"What sort of incident?"
"The bizarre sort with no evidence. Seamus gave me the name of a local fisherman. I'm off to find him now." She turned onto the main road back toward the village. "Does that sound too deadly dull for you, Myles?"
"A chat with an Irish fisherman would be a nice change of pace," he said, making himself comfortable. "You look tired. Would you like for me to drive?"
"No." She was immediately annoyed that he thought she looked tired when, of course, he was the reason for her bad night and he himself was clearly much worse off. "Are you even legal to drive these days?"
He yawned again, pushing back his seat to accommodate his long legs. He had dark shadows under his eyes, but she found him as rugged and sexy as ever. He gave her a quick smile. "You're a madwoman behind the wheel, love. Always have been."
"Would you like me to put you on a flight to London?"
"What would I do in London?"
"Go visit your mother. Two years, Myles. She hasn't known if you were alive or dead."
"No, she has. She's known."
"How? Carrier pigeon?"
He ignored her, and she continued over a small suspension bridge, then turned onto a side road just before the village center. Myles had always had an uncanny ability to push right past anything he didn't want to discuss.
She had no trouble finding parking by the town pier. As she got out of the car, a strong gust of wind buffeted her, but she found it refreshing. Just a few minutes in close proximity to Myles had her feeling hot and out of sorts. She struck off across the road without a word or a glance in her passenger's direction. She didn't want to think about him--where he'd come from, how long he planned to stay, where he planned to stay.
"I had a nice, calm life before you turned up again, Myles," she muttered, not sure he could hear her--not caring, either. She stepped onto the concrete pier, the wind worse there, and sighed. "A very nice, calm life."
He fell in easily next to her. "If you'd wanted a nice, calm life, you wouldn't have gone for a career in British intelligence."
"I must've landed in the wrong queue somehow. I thought I was signing up for church choir."
She saw the glimmer of a smile beneath his beard stubble and fatigue. He moved with no apparent concern that they might run into snipers, thugs, terrorists or madmen in quiet Kenmare. Of course if he were concerned, he would move with the same nonchalance.
Josie approached an old fisherman in a traditional Irish knit sweater that had seen years--decades, probably--of wear and asked him where she might find Tim O'Donovan. The fisherman gave her a suspicious look and pretended not to understand the question. She said, "We're friends with Sophie Malone."
The old man's suspicion eased. "Tim's due anytime, please God," he said in a heavy West Cork accent and headed down the pier toward the road.
"Let's wait here," Myles said, the sky and bay making his eyes seem a bluer gray. "The air feels good."
Josie took in a sharp breath. "You didn't expect to be alive today, did you?"
"Nor yesterday, either." He crooked his arm toward her and smiled. "Shall we watch the tide and pretend we're a pair of holiday lovers?"
"Damn you, Myles." She slipped her arm into his, welcoming his warmth. She leaned against him, just for a split second. "I hate you, you know."
He winked at her. "That's my girl."
Suddenly she wished they were tourists without a care beyond which lace shops to visit and which pub to pop into for a bite. He maintained an outward air that his two years undercover--alone, in constant danger--hadn't affected him, but Josie knew they had. She noticed a scar on his jaw under his right ear that hadn't been there when he'd gone off to Afghanistan.
"Did you tell yourself you'd died in that firefight?" she asked quietly. "Is that how you managed?"
"I focused on the job I was in a unique position to do."
"Should you have been killed, did you have a plan to get word to Will, at least, that you weren't a traitor?"
"All this talk of my demise, love." He grinned at her. "Should I be near deep water with you?"
His humor, she knew, was his way of deflecting her questions. He wasn't introspective. He was a man who lived in the present. "You could have let us help--"
"It was too big a risk. The people I was chasing would have won."
"Will they win yet, Myles?"
The wind caught the ends of his dark hair. "Not the ones I was chasing."
"Because they're dead," Josie said bluntly.
"There you go again."
But his lack of a denial meant she was right. "Will and Simon are after their friends and associates, aren't they?" she asked softly.
He brushed her fingertips with his and let that be his answer.
