stone Celtic crosses rising from golden-copper grass on the small hill at the tip of the headland. She looked up at them now, standing tall against the gray clouds of the damp, gloomy November afternoon. They marked old graves next to the ruin of a small church on the other side of the stone wall. She’d read there’d been a church dedicated to Saint Declan on this spot for more than a thousand years.

Whose graves, Lindsey wondered, were up there on the hill? She tried to imagine the rough, simple life the last residents of this place must have endured. Had they died in the horrible mid-nineteenth century Irish famine? Had they joined the mass emigration to other parts of the world? America, Canada, Australia?

What would she have done in their position?

Survived, she thought.

Her natural enthusiasm and optimism, coupled with her instinct for survival, would see her through what she had to do out here.

She tightened her sweater around her. She hadn’t brought a jacket or even a raincoat. She wore too-tight jeans, the same dark gray as her sweater, and black boots more suited to the Dublin streets where she’d spent the past two days than out here on the south Irish coast. An Hermès scarf with its cheerful mix of reds, blues and purples added a splash of color to her outfit. It was a birthday gift from her father, his first birthday gift to her in years. She’d deliberately worn it to breakfast with him in Dublin that morning.

Handsome, wealthy, lonely David Hargreaves. Smiling awkwardly as he’d complimented her on the scarf, forgetting he’d bought it for her himself just a few months ago.

Lindsey hadn’t reminded him. She couldn’t let the gift or his offer to have her move into the guesthouse of his home on Boston’s North Shore fool her. He would always be the reluctant adoptive father who kept her at a safe, arm’s-length distance.

She’d picked him up at the Dublin airport on Saturday and had spent yesterday with him, taking him to her favorite Dublin sights. The Book of Kells and the Long Room at Trinity College Library, Dublin Castle, Temple Bar, Grafton Street. They’d strolled through quiet St. Stephen’s Green and Georgian Dublin with its famous painted doors, then had dinner at a five-star restaurant, talking about their mutual love for the world’s oceans.

“I’m enjoying this father-daughter time together,” he’d told her.

Lindsey believed him, but she had no illusions. He preferred solitude. He always had, even during his eight-year marriage to her mother.

Her sweet, artistic, vulnerable mother who had died drunk and broke, still desperate for his attention and approval.

They’d married when Lindsey was five and divorced when she was thirteen. Her mother had kept the Hargreaves name and died when Lindsey was eighteen. She was twenty-eight now. Time to put past hurts behind her.

She just had to do it her way.

Her father had caught her off-guard that morning at breakfast when he’d told her he was extending his stay in Ireland. His business in London, his reason for this overseas trip, could wait.

He’d be in Ardmore tonight. Declan’s Cross tomorrow.

“I’ve booked a couple of nights at a two-bedroom cottage on the grounds of a boutique hotel in Declan’s Cross,” he’d told her. “I plan to arrive late tomorrow afternoon. You’re more than welcome to stay with me.”

Lindsey had felt cornered.

She’d told him so many lies.

He knows, she’d thought, staring at her plain yogurt and berries—which she’d ordered because it was what he’d ordered.

Finally she’d mumbled, “I know the hotel you mean. It’s only been open a year. You’ll love it. I’d join you, but I’m staying with a friend. We’re sharing a cottage within walking distance of the village.”

“What friend is this?”

“She’s a marine biologist from Maine.”

Lindsey had welcomed the change in subject and, as she’d left breakfast, told her father she looked forward to seeing him in Declan’s Cross.

“Enjoy Ardmore,” she’d said, keeping any bitterness out of her tone.

His pale blue eyes had taken on a warmth and a distance that together she found disconcerting. “You understand why I’m going, don’t you?”

“I do, Dad, yes.”

“Your mother loved Ardmore.” He’d looked away, then added, “Good memories.”

Lindsey had pretended she hadn’t heard him. Good memories? When they’d gotten back from Ireland, he and her mother had separated.

But her mother had loved the south Irish coast. “It’s magical, Lindsey. Absolutely magical.”

Lindsey didn’t want to see her father in Declan’s Cross. She couldn’t bear having him confront her about her lies.

So many lies.

She blinked back tears. She needed to concentrate. If she tripped and were incapacitated, she’d fast be in danger of hypothermia in the cold, wet conditions. No one would come looking for her. No one even knew she was in Declan’s Cross, never mind out here. She’d made sure.

She was on her own.

“I can pull this off,” she said aloud.

The wind shrieked again, whipping her scarf into her face.

She thought she heard someone above her on the trail, but it had to be the wind, the ocean, maybe a bird. No one else was out here—except maybe the ghosts of the Irish dead.

She suppressed a shudder and stepped over another puddle in the muddy lane.

Lies, lies and more lies.

It was her way.

1

EMMA SHARPE PAUSED atop a craggy knoll and looked out at the ripples of barren hills, not a house, a road, a car or another person in sight. She didn’t know what had become of her hiking partner. Maybe he had stepped up to his midcalves in mud and muck, too, but she doubted it. It wasn’t that Colin Donovan wasn’t capable of taking a misstep. It was that she’d have heard him cursing if he had.

A fat, woolly sheep stared up at her from the boggy grass as if to say, “You might be an FBI agent back in Boston, but out here in the Irish hills, you’re just another hiker with wet feet.”

“This is true,” Emma said, setting her backpack on the expanse of rough gray rock. “However, I’m prepared. I have dry socks.”

She unzipped her pack and dug out a pair of fresh wool socks. The sheep bleated and meandered off, disappearing behind another knoll, one of a series on the windswept ridge on the Beara Peninsula, one of the fingers of land that jutted into the North Atlantic off the southwest coast of Ireland. It had been centuries since these hills were forested. She could see peeks of Kenmare Bay in the distance, its calm waters blue-gray in the midafternoon November light. Across the bay, shrouded in mist but still distinct, were the jagged ridges of the Macgillicuddy Reeks.

Emma kicked off her shoes, sat on the bare rock ledge and pulled off her wet socks. She glanced down at the narrow valley directly below her, a small lake shimmering in the fading sunlight. She and Colin were five hours into their six-hour hike. With the short November days, they would get back to their car just before dark.

As she put on her dry socks, he came around the knoll where her sheep had disappeared. A light breeze caught the ends of his dark hair, and he had his backpack hooked on one arm as he jumped over the wet spot that had fooled her.

He climbed up onto her knoll and dropped his pack next to hers. “I like having you walk point,” he said with a grin.

“No fair. You saw my footprint in the mud.”

“I’ll never tell.”

Emma leaned back against her outstretched arms. She had on a wool hat, her fair hair knotted at the nape of her neck. She had pulled her gloves on and off over the course of the day. She didn’t know if Colin had even packed a hat and gloves. He was, she thought, the sexiest man she had ever met. Small scars on his right cheek and by his left eye from fights he said he had won. She had no doubt. He was strongly built, rugged and utterly relentless.

A good man to have on your side in a fight.

She was fit and lean and could handle herself in a fight, and although she wasn’t tiny, he could easily carry her up a flight of stairs. In fact, he had, more than once.

They had set out early. For the past two weeks, they had explored the southwest Irish coast on foot and by car, by mutual agreement avoiding talk of arms traffickers, thieves, poison, attempted murder and alligators. Colin would wink at her and say he especially didn’t want to talk about alligators, not that he had seen one on his narrow escape from killers in South Florida. Thinking about them had been enough.

By unspoken agreement, he and Emma also avoided talk of their futures with the FBI—or even each other. His months of intense undercover work, in an environment where everyone was a potential enemy, had taken a toll, and he needed this time to be in the present, to be himself.

Emma’s needs were simpler. She just wanted to be with him.

It was her life that was complicated.

She sat up straight, noticing that Colin’s boots and cargo pants were splattered with mud but not wet like hers. She grinned at him. “You do know I’ve spent more time hiking the Irish hills than you have, don’t you?”

“Beneath that placid exterior beats the heart of a competitive federal agent.” He made no move to sit next to her. “Your mishap gives me an excuse to run a hot bath for you when we get back to the cottage.”

“Life could be worse. You’re not bored, are you?”

“I can go more than two weeks without anyone trying to kill me.”

As he stood next to her on her boulder, his smile almost reached his stone-gray eyes.

Almost.

He offered her a sip from his water bottle, but she shook her head. He took a long drink as he gazed out at the hills. Except for the occasional baa of the grazing, half-wild sheep, the silence was complete.

“What are you thinking about, Colin?”

“Guinness.”

“A cold pint and a warm pub. Sounds perfect.”

He leaned down and touched the curve of his hand to her cheek. “It’s been good being here with you.” He winked at her as he stood straight. “Mud and sheep dung and all.”

Emma sighed as she slipped back into her trail shoes and tied the laces. “No escaping sheep dung out here, is there? I wasn’t distracted when I stepped in the wet spot. I just misjudged. There’s a difference.”

“But you do have a lot on your mind,” Colin said.

She always did. Their jobs with the FBI attested to their different natures. He was an undercover agent. She specialized in art crimes. She was analytical, methodical, detail-oriented. He was direct, intuitive, quick and decisive—and independent to a fault. Six weeks ago, he had been assigned to her small team in Boston, if only because the senior agent in charge was determined to rein him in.

Good luck with that, Emma thought. She stood, lifted her backpack and slung it over her shoulders. “The rest of the way is all downhill.”

“Have you ever done this hike before?”

She shook her head. “First time.”

“It’s a good spot,” he said, tucking his water bottle in his pack.

“I’m glad we did this before I go home.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

It was Monday. She had a flight back to Boston on Friday. She’d be at her desk a week from today. Colin had more time before he had to decide what was next for him. Not a lot more time, but he could stay in Ireland for a while longer, without her.

She angled a look at him. “Anything on your mind, Colin?”

“I had an email from Andy in my in-box this morning. He sent it last night. I didn’t read it until just now, while I ate an energy bar and admired the view. Reading email is against our hiking rules, I know.”

“A sign it’s time to get back to work, maybe.” Emma gave him a moment but he didn’t take the bait and respond, and she let it go. “How are things in Rock Point?”

“Andy says Julianne Maroney is leaving for Ireland tonight.”

“Tonight? Isn’t that sudden?”

“She’s just accepted a marine biology internship in Cork that starts in January. She decided to come for a couple weeks now and get herself sorted out. It’s sudden, but that’s Julianne.”

“So, she’s staying in Cork?”

“A village east of Cork. Declan’s Cross.”

Declan’s Cross.

Emma went still as a dozen images came at her at once. A pretty seaside Irish village of brightly colored shops and residences. A romantic mansion with sweeping views of cliffs and sea. Haunting Celtic crosses on a grassy hilltop.

A tight-lipped old Irish sheep farmer.

Her grandfather, Wendell Sharpe, a renowned art detective, pacing in his Dublin office as he admitted he and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery were after a thief they couldn’t catch.

A thief, Emma thought, who had first struck in tiny Declan’s Cross on a lonely, rainy, dark November night ten years ago.

She’d only become involved in the case four years ago, in the months between her life as Sister Brigid at the coastal Maine convent of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart and her life as a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She’d worked side by side with her grandfather in Dublin, learning everything he knew.

Not everything.

Wendell Sharpe never told anyone everything.

She was aware of Colin’s eyes narrowed on her. He wouldn’t know about the thief. There was no reason for him to know.

She pushed back her thoughts. “Why Declan’s Cross, Colin?”

“Emma...”

“Just tell me what you know. Please.”

“All right.” He was plainly suspicious now. “A woman who’s launching a marine science research facility in Declan’s Cross stopped in Rock Point last week. She and Julianne hit it off. Now Julianne’s meeting her there.”

“To help with this research facility?”

“Andy doesn’t have any details. He hasn’t talked to Julianne himself.

“Then who told him?”

“Her brother. Ryan. He’s in the Coast Guard, but he’s in Rock Point visiting for a few days. He found out from their grandmother. Julianne lives with her.”

Rock Point was a small, tight-knit southern Maine fishing village. Everyone knew everyone else’s business, but Julianne’s short-lived romance with Andy Donovan, third-born of the four Donovan brothers, apparently had come as a surprise, especially since she’d vowed never to get involved with a Donovan. Emma didn’t know either Andy or Julianne well. She’d only met Colin in September and was still figuring out who was who in his hometown.

“What’s this woman’s name?” she asked. “Do we know her?”

“Her name’s Lindsey Hargreaves. I don’t know her.”

Hargreaves. Emma searched her memory but shook her head. “I don’t, either. Did she come to Rock Point looking for Julianne?”

“I don’t have any details. I just know Julianne’s on her way to Ireland.”

“And you don’t like it.”

“Julianne’s as smart as they come, but she’s impulsive and she’s had a rough time lately. She’s never been that far from home. I doubt she’s been farther than Nova Scotia. Now all of a sudden she’s meeting some strange woman in a little Irish village.”

“Are you concerned she’s running away because of her breakup with Andy?”

“I know she is,” Colin said half under his breath. “This trip could be exactly what she needs, but I’d feel better if she wasn’t alone.”

