The Whisper

'Only her name.'

'In what context? Not a good one, I imagine. And here he'd just seen her at Keira's ruin. No wonder Scoop wants to know all he can about her. It's not as easy as I'd hoped to find decent intel on her. Her sister's gone back to London. Her parents have trekked into the Irish hills with tents and rucksacks.' Josie gave a mock shudder. 'Will appreciates the charms of camping, but I do not. You, Myles?'

'I could do with a real bed,' he said, just a bit of huskiness to his voice.

Well-trained intelligence officer that she was, Josie saw to it no color rose in her cheeks. 'I met this morning with an Irish detective I know. Seamus Harrigan. Is he the one who told you I was in Kenmare?'

Myles closed his eyes and didn't answer.

'He's aware that the Malones own this house but only because he lives in Kenmare--not because of anything Sophie or her family has done.'

'Did Seamus direct you here?'

'That's a bit too strong but I was able to fill in the blanks.' She noticed Myles hadn't opened his eyes. 'He wasn't pleased to hear from me, I have to say. Perfectly understandable. Three months ago we had Seamus crawling through a ruin in search of a serial killer. Last month we had him questioning a hired thug about a bombing and kidnapping in Boston.'

'He was doing his job,' Myles said with a yawn.

'Yes, that explains it, doesn't it?' Josie trod too hard on the gas and took a turn far more sharply and speedily than was necessary or safe, but she'd passed various defensive driving courses. Not that the Irish guards would accept that as a reason not to ticket her. She came to a stop and glanced over at Myles. He at least had his eyes half open now. 'Sophie Malone was involved in some sort of incident a year ago. Seamus wasn't on the case but told me what he could.'

'What sort of incident?'

'The bizarre sort with no evidence. Seamus gave me the name of a local fisherman. I'm off to find him now.' She turned onto the main road back toward the village. 'Does that sound too deadly dull for you, Myles?'

'A chat with an Irish fisherman would be a nice change of pace,' he said, making himself comfortable. 'You look tired. Would you like for me to drive?'

'No.' She was immediately annoyed that he thought she looked tired when, of course, he was the reason for her bad night and he himself was clearly much worse off. 'Are you even legal to drive these days?'

He yawned again, pushing back his seat to accommodate his long legs. He had dark shadows under his eyes, but she found him as rugged and sexy as ever. He gave her a quick smile. 'You're a madwoman behind the wheel, love. Always have been.'

'Would you like me to put you on a flight to London?'

'What would I do in London?'

'Go visit your mother. Two years, Myles. She hasn't known if you were alive or dead.'

'No, she has. She's known.'

'How? Carrier pigeon?'

He ignored her, and she continued over a small suspension bridge, then turned onto a side road just before the village center. Myles had always had an uncanny ability to push right past anything he didn't want to discuss.

She had no trouble finding parking by the town pier. As she got out of the car, a strong gust of wind buffeted her, but she found it refreshing. Just a few minutes in close proximity to Myles had her feeling hot and out of sorts. She struck off across the road without a word or a glance in her passenger's direction. She didn't want to think about him--where he'd come from, how long he planned to stay, where he planned to stay.

'I had a nice, calm life before you turned up again, Myles,' she muttered, not sure he could hear her--not caring, either. She stepped onto the concrete pier, the wind worse there, and sighed. 'A very nice, calm life.'

He fell in easily next to her. 'If you'd wanted a nice, calm life, you wouldn't have gone for a career in British intelligence.'

'I must've landed in the wrong queue somehow. I thought I was signing up for church choir.'

She saw the glimmer of a smile beneath his beard stubble and fatigue. He moved with no apparent concern that they might run into snipers, thugs, terrorists or madmen in quiet Kenmare. Of course if he were concerned, he would move with the same nonchalance.

Josie approached an old fisherman in a traditional Irish knit sweater that had seen years--decades, probably--of wear and asked him where she might find Tim O'Donovan. The fisherman gave her a suspicious look and pretended not to understand the question. She said, 'We're friends with Sophie Malone.'

The old man's suspicion eased. 'Tim's due anytime, please God,' he said in a heavy West Cork accent and headed down the pier toward the road.

'Let's wait here,' Myles said, the sky and bay making his eyes seem a bluer gray. 'The air feels good.'

Josie took in a sharp breath. 'You didn't expect to be alive today, did you?'

'Nor yesterday, either.' He crooked his arm toward her and smiled. 'Shall we watch the tide and pretend we're a pair of holiday lovers?'

'Damn you, Myles.' She slipped her arm into his, welcoming his warmth. She leaned against him, just for a split second. 'I hate you, you know.'

He winked at her. 'That's my girl.'

Suddenly she wished they were tourists without a care beyond which lace shops to visit and which pub to pop into for a bite. He maintained an outward air that his two years undercover--alone, in constant danger--hadn't affected him, but Josie knew they had. She noticed a scar on his jaw under his right ear that hadn't been there when he'd gone off to Afghanistan.

'Did you tell yourself you'd died in that firefight?' she asked quietly. 'Is that how you managed?'

'I focused on the job I was in a unique position to do.'

'Should you have been killed, did you have a plan to get word to Will, at least, that you weren't a traitor?'

'All this talk of my demise, love.' He grinned at her. 'Should I be near deep water with you?'

His humor, she knew, was his way of deflecting her questions. He wasn't introspective. He was a man who lived in the present. 'You could have let us help--'

'It was too big a risk. The people I was chasing would have won.'

'Will they win yet, Myles?'

The wind caught the ends of his dark hair. 'Not the ones I was chasing.'

'Because they're dead,' Josie said bluntly.

'There you go again.'

But his lack of a denial meant she was right. 'Will and Simon are after their friends and associates, aren't they?' she asked softly.

He brushed her fingertips with his and let that be his answer.

She could hardly breathe. 'Are you free now? Safe?'

'I don't know, love.' He angled her a wry look. 'Will I be sleeping near you and a pillow tonight?'

She was tempted to elbow him off the pier, but a bearded man decades younger than the old fisherman ambled toward them. 'I understand you're looking for me. What can I do for you?'

'You're Tim O'Donovan?' Josie asked with a smile.

No smile back. 'I am.'

'I'm Josie Goodwin. This is my friend Myles. We'd like to talk to you about a friend of yours.'

'Sophie Malone,' he said. 'Seamus Harrigan told me you'd be looking for me. Sophie's gone back to Boston.'

'What happened last year, Tim?' Myles asked.

Josie winced at his blunt question. Leave it to Myles to dive in before they'd reassured the Irishman. He'd never been one for subtlety. The wind blew hard, and she thought she felt raindrops but supposed it could have been saltwater. She shook off a sudden chill as O'Donovan crossed his muscled arms over his broad chest. He stood at the edge of the pier, his back to the water as if he had no worries about taking a wrong step. 'Sophie's a restless soul, and she has a natural curiosity and an investigative mind. Put all that together...' He dropped his arms to his