She could hardly breathe. "Are you free now? Safe?"
"I don't know, love." He angled her a wry look. "Will I be sleeping near you and a pillow tonight?"
She was tempted to elbow him off the pier, but a bearded man decades younger than the old fisherman ambled toward them. "I understand you're looking for me. What can I do for you?"
"You're Tim O'Donovan?" Josie asked with a smile.
No smile back. "I am."
"I'm Josie Goodwin. This is my friend Myles. We'd like to talk to you about a friend of yours."
"Sophie Malone," he said. "Seamus Harrigan told me you'd be looking for me. Sophie's gone back to Boston."
"What happened last year, Tim?" Myles asked.
Josie winced at his blunt question. Leave it to Myles to dive in before they'd reassured the Irishman. He'd never been one for subtlety. The wind blew hard, and she thought she felt raindrops but supposed it could have been saltwater. She shook off a sudden chill as O'Donovan crossed his muscled arms over his broad chest. He stood at the edge of the pier, his back to the water as if he had no worries about taking a wrong step. "Sophie's a restless soul, and she has a natural curiosity and an investigative mind. Put all that together..." He dropped his arms to his sides. "I suppose that's why she's an archaeologist and not a fisherman."
Myles leaned casually against a post. He had no apparent worries, either, about falling into the water. "What caught the attention of her restless soul, natural curiosity and investigative mind a year ago?"
The Irishman squinted out toward the mouth of the harbor. "A tale of invaders and treasure."
Josie gritted her teeth. "Well, that narrows things down nicely, doesn't it?"
O'Donovan rubbed the toe of his scuffed boot across a thick rope tied to a fishing boat that presumably belonged to him. Myles nodded at the battered boat. "Looks as if she's seen a gale or two. Did you take Sophie somewhere in her?"
"Many times. She's a serious scholar and game for anything. Have you met her?"
Myles shook his head, and Josie said, "What about you? How well do you know Dr. Malone?"
O'Donovan leveled emerald-green eyes on her. "What business is that of yours?"
"None," Josie said, and gave him a cheerful smile. "You seem protective of her. I can understand. Here's a woman far from home--"
"She was born in Cork. Her family owns a house here in Kenmare."
"All right, then. She's Irish born but her parents are American. She attended college in Boston and did graduate work in Ireland. Now she's returned to Boston. She's rather rootless, wouldn't you say?"
O'Donovan took in a breath and held it as if he didn't want to answer Josie's question but knew he would. Finally he exhaled and said, "I would, indeed."
"Is she reckless?" Myles asked.
"We say a person's reckless when things don't work out. When they do, we say that same person is brave."
"One can be both reckless and brave." Josie managed not to look at Myles, although she expected he knew she was talking about him, too. "I'd like to win your trust, Tim. Whatever happened to Sophie last year involved you and obviously troubles you."
Myles edged closer to Josie, for no apparent reason that she could discern. "Did Sophie talk you into
searching for Celtic treasure?" he asked.
"No. She talked me into taking her to a small island down the bay so she could look into a story I'd told her."
Josie bit her lower lip. This was how Keira Sullivan's ordeal had started three months ago--with an old story. She'd been researching a book she was writing and illustrating, as well as dipping into her own complicated past.
"Would finding lost treasure help Sophie land a job?" Myles asked.
O'Donovan squatted down and started unlooping a thick rope from metal cleats, his fingers callused, his hands obviously very strong. "She says it's the opposite. She's a serious scholar. She's no treasure hunter. If she'd believed she'd find anything, she'd have called for a proper excavation."
"How often did you take her out to this island?"
"Five or six times. The last time, she discovered a cave and nearly didn't come out again."
He didn't elaborate, but Josie could see the regret in how he tore at the rope, how he'd bit off each word. "What happened, Tim?"
He shook his head. "Who's to say?"
"Why did she go out to this particular island?"
"She was writing her dissertation. She said exploring the island got her away from her work and helped clear her head." The muscles in his arms were visibly tensed, and he stood up again, the rope in hand. "On that last trip, she talked me into leaving her overnight. She'd never done such a thing. She had me believing she'd have a good time camping. She'd be safe. I left her there."