“We could drive over to Declan’s Cross tomorrow,” Emma said.

He tilted his head back, eyed her again. “We could, but what’s going on? I noticed your look when I mentioned Declan’s Cross. Emma, is there a Sharpe connection to this village?”

She sighed. “We can talk on the hike back to the car.”

2

THEY DIDN’T TALK on the hike back to their car or the drive back to their borrowed cottage in the Kerry hills across Kenmare Bay. Colin drove. He’d adjusted quickly to driving on the left, but the high, thick hedges and narrow roads—each with its own quirks—kept him on alert.

He’d known he and Emma wouldn’t talk the moment he’d mentioned Declan’s Cross and she’d given him that tight look. He liked to joke that he could do deep-cover work because he himself wasn’t deep, but Emma was. She had layers of secrets. Sharpe secrets, Sister Brigid secrets, FBI secrets.

Emma secrets.

He didn’t have secrets. He just had stuff he couldn’t talk about.

And he had his demons. He’d come to Ireland because of them. His months of undercover work had taken a toll not just on him but on his family and friends—and on Emma, even in the short time they’d known each other. They’d met in September on his brief respite at home in Rock Point.

Then he went away again, and when he came back, he’d brought some of his bad guys with him.

The short version, he thought as he pulled into the gravel driveway of the little stone cottage he and Emma had shared for the past two weeks. He’d stayed here on his own for several days before she couldn’t stand it any longer—as she’d put it—and got on a plane in Boston, flew to Shannon, rented a car and found him.

Colin hadn’t asked her to turn around and go back to Boston without him.

Maybe he should have.

It was dark now, the wind shifting, turning blustery. He glanced at Emma, but she had already clicked off her seat belt and was slipping out of the car.

Definitely preoccupied.

He was in no rush. Let her take all the time she needed before she told him about the Sharpes and Declan’s Cross. Wendell Sharpe had lived and worked in Dublin for the past fifteen years. Whatever was on her mind likely involved him. Colin had drunk whiskey with old Wendell. Interesting fellow. Maybe not quite the analytical thinker his granddaughter was but definitely a man with secrets.

Colin got out of the car, not minding the spray of cold rain. He grabbed their packs from the back and headed up a pebbled path to the cottage. The front door was painted a glossy blue, a contrast to the gray stone exterior. Finian Bracken, the owner, an Irish priest serving a parish in Rock Point, had told Colin to stay as long as he wanted. They’d become friends over the past few months, maybe as much because of their differences as in spite of them.

Fin couldn’t bring himself to stay in the cottage. It was a reminder of his life before the priesthood, when he’d been a successful businessman, a husband and a father. He and his wife had renovated the tiny ruin of a place, adding a bathroom, kitchen, skylights, richly colored fabrics. It had been their refuge, he’d told Colin, a favorite spot to spend time with their two daughters.

Never in Fin’s worst nightmares had he imagined he would lose all three of them. Sally, little Kathleen and Mary. They’d drowned seven years ago in a freak sailing accident.

Fin had removed any personal mementoes, but Colin thought he could feel the presence of his friend’s lost wife and daughters and the happy times they’d had there.

He set the packs on the tile floor and pulled the door shut behind him. He liked being here. He liked having Emma here. The rest would sort itself out.

He watched her as she got on her knees and carefully, methodically, placed sods of turf in the stone fireplace. Colin liked the smell of burning peat, and a fire would warm up the single room and loft in minutes.

She rolled back onto her heels and stared at the fire as it took hold. Then she glanced up at him, the flames reflecting in her green eyes. “I hate to leave this place,” she said.

“Ah, yes.” He moved closer to her. “The cold, cruel world awaits.”

She stood, and he slipped an arm around her waist, kissed the top of her head. Even her hair smelled like mud, but he didn’t mind. She leaned into him. “I thought we’d have a few more nights together here. It’s the most romantic cottage ever, isn’t it? But we need to go to Declan’s Cross, Colin. At least I do.”

“There is a Sharpe connection to this village, then.”

She eased an arm around his middle, the lingering tentativeness of even two weeks ago gone now. “I’ve reserved a room at the O’Byrne House Hotel,” she said. “It’s on the water, right in the village of Declan’s Cross.”

“That was fast.”

“The joys of smartphones.”

And she’d had her plan fixed in her mind when they’d arrived back from their hike. “Have you ever been to Declan’s Cross?” he asked.

“Once, when I worked with my grandfather in Dublin. I was only there for the day. The O’Byrne House wasn’t a hotel then. It was a rambling, boarded-up private home. It opened as a hotel last fall. Apparently its spa is quite nice.”

“A spa,” Colin said, as if he were translating a foreign language.

“I bet it offers a couple’s massage.”

“Dream on, Emma.”

She grinned. “I think you’d enjoy a hot stone massage.”

“I’d rather have you heat up my stones, Special Agent Sharpe.”

“You’re hopeless.” She tightened her hold on him, her grin gone now. “Massages are good for demon fighting.”

He wasn’t going to be distracted by talk of his demons. He drew her against him. “What’s good for extracting Sharpe secrets?”

“There are secrets and there are confidences, and there are things I just can’t tell you.” She broke away from him and grabbed a black-iron poker, stirred the fire. “I wish I had a fireplace in my apartment in Boston.”

“Emma.”

She turned, and now the hot flames deepened the green of her eyes. “It was a great hike today, but I smell like dried mud, sweat and sheep dung.”

“Just mud,” he said.

“Such a gentleman. I’ve no regrets. I love hiking the Irish hills.”

Still trying to change the subject, or at least delay telling him what was going on. He wasn’t easily put off. “Roaming the Irish hills is different from figuring out what drives people to steal art. Is Declan’s Cross the scene of an art heist the Sharpes investigated?”

Emma sank onto a bright blue-and-white rug in front of the fireplace, kicked off her shoes and tucked her knees under her chin as she stared at the flames. “It’s the scene of an art heist we’re still investigating.”

Colin remained on his feet. He was restless, but he knew he had to be patient. An unsolved art theft was right up Emma’s alley as both a Sharpe and an FBI agent. “What was stolen?” he asked.

“Three Irish landscape paintings and an unusual Celtic cross.” She still didn’t look up from the fire. “They were stolen from the O’Byrne House ten years ago, on a dark November night much like tonight.”

“Your grandfather investigated?”

“Not at first. Not until after another theft in Amsterdam six months later.”

“The work of the same thief?”

“We believe so, yes. He’s struck at least eight more times since then. London, Paris, Oslo, Venice, San Francisco, Dallas, Brussels and Prague.”

“A different city each time?”

“Yes.”

“Patterns?”

She hesitated, then said, “Some.”

She didn’t go on. Colin sat next to her, feeling the warmth of the slow-burning fire, her intensity. “Declan’s Cross was his first hit?”

“We believe so, yes. It’s also the smallest location, and the only one in Ireland.”

“Any viable leads?”

“Almost none.”

“And of all the cute Irish villages, Julianne picks this one. Okay. I get it. You want to make sure her choice of Declan’s Cross doesn’t have anything to do with your thief.”

“I have no reason to suspect it does. We can scoot over there tomorrow, welcome Julianne to Ireland, spend the night in a romantic Irish hotel and then get out of the way and let her enjoy her stay.”

“Without a Donovan breathing down her neck,” Colin added.

“If she’s making this trip in part to get over Andy...then, yes, she deserves to be Donovan-free.”

Colin stretched out his legs. “All right. Let’s check out Declan’s Cross and see what Julianne’s up to. If it’s just whales and dolphins, you’re on for that couple’s massage.”

“You jest now, but wait until you’ve had one.”

“Jest.” He smiled at her. “I don’t know if I’ve ever used jest in a sentence.”

“Making fun of me, are you?”

She didn’t look at all worried. “Never.” He edged closer to her. “What were you like four years ago when you were working with old Wendell in Dublin?”

“Not as good with a gun for one thing.”

“Quantico changed you.”

“I learned new things there, most certainly. Did it change you?”

He shrugged. “Not that much.”

“You were in law enforcement before you entered the academy. I wasn’t. My grandfather can’t break the law, but he doesn’t have to follow the same rules we do.”

“In other words, he doesn’t care about prosecuting this thief. He just cares about catching him.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

“You’re a complex woman of many interests. I’m a simple man of limited interests. Whiskey, sex and—” Colin grinned at her. “I can get by on whiskey and sex for some time.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Good.” He lowered his mouth to hers. “No more questions, Emma. No more thinking. Not tonight.”

3

JULIANNE MARONEY WAS half in love with Father Bracken and totally in love with Andy Donovan, and that, she thought, was reason enough to head to Ireland. She grabbed a coffeepot and headed across the dining room to Father Bracken’s table. It was a dreary afternoon in southern Maine, and she was wrapping up her shift at Hurley’s, a popular, rustic restaurant on Rock Point harbor.

This time tomorrow, she’d be in Declan’s Cross on the south Irish coast.

She’d accepted a marine biology internship in Cork, but it didn’t start until January. Impatient, going crazy, she’d jumped when opportunity had knocked last week in the shape of Lindsey Hargreaves, a diver, a marine science enthusiast and a member of the family that had founded the prestigious Hargreaves Oceanographic Institute in Massachusetts.

Impulsive, maybe, but Julianne didn’t care. She was packed. Her flight to Shannon left tonight.

She arrived at Father Bracken’s table overlooking the harbor. “Not much of a view today, Father,” she said, refilling his mug. “Gray rain, gray sky, gray ocean.”

He smiled up at her. “I’m Irish. Wet weather doesn’t bother me.”

He’d ordered fried eggs, ham, toast and jam, a late breakfast by Rock Point standards but not, he insisted, all that late by Irish standards. He’d taken his time, reading a book and jotting notes in a black Moleskine. The lunch crowd, such as it was on a Monday in November, was in now, mostly locals—fishermen, carpenters, retirees, a group of young mothers with babies in tow.

No Donovans, at least not yet.

There were four Donovan brothers—gray-eyed, dark-haired, rugged, sexier than any men had a right to be and not one of them even remotely easy.

They said Finian Bracken reminded them of Bono. Maybe with a little Colin Firth, Julianne thought as she checked to make sure he had enough cream in the little stainless-steel pitcher. He was in his late thirties, relatively new to the priesthood. In his early twenties, he and his twin brother, Declan, had started a whiskey business in Ireland. Bracken Distillers was a success, but the tragic deaths of Finian’s wife and daughters had changed everything.

Julianne didn’t have many details and wasn’t sure she wanted any. She couldn’t fathom such a loss. He’d left Ireland in June to serve a one-year assignment at struggling St. Patrick’s, the Maroney family’s church a few blocks from Rock Point harbor.

He wore his usual priestly black garb. She had on knee-high boots, dark brown leggings and a Hurley’s-required white shirt and dark blue apron. She had her hair tied back. It was golden brown, and Andy used to tell her its natural highlights matched the gold flecks in her hazel eyes.

“You must be about to leave for the airport,” Father Bracken said. “How are you getting there?”

“My brother’s dropping me off.”

“Will you be seeing Colin and Emma while you’re in Ireland?”

She almost reminded him that Colin was a Donovan but instead said, “They’re in the southwest, and they’re supposed to be relaxing.”

Father Bracken’s midnight-blue eyes leveled on her. He had to be aware of the complicated dynamics of Colin’s relationship with Emma Sharpe and the reaction of his family and friends in Rock Point to her. An FBI agent, an ex-nun, a Sharpe. She and Colin were, to say the least, an eyebrow-raising match.

“Have you told them you’re coming?” Father Bracken asked.

“No, but it’s fine. They don’t need to know. I wouldn’t want to interrupt their time together.” Julianne stopped herself, which wasn’t her style. Usually she said too much, not too little. “You haven’t told them about my trip, have you?”

“I wouldn’t without your permission,” he said simply.

She felt her cheeks flame. “Oh, right, of course not. I hope they’re having a good time, and Emma isn’t finding out the hard way what rock heads the Donovan men can be.” She gave Father Bracken a quick smile. “Sorry, Father.”

His mouth twitched with humor. “No worries.”

“I can handle Colin. It’s not that. I’m used to Donovans.”

And she’d never slept with Colin. Never even considered it. She’d known better than to get mixed up with any of the Donovans. Mike, the eldest, was an ex-army wilderness guide on Maine’s Bold Coast. Then came Colin, an FBI agent. Kevin, the youngest, was a Maine state marine patrol officer. But it was third-born Andy, a lobsterman who restored classic boats on the side, who had captured her heart.

She’d slept with him, all right. One of the stupidest things she’d ever done.

Father Bracken was frowning at her, but if he guessed what she was thinking, he kept it to himself. She smiled. “Sorry. Mind wandering.”

“No apology necessary. Be sure to tell Sean Murphy I said hello.”

Sean Murphy owned the cottage Julianne was renting in Declan’s Cross. She’d expected to stay in a bed-and-breakfast, but Father Bracken had arranged for the cottage after she’d brought him his fried eggs yesterday morning and told him about her trip. He and his fellow Irishman were friends somehow. Julianne didn’t have any details. She was curious but felt awkward prying into Father Bracken’s private life.

