Emma’s seagull flew off as a large, white-capped swell crashed onto the rocks, spraying salt water in the clear air. “But he’s okay, isn’t he?”
“Yes and no. I think something about this Rusakov thing got to him. Did Granddad ever meet Renee Rusakov?”
“Not that I’m aware of. She wasn’t involved with Dmitri twenty years ago.”
“What was she like?”
“Renee Rusakov was…” Emma pictured the attractive American with her perfectly highlighted hair, her barely detectable facelift, her manicured toes and fingernails and expensive clothes and jewelry. “She was lovely, and she was toxic.”
“How lovely and how toxic?”
“Enough for Dmitri Rusakov to fall for her and regret it. As I said, I only met her for a few minutes. Most of what I learned about her was from Dmitri, and from our investigation into the disappearance of the collection.”
“And the daughter? Natalie? What’s she like?”
“Even prettier than her mother and much nicer.” The seagull flew off, and Emma sat up straight, turning on the car’s ignition. “Let me know what you find out in London.”
“Emma, is the FBI involved in this thing?”
“I’m involved, Lucas, and I’m an FBI agent twenty-four hours a day. I can’t flip a switch and turn it on and off.”
Her brother was silent a moment. “All right. I’ll call you from London. Keep me in the loop on what’s going on there, okay?”
“I will. Thanks, Lucas.”
* * *
When Emma arrived in Heron’s Cove, a small crowd had gathered at the marina next to the Sharpe house. As she crossed the yard to the retaining wall above the docks, she saw why. A luxury yacht, as big and as expensive as Heron’s Cove had ever seen, had arrived at the yacht club. Even with a halt to two-way boat traffic, it must have just barely fit through the narrow channel from the Atlantic into the tidal Heron River.
Emma squinted in the bright sun at the name on the stern.
The
Nightingale.
She took in a quick breath and jumped down to the waterfront for a closer look.
A bejeweled nightingale pendant had been Dmitri Rusakov’s favorite piece in his missing collection.
This had to be his yacht.
Tatiana Pavlova hadn’t chosen the fable of the cat and the nightingale at random, and not just because of its moral. She must have known the
Nightingale
was on its way to Heron’s Cove. Where was she now? Her cottage was on the other side of the yacht club, out of Emma’s view.
Emma stepped onto the wooden pier and noticed two men walking in her direction. They might have been ordinary yachtsmen enjoying a brisk autumn day, but she recognized Russian billionaire Dmitri Rusakov and, next to him, his friend, security expert Ivan Alexander.
Why tell her they were coming when they could just show up in her backyard?
Dmitri waved, his wild graying hair whipping in the stiff breeze off the Atlantic a hundred yards behind her. He was compact and stocky, dressed in red pants and a dove-gray windbreaker and moving with his usual purpose and energy.
“Emma,” he called. “Emma Sharpe.”
Ivan said nothing. He was tall, at least ten years younger than Dmitri, with fierce dark eyes and dark, close-cropped hair. He wore black, his long stride at once unhurried and powerful.
Pushing back any hint of irritation, Emma smiled as she intercepted them by a post, a small dinghy banging against it in the wind. “Dmitri, Ivan,” she said, deliberately using their first names. “This is a surprise. Welcome to Heron’s Cove.”
“Home of the Sharpes.” Dmitri gave her a wide smile and took her hands into his, then kissed her on each cheek. “Ah, Emma. It’s good to see you. You look well.” His English was flawless, if heavily accented. He stood back, letting go of her hands. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”
“Thanks, Dmitri. It’s good to see you, too.” She glanced at Ivan, nothing in his expression suggesting that just over twenty-four hours ago he had given her information about an FBI agent in serious trouble. “And you, Ivan.”
He inclined his head in a slight nod. “Emma.”
His dark eyes settled on her a half beat longer than was comfortable. She turned back to Dmitri. “When did you arrive?”
“In Heron’s Cove? Early this morning. We had to come in at high tide or anchor off-shore given the size of the
Nightingale.
” He gestured back toward his yacht. “She’s on the upper end of what the harbor can accommodate. I flew into Boston last night. Ivan met me there and now here we are. He and I haven’t seen each other in months. This is good. All good. Our own little reunion.”
Reunion,
Emma thought, but kept any skepticism to herself. “Where do you go from here?”
