“Yank’s a tense man. He trusts me,” Colin said. “He’s just mad because he thinks I did an end run around him.”
“When he tried to pull you off the Vladimir Bulgov investigation.”
“I don’t talk about my work.”
“At all, or only when there are bath bubbles in the vicinity?” Emma didn’t know how much longer she could stand being in the hot water, with her pulse racing, her blood rushing.
“It took all of us to get Bulgov. Including you,” Colin said.
“I just discovered he was interested in a Picasso.”
“Maybe that was the critical piece of information that led to his arrest.”
“What if Vlad turned you and you’re the thief? What if you’ve been playing us all along?”
“I guess that’s fair since I made that crack about your grandfather, but you wouldn’t want to sleep with me if you believed I was a thief and a killer.” He leaned forward, lowering his foot back to the floor and, with one finger, flicked bubbles off her chin. “Would you, Emma?”
“They say you ghost agents have unerring instincts.”
He grinned at her. “Unerring. What kind of word is that?” He touched two fingers to her hair. The ends were wet, dripping onto her shoulders. “Bubbles in your hair, too. Damn. Bubbles everywhere.”
“I might have gotten a little carried away.”
“What would you have done if I hadn’t come this soon?”
She faked an exaggerated yawn. “Chances are you’d have found me in your bed.”
Colin shook bubbles off his hand, then reached over and flipped the plug on the tub. “No pillow barrier tonight,” he said. “No cot in the attic. No sofa bed.”
“I thought you might say that. As impatient and restless as you are, I figured I’d cut to the chase and—”
“Get naked?”
His husky voice and the spark of amusement in his eyes fired her senses. “Well. I didn’t get in the tub in my jeans and boots.”
He stood, reaching for the towel. “What are you going to do about how restless and impatient you are?”
“Me? I have endless patience. I know how to meditate, reflect.”
“You’re going to get cold fast with no water in the tub.”
Emma was getting cold already. The hot water drained around her. Bubbles collected strategically on her pink skin, but they’d disappear and the porcelain would turn cold in no time. “Are you going to give me my towel?”
“Sure thing.” Colin shook out the towel and draped it over her as the last of the water circled out of the tub, exposing her wet, overheated skin to the chilly air. “I’d turn on the heat, but…probably no need.”
He tucked the towel around her and swept her into his arms, lifting her out of the tub. Twice in a row, Emma thought dreamily. Last night and now tonight she’d been in his arms. How lucky could she get? She realized just how strong he was as he kicked back the door and carried her into the hall and down to his bedroom.
The shades were already pulled against the darkening late afternoon. He tugged back the duvet and laid her on the sheets, still with the towel around her. In seconds, she wriggled out from under it, not wanting to get the sheets wet, but kept herself covered, suddenly self-conscious with Colin so very much clothed next to her, and going nowhere.
Her skin—damp, pink and warm from her bath—tingled just from the awareness of his eyes, charcoal in the dark, on her. He smoothed the thick terry cloth over her, drying her off. She’d done some second-guessing in her first minutes back in his house, when she’d helped herself to a glass of water in the kitchen, and thought maybe a bath would be nice.
“You said in Ireland that you’re not like me. It’s true. You’re not.” He curved his palms over her breasts, pressing the towel to her, letting it absorb any excess water. “That’s good.”
She was a little breathless but said, “You’re suited for the work you do because of who you are. You’re quick, decisive, action-oriented.”
“I don’t always think before I jump.”
“Ah, yes. I do.” She eased her arms on his hips. “I consider all the possibilities…all the angles….”
“Maybe we can come up with a few more,” he said, sliding the towel between her warm, wet legs.
“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.”
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 Mother Superior of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart stopped abruptly and turned. “I can’t imagine that she’d have thrown it away. Is that why you’re here? To ask Sister Cecilia if she knows?”
“She’s deep into research for her biography of Mother Linden,” Emma said. “Sister Cecilia might have run across something and not realized what it was. Perhaps you’ve overlooked a painting tucked in a closet somewhere.”
“It’s possible.” Mother Natalie continued up the walk to the tower entrance. “We’ve nothing by her cataloged. I’ve looked. Various people have donated paintings to us over the years, all of them legitimate gifts. We’ve sold some of them, but that was expected when the gifts were made. A painting by Claire Grayson—well, there’s no market, of course.”
“No, there isn’t, but it would have been a personal gift.”
Mother Natalie mounted the stone steps to the tower door. She glanced back, the sun piercing gray clouds on the horizon and sparkling on the ocean water. “You’re not on this case officially, are you, Emma?”
“I’m a federal agent, Mother.”
“So you are.”
They went inside. Sister Cecilia wasn’t there, and it didn’t look as if she had been. Emma walked over to Sister Joan’s desk, which looked as if she’d just stepped away for a few minutes. “What else do you remember about Claire Grayson, Mother?”
She hesitated a moment before responding. “Claire wanted to join our congregation here.”
Emma’s eyebrows went up. “She wanted to be a nun?”
“She made her case to Mother Linden herself.”
“But she was married.”
