the amenities a Russian billionaire would expect.
Colin spotted two men on the top deck. They looked relaxed, held drinks.
A woman joined them. He recognized her honey hair, the tilt of her head as she laughed.
Emma.
“Well, well,” he said aloud.
He heard a movement behind him and turned as a woman squeezed through the tall hydrangeas that served as a border between the Sharpe property and the adjacent marina and yacht club. She wore a pumpkin-colored jacket and had long brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
He started to say something, but she put a finger to her lips and shook her head. “Pretend you don’t see me. Please.” She spoke in a Russian accent and flicked long, slender fingers toward the Nightingale. “I don’t want them to see me.”
“All right.” Colin stood on the retaining wall as if he were taking in the sight of the truly amazing yacht and responded without looking at the woman. “Hiding behind a bush will only draw attention to yourself.”
She plopped down on the grass, staying close to the hydrangeas, and stretched out slim legs encased in tight-fitting black pants. “I have picnic,” she said.
“A picnic requires at least some cheese and crackers, don’t you think?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I ate them.”
The woman was feisty, Colin thought, and very pretty. “You’re Tatiana Pavlova. You met a friend of mine yesterday out at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. A priest.”
“Father Bracken,” she said, with a bit of a smile. “He’s sweet man. You’re not a priest.”
“No, I’m not a priest. My name’s Colin Donovan.”
“You and Emma also are friends?”
He nodded. “We are.”
“Are you FBI agent? Like Emma?”
“Yes, but I’m just in Heron’s Cove visiting,” Colin said. Up on the yacht, the two men had backed out of sight, but Emma was still visible, drink in hand. She didn’t wave but he had no doubt she’d seen him. He didn’t wave, either, instead addressing Tatiana. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted a closer look at the yacht.” She peeked around the edges of the hydrangea, a large burgundy-colored blossom touching her cheek. “Can you see him? Can you see Dmitri Rusakov?”
“Which one is he?”
“He’s in the red pants. Terrible, aren’t they?”
“Not everyone’s color,” Colin said.
“Men should not wear red pants.” Tatiana gave him a frank once-over. “You don’t.”
He smiled, trying to keep her at ease. “I had red waterproofs once. Who’s the other man?”
She pursed her lips. “Ivan Alexander. He does Rusakov’s bidding.”
“As in he mops the floors or he doctors the books?”
“He’s security expert. Very dangerous. I don’t want them to see me.”
“Would they recognize you? Do you all know each other?”
“No, no.” Tatiana sprang up, no taller than the hydrangea, which she obviously had already calculated. She was pale now, her nostrils flared as she took in deep breaths. “No, Colin Donovan. I know them. They don’t know me. If they see me spying on them, they’ll find out who I am.”
“Then what?”
She shuddered. “I don’t want to find out.”
“Ms. Pavlova, are you concerned for your safety?”
“It’s not like that. I don’t need police. I need…” She thought a moment. “I need nothing. I’m calm now. Do you know the Russian fable of the cat and the mouse?”
“I don’t,” Colin said, no idea where she was going with this.
Tatiana didn’t look at him, her gaze focused on the waterfront. “The mouse comes to his neighbor, the rat. He’s very excited to tell his friend that their great enemy, the cat, has been caught by a ferocious lion. For the mouse, this is tremendous news. Most excellent news. The rat isn’t so impressed. He believes that the lion cannot possibly survive a battle with the cat.” Tatiana turned to Colin, her dark eyes shimmering with emotion in the fading afternoon light. “Do you understand the moral of this tale, Colin
Colin spotted two men on the top deck. They looked relaxed, held drinks.
A woman joined them. He recognized her honey hair, the tilt of her head as she laughed.
Emma.
“Well, well,” he said aloud.
He heard a movement behind him and turned as a woman squeezed through the tall hydrangeas that served as a border between the Sharpe property and the adjacent marina and yacht club. She wore a pumpkin-colored jacket and had long brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
He started to say something, but she put a finger to her lips and shook her head. “Pretend you don’t see me. Please.” She spoke in a Russian accent and flicked long, slender fingers toward the Nightingale. “I don’t want them to see me.”
“All right.” Colin stood on the retaining wall as if he were taking in the sight of the truly amazing yacht and responded without looking at the woman. “Hiding behind a bush will only draw attention to yourself.”
She plopped down on the grass, staying close to the hydrangeas, and stretched out slim legs encased in tight-fitting black pants. “I have picnic,” she said.
“A picnic requires at least some cheese and crackers, don’t you think?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I ate them.”
The woman was feisty, Colin thought, and very pretty. “You’re Tatiana Pavlova. You met a friend of mine yesterday out at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. A priest.”
“Father Bracken,” she said, with a bit of a smile. “He’s sweet man. You’re not a priest.”
“No, I’m not a priest. My name’s Colin Donovan.”
“You and Emma also are friends?”
He nodded. “We are.”
“Are you FBI agent? Like Emma?”
“Yes, but I’m just in Heron’s Cove visiting,” Colin said. Up on the yacht, the two men had backed out of sight, but Emma was still visible, drink in hand. She didn’t wave but he had no doubt she’d seen him. He didn’t wave, either, instead addressing Tatiana. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted a closer look at the yacht.” She peeked around the edges of the hydrangea, a large burgundy-colored blossom touching her cheek. “Can you see him? Can you see Dmitri Rusakov?”
“Which one is he?”
“He’s in the red pants. Terrible, aren’t they?”
“Not everyone’s color,” Colin said.
“Men should not wear red pants.” Tatiana gave him a frank once-over. “You don’t.”
He smiled, trying to keep her at ease. “I had red waterproofs once. Who’s the other man?”
She pursed her lips. “Ivan Alexander. He does Rusakov’s bidding.”
“As in he mops the floors or he doctors the books?”
“He’s security expert. Very dangerous. I don’t want them to see me.”
“Would they recognize you? Do you all know each other?”
“No, no.” Tatiana sprang up, no taller than the hydrangea, which she obviously had already calculated. She was pale now, her nostrils flared as she took in deep breaths. “No, Colin Donovan. I know them. They don’t know me. If they see me spying on them, they’ll find out who I am.”
“Then what?”
She shuddered. “I don’t want to find out.”
“Ms. Pavlova, are you concerned for your safety?”
“It’s not like that. I don’t need police. I need…” She thought a moment. “I need nothing. I’m calm now. Do you know the Russian fable of the cat and the mouse?”
“I don’t,” Colin said, no idea where she was going with this.
Tatiana didn’t look at him, her gaze focused on the waterfront. “The mouse comes to his neighbor, the rat. He’s very excited to tell his friend that their great enemy, the cat, has been caught by a ferocious lion. For the mouse, this is tremendous news. Most excellent news. The rat isn’t so impressed. He believes that the lion cannot possibly survive a battle with the cat.” Tatiana turned to Colin, her dark eyes shimmering with emotion in the fading afternoon light. “Do you understand the moral of this tale, Colin
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