by Kelly, Leslie; Kelly, Leslie; Kelly, Leslie; Kelly, Leslie
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 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 any 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 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, when 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. Each time 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 with it, 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 II 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.
The 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.
“No, it’s not! I only caught a glimpse before I was attacked, but I remember now noticing that distinctive herringbone pattern. It’s not an Irish or English design. I’ve never seen it in any store in Dublin.”
That was enough for Clint. Shoving through the crowd, he planted himself in front of the woman and reached into his back pocket for his credentials.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m Special Agent Clint Walker with the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to ask you— Hey!”
The woman whirled around and took off at a run. Thrusting through the crowd, she raced straight toward Sophie.
Their glances met for no more than a second. Just long enough for a flash of surprised recognition to leap into the redhead’s eyes. Barely long enough for Sophie to thrust out her foot.
Chapter Eight
When the redhead went down, Sophie’s dreams of a cozy Christmas snuggled in front of a fire with Clint bit the dust as well.
She spent the rest of Christmas Eve at the police station, and most of Christmas day alone while Clint and Inspector Fitzgerald worked the case. Warrant in hand, they searched the woman’s hotel room and found not only the Newgrange stone, but a Bronze Age ax blade reported stolen some weeks ago from a museum in Cobh and a tiny clay fertility figure at least four thousand years old. As Clint had speculated, the thief—who used Nola Atwood as just one of her aliases—had been waiting for the heat to die down before attempting to smuggle her prizes out of Ireland.
Faced with the evidence, Atwood admitted to a long history of well-planned and brilliantly executed heists. She also agreed to provide the FBI with information about her wealthy Miami-based client in exchange for immunity from prosecution. As a consequence, Clint rushed through an extradition request, and made travel arrangements to leave Ireland late Christmas afternoon.
“I need to hustle her back to the States and into interrogation before Mendoza hears she’s been arrested,” he told Sophie during a hurried farewell at her flat. “If nothing else, we’ll get the bastard on at least three or four felony counts of commissioning and financing traffic in stolen goods. I want more, though.” His voice vibrated with raw intensity. “Much more.”
If Sophie had needed proof of how much his job meant to him, he’d just handed it to her. She could feel the impatience in him. In his mind he was already on that plane and headed across the Atlantic…away from her.
“The museum in Cobh offered a reward for information leading to the recovery of the ax blade,” he told her. “It’s not much, only two hundred euros, but Inspector Fitzgerald prom
ised to make sure it came to you.”
She nodded her thanks, her throat too tight to speak.
“And before I forget…” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small package in seasonal paper. “Merry Christmas, Sophie.”
Her heart aching, she unwrapped a three-CD set of ancient Irish chants.
“The shopkeeper said the oldest chant was penned about fourteen hundred years ago,” Clint told her with an apologetic grin. “Not exactly Mesolithic, but there’s one in there about Newgrange.”
This was all Sophie would have of him. She knew it in her heart. Just these few days and a medieval chant that spoke of ancient times.
“I got you something, too. Nothing grand, but…”
The keychain was made of braided black leather with a silver ring at one end and a weighted Celtic knot, also in sliver, at the other. She didn’t tell him it was a love knot. She couldn’t, with him so impatient to be away.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” He curled a knuckle under her chin and tipped her face to his. “I’ll be back.”
“Will y’now?” Swallowing the lump in her throat, she dredged up a saucy tone. “And when will that be, me boyo?”
“As soon as I can.”
The week between Christmas and New Year was one of the loneliest of Sophie’s life. The colored lights in the shop windows seemed to mock her. The empty quad at Trinity College echoed her footsteps when she went to the library. Even the Bull and Crown was quiet, with most of the students gone for the holidays and only a handful of tourists hardy enough to brave the icy streets.
Clint e-mailed her twice. Once the morning after his return to the States to say Nola Atwood was singing like a canary on steroids. And then again the following day to let her know he wouldn’t be able to communicate for a while.
She interpreted that to mean he was going undercover and worried nonstop that the vicious drug lord he was after might see through his disguise. The fear congealed into a hard lump she carried around for the rest of that week.