The older woman looked over at the spot where Sister Joan had died, then turned away sharply. The lines at the corners of her eyes seemed more prominent, deeper, in the harsh light. “Claire and her husband were estranged, and I think she pretended even to herself that they weren’t married. Nonetheless, as you know, it just isn’t possible for a married woman to enter a convent.”
“The Graysons had no children, did they?” Emma asked. “A dependent child would have prevented Claire from becoming a nun, too.”
“I never heard there were any children. I certainly didn’t see any.” Mother Natalie grimaced. “I can’t imagine thinking you had a call to this vocation if you had a small child. I’m sure Mother Linden worked with Claire to understand what truly was going on.”
“You do what you can, but you’re not therapists,” Emma said.
She left Mother Natalie by the desk and checked upstairs, but Sister Cecilia wasn’t in the tower.
Obviously worried, Mother Natalie led Emma back across the lawn and through the gate, then to the retreat hall, but the young novice wasn’t there, either. Emma could see Mother Natalie’s concern mounting as they entered the motherhouse. Sister Cecilia wasn’t on the main floor, or in the novices’ living quarters, located in a small, separate wing on the second floor.
She had Emma’s old room. Emma stood at the small dormer window. She’d lived at home and at college as a postulant. As a novice, she’d lived here, in this room.
On the grounds below her, she could see sisters going about their day. The back of the granite tower was visible through the oaks and evergreens, and, beyond it, the glistening Atlantic. She remembered standing in this same spot after Matt Yankowski’s visit and realizing she didn’t belong at the convent. She couldn’t pretend any longer and finally quit on the verge of professing final vows. She’d studied hard, worked hard, learned about herself, made friends and laughed—she’d laughed so much during her time with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart.
There’d been many good times, as well as much work, study, prayer and contemplation.
She’d taken what she’d learned as a novice with her to her work with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery in Dublin, then to Quantico and her three years as an FBI agent.
The truth was, she wouldn’t have made love to Colin last night if not for her time here. She’d have been a different woman, in a different place.
As she started out of the small, simple room, she noticed more old photographs in a stack on the nightstand. On top was one of pretty, demure Claire Grayson standing next to a hydrangea, in front of French doors, with a rakish Jack d’Auberville. Emma was struck by how much his daughter looked like him.
The photograph of Claire and Mother Linden at the statue of Saint Francis could have been snapped by one of the sisters at the convent. Who had snapped this one? Had it been taken at the house—presumably Claire Grayson’s house—depicted in The Garden Gallery?
Sister Cecilia had only had a glimpse of the now-missing painting, but was it enough for her to recognize the house?
Emma rejoined Mother Natalie in the shade garden out front. The Mother Superior was clearly worried. “Sister Cecilia went off on a bicycle a little while ago. I called our shop in Heron’s Cove, but she’s not there. I didn’t realize she was leaving the convent.”
“You’re worried,” Emma said.
“We have explicit routines here. The rhythm of our lives is important to us. Sister Cecilia was close to a terrible act of violence. What might be normal acting out in another situation…” Mother Natalie raised her eyes to Emma. “Right now nothing feels normal. Can you help us find her, Emma?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Mother Natalie blinked back tears. “I’ve been fighting fear and anger, coping with my own grief—I hope I’ve done enough to help Sister Cecilia. I think she’s terrified that the truth will cause problems for the convent, but we’re not afraid of the truth. I’m not afraid.”
“What kind of problems?”
“I don’t know.” Mother Natalie squared her shoulders, tears still glistening in her eyes. “We’re honest. We have nothing to hide, and if mistakes were made in the past�
��if crimes were committed—we’ll deal with them.”
“But you don’t believe that’s the case.”
“We all make mistakes, but crimes? No. That’s not what I believe is the case.”
Emma headed to her car. When she reached the main gate, she called Tony Renkow and told the detective about the photos, and the missing novice. In another minute, she was on her way down the winding road, hoping to see Sister Cecilia riding her bicycle into Heron’s Cove.
35
SISTER CECILIA LEANED HER BICYCLE AGAINST THE trunk of a birch tree by the d’Auberville studio—the d’Auberville barn, really. She’d set off for the village but made a small detour. She wanted to see the spot where Claire Grayson had lived.
No one was around. She was relieved, since she didn’t want to intrude.
She started down the lane toward the ocean, partially visible through the trees. It was cooler than she’d expected. She wished she’d worn a jacket and not just her thick sweater, but she tried to enjoy the beautiful surroundings. How could Claire Grayson have been so unhappy in such a place? But her troubles, Sister Cecilia had come to realize, had been soul deep. A change of scenery, pretending, lying to herself and to others—none of that could possibly have helped her.
As she came closer to the water, Sister Cecilia could hear the tide swirling on rocks and sand. It was foggier here than at the convent, although the fog wasn’t the impenetrable, depressing gray that had encompassed the entire southern Maine coast the morning Sister Joan was killed.
How much had she known when she’d made that call to Emma Sharpe?
Not enough, Sister Cecilia thought. Yet how much did she herself know for sure?
The lane veered off to a house on the right, but she continued onto a narrow, sandy path parallel to the water. She noticed the occasional footprint but expected Ainsley d’Auberville and her fiancé would favor this route for romantic walks.
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