“I will,” she said. “He’s not a priest, is he?”

“No, but he’ll look after you if you need anything.”

“This will be great. I’m really excited. I can get the lay of the land, figure things out ahead of my internship. I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve told my folks and my brother, and Granny, naturally, but I don’t need everyone in town knowing my business.”

“Meaning the Donovans,” Father Bracken said with a smile.

“Trust me, it’ll be easier if I just go on my way without the benefit of their opinion of my sanity.”

“Well, then. Godspeed, Julianne. Give my love to Ireland.”

“Thanks, Father, I will.”

She withdrew with her coffeepot. She felt good about her impromptu trip. It wasn’t just a chance to get things sorted out for January or even to put space between her and Andy. She would also be helping with her new friend’s marine science field station.

She and Lindsey Hargreaves had hit it off when Lindsey had stopped at Hurley’s last Wednesday. Not even a week ago. Lindsey had explained that she and some diving friends had been diving in Declan’s Cross that fall, and she’d had the idea of launching a field station there. She’d flown home for a few days to work on some of the details.

A mutual friend in Declan’s Cross had mentioned Finian Bracken, co-owner of Bracken Distillers and now a priest in America, and Lindsey had thought it would be fun to say hello while she was in southern Maine for a day trip. She hadn’t given Julianne the name of the mutual friend, but now she wondered if it was Sean Murphy.

Short, slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed, Lindsey had a contagious energy and enthusiasm about her, and Julianne had volunteered to show her around the area. They’d spent the afternoon together, then stayed in touch by email after Lindsey went home that night and returned to Ireland on an overnight flight on Thursday. When she indicated she’d love to get Julianne’s take on the field station, Julianne had seized the moment and booked a round-trip ticket for a two-week stay.

Tomorrow, they would be sharing the cottage Father Bracken had arranged. Lindsey had been only too happy to take a break from the “primitive” conditions at the building she’d rented in Declan’s Cross for her soon-to-be field station.

Julianne was convinced that as last-minute as this trip was, it was the right thing for her to do. Her grandfather would be pleased, too, she thought with a rush of affection. Jack Maroney had died last year, far too soon. He’d unexpectedly left her some money, with instructions that she was to go a little nuts with it, have some fun and not be in such a grind all the time. Julianne thought he’d love Declan’s Cross. If the photographs she’d found on the internet were at all accurate, it was as adorable an Irish village as she could ever imagine.

She’d had a hard time after her grandfather’s death. She still had her parents and older brother—who were all skeptical of her Ireland adventure. It was November, she was going alone, she was going at the last minute and she didn’t really know the woman who’d invited her. And she had limited funds, even with her grandfather’s mad money. She needed to finish her thesis and get a real job, which she hoped this trip and then her internship would help facilitate.

She had it all rationalized in her mind.

Barely able to contain her excitement, she ducked into a back room and changed into a sweater and jacket. She could smell lunch cooking in Hurley’s spotless kitchen. The kitchen was hopelessly outdated, but some of the best clam chowder in New England came out of its dented pots.

By the time she went back through the dining room, Kevin and Andy Donovan were approaching Father Bracken’s table. There was no way to get out of there without passing them. Julianne tried zipping up her jacket to give herself an excuse not to make eye contact, but Kevin said, “Hey, Julianne. Hanging out with Father Bracken?”

She found the knowing note in his voice annoying. It wasn’t as if she were seriously fixated on Father Bracken. Just mildly fixated. “Not really. You boys having lunch? The soup special is a nice butternut squash bisque. You’ll like it.”

“It sounds orange,” Kevin said.

Andy grinned, then settled his dark gray eyes on her. “I didn’t see your car outside. How are you getting home?”

“Walking.”

“It’s about to rain.”

“Good. I like rain.”

She didn’t tell him she was walking because she knew she had a long drive to the airport and then a long flight ahead of her. She got out of there. She didn’t want Andy finding out about her trip until she was safely aboard her Aer Lingus plane. Rock Point had always been home for her, but she’d lived on campus much of the year as an undergraduate and then a graduate student at the University of Maine. Then in August, immersed in her master’s thesis, struggling with finances, she’d moved in with her recently widowed grandmother in Rock Point and had taken on as many hours as she could at Hurley’s. It didn’t matter what time she was working. A Donovan was always there.

Overexposed, she’d weakened, violating her personal Golden Rule never to get involved with a Donovan. When Andy, the rake, the heartbreaker of Rock Point, had stayed after closing one misty September night, she’d let him walk her home.

She’d been lost from the moment he’d brushed his arm against hers.

This, she thought as the cold November air hit her, was why she was going to Ireland. She had to let go of her anger and misery. She had to get Andy Donovan out of her system and find herself again.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Julianne set her purple soft-sided suitcase on the rug in the entry of her grandmother’s small house on a quiet street between St. Patrick’s Church and Colin Donovan’s Craftsman-style house. Her grandmother stood in the living room doorway, her thin arms crossed on her chest in worried anticipation. At seventy-five, Franny Maroney didn’t bother to pretend she wasn’t a worrier. Her hair used to be as thick and golden brown as Julianne’s, but now it was white, carefully curled once a week at the only beauty parlor in Rock Point.

Granny had dug the purple suitcase out of the attic and presented it to her only granddaughter for her trip, telling her in no uncertain terms that every young woman should have her own suitcase. Not that Granny had ever done much traveling herself. Hence, the pristine condition of the fifteen-year-old suitcase.

“Do you have your passport?” she asked for at least the sixth time.

“Yes, Granny.” Julianne patted the tote bag—her own tote bag—that she planned to take on the plane. “It’s right in here.”

“You’re sure? Sometimes I think I’ve put something in my bag and discover later it’s still home on my dresser. I suppose that’s because I’m old.”

It wasn’t because she was old. Her grandmother had been forgetful for as long as Julianne could remember. “It could also be because you always have a million things going on. You’re not one to be idle.”

Granny seemed to like that. “You’ll send me a postcard from Ireland?”

Julianne smiled. “I’ll send one every day.”

“That’s too expensive. One will do. I don’t mind if you email me photos but I’d love to have a real postcard from Ireland.” She lowered her arms and frowned, her eyes a true blue, unlike Julianne’s gold-flecked hazel. “Do you have a plan for emergencies?”

“I do, Granny.”

It amounted to taking care not to max out her credit card and calling the Irish police if she had an accident or got into trouble, but Julianne didn’t tell her grandmother that. Granny was all about planning for disaster to strike. She’d already warned Julianne about dark fairies. “Not all fairies are good, you know.”

Her grandmother had been telling her as much since she was a tot, reading her bedtime stories about nasty pookas, scary banshees and mischievous leprechauns. Julianne wasn’t inclined to believe in fairies, good or bad. The prospect of a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow or a shrieking banshee warning of imminent death didn’t faze her. She was a marine biologist, not a folklorist.

“Have you told Father Bracken you believe in fairies?”

Granny waved a slender hand. “He’d understand.”

Probably he would, if not just because he was Irish. Church attendance was up at St. Patrick’s since Father Bracken’s arrival in Rock Point. Parishioners insisted they wanted Father Callaghan to return from his yearlong sabbatical, but they were falling in love with their Irish priest. He’d helped Granny get past her anger at God for her husband’s death. Whatever spiritual guidance Finian Bracken had offered, Franny Maroney was back at church and not as depressed and irritable.

Julianne wondered if her crush on Father Bracken was a sin. She would have to find someone else to ask, that was for sure.

She gave her grandmother a quick hug. “You have fun while I’m off to Ireland, okay, Granny?”

“Don’t you worry about me. You just live your life and be happy. I’m fine here on my own.”

“I know you are.”

As Julianne started to grab her suitcase, her grandmother tucked a twenty-dollar bill in her hand. “Buy yourself a Guinness or two while you’re over there.”

Julianne beamed her a smile. “Thanks, Granny. You’re a love.”

“Ireland’s the best place to heal a broken heart.”

Franny Maroney had never stepped foot in her ancestral homeland, either, but Julianne appreciated the sentiment. Everyone in Rock Point knew she had a broken heart, because that’s what Andy Donovan was. A heartbreaker.

She carried her tote bag and suitcase—no wheels—outside and down the front walk to the street. Her brother would be here any minute. Ryan was thirty, the same age as Andy, four years older than she was, and tight with all the Donovans. More proof she’d been dumb to get involved with one of them.

But it wasn’t Ryan’s black truck that pulled in next to her. It was Andy’s rust-colored truck. He had the passenger window rolled down and patted the seat next to him. “Hop in, Jules. I’m driving you to the airport. Ryan can’t make it and I volunteered.”

It was a conspiracy. No doubt in Julianne’s mind, but she had no choice—which Andy would know. She needed to leave now in order to get to Logan Airport the requested three hours ahead of her flight’s departure time. She was following all the rules and guidelines. She’d provided the requested preflight boarding information, checked in online at the appropriate time and printed out her boarding pass. She had any liquids she wanted on board with her in a clear plastic bag. She’d read about what exercises to do on the plane and would fill her empty water bottle after she cleared security. Andy wouldn’t have bothered with any of it. He’d have said, “Use common sense,” and shown up at the airport in the nick of time.

Julianne shoved her suitcase behind the passenger seat and climbed in next to him. She wanted to think it was his rules-breaking nature that had nearly gotten him killed a few weeks ago, but it really wasn’t. He’d been blindsided, attacked by thugs. She’d found him unconscious, drowning in the harbor. As mad as she’d been at him, she’d done all she could to save him. She couldn’t let him just die.

The thugs had been related to one of Colin’s FBI cases.

Obviously he didn’t just work at a desk at FBI headquarters in Washington, as he’d tried to get everyone in Rock Point to believe.

Emma had been involved in the case, too.

Complicated, those two.

“All set?” Andy asked.

Julianne nodded. “Yes. Thanks.”

He had on a thick deep red flannel shirt over jeans. No coat, despite the November cold. She’d debated and debated until finally deciding to wear a long, shawl-like sweater that would keep her warm enough on the way to the airport and once in Ireland but wouldn’t be too bulky and awkward on the plane. She’d packed layers in her suitcase to accommodate whatever conditions she was likely to encounter once she arrived in Declan’s Cross.

She adjusted her sweater. She still had her hair in a ponytail. Back when he’d noticed such things, Andy had told her he’d liked her hair that way. She put that thought right out of her mind and gave him a calm, neutral smile. As if he were a cabdriver. “Did you get out to check your traps this morning?”

“Nope. Not back on the water yet after my mishap. Couple more days.”

His “mishap.” Only a Donovan would regard attempted murder as a mishap. Julianne angled him a look. “You’re following doctor’s orders, aren’t you?”

“More or less.”

“What’s the ‘less’?”

He grinned over at her. “Beer.”

She didn’t know if he was kidding. “If you’re not back on the water yet, is it too much for you to drive me to the airport?”

“Driving to Boston is different from hauling lobster traps, and I wouldn’t be doing it if it was too much.”

Julianne looked out her window without responding. They hadn’t parted as friends when they’d broken up over Columbus Day weekend. She hadn’t, anyway. She’d parted angry, hurt, wanting to smother him in his sleep. No high road for her. As much as anything, it was his obliviousness to her feelings that had gotten to her. He’d been so matter-of-fact in dumping her. “Hey, Jules, we’ve had a good run, but you need to focus on your thesis and finish up your degree. I’m just distracting you.”

He didn’t get it that she’d actually fallen in love with him, never mind that she’d told him so. Another dumb move on her part.

When he’d been attacked by those thugs, she’d wondered if on some level she’d helped make it happen. If all that negative energy she’d lasered at him in her mind had put him in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It wasn’t healthy, that kind of thinking. It wasn’t a sin, though, was it? She hadn’t told Father Bracken because she knew, deep down, that she hadn’t wanted Andy hurt. Not really.

No. She really had wanted him hurt. Or thought she had.

“What’s on your mind, Jules?”

“My trip. I’m excited.” It wasn’t an outright lie since for most of the past few days, since she’d first considered an early trip to Ireland, it was all she’d thought about. “Do you want to go to Ireland someday?”

“I guess. I don’t know. Maybe I could pick up an Irish accent. That could be good. You should hear my mother go on about Finian’s Irish accent.”

“Granny, too. She loves it. You call Father Bracken by his first name? I can’t. It feels... I don’t know. Too familiar.”

“I’m not that much of a churchgoer. Mostly he and I just have the occasional shot of whiskey together.”

“But if something happened to you, you’d want—” Julianne gulped in a breath at what she’d been about to say. “Never mind.”

Andy cast her an amused look. “I’d want him to bury me, you mean?”

“Visit you in the hospital is what I was thinking.”

His grin broadened. “No, it wasn’t. Finian did visit me when I was recuperating.”

“Right. Of course.”

She remembered the terror she’d felt when she’d spotted Andy unconscious in the water. She’d jumped off the dock, tried to save him as his brothers had come running in response to her screams for help. They’d leaped into the water and dragged him out to safety.

