by Leslie Kelly
“You wouldn’t believe how these idiots chip away at history,” Sophie huffed. “I caught two of them myself. They got into the ancient documents section here at the library by passing themselves off as visiting scholars. Took me all of thirty seconds to realize how little the goms knew of eighth-century illuminated manuscripts. Another thirty to figure out they planned to rip off a page for a personal trophy!”
At that point, two thoughts battled for supremacy in Clint’s head. The first was that Sophie Hawthorne already had more experience nailing would-be antiquities thieves than he did. The second…
Dammit! Did the woman have any idea how enticing she looked with her emerald eyes so indignant and her mouth all pouty like that?
Hunger for her hit like a punch to the gut. Gritting his teeth, Clint ignored it and forced himself to focus on a drawing depicting the layout of the tomb.
“Don’t you need those?” Sophie asked, nodding to the glasses tucked in his jacket pocket.
Well, hell! He’d been so distracted by the woman he’d forgotten his cover.
“Only for fine print,” he lied.
She shrugged and went back to the task at hand. Clint took in the facts and dates and dimensions…until Sophie leaned closer to point out a prehistoric spiral design in one of her books.
Her breast pressed his arm. Her hips nudged his.
“This is the triple spiral you’ll see at Newgrange.”
When he didn’t respond, she glanced up. Clint heard the little hitch in her breath, couldn’t miss the awareness that flared in her eyes.
She felt it, too, he saw with a stab of fierce male satisfaction. The electricity. The heat.
Giving in to the need that had grown steadily since their first meeting at the pub, he slid a hand under her hair and cupped the warm skin of her nape.
Her eyes went wide. Her mouth parted.
Clint gave her time to pull back, expecting she would, hoping she wouldn’t. When she didn’t, he bent and brushed his lips over hers.
Chapter Three
Sophie couldn’t believe it!
She’d indulged in only one rather tepid affair during her years in Dublin. Now, after less than three hours with Clint Walker, one taste of him made her want more. Much more. She tilted her head to give him a better angle and opened her lips under his. With a little grunt, he shifted in his chair, propped the back of her head in his palm and found her tongue.
Jaysus, Mary and Joseph! The man was wicked with that mouth. Sparks ignited at flash points throughout Sophie’s body. Heat speared into her belly, her breasts…
When she drew back, her breath came in hard, fast pants. So did his, thank heavens. She would have been mortified if she had been the only one who’d almost come unraveled.
“Sorry.” Frowning, Clint shook his head. “That was…”
Amazing. Unbelievable. Incredibly stupid!
The adjectives raced through Clint’s mind as he willed his rebellious body into submission. Every part of him wanted to sweep this woman out of the alcove and take her back to his hotel room. Stretch her out in front of the fire and make love to her until she gasped and writhed in pleasure.
Right! Like that was going to happen with all he had going down in just a few hours. “I’m sorry,” he said again, raking a hand through his hair.
“Are y’now?” Her grin slipped out, as rueful and mischievous as her brogue. “I’m not. ’Tis been a while since I’ve been kissed like that.”
Clint knew he had to end this. Right here, right now. She looked too tempting, too seductive.
And he would have ended it. He was almost certain of that. If he hadn’t dropped his arm too abruptly and knocked his stack of notes off the table.
Cursing himself for his clumsiness, he went down on one knee to retrieve them. Sophie knelt beside him.
“Here, let me help you. We can put them in order easily enough if—”
She broke off with a gasp. Clint glanced down and cursed again when he saw her staring at the holster strapped to his ankle.
“It’s legal,” he said quickly.
She scrambled up, uncertainty and a touch of fear on her face. “Who are you? Why are y’carryin’ a gun?”
She looked ready to bolt for the nearest exit. Clint had only a moment to weigh his options. Should he let her go? Or trust her?
The instincts that had saved his life on more than one occasion kicked in and he came to a swift decision. “I’m an agent with the FBI.”
“What!”
He reached into his pocket and produced his credentials. She studied them for several disbelieving moments.
“What business does the FBI have in Ireland?”
