The Angel Read online

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  213 with a beautifully illustrated cover of a girl running into a magical forest. He immediately recognized Keira’s distinc­

  tive style. A collection of fairytales. Her photo with the flowers in her hair was on the back. “Is this a recent book?”

  “Last year. Normally I don’t keep my books out in the open—I prefer to focus on current projects. But I looked up a poem before I left for Ireland—“The Fairies,” by William Allingham. ‘ Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen…’”

  “‘We daren’t go a-hunting for fear of little men.’” Keira smiled, obviously pleased. “You know it?”

  “My father taught it to me.”

  “It’s a fun one. Some believe Irish fairies are angels who aren’t good enough to be saved nor bad enough to be damned. Others believe they’re the remnants of the old Irish pagan gods and heroes who went underground to live. I’m not trying to prove or disprove Patsy’s story on any level—I just want to record it accurately. That comes first. Then I want to come up with illustrations that will capture its essence.”

  “Your personal connection?”

  “I don’t know for sure I really have a personal connec­

  tion. I went to see my mother the afternoon before the auction, and she wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

  Simon could see his comment had triggered Keira’s tension again and shifted the subject. “Do you need quiet and solitude to work?”

  “It depends.” She pulled off her sweater and tossed it onto the back of a chair, looking more relaxed. “Sometimes I lose myself in what I’m doing and nothing distracts me. I could be anywhere, and it wouldn’t matter. Other times I need total peace and quiet. I know I have an attic apart­

  ment, but I’m not exactly the artist-in-the-garret type.”

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  “What about the cottage you rented in Ireland?”

  “I expected to get a mix of time to myself as well as time with other people.”

  “You were also on a mission,” he said.

  She nodded. “I had personal as well as professional reasons to go to Ireland. I should have told you about the personal reasons.” She took two quick sips of her drink and set the glass down, then pointed to her couch. “It’s a pullout.”

  “Unlike the couch at your Irish cottage,” he said.

  “What’ll you do if you have nightmares about slugs and spiders again tonight?”

  “Trust me, I won’t. I’ll fetch some linens.” She eyed him with a frankness he found both unsettling and sexy. “I can see you’re not going to your boat.”

  She retreated into her bedroom. Simon sat on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table—it looked as if that was okay to do—and flipped through Keira’s fairytale book. Her work, which clearly appealed to both adults and children, had heart, imagination and a style that was uniquely hers. Even the art snob at the auction had been captivated by the two paintings she’d donated, although he’d probably never admit it.

  But she still didn’t own a phone, Simon thought, getting to his feet when she returned with an armload of linens. He took them from her. “Go on to bed,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “I can help.”

  Watching Keira shake out sheets was more than he could take right now if what she wanted was sleep. “I can handle it.”

  “You’ve been at my side since you yanked me out of the ruin,” she said, touching his arm. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, that’s it, right? No more grati­

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  215 tude.” He set the bedding on a chair. “It gets in the way after a while.”

  But she didn’t take her hand from his arm, and he knew it didn’t have a damn thing to do with gratitude. He was tired, she was tired. Simon knew he should just send her to bed and tell her to put a chair in front of her side of the door and he’d do the same on his side. So they wouldn’t be tempted.

  He’d just never been one always to do what he thought made sense.

  He whispered her name, and it was enough. They were kissing before he knew he’d even moved. The taste of her, the feel of her slim body against him, were just what he’d imagined during the long trip across the Atlantic. Need ripped through him, immediate, hot. He wanted to be inside her, now.

  She opened her mouth to their kiss and pressed herself hard against him, as if she’d been thinking about this moment, practicing it in her mind.

  “I dreamed about this on the plane,” she said between kisses. “For all those hours. It was worse than my night­

  mare, I swear.”

  She laughed, and it was sexy and a little wild and good to hear. Simon relished the spark in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks as the trauma of the past two days receded. He scooped her up and laid her on the couch. She was slim and lithe and had long, graceful limbs that tantalized his imagination. The rugby shirt and jeans had to go. He wanted to feel her smooth skin in his hands. He wanted to taste every inch of her and make her ache for him.

  Something in his expression must have alerted her, because she draped her arms around his neck, skimmed her 216

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  fingers up into his hair, then locked her eyes with his.

  “Make love to me, Simon. Let me make love to you. It’s right. I know it is.”

  “You trust your instincts.”

  “It’s not just instincts.” She lifted herself to him, kissed him. “Remember, I brought water and food and a flashlight with me out to the ruin.”

  “No rope,” he said.

  “If I’d had a rope, I’d have climbed out of there in time to make that call to Bob, and you’d still be in London. And, anyway, who goes hiking with a rope?”

  He kissed her again, and it was all he could do not to rip off all their clothes. She slipped her hands under his shirt, placing her palms on the small of his back, and he caught the hem of her shirt. He heard her breathe, give a small gasp of awareness of what came next. But he had her shirt off in seconds. He cast it aside.

