Page 109 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

As they drove home, his gut seemed to clench all the harder. He looked over to make sure Bets was tucked into her seat belt and her eyes were fixed on the road.

“Drive slow, will you, sugar?”

She glanced over. “I’m not speeding—”

“Just take extra care,” he said, all his senses going haywire now.

They were getting closer to it. He could feel it.

When they reached their gate—the one he’d had installed after the event with Sophie—he spotted something resting against it as she clicked it open. “Hang on a sec, Bets.”

He jumped out of the car and approached the box slowly. He should probably call their security officer, but by God, he’d be damned if he would wait a moment longer. The slender turquoise box was wrapped in a purple bow. He tore it off and flipped open the top. Inside was an unmistakable dead rose. The varietal that Mary Kincaid had beaten Bets with in the last competition both had participated in. Black Magic.

His stomach clutched.

Then he spotted the card resting under it. Opening it, he turned it toward the light.

Congratulations on your recent victories. Malcolm Coveney and friends

“What is it?” Bets asked, getting out of the car.

“We had a caller,” he said, closing the note inside the box with the dead rose for his security officer to see, maybe even the new Garda officer.

“Who?”

“An old friend.” He was sure his smile was terrifying with the headlights trained on him. “It seems Malcolm Coveney and Mary Kincaid aren’t through with us yet.”

She cursed softly.

He did the same. In Gaelic.

The next assault was on its way.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

Ireland!

Taylor stared at the formal offer that had come by special courier.

The Sorcha Fitzgerald Arts Center would like to offer you the position of media director…

She still couldn’t take it in. The salary. The benefits. The scope of the position. She’d also be consulting with Ghislaine Monet, one of the biggest and most powerful publicists in the world.

She’d been looking for something new, feeling stuck in her life. Even her own secret way of painting—not like her art teachers had taught her—didn’t seem quite enough. She had the burning desire to say and do something truly important. To make a real difference. This was her ticket, given the problems the arts center had faced. Sophie had been encouraged after their recent victories, but she said no one thought they were out of the woods yet. To be a part of that? Well, it was tailor made, she thought, and then laughed at her own pun.

She glanced around her tiny New York apartment. Man, she wasn’t going to miss it. Not one bit. Sure, it had a nice view of the park from its two windows, but she could pretty much brush her teeth and sit on her bed at the same time.

She eyed the letter again. Sophie must have put them up to hiring her. Being selected on her own merit was important to her. Should she ask?

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

She screamed. Someone was in her apartment! She dove for her bread knife on the kitchen counter and spun around with it in hand. Only to see a gorgeous brunette in a long white dress standing in front of her gas stove.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Taylor,” the woman said gently. “I’m here to help. My name is Sorcha Fitzgerald.”

The name struck her mind.Holy—

“Sorcha Fitzgerald is dead.”

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