“We’ll sail down the East Coast to the Caribbean,” Dmitri said. “I’ve wanted to do that for several years but just haven’t taken the time. Of course, I’ve wanted to see Maine since meeting your grandfather. How is he, Emma?”
“He’s doing well. Thanks for asking. My brother’s with him in Dublin, if you’re here on Sharpe business. As I’m sure you know, I no longer work for Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.”
“You’re an FBI agent now.” Dmitri sighed with satisfaction as he looked past her toward the ocean just beyond the channel. “Wendell told me all those years ago in Moscow that Heron’s Cove was blessed with natural beauty. He didn’t exaggerate. It’s as beautiful here as I imagined.”
“It’s one of my favorite places,” Emma said.
“It’s home for you.”
She nodded. “Yes, it is.”
Dmitri Rusakov’s cheerful, open manner belied his worldliness and vast wealth, even a certain ruthlessness. “Renee died a few months ago. Did you hear?”
From Tatiana Pavlova, whom Emma had no intention of bringing up. “I’m sorry.”
“She had cancer. Melanoma, discovered late. She went downhill fast. That’s something, at least. She was too young but it’s not a surprise that she died so young. She wasn’t yet fifty. I tried to help her curb her excesses. She refused my help. Anyone’s help.” He took in a deep breath, his pale brown eyes shining with tears. “She was a difficult woman, Emma. I saw through her too late.”
“I hope you can remember the good times you had together and put aside the bad ones.”
“Yes, I hope so, too.” He paused, watching the dinghy bang against the post. “You were right, you know. Renee had the collection.”
Emma noticed that Ivan had moved a few steps down the pier, obviously giving Dmitri a chance to talk to her in private.
Dmitri sighed again. “You’re not going to say you told me so?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
“Renee must have taken the collection because she realized it was very special to me. She left it to her daughter. The poor girl doesn’t know the collection belongs to me. She doesn’t know its history.”
“Is this why you’re here, Dmitri?” Emma asked.
He touched a thick finger to the rope tying the dinghy to the post. “You don’t know that Natalie is coming to Heron’s Cove?”
“I haven’t heard from her.”
“She’ll be here this afternoon. She got in touch with my people a few days ago.” He waved a hand. “Not Ivan. My personal assistant. Natalie said she’d discovered some interesting pieces in her mother’s possessions and thought they might be Russian, perhaps worth something, then said she was heading to Heron’s Cove to talk to the Sharpes.”
“Why didn’t she make an appointment?”
“She’s impulsive but I also know she wants to be discreet. For many reasons.”
Including the Internal Revenue Service, Emma suspected. “You were a Sharpe client, Dmitri. My grandfather and brother won’t talk to Natalie about your business without your permission.”
“Ivan said the same thing. Eh, Ivan?”
Ivan, who had kept silent, observant, turned from whatever he was pretending to watch just down the pier and acknowledged Dmitri’s words with another slight nod.
Dmitri grinned. “A man of few words, as always. Ivan has told me for years I talk too much.” He laughed, clearly not bothered by his friend’s criticism. “I persuaded Natalie to stay on board the
Nightingale.
It’s best I tell her about the collection myself, in person. I’ve no doubt she’ll return it once she learns the truth.”
“And if she doesn’t?” Emma asked.
Dmitri again took her hands into his. “Now you’re talking like an FBI agent,” he said cheerfully. “Join us aboard the
Nightingale
later. I want you to meet Natalie. Come for dinner, or at least for drinks.”
It didn’t seem to occur to him that she might have something else to do. “Thanks, Dmitri, but—”
“We’ll look forward to seeing you whenever you can get there.”
He abruptly started back down the pier toward his yacht. Ivan met Emma’s eyes but he said nothing before he turned and followed Dmitri. She watched the two men. Dmitri Rusakov and Ivan Alexander couldn’t have been more different, but they’d been friends for at least twenty years. They’d had their army careers and plans for their future shattered by the breakup of the Soviet Union. Barely out of his teens, Ivan had taken a job working security for Dmitri, a natural entrepreneur who had capitalized on his military contacts to gain a foothold in Russia’s oil and gas business. As Dmitri’s company grew into an international energy giant, Ivan’s fortunes, too, rose. Now he was on his own, an independent consultant wealthy in his own right—and free to do as he pleased.
