by Various
Minute by frigid minute ticked by. With agonizing slowness, the sky lightened across the river. Sophie waited with the rest of the crowd for the sun to inch above the tree line, hugging her waist and stamping booted feet.
Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, it was cold!
At a quarter to nine, eager anticipation began to ripple through the crowd. At ten to nine, every person on the site faced east. Two minutes later, a thin red rim appeared above the trees lining the river.
Thrilled by the sight, Sophie edged away from the crowd.
The historian in her wanted to absorb this timeless moment in solitude. She found a spot all to herself in the shadow of a giant curbstone.
A sense of awe as old as time swirled in her as the thin slice of sun gathered size and intensity. The darkness was retreating for another season. The earth was being reborn. The—
A low, almost inaudible rattle penetrated her rapt reverie. Another rattle followed. Abandoning the protection of the curbstone, she followed the sounds.
She didn’t see the figure hunched in the shadows at first. Bundled from head to foot in a bulky overcoat, scarf and floppy-brimmed wool hat in a distinctive herringbone pattern, he was using the tip of a cane to pry a glistening quartz rock from the upper ring. One with an ancient spiral carved on its surface!
She must have gasped or made some other noise, because the figure whipped around. His arm shot out, and the cane slammed into Sophie’s temple. Pain burst like skyrockets, and the rising sun went black.
CHAPTER FIVE
“SOPHIE. Sweetheart.”
A voice penetrated the pain. Deep. Reassuring. Calming the flutter of panic when she opened her eyes and saw only dancing red spots.
“Don’t move, Sophie. A medical response team is on its way.”
The red spots converged into a large, glowing ball. A black shadow appeared in its center. Slowly, so slowly, the shadow turned into Clint. He was crouched beside her, his face taut with worry.
She blinked up at him, dazed. “Wh-what happened?”
“You must have tripped and hit the curbstone going down. You’ve got a nasty contusion on your temple. We need to have you checked for a possible concussion.”
The pain was a steady throb now. It pierced through the fog and Sophie gasped with a sudden recollection.
“I didn’t trip! He whacked me! With his cane.”
Clint’s brows snapped together. “He who?”
“It had to be the art thief! The one you’re looking for. He was trying to pry loose one of the quartz stones. He took advantage of everyone’s preoccupation with the rising sun and … Oh, no!”
At her low wail, alarm leaped into his blue eyes as he stared down at her. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.” Clint twisted around and snarled at a uniformed officer. “Where the hell’s that medical team?”
“I’m all right. Really.” She struggled to sit up, wincing a little with the effort. His arms came around her, and she leaned against his chest. “It’s just … I missed the sunrise,” she said on another small cry.
“There’ll be more sunrises.” His voice was rough with concern, his arms warm and reassuring. “If it doesn’t hurt too much, can you give us a description of the man who attacked you?”
“I only caught a glimpse of him.” She searched her aching head for details. “I got the impression he was an older gentleman, but that might have been because of the cane. He was all bundled up in an overcoat, scarf and hat.”
Something tugged at the back of her mind. Some detail she couldn’t quite pinpoint. But before she could pull it from the haze, the police constable had his radio to his mouth. “All units! Be on the lookout for a gentleman with a cane. He’s wearing an overcoat, muffler and hat. Hold him for questioning concerning an assault.”
“And defacement of antiquities,” Sophie added in dismay, pointing to the small hole barely visible above the curbstone. The shadowed emptiness made a mockery of everything she held dear.
“The stone had a design carved into it,” she moaned. “A triple spiral. It breaks my heart to think a five-thousand-year-old piece of history might end up in the private collection of a drug czar!”
The thought didn’t do a whole lot for Clint, either, but his primary concern right now was Sophie. He should have his head examined for involving her in this op!
He’d been so damned certain his target would be among the fifty people allowed inside the tomb. That’s what the tip had indicated. The thief would be inside the tomb. But he hadn’t been, dammit, and Sophie had paid the price.
Clint was still kicking himself when the medical team arrived and edged him away. He didn’t draw a full breath until they confirmed her pupils were refracting normally and she showed no signs of an elevated pulse or blood pressure.
“But it’s best to have a doctor look you over, miss. We’ll take you to the hospital.”
Although Sophie insisted she could walk, they loaded her onto a gurney and wheeled her to the waiting ambulance. Clint went with her and was about to climb in when his contact in Ireland’s Arts and Antiquities Division stopped him.
“We’re searching everyone on the site. Purses. Pockets. Coffee and hot chocolate thermoses. So far no cane and no Neolithic art.”
“I have a feeling you’ll find the cane under a bush or tossed in the river,” Clint said grimly. “It’s served its purpose as both tool and weapon. Probably as a disguise, too.”
“I suspect so, as well, but we’ll keep at it.”
Two hours later, Sophie and Clint both breathed relieved sighs when the attending physician declared she could go home.
“You’ve a fine lump on your head to be sure, but I see no reason to keep you, as long as you promise to take things easy until the pain eases.”
“I will.”