Suddenly she was desperate to change the subject. “Aer Lingus is in Terminal E.”

“You’ll be in Ireland two weeks?”

“That’s right.”

“Renting a car?”

She shook her head.

He eased his truck into the right lane, traffic picking up as they got closer to the city. “Driving on the left makes you nervous?”

It did, but she wasn’t admitting as much to him, in part because it wasn’t the main reason she wasn’t renting a car. “Renting a car is expensive, and I won’t need one.”

“Is someone picking you up at the airport, or are you taking a bus or something?”

“Lindsey Hargreaves is meeting me at the airport.”

“She’s American, right? Not Irish?”

Julianne nodded. “That’s right.”

“Another marine biologist?”

“She’s a diver and a marine science enthusiast. She loves whales and dolphins.”

He shrugged. “Everyone loves whales and dolphins.” He held up a hand. “Don’t get mad, Jules. I’m not making fun of you.”

As a biologist, she specialized in marine mammal research. Andy wasn’t a student. He could be defensive, or maybe she just thought he could be defensive—it didn’t matter anymore, did it? She sighed, kept her tone neutral as she said, “That’s good.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, as confident in Boston traffic as he was in his boat on the Atlantic. “How do you know this Lindsey woman is for real?”

Julianne felt herself bristle. “What do you mean, ‘for real’? I met her. I drove her around the area when she was up here for the day. We’ve stayed in touch by email since then.”

“I mean do we know she is who she says she is?”

“What, you think I should have taken fingerprints off her water glass and had one of your law enforcement brothers run them?”

He frowned at her. “Why are you so defensive?”

“Why are you grilling me? Am I not allowed to make new friends?”

“I’m not grilling you, and you can have all the friends you want. I’m just making conversation.”

“You’re grilling me, Andy,” she said, waving a hand. “Never mind. I’m not letting you get to me. I appreciate the ride to the airport.

“You can afford to go to Ireland now and again in January?”

“I guess I can since that’s what I’m doing,” she said, struggling now not to pop off at him. Half the problem was being so close to him again, next to him in his truck. She hadn’t touched him since she’d helped save his damn life in late October. Before that...

She sighed again. Best not to think about their hot, mad weeks together.

She could see the muscles in his hand tighten as he gripped the wheel. “Don’t you think it’s weird that Emma and Colin happen to be away, in Ireland, and then this Lindsey woman shows up in Rock Point, saying a friend told her about Fin Bracken?”

“You think Lindsey invited me to Declan’s Cross because of Emma and Colin? That makes no sense, Andy. They’re not marine scientists. You’ve been around your law enforcement father and brothers too much. That’s just so paranoid.”

“Just be careful,” he said.

“Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine.”

“That’s you, isn’t it, Jules? Self-sufficient to a fault.”

She didn’t answer and stared out her window as they entered the tunnel that would take them to Logan Airport. She couldn’t remember which one it was. It was Callahan going one way and Sumner the other way, and there was the Ted Williams tunnel, too. She couldn’t keep them straight, but she’d never been big on Boston. Give her a stretch of rocky Maine coast any day.

She noticed a sign for the airport and pointed. “Right lane.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

She heard the irritation in Andy’s voice, as if he’d been chewing on what bugged him about her. “Just trying to help,” she said, unclenching her teeth.

He downshifted. “I know.”

“You were annoyed—”

“No, I wasn’t. Quit trying to read into things. When I’m annoyed, I’ll say so.”

“Like now?”

“Not annoyed, Jules.”

He didn’t sound that annoyed, she realized. More resigned than anything. Fatalistic. As if he knew he couldn’t say anything right and should give up trying. But what difference did it make whether he was resigned, frustrated or just plain irritated with her? In another few minutes, they’d be going their separate ways. She’d be dragging Granny’s purple suitcase to the Aer Lingus counter and on to Ireland. He’d be turning around and driving back to Rock Point.

He pulled in front of the terminal. Julianne pushed open her door, jumped out and reached in back for her bag. “Thanks for the ride. I hope you get back to work full-time without a hitch.”

“Appreciate that. Have a good trip. Call me if you need anything.”

“Right. I will. Thanks again.”

She shut the door and carried her suitcase and tote bag into the airport, past travelers with sleek wheeled black bags. She really did need her own suitcase. Granny said she liked the idea of her suitcase going to Ireland even if she couldn’t.

As far as Julianne knew, Andy hadn’t taken up with another woman since their falling out. That was a long time for him. But, clearly, he was back on his feet after the attack on him. He had to be restless.

She felt herself tense. There was no question in her mind that Andy would have another woman on his arm before she was back in Rock Point in two weeks.

She saw the emerald-green of the Aer Lingus sign and forced a smile.

Never mind two weeks. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had another woman before she landed in Shannon, Ireland.

* * *

Julianne figured she slept all of seven minutes on the plane, not because it was a bad flight or she was afraid of flying or nervous about Ireland, but because she was so excited. She refused to think about Andy—at least she more or less refused—and focused on the thrill of her first transatlantic flight.

She loved the green of Ireland, even in November, as the big plane landed in Shannon. She’d already changed her watch to Irish time, five hours ahead of Boston. Mentally, she told herself it was 6:00 a.m. and not 1:00 a.m.

Getting through customs was a breeze. She picked up her suitcase at baggage claim and carried it out to the main lobby, where Lindsey had indicated she’d be waiting.

No Lindsey.

Julianne checked the ladies’ room, the coffee shop and the books-and-sundries shop, but didn’t find her new friend. Shannon Airport wasn’t Logan. There weren’t many places Lindsey could be.

Maybe she couldn’t find a parking space or was running late.

Her tote bag hoisted on one shoulder and her suitcase on the other, Julianne went through the sliding glass doors, welcoming the rush of the chilly early Irish morning. She set her suitcase on the sidewalk, plopped her tote bag on top of it and stretched her arms up over her head, her muscles stiff after six hours on a plane. She wasn’t hungry, but she wanted coffee, badly.

The airport parking lot didn’t look crowded. Lindsey couldn’t have had trouble finding a parking space. Other travelers left the terminal, passing Julianne as they headed for the car rental lot or were picked up by family and friends. Airport workers went about their business.

Julianne dug out her phone. No new emails, texts or voice mails from Lindsey. What if Lindsey had gotten mixed up and was meeting her at the Dublin airport?

“What to do, what to do,” Julianne muttered, then decided to send a short text message.

After a few minutes without a response, she dialed Lindsey’s number and got her voice mail but disconnected without leaving a message. Somehow they had gotten their wires crossed.

Fuzzy-headed after the long flight, Julianne carried her suitcase and tote bag back into the terminal and bought herself a latte and scone at a small, uncrowded coffee shop. Most of the people from her flight had departed. The lobby was dead. She checked her email messages on her phone and found the one from Lindsey confirming the pickup: I’ll meet you in the lobby. We’ll stop for a full Irish breakfast and be in Declan’s Cross for lunch. Can’t wait to see you! xo Lindsey

Straightforward enough. Julianne double-checked to make sure she had given Lindsey the correct date, and she had.

She slathered her scone with butter and jam. The only thing to do at this point was to get herself to Declan’s Cross.

She finished her coffee and scone and made her way to the rental car counter. A car was available. Irish roads being what they were, collision coverage was extra and highly recommended. She had enough room on her credit card, but she’d have to find a fancier place to wait tables than Hurley’s in Rock Point, Maine, to pay it off if she didn’t want to dip deeper into the money from her grandfather. She decided to worry about that later. Father Bracken had jotted down directions to the cottage, and she’d put them in her Ireland folder.

She bought a bottle of water, a latte and another scone and somehow got everything out to the rental car lot. Her red Nissan Micra was one of the smallest cars they offered, and it had a standard transmission—a car with automatic transmission was another fortune on top of the rental fee and collision coverage. Her suitcase fit in back, just barely, and she set her tote bag on the front seat and arranged her water, latte and scone next to her. No way could she eat and drive, so she downed most of the latte while she familiarized herself with the car and got used to the idea of shifting with her left hand.

Her first roundabout nearly gave her a heart attack, but she didn’t stall out, didn’t hit anything—or anyone—and was now wide-awake with the adrenaline rush.

When she cleared Limerick and entered a pretty village, she pulled over to the side of the road. She ate the rest of her scone and checked her messages but there was still nothing from Lindsey.

A half-dozen children passed her car, giggling on their way to school. Julianne rolled down her window and smiled, letting the cool air invigorate her, reminding herself that she was a serious marine biologist and accustomed to being on her own.

She had no intention of calling or emailing Andy to tell him he was right.

There was nothing a Donovan liked better than being right.

4

AN ELFIN-FACED, black-haired Kitty O’Byrne Doyle showed Emma and Colin to their room on the second floor of the graceful, ivy-covered O’Byrne House Hotel. Once a private residence owned by Kitty’s uncle, the boutique hotel occupied a scenic stretch of south Irish coast in the small village of Declan’s Cross. “Fin Bracken is a great friend of mine,” Kitty said as she set the door key on a gleaming mahogany side table in the attractive room. “I saw you were from Maine and emailed him on the off chance he knew you. He said he did and told me I should take good care of you. That sounds like Fin, doesn’t it?”

Emma started to assure Kitty there was no need to go to any trouble on their account, but Colin grinned and said, “It does sound like him. He’s stayed here?”

“He’s had a drink or two here. We haven’t been open quite a year yet.” Kitty adjusted a tie on a drape of a tall window overlooking the hotel’s extensive gardens and, beyond, the Celtic Sea. “Fin’s well?”

“He just survived his first authentic Maine bean-hole supper,” Colin said.

Kitty turned from the window. “Heavens. That sounds ominous. Dare I ask?”

“You dig a hole, light a fire in it, add a cast-iron pot of beans and let them bake. After twenty-four hours or so, you dig them up and serve them. It’s a Maine tradition.”

“So is wild blueberry pie,” Emma added with a smile.

“I’ll be sure to try them both if I’m ever in Maine,” Kitty said. “I’ll let you two get settled. Let me know if you need anything.”

Emma followed her to the door. “Did Finian mention that a friend of ours from Rock Point is arriving in Declan’s Cross today?”

Kitty’s hand faltered on the door latch. She was in her late thirties, in a chunky wool sweater and a slim skirt in a dark blue that matched her eyes. “Yes—yes, Fin told me about her. A marine biologist. He put her in touch with a local man. Sean Murphy.” She recovered her emotions. “Your friend is staying at a cottage on the Murphy sheep farm. It’s up on Shepherd Head.”

“Walking distance?” Colin asked.

“It’s a good walk, if you don’t mind hills. Easiest is to go through the garden and out the back gate. Don’t go right—go left, all the way down to the bookshop. You can’t miss it. It’s painted red. You can go straight or go right. Don’t go straight. Turn right up the hill, continue on past the cliffs, then bear left. The cottage is just there.” She smiled, her cheeks pink. “It’s easier than I make it sound. You’ll have no trouble at all.”

Emma thanked her. Kitty glanced around the room as if for a final inspection and then withdrew. When the door closed, Colin said, “She knows who you are.”

“You beam ‘FBI’ more than I do.”

“I don’t mean FBI. I mean that our Kitty recognized the Sharpe name. As in Wendell Sharpe and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.”

“I assumed she would, actually.” Emma walked over to the window and looked out at the sea, quiet under a blue-gray sky. “It’s a pretty hotel, isn’t it? Contemporary Irish art and clean, cheerful colors. I like it. John O’Byrne, Kitty’s uncle, left this place to Kitty and her younger sister, Aoife. Aoife’s an accomplished artist. I think some of the art in the hotel is hers.”

“They’re from Declan’s Cross?”

Emma shook her head. “They grew up in Dublin. Their uncle was the eldest of seven. I think he was in his forties already when they were born. I never met him.”

“Your grandfather did?”

“Yes.”

Colin stood next to her at the window. “Good view.”

He wasn’t interested in the view. She could tell. “What else is on your mind?”

“What do you know about our Kitty and our sheep farmer?”

“Not as much as you think I do, and not as much as I’d like.”

“An Emma Sharpe answer if I’ve ever heard one.” He looked out the window as if the view of gardens and sea offered answers. He’d done the driving to Declan’s Cross, stopping only once. “It’s too early for lunch and way too early for whiskey.”

“We can walk up to the Murphy farm and have a look at Julianne’s cottage,” Emma said. “She’ll be here soon if she’s not already. Or I could go up there on my own, in case she’s in no mood to deal with a Donovan.”

Colin moved back from the window. “She and Andy got in over their heads. Just one of those things.”

“Maybe to Andy.”

“We all warned him about breaking her heart. Mike, Kevin and I. He didn’t listen. A family trait. After that, we stayed out of it. I’m not worried about Julianne’s state of mind. She’s tough. She’s more likely to shoot me than shoot herself.”

“That’s what you see on the exterior,” Emma said, zipping her rain jacket. “She’s not going to let you all see how hurt she is by what happened between her and Andy.”

“The Maroneys are all proud and stubborn.” Colin grabbed the room key off the table and opened the door. “After you.”