Myles had taken a few steps toward the middle of the wide pier, keeping quiet as he watched the fisherman. Josie didn't move. "Did she get hurt?" she asked softly. "Did someone follow her out there--"
"Talk to her." The fisherman tossed the rope down into his boat and moved to tackle the next line. Dark clouds had moved in overhead, the spits of raining turning to a steadier drizzle. He didn't seem to notice. "I wasn't there."
"Sophie could have wandered into a dangerous situation through no fault of her own," Josie said. "Or yours."
Myles narrowed his gray eyes on O'Donovan but made no move toward him. "You're worried that whatever happened to her isn't over."
"Maybe," he said, squatting down, pulling on a thick knot. "Again, I wasn't with her on the island. I only know what she's told me."
"And what's that?" Josie asked.
"She says she came across a cauldron of gold artifacts in the cave. She didn't have a chance to examine them before she heard whispers. At first she thought it was me--that I'd decided not to leave her out there after all and had come back."
"But it wasn't you," Myles said.
O'Donovan sighed heavily. "No, it wasn't. She saw branches smeared with blood--or what looked like blood--and she hid deeper in the cave. She hit her head somehow and lost consciousness. When she came to, there were no more whispers. I came for her the next day, as agreed. I had to look for her. By the time I found her, there was no sign anyone else had been on the island."
Josie shuddered. "Frightening. Was Sophie in the cave all night?"
"She was," Tim O'Donovan said tightly. "She believes whoever stole the cauldron left her for dead."
"Do you think she made up this story?" Myles asked.
"No, but that doesn't mean it happened the way she believes it did."
Myles frowned, the gray of his eyes now a deep slate. "Fairies? Ghosts? What are you suggesting?"
"As a boy, I heard tales the island's haunted. Sophie could have been pulled there by dark forces." Tim rose, shrugging his big shoulders. "The island's very small. It took me less than an hour to find her. She was hurt, cold, angry, afraid. She doesn't remember how she got her concussion. More than likely she experienced something she couldn't explain and hid for her life in that cave, and she's tried to make sense of what happened ever since."
"What about you?" Myles kept his gaze steady on the fisherman. "Did you sneak back to the island and steal this cauldron filled with gold? Fake the blood to frighten her, then take it with you to make her look less credible?"
Josie could have pushed Myles off the pier herself, but O'Donovan didn't seem to take offense. "I did not."
"You believed Sophie's story enough to call the guards," Josie said. "Did they look into boats that might have passed the island while Dr. Malone was there, anyone who might have heard her discuss her trips there, or this particular trip, or might have seen her--"
"Ask Seamus."
"Seamus said Sophie wasn't seriously hurt and there was no evidence a crime had been committed. Unintelligible whispers, blood and gold only she saw--the guards had nothing to go on."
"She survived, thanks be." O'Donovan abandoned the rope and rose again, his movements smooth for such a large man. "I don't even know you and here I've told you more than anyone else since that day. Do people always voluntarily tell you things, Josie Goodwin?"
She smiled. "Not always voluntarily."
He didn't smile back. "I wish I knew more." When Josie started to thank him, he cut her off. "Just see to it no harm comes to Sophie."
"We'll do our best."
Josie didn't know why she included Myles in her statement, but Tim O'Donovan nodded and said, "If there's anything I can do to help..."
"Call Seamus if you remember anything else about Sophie's experience on the island," Josie said.
He jumped down into his boat. The worsening conditions didn't seem to faze him. Myles started toward the road, and Josie lingered a moment, watching the fisherman go about his routines to set off down the bay, hoping she hadn't missed anything--even just a question that could help jog his memory.
She joined Myles at her car. She glanced back at the harbor, O'Donovan's boat chugging along in the wind and rain. "I've not the smallest urge to go to a tiny Irish island on my own."
"Would you go with someone else?" Myles asked as he climbed into the car.
Josie got behind the wheel again. "Not with you, Myles. The two of us alone in a car is enough tension for me, thank you."