  She lay back on the couch, and now he saw a touch of self-consciousness in her. He didn’t look away. He gazed at her, her skin creamy, almost translucent.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  Her hands trembled, but not with nervousness, he decided, as she went to unfasten her bra. “I can’t get it…damn…”

  Simon tried the clasp, couldn’t get it either, and just ripped it. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he said, tossing it onto the floor with her shirt. But she didn’t say anything, and he wasn’t sure she could. “I didn’t do all those damn Sudoku puzzles on the plane for no reason.”

  He skimmed his hands over the swell of her breasts. She moaned softly, lying back onto a lacy pillow. He went with her, lost in the taste of her, the feel of her pulse quicken­

  ing under his touch.

  She started to wriggle out of her jeans, and he helped

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  217 her, drawing them down her slender legs, adding them to the pile on the floor.

  “I don’t…” She fought for a breath. “I’ve never…”

  “Never, what, Keira?”

  “It’s so fast. You, me.”

  “But it’s right,” he whispered, slipping his hand between her legs, felt her response, saw the same want and need in her eyes that were in him. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

  “No. Oh, no.” She smiled, moved against him as he eased his fingers into her. “Don’t stop.”

  “Good,” he said, and he circled, probed and thrust, until finally she grabbed at his shirt.

  “Your turn,” she said raggedly, clawing at him. They dispensed with his clothes, and she drew him back to her, drifting her fingers over his flesh just as he’d dreamed last night and again on the plane, but reality was ever so much better.

  “Now,” she said, guiding him to her. “Simon…please…”

  He didn’t hold back, and they joined together
in a frenzied haze of desire, heat and hunger. His body was ahead of his mind, responding, giving, taking, never doubting. He felt her body shudder and quake beneath him, her fingers digging into his upper arms as she came and came, then came again. Finally, he let go, thrusting fast and deep and hard, aware of her clutching his hips now, drawing him into her, taking him with her as they rose to the next peak together.

  In the stillness that followed, he felt her heart racing and smiled. “It’s a wonder we didn’t fall off this little couch.”

  “We managed to fit.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “We certainly did.”

  He saw the flush in her cheeks, and she slipped out from under him, gathered up her clothes, pulled on her rugby 218

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  shirt and underwear. Her blond hair shone in the city lights pouring through the small windows. Her eyes gleamed with that gorgeous cornflower blue. If she couldn’t believe what they’d just done, she didn’t show it. She waved a hand at the bedding. “If you need help with the sofa bed, just let me know. It’s still early, I know—my body’s not on Irish time or Boston time. I’m beat.”

  “Keira.”

  “Don’t say anything. Please. This was perfect. No regrets. I just…” She adjusted her shirt, pushed back her hair. “We both need to get some sleep.”

  “Not going to trust your invisible electric fence tonight?”

  She grinned at him. “Not a chance,” she said, heading into her bedroom and shutting the door firmly behind her. Simon noticed a light under her door. Well, he thought, she had to be tired. And he supposed part of her was thinking she needed to figure out what was going on before she got in over her head with him.

  Part of him was thinking he should get a flight back to London in the morning.

  But regrets?

  No regrets, whatsoever, he thought, pulling open the sofa bed. The mattress was hellishly thin, but he’d endured worse conditions than an artist’s garret on Beacon Hill. He shook out the sheets and a summer-weight blanket. A white lace sachet fell out, filled with some kind of scented herb. Lavender, he suspected.

  And the lace would be Irish.

  Of course.

 
  Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts

  9:30 p.m., EDT

  June 23

  Abigail brought a glass of white wine outside, thinking she’d be alone, but Bob was at the table with a beer, and Scoop was weeding his garden in the semidarkness of the long June night. Owen was back from dropping Keira and Simon off, but he was inside on a call from a training team in Hawaii.

  Scoop stood up from his tomato plants. “Oh, my aching back,” he said with a grin.

  Bob grunted. “Do you even feel pain?”

  “Only when I have to. This thing with Keira—I don’t know. I’ll be around tomorrow if you need any help.”

  “Thanks,” Bob said, unusually somber.

  But Scoop didn’t respond, and Abigail could see they were all troubled by the news from Ireland. The mutilated sheep raised the stakes. She’d heard the concern in Seamus Harrigan’s voice when he’d relayed Eddie O’Shea’s dis­

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  coveries to her, a marked change from when they’d talked earlier in the day. Clearly, the Irish detective didn’t know just what they were confronting.

  “I should be the one talking to this Irish cop,” Bob said. Abigail shook her head. “No, you shouldn’t be.”

  He started to say something, but Scoop nodded toward the back steps. “Hey—look who’s here.”

  Fiona O’Reilly jumped off the steps into the yard. “Hi, guys. Owen says he’ll be out in a sec.” She cheerfully kissed her father on the cheek. “How’re you doing, Dad? You look grumpy.”

  “Hi, kid,” Bob said, obviously struggling to dismiss his somber mood. “What’re you doing out running around in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s not even ten o’clock. I told Colm Dermott I was stopping by here, and he asked me to give this to Abigail.”

