Heron's Cove (23 page)

Emma returned his smile. “Come in, then. I’ll give you the grand tour. The place is mostly gutted for renovations.” She stepped ahead of Colin, past Dmitri and Ivan, and then led the three men into the house. “It’s not the
Nightingale—
I can tell you that.”

“Even better,” Dmitri said. “I’ve always had the impression your grandfather prefers to work in simple surroundings.”

“That’s Granddad.”

Colin positioned himself between her and Ivan, who stayed close to the front door. Dmitri walked through the living room, stopping at the open door to a small room that overlooked the street. He glanced back at Emma. “This is Wendell’s office?”

“Not for the past fifteen years, but it’s where he worked for many years.”

Dmitri placed a hand on the door and peered into the gutted room. “Imagine all the important investigations into ill-gotten and disappeared art that went on in here.” After a moment, he gave a deep sigh, then shifted his attention back to Emma. “We must never forget our beginnings, eh? No matter where life takes us.”

“I guess that depends,” she said.

“Yes. Just so.” He moved back into the living room, the small Victorian so different from his luxury yacht. He paused at a tall window. “Natalie and I have discussed the collection. She didn’t realize its history. We will sort out what to do. It’s so good to see her. She has her mother’s best qualities and none of the bad.”

“Then you’re working things out?” Emma asked.

“I’m hopeful.” Dmitri smiled, pulled his gaze from the window. “I want to take the
Nightingale
along the Maine coast and see Atlantic puffins but my crew tells me it’s not likely this time of year. Agent Donovan, you were a marine patrol officer. What about puffins?”

“I didn’t arrest many puffins in my day,” Colin said.

Dmitri grinned. “I like a sense of humor. You have a brother who lives on the…” He turned to Ivan. “What’s it called?”

“The Bold Coast,” Ivan supplied.

“Such a name. Yes.” Dmitri started back toward Ivan. “I understand there are puffins out there.”

Colin stood by a fresh stack of two-by-fours that must have been delivered today. “That’s right,” he said stiffly.

Dmitri paused at the hall to the kitchen and eyed him, no hint of a smile now. “You’re concerned that I know about your family. No need to be. Natalie told me—as she told you—that she had an idle conversation with a man on the waterfront about you and your brothers. Why don’t you bring them aboard the
Nightingale
for a drink?”

“Thanks, but they’re all busy.”

“Of course.” The billionaire Russian peeked down the short hall that led back to the kitchen. “No wonder Wendell and I got on. We both come from humble origins. He’s more erudite and educated than I will ever be, of course. I’m just a businessman. He’s quite a brilliant man.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate the compliment,” Emma said.

“Heron’s Cove is so different from Moscow. Perhaps I will come back one day when Wendell is here, or stop and see him in Dublin—or get him to join me aboard the
Nightingale.
” Dmitri smiled. “We can always meet in London. I’m there often, although I gave up my apartment. I understand your parents are in London for the year.”

“That’s right,” Emma said, her tone neutral.

“As it happens, a young jewelry designer who works in London is also in Heron’s Cove.” Dmitri’s smile faded and he steadied his gaze on Emma. “She’s Russian. Her name is Tatiana Pavlova. She’s a rising star at a London boutique, the Firebird.”

Emma didn’t look at either Ivan or Colin. “Did Ivan tell you about her?”

Dmitri gave a small shrug, without apology. “Of course. He looked into her after one of the crew saw her sneaking around on the docks. Apparently she is extraordinarily talented. It’s a shame Russia lost her to London. She’s passionate about Russian folklore.” He picked up a crowbar that was leaning against a wall and ran his fingers over the metal. “But you know about her already, don’t you, Emma?”

She unbuttoned her jacket, the house suddenly feeling warm, closed in despite the clearing skies and dropping temperature. “It’s not incumbent upon me to tell either you or Ivan who I talk to or don’t talk to.”

Dmitri shook his head. “If the talk involves me…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Emma said, not backing down.

He didn’t seem to take offense. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Tatiana Pavlova doesn’t trust me, my motives for being here. Many in Russia don’t trust me because of my business, my wealth, politics—they all have their reasons. Some are legitimate. Some are fanciful, based on prejudice, gossip and tales told by my enemies.”

