Then again, so was he.
“You need to talk to me, Emma.”
She left the door open for him, giving him the choice to follow her inside or go on his way. He deliberately waited a few seconds, then went in to her little one-bedroom apartment.
“I thought you might have bought more furniture since my last visit,” he said.
“I have.” She pointed to a coffee table stacked with books. “I bought that.”
The place looked less lived-in than a hotel room. It had potential with its single exposed brick wall and windows that looked out on a small marina. Just like home in Heron’s Cove, he thought. He didn’t like to get too far from the water himself. One thing he and Emma had in common, maybe.
That and a fierce physical attraction to each other, he thought as he caught a glimpse of her neatly made bed in the next room.
She was still cool, annoyed. “If you’re trying to wear me down, you can give up now,” she said, standing in the middle of the hardwood floor. “I don’t wear down easily.”
“That I already know.”
She angled him a look. “Is that meant to remind me that we’ve slept together?”
He let his gaze drift over her. “Do you need reminding?”
“I don’t,” she said.
“You’re blushing, Special Agent Sharpe.”
“I’m not. I walked fast from the office.” She motioned toward the adjacent bedroom. “I’m just pulling together a few things before I head back to Heron’s Cove. What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “Watching you.”
“Yank told you to?”
“He didn’t need to.”
“I was caught flat-footed by Dmitri’s arrival,” she admitted, loosening up ever so slightly.
“Did you expect him to notify you that he was on the way?”
“It would have been nice. He didn’t have to call me himself. He has a staff.” She went into the bedroom, barely big enough for her double bed, and ripped open a closet door. “I just wish I’d known. That’s all. Especially given the timing with your ordeal.”
His ordeal, he thought, leaning against the white-painted wood doorjamb. “What about your pal Ivan? Couldn’t he have called?”
She disappeared into the closet. “He could have.”
“Have you talked to him in the past four years?”
No response.
“You have,” Colin said, not that he hadn’t figured that out already. That and just how hard it was to get Emma Sharpe to talk when she didn’t want to.
She reappeared with a folded sweater that she set on the bed. Her hair had picked up some static, but she didn’t seem to notice as she raked a hand through it. “Ivan and Dmitri come out of a difficult and turbulent era in Russia.” She dipped back into the closet and produced a couple of folded shirts. “They don’t look at the world the same way you and I do. If they’d been born at a different time, who knows what they’d have become.”
Colin didn’t care about any of that. “Ivan knows who I am.”
She nodded. “I know. I didn’t tell him.”
“But he’s your source.” Colin didn’t want to press too hard now that he’d gotten this far with her. “I’m not asking you to give up a confidence. I’m telling you what I know. I assume you trust him.”
“Yes.”
“You give people the benefit of the doubt, Emma. You don’t judge. People feel comfortable with you, and they tell you things. You have a tendency to believe the best about them.”
“You’re saying I don’t have good instincts. That I’m too trusting.”
“As a nun, as a Sharpe—you could take people as they are. Maybe you had to. You also didn’t have to build a case. You weren’t a federal agent. There’s a difference between having sources and keeping a toe in your old life. ”
“I understand what you’re saying.” She stood back from the bed, staring down at the decorative pillows, then looked at Colin, her green eyes warm, clear. “Ivan is the first man I was attracted to after the convent.”
Great, he thought.
“Nothing ever happened between us,” she added quietly.
“It’s none of my business if it did, except as it affects your judgment—and what he’s up to.”
“It doesn’t affect anything. It never did.”
“You believe that. Does Ivan?”
She gathered up her sweaters and tops and walked past him back into the living room. “Ask him if you want to,” she said finally, setting the clothes atop the books on the coffee table.
“Your Russian friends are a distraction,” Colin said. “Tatiana Pavlova believes someone will steal the collection. It doesn’t mean she’s right but she might have instincts about the players. Rusakov, Alexander, Natalie Warren and her dear departed mother. Your grandfather. Your brother.”
