“Meg, whatever happens…just know I’m crazy about you. I know how that sounds, after just five or six days…”
She hushed him with a deep, wet kiss. “I know…it’s insane.” Her hug was strong, and then she seemed to melt against his body. Within seconds she was dozing off, her mouth slightly open, her breathing slackened and shallow. Again, the little girl in Meg was sleeping, needing protection.
A profound sense of well-being overcame him, relaxing him into a deep sleep.
****
Meg awoke to a small, buzzing sound. For a couple of seconds, she wondered where she was. Then memory flooded back and she felt Jake’s warm body next to her, his face turned aside. She could hear his soft, rhythmic breathing but before she could press the alarm button on his watch, he stirred, grunted once and mechanically turned it off without fully waking up. Until he sank back to sleep, Meg lay quietly, listening to the sounds he made as he moved, stretched, got comfortable.
When he was finally still, she got up from bed and went to the bathroom. Taking one of the bath towels, she wet it and wiped herself, then bent over the basin and splashed water in her face. Her image in the mirror caught her attention: No, she wasn’t going to analyze what happened last night. It was too simple and too beautiful to tear apart. They’d fallen in lust and then made love. It was as starkly plain and simple as that.
Nevertheless, clawing at the edge of her mind was the question of why he was really here? Jake was no banker, that was for sure. He didn’t carry around a 9mm semi-automatic pistol for nothing. Having grown up in Texas, almost everyone Meg knew had guns. Pistols, revolvers, hunting rifles, shotguns; her neighbor carried in her purse a small lady’s derringer…at all times, even when she went to the grocery store. But for Jake to carry a pistol of that size and quality on a motor coach tour abroad meant only one thing. He was on duty. Either as a cop, a private detective, government agent…
She dressed quietly in the bathroom in her nightie and bathrobe, and then went back to the bedroom. The unzipped carry-on was a dark, slim bulk on the desk, the corner of a laptop computer visible in its opening. Peering inside, using the dim illumination provided by the bathroom light, Meg spied two cell phones next to the laptop. Various pockets appeared to hold computer paraphernalia.
No gun there. Her eyes went to the molded suitcase sitting on the low dresser; its hasp appeared locked. A set of keys rested on top, evidently carelessly tossed there the night before.
Wetting her lips, Meg’s pulse began to pound. If Jake caught her searching his things…what then?
Too late. She was committed.
Unlocking the hasp, she slipped aside the heavy lock and lifted open the suitcase lid, bracing it on the wall. With quick, deft hands, she rummaged through his clothes, paused with her hands on the plastic case she knew had to be the gun case. Skipping over that—she’d already seen the pistol—she felt in the zippered pocket inside the lid. A leather pouch was there, the size of a small clutch purse, but it felt strangely lumpy. Meg pulled it out slowly and felt inside. It was too dark to discern the different objects inside, but the shape of one metal object was obvious: Police cuffs. Rapidly, she dumped the contents on top of Jake’s packed clothes.
A leather wallet opened to show a badge. Meg took it over to the bathroom door. A gold-metal FBI badge. She’d seen two before, when two agents from the Dallas field office came to question her and her grandmother about her Uncle John. They had been doing a background security check.
Special Agent Jacob Bernstein was printed on the ID on the opposite side of the wallet.
Jake—an FBI agent!
Meg didn’t stop to think but instead moved back to the suitcase. She didn’t need to see any more. There was only one possible conclusion: Grandma was in very serious trouble.
Hurriedly, she put everything back in place, closed the suitcase lid and relocked the hasp. Her hands were trembling so badly, this effort took several attempts. Then she replaced the keys on top of the suitcase, took one long look at the sleeping figure on the bed and left the room.
****
Jake lay still, pretending to softly snore, his mouth open but face turned away. He could hear Meg padding about in her bare feet, first in the bathroom and then by the foot of the bed. Little noises told him what she was doing, even when she padded over to the bathroom, came back and then left his room. So now she knew. And he was glad. In fact, damned relieved.
Sweet Meg. Athletic Meg. Laughing, teasing Meg. Angry Meg. Wanton, sexy-as-hell Meg. And like most females, curious-as-a-thousand-cats Meg.
