Page 30 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

His eyes were brilliant cobalt, the color so pure and light her breath caught.

“Libraries have always been my favorite places in all the world,” he said, “but now I’ve found a completely new reason to appreciate them.”

She wanted to throw her arms out in joy. She felt young again. “I had a wonderful time tonight, Jamie. Thank you.”

“You stole my line,” he said, kissing her softly once more and then taking her hand. “We should go.”

She looked around with a little sadness. This moment would be over in a hot minute, never to be repeated. And that’s why life was different than art. Life didn’t last forever, but art did.

“The ghosts are probably preparing for brandy and cigars, right?” she joked.

He startled and looked around. “Did you see one?”

He seemed so concerned she couldn’t joke back. “No. All right, into the rain we go.”

Still, he took his time scanning the room before he led her out. She tucked her hat on firmly before they headed outside, then they ran to the car. Once again, their clothes were soaked through. The car heated up from the rain and their breath, fogging up the windows. When they arrived at his house, he insisted on running with her to the front door. He shielded her with his body as he gave her a final kiss, then muttered good night as he opened the door to his house and proceeded to shut her into its warmth.

She leaned against the door, her fingers tracing her mouth, and realized Sandrine had been right.

The rain and wind had stopped when he’d kissed her.

CHAPTERSEVEN

Bets O’Hanlon had met all manners of corrupt Irishmen over the years, from grifters, thugs, and baby-kissing slimeballs. How many times had good-for-nothing men shown up at her front door with laminated brochures and fake credentials under the auspices of helping some charity—a hospital, a school, a nursing center—asking for money they planned to pocket? She’d lost count.

Then there were the utility men or service workers who wanted an “extra bit” for fixing something that was their bloody job. Don’t even get her started on the dangerous men who came to the local farms and stole scrap metal and equipment right out of the farmers’ sheds, usually armed with a knife or gun.

But Malcolm Coveney was truly one of a kind. My God, he wore gold rings with diamonds oneveryfinger.

She would later thank Linc for finally agreeing to let her come along with him and Donal so she could complete her education. From the news, she was well aware that global indices like Transparency International had the data to show why Ireland was still more corrupt than most of its northern European neighbors. This short, gray-haired man could have been the poster child for that report.

She bit the inside of her cheek as she hesitantly shook his bejeweled hand and said, “What an incredible view you have,” to which he only responded with an arrogant smirk through thick jowls matching his girth.

At least he hadn’t asked her to kiss his ring.

She tried not to stare at his hands as Linc and Donal exchanged bullshit greetings with him, the kind men volleyed when they were out to kick each other’s behinds. Coveney’s Rolex winked out of his tailored three-piece navy suit. His silk tie shone in the natural light coming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing what really was a killer view of Watertown’s bay. Luxury boats bobbed next to fishing trawlers. A red flag blew in the gentle wind on the new golf course on the right inlet. Tourists strolled along the sidewalk framing the water, posing for selfies.

Progress through corruption. It hovered in the air, as thick as peat smoke coming out of a chimney. A sinking feeling settled in her stomach, making her glad she hadn’t had breakfast.

She sank into one of the white leather chairs in front of the man’s massive mahogany desk. The top was riddled with files, the kind of scene designed to make him seem like an important man. No, wait. The three cell phones lined up in a straight row on his desk conveyed that. One buzzed as Linc and Donal sat down on either side of her.

Donal put his hands on his knees, the kind of posture he used to convey he meant business. Linc, though, leaned back and crossed his ankle over his opposite knee, looking like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t impressed with this joker one bit.

God, was it any wonder she loved him?

“Thanks again for meeting with us, Malcolm,” Linc began.

Bullshit.

“I know I’m still new to town perhaps,” he continued, “but I’ve had great legal advice on securing things like permits, so it came as a real surprise to discover you had my mobile home up and taken away.”

Malcolm’s blue eyes crinkled as he gave a Cheshire smile. “I imagine there’s still a lot of things you’re discovering about Ireland, Linc. Even with the guidance of people like Donal O’Dwyer and a few of the council members on the Sorcha Fitzgerald Arts Center’s board. No offense, Donal.”

“Whyever would I be offended?” Donal asked, smiling back with teeth. “I’m sure you’re about to tell us whatever it is we missed, Malcolm.”

She was so going to choke on the bullshit.

“Mr. Coveney,” she decided to add, “it so happens that the mobile home removed on Friday was actually being leased to a young woman and her child. Sophie—”

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