He expected her to argue, or at least to take offense, but she remained calm. “Yank’s not happy about this.”
“Nope. Does he know you have a thing for Ivan?”
Her eyes settled on Colin, cool, hard to read, as sexy as ever. “That’s irrelevant. It’s also incorrect.”
“Ivan still has a thing for you.”
“You’re assuming he ever did—”
“I am.”
“Well, if he does, he won’t act on his feelings.”
“He’s more disciplined than I am,” Colin said, slipping an arm around her.
She smiled, no resistance, no doubt, and his mouth found hers as he drew her tight against him. He felt her give herself up to the kiss, clutched his arm as she drew him closer.
“I can’t stay,” she whispered. “I have to go back to Heron’s Cove and talk to Tatiana.”
Colin stood back, her hand still on his arm. “What’s up?”
“I checked on Tatiana’s flight from London. It turns out she didn’t come straight here. She flew to Phoenix first. She stayed overnight there, then flew to Boston and headed up to Heron’s Cove.”
“Natalie Warren is from Phoenix. Does Yank know Tatiana was there?”
Emma shook her head. “I just found out. I’ll call him on my way to Maine. Tatiana didn’t lie to me but I still want to talk to her. I’ll stop at the house and walk over to her cottage.
“Do you want company?”
“You’ll need your truck, and she’s jumpy as it is—two FBI agents showing up could be counterproductive. I’ll meet you back at the house.”
“Not a problem,” Colin said, a sarcastic edge to his voice. “If I get bored, I can grab a crowbar and tear apart a few walls, see if I can find a fortune in jewelry and such. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”
“It’d be a miracle. You’d be more likely to find mice skeletons.” Emma’s quick smile didn’t soften her tense, uneasy look as she dropped her hand from his arm. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Drive safe. No speeding.”
“If you’re annoyed—”
“Not annoyed.”
“I’m not shutting you out,” she said.
He kissed her on the cheek. “Go,” he said softly. “Do what you have to do.”
She eyed him. “You don’t like this situation, either.”
“Not even a little.
She nodded, her smile gone. She stuffed her clothes into a canvas tote bag and headed out with a murmured goodbye. After the door shut behind her, Colin glanced around the small apartment. He would need a place to stay in Boston if he had to go into the HIT offices every day. Emma’s apartment was tight quarters for the two of them, and it was her space.
He didn’t remember any pictures of her and Ivan Alexander from his quick search of her apartment in September.
Of her and any man.
He decided he would have to get Finian Bracken or one of his brothers to take a few shots of him and Emma together. Laughing together, he thought. Kayaking together. Picking apples. Walking hand in hand on some quiet stretch of rocky coast.
Drinking whiskey at Hurley’s, even.
&
nbsp; If he was going to work in an office for real, he wanted a picture of Emma on his desk.
* * *
Colin found carpenters but no Emma at the Sharpe house when he arrived in Heron’s Cove. He didn’t know if she’d changed her mind about parking there, or just didn’t drive as fast as he did.
Gerald Riegler, a beefy guy Colin had grown up with in Rock Point, was in the front room, packing up for the day. “Hey, Colin. I heard you and Emma Sharpe were an item.” He grinned as he returned a tape measure to his toolbox. “Should I read anything into her sleeping on the floor last night?”
“Shut up, Gerald,” Colin said good-naturedly, deciding not to mention that he had slept on the floor with her. He had left early, before any of the carpenters had arrived or those aboard the Nightingale had stirred. “How’s work on the place going?”
“It’s going great, especially with Lucas Sharpe in Ireland.” Using the toe of his work boot, Gerald shoved his toolbox against the wall. “Emma brought us a pie the other day. We like Emma. Did you bring us anything?”
“No, I didn’t bring you anything. Hell, Gerald.”
“I wasn’t thinking you’d bring pies. Lobster, maybe.”
