“That could work.”
“It could,” he said with a sexy smile, his mouth descending to hers.
She melted into the kiss, her lips parting, the towel disappearing altogether. She tugged at his shirt, but her fingers were as liquid as the rest of her. The heat of her bath, the anticipation of his arrival and what would happen—what she wanted to happen—and her determination to push back the horror of the past week, the frustration, the questions, had taken their toll.
Somehow she got her message across, and Colin moved quickly, shedding his shirt, jeans, boots. She heard a belt buckle hit the wood floor. He rolled across the bed back to her, his skin warm against hers. After that, there was no more waiting, no more thinking. Sensations consumed her as hands, mouths and tongues probed, explored, tasted and aroused. Then she was opening to him, arching, taking him into her. A moment of tentativeness, of tightness, gave way to a rush of sensations.
She wrapped her arms around him, clutched him and drew him deeper, even as he plunged into her. She gave a small moan and trembled with pleasure and need, digging her fingers into the taut muscles of his hips…surging with him…exploding with him.
When she was cool again, her heart beating almost normally, the room was dark, but it wasn’t yet nighttime. “I can handle falling for you,” she whispered, not meaning for him to hear.
“We’ll see about that,” he said, hooking an arm over her hips and kissing her deeply, reigniting her senses. He wasn’t one for intense conversations, but, she thought, as she rolled on top of him, felt his hard muscles under her, that was quite all right, at least for now.
* * *
Afterward, they got dressed and went downstairs. There was still no food in the house. Colin went out, and this time Emma stayed. She set the table, enjoying a few moments of domesticity, then checked her email and voice mail. She had messages from her grandfather, Lucas and Yank.
When Colin arrived with sandwiches, he pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. “What do you have?”
“Claire Grayson’s grandfather exchanged the Albrecht Dürer etching with a friend in Ireland for a couple of modern paintings he then donated to a local museum.”
“So the Dürer couldn’t have been part of any collection she might have brought with her to Maine.”
“Yet it was stolen recently, and the security guard was hit on the back of the head.”
“What else?” Colin asked. “Let’s go through what you have. I’m not any good at art crime, but I’m not bad at catching murderers.”
Emma raised her gaze to him. “Colin…”
He winked. “Don’t worry. We won’t stay up too late talking.”
CHAPTER 34
THE NEXT MORNING, MOTHER NATALIE MET EMMA at the main gate of the convent and led her onto the grounds. The stone walk was wet, with puddles formed in any dips from the overnight rain, but the sun was already peeking through the intermittent drizzle. Fog hadn’t taken hold as it had the day Sister Joan was killed.
“Sister Cecilia volunteered to help get the tower ready for us to begin work there again,” Mother Natalie said. “It’s not easy to be there, but Sister Joan left everything in good order.”
They approached the iron fence that separated the tower from the rest of the convent. Emma pictured Sister Joan rushing ahead of her, nervous, ambivalent about having called for help.
Mother Natalie slowed, drizzle collecting on her blunt-cut gray hair. “I was a novice when Mother Linden gave painting lessons to Claire Grayson. It was forty years ago, but as I told the police yesterday, I remember her well. Sister Cecilia showed you the photograph she found.”
“Yes, she did.”
“Mrs. Grayson was a beautiful woman, but one with a very troubled heart, I’m afraid.”
“Did you ever meet her husband?”
“No, not that I recall. He remained in Chicago while she was here. I have to admit that at the time I was quite judgmental that she’d come out here on her own. I regret that now. She was clearly struggling to find herself.” Mother Natalie stopped at the open gate, fat drops of rain dripping off the black-painted iron. “I was busy with my own work at the time. You remember what it’s like to be a novice.”
Emma smiled. “I do, indeed.”
Mother Natalie almost managed a laugh. “Of course you do.” She turned to the gate. “Claire was obsessed with saints and the Viking Age in particular. She would use the convent library to pour over art history books. She familiarized herself with every saint, every story of martyrdom—the gruesome images of beheadings, persecution and whatnot didn’t deter her.”
“Did Mother Linden encourage her?”
“Mother Linden was never afraid of truth or knowledge, but her personal taste was lighter.”
“As we can see from Saint Francis here.” Emma smiled at the stone statue in the flowers as she followed Mother Natalie through the gate. “Do you remember the fire?”
“It was a sad time,” the older woman said. “None of us ever questioned that the fire was anything but a terrible, tragic accident.”
“Claire gave one of her paintings to my grandfather—”
“Her painting of Saint Sunniva. I didn’t see it when she was working on it. I told the police.” Mother Natalie’s tone was more informational than defensive. “It was a generous gift considering the time and effort she put into it, but I’m sure she expected to do many more paintings.”
“It was a thank-you to him for introducing her to Mother Linden. I’ve been wondering if Claire might also have given Mother Linden a painting, as a thank-you.” Colin had wondered, too, last night, as they’d reviewed what they knew about Claire Peck Grayson and her family.
“Claire paid for lessons,” Mother Natalie said. “I’m not aware that she gave one of her paintings to Mother Linden or the convent, but I wouldn’t necessarily have known.”
“Would Mother Linden have kept such a gift?”
The