"You're going to torture me forever, are you?"
"I haven't decided." She pulled off her damp coat, struggling with it, but he didn't offer his help. She must have looked as if she'd elbow him in the head if he did. She might, anyway. She balled up the coat and shoved it in back with his rucksack. "You could have trusted us, Myles. Will and me. If not me, then Will. If not Will, then me."
"It wasn't a question of trust," Myles said quietly, with none of his usual cockiness, "and to tell one of you what I was into was to tell the other. You both were emotionally compromised by our friendship. I couldn't take the chance."
Josie started the car. "Whether you could or couldn't, you didn't. Lizzie and Keira wouldn't wait two years for word on the fates of the men they care about."
"Do you think so, Josie?"
No, she thought. They'd wait forever. They'd wait until they knew for certain.
"Did you believe I was dead?"
"I'd hoped you'd lost your memory and opened a bake shop in Liverpool."
He laughed suddenly, unexpectedly, and at first she wanted to stop the car and kick him out the door, but she found herself laughing, too.
"Damn you, Myles. I suppose if you hadn't gone off--" She shook her head, abandoning her thought. "Never mind. I was going to say Will wouldn't have found Lizzie, but I don't believe that. I believe they were destined for each other."
"Josie Goodwin, the romantic?"
"Don't choke on your tongue, Myles. I'm a human being. A woman, believe it or not. Lizzie's the woman for Will. You've seen that for yourself, haven't you?"
"I have, indeed."
Josie felt a stiff wind buffet the small car. "Keira and Simon were destined for each other, too. You should see them together. He's an utter charmer--he does an amazing fake Irish accent and will argue with anyone over anything, and everyone still loves him." She turned on the windscreen wipers, the rain coming down hard now. "They'll both come back, won't they?"
"I'm sure of it."
"You're alw
ays sure. It's your nature."
"What Simon and Will are about needs to finish this way."
"Their way, you mean."
"And yours, Josie. Don't tell me you're not staying out of London for a reason. You don't want to have to answer a lot of questions about what Will and Simon are up to yourself." Myles leaned back in his seat. "Now we have this Sophie Malone and her mad island adventure."
"Nothing is ever simple with Will and Simon and their friends, is it?"
"As if it is with us?"
She came to a stop at the end of the road out to the pier and gave him a sideways glance. Those dove-gray eyes. The lines etched in his face. The hard edges that were Myles Fletcher. Of course she'd had to fall for him. How could she not have? But her life would have been so much less complicated these past few years if she hadn't.
He touched a finger to her lips. "Don't say anything more, love. Let's just keep sparring a while longer, shall we? I can't go where you want to go."
"Repressed bloody bastard," she said.
He looked relieved. "Where to next?"
"Dublin," Josie said without hesitation. "Sophie met with an art theft expert there. I'm developing a theory."
"She's after her missing artifacts."
"The whispers, the blood--she must be wondering if Jay Augustine was responsible for what happened to her in that cave. At least he's where he can't harm her or anyone else."
"Suppose he had help," Myles said quietly.
Josie gave him a sharp look, the chill back in her spine. "Myles--what do you know?"
"Drive on, love. It's a long way to Dublin."
11
Boston, Massachusetts
Bob O'Reilly shoved a hand through his hair as he stood on the cracked sidewalk in front of Cliff Rafferty's house and glared at Scoop. "You and your archaeologist haven't been back in town twenty-four hours, and you find a cop swinging from a beam in his dining room. Hell of a homecoming."
Scoop didn't blame him for being annoyed and frustrated, but his focus was on Sophie. She'd finished talking with two homicide detectives--who hadn't known Rafferty--and was in the shade of the oak tree at the edge of the walk. She'd stood up well to the pressures of the past couple hours. He had secured the scene before the first cruiser had arrived, but with the bomb-making materials in Rafferty's dining room, the FBI and ATF had rolled in right behind the BPD. The medical examiner was there. The crime lab. The district attorney's office. Onlookers from the neighborhood were behind yellow tape.
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