Two more carpenters, also from Rock Point, materialized from other rooms in the house. They greeted Colin, teased him about the mat on the floor. They obviously liked Emma, too. After they left, Colin shut the door behind them and headed to the kitchen. He saw that the blankets and quilts were folded and stacked in the small adjoining bedroom, as if Emma didn’t plan to spend another night there.
Good, he thought.
Of course the stacked blankets didn’t mean she planned to spend the night with him in Rock Point.
He really could take a crowbar to a wall.
He went out to the back porch and thumped down the steps, slick with the gray mist. He noticed a woman on the small riverfront beach below the inn just past the parking lot. The hood to her rain jacket fell back, and he recognized Natalie Warren’s white-blond hair. She seemed to be alone. He walked across the wet grass, through the evergreen bushes that served as a border to that side of the Sharpe yard, then along the retaining wall on the edge of the parking lot.
By the time he jumped down to the beach, Natalie was aware of his presence. “Well, well,” she said cheerfully. “Here we are again. I was just up at the Sharpe house. The carpenters said Emma’s in Boston.”
“She was. She’s on her way back here.”
“The house looks so shabby and empty right now, but what a romantic spot for Sharpe Fine Art Recovery to have its offices.”
Colin tried not to show any of the tension he felt. “Have you ever worked with the Sharpes before?”
“No, I haven’t. I wouldn’t say that I am now.” Natalie inhaled deeply, facing the water. The hem of her flowing pants had dipped into the rising tide, but at least she was wearing lace-up waterproof shoes today. “I love the mist and the taste of salt in the air. I’m such a desert rat, but this is just spectacular.” She gave a satisfied smile, even as she seemed to well up with emotion. “How are you today, Special Agent Donovan?”
“Doing just fine. You?”
“I’m still on Phoenix time. I didn’t sleep well last night. Tonight should be better.” She watched a lobster boat make its way through the channel into the tidal river. “I’ve had lobster salad but I’ve never tackled a whole lobster. I’m not sure I’d want to mess with one.”
“It’s not that hard.”
“One of your brothers is a lobsterman, isn’t that right?”
Colin felt the cold mist on the back of his neck. “How did you know?”
“Oh, now don’t get all suspicious over an innocent comment,” she said, teasing him. “I found out from another lobsterman this morning on the docks. We were just chatting.”
“And you happened to ask about my family?”
“Actually, I asked about the Sharpes and mentioned that Emma’s an FBI agent, and he said he was from Rock Point and knew an FBI agent there. Then we got to you and your brother the lobsterman.”
“Did you talk to anyone on board the Nightingale about my family?”
“No. Heavens. I was just making conversation.” Natalie squatted down and picked up one of the small, saltwater-polished stones that covered the beach. “Have you ever caught a lobster?”
“It was my first job,” Colin said.
She stood straight and tossed the stone into the shallow water. “But you ended up as an FBI agent.” She scooped up another stone. “What an interesting path.”
Colin nodded up the river, in the direction of Dmitri Rusakov’s massive yacht. “What have you all been up to today?”
“Getting reacquainted. I assume Emma told you about the collection.”
“Some.”
“My mother never mentioned it to me when she was alive. I wanted to know more about it. That’s why I came here.”
“Have you showed it to Rusakov?”
She nodded, then let out another breath. “Last night, after you and Emma left.”
Colin worked a stone loose from the wet sand with his boot. “How did he react?”
“He wasn’t surprised. He’d guessed what it was. He was kind. He didn’t make any demands. Since we’re both here and the collection’s here, we might as well figure out what to do like civilized adults.”
Colin picked up the loosened stone, rubbed off some of the mud. “You suspected he knew about the collection, maybe even that it came from him, didn’t you? That’s why you called him. Did you hope he’d follow you here so that you could precipitate a meeting?”
