Thief's Mark by Carla Neggers

Author:Carla Neggers [Neggers, Carla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2017-08-28T18:30:00+00:00

14

The Cotswolds, England

Oliver York would be back in the Cotswolds soon. DI Lowe had stopped to let Emma know as she lingered over breakfast in the courtyard. Colin had gone off to meet his MI5 contact, just as well given the detective inspector’s information about her grandfather’s role in Oliver’s return to England. The DI didn’t stay long, and once he left, Emma helped herself to more coffee and brought it out to her table. She had the courtyard to herself. Everything was soaked from last night’s rain but drying rapidly in the sunshine and warmth. She’d found a reasonably dry chair. She’d like nothing better than to grab Colin for a walk in the English countryside and pretend, even for a few hours, they were still on their honeymoon.

This time when she tried her grandfather, he picked up. Finally. “If I could, Granddad,” she said after they’d exchanged greetings, “I’d jump through my phone and hurl myself across the water to Ireland. I can’t believe you sneaked down to Declan’s Cross and met Oliver on the sly. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I didn’t want to involve you. I complicate your life enough as it is.”

“Oh, no—no, Granddad. You’re not putting this off on me. This wasn’t for my benefit. It was because you didn’t want me stopping you.”

“I admit I’m used to handling my own affairs without your help.” His tone was borderline huffy. “I’ve had five years to get used to having an FBI agent in the family. I’m not a lawbreaker, but... Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Emma, my palms are cold and sweaty talking to you. Is that husband of yours listening in?”

“Did Sean Murphy threaten to arrest you?”

“He all but waved handcuffs in front of my face but we made a deal. He indulged my instincts but I imagine he never will again. I also have the feeling your lot got hold of him.”

“My lot?”

“FBI, spies, I don’t know. Emma, there’s nothing bad here. I brought Oliver coffee and a scone and had a good look at him. I told him to turn himself in and took measures to make sure he did. I have some compassion for the man given what he’s gone through. That’s all. He’ll be back there this afternoon.”

“You waited until Oliver was with the gardai before you took my call.”

“I wasn’t dead or in jail.”

“Oh, well. That makes blowing me off all right, then.”

“It must be marriage,” her grandfather said. “You didn’t used to light up this fast. I’ve always been the hot one in the family. You’re the cool milk in the steaming coffee.”

She exhaled, aware that her grandfather—renowned art detective, founder of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery—had decades of experience avoiding tight spaces and maneuvering out of them when he couldn’t. He wouldn’t have lasted sixty years in his profession and earned his reputation by flouting the law and irritating law-enforcement personnel. Everything she’d just heard—the hyperbole, the humor, the long-suffering poke at her FBI status—was all show, either to quiet his nerves or to get her off his back.

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