Emma returned to the Sharpe house. The sheet with her watercolor washes and Tatiana’s great blue heron was still clipped to the easel on the back porch. Tatiana would be able to see the
Nightingale
from her cottage. Emma had no intention of exposing the Russian designer to Dmitri Rusakov’s scrutiny.
Or to Ivan Alexander’s.
What about to Colin Donovan’s scrutiny?
Emma dug out her cell phone. She’d let him know about the arrival of the
Nightingale.
Then she’d call Yank and let him know. Yank would give her room to maneuver. He would trust her judgment. It was one reason she was on his team in Boston.
Colin?
He would want answers, and he would want them now.
8
COLIN DRAGGED HIS kayak up from the water and threw it into the back of his truck parked behind the old captain’s house that Frank and Rosemary Donovan had transformed into an inn. They had painted the rambling Victorian a fresh white, with black shutters, a yellow door and flower and vegetable gardens that kept them busy even when guests were few and far between. Colin had promised to join Mike in helping to get the place ready for winter. His mother had made a crack about expecting him to head off to Washington again at any moment, but he let it go. His father had kept silent.
An hour on the water had cleared his head and worked out any remaining stiffness from his fun and games in Fort Lauderdale. His night with Emma had done most of the job.
Emma, Emma.
Just as well she hadn’t come to Sunday lunch with his family. Over roast chicken, acorn squash and the last of the garden spinach, he had learned that she had volunteered to bake pies for St. Patrick’s bean-hole supper. Two apple pies and one Irish-style rhubarb crumble.
“Volunteered” could mean she’d been asked and had said yes, but Colin had to acknowledge his mixed feelings about what she had been up to while he was away. On the one hand, he hadn’t wanted her to be alone. He wanted her to feel welcome in Rock Point. On the other hand…muffins for his folks? Pies for the church?
It all felt a little too fast.
Either that, or his family and friends in Rock Point were sucking her in, checking her out, testing her, using her to push him out of the undercover work they all knew he did.
He checked his cell phone and saw Emma and Yank both had called.
Her late-night tip from her unnamed source and now this Russian jeweler.
No wonder he was unsettled, questioned what was going on with her—what he had gotten into when he had fallen for her.
And what he had gotten her into. The men he had escaped when he dropped into the dark, warm waters of the Fort Lauderdale Intracoastal wouldn’t hesitate to kill him on sight if they found him again.
He had to find them first.
Kevin wandered out from the inn. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you plant tulip bulbs. Mike’s got that covered. Mom bought five hundred bulbs. That has to be more than the deer can eat.”
“Mike’s going crazy, isn’t he?”
“He needs to get back to the Bold Coast. He doesn’t mind helping out, but you know how he is. He can only take so much civilization. He came down here because he was worried. We all were. Even Pop was getting nuts.”
Colin grabbed his dry pack and tossed it into the back of his truck with the kayak. “I know,” he said, abandoning any pretense with his youngest brother of a desk job in Washington.
Kevin looked out at the small inlet, yellowed marsh grasses giving way to a tumble of rocks, then rippling blue water. “You can’t do this again. We know what you do. Next time—”
“No guarantees there’ll be a next time, Kevin.” Colin went around to the front of his truck. “Matt Yankowski has me on his team in Boston now. I could be at a desk for real.”
“It wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” Kevin muttered, turning from the view. “I just got a call. A luxury yacht arrived in Heron’s Cove this morning. The owner is a Russian tycoon. Dmitri Rusakov. Know him?”
Colin went still. “The name. I don’t know him personally.”
“What about Emma? Is Rusakov a Sharpe client?”
“No idea.”
Kevin paused as if he were assessing Colin’s response and the slight edge in his voice. “Rusakov’s yacht is sitting about fifty yards from the Sharpe place. Thought you’d want to know.”
Colin opened the driver’s side door of his truck. “Thanks, Kevin.”
His brother narrowed his eyes. “Keep me in the loop.”
“As soon as I get in it myself,” Colin said.
He climbed into his truck and pulled the door shut. Dmitri Rusakov’s arrival in Heron’s Cove no doubt had prompted the calls from Emma and Yank, as well as helped explain the presence of the Russian jeweler, Tatiana Pavlova.
What were the odds they had nothing to do with Emma’s tip about Pete Horner’s Fort Lauderdale house?