“A boyfriend?” She shook her head. “Not right now. How about you?”
He smiled. “No boyfriend for me either.”
She glanced up, then giggled softly. “I meant, do you have a girlfriend? Or maybe a wife?”
He poured her a generous glass of wine, then splashed a bit into a goblet for himself. He wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but he had to admit that the crisp Chardonnay tasted good. “Cops don’t make good husbands.”
She reached for her glass, then took a sip as she studied him shrewdly. “The accent,” she said. “I can’t place it.”
“Southside Boston, with a dash of County Cork,” Conor replied. “I was born in Ireland.”
She raised her eyebrow. “When did you leave?”
“Twenty-seven years ago. I was six.” Conor hated talking about himself. His life had been so ordinary, of no interest to a sophisticated woman like Olivia Farrell. “Where are you from, Ms. Farrell?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.
“Olivia,” she said. “I’ve lived in Boston all my life.”
A long silence grew between them as he watched her preparing the meal. She moved with such grace, everything she did seemed like part of a dance and Conor found himself fascinated by the turn of her head or the flutter of her fingers. Even though she was casually dressed in a bulky cable-knit sweater and jeans, elegance and class seemed to radiate from her body.
“What made you become a cop?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Conor pushed up from the stool and circled around the counter to peer into the pot she was stirring. “It’s a long story,” he said.
“Like I said, I’ve got plenty of time. Twelve days, in fact. Which is good, because trying to carry on a conversation with the likes of you is like talking to a—a bowl of vegetables.”
Conor chuckled. “I guess I don’t talk much.”
“Ah, a sentence with more than five words,” she said sarcastically. “We’re making progress. Before the night is out, I expect scintillating repartee.”
She dipped a spoon into the pot and tasted the sauce. Then she held out the spoon to him. He took her hand and steadied it as he licked the end of the spoon. The feel of her tiny wrist, her soft skin beneath his fingertips, sent a frisson of electricity up his arm.
Their eyes met and, for a long moment, neither one of them moved. Had it been a first date, Conor may have taken the spoon from her hand and swept her slender body into his arms, kissing her until he lost himself in the taste of her mouth and the feel of her soft flesh.
But this was not a first date, he reminded himself. He was a cop, charged with protecting a witness. And fantasizing about this witness, no matter how beautiful she was, would only take his mind off the real dangers that waited for her outside the beach cottage. He drew back, forcing his gaze to fix on a spot over her shoulder. “I should go check everything outside before it gets dark,” he murmured, schooling his voice into indifference. “Make sure Danny hasn’t fallen asleep.”
He strode to the kitchen door, not bothering to fetch his jacket from the other room. The icy air would do him good, clear his head. “Don’t go near the windows,” he said as he stepped outside.
Conor waved at his partner, stationed in a parked car near the road. He was tempted to switch jobs again with the poor guy. To give him paella and fine wine in turn for endless hours of lukewarm coffee, stale donuts and talk radio. Conor had always taken his job seriously, but it was hard to think about work while sitting in the same room as Olivia Farrell. Why did she have to be so beautiful?
He’d flipped through the case file in the car, but hadn’t really bothered to read it in detail. In truth, he didn’t want to know more about Olivia Farrell. He already knew she was attractive and desirable and intriguing. But after spending the afternoon in her presence, his curiosity had been piqued. Right now, he wanted to know every detail he could about her and her involvement with Red Keenan.
Maybe, after that, he could start looking at her as just a witness and stop thinking of her as a beautiful woman.
THE LIGHT from the fire had waned and Conor rose from the floor to poke at the embers. Outside the wind howled and shrieked, waves crashing against the shore. He’d watched the weather reports earlier in the day and knew the nor’easter was blowing itself out. He thought again about Brendan, wondering if he’d put into port yet. The only solace he could find in the storm was that Keenan’s men wouldn’t dare to venture outside.
Inside the beach house, the remains of dinner were scattered across the coffee table, dirty bowls, half-eaten bread, and the empty bottle of wine. Conor glanced over at the sofa. Olivia Farrell lay curled up asleep beneath a soft afghan, her hands clutched beneath her chin. He recalled a picture he’d found in one of his Irish storybooks, a drawing of Derdriu, an ancient beauty, betrothed to a king yet loved by a common warrior. Olivia’s hair, like Derdriu’s, was a pale shade of gold. The waves and curls spread over the pillow and her perfect skin shone like porcelain in the dim light from the fire.
He tossed another log on the fire. Sparks scattered across the hearth and the log popped and sizzled before it caught fire. His father had often told the tale of how Derdriu’s beauty had brought only death and destruction to her people. But Conor remembered the drawing, how sweet and vulnerable her face had looked to his ten-year-old eyes. Even then, he’d doubted his father’s warnings about the opposite sex.
He’d been sent to protect this woman, been asked to lay his life on the line for her like some ancient warrior. Yet what did he really know about her? Conor crossed the room and pulled the copy of the police file from his duffel bag. Then he wandered back to the fire, drawing nearer to the light to read. From what he could tell, Olivia Farrell was an ordinary citizen, caught up in extraordinary circumstances.
Her partner, Kevin Ford, had been arrested for participating in a money-laundering scheme for organized crime boss Red Keenan, a scheme that had included murder. The mechanics of the scheme were quite complex—buying expensive antiques for Keenan, reselling them to bogus clients for three or four times the value, then handing over the freshly laundered money to Keenan.
Olivia hadn’t been aware of the scheme, but she had had the misfortune of overhearing a conversation between her partner and Keenan, providing the only solid evidence to link the two. Conor looked up, wondering if she realized the true danger she was in. He also wondered what kind of relationship she had with Kevin Ford.
He flipped past the report of Ford’s criminal activity to a photo of the guy. He wasn’t bad-looking, Conor mused, in that polished, sophisticated, Ivy League way. A woman like Olivia probably found him endlessly charming…intelligent…sexy, even. Perhaps they’d been lovers at one time, maybe still were. Conor shoved the photo back into the file and grabbed the page that included a rundown on her background.
Olivia Farrell. Graduate of Boston College, lived on a nice street in the South End. No criminal record. Single. Twenty-eight years old. Co-owner of one of Boston’s most successful antique galleries, Ford-Farrell Antiques. Well-known throughout certain social circles in Boston. Dated an investment banker, a corporate attorney, and a shortstop for the Red Sox. No long-term relationships since college. Both parents living, residing in Jacksonville, Florida.
Conor closed the file and turned his gaze back to her. “Stubborn to a fault,” he murmured. “Possible potential as a kick-boxer. Sharp tongue. Great cook. Incredibly beautiful.”
His gaze drifted down to her mouth. Though she’d worn a grim expression for most of the day, all traces of irritation had been dissolved by the wine and good food. They’d chatted over dinner, each of them revealing just enough about themselves to keep the conversation interesting. She’d told him about her shop, the excitement of finding valuable antiques, the wealthy clients she worked with, the elegant parties she’d attended.
He