She heard footsteps outside and saw him in the back door window.
“I see you didn’t lock the door behind you,” he said, entering the kitchen. “I guess you’re not worried about intruders.”
“I guess not.” She smiled through her sudden, inexplicable tension. She had just been with him at Hurley’s, but his presence still was a shock to her system. She pointed at the gas stove. “I have a pie in the oven.”
“Smells good. Apple, right?”
“I had some Northern Spies in the car. I bought them at the orchard where we went apple-picking before you took off to parts unknown.”
He shut the door behind him, a stiffness to his movements that reminded her it had been only hours, not days, since his escape from killers. “That was a good afternoon.”
“One of those afternoons you never want to end.”
“You enjoy baking.”
“Most of the time. Baking helps me think.”
His smoky eyes narrowed on her. “What were you thinking about, Special Agent Sharpe?”
Dmitri Rusakov, a Russian billionaire. Ivan Alexander, a private security consultant who had started out as Dmitri’s bodyguard. Her week in London four years ago when she had met them, shortly after the disappearance of the Russian Art Nouveau collection Dmitri had discovered in the walls of his Moscow house sixteen years earlier.
She hadn’t heard from Dmitri since London, but she had heard from Ivan.
Three times, she thought. The third was last night.
All three times his information was valuable, provided with the understanding that she would utter his name to no one.
She stood straight, noticed the shadows on Colin’s face. “You must be exhausted.”
“Emma, Emma.” He took a dish towel she had forgotten about off her shoulder and set it on the counter. “You have a lot on your mind. Calls from confidential informants in the middle of the night. Russians in Heron’s Cove.”
Emma covered her surprise that he knew about Tatiana by turning on the faucet at the sink, washing a stray apple seed down the drain. “One call, and one Russian. I assume Yank told you about the call. Who told you about Tatiana Pavlova?”
“That’s her name—Tatiana Pavlova?”
“She’s a jewelry designer in London. She’s renting a cottage in Heron’s Cove.”
“Finian ran into her at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. Why would she go all the way out there to check you out?”
“Is that what she said? That she was checking me out?”
“Close enough.”
Meaning he was operating on gut instinct. It was what he did, why he could do deep-cover work. Emma took a more measured, analytical approach. Both, she told herself, had their place.
“Do you know her?” Colin asked.
“We only met today.”
He leaned against the counter, then stood straight again. “My back doesn’t like that position. I have some nice bruises where two Russians pounded me last night. Imagine that. I also investigated a Russian arms merchant now in federal custody. And here I come home to a Russian jeweler down the road. What are the odds?”
Emma shut off the faucet. “Tatiana wants me to stop a Russian Art Nouveau collection from being stolen. She says it’s arriving in Heron’s Cove soon.”
“Who has it?”
“A woman from Phoenix. She’s American. This all goes back to a former Sharpe client.”
“The former client is Russian?”
“That’s right.”
“When you say ‘Sharpe,’ do you mean you, your grandfather, your parents, your brother or all of the above?”
Emma grabbed two pot holders off the counter by the stove. “It doesn’t matter.” She glanced back at him, felt his intensity, his restless fatigue. “Yank said you need to rest.”
“A wise man, our fearless senior agent in charge.” Colin shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. “And your tip about me? Was that from a Sharpe client?”
“No.”
“Another Russian?”
Emma didn’t want to lie to him. Couldn’t lie to him. “I’m glad you’re safe, Colin. That’s what counts.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“No, I didn’t. I’m not going to talk about my source.”
“Does this source have any connection to this Russian collection?”
She tucked her hand into one of the pot holders. “I came here to do something with the bag of apples. Tatiana Pavlova isn’t your problem. I’ll deal with her. I’ve emailed my grandfather and brother already. I’ll talk to them in the morning. Tatiana was emotional, and she had no facts to back up her suspicions about the collection.”
“All right. For now.” Colin touched a finger to her cheek. “How long before the pie’s out of the oven?”
“Maybe five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” he said as if it were an eternity.
“It’s basically done now. I can turn off the oven and it’ll be fine.”
“Excellent plan.”
