New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers returns with a gripping story of romantic suspense, where FBI agents Sharpe and Donovan must decide whether working alone or standing together is the only way to outwit an enemy set to tear them apart.
When your safety depends on living a lie⦠After escaping certain death, deep-cover agent Colin Donovan is back home on the Maine coast with his new love, FBI art crimes expert Emma Sharpe. Then Tatiana Pavlova, a London-based jewelry designer, arrives in Heronâs Cove, asking for Emmaâs helpâa prized collection from a lost era of Russian opulence, decadence and rare beauty has resurfaced, and Tatiana warns Emma itâs about to be stolen again. And Colin realizes his nightmare isnât over. Itâs just begun.
And everyone you love is a target...
Emma guards her past closely, and Colin is determined to unlock her secrets. As they investigate the mysterious collection and the equally mysterious Tatiana, they confront their greatest challenge. Now they must count on their expertiseâand each otherâto outwit an enemy who wants to destroy them and everyone they love most.
Who can you afford to trust?
1
WITH THREE DONOVAN brothers and an Irish priest watching her, Emma Sharpe choked back her sample of the smoky single-malt Scotchâher sixth and last tasting of the night. âIntense,â she said, managing not to slam the tulip-shaped nosing glass on the table and grab the pitcher of water. Give it a few seconds. She was an FBI agent, after all. Tough as nails. She smiled at the four men. âPeople pay to drink this one, huh?â
âDearly,â Finian Bracken, the Irish priest, said. âYouâre not one for a heavily peated whiskey, I see.â
Emma tried to distinguish the other flavors of the sampleâspices, fruits, whateverâbut only tasted the peat. âI donât know if Iâm one for a lightly peated whiskey, either.â
A cold wind penetrated Hurleyâs thin walls and sprayed the old windows with salt water and rain. The restaurant, a fixture on the Rock Point harbor, was basically a shack that jutted out over the water. Now only a few lights penetrated the dark night and fog. Finian had organized the impromptu tasting, setting up on a back table away from what few diners were there on a windy, rainy late-October Friday. He and Michael, Andy and Kevin Donovan were already gathered over a half-dozen bottles of high-end whiskey when Emma had arrived in southern Maine an hour ago, up from Boston and her job with a small, specialized FBI unit.
Only Colin, the second-born Donovan, wasnât in Rock Point. Mike was a Maine guide, Andy a lobsterman and Kevin a state marine patrol officer, but, like Emma, Colin was an FBI agent.
Not like me, she thought.
She specialized in art crimes. Colin was a deep-cover agent. Heâd left his hometown a month ago, pretending to return to FBI headquarters in Washington. The true nature of his work was known to only a few even within the FBI, but his brothers had guessed that he didnât sit at a desk. Initially heâd kept in touch at least intermittently with his family and friendsâand Emmaâbut for the past three weeks, no one had heard from him.
The silence was far too long, not just for his family and friends but for the FBI.
And for Emma.
She felt the draft at her feet. She had come prepared for the conditions, dressed in jeans, black merino wool sweater, raincoat, wool socks and Frye boots. The Donovans were in a mix of flannel, canvas and denim, no sign they even noticed the cold and the damp. Finian had opted against his usual black suit and Roman collar and instead wore a dark gray Irish-knit sweater and black corduroy trousers. He was a sharp-featured, handsome Irishman in his late thirties who had arrived in the small Maine fishing village in June. He had run into Colin, home for a few days in the midst of a difficult, dangerous mission, and they quickly became unexpected friends.
Emma hadnât met Colin until September. She suspected his friendship with the Irish priest was less of a mystery to her than to his brothers. Finian Bracken was a fish out of water in Rock Point. He had no history with the town and little familiarity with the FBI. He also had a ready Irish wit, and he knew whiskey. He was objective, intelligent, tolerantâa safe friend for a federal agent with secrets.
Andy Donovan held his small glass to the light and examined the Scotchâs deep caramel color, then swirled it and brought it to his nose. He raised his eyesâthe same shade of gray as Colinâsâto Finian. âDo you want me to tell you what I smell?â
âIf you like,â Finian said. âJust sniff. Donât inhale deeply. Itâs not a yoga class.â