Keeper's Reach. Carla Neggers
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and rainy.”
“Rain’s ending. Where will you walk?”
“Not sure yet.” It wasn’t a flat-out lie but it was close. She knew where she was going. She just hadn’t figured out the route. “What about you? What are your plans for the day, T.K.?”
“Leaving you to your own devices if you won’t talk to me.”
“Good.”
He sucked in a breath and tapped the table with his fingertips, as though he wanted to let her know he was practicing self-restraint. He clearly wanted to throw the table aside and throttle her. “You know you can get into trouble lying to a federal agent, don’t you?”
“I’m not lying. I do think it’s good for you to leave me to my own devices. I don’t want an FBI agent to waste his time on my account.” Naomi set her spoon next to her porridge bowl. “Anything else I can do for you, Agent Kavanagh?”
“Why do you have doubts about me, Naomi?”
She glanced past him at the windows above the buffet table. Sunlight broke through the gray, at least for the moment, shining on puddles and brown, dripping vines. She hadn’t mentioned—and wouldn’t—that before she ventured into St. James’s Park she’d visited an art gallery to have a look at a show by Aoife O’Byrne, an Irish artist. She knew damn well Kavanagh had followed her there and then into the park. Let him admit it.
She did know how to spot tails, but she hadn’t been thinking about having one when she’d walked from her hotel to the gallery—and she wasn’t sure she’d have spotted an FBI tail. Ted Kavanagh might be on her nerves right now, but he was good.
The sun seemed to be fading already. Naomi turned back to the FBI agent. “Well, T.K., for one thing, you were in London on your own and now you’re here on your own. Most FBI agents work in pairs. Where’s your partner?”
He settled back against the cushioned bench. “Feel free to call any FBI office if you want to check up on me.”
“No, thanks. If you’re on the level, I’d only heap scrutiny on myself. Not that I have anything to hide, but who needs the aggravation? And if you’ve gone rogue, you are most definitely not my problem.”
“You’re right. I’m not your problem.”
“If you really are still an FBI agent, you’re breaking a lot of rules. That sweater for one. Gad, T.K. That is not your shade of brown.”
“My ex-wife gave it to me for my birthday.”
“Mmm. Last birthday you were together?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
Naomi broke off another piece of croissant. “Not surprised.”
He grinned. “I should have known. She has passive-aggressive behavior down to an art form. Oh, well. At least it’s a warm sweater. I’ll appreciate it today, even if it’s a bad shade of brown.” He got to his feet, eyeing Naomi a moment before he spoke. “It’s good to see you. Enjoy your day in the Cotswolds.”
“I will, thanks. You, too.”
“I have a flight to catch myself. Do you ever worry about your safety, Naomi? You’re a one-woman show. Who’s your backup? Who helps you when things get scary? Who picks you up when you fall?”
“I can always call 911.”
“When you’re at home. Out here...” He shrugged. “You can call 999, I guess. If you realize you’re over your head and need help, you know how to reach me. Don’t hesitate, okay?”
His comment caught her off guard. The knowledge behind it, the absence of any hint of cockiness, frustration and impatience, the softness of his voice, as if he could see into her heart—cared about her feelings. Her safety.
A ploy.
Ted Kavanagh didn’t not care about her, but if he was still a legit FBI agent, he had a job to do.
Whatever he was up to, she would let the FBI figure him out.
“Thanks,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
She expected him to walk away, but he didn’t. “Be careful, Naomi. You have a risk-taking streak that borders on reckless.”
He turned abruptly and left the breakfast room.
Once he was out of sight, Naomi exhaled, then poured herself more coffee. She wondered if Ted Kavanagh ever fantasized about taking a break for a few days and playing tourist. He looked as if he could use a break.
But she found herself fighting off another touch of melancholy. She drank her coffee as the waiter led a middle-aged couple to a table. They spoke English to him—they asked for tea—and German to each other. Naomi understood German and could speak enough to get through a dinner, but it wasn’t one of her better languages. The couple was discussing their plans for the day, which centered on celebrating their wedding anniversary with a long winter walk in the countryside.
The quaint English breakfast room fell away, thrusting Naomi back to a dusty night in Afghanistan. Federal agents, soldiers and civilian intelligence officers were often an uneasy combination at the best of times, and that hadn’t been the best of times.
It certainly hadn’t been a good time to fall in love.
But when was a good time to fall in love with Mike Donovan?
She set her mug on the table. No wonder she’d had nightmares about him.
She silently congratulated the German couple and wished them well, then frowned at the rest of her croissant. There was a small jar of gooseberry jam and a dish of butter on her table.
Well, why not?
She noted the jam was from the nearby farm owned by Oliver York, a wealthy Brit and, very possibly, an incomparable art thief.
Not coincidentally, he knew the Irish painter Aoife O’Byrne, whose uncle had been a victim of an art thief, and he also owned an apartment on St. James’s Park in London.
What did Ted Kavanagh want with York?
The York farm was at least a brisk twenty-minute walk from the inn. Naomi figured she could burn off her breakfast and, at the same time, consider what Kavanagh’s interest was in both her and Oliver York. She had her suspicions, but she put them aside as she opened the jar of the York farm’s gooseberry jam.
The few rays of sunshine at breakfast seemed to be it for the day. Naomi didn’t mind. She set off through the village, past a row of attached houses, a post office, a small school and a few cottages, then onto a lane that wound through well-marked fields, patches of woods and farmhouses. The York farm should be out the lane to her left, with Stow-on-the-Wold to the northwest, Chipping Norton to the northeast and Burford to the south. Cotswolds villages had sprung up during the Middle Ages, when the area had prospered around the sheep industry. With its proximity to London, the graceful landscape of rolling hills, pastures and quaint honey-colored stone houses drew tourists and wealthy second-home owners alike. The ubiquitous yellow limestone—Oolitic Jurassic limestone, technically—occurred naturally in the region and had been quarried there for centuries.
Naomi smiled, remembering when she thought something built in 1900 was old. Other than wishing she had brought a hat and gloves, she enjoyed the walk and tried to take in her surroundings without letting her thoughts intrude.
She crossed a bridge over a shallow stream, feeling the cold of the water below her, its trickle the only sound in the still, gray late morning. On the other side of the bridge, a sloping, tree-dotted lawn rose to an elegant house. The scene reminded her of a Jane Austen novel. According to her research, however, this was the York farm. Its owner would make an interesting Regency hero. Naomi couldn’t picture