Emma went past him into the hall. He shut the door behind them, slid the key into his jacket pocket and touched her cheek. “Being here brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

“My work with Granddad in Dublin was an intense time for me. I was at a crossroads, sure I had made the right decision in leaving the sisters but not sure what came next.” She raised her eyes to his. “Not unlike what you’re going through now.”

“Taking tourists on puffin tours was on your list of new career possibilities?”

She rolled her eyes and bit back a smile. He would always try to make her laugh, despite the seriousness of what was on her mind—or his. Since the arrests of his arms traffickers and the breakup of their network, he’d been half jokingly talking about quitting the FBI and setting himself up as a tour boat operator off the coast of Maine, maybe returning to lobstering to supplement his income.

She understood the temptations of a different life.

“No puffin tours,” she said. “I knew it was Sharpe Fine Art Recovery or the FBI. I briefly considered teaching or working in a museum, but they weren’t for me. You know you have options besides becoming Cap’n Colin and taking tourists on puffin tours.”

“We’d see seals and bald eagles, too, and I could do whale watches.”

She’d meant options within the FBI, but he knew that. Getting him to talk to her about his career crisis—his personal crisis—since his undercover mission had led murderous thugs to Rock Point in October wasn’t easy. He was a deep, complex man, but that didn’t mean he liked to talk.

“We’ll continue this conversation another time,” she said as they headed down the hall.

Emma paused at a reading room at the top of the curving stairs. Its double doors were open, inviting passersby in among the comfortable-looking sofas and chairs. A round table in the middle of a thick, colorful Persian carpet displayed books on Irish history, geography, art and food. The basic lines and layout of the room hadn’t changed in the extensive renovations that had transformed the musty, run-down mansion into a quirky, upscale boutique hotel.

“Is this where the stolen art was located?” Colin asked.

“The paintings were here.”

Four years ago, Paddy Murphy, the part-time caretaker, had let her peek into what had then been a library. Emma had observed musty furnishings, a threadbare rug and oppressive wallpaper. John O’Byrne had died the previous year. It had been late summer, a beautiful day on the south Irish coast. She’d already decided to have a go at Quantico. She hadn’t known if she’d make it through the training and become an FBI agent, but she’d known she’d had to try. That trying was part of whatever was next for her.

“Thinking again, Emma?” he asked.

She smiled. “Always.”

He winked, slipped an arm around her. “Not always.”

They descended the stairs and headed into the bar lounge, a low fire in its marble fireplace, and outside through French doors to a tiled terrace. Colorful pots of ivy and scarlet and lavender cyclamen glistened in the morning sun. A half-dozen tables overlooked the gardens, pebbled paths meandering among rosebushes, hydrangeas, rhododendrons and raised flower and herb beds, inviting even now, in early November.

Emma sighed, admiring the gardens. “It’s a perfect spot for a romantic getaway.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

They took a walkway past beds of deep-colored pansies, rows of trimmed-back hedges and pale pink cyclamen that had taken over a corner by the ornate iron gate.

Colin opened the gate. “Did your thief go in and out this way?”

“It’s a good guess, but that’s all it is,” Emma said. “We don’t know. It was a dark, rainy night. He could have escaped several different ways without being seen.”

“You’re sure it’s a he?”

“Another good guess but we don’t know.”

“‘We’ meaning the Sharpes or the FBI?”

“Both.”

They went out the gate, shutting it behind them, and turned left onto a narrow street, following Kitty’s directions.

“My question bugged you,” Colin said calmly.

“I expected it,” Emma said. “I’d have asked it myself in your place.”

“It still bugged you.”

They passed a gray stone house with dark green shutters and white lace curtains in tall, sparkling windows. Most of the buildings in the village were painted in a range of primary colors, with colorful awnings, flower boxes and flowerpots, the occasional bench out front. Simple, lovely—Emma wished she could dismiss her nagging doubts about Julianne’s choice of Declan’s Cross and just enjoy the day.

They came to the promised red-painted bookshop on the north end of the village and turned right, as Kitty had instructed, onto a narrow lane that took them uphill. Emma felt herself relax as she breathed in the cool, salt-tinged air. The lane leveled off, curving along dramatic cliffs that dropped straight down to the sea, then winding through a patchwork of rolling fields dotted with grazing sheep.

She remembered how much she’d loved the atmosphere of Declan’s Cross on her one visit. So much had changed in the past four years. She wondered how she’d have responded to Colin if he’d turned up in Dublin back then, or if she’d run into him on her day trip down here. He was already an FBI agent, on his first undercover assignment.

Ten to one that Colin Donovan wasn’t any different from the one walking next to her now.

“Smiling at the view of the Celtic Sea?” he asked her.

“It’s spectacular, but no. I was thinking about you and what it would have been like if we’d met sooner.”

“How much sooner?”

“Well, not when I was with the sisters. I expect I needed that time so that I’d be ready when we did meet.”

He laughed. “Learning to shoot probably helped, too.”

“A wonder I didn’t run into you even before the sisters, since we grew up within a few miles of each other. Maybe we did and just didn’t know it.” She slowed her pace and noticed a few yellow blossoms on a cluster of prickly gorse along the edge of the lane. So pretty, she thought, then squinted out at the horizon in the distance as she answered the question that hung between them. “I know my background as a Sharpe is complicated, but growing up around our family business, working for my grandfather, learning as much as I have from him—all of that’s a plus, Colin. Being a Sharpe is an asset in my art crimes work.”

“Mostly an asset,” he said without hesitation.

She glanced sideways at him. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

“Just trying to get you to admit that I already have provoked you.”

She sighed. “I’m not as hotheaded as you are.”

“You have doubts, Emma. You’re not sure you’re where you’re supposed to be.”

“I’m here with you.” She knew he meant the FBI and not him. “That’s good enough for me.”

“No argument from me. We’ll save the deep talk for another time. I may not know all your secrets, but I know you. I know you’re worried that being a Sharpe is getting in the way of your work.” He took her hand and drew her close. “Your fingers are cold.”

She was relieved he hadn’t pushed her for answers. “I left my gloves at the hotel.”

“We’ll have to keep each other warm, then.”

She smiled. “Sometimes we do think alike.”

* * *

A few minutes later, they came to a tan cinder-block bungalow in a small lot bordered on three sides by fields and more sheep. Emma stopped at a barbed-wire fence where four woolly ewes had gathered. They didn’t seem to mind the stiff breeze off the water, but it was colder than she expected, prompting her to pull up her jacket collar. “It’s a beautiful spot for Julianne’s stay,” she said, glancing at Colin. “If you decide you never want to leave Ireland after all, you could always take up sheep farming.”

He patted a ewe’s head. She bleated and pushed against his palm. He grinned. “I do have a way with women, don’t you think?”

“Very funny.”

“I don’t see myself taking up sheep farming in Ireland. Whale watches, maybe. Irish coastal waters are a sanctuary for whales, dolphins and porpoises.”

“Colin, you’re not serious, are you?”

His smoky gray eyes settled on her. “I’m kidding, Emma. I won’t be staying in Ireland forever. Whatever’s next for me is back home.”

“You won’t be going back with me on Friday. You need more time on your own here, without me.”

“It wasn’t a mistake for you to have come,” he said.

“I’m glad of that.”

He stood back from the sheep, the wind catching the ends of his dark hair. He hadn’t asked her to join him in Ireland. When he’d left without her, she’d understood that he’d believed some time on his own in Finian Bracken’s Irish cottage was a way for him to decompress after his months undercover, and at least to start the process of figuring out what came next for him. She’d followed him there because she’d wanted, simply, to be with him. If he’d asked her to go back to Boston, she’d have gone.

But he hadn’t asked her to leave. They’d taken long walks, laughed in pubs, made love on dark, rain-soaked nights. She’d relished every minute of being with him, but that didn’t mean she’d made the right decision in coming here. Leaving without him didn’t seem right, either, but she still was booked on a flight back to Boston on Friday.

The sheep about-faced and wandered back into the field. Emma turned from the fence and looked across the lane, past a stone wall and a strip of golden grass to a steep, rocky slope that angled down to the water, sparkling under a mix of clouds and sun. Not a boat was in sight.

“Do you know anything about this Sean Murphy?” Colin asked.

She shook her head. “Not really, no.”

It wasn’t a complete answer, and she suspected he knew it. The Murphy farmhouse was up through the fields behind the cottage, not as close to the water. She remembered it from her day trip four years ago. But she needed to pull her thoughts about Declan’s Cross together before she explained everything to Colin, not explain scattershot—not let herself feel pressured to tell him things about the theft and the investigation that she couldn’t tell him, shouldn’t tell him.

His approach would be simple and direct. He’d tell her he wanted to know whatever she knew. All of it. Now. No waiting, no thinking. It wasn’t a question of trust, he’d say, as much as a matter of being practical. He was a deep-cover federal agent. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle the facts of a serial art thief.

“It’s a beautiful view,” Emma said, taking in the gray-blue sea as it melted into the horizon. “Of course, you’re a former lobsterman and marine patrol officer. You probably don’t see what I see when you look out at the ocean.”

Colin moved back from the fence and stood next to her. “Julianne’s a marine biologist. She probably sees things neither of us would notice.”

“Do you want to wait for her?”

“We can at least catch our breath.”

Even as he spoke, a small red car appeared down the lane, inching toward the cottage. As it came closer, Emma recognized Julianne Maroney at the wheel and frowned at Colin. “I thought her friend was picking her up.”

“So did I.” He nodded toward the creeping car. “She’s not setting any land-speed records, is she?”

“First time driving in Ireland? Fresh off a plane? I wouldn’t be, either.”

The tiny Micra came to a crooked stop in front of the cottage. Julianne leaped out as if the front seat had caught fire. “I made it alive. Damn. A miracle if there ever was one.” She exhaled, placing a hand on her heart as if to steady her nerves, then focused on Emma and Colin. “What are you two doing here?”

“We thought we’d welcome you to Ireland,” Emma said.

“How did you know—” Julianne stopped, sighed. “Andy.” She glared at Colin. “He told you?”

Colin shrugged. “Emailed me after he talked to Ryan and then again last night.”

“Figures. No secrets in Rock Point.” She lowered her hand from her heart and gave an exaggerated shudder. “Jet lag, driving on the left, roundabouts, hedgerows—my heart was already in my throat. Then I get to this lane. Cliffs. No guardrails. No shoulder. It’s insane. What if I’d met another car?”

Emma smiled. “Looks as if you did just fine.”

“At least this place exists. I was starting to think I’d gotten all my wires crossed.” Julianne hunched her shoulders, rubbed her neck with one hand. “Ugh. I’m so stiff. I must have tensed every muscle in my body driving. I didn’t sleep much on the plane. It still feels like the middle of the night.”

“Get some sunlight in your eyes,” Colin said. “You’ll be fine.”

She bristled. “I know I’ll be fine.”

He glanced into her rented car. “What happened to your ride? Lindsey Hargreaves, right? She was picking you up in Shannon?”

“Yes, and I have no idea what happened to her.” Julianne sounded slightly less combative. “I have a terrible feeling she’s meeting me in Dublin instead of Shannon. I take it you haven’t seen her? She’s not here?”

Emma shook her head. “We only just got into Declan’s Cross ourselves.”

“I’ve called and texted her but nothing. I must have screwed up. Right now I just feel stupid more than anything else.”

“A little late to feel stupid,” Colin said.

Julianne scowled at him. “Always count on a Donovan to make you feel better.”

“You barely know this woman,” he said, obviously not about to let Julianne off the hook. “You have no idea if she’s reliable.”

“I know that, Colin. I got here alive, didn’t I?” She tightened her shawl-like sweater around her and sighed at the view. “What a great spot. It’s going to be a fantastic two weeks.” She turned to Emma. “Thanks for the welcome, but you and Colin can go on your way now.”

Emma could see that Julianne was rattled and tired from her long, unexpected drive from Shannon, on little sleep, and she was defensive around Colin. Probably should have left him at the hotel, Emma thought, then said gently, “We’re staying in the village. Just overnight. The O’Byrne House Hotel. It’s really lovely. I hope you’ll stop by before we leave.”

“Wait, what? You’re staying in Declan’s Cross?” Julianne’s dark hair blew in the wind, the last of her ponytail coming loose. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, ma’am,” Colin said, blunt as ever. “Get yourself settled. We can talk later.”

She stiffened visibly. “I’ll do exactly as I please.”

He turned to Emma. “That spa’s looking better and better.”

Julianne ignored him and headed up the walk to the bungalow. She tried the front door. It was unlocked, and she went in without so much as a backward glance.

Emma stood next to Colin by the little car. “You and Julianne go back a long way. I’ll go talk to her and let her know how to reach us. Why don’t you stay out here and count sheep?”

“I remember her bossing us around when she was six. She liked to carry around a bucket filled with seaweed and periwinkles.”

“Not afraid of her, are you?”

He grinned. “Terrified. I have to remember she’s almost finished with her master’s in marine biology. She’s always been smart. Andy is, too, but he never was a student. He dropped out of the only college that accepted him.”

“Is that why he and Julianne aren’t together anymore?”

