Keeper's Reach

New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers returns with this absorbing, twisting tale of suspense, romance and fast-paced action, the latest in her popular Sharpe & Donovan series.

Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan, two of the FBI’s most valuable agents, are preparing for their next big assignment—their wedding—when Colin’s brother Mike alerts them that onetime friends from his military past are on Sharpe and Donovan home turf on the Maine coast. Now private security contractors, they want to meet with Mike. One of them, an FBI agent named Kavanagh, is supposed to be on leave. What is he investigating—or does he have his own agenda?

Mike zeroes in on Naomi MacBride, a freelance civilian intelligence analyst who, aside from a few hot nights, has never brought him anything but trouble. Newly returned from England, Naomi clearly isn’t telling Mike everything about why she’s snooping around his hometown, but he has no choice but to work with her if he wants to uncover what’s really going on.

But the case soon takes a drastic turn—Emma is targeted, and a connection surfaces between Naomi and Kavanagh and a recently solved international art theft case. Not every connection is a conspiracy, but as the tangled web of secrets unravels, Emma and Colin face their greatest danger yet. With everyone they know involved, they must decide who they can trust…or lose everything for good.

Keeper’s Reach

Carla Neggers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Jim, Maureen, Martha and Todd

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dedication

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Author’s Note

Extract

Copyright

1

Near Stow-on-the-Wold, the Cotswolds, England Wednesday, 4:00 p.m., BST

Martin Hambly had expected additional visits from the FBI, but this agent was new to him. Rangy, sandy-haired, early forties. He conveyed an unsettling mix of suspicion and arrogance, with none of the humor of the agents Martin had encountered last fall.

Kavanagh. Special Agent Ted Kavanagh. That was his name.

Martin supposed it could be the case.

The American flashed his FBI credentials as he gave his name, but Martin, carrying clay pots planted with amaryllis bulbs in each arm, didn’t examine them.

Kavanagh tucked his credentials back into his overcoat, a sturdy but inexpensive dark gray wool. He had intercepted Martin on the narrow lane in front of the small village church, an oft-photographed favorite with the few tourists who ventured this deep into the Cotswolds countryside.

“Mr. York isn’t here,” Martin said.

“‘Here’ meaning his farm, the village or England?”

“He’s in England.”

Martin shifted the amaryllis pots in his arms. He had picked them up from friends who ran a flower shop in nearby Stow-on-the-Wold. His decades-old Barbour jacket, wool cap and waterproof walking shoes were adequate for the twenty-minute walk to and from the York farm on a chilly February afternoon, but not for standing still for a long, awkward chat.

“I will tell Mr. York you were asking for him,” Martin said with a deliberate note of finality.

“Okay. Thanks.”

The FBI agent—if, indeed, that was what he was—made no move to continue on his way. Martin didn’t notice a car that could have belonged to him, or a partner lurking down the lane or in the churchyard. In the fall, three FBI agents had arrived at the York apartment in London. Matt Yankowski, Colin Donovan and Emma Sharpe. Martin had expected Oliver to refuse to let them in, but he had instructed Martin to have the agents join him in the library. It was the same library where, twenty-nine years ago, eight-year-old Oliver, an only child, had witnessed the murder of his parents.

Martin decided not to mention the previous agents to this new agent.

“Quiet village,” Kavanagh said.

“Yes, it is. Stow-on-the-Wold isn’t far. It’s a market town with shops and restaurants, if you need anything. Are you staying in the area?”

“Off to Heathrow and home tomorrow.”

It wasn’t an answer, was it?

Martin felt the weight of the pots and now regretted not bringing the car. After two days of rain, he had looked forward to a good walk.

“Why do you suppose they buried people in the churchyard?” Kavanagh asked, nodding to the age-worn gravestones, many standing crookedly, covered in white lichens. The church itself was constructed of the yellow limestone characteristic of countless structures in the rolling Cotswolds countryside west of London. It dated as far back as the twelfth century, but, of course, had been added to and reworked over the ensuing centuries.

“It was the thing to do, I imagine. I’ve never thought about it.”

Kavanagh grinned. “Stupid question from an annoying American?”

“I didn’t say that, sir.”

“You didn’t look surprised when I recognized you. Then again, you’re obviously a man of great self-control. How long have you worked for Oliver York?”

Martin saw no reason not to answer. “I was twenty when Mr. York’s grandparents hired me.”

“You’re what—a valet? A manservant?”