Keeper's Reach (24 page)

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, right. You stick to paddling your canoe into the wilds and never think twice about the rest of the world.”

Mike remembered this mood of hers. This was Naomi MacBride pushing people away. Rationalizing. Provoking. Not recognizing a friend when she saw one. It was all so much easier than taking the leap and getting close to someone—letting someone get close to her.

He couldn’t play that game again.

“You dived in headfirst with Oliver York when you should have stuck to your own business.”

“I didn’t dive in,” Naomi said, not particularly combative. “I meandered in. But I get now why you went alpha on me.”

“Alpha, Naomi? What am I, a dog?”

“More like a wolf,” she said, a spark in her dark hazel eyes.

“I’m just a guy.”

“You pegged me as a magnet for trouble three years ago. I guess nothing I’ve done in the past twenty-four hours has changed that.”

He shrugged. “Nothing good happens when you’re in my life.”

“That’s such a load of BS, Mike. I saved your damn life.”

“You did your job. I did my job.”

“There were also a few nights of mad, wild, unforgettable sex.” She tilted her chin up at him. “Or did you forget?”

“I didn’t forget.”

She was visibly taken aback by his answer, but only for a split second. “Never better sex, either,” she said, defiant, daring him to deny it.

Mike stepped closer to her. He touched a curl that had dropped onto her forehead. “Are you done chasing demons, Naomi?”

“I never did chase demons. That’s your fantasy about me. I did my job in Kabul to the best of my ability. I do my job now to the best of my ability. That’s all I can do, and it’s all anyone can ask me to do. If it wasn’t enough for you—if I fell short—then so be it.”

“It was enough. You didn’t fall short.” He skimmed a fingertip along her cheek. “I’m sorry if I ever led you to believe otherwise.”

“‘Never again, Naomi’?”

“That wasn’t about you falling short.”

“Then what was it about?”

“You got dragged out of a restaurant and thrown into a van by some very bad people because you had exposed yourself two months earlier to warn me.”

“Warning you was a necessary risk, and it wasn’t about you.”

“I know that, but I couldn’t let it happen again.”

“Mike. Ah, Mike.” She threw up her hands and let them fall to her sides. “I’m glad you and your team weren’t among the casualties either day. But I know that going after those guys—walking into an ambush—and then rescuing me weren’t your toughest missions. Not even close.”

“It’s all in the past.”

“Easy to say.” She touched his shoulder. “But thank you for rescuing me. You saved my life.”

He shrugged. “I don’t need your gratitude, Naomi,” he said softly.

“Nor I yours,” she said. “I should go run the tub.”

“The guy in England. Hambly. What’s your gut on what happened to him?”

His non-sequitur question obviously took her by surprise. “It wasn’t an accident.”

“Did he know it?”

“I think so, deep down. If he’s loyal to Oliver York, he would be reluctant to have the police in there mucking around, even if the attack had nothing to do with art theft.” She pulled her hand away from his shoulder. “Sleep well.”

Mike brushed his fingers through the curls on her temple. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight. I can sleep on the floor.”

She took an audible breath. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

26

They ended up in Mike’s bed, because once he kissed her, Naomi knew she wasn’t going anywhere. She melted into him. The months—the years—fell away. He’d been the only man for her three years ago. Now. Forever. That was all she could think with any coherence as they disrobed each other, not slowly.

“I can’t stop kissing you,” she whispered.

“Then don’t.”

“I need to... Your belt...”

But he had it, and in seconds they were snuggled under a fluffy comforter, his skin hot and hard against her. She felt the same scars, and new ones. The same heat burned through her, as it had in Washington all those years ago. He hadn’t known she’d be there. She hadn’t known he’d be there. The surprise had been the lit match that had set them on fire, ending any resistance to the sparks that had erupted between them in Afghanistan. She’d told him she was quitting and wouldn’t be back. It had been true when she’d said it.

“Naomi.” He slid his palms up her sides, over her breasts. “Come back to me.”

She smiled. “I’m here.”

Neither spoke again for a long time. There was no need, with his touch, the feel of his mouth, his tongue, his finger on her, inside her, the heat and ache of desire sweeping through her. Even if there were things that needed to be said between them, she couldn’t think of what they were, and they didn’t matter, not right now.