She had guts and spunk. Not for nothing, was Jake falling in love with her.
Still, had she opened his gun case, with the loaded pistol inside, he would’ve sprung out of bed in a flash. Expelling a long-held breath, Jake was relieved she hadn’t. He wondered what she’d do now that she knew who he was. Get her grandmother on the first plane out of Ireland and back to their lawyers in Dallas? If he were her, that was exactly what he’d do. Go home and lawyer up.
For Meg’s sake, he was hoping she’d do just that.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jake woke up famished, having been so depressed the night before, he’d skipped dinner. He bolted upright in bed. Friggin’ incredible, the difference a night of hot, lovin’ sex could do for a man’s spirits! He was fired up and rarin’ to go!
He showered and dressed in black jeans, black T-shirt and his well-worn but favorite leather bomber jacket. The sky was its usual: Overcast. But not his mood. His mood soared like a freed falcon climbing to the sun.
As he made his way down the stairs, worries swamped him. Now that Meg knew who he was and probably why he was there, how would she view him? Would she be pissed off as hell, anxious, defensive? Plotting revenge? Huh, was the Pope Catholic?
When he entered the hotel dining room, the usual breakfast smells assailed him. This time, instead of turning his stomach, hunger pangs drove him ahead. He bypassed the hot table, where the pork ’n beans, blood sausage and overfried eggs and bacon could be found, and headed toward the toast, cheese and jam section. He’d no sooner poured himself a cup of steaming, strong coffee and concocted his own version of a breakfast sandwich, inserting a slice of prosciutto and swiss cheese into a bread roll, than his attention honed in like a laser beam on Meg’s table. She was sitting with her grandmother and the French Canadian couple. His heart tumbled with joy at the sight of her.
As soon as their eyes met, Meg jumped up and joined him at the buffet. She looked troubled despite her warm smile. Still, he was greatly relieved that she wasn’t stabbing him in the heart with her butter knife.
“Morning, Jake.” She touched his arm; it took all his restraint not to seize her in his arms and plant a smacker on her lovely lips.
“Hey, Meg,” he whispered, leaning over her. “I missed you this morning. My bed got cold without you.”
“I know…I had a good time.” Their eyes met and they exchanged a knowing smile. “Listen, Jake, I wish you could join us, but Grandma’s on a tear. She woke up in the middle of the night, saw I was gone…and well, this morning she ragged me to death. Called me names I’ve never heard her say before. I think she’s cracking up, I really do.” Meg was holding back unshed tears. She looked away and sniffled.
“Did she react the same when you were engaged? Y’know, sleeping over with what’s-his-name?”
Meg frowned. “No, but I wasn’t living with her then. I had my own place…so it was never…y’know, in her face. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“Sweetheart, you’re twenty-six, not sixteen. Wasn’t she the one who told you to sample me like a box of candy? Why should she care what we do, anyway? We’re adults.” They moved off to the side against the back wall of the room, out of the way of servers and busboys.
“I know, I know,” grumbled Meg. “I don’t know what’s eating her. Maybe the stress of the tour, your presence, you and me getting together, all your…questions.” The look she settled on him then was a
mixture of anger, worry, sympathy, confusion—even a come-hither yearning. “Maybe we should take a break from each other, just for a day or so. Let her calm down.”
His heart sank. Already, Meg was pulling away. While pretending she hadn’t searched his suitcase and found his FBI badge, she was still putting distance between them. Maybe she was planning to ditch the remainder of the tour and head back to Texas. He couldn’t blame her. Jake looked over at Mary Snider. The old lady was glowering at him, her mouth downturned like Scrooge’s. He nodded.
“Okay, I respect your wishes. I may not like them but I respect them.”
The way she averted her eyes made him realize she was afraid. Hell, who wouldn’t be? Most people he met socially, as soon as they discovered his occupation, were taken aback. For a few, especially those he sensed had something to hide, it was a conversation-killer.
“Meg, you know me. I’m just doing my job,” he added in a whisper, “But I’m a man, too. And I’m crazy about you.”