Thankful for the privacy of the small alcove, Clint gestured for her to take a seat and pulled his chair close to hers.
“I’m part of a counter-narcotics task force targeting a major drug lord in Miami. The agency knows who he is, but we haven’t been able to get into his circle to collect the hard evidence we need to nail him. But he does have an Achilles’ heel, which is why I’m in Dublin. The man is an avid connoisseur of prehistoric art.”
“And he’s going to be at Newgrange tomorrow?” she gasped.
“No, but we got a tip that the person who supplies him with stolen artifacts may be there. If so, I want to catch that person and put the squeeze on him.” He paused, probing her shocked expression, giving her time to absorb his startling revelations.
“Well,” she said slowly, “I wish you luck. But you’ll have a devil of a time taggin’ anyone in that crowd.”
“Crowd? I thought access was restricted.”
“Only fifty people can go inside the tomb, but hundreds gather outside. You’ll have to wade through news crews, hordes of scientists, modern-day Druids, wiccans celebrating the end of winter and rebirth of the sun, all sorts of locals and tourists alike.”
Well, hell! He hadn’t counted on that. His contact in Ireland’s Arts and Antiquities Division had said he’d meet Clint at the site and had promised to alert the local constabulary who covered the event. He’d neglected to mention huge crowds, however.
“I could… I could go with you tomorrow,” Sophie said hesitantly. “If you think I could help.”
He paused, considering the proposal. The need to get to Mendoza had driven him across an ocean. He’d be a fool to turn down any offer of assistance.
“It wouldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes and ears,” he conceded. “Someone to mingle with the crowd outside while I’m inside. Someone who knows this megalithic stuff as well as the dealer I’m looking for.”
She blinked at hearing her life’s passion described as “stuff,” but nodded when he asked if she was sure she wanted to get involved.
“I’m sure.” A sudden thought rippled across her expressive face. “Unless…uh… This person you’re looking for? He won’t come armed, too, will he?”
“If he does, he won’t get far. My counterpart on the Arts and Antiquities Division says everyone has to pass through a metal detector before they’re allowed out to the site.”
“That’s right. They do.”
Her momentary concern allayed, she gave him one of those brilliant smiles that made Clint’s heart stutter.
“Count me in, then.”
“Good. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll pick you up at five-thirty tomorrow morning.”
They left the library just before it closed. Clint trudged back to his hotel through lightly falling snow, trying to convince himself he’d agreed to her offer for purely professional reasons.
But that didn’t explain why he spent the next hour with his arms crossed behind his head, staring up into the darkness and thinking about ways to get the delectable Ms. Sophie Hawthorne into bed.
Chapter Four
Sophie and Clint arrived at the Brú na Bóinne visitor center well before dawn on the longest night of the year. The visitor center controlled access to the three ancient tombs set on a high plain overlooking the River Boyn
e.
Bundled in the thick pea jacket she’d purchased at a secondhand store and a wool muffler wrapped around her throat, Sophie was prepared for the biting cold. So was Clint. In a camel-hair overcoat, a wool driving cap and the black-framed glasses she suspected he didn’t really need, he looked very much the eager tourist about to experience a once-in-a-lifetime event.
Although the sun wouldn’t top the ridge to the east for another three hours, huge crowds were already waiting in line for transport out to the tombs. Sophie tucked her gloved hands in her pockets while Clint met his Irish contact from the Arts and Antiquities Division.
Brisk and businesslike, Inspector Dennis Fitzgerald whisked them around the security checkpoint and onto a minibus. Their destination was the largest of the site’s three passage tombs—so called because of the shadowed, narrow inner passages that led to the burial chambers. There were hundreds of such tombs scattered across Ireland, including one on the magnificent Hill of Tara, which later became the seat of the Celtic kings of Ireland. But most scholars, Sophie among them, considered Newgrange the granddaddy of them all. Five hundred years older than the pyramids at Giza and a thousand years older than Stonehenge, the tomb dominated a high hill above the river.
Inspector Fitzgerald got off the bus first to coordinate with the local constabulary. As they stepped onto the hill, Clint kept Sophie tucked against his side to shield her from the icy wind.
