He walked into the bedroom. His physical reaction to seeing her bed gave him his answer. It wasn’t just that she’d been a nun—it was that he wanted to know what made Emma Sharpe tick. He wanted to sit with her in front of a fire and drink wine and talk late into the night. As he’d watched her work that morning, he’d realized just how hard and fast he’d fallen for this woman.
Yank had asked him bluntly if he was flirting with burnout.
Maybe he was.
Sleeping next to Emma had nearly done him in. Waking up to her warm, lithe body under his arm had tested his powers of restraint and self-discipline. If he hadn’t found out she’d been a nun, would he have made love to her?
“Doesn’t matter, ace,” he muttered. “You didn’t.”
And now she was off to Ireland.
He believed what he’d told her earlier. There’d be another opportunity. He’d seen in her eyes that she wanted one as much as he did.
For now, that was enough.
He didn’t feel guilty about searching her apartment. Since she owned so little, it didn’t take long. What she did own was neat and organized. She had shelves of art books, scrapbooks and photograph albums, CDs and computer disks lined up neatly.
He wasn’t looking for bombs. He was looking for anything that Emma’s bias as a Sharpe and a former member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart had caused her to miss.
His brother Kevin called in the middle of his search of her junk drawer, which was more like a miscellaneous drawer since it was so tidy. “Father Bracken took off for Ireland a little while ago,” Kevin said.
Colin had asked him to check in on the local priest from time to time. “Taken off as in—”
“Bracken Distillers’ chartered jet. Quite a life he left behind.”
“So it is. Did he say what he’s up to?”
“Visiting family.”
Kevin’s tone suggested he didn’t believe that was the only reason. Colin didn’t, either. Finian Bracken was in a meddlesome mood, disturbed by Sister Joan’s death, wrestling with his own demons, whatever they were. He knew about the Sharpe connection to Dublin. Maybe he even knew Emma was on her way there.
An Irish priest who wanted to help find a killer. Colin grimaced. Just what he needed.
“Thanks, Kevin.”
“Where are you?” his brother asked.
“Boston,” Colin said, leaving it at that.
He found the Dublin address for Sharpe Fine Art Recovery and dialed Yank. “Looks as if I’m going to Ireland.”
CHAPTER 22
THE IRISH MORNING WAS SUNNY AND COOL WHEN Emma stepped out of her cab onto her grandfather’s street in southeast Dublin. She’d headed straight from the airport to his apartment in a Georgian row house. She rang his doorbell, but she wasn’t surprised when she discovered he’d already left for the day. He’d always been an early riser.
Restless after her long overnight flight, she welcomed the chance to set off on foot through the city streets. She walked through St. Stephen’s Green, its twenty-plus acres of lawns, gardens and ponds glistening with dew and quiet in the morning sun. She hadn’t been to Ireland since last summer and loved being back.
She just needed coffee, and answers.
In ten minutes, she was on the cobblestone street where her grandfather had opened the Dublin offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery in a small corner building fifteen years ago. For a year after leaving the convent, Emma had taken this same route almost every day as she’d reacquainted herself with the mechanics of her family business and sorting out what she wanted to do with her life. Matt Yankowski, of course, had kept in touch.
She smiled and ran up the narrow stairs, eager to see her grandfather. When she came to the third-floor landing, she saw that the door to his office was ajar. “Hey, Granddad,” she called. “It’s me, Emma. I just got in from Boston….”
She pushed open the door, expecting to find her grandfather at his desk and whisk him off for coffee and an Irish breakfast. She noticed boxes stacked by the desk and felt a twist of nostalgia at the idea of Wendell Sharpe no longer having his own office after six decades. He had worked on cases with individuals, law enforcement agencies and private companies throughout the world. He would continue to serve as a consultant when needed, but he planned to travel while he was still in good health and divide his time between his apartment in Dublin and the soon-to-be-renovated living quarters at the Sharpe offices on the waterfront in Heron’s Cove.
Emma heard a moan and whirled around, just as her grandfather got up onto his knees on the floor behind his cluttered desk.
“Granddad!”
She ran to him and helped him to his feet, getting one arm around his thin frame. He winced, squinting at her as if he were trying to focus. “Emma?”
“I’m here, Granddad. I’ll get help—”
He waved her off and stood up on his own. “I’ll be all right. Give me a moment.” He sank into his desk chair. His bow tie and navy plaid suspenders were askew, his skin ashen as he winced, clearly in pain. “I’m fine, Emma. I just got the wind knocked out of me.”
She heard footsteps in the hall and spun across the office, stopping a half step short of tackling Colin Donovan. He loomed in the doorway, wearing a charcoal wool sweater and looking as if he’d just rolled off an overnight flight himself.
He narrowed his dark eyes on octogenarian Wendell Sharpe. “Did he fall?”
“Hell, no, I didn’t fall,” her grandfather said, his voice stronger. “Someone jumped me from behind. Who are you?”
“This is Colin Donovan,” Emma said. “He’s an FBI agent.”
“The one who defused the bomb in my attic?”
“Yes, that one.”
Colin entered the office and walked over to
