Liar's Key. Carla Neggers

Lots of possibilities. We’ll stay in touch.”

      After they disconnected, Emma called Gordy on his cell phone. When he didn’t answer, she left a voice mail. “It’s Emma Sharpe. Call me.”

      She continued along the harbor to the tiny waterfront apartment she’d rented upon her arrival in Boston last March to join Yank’s team. Happy to be back in New England, working on challenging investigations on a small team led by a senior agent who’d always been her champion, she’d settled into her new apartment and new routines. Not for a second had she envisioned—or even dreamed—that by fall, she would be in love with a deep-cover agent with roots in a small fishing village a few miles from her own southern Maine hometown.

      Now she and Colin were getting ready for their wedding.

      She smiled, thinking of him. His dark hair, his smile, his blue-gray eyes that reminded her of the ocean.

      “I miss you,” she whispered, as if he could hear her.

      After several months back and forth to Washington, he’d finally disappeared in mid-March on his latest undercover mission. Despite her own role with the FBI, Emma didn’t know what his mission was or where it had taken him. She only knew it was intense, dangerous and exhausting. He’d come home for a few days in late April and then left again. Since then, not a word—not so much as a text message, email or cryptic voice mail.

      Matt Yankowski knew where Colin was. Yank had been Colin’s contact agent on his first deep-cover mission four years ago. Last October, he’d gone out on a limb to get Colin, at least nominally, into HIT and had put up with his relationship with one of his team members. Emma would never ask him to give her hints as to Colin’s whereabouts. She respected their professional relationship, but she also respected Colin’s silence and his trust in her to handle the situation.

      Never in a million years did I think he’d put a ring on your finger, at least not this soon.

      That was Yank in November. He’d never been one to mince words. Emma smiled, remembering that rainy Dublin night when Colin had dropped onto one knee in a crowded pub and proposed to her.

      Wherever he was, she knew he was safe. She felt it.

      As she unlocked her apartment door, she noticed a new sailboat had arrived at the marina that shared the small wharf with her building, another renovated warehouse. There would be more boats with the warming weather.

      She went inside and was helping herself to a yogurt out of the fridge when a text message came in. Video chat in ten minutes?

      Oliver York. Emma texted him back. Five.

      * * *

      “You look uptight, Emma,” Oliver York said in his genuine upper-class English accent. “Or do you continue to insist I call you Special Agent Sharpe?”

      “Agent Sharpe will do.”

      “Mmm. That sort of call, is it?”

      “It’s always that sort of call, Oliver.”

      She’d placed her laptop on her coffee table and was seated on the sofa in her small living room. Just as well they were talking here instead of her FBI office. Nothing about her relationship with the wealthy Englishman, sheep farmer, mythologist and serial art thief was regular. He was in his late thirties, with curly tawny hair and lively, light green eyes. His features were deceptively boyish, betraying none of the psychological trauma and physical pain he had suffered as a child.

      “I see.” He narrowed his gaze on her. “For someone usually so cool and analytical, this uptight look of yours worries me. You and Colin haven’t canceled the wedding, have you?”

      “It’s Agent Donovan and no, we haven’t.”

      “Have you relented and decided to invite me after all? Is that why you texted me?”

      “I’m not inviting you to my wedding.”

      “Is Agent Donovan inviting me, then?”

      “No.”

      “A pity, but I’ll send a gift, regardless.” He sat back, putting a bit of distance between him and his screen. “You’re home early. I recognize the moody seascape on the wall behind you. It’s the work of our fair Irish artist friend, Aoife O’Byrne.”

      “It’s a signed print. I can’t afford her original art.”

      “Who can these days? But a signed print is worth something. It’s only four o’clock here. That means it’s just eleven in the morning in Boston. Did you get fired?”

      “Not yet. It could happen anytime with you in my life.”

      “I see you tried and failed to smile while making that comment. What can I do for you, then, Agent Sharpe? Does the FBI need my help given my expertise in mythology?”

      Emma barely heard him. She was looking past him, taking in his surroundings. She recognized the bright, contemporary furnishings and the view from the partially open window behind him of the Irish Sea. “Oliver...” She gritted her teeth. “Oliver, you’re in Declan’s Cross. You’re in a seaside room at the O’Byrne House Hotel.”

      “I am, indeed. I’m taking in a delightful breeze off the sea as we speak. Spring on the south Irish coast is quite lovely. I believe I’m in the room where you and Colin stayed on your last visit this winter.”

      “It’s not the same room.”

      “As if you’d tell me if it were.”

      “Why are you in Declan’s Cross?”

      “I couldn’t resist Kitty O’Byrne’s scones.”

      Kitty was Aoife’s older sister and the proprietress of the boutique hotel, which a decade ago had been a rambling old seaside house owned by their uncle. Ten years ago, the house had been broken into by a clever, brazen art thief, still officially unidentified and at large, although the stolen works had mysteriously reappeared last fall.

      Oliver did have nerve.

      “I’m leaving once we’ve finished our chat,” he said. “Kitty kindly allowed me a late checkout without extra charge. So, my dear, if you’re tempted to sic the Irish guards on me, there’s no need.”

      He was referring to the Gardaí, the Irish police. Kitty’s love interest happened to be a Dublin-based garda detective who owned a farm in Declan’s Cross.

      Sean Murphy would love an excuse to interrogate Oliver York.

      “I’m not going to sic the guards on you,” Emma said. “But if you’re hatching a plan to resteal the art you returned to the O’Byrnes, you can forget it. You’ll be arrested. MI5 won’t be able to save you.”

      Oliver waved a hand. “You and your fantasies about me, Emma—Agent Sharpe. I flew into Dublin from London yesterday thinking I’d have a pint with your grandfather, but I discovered he’s already in Maine. I consoled myself with a quick visit to quaint, pretty Declan’s Cross.”

      “Why did you want to see my grandfather?”

      “Wendell and I always have things to talk about.”

      “He was in London last week before he flew here on Saturday. Did you see him?”

      “I shared a dram of an interesting new Scotch with him. Now, what can I do for you, Agent Sharpe?” Oliver made a show of glancing furtively around him, then leaned close to the screen. “Keep in mind MI5 is likely listening to us.”

      Emma wouldn’t be surprised if they were. “You were at a party at Claridge’s on Sunday. Tell me about it.”

      “Tell you what?”

      “For starters, why were you there?”

      “Why wouldn’t I be? Don’t sound so surprised. I live in the neighborhood and Claridge’s is one of my favorite hangouts.”

      It