Bracken shifted in his chair. He’d gone quiet, observing the exchange between the two FBI agents. “She’s trusting, and I suspect somewhat naive. Would you care for more whiskey, Agent Sharpe?”
“Please, Father, call me Emma, and no, thanks. I’ve had enough whiskey.” She rose, looking a little rocky on her feet. “Thank you for your help identifying Saint Sunniva.”
“Anytime,” the priest said.
Emma’s eyes seemed a darker, deeper green as she turned to Colin. “Good lobstering, Agent Donovan. I’ll see myself home.”
Colin noticed a faint spray of freckles across her nose as she turned in the light. He didn’t know how he’d missed them until now. She wasn’t so contained and logical all of a sudden. He was asking questions, getting close to something she didn’t want to tell him. The danger she’d experienced in the past two days and the murder of Sister Joan were sinking in, rattling her to the core.
Bracken turned to him. “Should she go home alone?”
Emma smiled down at the priest. “Yes, she should. Thank you for your concern, Father. I’m an FBI agent. I don’t need a protector.”
She pushed off across the restaurant. Bracken watched her, then frowned at Colin. “She just found a bomb in her attic. It could have gone off in her sleep. She could have burned to death.”
“She’d have gotten out of there first. Her bedroom’s on the first floor.”
“I don’t care, and I don’t care if she sleeps with a dozen guns under her pillow. You can’t just let her go.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Colin said, rising. “She came by boat. She doesn’t have a way back to Heron’s Cove unless she hitches a ride.”
Bracken wasn’t chastened. “You can drive. You’ve only had a few sips of whiskey. I’ll take care of the tab for the chowder.”
Colin didn’t argue and, grabbing his jacket off the back of Emma’s abandoned chair, left his priest friend alone at the table. He caught up with Emma outside in the parking lot. “You might not need a protector, but you need a ride home.”
She shivered but he figured offering his jacket again would be the last straw. “All right. You can give me a ride back. How much whiskey have you had?”
“Not enough.”
He led her to his truck, and she climbed in next to him. She was cool again, under control. He realized he wanted to kiss her. Once wasn’t nearly enough, and he had whiskey on top of adrenaline going for him now.
She narrowed her eyes on him in the darkness. “Don’t even think about it.”
“About what?”
“Repeating what you did earlier.”
“What I did? That kiss was mutual, sweetheart.”
“I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours. I know your type. Action-oriented, on the move. No roots.”
He started the engine. “I have roots here in Maine. You just met two of my brothers.”
“I mean…” She waved a hand. “Never mind what I mean.”
“You mean women.”
She looked uncomfortable and busied herself strapping on her seat belt.
“What about you and men, Emma Sharpe? Is there a guy in your life?”
“I’m still getting settled in Boston.”
“So no, there isn’t. Did you like me better when you thought I was a lobsterman?”
She didn’t answer and rode in silence back to Heron’s Cove. He parked just down the street from the gray-shingled house where her grandfather had started Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. Law enforcement vehicles—local, state, federal—were still lined up out front.
Emma cracked open her door. “I should have stayed here. I shouldn’t have gone off to Rock Point with you.”
“Nothing more you could have done, and Kevin and I drank your cider.”
Colin got out of the truck and met her on the sidewalk. She nodded toward the restaurant across the street. “You’d think someone would have seen something.”
“If it’d been me, no one would have seen a thing.”
“That good, are you?”
“I’m just saying that someone who knows what he’s doing could break your storm door and let himself in with thirty people eating lobster rolls across the street not noticing.”
“I left Lucas several messages. I’m sure he’ll stop by. I’m going back to Boston.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He has a busy schedule.”
“Your grandfather created an internationally respected business, with a solid livelihood for his family. Why didn’t you want it?”
“I didn’t reject him or the business. I love my family. I love the work they do. I embraced something else. Did you reject lobstering?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. It’s tough work.”
She didn’t smile at his humor. “Did you always want to be an FBI agent?”
“Nope. I wanted to be a lobsterman. Then marine patrol. Wanting to join the FBI came later. I thought it was a good way to get a taste of life outside of Maine. I’m not complicated.” They ducked under the yellow police tape in front of her house. “You’re complicated. A Sharpe art detective, an art historian, an FBI agent. Now you’re a member of Yank’s elite team. I figure you must be good at what you do.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” She angled a look at him. “Thank you for the ride, and for your help with the bomb.”
“You’d have found it when you went upstairs to look for the Sunniva painting.”
She stopped abruptly, kicking up a small stone on the sidewalk. “You mean the painting Sister Cecilia described—”
“That’s the one.” He pointed up at the house. “Sunniva was here, wasn’t she? In the attic?”
Emma turned to him with a deceptive calm. “She might have been. She’s not there now.”
“Who would know? Your brother, your parents, your grandfather?”
She didn’t answer.
“When did you last see the painting?”
“I don’t remember. I’ve been thinking about it since Sister Cecilia described it. At first I thought I might be creating a false memory.”
“You’re not.”
She took a breath. “No, I’m not. It was a canvas. It wasn’t framed. I saw it in the attic when I was a child. It wasn’t valuable or it would have been under lock and key and properly stored, and it wasn’t.”
“You didn’t know it