* * *

They made love slowly, tenderly, a second time, and Naomi fell asleep in his arms. When she awoke, it was still night. She slipped out from the comforter, the cool air striking her heated skin. She walked to the window and peeked out at the stars and quarter moon above the ocean. The cold air seemed to make them brighter, sharper.

Mike joined her, putting an arm around her and kissing her on the top of her head.

“We’re still impossible,” she said.

“I know.”

“It’s always this way with us. In Washington, did we go on a date? No. We fell into bed.”

“Life could be worse.”

And has been
, she thought. She smiled at him. “We could go kayaking or have a Netflix night. Shuck clams. Cook lobsters.”

“We could do that.”

“Not right now, though. We’re both stark naked.”

He laughed. “Naomi.”

This time there was no falling into bed together. He scooped her up and carried her, pulling the covers over them and finding her again.

27

The Cotswolds,
England
Saturday, 9:00 a.m., BST

Padgett drove from Heathrow. Emma had more experience driving on the left, but he managed with only one unnerving incident at a roundabout. The near miss with a van didn’t faze him, and she was too preoccupied to pay much attention. She’d slept on the plane, but fitfully, fighting bad dreams. In the plane’s bathroom, she’d washed her face and hands, making sure she was as alert as possible for seeing Oliver York again. She’d done a few stretches, discovering new bruises and strained muscles. But it was a lovely morning in the Cotswolds, and she had no regrets about getting onto a plane last night.

Padgett still had understandable reservations about her being here at all given the circumstances, but she wasn’t getting into it with him. She knew England, and she knew Finian Bracken and Oliver York. She needed to be here.

“Your parents are in London?” he asked her as he drove through the pretty village of Burford, its shops and restaurants relatively quiet at nine on a Saturday morning.

Emma nodded. “They’ll be there for a few more months.”

“You can visit them if it turns out Hambly slipped on a cow pie.”

“More likely sheep droppings,” she said.

He grinned at her. “Hence the sheepskins.”

“Sam...”

“Perked you up. While you’re visiting your parents, I’ll tour Oxford. I’ve always wanted to see Bodleian Library.”

They’d passed through the edge of Oxford. “Any particular reason?”

“Oxford is one of my paths not taken.”

“You are a man of many mysteries, Special Agent Padgett.”

“Just your average small-town Texas boy.”

As they wound past rolling fields and honey-stone houses, Emma sank into her seat. She’d texted Colin when they’d landed. He’d texted her back.

Not sleeping, obviously.

“Quaint,” Padgett said when they came to the York farm. “Expect to see Mr. Darcy pacing in the garden.”

“You read Jane Austen?”

“Saw the movie. Forced. Daughters of a friend in Texas. They made me watch the version with Colin Firth. It lasts forever. Seriously. I cleaned all my guns and it was still going.”

“The things I don’t know about you, Sam.”

He turned onto the driveway, the gate open for their arrival. “This place is too bucolic for Mr. Darcy. It could work for his friend’s place—what’s his name? The milquetoast who fell for the pretty sister?”

“Mr. Bingley.”

“That’s it.”

“I must look terrible if you’re trying to distract me by talking about
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“Book’s better than the movies. I read it in college, but never mind. You do look terrible. You’ve got that sunken-eyed look you get after jumping out a window into the snow. The choke hold and the blanket over my head I could take. Snow down my back...” He shuddered. “That’s rough.”

Emma burst out laughing. She couldn’t help herself. High-testosterone Padgett shuddering over snow down his back was more than she could take.

He ground the gears downshifting, but he grinned at her as he pulled the car to a stop at the farmhouse’s side entrance. “We want you smiling when you talk to your art thief.”

But it was Finian Bracken who greeted them. He rushed to Emma and took her hand as she climbed out of the car. “Colin told me you’d been through a difficult experience. If only I’d been there. Emma.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “Thank God you’re all right.”

“Thank you, Fin,” she said, then introduced him to Padgett.

Finian brought them inside. “Oliver is in the kitchen arguing with Martin.”

