“Sister Cecilia came clean,” Colin said behind her. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Does Ainsley think you’re a lobsterman?”
“I am a lobsterman. It’s just not all I am, and you’re trying to avoid the issue. Something Sister Cecilia said struck the wrong note with you.” He came close to her as she stood at her car door. “What are you hiding, Emma?”
“I’m not hiding anything. I’m just not telling you everything. Why would I? I don’t even know who you are. An FBI agent. One of Yank’s friends. That tells me nothing.” She could feel the brush of Colin’s hip against hers. His eyes were that flinty gray again, narrowed on her knowingly. He was a physical, confident type. Dangerous, probably. She pulled open the driver’s door. “You can be back in Rock Point in time for happy hour at the local watering hole. What’s it called? Hurley’s, right?”
“Emma—”
“Get in,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” Colin gave her a small grin. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The drive back to Heron’s Cove was interminable with Colin Donovan next to Emma in her little car. He was one of those men who exuded testosterone. She was accustomed to being around such men in her FBI work but not in her personal life. As she pulled into the parking lot at the docks, she imagined herself on a date with the man next to her. A walk along the ocean to look at the big houses and watch seabirds. A quiet dinner on a crisp fall night, with wine, fresh local foods and laughter.
She gave herself a mental shake and blamed adrenaline, and a fleeting memory she’d been trying to pin down since hearing about the missing painting that morning—a beautiful woman in a cave…a strange light…a Viking warship….
Emma steadied her hand as she turned off the car engine and noticed the Julianne tied up at the docks, bobbing in the tide. “I should search your boat,” she said.
“For what, an escaped lobster?”
Nothing bothered the man. Since everything was bothering her, she found his irreverent humor and unflappability alternately refreshing and irritating. She eased out of her car into the brisk afternoon air.
Colin got out, shut the door and joined her at the edge of the parking lot.
“Enjoy the trip back to Rock Point,” Emma said. “Use your GPS. Mind the shoals.”
“No problem.”
“It’ll be cold on the water. I hope you have a jacket.”
“In the boat.”
“And you don’t want to get wet again. The marine patrol might get suspicious.”
If he noticed her light sarcasm, he didn’t say. “Thanks for the ride, Agent Sharpe.”
He jumped down from the retaining wall to the river’s edge, then onto the dock. The tide was out. His lobster boat didn’t look worse for wear for its time on the rocks at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, but it was so battered, who could tell?
Interesting that he’d returned to Heron’s Cove and not to Rock Point.
Emma crossed the parking lot, wondering if he was watching her but refusing to look to see. She threaded her way through the shrubs to the backyard, then headed up the back porch. Nothing appeared to be disturbed since she’d left that morning.
She sighed at the canvas still clipped to her easel. Jack d’Auberville and his daughter had skill, passion, determination and artistry. She just liked to paint every now and again. Lucas, who had no interest in learning to paint, would shake his head at her efforts. Her father had tried painting to help take his mind off his chronic pain, but he’d found more relief in his investigative work. He’d given up the day-to-day operations and travel that came with running the family business, but he still did research and analysis, focusing on decades-old art thefts.
Her grandfather had encouraged her to paint because she enjoyed it so much.
“Ah, Granddad,” Emma said aloud, feeling the emotions of the past two days settle over her along with the afternoon chill.
She had no intention of canceling her trip to Dublin. With the description of the missing painting, she was anxious to talk to her grandfather about it and the events in Heron’s Cove, and perhaps a certain BMW-driving Irish priest up in Rock Point.
She unlocked the back door and entered the kitchen, welcoming the familiarity of the old white-painted cabinets, the butcher-block countertops and scratched stainless-steel appliances. The floors were the original narrow cherrywood. She’d left her mug and cereal bowl in the sink after the hasty breakfast she’d gulped down before venturing out to the convent that morning.
She pulled off her leather jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Only the kitchen and a first-floor bedroom and bathroom hadn’t yet been cleared out ahead of renovations, but they would be soon. After much debate, Lucas had decided to include living quarters in the plans and not convert the entire house into offices, but they’d be modernized. He’d worked closely with the architect, contractor and designer, all of them eager to get started on transforming the old house. They’d keep its character but install state-of-the-art wiring, security, plumbing, air-conditioning and heating, and decorate with an eye to the future.
Emma approved. So did her parents and grandfather.
That didn’t mean they wouldn’t miss the original place.
She walked down the hall to the empty rooms in the front of the house and paused at the open doorway to her grandfather’s first office, the late-day sun streaming through translucent panels on the windows. The floorboards were warped, scratched and water-stained from a long-ago hurricane that had swept up the coast. She could see markings where the glass drop-front bookcases had stood and remembered the old library table stacked with art books and manila file folders.
How many hours had she spent in here as a little girl, watching her grandfather work, listening to him talk about art and art thefts?
He’d solved his first big case here, a stunning theft of three Claude Monet paintings