Sophie’s breath caught at the sight of the massive cairn illuminated by floodlights. Two hundred thousand tons of grass-covered earth formed the rounded roof. Beneath the roof was an upper ring of white quartz “pebbles,” polished to a lustrous sheen by centuries of river water before being gathered by the ancient tomb builders. Beneath the glistening quartz ring stood the base, consisting of ninety-seven monstrous curbstones weighing five or more tons apiece, silent sentinels to man’s determination.
As Sophie well knew, Newgrange was much more than a burial site. It was a holy place that housed the spirits of the ancestors and thus provided a link to the gods. Religious rituals such as the one taking place this morning had been held at the site for millennia.
“Just think,” she murmured to Clint, “the people who built this tomb had no clock, no watches, no calendars. Yet every winter solstice for more than five thousand years, the rising sun shines through that box.” She pointed to a square opening directly above the tomb’s entrance. “Sunlight inches its way along the blackness of the passage and illuminates the inner burial chamber for fifteen or twenty minutes. As brief as it is, that phenomenon signals the end of the long, dark winter and the coming of spring. In a more mystical sense, it celebrates the rebirth of the earth and of the king, who the ancient builders believed would lead them again in the afterlife.”
“Like Christians celebrating the birth of Christ,” Clint murmured.
“Exactly.”
She smiled up at him, pleased he’d paid attention to her somewhat lengthy discourse last night about how modern religions incorporated many pagan beliefs. She would have elaborated further but remembered this visit represented more than a mystical event for Clint.
He maintained a casual stance, one arm hooked loosely around Sophie’s waist, but she could feel the tension in him as he scanned the crowd. Her nerves fluttered as she, too, searched the faces muffled by wool scarves and warm hats pulled low on foreheads.
“Do you have any idea what this person we’re searching for looks like?” she murmured.
“Not a clue.”
Slowly they wove their way through media crews, families sipping hot chocolate, serious sun-and-star worshippers, even two bridal parties where the soon-to-be newlyweds wanted to start their life together on a day sacred since ancient times. Sophie gave the happy brides an envious glance as she and Clint circled the base of the tomb.
Each giant curbstone was decorated with prehistoric art—spirals, zigzags, concentric circles, triangles—images that represented the sun, moon and stars. Sophie knew there was no way a thief could steal one of these five-ton slabs unless he drove up with a bloody crane. Nor could she imagine that anyone would try to chip out one of the designs with so many uniformed police among the crowd. Still, her anxiety ratcheted up with each passing minute.
Gradually, the predawn darkness gave way to thin, gray light. Snow glistened on the surrounding hills and mist swirled up from the River Boyne. Excitement grew by the moment.
At seven-thirty, the floodlights switched off. At eight o’clock, the lucky fifty who’d won a place inside the passageway were asked to assemble at the tomb’s entrance—fifty-two including Clint and Inspector Fitzgerald.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t wrangle an extra ticket for you,” Clint said.
“Auch, weel.” She slipped into a smile and heavy Irish accent. “’Tis enough t’watch the sun come oop from here. Go on now. Do what you must. I’ll wait for y’here.”
“You can sit on the bus if you get too cold.”
“And miss the sunrise? Are y’daft, man?”
He turned away, took two steps, turned back.
“We’re an hour early yet but…” Sweeping her into his arms, he cradled her against his chest. “Happy solstice, Sophie.”
Her heart thumping, she beamed up at him. “Happy solstice.”
He kissed her with a passion that left her melting inside even while her breath steamed on the icy air. She must be the daft one, she thought as he strode toward the entrance. She’d met the man just yesterday, for God’s sake! Yet the view of his broad back and long, sure stride stirred a hot, sweet lust she had no business feeling. Not to mention the sparks he ignited with every touch, every kiss.
Shoulders hunched against the cold, she watched him duck under the stone lintel at the entrance and disappear inside the tomb. Slowly, her internal heat yielded to the frost outside.
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 resolved 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 po
ssible 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 staring 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 finished 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 mourned. “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!”