  Fiona handed a file folder to Abigail. “I went to a lecture he gave at BU tonight on Irish folklore and the sea. It was amazing. I’m seriously considering switching my major to Irish studies.”

  “There are no more jobs for someone with a degree in Irish studies than a degree in harp,” Bob said, teasing her, but he nodded to the folder. “What’s that all about?”

  Fiona shrugged. “I don’t know. Colm didn’t say.”

  “Shouldn’t you be calling him Professor Dermott?”

  “He said Colm is fine. He and Keira are friends— I love to talk about Irish music with him.” She turned to Abigail and Scoop. “I’m majoring in classical harp, but I’m totally into Irish music right now. I still want to visit Keira in Ireland.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Bob said.

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “I’m nineteen, Dad. I have a passport. I can buy my own ticket and go.”

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  221 “You’re a student. You don’t have any money. Besides, Keira’s back in Boston, at least for a couple days.”

  “She is? Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about. You have a ride back to your apartment?”

  “Yeah,” Fiona said, clearly distracted by news of her cousin’s sudden return. “I just wanted to drop off the folder. Dad…”

  Bob looked up at her. “Is your ride a he?”

  “It’s a friend.”

  “The fiddle player in your band?”

  Abigail recalled a very cute fiddler the other night at the auction and noticed Fiona blush as she answered her father.

  “As a matter of fact.”

  “Why didn’t he come in? What’s he doing, sitting out in his car waiting for you?”

  “Yes—”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Bob said, but he reached over and tapped the folder. “Well?”

  Abigail sighed, annoyed. “It’s the guest list for the auction at the Garrison house. I ran into Colm earlier today and asked him for it.”

  “You didn’t run into him. You looked him up. Why?”

  “You know why, Bob.”

  A muscle in his jaw worked. Scoop blew out a breath but said nothing.

  Fiona frowned. “What’s going on? Why’s Keira back in Boston? What does this list—” She stopped, then winced.

  “Oh. I get it. You want to know if the man who died in the Public Garden was on his way to the auction. To see Keira? Is that what you think?”

  “Abigail’s speculating,” Bob said, making it sound like an accusation.

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  Abigail tried not to let her irritation with him get to her.

  “It’s an informal, incomplete list. Colm says they’re not that sophisticated an operation.”

  Bob got to his feet. “You want to waste your time, fine.”

  He turned to Fiona. “Let’s go meet your fiddle player.”

  “Dad…”

  “Did I ever tell you I took fiddle lessons as a kid?”

  he asked her.

  That obviously piqued Fiona’s interest, but as she headed out with her father, she glanced back at Abigail with a worried look.

  With O’Reilly father and daughter gone, Scoop shook his head at Abigail. “You’re playing with fire. We’re talking about Bob’s family.”

  “I’m just doing my job.” She flopped back in her chair.

  “I didn’t mean for Colm to give these names to Fiona.”

  “That’s the risk you took. Turn the Sarakis case over to someone else, Abigail.”

  Since Scoop never interfered with her conduct on the job or off, clearly he thought she was seriously out of line. Abigail drank some of her wine. “I’m not on a fishing expe­

  dition, and I’m not trying to provoke Bob. You tell me what you’d do, Scoop, under the circumstances.”

  “I just told you. I’d turn the case over to someone else.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.�
�� She paused, feeling a twinge of guilt. “I didn’t have a clue about his sister. Makes you wonder what else he hasn’t told us, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t go there.”

  Abigail didn’t back off. “Come on, Scoop.You don’t like this situation any more than I do. Bob’s sister is a religious hermit, and his niece goes off to Ireland to investigate an old story about a stone angel and is damn near killed—and I’ve got a dead guy who was obsessed with the devil.”

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  223 “Would he have been interested in this missing angel?”

  “Possibly. His sister and brother-in-law are dealers in fine art and antiques. They have a particular interest in Classical and Medieval works. I don’t know where this angel falls—”

  “Keira said it could be from Wal-Mart for all she knows.”

  “Someone messing with her head?”

  “Maybe it was part of an animal sacrifice. Grab an angel statue, torture a sheep.”

  “That’s sick,” Abigail said. “From what I can gather, Victor Sarakis’s interest in evil and the devil was intellec­

  tual—I don’t see him having anything to do with that sheep.”

  “Carving up a sheep like that is pretty damn evil, if you ask me,” Scoop said. “But angels, devils. Not the same thing.”

  “Lucifer is a fallen angel. He was an archangel—the highest order of angels.”

  “Gabriel, Michael. Those guys are archangels, right?”

  Abigail smiled. Scoop had a remarkable ability to change the mood of a conversation, depending on what he wanted to accomplish. “Right. Lucifer couldn’t accept that he was a creation of God—he wanted to be an autonomous power. He rebelled against God, and God threw him out of heaven.”

  “Rough,” Scoop said.

  “In a nutshell, Lucifer becomes Satan. The devil. He’s in a perpetual fight with God for supremacy. He recruits others to acts of rebellion against God’s will. He demands loyalty above all else, but he doesn’t care about being loved or feared—his overriding emotion is hatred, specifi­