Her eyes widened with mock surprise. “You are a suspicious type, aren’t you, Special Agent Donovan? I don’t manipulate people. That, to be honest, was my mother. Although I am pleased to see Dmitri, even more so than I thought I’d be.”
“You could have just knocked on his door if you wanted to see him.”
“It’s not that simple. Well, maybe it is now, with my mother gone, but he could have told me the collection’s history when I called. I didn’t speak directly to him, but he knew how to reach me. He decided to meet me here, in person, to see the collection for himself—so that he could be sure it’s the one he discovered in his Moscow house. I’d never been on board the Nightingale, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s worth more than Dmitri’s other homes combined, would you?”
“I haven’t seen his other homes,” Colin said.
“Anyway, I learned not to rock the boat with my mother. She didn’t want me to have contact with him, and so I didn’t. Ask any daughter of a mean, controlling, narcissistic mother and she’ll tell you we learn to do what we can to not get hurt.”
“Do you think your mother pilfered this collection from Rusakov?”
“As I told Emma last night, and Dmitri this morning, no, I don’t.” Using both hands, Natalie pulled her hood back over her head, her hair glistening with mist. “I’m just trying to figure this all out the best I can. You have to understand my mother’s personality. She had her own way of thinking. Tell me, Agent Donovan. How long have you and Emma been seeing each other?”
He took a few steps closer to the water’s edge, with no intention of answering Natalie’s question.
“I see you’re the closemouthed type. Now there’s a surprise.” She pointed to his forearm, her fingertip not quite touching his skin. “That’s a nasty bruise. Did you get it lobstering with your brother?”
“Something like that. Where are Rusakov and Alexander now?”
“I have no idea. I went out for some air about an hour and a half ago. I don’t mind the wet weather—it’s a novelty for me. I walked along the ocean, past some gorgeous houses. Frankly, they’re more along the lines of what I expected Wendell Sharpe to own.”
Colin wondered if she had run into Tatiana Pavlova but didn’t ask. A young couple walked down from the inn with two toddlers. One child burst ahead of them, squealing when he saw a seagull.
Natalie smiled, wat
ching the young family. “Dmitri told me this morning that he thinks I should find a good man and get married and have a half-dozen fat babies. Can you imagine? Me? A good man might be in my future but not six babies. Perish the thought.” She faked a shudder, laughed. “What about you? A good woman and a bunch of babies in your future? Oh, Emma. Of course. Looks as if you two have a good thing going.”
“I should get moving,” Colin said, again dodging her curiosity about his relationship with Emma. “Are you going back to the Nightingale now?”
She nodded. “Although I’m tempted to take off my shoes and walk in the salt water and rocks. It’d be like a rough-and-ready reflexology pool.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever been in a reflexology pool.”
“Big surprise.” Natalie grinned at him before she continued. “My mother introduced me to reflexology. Please don’t think I’m some kind of horrible daughter for talking about her the way I do. I loved her but I also had no illusions. I did enough therapy to accept that she was pretty much a nasty piece of work. Everyone had a turbulent relationship with her. It shouldn’t be surprising that I, her only child, had a turbulent relationship with her, too.”
“I’m not here to judge you,” Colin said. “How did your mother and Dmitri meet?”
“At a museum in Moscow. Isn’t that romantic? They were good together for a while. She didn’t get bored with him as fast as she did with most of her men.”
Colin started across the rocky beach, Natalie joining him. “Why didn’t your mother tell you about the collection?” he asked. “Why leave it to you with no details?”
“A very good question. At first I wondered if she’d just forgotten about it, but now I think it was her way of trying to manipulate and control me after her death.”
“Did she have a chance to get her affairs in order? She was a relatively young woman. If she was sick—”
“That’s a fair point, but only if you didn’t know her. She never accepted how sick she was and she was always so competitive with me, her own daughter. Well, it doesn’t matter now. She’s finally at peace. The collection is spectacular, but I was awake half the night thinking about it. I don’t want to keep it. I know that much.”
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