“You need to watch her closely for the next twenty-four hours,” he warned Clint. “If her headache worsens, her speech slurs or she gets dizzy or confused, bring her right back, do y’hear?”
“I hear.”
Sophie bit her lip, but waited until the doctor left to let Clint off the hook.
“I certainly don’t expect you to stand watch over me for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Doctor’s orders. Unless there’s someone else available,” he added casually. “Do you share a flat with anyone?”
“I do, but she went home for the holidays. I’ll be at work this evening, though. My friends will watch out for me.”
“Not a good idea. You’re supposed to take it easy, remember? You’d better call and let them know you won’t be coming in tonight.”
“But …”
“No buts.” Scooping a hand under her arm, he helped her off the exam table. “I was a damned idiot to involve you in this. The least I can do is make sure you don’t suffer any lasting consequences.”
CHAPTER SIX
CLINT’S cell phone rang as he and Sophie emerged from the hospital into the cold December morning. He listened for a moment, gave a terse acknowledgment and flipped the phone shut.
“That was Inspector Fitzgerald. They found the cane, but no trace of your attacker.”
“Or the stone?”
“Or the stone. The police are widening the search to include the airport, train station and traffic stops on the motorway. But our perp is either one step ahead of us or he’s gone to ground and is waiting for the heat to die down before he tries to get his prize out of the country.”
With a careful grip on her arm, he steered her around a pile of slush toward his rental car.
“I’ll spend tonight at your flat. We’ll swing by my hotel first so I can pick up a few things.”
The pronouncement was enough to make Sophie forget her throbbing headache and send a tingle down her spine. But it was nothing like the sensation she felt after they’d left his hotel and he had another suggestion.
“Look, I’ve got some use-or-lose vacation built up. I’m thinking I might stay over in Dublin for a few days. If you don’t have a
ny other plans for the holidays, would you like to spend them with me?”
Spend Christmas cuddled in front of a fire with this man?
New Year’s Eve listening to the bells ring through the night? Sophie’s heart soared … until he added a kicker.
“If the target has gone to ground, my guess is he’ll try to ferry his prize to Mendoza within the next week or so. I want to be on the scene when he does.”
The grim reminder of why Clint had come to Dublin in the first place sobered her. “Getting to Mendoza is more than just a job to you, isn’t it?”
He gave her a quick look. “Yeah, it is. The bastard doesn’t care how many people he destroys. My sister’s son came close to being one of them. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring Mendoza and others like him down.”
Sophie tried to keep that fierce vow in mind during the hours that followed. She really did. But watching Clint putter about her tiny flat proved too great a distraction. That, and the way he cared for her despite her protests that she was feeling better by the moment. He insisted she curl up on the sofa and then tucked a blanket around her. After searching the kitchen cupboards and putting the kettle on, he produced a fairly decent pot of tea. For lunch he slathered mustard on thick, crusty rye bread and slapped on slices of boiled ham. As the afternoon wore on and more snow drifted down outside, he entertained her with what she suspected were highly fictionalized accounts of some of his more spectacular screwups as an undercover agent.
Sophie reciprocated by opening up a little more about her life in Dublin and about Gran. The ever-present loneliness and pain eased with the telling, although Clint must have heard a trace of both in her voice.
“It must be hard on you,” he commented, “being alone this time of year.”
“It is, a bit. I’ve got great friends, though, and plenty of work to keep me busy.”
He nodded, his keen eyes searching her face, but didn’t probe deeper. “How’s the headache?” he asked instead.
“It was gone hours ago.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
She was half afraid he’d take that as a signal he didn’t need to keep watch over her after all. To her relief, he announced that he would go down to the Bull and Crown and bring back dinner.
He returned with snow dusting his dark hair and the tantalizing scent of fish and chips emanating from a brown paper bag. They ate in front of the fire. Clint crunched down on his deep-fried haddock while Sophie sprinkled white vinegar on her chips and dug in happily. She was halfway through her portion when he smiled.
“How can you eat fries without ketchup?”
“They’re better with vinegar.”
At his doubtful look, she fished out a potato.
“Try one.”
She expected him to take the chip, not dip his head. Or eat it from her hand. Or suck the salt and vinegar from her fingers. When he raised his head, Sophie had forgotten how to breathe.
That’s all it took. One nibble. One look. One spark to ignite the fire. Their half-eaten meal got shoved aside as they fed an altogether different hunger.
His mouth came down on hers. Her arms locked around his neck. She strained against him, reveling in his warmth and strength. It might have been hours—or merely moments—before she was stretched out under him. He swiftly but gently stripped off her outer clothing.
Sophie did her share to speed up the process. Hands impatient, mouth greedy, she returned his hungry kisses while helping him peel off his tweed sport coat and yank up the turtleneck underneath. Her palms slid over the silky swirl of black chest hair, planed the bunched muscles of his shoulders, explored the contours of his back.
In short order, she was down to her hipsters, Clint to his jockey shorts. Silhouetted against the flickering firelight, he raked her with hot, hungry eyes.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
The compliment made Sophie blush, but the kisses he trailed from her mouth to her throat to her breasts made her gasp with delight.