Forcing herself not to look at Colin, Emma walked over to the stack of two-by-fours, the air thick with the smell of sawdust. “You don’t have enemies in Heron’s Cove, do you, Dmitri?”

His eyebrows went up in surprise, then he laughed. “I hope not. The only person I know in Heron’s Cove is you, Emma, and I consider you a friend. Why don’t you join us for dinner aboard the
Nightingale?
” He replaced the crowbar against the wall and kissed her cheek. “At least come for a drink. Bring your man here.” He gave Colin a polite nod. “Good to see you, Special Agent Donovan.”

After Dmitri and Ivan left, Colin shoved the load of lumber against the wall with the toe of his boot. “Ivan definitely still has the hots for you.”

Emma made no comment.

“I’m going back to Rock Point.” He stood back from the wood. “I don’t know much, Emma, but I know I’m not sleeping on your floor tonight. Neither are you.”

“I’m not worried about staying here on my own. I told you, I can handle myself—”

“It’s not about that. It’s time to get some space between you and whatever is going on here.” He moved closer to her, threaded his fingers into her hair. “And a little less space between the two of us.”

Before she had a chance to take a breath, he lowered his hand and headed for the kitchen. Emma reminded herself that if she had wanted an easy man, she wouldn’t have fallen for Colin Donovan.

Not that she’d had time to think, reflect, analyze before she found herself in bed with him a month ago. She had never thought of herself as a woman who would be swept off her feet by such a man. By any man, really.

She wouldn’t change a thing, she thought with a sudden smile.

She went down the short hall to the kitchen, welcomed the cool air as Colin opened the back door. “Are you going to check in on Father Bracken?” she asked.

He nodded. “You’ll be right behind me?”

“Thirty minutes, tops.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“A promise or a warning?”

He didn’t smile. “Take your pick.”

Emma followed him out to the porch and watched him amble down the steps and across the yard to the parking lot on the other side of the hedges. He moved with his usual strength and determination, but she could feel his dark mood, the seriousness that had come over him since he had arrived at Tatiana’s cottage.

When he disappeared from view, she let out a cathartic breath. Stubborn gray clouds remained to the south, toward the sandy beach that was a favorite with tourists to Heron’s Cove. The Maine beaches in Ogunquit, York, Wells and Kennebunkport were all close, and she wondered how many people were looking out at the passing storm clouds, debating whether to go for a walk before nightfall.

She saw Ivan down on the pier and checked her iPhone for messages as he walked toward her. She had a few updates from her team and an email from her mother but no further news from Boston or London.

“Your man knows I’m still here,” Ivan said as he stood at the bottom of the porch steps. “He has good instincts.”

“Does that mean he’s right not to trust you?”

Ivan put one foot on the bottom step and looked up at her. There was a softness in his dark eyes that she hadn’t noticed—or he hadn’t let her see—earlier. “He knows I care what happens to you, and he knows I helped you find him.”

Emma sat on the top step. So. No more pretenses. She didn’t bother denying or sidestepping that Colin was the agent Ivan had helped. “Why did you call me?” she asked. “Why did you help?”

He came up and sat next to her, not quite touching her. “Because I could.” His intense gaze was focused on the waterfront, not her. “The FBI knows Pete Horner, the man who held Special Agent Donovan, once piloted a plane for me.”

It was a statement, not a question. Emma leaned back, her leather jacket falling open. Ivan’s eyes slid to the Glock 22 in her holster. “Does Horner have any axes to grind with you?” she asked.

“He has axes to grind with everyone.”

“And you? An axe to grind with him?”

“If I find him before you and your FBI friends do, I will let you know.”

“Don’t interfere in FBI business, Ivan. It won’t end well for you if you do.”

“I don’t want my actions to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“I appreciate that but I don’t need you to protect me. I have a job to do, and I’m not as confused as I was four years ago.”

His mouth twitched in what passed for a smile. “You’re never confused, Emma.”

“You are not telling me everything, Ivan.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not doing the right thing.”

Emma braced herself against a sudden, stiff wind off the water, as if it meant to clear her head. “What did you want with Tatiana today?”

“To persuade her to return to London where she belongs.”

“Is she in danger?”

“Not from me.”

“From anyone else?”

He continued to stare out at the water. “I have no reason to believe so.”