Her upturned face and big, luminous eyes trained on him were enough to calm his worries. She cared about him, maybe as much as he cared about her.
Meg winced and looked away. “It was sneaky but I had to find out,” she admitted. “You’re FBI and you’re investigating my grandmother, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Anything else you want to know?”
She glanced down at her feet. “Not right now.” From here on, Meg would shut him out.
Yeah, he’d blown his cover but he wasn’t about to reveal this to the MI5 team. They’d sweep in and haul both Mary Snider and her granddaughter back to London for questioning. He’d be damned if he would allow that to happen.
“Can I trust you to keep it quiet…for now?”
She nodded solemnly. “Yeah, but you’re wasting your time, Jake. My grandmother didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I hope not, for her sake. And yours.”
She frowned, then suddenly flashed him a hopeful grin. “The group’s going on that jaunty car tour of the park and town. Killarney is Gran’s hometown, y’know.”
“Right,” he said. “What time is that?”
“Eleven o’clock. It’s supposed to last a couple of hours, then we’re on our own for lunch and the rest of the day.”
Jake already had a plan. “I’ll be back by then. Save me a seat in your horse cart.”
“Where’re you going?” Her blue-eyed gaze was fixed on his face.
“Jail,” he said cryptically. He shot her his best lopsided smile.
****
The four officers at the Killarney Garda station were in their twenties and thirties, wore white shirts and khaki-green trousers, and sported gun holsters at their waists—Jake figured they were carrying Beretta .45mm semiautomatics—and truncheons. Silver badges added sheen to their uniforms and swagger to their posture. Jake approached the baby-faced kid at the desk and introduced himself as an American tourist with the Global Adventures motor coach group in town. They shook hands.
“Last night you brought in a man named Mike McCoy, is that right?” He laid on a thick southern drawl.
The kid folded his arms over his chest and, with a yank of his head, motioned the other three officers over.
“Yep, we did. Were you with that flock of tourists who were scared witless by this crazy loon? The hotel manager insisted we book the ol’ curmudgeon and charge him with disorderly conduct.”
One of the other officers, a stocky fellow with red hair, barged in. “We’re not so sure we’ll do that. He’s been tame as a lamb all night. He’s a local chap, don’t ya know.”
Jake nodded. “Slept off his drunk, huh? Well, then you probably won’t mind if I have a word with the guy. Y’see, this Mike McCoy approached a friend of mine, an old woman who’s with our group. He acted like he knew her. Like they were cousins. I didn’t want her upset, so I came down to talk to him. Find out what he wanted with her.”
“How do you know his name…Mister, uh,” the kid asked, standing up and adjusting his holster and gun.
Jake smiled; the kid was trying to establish his authority, posing to show the other men how he could control the situation.
“Jake Bernstein. This Mike McCoy told us his name on the ferry coming over from Wales,” explained Jake calmly. “He tried to talk to us but the situation got out of hand. The old lady became frightened and emotional. So I was hoping to have a man-to-man with him. Find out what he wanted and if I could help him in some way. Y’know, defuse the situation.”
The kid glanced over at his three colleagues, who now looked bored and were wandering back to their desks, once they realized the American stranger wasn’t a threat. He took keycards out of the desk drawer, held together on a metal cord, and clacked them together.
“Well, let’s see if the old fart’s wanting to see you.”
“Fair enough.”
A minute later, after following the kid down two hallways, past a modern security door, which the officer opened with one of the keycards, Jake stood in front of an old-fashioned jail, with a grid of bars fronting eight five-by-ten cells. Only one other cell was occupied, the occupant snoring loudly on his top bunk.
Mike McCoy was sitting alone on the lower bunk in his cell. He hung his head in his hands, the bald crown gleaming in the cell’s single, bright light. He looked downright pathetic, Jake decided.
“Chap to see you, Mr. McCoy,” the kid announced. He stepped back, his hands on his belt, his legs apart. “Quite a stir at the Stag last night. Yer friends were threatening to break you out, they were.”