Delight turned to pure, unadulterated lust when he used his tongue and his teeth to bring her nipple to a taut, aching peak. All the while his busy hands explored the rest of her. She was wet and eager, so eager, and he slid a knee between hers to ease them apart.
She could feel him hard and jutting against her hip, feel the rigid restraint in his quivering muscles as he found her center. Sophie arched, liquid with delight, but clung to a last shred of sanity.
“You’ve a johnny with you, right?”
“Huh?”
She had to chuckle at his startled look. “A johnny. A fifty-pence lifesaver. A condom,” she translated finally, taking pity on the man.
His mouth tipped into a wicked grin. “Matter of fact, I do. Several, in fact. No undercover agent worth his or her salt ever leaves home without ‘em.”
The first time was wild and hard and fast. The second so exquisitely slow Sophie almost wept with pleasure.
The third came the next morning, when Clint wedged into the flat’s minuscule shower with her.
“It’s too small in here for both of us,” she protested, laughing.
“Not for what I have in mind.”
When they finally pried themselves out of the stall, the floor was drenched and Sophie’s cheeks bore the mark of his prickly whiskers.
“Shave,” she ordered, pointing to the toiletries he’d picked up when they’d swung by his hotel yesterday. “While you do, I’ll cook you a true Irish breakfast.”
When he emerged from the bathroom, she served up fried tomatoes, a rasher of bacon, sausage, cold-boiled potatoes, beans, black pudding and fried eggs topped with grated Dubliner cheese.
“Do you eat like this every morning?” he asked with a look of delight.
“Just about.”
She saw no need to tell him breakfast was the only meal she ate at home. Lunch and dinner she took at the pub as part of her wages.
“There’s coffee, too. Unless you prefer tea.”
“Coffee,” he said with true Yank fervor. “Please.”
She fell a little in love with him then. Maybe it was watching him tear into his breakfast. Maybe it was the snow drifting down outside the window. Maybe it was that incredibly erotic session in the shower.
Whatever the reason, she vowed to make the most of their remaining time together.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAKING the most of their time together wasn’t hard to do. Every hour Sophie spent with Clint she learned a little more about this intriguing, fascinating agent.
And every hour in his company brought back the magic of Christmas. For the first time since Gran’s death, Sophie delighted in the gaily colored Christmas lights strung across the streets, the holly wreaths on every door, the warm greetings from passersby.
It crossed her mind more than once that her renewed joy in the season seduced her almost as much as the man himself. He would be leaving at some point, but she pushed the thought away. For these few days at least, she would let herself enjoy both Clint and the happiness he brought her.
They spent their time wandering through Dublin’s narrow cobblestone streets, Sophie’s arm tucked in Clint’s while she shared the history of the city she’d come to love. In the evenings she had to work, so he became a fixture at the Bull and Crown. The regulars got to know him, even talked him into belting out a slightly bawdy Christmas carol that had the entire pub laughing and applauding wildly.
But the nights … Dear Lord above, the nights!
All it took was a single kiss and she got hot for him. One glide of her palms over the contours of his shoulders, one rasp of his thigh as it slid between hers, one nudge of his rock-hard erection against her belly and she went up in flames.
He was such a fantastic lover—so tender at times she wanted to cry, other times, their romps were hard and fast and greedy. Sophie’d fallen a little in love with him after their first night together. By Christmas Eve, she knew she’d tumbled the rest of the way.
And
the best of it was that they still had another week together! Clint had extended his leave right through until the fourth of January.
Her head was full of plans for the coming week as they crunched through the snow to Dublin’s medieval Christ Church Cathedral for a Christmas Eve concert. The gray-stone church stood bathed in light, its square tower and turrets dusted with fresh white snow.
“Vikings built the first church on this site around 1030,” Sophie told Clint, hugging his side for warmth. “The present structure is predominantly Norman. Henry the Second attended the Christmas service here in 1171.”
The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled down at her. “Nothing like hobnobbing with the ghosts of royalty.”
“The concert tonight will thrill you,” she promised, “but the real treat comes New Year’s Eve. Dubliners all gather outside the cathedral at midnight to hear the change ringers do their thing.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Who or what are change ringers?”
“It a four-hundred-year-old society of bell ringers. They pull the ropes on sets of bells in mathematical patterns called ‘changes.’”
Caught up in the history and her joy in the season, Sophie bubbled on happily. “Christ Church Cathedral has a total of nineteen bells used for change ringing—the greatest number in the world in one tower. The only time they ring all nineteen together is New Year’s Eve.”
Eyes twinkling, she laid on the brogue. “T’be sure, it’s great craic. Y’ll have culchies and jackeens all rubbin’ shoulders ‘n’—”
She broke off and came to a dead stop.
“Clint! There it is! That’s the hat the man who hit me was wearing!”
He jerked his chin up. Following her pointing finger, he zeroed in on a figure about fifty yards ahead.
A slim, elegant woman wore a cape draped dramatically over one shoulder. A round-brimmed wool hat capped her head of shining auburn hair.
“That’s probably a popular unisex-style hat,” he said, following the woman’s progress.
