5

      EMMA WAS SURPRISED to find a rolling pin in one of Colin’s kitchen drawers. It had a worn, broken-in feel that suggested he had inherited it from someone else’s kitchen. She didn’t find a pastry cutter, but she used her fingers to work in the shortening and flour that a cupboard had yielded, another surprise. She managed to put together a respectable pie while Colin was drinking whiskey with his brothers and Father Bracken.

      She leaned back against the sink and forced herself to focus on her surroundings and practice the kind of mindfulness she had during her days with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. They had shared all the routine chores of convent life, hiring out only what they couldn’t do themselves. She had discovered purpose and comfort in preparing meals, cleaning, doing laundry, gardening—daily work that didn’t directly involve the sisters’ mission in art conservation, education and history.

      A different life, and yet she still could draw on what she had learned during her time as Sister Brigid.

      She smelled the apples bubbling in the oven and felt the warmth of the kitchen, noticed the reflection of the overhead lights in the windows. Colin didn’t have drapes or curtains, only natural-fiber shades. There were no plants or knickknacks on the windowsills, although he had left a small, rounded gray stone on the sill above the sink. He must have picked it up on a Maine beach. It was smooth, polished by the sea.

      She heard footsteps outside and saw him in the back door window.

      “I see you didn’t lock the door behind you,” he said, entering the kitchen. “I guess you’re not worried about intruders.”

      “I guess not.” She smiled through her sudden, inexplicable tension. She had just been with him at Hurley’s, but his presence still was a shock to her system. She pointed at the gas stove. “I have a pie in the oven.”

      “Smells good. Apple, right?”

      “I had some Northern Spies in the car. I bought them at the orchard where we went apple-picking before you took off to parts unknown.”

      He shut the door behind him, a stiffness to his movements that reminded her it had been only hours, not days, since his escape from killers. “That was a good afternoon.”

      “One of those afternoons you never want to end.”

      “You enjoy baking.”

      “Most of the time. Baking helps me think.”

      His smoky eyes narrowed on her. “What were you thinking about, Special Agent Sharpe?”

      Dmitri Rusakov, a Russian billionaire. Ivan Alexander, a private security consultant who had started out as Dmitri’s bodyguard. Her week in London four years ago when she had met them, shortly after the disappearance of the Russian Art Nouveau collection Dmitri had discovered in the walls of his Moscow house sixteen years earlier.

      She hadn’t heard from Dmitri since London, but she had heard from Ivan.

      Three times, she thought. The third was last night.

      All three times his information was valuable, provided with the understanding that she would utter his name to no one.

      She stood straight, noticed the shadows on Colin’s face. “You must be exhausted.”

      “Emma, Emma.” He took a dish towel she had forgotten about off her shoulder and set it on the counter. “You have a lot on your mind. Calls from confidential informants in the middle of the night. Russians in Heron’s Cove.”

      Emma covered her surprise that he knew about Tatiana by turning on the faucet at the sink, washing a stray apple seed down the drain. “One call, and one Russian. I assume Yank told you about the call. Who told you about Tatiana Pavlova?”

      “That’s her name—Tatiana Pavlova?”

      “She’s a jewelry designer in London. She’s renting a cottage in Heron’s Cove.”

      “Finian ran into her at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. Why would she go all the way out there to check you out?”

      “Is that what she said? That she was checking me out?”

      “Close enough.”

      Meaning he was operating on gut instinct. It was what he did, why he could do deep-cover work. Emma took a more measured, analytical approach. Both, she told herself, had their place.

      “Do you know her?” Colin asked.

      “We only met today.”

      He leaned against the counter, then stood straight again. “My back doesn’t like that position. I have some nice bruises where two Russians pounded me last night. Imagine that. I also investigated a Russian arms merchant now in federal custody. And here I come home to a Russian jeweler down the road. What are the odds?”

      Emma shut off the faucet. “Tatiana wants me to stop a Russian Art Nouveau collection from being stolen. She says it’s arriving in Heron’s Cove soon.”

      “Who has it?”

      “A woman from Phoenix. She’s American. This all goes back to a former Sharpe client.”

      “The former client is Russian?”

      “That’s right.”

      “When you say ‘Sharpe,’ do you mean you, your grandfather, your parents, your brother or all of the above?”

      Emma grabbed two pot holders off the counter by the stove. “It doesn’t matter.” She glanced back at him, felt his intensity, his restless fatigue. “Yank said you need to rest.”

      “A wise man, our fearless senior agent in charge.” Colin shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. “And your tip about me? Was that from a Sharpe client?”

      “No.”

      “Another Russian?”

      Emma didn’t want to lie to him. Couldn’t lie to him. “I’m glad you’re safe, Colin. That’s what counts.”

      “You didn’t answer the question.”

      “No, I didn’t. I’m not going to talk about my source.”

      “Does this source have any connection to this Russian collection?”

      She tucked her hand into one of the pot holders. “I came here to do something with the bag of apples. Tatiana Pavlova isn’t your problem. I’ll deal with her. I’ve emailed my grandfather and brother already. I’ll talk to them in the morning. Tatiana was emotional, and she had no facts to back up her suspicions about the collection.”

      “All right. For now.” Colin touched a finger to her cheek. “How long before the pie’s out of the oven?”

      “Maybe five minutes.”

      “Five minutes,” he said as if it were an eternity.

      “It’s