He held up a hand. “I’m aware of Colin’s feelings on the matter. You know the FBI has no authority over me here in Ireland, right?”
“You’re a free man, Father Bracken. I don’t have authority over you anywhere. However, I can arrest you in the States for certain offenses, and I can call the guards here.”
“Ah, and you would, too, Emma,” he said with a smile.
“Damn right I would.”
Unruffled, he tried his whiskey, savoring that first sip. In his dark sweater, with his midnight-blue eyes and Bono look, Emma couldn’t imagine anyone assuming he was a priest.
“How’s your grandfather?” he asked. “Have you had an update?”
“He’s on the mend. My parents are with him in Dublin.” She broke off more of one of her cookies. “I meant for this to be a fun trip. I’d help him pack up his office and listen to him talk about the old days. Sister Joan’s death, the bomb and now the attack on him…” She ate her piece of cookie, savoring the sweetness. “I can’t stay. I’m going back to Boston tomorrow. What about you?”
“I’ll spend the night at my brother Declan’s house. It’s not far from here.” Bracken drank more of his whiskey. “You have a generous, curious nature, Emma. Your time with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart served you well. I’ll let you know what I discover.”
“Take no risks, Father.”
“Finian, remember?”
“Finian, then. If this killer would hit a nun on the back of the head, why not a priest?”
Bracken leveled his dark blue eyes on her. “I’m not afraid, Emma.” He abandoned his whiskey and sipped some water as he got to his feet. “I’ve arranged a room for you here for the night. It’s a long flight back to Boston. Enjoy a full Irish breakfast before you leave.”
Emma watched him head back through the hotel. He’d have parked his rented BMW out front. She hoped his brother would distract him from wanting to help the FBI.
Then again, Colin Donovan might lock his Irish friend in a closet until their killer was under arrest.
The early-evening air was chilly now. Emma gave up on her tea and went inside and sat up at the curving polished wood bar. She ordered a glass of red wine. She was alone but she didn’t mind. She was in a beautiful place.
She could stay right here, indulge herself and forget she was chasing a killer.
A killer who would strike again. There was no question.
After she finished her wine, she walked out to the terrace again, then wandered in the garden as she called Matt Yankowski. She’d debated calling Lucas and didn’t want to read anything into her decision not to.
“How’s Ireland?” Yank asked.
“Green.”
“How much whiskey have you had?”
“None. I’ve had wine.” She could hear the displeasure in his tone and figured he had the Sharpe family tree and Finian Bracken’s baby pictures up on his computer by now. “You’ve been in touch with the Irish authorities about my grandfather?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’d have called you sooner,” she said, “but—”
“But you didn’t. Talk to me, Sharpe.”
Emma filled him in as darkness descended over her corner of southwest Ireland.
When she finished, Yank said, “Keep me posted, and trust no one.”
“Colin Donovan?”
“That’s between you, him and the leprechauns,” Yank said, and disconnected.
CHAPTER 27
COLIN UNLOADED HIS KAYAK GEAR IN HIS GARAGE when he arrived back in Rock Point the next afternoon. He didn’t mind flying. He just hated sitting on planes. He hung his kayak paddle and his life vest on hooks and pretended he’d gone on to his fifth island and Emma Sharpe was still just the name of an agent who’d helped take down an arms trafficker.
He wasn’t good at pretending. Deception, yes. Not pretending.
Emma Sharpe wasn’t just a name anymore. He could see her luminous green eyes as she’d walked next to him in the Irish park. He could have whisked her off for a night of dinner, Irish music, laughter and lovemaking.
Instead, he’d left her to chat with Finian Bracken and had gone off on his own. He’d checked with sources and looked into Wendell Sharpe and the Bracken brothers. He was satisfied the troubles in Heron’s Cove didn’t lead back to Vladimir Bulgov, his Russian arms trafficker with a passion for expensive fine art.
He hung his dry bag on another hook. He wasn’t satisfied about anything else.
As if to drive home that point, Matt Yankowski appeared in the doorway of Colin’s one-car garage, his suit coat hung over one shoulder, his white shirt still looking crisp. He’d loosened his tie. “I see you didn’t decide to stay in Ireland and chase rainbows.”
“I was tempted. I could use a pot of gold.”
“Was Emma tempted?”
“I didn’t ask.” Colin lifted his kayak and propped it against the wall. “Did you just get here?”
“I parked at the docks. Thought I might find you there but I ran into your brother Andy. He said you were up here. I figured I could use the exercise and walked.” Yank nodded to the dark red sea kayak. “Heading out?”
“I probably should be.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you disappeared. Emma just landed at Logan. I half hoped she’d stay in Ireland.” He blew out a breath. The walk up from the harbor didn’t seem to have affected him. “Things changed with the bomb and then the attack on Wendell Sharpe. Whatever’s going on involves the Sharpes. There’s no getting around it.”
“Your ex-nun FBI agent is trouble, Yank.”
He gave a small smile. “She says that about you.”
“I’m not an ex-nun.”
“You’re from Rock Point, which some days I think should be called Rock Head. You’re an ex-lobsterman. That’s not so different from being an ex-nun. I only do lobster in a roll with a little mayo and lettuce. I suppose it’s different when the lobster’s your paycheck.”
“Everything’s different when it’s your paycheck.”
Colin headed out of the garage and stood at the edge of the driveway. He