She yanked open the oven door, the burst of heat enough to remind her to think, take her time, be sensible. She lifted the glass pie plate off the rack and set it on top of the stove, then switched off the timer and the oven heat.
“I meant to go straight back to Heron’s Cove,” she said quietly. “I wanted to give you a chance to get some rest, but I can still go.”
“Isn’t the Sharpe house gutted by now?”
“Mostly gutted.”
“You slept here last night.”
“Because of the whiskey,” she said.
Colin took the pot holders from her and set them on the counter. “Thank you for the pie.” He slipped his arms around her. “We can talk about your new Russian friend later. Let me decide if I need rest. I slept some on my flights.”
“But not last night—”
“Not much in recent days.”
Steam rose from the pie, sweet juice from the cooked apples, sugar and cinnamon oozing over the crimped edges of the browned crust. Emma eased her arms along his sides and around to his back, her physical attraction to him as strong, as immediate, as the first time he had touched her a little more than a month ago.
“It’s been a long month,” she said. “If you want to talk, I can put on coffee and cut the pie.”
“I’m good with Fin’s whiskey and warming up my cold bed with you. We can save the pie for tomorrow.” Colin drew her closer to him. “I don’t need to talk about what happened. I’m here. I’m with you. The rest can wait.”
“I’m not hiding anything from you. I just can’t talk about everything that involves my family’s work.”
He touched his lips to hers, just a breath of a kiss. “No talking, no thinking. Not tonight.” He ran his fingers into her hair and smiled. “No sleeping on a mat in Heron’s Cove, either.”
She smiled back at him. “Where, then?”
“With me.”
“You’re in pain, aren’t you? These bastards—”
“I don’t want to think about them. I want to think about you.”
Her heartbeat quickened. “I should carry you upstairs tonight.”
He gave a small laugh. “Sweetheart, the day I can’t carry you up to bed…”
“You rugged undercover types,” Emma said, slipping from his embrace. “I’ll finish up here and meet you upstairs. Don’t fall asleep on me.”
She reached for the faucet, but in one swift move, he swept an arm around her and lifted her off her feet, then up and over his shoulder, potato-sack style. She knew several different maneuvers to get herself back onto the floor in one piece but used none of them as he headed for the stairs. Not that her maneuvers would have worked, anyway. He was strong, in good shape and determined, despite his ordeal.
He didn’t put her down at the top of the stairs. In a few more strides, he had her in his bedroom. It was pitch-dark, the shades pulled, not so much as a night-light on. She had hastily made the bed that morning, but Colin kept any remarks to himself as he ripped back the duvet, just as she had pictured, dreamed about, in the weeks since he’d left Rock Point.
“The sheets will be cold,” she said.
“Not for long.” He wasn’t breathing hard at all as he laid her on the bed. He grinned and gave a mock shudder. “Damn. It is cold.”
“Are you sure about this? You need time to decompress and reintegrate—”
“Exactly.” He fell with her onto the bed, his mouth finding hers. “Nothing’s changed, Emma. Nothing. I want you now as much as I did when I carried you up here the first time.”
“That’s good,” she whispered, her throat tight with emotion and a rush of desire.
Her shirt went first, then his, joining the blankets on the floor. Emma inhaled sharply when he skimmed his hands over her bare breasts, then caught a nipple between his lips. She sank deep into the bed, already warm from their presence. He licked, tasted, teased, even as he smoothed his palms down her sides, over her hips.
Her pulse raced; her skin was on fire.
In another two seconds, he had her jeans off, and she raked at his, until finally they, too, were gone, cast onto the floor.
He came to her, as ready as she was. She’d dreamed of this moment, ached for it, hoped for it. He was her soul mate in the only way she understood soul mates.
“Emma,” he whispered, “stop thinking.”
She could hear the amusement in his tone and drew her arms around him, coursed her palms up his back. “No more thinking. Promise. It’s good to have you here.”
“Glad you put that pie in the oven?”