“I haven’t asked. Won’t, either. He doesn’t have a chip on his shoulder.”

“Not that a Donovan ever would,” Emma said. “He does well as a lobsterman, and his boat-restoration business seems to be getting off the ground. Do you think he’s worried about keeping Julianne in Rock Point, somehow limiting her horizons?”

“I have no idea. They both do what they want. Always have.” His tone softened. “Go on. I’ll grab her suitcase. She won’t thank me for it. You watch.”

He seemed more amused and expectant than annoyed. Emma hoped Lindsey Hargreaves had left a note in the cottage to explain why she hadn’t met Julianne at the airport. That would ease Julianne’s mind. Colin’s, too. He clearly didn’t like that this woman hadn’t shown up.

Julianne had left the front door open, and Emma stepped inside, entering a living room with a tile floor, throw rugs and IKEA-style furnishings in neutral colors. There was a fireplace, next to it a bin of kindling and peat.

A pine table served as a divider between the living room and a sunlit kitchen on the opposite end of the little one-story bungalow. Julianne stood by the table, looking out double windows at the front yard and across the lane to the sea.

“Sorry I snapped at Colin,” she said, sounding more tired than apologetic. “Not that he can’t take it.”

Emma walked over to her. “We didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t. Really. I’m just frazzled. If I’d known Lindsey wasn’t meeting me, I’d have been more prepared to drive.” She glanced around the living room and adjoining kitchen. “It’s a cute place, though, isn’t it?”

“It is. It looks comfortable and well-equipped.”

“Father Bracken knows the owner somehow. I didn’t get the details. I’d planned to stay in a bed-and-breakfast, but I jumped at the chance to rent a cottage. Granny was reassured that Father Bracken recommended it.”

“And you invited Lindsey to join you here?”

Julianne nodded. “It has two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Lindsey said conditions at the field station are a little primitive. She’s been staying there.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks, maybe. I took a quick look around, but there’s no sign she’s arrived yet. I’m sure we just got our wires crossed.” Julianne sighed at the view. “I wish Granny could see this. She’s always wanted to go to Ireland.”

Emma went into the kitchen. It had white cabinets and a white countertop, a sturdy stove and small refrigerator, and another window looking out at the sea. The back door was through an adjoining mudroom with a washer and dryer. On the counter was a welcome basket filled with bread, digestives, instant coffee, tea and a bottle of red wine. She peeked in the refrigerator and noticed milk, orange juice, eggs, butter, jam, cheese and a bottle of white wine.

“It’s a bit more remote up here than I expected,” Julianne said, coming into the kitchen. “I’m glad it’s still within walking distance of the village. I love to walk, but I suppose I’ll have to drive to get groceries. Helps to know I’m not likely to meet many cars.”

“You’ll get used to Irish roads.”

“I just need a good night’s sleep. I’m falling over on my feet.”

As she spoke, Colin entered the cottage and set her suitcase and tote bag by the front door. He glanced around the living room, then joined her and Emma in the kitchen. “There’s no cell service up here. No landline, either. Wi-Fi?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask because I don’t care.” Julianne pulled the bottle of wine out of the welcome basket. “I’ll find a phone if I need one, and an internet connection, too. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Looks like it’s just you and this Sean Murphy up here.” Colin took the digestives out of the basket. “These things are addictive. Light a fire, make some tea, kick back and relax.” He grinned. “Not that I’m telling you what to do.”

Julianne smiled, at least a little. “Sounds perfect. Maybe Lindsey ran into a delay and tried to get in touch with me but couldn’t due to technical difficulties. I’m sure she’ll turn up. I can’t wait to check out the field station, but I need to get settled first.”

“It’s her brainchild?” Emma asked.

“That’s what she told me. It’s still in the early planning stages. I know I just met Lindsey and this trip is impulsive, but I’m not being reckless. I’m familiar with the Hargreaves Oceanographic Institute. It’s solid. They do good work. I’ll also be going into Cork to see about my internship.” She grabbed the bread out of the basket and set it on the counter. “It’s exciting. Being here.”

Colin placed the digestives next to the bread. “What’s the research focus of this field station?”

“Irish porpoises, whales and dolphins, as far as I know,” Julianne said.

“As opposed to Welsh porpoises, whales and dolphins?”

She made a face. “That’s something Andy would say.”

Colin winked at her. “Uh-oh.”

Color rose in her cheeks. “Just don’t tell him I got stood up at the airport. He won’t ask, but don’t tell him if he does. And don’t volunteer anything. I know I’m being very seventh grade, but I’ve learned to head you Donovans off at the pass, so to speak. Learned the hard way, I might add.”

“As if Maroneys aren’t just as rock-headed,” Colin said half under his breath.

“Maybe it’s no wonder our hometown has ‘rock’ in its name.” Julianne smiled, then stifled a yawn. “I’m so tired I could melt onto the floor. Now that I’m here...” She glanced around the compact, tidy kitchen. “I won’t mind staying here on my own if Lindsey doesn’t show up.”

Colin stood back from the counter. “I’d like to know where she is.”

“She’s probably got a million things going on and just forgot. People forget things, you know. Not all of us are as perfect as the Donovans.”

Their moment of near-camaraderie had passed, Emma saw, but she said nothing.

Colin sighed. “The Donovans aren’t perfect, Julianne.”

“I know that. I was being sarcastic. You’re going all FBI on me and jumping from A to Z without any good reason.”

“I’m not jumping to anything. I’d just like to hear from this woman.”

“I get that. That’s why you’re an FBI agent and I’m a marine biologist. You have a suspicious mind.” Julianne had clearly lost what limited patience she had with him. “I’ll let you know when I hear from Lindsey, okay? I have your number. I’ll text you.”

Emma started out of the kitchen into the living room. “We’d love to have you join us at the hotel for lunch, dinner, a Father Bracken–approved whiskey—whatever you’re up for. It’s nice to see someone from home.”

“Thanks, Emma,” Julianne said, her tone warmer. “Right now I’ll be happy with a grilled cheese sandwich and a nap. Sorry if I’m being defensive. It’s good to see you guys. Really. I’ll stop at the field station later and find out if anyone there has heard from Lindsey.”

“Colin and I can pop in on our way back to the hotel,” Emma said. “We’ll let you know if she’s there or anyone there has heard from her. Enjoy your grilled cheese sandwich.”

Colin said only, “You know where to find us.”

“Yep. Thanks again.”

Emma could see it was time to leave and all but elbowed Colin back outside. The air had turned cooler, and the sky was overcast, no sun now, although with the short November days, dusk would be coming early. “It’s a cute place,” she said. “Finian never would have recommended it if he thought it wasn’t safe.”

“I guess.”

“Julianne’s like a little sister to you.”

“More like a thorn in my side.” Colin glanced back at the lonely bungalow. “I guess there’s no way I’m going to like leaving her up here by herself.”

“As you said, she knows where to find us.”

The ewes returned to the fence, baaing, crowding against each other. Colin grimaced. “The sheep can keep Julianne company.” He tucked his hand into Emma’s. “Let’s go check out this field station.”

5

JULIANNE LASTED IN the cottage for ten minutes before she had to get out into the Irish air. She couldn’t believe she was finally here. She tightened her sweater around her and walked across the lane to a stone wall. She could hear waves whooshing on the rocks far below her, and the sigh of the wind in the grass and hollows.

So beautiful, so peaceful.

She breathed deeply, releasing some of the tension that had built up since she’d strapped herself into her little rented car and hit the Irish roads.

The lane continued past the cottage, narrowing even more as it turned to dirt and disappeared around a bend. She noticed a man come around the bend, ambling toward her. He wore muddy work clothes and muddy dark green Wellies, as if he’d just come in from the fields. As he approached her, she saw he had thick dark hair and piercing blue eyes, something of a devil-may-care look about him. She guessed he was in his late thirties—Father Bracken’s age, maybe a little younger.

“You must be Julianne,” he said in a pronounced Irish accent. “I’m Sean Murphy, Fin Bracken’s friend. Welcome to Declan’s Cross.”

“Thank you. It’s great to meet you, Mr. Murphy.”

“Sean.”

She smiled. “The cottage is fantastic. I’m glad it worked out on such short notice.” The wind whipped her hair in her face as she stifled yet another yawn. “Father Bracken sends his best.”

“He’s been telling me tales of bean-hole suppers.”

Better than tales of attempted murder, Julianne supposed. “I never got a chance to ask him how you two know each other. He’s not from around here, is he?”

“He’s from Kerry, but he’s visited Declan’s Cross many times.” Sean glanced at her car, still parked crookedly on the side of the lane. “You drove yourself down from Shannon, did you?”

“I did. I’m a little wobbly, but I did okay. Necessity forced me out of my comfort zone. Lindsey Hargreaves was supposed to meet me, but—well, she didn’t, for whatever reason. Has she been in touch with you, by any chance?”

“No, she hasn’t,” the Irishman said. “She’s not here, then?”

“I don’t know if she’s in Declan’s Cross, but there’s no sign of her at the cottage. You know her, though, right?”

“We’ve met. A friend of mine has done some diving with her.” Sean glanced toward the sea a moment, then back at her. “Have you heard from Lindsey at all today?”

Julianne shook her head. “Not since Sunday afternoon. We emailed each other about plans to meet at the airport. She offered. I didn’t ask. I didn’t expect to hear from her again before I arrived this morning. My flight got in so early. I think my phone’s working okay—I’ll check my messages again when I go into the village. I gather there’s no cell service up here.”

“It’s spotty at best.”

“That’s fine with me.” She realized she sounded as if she didn’t want to talk to anyone back home, but it was just Andy she didn’t want to talk to. And her brother, since he’d ratted her out to Andy, who’d ratted her out to Colin. She pushed windblown hair out of her face and added, more cheerfully, “I’ll let you know if I hear from Lindsey. I’m sure I will.”

Sean studied her a moment, as if she wasn’t quite what he’d expected. “Fin says you’re a marine biologist. I see dolphins and porpoises now and again.” He nodded toward the water. “I saw a whale once.”

“Recently?”

He smiled. “I was a boy.”

Julianne didn’t know what she expected an Irish farmer to be like, but Sean Murphy wasn’t it. It was like having a mix of a young Liam Neeson and Colin Farrell up the lane. “I thought I’d get some fresh air while I can. They say sunlight can help jet lag. It’s in short supply right now, but it was sunny on the drive down here. I’d rather crawl in bed and sleep, anyway.”

“You’ll find it gets dark early this time of year.”

“Maine does, too, but Ireland’s even farther north. The Gulf Stream helps keep the climate mild here, but it doesn’t help with the short winter days.” She suddenly felt self-conscious, as if she’d already said too much. “I’m thrilled to be here, though.”

“You’ll have to come back in June when it stays light until late into the evening.”

She relaxed some. “That would be great. I start an internship in January in Cork that runs until May. I’d love to stay on a couple more weeks just to go sightseeing. Maybe I’ll get my grandmother to join me. She’s always wanted to see Ireland.”

“I noticed you had company earlier,” Sean said, checking a wooden fence post that was leaning to one side. “Friends of yours?”

Julianne nodded. “Colin Donovan and Emma Sharpe. They’re staying at a hotel in the village. The O’Byrne, I think they said.”

“It’s a good place.” He straightened some of the wrapped-wire fencing strung between the posts. “Donovan—Fin’s FBI friend?”

“That’s right.” She couldn’t tell if he also recognized Emma’s name. “He and Emma have been in Ireland a couple weeks. They borrowed Father Bracken’s cottage—I think it’s in County Kerry.”

“She’s with the FBI, too, as I recall.”

Julianne wasn’t that comfortable discussing Emma and Colin’s FBI status. “They’re not here on official business or anything like that. They just came to welcome me to Ireland.” She decided to change the subject. “Have you always lived in Declan’s Cross?”

He nodded to the bungalow. “I grew up right here. It’s been redone since then.”

“It must have been something, being a kid out here. The village lives up to the pictures I saw on the internet. Of course, my heart was in my throat when I drove through it just now, but I’m looking forward to exploring. I love to walk.”

“It’s a good place for walking. If you need anything, just find me. My uncle is up here most days, too. Paddy Murphy. Give either of us a shout anytime.”

Julianne found herself not wanting to be alone just yet. “Farming must be a ton of work,” she said.

Sean smiled, fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “Most things worth anything are a lot of work, don’t you think?”

“That’s a good attitude. I’ve always loved whales and dolphins, but it’s not as if organic chemistry came naturally to me.” She turned her back to the water—and the wind—as she looked across the rolling fields. Several sheep stared back at her. “The sheep look all set for winter. Father Bracken says Irish winters are cold, dark and damp.”

“He’s right, but I wouldn’t know any different.”

“I hope he doesn’t think a Maine winter will be any better. It’s at least as long as an Irish winter, and it can get very cold and snowy. Helps to like to do things outside. I like cross-country skiing in perfect conditions, and snowshoeing’s a lot of fun. I’ve never gone ice fishing.” Julianne remembered that Andy was into ice fishing. She’d thought they’d be together over the winter, and he’d take her out to his fishing hut on a lake up north. She shook off that image before it could take shape. “I hope Father Bracken’s enjoying Maine.”