They went down a hall to a classic English country kitchen. Oliver was pacing on the tiled floor. Martin Hambly sat at a large wood table, a flower-decorated pot of tea in front of him. Oliver pointed at him. “If you’d died, Martin, a forensics exam would have been required. It would have confirmed you didn’t fall on a rock, as you insist, but instead were hit by a sharp metal instrument, which is what I suspect happened.”

Martin sniffed. “I suppose my death would have been more easily solved than my injury.”

“If not for that rock head of yours, we would be getting your autopsy results right about now.”

Martin stood as Emma, Padgett and Finian entered the kitchen. “Agent Sharpe,” he said. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

“Emma,” Oliver said, with less enthusiasm.

They exchanged a few pleasantries, but Emma and Padgett both turned down tea and breakfast. “We’d like to see the dovecote where Martin was injured,” she said, addressing Oliver. “Would you mind?”

“Of course not.”

Hambly declared he was well enough to walk with them.

They went out through the kitchen, crossing a terrace to a stone path. Oliver led the way, with Padgett and Finian picking up the rear. The path took them through a perennial garden to a sodden lawn and a fenced field. They followed along the edge of the field to a narrow dirt track.

Emma breathed in the fresh morning air, feeling more herself again as they arrived at the dovecote. On any other day, she would have taken a moment to appreciate its history and architecture, the beauty of the setting. This morning, she asked Martin to point out where he’d left the package. Then she took a look inside the small building. Oliver joined her, but the other three men stayed outside.

She pointed to a locked door. “Your studio?”

“That’s right. I’m shutting it down. The Saint Brigid’s cross is to be one of my final creations. There’s no sign of a break-in, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I’m wondering everything,” Emma said.

“It can be difficult to focus after an ordeal like yours.” Oliver’s pale green eyes settled on her for half a beat longer than was comfortable. He pulled away, dipping a finger into a clay pot on a workbench. “Needs water. It’s an amaryllis bulb. Martin picked up two of them from a friend in the village before he ran into your colleague in front of the church.”

Emma glanced around the potting area. Could Kavanagh have opened the package and stolen the cross when he was out here on Wednesday? Or could he simply have seen the package and left it alone, then made plans to intercept it when it arrived in Rock Point?

Naomi MacBride had been in the village then, too. Could she have walked out here without anyone having noticed? Then lied to everyone at the Plum Tree about it, including Kavanagh and Mike?

Warning herself against speculating, Emma followed Oliver outside. He led her around to the back of the dovecote. She paused, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of snowdrops blanketing a section of the hillside. If Hambly had fallen there, someone might have spotted him sooner—assuming anyone had passed this way before Naomi MacBride had wandered to the dovecote late Thursday morning.

Not exactly wandered, Emma thought.

“It’s warmer here than Boston, anyway,” Padgett said, easing in next to her.

Hambly walked past them and stopped a few feet down the wooded hill. “It wasn’t an accident,” he said, half to himself. “I was standing here...and I heard metal on metal. Then I was struck from behind.” He placed his fingertips on his neck where he’d been hit. “I’d just returned from the village. I remembered the package and set it out for pickup. Then...” He turned to Emma, his face pale. “Someone was here, Agent Sharpe.”

She glanced at Oliver. “May we take a look at the area?”

“By all means.”

She went left and Padgett went right. The ground was soft, wet, with signs of spring here and there. Emma scanned the underbrush for footprints, anything that would confirm that someone had, indeed, attacked Hambly and could lead police to his attacker.

She came to the bank of the stream. It flowed softly over rocks and a coppery bottom. She could have sat there for hours, listening to the sounds of the water, breathing in the smells.

Not today.

She jumped onto a rock in the middle stream, steadied herself and then leaped to the other side. Her right foot settled into mud, but her left foot landed in a dry spot. She continued up the hill to a cluster of small evergreens. The ground behind the trees was stirred up, as if someone had staked out a spot for a quick nap or a night in the woods.

Emma returned to the edge of the stream and called to Padgett. “I’ve found something.”

He and Finian took the same route across the stream, but Hambly and Oliver, in Wellingtons, walked right through the shallow water.