The man was irresistible, impossible. She smiled, tried to answer, but he shifted position on top of her, eased himself between her legs, and she found that she couldn’t speak. Instead she drew him into her, closing her eyes, lying back, taking in the heat and hardness of him. He thrust deeply and went still, as if to give them both the chance to absorb that this was real, that they were together again, making love on a dark autumn night. Then he drove into her again, and she was lost.
Only later, when her heartbeat had calmed and the cool air chilled her overheated skin, did anything resembling a thought work its way into her consciousness, and it was a good thought. She didn’t want to be anywhere else but where she was right now.
She realized there was only one pillow left on the bed, and they were sharing it, facing each other. Colin kissed her on the forehead but didn’t say a word.
* * *
Colin ended up on the outer edge of the bed, with Emma asleep in the crook of his arm. The milky light of dawn brought out the honey tones of her hair, and he noticed her black lashes against her creamy skin. He’d slept, but not a lot. She was right about the need for decompression and reintegration. They were as important to his work as training, preparation, reports, analysis, experience and instinct. Fatigue bred mistakes. Mental and physical exhaustion put not just his own life in danger but other people’s lives, and it jeopardized the mission. It led to burnout and it frayed relationships.
The problem was, he seldom recognized when he was past the point of no return. His ability to push through exhaustion and fear was part of what made him good at undercover work, but he also knew that it made reentry into his home life—his real life—tricky, even difficult.
What made it even harder was his distaste for lies and deception.
His bruises ached, but not as much as before making love to Emma. Pain wasn’t what had awakened him and kept him awake. His instincts had. He trusted them, and they were hammering at him now, telling him that Emma’s Russian jeweler and her warning about a Russian collection weren’t just some obscure Sharpe matter.
He pictured Pete Horner’s supercilious smile.
“I see you’re back from the dead.”
Back, but determined to finish the job he had started when he set out from Maine last month. He wanted Horner, Yuri and Boris in custody. He wanted to find out how they planned to get weapons now that Colin’s stash was no longer an option. Did they have other contacts in Vladimir Bulgov’s old network—access to the same stockpiles of Soviet-era weapons?
When had Horner and his Russian colleagues discovered their turncoat undercover agent had jumped into the Intracoastal? Had they searched for him? Had they tried to go back to the rented house but realized it was crawling with feds?
Had they figured out he wasn’t a turncoat after all?
Were they the type to seek revenge? Did they still think they could force him to help them?
Who was their buyer?
Colin had run the same questions over in his mind for hours.
He didn’t see himself spending the next two weeks kayaking, drinking whiskey and digging bean holes with Finian Bracken.
Making love to Emma, yes.
She and Matt Yankowski both were holding back on him. Did Yank know about this Tatiana Pavlova?
The wind rattled the windows, reminding Colin that he needed to get the house ready for the winter. He could do that over the next couple weeks, too. Caulk windows, stack wood, clean the chimney.
Dwelling on his frustrations and questions in the middle of the night wasn’t helping anything. He looked at the woman lying next to him and put emotion and desire aside. The Sharpes were a family with sixty years of investigations, contacts and secrets behind them. Emma had worked art crimes with her grandfather from childhood—long before she’d become an FBI agent.
Colin didn’t expect to know everything about her in the short time they’d been together, but he doubted even Yank knew what all lurked in the Sharpe family vault of secrets.
She shifted slightly, throwing back a slender arm. Colin held her close, and she rolled over, touched her fingertips to a deep purple-and-yellow bruise on his side. “They did this to you?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“You could have said something before we—”
“Trust me, sweetheart, I wasn’t thinking about my aches and pains while we were making love.”
“There are more bruises?”
“A few. I heal fast. Being back here helps.”
“They were trying to kill you—”
“Not when they hit me. They were just trying to get me into their car, show me they were in charge. They disagreed on killing me.”
“They knew you were a federal agent,” Emma said.
“By then, yes. They thought I was playing both sides and was willing to sell them weapons at a cut rate.” Colin thought a moment, then said, “Yank is getting the go-ahead to involve the team, but there were three men. Pete Horner, a private pilot out of Florida. He flew planes for Bulgov but wasn’t one of his regular pilots. He wanted to wait to kill me.”