The middle-aged man looked up, bleary-eyed and stubble-faced, his expression bewildered; he was slack-jawed from a hangover. His gray monk’s fringe was spiked up all around his bald pate. His trousers and button-down shirt looked rumpled and soiled, like they hadn’t been laundered in weeks. Then instantly, recognition lit his face and he sprang to his feet and grabbed the bars.
“Eh, Jimmy, this man—he works for British intelligence! I saw him with that officer from MI5! He tried to kill me! I was just talking to them on the ferry and he attacked me, he did!”
Jake whirled around, feigned innocence and shrugged for the cop’s benefit. “Sorry, the man’s delusional. I did no such thing.”
The Irish cop frowned at Jake. “You work for the fuckin’ Brits?”
“Aw, hell no! I’m a banker from Virginia. I’m on the motorcoach tour with this guy’s cousin. Or the old lady he thinks is his cousin.”
Appearing satisfied by the sound of Jake’s accent, the kid took a more belligerent stance with the old drunk.
“Just talk to the man, McCoy. He claims he’s a friend of some old lady and he can help you. I’ll be right on the other side of that door.” The kid looked at Jake and pointed to a buzzer button by the security door. “Punch that if you need help.” He screwed up his face. “But I don’t think that’ll be necessary. You look like you can handle yourself. Just keep away from the bars.”
With the kid gone, Jake dropped the polite mask and the Southern accent. He sized up the middle-aged, mentally ill man inside the jail cell. And remembered how he’d grabbed Mary Snider, slapped Meg, and kicked Jake in the shin.
“Listen, you sonuvabitch, that chokehold I gave you yesterday is nothing compared to what I’ll do when you get out. I want the truth from you—”
“You are with British intelligence, you asshole!” McCoy fumed.
A big, stocky man, he was strong enough to shake the bars until plaster dust from the ceiling rained down upon his bald head. Seemingly shocked at his own strength, he stopped and brushed dust off his head. And underwent a transformation, to Jake’s amazement. The man before him now was almost calm, even looked like he’d shrunk in size. Certainly subdued and defeated. Was this guy bipolar? Manic one minute, depressed the next? Or worse—a schizophrenic off his meds? Temple hadn’t said.
“I keep telling that MI5 officer, Major Temple, the pub’s mine. That woman’s not Mary McCoy. Me Da knew that. He knew the pub should’ve
been mine.” He swung his head like a puppet on a string. “Should’ve been all mine. It was in the will. Clear as day. The Muckross Stag’s mine. The good priest showed Da and me the will. Our cousins are all dead and that pub’s legally mine.”
“Look, Mike, your father might’ve been right about Mary McCoy, that American woman we know as Mary Snider. Whatever you want from her, you might get it, but only through me. Got that?”
Mike McCoy, Jr., grew still but continued hanging onto the bars. Scruffy-faced and haggard, he looked like a vagrant. Now, before Jake’s very eyes, the man’s stare grew more focused, his expression skeptical but patient. At least, he was no longer acting like a hyper nutcase. Jake decided to proceed with caution, in case a careless word or tone of voice sent the man spiraling out of control again.
“I need to tape your testimony,” Jake said, drawing a miniature digital recorder the size of an iPod from his jacket pocket. When the man protested that he’d given it all already to MI5, Jake assured him he needed to hear it himself. “Tell me, Mike, what exactly was in this will and whose will was this?”
Huffing out a ragged sigh, McCoy slumped over the bars and began to tell his story. Five minutes later, Jake turned off the recorder.
“So Patrick—your father’s older brother—and Elizabeth McCoy, the parents of Mary McCoy, left a will when they died. This will left their main heir, their daughter, all their property except the pub. This pub was left to two heirs, Mary and her cousin, Mike. And this legal will, along with the deeds to these properties, were kept in the rectory’s files by the parish priest, this Father Dillon.” Jake knew from the MI5 file that after Mary’s parents drowned—in the lake by Ross Island—the house on Countess Road and the gas station were sold by Mary McCoy shortly before she set off for London. The pub, the Muckross Stag, she and her cousin, Mike McCoy Senior, co-owned, had not been sold.
“Your father, Mike McCoy, Patrick’s younger brother, kept the pub, this Muckross Stag—”
A Bodyguard of Lies Page 19