“From what he tells me he seems to be. He said you showed Lindsey the sights while she was in Maine last week.”

“I did. We had a great time.”

Sean stepped back onto the lane. “I’ve never been to Maine. I think of lighthouses and lobsters.”

“We saw one lighthouse and a lot of lobsters, especially in Rock Point. I also showed her summer houses, art galleries, a nature trail, a couple of sandy beaches. We did a whirlwind grand tour.”

“Was she interested in seeing anything in particular?”

“She was interested in everything.” Sean Murphy might be an Irish sheep farmer, but he was starting to remind Julianne of Colin with the questions, the suspicion—but she was tired and on the defensive. She’d trust her reactions better after lunch and a nap. “I’ve kept you from your farm work long enough.”

“Not at all.” He zipped up his jacket against the stiffening wind. “Have a good walk.”

She thanked him again. As he headed back down the lane, he didn’t really strike her as an Irish farmer—but what did she know about Irish farmers?

She decided to skip her walk and instead returned to the cottage, the wind whistling in the rocks now. A grilled cheese sandwich definitely sounded good, and maybe a nice fire to take the damp chill out of the air. She’d give it a while longer before she really started to worry about Lindsey Hargreaves.

6

THAT THE UNRELIABLE, cheerful Lindsey Hargreaves had failed to pick up Julianne Maroney in Shannon was enough to distract Sean Murphy from farm work but not enough for him to raise the alarm. These days it didn’t take much to distract him from farm work.

He’d changed into a clean jacket and hiking boots after deciding against returning to the barn to finish up the antifungal spraying he’d started that morning, one sheep hoof at a time. He hated the spraying, but it had to be done to prevent “foot rot.”

He started down the lane toward the village, feeling the residual ache of injuries he’d sustained in June. Broken ribs, a punctured lung, a messed-up rotator cuff.

Sean took in a deep breath and told himself that any physical pain was in his head at this point. Fin Bracken had brought a bottle of rare, dear Bracken 15-year-old whiskey on his last visit to Declan’s Cross earlier that year. Sean hadn’t opened it until September. During the worst days of his recovery, he hadn’t touched so much as a pint. He stayed away from alcohol when it was all he wanted.

He’d taken time to heal before he’d opened the Bracken 15, and even then, he hadn’t drunk alone. He’d invited his uncle in for a taoscán. A few days later, he’d been able to walk into the village for a pint at his favorite pub.

Now it was early November, and what had changed? The Bracken 15 was still on the top shelf in the farmhouse kitchen. He was still walking into the village for the occasional pint.

Still working on the farm.

Sean didn’t known what Fin had told Julianne Maroney about him, but it had obviously been very little. She struck Sean as feisty and yet uncertain, perhaps not fully trusting her motives for coming to Ireland. He wondered if her FBI agent friends had picked up on that ambivalence and that’s why they were in Declan’s Cross checking on her.

Interesting that the main offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery were in Heron’s Cove, just down the coast from Rock Point where Fin was. Fin had mentioned Emma Sharpe. She was the granddaughter of Wendell Sharpe, who, last Sean had heard, was on the verge of retiring in Dublin.

Had Julianne’s choice of Declan’s Cross for her Irish sojourn piqued Emma’s interest, given the theft at the O’Byrne place ten years ago and her grandfather’s interest in the unsolved case?

It had Sean’s.

He hadn’t been a farmer ten years ago.

Then again, he wasn’t much of one now. He noticed his uncle puttering toward him on the tractor, an ancient John Deere with mud permanently encrusted on its green exterior. Paddy kept it in working order. Sean had given up. In his seventies now, his uncle liked to take the tractor out to the fields and was happy to leave the more tedious farm work to his nephew.

The wind had subsided. Sean recognized his own restlessness. He wanted to know what had happened to Lindsey Hargreaves, but he didn’t trust the foreboding that was starting to gnaw at him. He attributed it to the last of what his doctors had described as a normal process of post-trauma stress recovery—or, more likely at this point, boredom.

He had no business thinking of himself as bored. There was always work to do on the farm, and it was most often work he enjoyed, or at least appreciated. But that was different from loving it, wasn’t it?

And it was different from being part of an elite garda investigative unit in Dublin.

An Garda Síochána. Guardians of the Peace.

The guards.

The Irish police.

Sean had joined the gardai at twenty-two. He’d never wanted to be anything else. He’d help out at the farm—it was home as no place else ever would be—but he’d never imagined being a farmer.

Technically he was still a member of his unit. He was on leave, recovering from the thrashing he’d taken during the messy arrest of smugglers back in June. He’d won the day and broken open the smuggling ring, but he’d paid the price with a long recovery.

Being back in proximity to the proprietor of the O’Byrne House Hotel probably wasn’t helping.

“Ah, Kitty.”

Was she suspicious of her FBI guests’ motives for checking into her hotel?

She’d at least be curious.

Sean waved to Paddy and then started down the lane to the village. Walking meant he could stop for a pint or two without having to worry about his blood-alcohol level. He wasn’t one to over-imbibe, but better to fall over a stone wall than drive over it. Fin Bracken liked to say that walking was soul work. Sean didn’t know about that, but walking had helped him these past few months. At first he could only manage to the barn and back to the couch, but gradually his stamina had improved and, with it, his distances. He’d told Fin that farm work kept him busy, but walking kept him sane.

At the bottom of the hill, instead of going past the bookshop into the village, he turned down a narrow street to the waterfront and the present and future site of Lindsey Hargreaves’ marine science research field station. At the moment it was an abandoned garage she’d rented with an American friend, a professional diver. It was located just up from the small Declan’s Cross pier and so far looked more like a convenient place to store diving equipment and camp out between dives. It would take vision, enthusiasm, determination and a substantial financial commitment to create a proper research facility. Even with Lindsey’s family connections, Sean was skeptical, but that was his nature.

A van was parked out front, its back open, revealing state-of-the-art diving gear. Brent Corwin, the American diver, emerged from a side door of the garage. He was in his late thirties, his close-cropped hair almost fully gray. He gave an exaggerated shiver as he stuffed an oily rag into a sweatshirt pocket. “Hey, Sean. Where did the mild air go? It feels more like November in New York. I’m from Florida. Warm-blooded. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Lindsey Hargreaves.”

“Two Americans were just here looking for her, too. Friends of the woman she was supposed to pick up in Shannon this morning. I guess that didn’t happen. That’s flaky even for Lindsey.”

“Has she been in touch with you?”

“Uh-uh. I haven’t seen her since she left for the U.S. last week to visit her father. She arrived back in Dublin on Friday but ended up staying for a couple days. Her father had to be in London on business and decided to make a stop in Dublin and see the sights.”

Sean glanced in the van at the wet suits, masks, tanks and other diving paraphernalia, none of it looking as if it had been used in the past few hours. He turned back to Brent. “Do you think she’s still in Dublin, then?”

“Could be. If my dad turned up out of the blue, I’d probably forget half the things I had to do, too, but you’ve met Lindsey. She’s not the most organized person, you know? I can see her forgetting it was Shannon and ending up at the Dublin airport, wondering what kind of flake Julianne is.” Brent lifted a tank out of the van and set it on the ground. He didn’t look at all worried about Lindsey or anything else. “I’ll make a few calls and see if I can find out where Lindsey’s off to. I’ll let you know if I hear from her, or if she turns up. Would you mind doing the same?”

“Not at all.”

“And Julianne—if she hears from Lindsey, she’ll let us know?”

Sean nodded. “I’m sure she will.”

“I’ll check with Eamon, too,” Brent said. “He’s up in Ardmore diving with some of his buddies today.”

Eamon Carrick was the younger brother of one of Sean’s garda colleagues, both solid divers who looked for any opportunity to get under the water. Not Sean. He hated even the idea of diving. “How many of you were here last night?” he asked.

“Just me.” Brent gestured back toward the garage. “The place has heat and decent facilities. It’s roughing it by Lindsey’s standards. She’s looking forward to moving into the cottage. She’s well-meaning but she’s not reliable. She’d be the first to say so.”

“She visited a friend of mine in Maine last week—”

“The priest. Bracken, right? Yeah. That’s when she met this marine biologist, Julianne.”

“Why did she visit Father Bracken, do you know?”

Brent shook his head. “No idea. She said he’s Irish—he and his brother own a whiskey distillery near Killarney. I didn’t know you were friends with him.”

“We go back a ways,” Sean said, deliberately vague. He’d met Fin Bracken after the deaths of Fin’s wife and daughters. Not an easy subject. “When did you talk to Lindsey last?”

“Friday, after she got back to Dublin and found out her father was on his way. We only talked for a minute. We emailed a couple times after that.” Brent shut the van doors and lifted the tank. “She gave me her father’s cell number. If he’s still in Dublin, he’ll be at a five-star hotel. His name’s David—David Hargreaves. We’ve never met, but I’ve done some diving for the Hargreaves Oceanographic Institute. I hear he’s a good guy.”

Sean could see that Brent was impatient to get on with his work and left him to it. Whether it was cynicism or experience, Sean doubted Lindsey Hargreaves was going to the trouble of launching a research facility simply out of devotion to marine science. Brent Corwin was a dedicated adventurer, good-looking, energetic. Eamon Carrick and his diving friends were the same. Temptations, perhaps, for a young woman with no clear direction in her life.

There was also her father, perhaps not an easy man to impress.

Sean didn’t know Lindsey well enough to have a good feel for what motivated her, but David Hargreaves’ impromptu stop in Dublin could have thrown her off just enough that she’d forgotten to pick up her new friend in Shannon.

“A bored man you are, Sean Murphy,” he muttered, his teeth clenched as he walked into the village, knowing his next stop would be the O’Byrne House Hotel.

Fool that he was.

* * *

Rave reviews and word-of-mouth of delighted guests had helped keep a steady flow of guests at the O’Byrne House Hotel since it opened its doors a year ago, but November was quiet. Sean went through the back gate and didn’t run into another soul in the gardens. Pretty Kitty O’Byrne Doyle had seen to every detail in transforming her uncle’s crumbling mansion, shrouded in cobwebs and overrun with mice, into a modern, elegant hotel that was at once tranquil and cheerful. He’d heard it was doing well. No doubt. Everything Kitty touched was a success—except, at least in her mind, her teenage son, Philip, who gave her fits.

Sean found the lad alone in the bar lounge, unloading a tray of fresh glasses onto a head-high shelf. Philip Doyle had his mother’s blue eyes, dark hair and spirited temperament and his father’s stubborn jaw and ambition. One minute he was eighteen going on thirteen—angry, sullen, easily bored—and the next, eighteen going on thirty—strong, mature, solid. He’d moved to Declan’s Cross with his mother two years ago. He hadn’t wanted to. He could have stayed in Dublin with his father, a banker, but he hadn’t. And he hadn’t gone back to Dublin since he’d finished school.

He glanced up and said, “Garda Murphy,” with just enough sarcasm to be annoying but not enough for Sean to haul him out from behind the bar by his shirt collar.

“Not diving today?” Sean asked.

“I went out early with Eamon Carrick and a couple of his friends.”

As if it’s any of your business, his tone said.

Sean sat on a high cushioned stool at the polished wood bar, saved from the original fittings in the house and refurbished to Kitty’s specifications. She had a background in business but loved this place. She and Aoife had been coming here since they were babies. Sean couldn’t recall when he’d first noticed them. By the time Kitty was seventeen, for certain. By eighteen, she’d been in love with her banker, William Doyle.

“Where did you go?” Sean asked her son.

Philip took the last glass from the tray and set it on the shelf with the others, all sparkling in a sudden ray of sun that was there and then gone again. “We went out to the Samson wreck off Ram Head in Ardmore.”

“I know the spot.” In 1987, a trawler had run aground, its hulking, rusting wreck an eyesore to many but a popular spot for divers. “How well do you know these lads?”

“Well enough. I’m learning a lot from them. They’re more experienced divers than I am.”

“Diving is an expensive hobby.”

“It’s not just a hobby,” Philip said. “I’m thinking of becoming an oceanographic research diver.”

Sean wasn’t one to puncture a young man’s dreams, but he said, “A college degree would help, I would think.”

“It would if I decide I want one.” He tucked the empty tray under one arm. “What if I wanted to join the garda water unit like Eamon’s brother?”

“Think you could pull a body out of the water?”

Philip didn’t flinch. “I could.”

“It’d be in addition to your regular garda duties.”

“Good.”

Practical considerations didn’t necessarily interest Philip, but that could be youth and the attitude of some of his diving friends rubbing off on him. From what Sean had gleaned in the three or four weeks since Lindsey and Brent had arrived in Declan’s Cross, they’d been bouncing from place to place in order to indulge their passion for diving. Brent in particular was a respected diver, willing to cobble together a living if it gave him the freedom to dive. Their arrival in Declan’s Cross had attracted local divers. Everyone had assumed they’d move on. Then came the idea for a research field station, the rented garage...and now Julianne Maroney.

