The Whisper

He set her back on the floor. 'I'll be mature and give you time to sort this out.' He took a curl of her hair and tucked it behind her ear, as gentle a move as he'd ever made with her. 'Just not too much time. You're decisive. You'll know.'

'There's nothing to sort out. You were wrong for me two years ago. Now you're just more wrong.' She adjusted her clothing and cleared her throat. 'I know it's not that late, but it's been a long day in the car.'

He winked at her. 'Now it'll be a long night alone in our beds.'

He went back out through the hall door, and before she could change her mind, Josie threw on the dead bolt and pulled a chair in front of the connecting door. If he tried to sneak in, at least she'd have fair warning and could dry her tears. In her thirteen years with British intelligence, not once had she let a colleague see her cry.

And that was what Myles Fletcher was. A colleague.

'Bastard,' she said, picking up a pillow and flinging it to the floor.

What would she get if she trashed her five-star hotel room out of pure frustration? She could present Myles to hotel security. Lizzie Rush could intervene and explain. Having taken on armed thugs and a violent billionaire with Myles, she would understand why Josie had been driven to breaking windows and kicking the feathers out of pillows.

Instead she picked up the pillow and sat on the bed with her knees tucked up under her chin. She touched her lips with her fingertips and looked at the connecting door. 'Damn you, Myles,' she said in a hoarse whisper. 'I love you as much as ever.'

Which, of course, was why he'd kissed her. He knew she loved him. He'd always known--and if that had given him comfort during the past two years, wasn't it a good thing? As a professional, shouldn't she draw some satisfaction that their relationship had helped an agent on a difficult, dangerous mission--one he hadn't expected to survive?

Some, perhaps, but never mind the past. What about the future?

Not to mention the present. Josie dipped under the silken duvet, shivering at the feel of the cool sheets. It would, indeed, be a long night alone in her bed.

14

Boston, Massachusetts

Scoop returned to his desk at BPD headquarters in Roxbury for the first time since he'd been shredded by shrapnel. Everything was just as he'd left it. He'd turned over all his notes on the possible involvement of a member of the department with the thugs who'd kidnapped Abigail Browning. The firewall was up between him and the investigation. It had gone up the second the bomb went off.

There was nothing for him to do except avoid people he didn't want to talk to. Josie's report was raging in his head, but he had to pull himself together before he talked to anyone--especially Sophie. He returned to Charles Street, the temperature dropping fast, the early evening air cool, even chilly. For once Jeremiah Rush wasn't at the reception desk in the Whitcomb lobby. Scoop rode the elevator with a couple from Houston who were in town to see as many historic sites as they could fit in. The wife wanted to be sure to visit the Louisa May Alcott house in Concord. The husband wanted to visit Bunker Hill in Charles-town.

They looked at Scoop to settle the issue. He grinned. 'I'd go to a Red Sox game.'

'Do you work for the hotel?' the wife asked. 'Our tub drain's slow.'

The husband winced as if he wanted to crawl out of there, but Scoop just said, 'I'll let the front desk know.'

She blushed. 'Thank you. I'm sorry. I thought--'

'Not a problem.'

They looked relieved when he got off the elevator. His room had been serviced, even his toothbrush, razor and toothpaste set in a clean glass. He didn't know what to do with himself. He thought about having a drink at the bar. Calling O'Reilly to join him. Tracking down Abigail on her honeymoon. Before the bomb, the three of them would get together in the backyard or in one of their kitchens and talk about whatever was on their minds. Now everything was different. He, Abigail and Bob O'Reilly were stuck on the wrong side of the investigation.

He rubbed a palm over his head.

He could go up and fix the Houston couple's drain.

Scoop grabbed a zip-up sweatshirt and returned to the lobby, bypassing Morrigan's and heading back outside. He turned up Mt. Vernon Street, telling himself he was just getting some air, working off the last of his jet lag and the effects of his long day. The nagging questions about Cliff's role in the bomb blast. His death. The bizarre scene at his apartment.

Sophie's wide, blue eyes as she'd taken in the disturbing, bizarre skulls, glass beads, DVD, cast-iron pot--the bomb-making materials and the former police officer hanging in his dining room.

As he came to the top of Beacon Hill, Scoop gritted his teeth, but he already knew what he was going to do. He continued on to the Malone twins' apartment. The gate was unlocked, which was an issue for him. He didn't ring the bell, just descended the steps and walked through the archway back to a cute little courtyard.

Sophie was, in fact, arranging mums. She was on her knees, a half dozen mums in apple baskets in front of her. She moved a yellow one behind a dark maroon one and rolled back onto her heels. 'There. Better.' She glanced up at Scoop. 'What do you think?'

He nodded back toward the street. 'I think you should keep your gate locked.'

'That must have been one of the neighbors who share the courtyard. I'm in a batten-down-the-hatches mood myself.'

'Smart. The mums look great. Perfect. Don't touch a thing.'

She stood up and smiled at him. 'You don't care, do you?'

'I like gardening when it involves something I can have for dinner.'

'Ah. What have you been up to?'

'I just got mistaken for a plumber. Thought you'd be pleased. Not everyone looks at me and thinks 'cop.''

She brushed loose potting soil off her hands. 'Would you like to come inside?'

'I'm homeless. Sure.'

She led him into the tiny apartment. The low ceilings would have him nuts in half a day, but that was affordable Beacon Hill. Unaffordable Beacon Hill came with higher ceilings. He noticed a laptop and papers by the fireplace, but otherwise, there was no indication Sophie had truly moved in.

'I know why you're here,' she said.

That was good because he wasn't sure he knew.

She motioned to what passed for a kitchen. 'Can I get you anything?'

'No, but help yourself.'

She shook her head. 'I haven't been able to eat a thing since that half of your sandwich. Have a seat.'

He pulled out a chair at the table by the windows and sat down, but she stayed on her feet between him and the entry, watching him as if she were wondering if she'd lost her mind inviting him in. She'd twisted her hair up into some kind of knot that was coming apart, tangled strands of dark red falling into her face.

She walked over to the low sectional and stood in front of the fireplace. 'It'll be easier if I start at the beginning.' She took a moment to study him with those smart, bright blue eyes. 'But you know my story already, don't you? Two Brits talked to a fisherman in Kenmare this morning. They're friends of yours, aren't they?'

'Not friends, exactly.'

'They're reporting to you--'

'Sort of, yes. It doesn't matter, Sophie. I want to hear you tell me what happened.'

'All right.' She stared past him out the window, but he doubted she even saw the array of autumn flowers. 'Last September, I explored a tiny, uninhabited island off the Iveragh Peninsula as a break from writing my dissertation.'

Scoop smiled at her. 'Couldn't just go to the local pub?'

She seemed to relax a little. 'I did some of my best writing in my local pub. My island trips were different. I'd get out on the water and in the air and not think about my page quotas, my arguments, my future. How many years