“Does she pose a danger to the collection?”

“You’ve met her. Does she look dangerous to you?

“You know I can’t make decisions on that basis. Is she involved with Vladimir Bulgov in any capacity? With Horner, his men?”

“She makes trinkets for rich people. That’s all.”

“And you, Ivan?” Emma stood and walked down the stairs, the wind whipping her hair into her face as she looked up at him. “Have you or Dimitri ever had Bulgov aboard the
Nightingale
for champagne and cosmopolitans?”

His dark eyes warmed with amusement, even affection, as he rose. “Only vodka for me.” He walked down the stairs and kissed her on the forehead, through the hair that had blown into her face. “Good night, Emma. If you need to reach me, you know where to find me.” He gave her one of his near-imperceptible smiles, then said, exaggerating his Russian accent. “I be in big boat on water.”

She laughed, at least for a moment as he walked back down to the docks.

She glanced at her watch.

Not much time to get on the road before Colin doubled back and tracked her down.

18

COLIN RAPPED HIS knuckles on the open door to the parish priest’s office in the back of St. Patrick’s Church. It was dusk, and there were no lights on the walk outside or in the rectory, and only a desk lamp on in the small office. Finian Bracken, dressed in a black suit and Roman collar, sat behind a massive oak desk facing the door.

“You know, Fin,” Colin said, “we have electricity and everything out here on the coast. You can turn on some lights.”

Finian pointed the tip of his ballpoint pen at the ancient lamp with its thread of dim light. “It serves its purpose.”

“Which is what, comparable to a hair shirt? This place is spooky in the dark.”

“As if you’re spooked by anything,” Finian muttered.

Alligators,
Colin thought, trying to lighten his own mood. “Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not. Come.” He set the pen on a folded-back yellow pad. “What can I do for you?”

“Mike said you seem preoccupied. Anything going on?”

Finian sighed. He motioned to the chair facing his desk. “Have a seat.”

“Not going to try to talk me into confessing my sins, are you?”

“No. As interesting as your sins must be.”

It wasn’t like Finian Bracken to make that kind of joke, and as Colin sat in the club chair with its leather seat cracked, his Irish friend’s mood seemed to darken even more. The office was lined with bookshelves filled with volumes that either belonged to the church or to the priest Finian was replacing for a year. The regular priest, Father Callaghan, was in Ireland, searching out his Irish roots. He was close to retirement and beloved in Rock Point, but Colin didn’t know him well.

He noticed a thick book on the history and geology of the Iveragh Peninsula that occupied a corner of the oak-wood desk. He was fairly certain the book belonged to Finian, not Father Callaghan. It was likely a recent purchase. Although Finian was well-off financially and hadn’t entered the priesthood until his thirties, he had come to Maine with few personal possessions. He was a priest and committed to a simple life, but it was more than that. He was escaping memories. In his undercover work, Colin would go for long periods without his personal possessions, pretending to be someone else. It was deliberate, his job. He wasn’t escaping anything, but in the past few weeks, before Pete Horner and his friends had decided to kill him, he hadn’t dared even to think of Rock Point.

But he wasn’t here to talk about himself, or about Fin’s reasons for coming to St. Patrick’s.

“Talk to me, Fin,” Colin said.

Finian’s eyes seemed almost black in the dark shadows. “No matter that you trust Matt Yankowski and Emma and I assume most of your fellow agents, you’ll always be tempted to go it alone. It’s who you are. Your close family helps you to do what you do.”

“I’m not here for pastoral counseling,” Colin said. “Mike’s not one to sound false alarms. What’s going on?”

Finian brushed his fingertips across the picture of an ancient Irish beehive hut on the front of his thick book on the Iveragh Peninsula. “When we made our first bit of money, Sally and I bought a ruin of a cottage on the Iveragh and fixed it up. We did much of the work ourselves on weekends.”

“Sounds idyllic.”

“Sally had an eye for color. Now when I go to the cottage, which has been some months since I’ve been in the States, I can touch what she loved, touch what she touched. I can see our daughters playing by the fire. It’s not a sad place. It’s charming. We deliberately kept it simple, with no personal mementoes—so that friends and family could stay. One day, perhaps, you’ll go there with Emma, and you’ll take long walks together in the hills.”