Emma nodded to the makeshift campsite. “It doesn’t look like an animal’s doing. Someone could have hidden here and spied on the dovecote, slept, had a picnic.”

Oliver narrowed his gaze on the spot. “Bloody bastard.”

Martin squatted down. Padgett touched his shoulder. “Best if you don’t touch anything. Let’s save it for the local police.”

“What if I don’t want to contact the local police?”

“Then I will on your behalf,” Padgett said, matter-of-fact.

Emma squinted through the trees toward the dovecote. It wasn’t a particularly good view of anyone at the dovecote or coming from the farm, but when she looked to her left, she could see the dirt track. Whoever hid here would have been able to see Martin Hambly walking to the dovecote with his amaryllis pots.

“This attacker feels chaotic, emotional, opportunistic,” Oliver said. “Maybe not desperate, but not cold and calculating. Do you think this is the same person who attacked you, Emma?”

“I never said...”

“Please.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Oliver looked grim. “A simple gift of sheepskins and a cross...” He took in a breath. “I’m so sorry. Martin. Emma. I had no idea.”

Martin stood, unsteady. He reached for one of the evergreens but lost his balance. Padgett grabbed him and helped him to his feet. “I’ve no information to offer,” the Englishman said.

Emma nodded. “I understand.”

Padgett’s eyes connected with hers. She could see he understood, too. They had to figure this out without Martin Hambly implicating Oliver as an art thief, because that wasn’t going to happen. Martin would lie about what happened out here first, even to the local police—who could take him in for questioning, arrest him. Emma and Padgett couldn’t. They were on Oliver’s property only with his permission.

“We don’t need to dig into your affairs,” Padgett said. “We’re not here to bring in whoever attacked you. We’re here to find out who stuffed Agent Sharpe into a trunk and then locked her in a shed without food and water.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t want you to sugarcoat it, would we?”

Martin gasped. “There it is,” he said in a hoarse whisper, pointing to a spot by the evergreens. “The would-be murder weapon, I daresay. Blast. I swear I can see my blood on it from here.”

Padgett stepped in front of him. “We need to leave it for—”

“For the police,” Martin said.

Emma could see a pair of old garden shears lying in wet, brown leaves. The metal-on-metal sound must have been Martin’s attacker opening and shutting the blades.

“It could have been worse, Martin,” Oliver said. “The bastard could have lopped off body parts.” He sighed. “I’ll ring the police myself. Just not right this minute.” He turned to Emma. “Shall we make a quick visit to the village first?”

* * *

Finian stayed at the farmhouse with Hambly, who was clearly worn-out after their trek to the dovecote. Emma and Padgett rode with Oliver in his Rolls-Royce. He drove, Emma up front as he chatted amiably, pointing out sights. When they arrived at the pub, a waiter showed them to a table by an open fire near the bar. Breakfast in the next room was done for the day, but their table was set with bowls of cut fresh fruit, natural yogurt, scones and York farm’s’ own gooseberry jam.

“Ruthie, my housekeeper, called ahead,” Oliver said. “A proper breakfast will do you good after your flight. You didn’t eat on the plane, did you? Airline food is a notch above poison.”

“I didn’t think it was bad,” Padgett said, but dug into the fruit and yogurt.

The waiter brought a pot of tea and two coffee presses. Emma had tea and then nibbled on a grape. She wished she’d had a chance to talk with Ted Kavanagh and Naomi MacBride herself before she’d left Maine, but getting here—talking with Oliver and Martin, seeing the dovecote—had taken on an urgency she seldom felt. Her work usually allowed, even demanded, that she go methodically, step-by-step, putting often disparate pieces together. Choosing, carefully, when and how to act. She’d had times when she’d had to rely on her instincts and act quickly, but not as often as the deep analytical work she did day-to-day. She’d spent many hours with the files on a serial international art thief who had eluded her and her grandfather for a decade.

Now here she was, across the table from him with a scone and gooseberry jam.

She’d figured her art thief for an intelligent, perhaps well-off man, but she’d never imagined Oliver York.

He tapped the tray of scones with his knife. “Help yourself, Emma. You need to eat.”

“Oliver...”

“I’m right. Eat.”