Sean decided to get Philip’s opinion, gauge his reaction. “What’s the status of this marine science research field station?”

“Lindsey’s securing funding from her family. She wants it to be a proper field station.” Philip opened a lower cabinet and shoved the tray inside, then stood straight, his cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. “I’ve volunteered to do what I can to help.”

Meaning he wasn’t getting paid. Same with Lindsey’s new friend from Maine. “Lindsey seems to have a knack for getting people to help her.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

Sean shrugged, unruffled. “Nothing on the face of it. What about Brent and Eamon? Are they volunteers?”

“I don’t know, but Eamon’s not involved with the field station that I can see. Brent could be on a Hargreaves Institute grant. He hasn’t said, and I haven’t asked.” Philip was less combative, his interest in the field station plainly genuine. “Can I get you anything?”

Sean shook his head. “Just passing through. You haven’t seen Lindsey, have you?”

“Not since yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yeah.” Philip lifted a bottle of wine from a rack and checked the cork, obviously looking for something to do. “She stopped by the garage—the field station. I was in back with the tanks. By the time I realized she was there, she was on her way again.”

“Did you speak to her?” Sean asked.

“Not a word. I don’t think she saw me.”

“You were alone?”

“Yes. Sean—geez, man—”

“What time was this?”

“Two o’clock or so. After lunch.” He gave a half nervous, half sarcastic laugh. “I wouldn’t want to get into real trouble with you. I’m sweating.”

Sean eased off the stool, attempting to look less as if Philip were a terror suspect. His months of inaction—healing, thinking, tending sheep—had taken a toll, and now he was overreacting to absolutely nothing. “Where were Eamon and Brent yesterday?” he asked casually.

“I don’t really know. Off diving, I expect. You don’t think anything’s happened to Lindsey, do you?”

“I’ve no reason to think so.”

It was a careful answer, and Philip seemed to recognize it as such. He returned the wine bottle to the rack and grabbed a wet rag out of the small, stainless-steel sink but didn’t seem to know what to do with it. He finally slopped it onto the edge of the sink and scrubbed at some possibly imaginary stain. The color in his face was all the confirmation Sean needed that the lad was taken with Lindsey. She was at least a decade older, but that wouldn’t stop an eighteen-year-old’s fantasies.

Not much did, Sean thought. At the moment he had no desire for alcohol. He stood by the fire, burning hot with no one to enjoy it. Above the marble mantel was a mirror that had hung there for as long as he could remember. Interesting to see what Kitty had kept of John O’Byrne’s and what she’d dumped.

She bustled into the room, saw him, stopped abruptly. She wore a long sweater that came almost to her knees. It was a soft wool, as blue as her eyes. “Hello, Sean.” Tight, brisk. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“I’m admiring your fire.”

She moved deeper into the room. “You’ve never been even half as funny as you think you are. What do you want?”

He realized he wasn’t exactly sure and said, “I’m looking for Lindsey Hargreaves.”

“I see. Well, did you find her?”

“No. I talked to Philip. He hasn’t seen her today.”

“Good,” Kitty said under her breath.

Sean watched her as she tidied books that didn’t need tidying. She worried about her son. Philip didn’t seem to grasp that the clock was ticking and he needed to get on with his life. His diving friends and their live-for-the-moment ways weren’t necessarily the best influence, but they didn’t seem bad sorts.

Then again, Sean thought, what did he know about the divers, or about Kitty and her teenage son? Since he’d arrived in Declan’s Cross in June, having barely survived his smugglers’ attempt to kill him, he’d kept to himself.

“David Hargreaves is arriving tonight,” Kitty said. “Lindsey’s father.”

“Here at the hotel?”

She nodded. “He’s staying in the cottage.”

The O’Byrne cottage was through the gardens, a separate accommodation with its own kitchen and two bedrooms. Sean grabbed the poker and gave the fire a quick stir. “Lindsey’s not staying with him?”

“Apparently not. She’s supposed to be staying at your cottage. The views are gorgeous up there.”

Sean returned the poker to the rack. He noticed Kitty’s cheeks flame. She would be familiar with his cottage’s views just from living in Declan’s Cross, but he knew she wasn’t thinking about looking out at the cliffs and sea from the lane. She was thinking about waking up in his bed six years ago. His father had died. His mother had moved into the village. He and Kitty had had the place to themselves.

It had been his second chance with her. He wouldn’t get a third.

“It was a long time ago, Kitty,” he said.

She frowned as if she were mystified. “I must have missed something because I have no idea what you mean.” She moved off to adjust drapes, her back to him as she continued. “You’ve met my new guests. Finian Bracken’s friends.”

“They’re FBI agents, you know.”

She glanced back at him. “Are they now?”

Clearly she did know.

“They’re here just for the night,” she added. “They’ve been staying at Fin Bracken’s cottage near Kenmare. The one he and Sally fixed up.”

Sean nodded but made no comment. Half the women in Ireland had fallen in love with Finian Bracken after the tragic deaths of his family. They’d wanted to take away his pain and give him a new life. Then he’d gone and become a priest, and now he was in New England, thanks to Sean and, in part, to Kitty herself. On a visit to Declan’s Cross in late March, Fin had talked Sean into stopping at the hotel for a drink. They’d found Kitty deep in conversation with an American priest, Joseph Callaghan, a quiet, thoughtful man in his early sixties. Father Callaghan had chosen Declan’s Cross not just because of the raves about its newly opened hotel but because he served a parish in Rock Point, Maine, not far from the Heron’s Cove offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. He’d heard about the decade-old unsolved theft. That had tipped the scales in favor of a two-night stay in Declan’s Cross.

Over too much of Bracken Distillers’ finest, Father Callaghan had explained how he’d fallen in love with his ancestral homeland and dreamed of taking a sabbatical in Ireland. Sean hadn’t realized what a chord the old priest’s words had struck with Fin Bracken, but next thing, Fin had done whatever ecclesiastic string-pulling he’d needed to do and in June was off to Maine to replace Father Callaghan for the year.

Sean supposed the good Father Callaghan was somewhere in Ireland. He was due to return to Rock Point next June.

Not always easy to go back, was it?

Shaking off his ruminating, Sean noticed Kitty was frowning at him again. Ordinarily he wasn’t the type to ruminate. He said, “I went out to Fin’s cottage once, a year after Sally and the girls died.” He recalled that Fin had been dead drunk. Pasty, shaking. Not at peace with God then, for certain. Sean was of no mind to mention the incident. “It’s a small place, but it’s done up just right. Sally’s influence, I imagine.”

Kitty sighed heavily. “I expect so.”

It wasn’t a time he liked to revisit. He changed the subject. “Where are your FBI agents now?”

“Upstairs, I think. They had lunch here. When I saw the Sharpe name, I assumed they might be here about the theft—some new development, perhaps—but they’re seeing about this marine biologist friend of theirs who’s renting your cottage. Fin’s doing, I’ve gathered.”

“He was worried about Julianne, I think.”

“We emailed this morning, but you know how circumspect he can be,” Kitty said. “Father Callaghan never mentioned the Sharpes and FBI agents when he was here.”

Sean shrugged. “Why would he?”

“Always so practical,” she said with a bit of a sniff. “I suppose you’re right, though. The theft’s not as well-known as it was ten years ago, but it’s still a curiosity for some. It’ll never be solved.” Her eyes darkened on Sean. “I expect you know that better than most.”

“Because I’m a detective, or because I’m Paddy Murphy’s nephew?”

He thought he’d kept any harshness or sarcasm out of his tone, but Kitty nonetheless looked taken aback, as if she didn’t know if she should slap him or run from him. “Neither. Both. I don’t know. It makes no difference. Excuse me,” she said, crisp. “I’ve work to do.”

“I won’t keep you, then.”

She took a breath, but her eyes were fixed on the bar where Sean had chatted with her son. Her expression softened. “This lot Philip’s diving with—they’re all right, Sean?”

“I’m just a farmer these days, Kitty.”

“Even your sheep don’t believe that,” she said with a scoff, then moved on behind the bar. She was still clearly worried about her son, but Sean knew she would never admit as much to him, or ask him to intervene.

He lingered just long enough to notice the light shining on her black hair. He could see her on a long, lazy morning six years ago, sleeping as the sun rose. Her black hair had gleamed then, too. She’d looked comfortable again in her own skin, excited about what was next for her. She’d told him she’d remembered all the reasons why she had fallen for him the first time and had forgotten all the reasons why they had gone their separate ways.

Sean exited through the bar lounge, welcoming the cool air and wind.

Kitty was a smart woman. She wouldn’t forget again.

* * *

Sean stopped just past the bookshop, far enough from the O’Byrne House Hotel and its maddening owner that he could think straight again. He paid little attention to the familiar surroundings as he debated whether to call Fin Bracken about his FBI friends. He finally decided against it. It had never been easy to get information out of Fin and less so now that he was a priest. Instead he phoned Eamon Carrick’s brother, Ronan, a garda in Dublin and a member of the underwater diving unit that served the entire Republic of Ireland.

Ronan picked up almost immediately. “Sean Murphy. What a surprise. How are the sheep, my friend?”

“Bleating even as we speak.”

“Bleeding? Dear God. What have you done to them?”

“Bleating. Baaing. You know.” Sean had no idea if Ronan were serious or joking. “Never mind. It was just something to say.”

“Small talk from Sean Murphy. There’s something. Are you in Declan’s Cross?”

“As ever. Have you any idea why Wendell Sharpe’s granddaughter is here?”

“In Ireland?”

“In Declan’s Cross. You already knew she was in Ireland?”

“Word reached me.”

“Eamon?”

“Not Eamon. If it doesn’t come in water, he’s not interested. Someone I know in the art squad mentioned it. Wendell Sharpe’s semi-retired now, did you know? And Emma Sharpe is with the FBI. Any reason for the FBI to be interested in Declan’s Cross?”

Sean didn’t respond at once. He looked in the bookshop window and saw a small boy sitting on the floor in front of a shelf of books. He’d done the same as a boy, always interested in biographies and comics. Superheroes. Finally he told Ronan, “No reason. There’s nothing new on the art theft at the O’Byrne house, is there?”

“You’d know before I would,” Ronan said.

Probably true, if more because he lived in Declan’s Cross than because of his garda position. “You haven’t by chance run across an accident report on Lindsey Hargreaves?”

“The woman who wants to start this field station down there? I haven’t seen anything, no. I’ll have a look if you’d like.”

“I’d owe you one, thanks.”

“What’s going on, Sean?”

He told his friend what he knew.

Ronan listened without interruption, then said, “I’ll let you know if I find anything. When can we expect you back in Dublin?”

“For a pint? Soon, my friend. Thanks for your help.”

If Lindsey Hargreaves had driven off a road, Ronan Carrick would know it within the hour. He was famously dogged, as well as quick-witted and good-humored. Sean had relied on him many times during tricky investigations. They’d joined the gardai at the same time, fifteen years ago. Ronan was a few years older, redheaded, in good shape and the happily married father of three.

Sean turned from the bookshop and started up the hill toward his farm. He wasn’t always good at dodging disaster, but he’d managed to the one time he’d set his mind to propose to a woman. That had been four years ago. She’d said yes but then decided she wanted to try her hand in New York. Last he heard she was a makeup artist in the theater district.

He couldn’t see his lovely ex-fiancée spraying a sheep’s hoof to prevent a highly contagious fungal disease. Strangely enough, he could see Kitty doing it, if only because it had to be done.

Thinking about Kitty O’Byrne was the road to ruin.

Sean picked up his pace, glad he felt no pain—at least none caused by his smugglers.

7

EMMA STOOD IN front of the marble fireplace in the reading room at the top of the curving stairs. She could hear the wind and a passing shower, the light fading with November’s early dusk. By all accounts, it had been an even wetter, chillier night a decade ago when a thief had slipped into this very room. Later in the evening—no one could pinpoint the exact time but it had been after midnight, at least.

“A fire would be nice,” Colin said from the doorway.

She turned. She didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, or how long she’d been staring at the fireplace, lost in her thoughts. “It would be. I’m sure Kitty would arrange for one if we wanted to stay up here for a bit. There aren’t many guests.”

“Quiet time of year in Ireland. I like it.”

He crossed to the fireplace, making no sound on the thick Persian carpet. The shadows accentuated the hard lines of his face, but Emma knew it wasn’t always possible to read him. He was adept at burying his real emotions. In his undercover work, his life often depended on his ability to convince people he wasn’t feeling what he was feeling.

He stood next to her and glanced around the room. “No alarm system in this place ten years ago?”

Emma smiled. Colin—his pragmatism—helped keep her from disappearing into her thoughts. “No, no alarm system. John O’Byrne was lucky to keep the lights on.”

“Where was he that night?”

“He was on vacation in Portugal, staying with friends. A local farmer was looking after the place. He was asleep in the kitchen. The thief was in and out before anyone knew it.”

“Local farmer as in—”

“Padraig Murphy. Paddy Murphy. Sean Murphy’s uncle.”

“Ah.”

“He says he slept through the whole thing.”

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