“Right or left side?” he asked.
She tried not to let him see that he was getting to her. “I’ll take the floor.”
“Suit yourself. I’m beat after my mishap on the rocks and defusing a bomb. All that adrenaline.” He straightened a pillow, as if he wanted to get the two sides of the bed exactly even. “Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Bet you have flannel pajamas. You have a spiffy wardrobe but ten to one you wear L.L. Bean flannel at bedtime.”
Emma forced herself to smile. “Plaid flannel. Unisex. You can borrow a pair.”
“That’d do me in. Grounding my boat at a convent wasn’t bad enough? Now I borrow pajamas from an ex-nun? I’d have to surrender my kick-ass credentials.”
She felt heat rush to her face. He was deliberately provoking her by slipping his knowledge that she’d been a nun into the conversation this way. She marched into the bedroom, ripped open a dresser drawer and pulled out two sets of flannel pajamas.
One red, one blue. She had a couple of slinky nighties but she didn’t go near them.
She thrust the red pair at Colin and changed the subject. Two could play this game. “The Russian arms trafficker. Vladimir Bulgov. Your investigation?”
He took the pajamas and shook out the bottoms. He’d never get into them, and if he tried, they’d barely come to his mid-calves. “I’m not talking Russian arms traffickers with you, Sister… What were you called? Or do you want me to guess? I don’t see you sticking with Emma. Sister Emma. Doesn’t have the right ring to it.”
“Go to hell.”
“That’s not very nunlike of you. Sister Maria?”
Emma spun into the bathroom and changed into her pajamas. She saw in the mirror above the sink that her cheeks were flushed, and she realized she was angry. Not cool, not centered. Colin had to see it, too. And he didn’t give a damn.
The pajamas were baggy but they were warm and covered her from neck to toe.
He was under the duvet on the left side of the bed when she went back into the bedroom. She didn’t know what he had on, but it wasn’t the red pajamas. “You don’t trust anyone,” she said. “That’s why you’re good undercover. You’re always on alert. You don’t mind being alone.”
“Someone killed a nun yesterday. You were a nun.” His eyes were very dark now, as unyielding as she’d yet seen them—providing a hint, she thought, of the man he was, the work he did as a deep-cover agent. He continued, his tone even, professional, as if he weren’t lying in her bed, about to spend the night a foot from her. “You have your own agenda. That’s always dangerous.”
Her bare feet were cold on the wood floor. “Yank knows I can take care of myself. He only put you on me because he’s worried I or someone in my family might have something to do with what’s going on in Maine.”
“Yank’s thorough.”
“So are you.”
“Yes,” Colin said. “So am I. Emma, you and your family are involved in Sister Joan’s death and the missing paintings.”
She swallowed, less combative, less concerned about what he thought of her past. “I had the two-hour drive to Boston to think about everything.”
The hardness went out of his eyes. “Now it’s time to sleep on it. One thing I’ve learned in my years doing the work I do is not to miss an opportunity to sleep.” He patted the pillows next to him. “I made a good barrier. And, as I said, I’m beat.”
He didn’t look that tired, but Emma could feel her fatigue now. It settled over her, the last of the fight and adrenaline draining out of her. She climbed into her side of the bed and pulled the duvet up to her chin.
Colin switched out the bedside light. “Good night, Sister.”
She noted the humor in his voice and sighed in the darkness. “You’re not going to let it go until you know, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Brigid,” she said. “I was called Sister Brigid. She was an early Irish saint.”
He was still and silent across the barrier.
Not that a barrier was needed, Emma thought. No way was Colin Donovan touching her now that he knew she’d been one of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart.
CHAPTER 19
MOTHER SUPERIOR NATALIE AQUINAS WILLIAMS met Finian at the main gate and welcomed him onto the grounds of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. She was bundled in a heavy sweater and had a pleasant, if subdued, manner. She made an effort to be professional, but she was obviously traumatized by the death of one of the sisters in her charge.
A few bright-colored leaves had fallen from a nearby maple and were strewn on the stone walk on the crisp, sparkling morning. As Mother Natalie led him back to the tower where Sister Joan had been killed, she explained the order’s mission and pointed out several folk-art statues that the foundress, Mother Linden, a gifted artist, had created.
“Mother Linden’s love of life and her faith shone through everything she did,” Mother Natalie said. “Her teachings and example are a great comfort to us during this difficult time.”
“I imagine so,” Finian said quietly.
The older woman’s step faltered as they came to a locked gate and a stone statue of Saint Francis of Assisi. “I’m worried about Sister Cecilia.”
“The novice who was with Agent Sharpe?”
“Yes,” Mother Natalie said. “Sister Cecilia is guilt-ridden and frightened. I suspect she’s having a post-traumatic reaction to Sister Joan’s death and her own brush with the apparent perpetrator. She could have been next but for Emma—Agent Sharpe.”
“Would you like me to talk to her?” Finian asked.
“I would, yes. Thank you.”
“Of course.” He trusted himself to maintain an appropriate wall between his friendship with Colin and what he could do, as a priest,
