Free The Whisper by Carla Neggers

full Irish breakfast that had helped chase off his bad dreams about scary dogs and mean fairies.
    Definitely good to be heading home.
    He spotted red hair about ten people ahead of him and immediately thought of Sophie Malone—not a reassuring sign of his state of mind before a seven-hour flight. He took another look, figuring he had to be wrong, but there she was—the redheaded archaeologist he’d met yesterday morning and a British spy had warned him about yesterday afternoon.
    She grabbed a bin, turned and waved, smiling as if she’d expected to find him behind her in a line at the airport.
    Scoop got through security and caught up with her in the busy duty-free shop. She wore slim black pants and a long dark gray sweater, a contrast to her muddy hiking clothes and bright blue rain jacket of yesterday. Her hair was pulled back but still had a wild look to it. He’d showered, shaved and put on his most comfortable khakis and lightweight sweater.
    “We must be on the same flight,” he said.
    “Lucky us.” She opened the glass door of a cooler and reached inside. “Water?”
    “Yeah, thanks. Did you drive in this morning?”
    She nodded. “My folks are staying in Kenmare. I took their rental car back, and they kept my car. They’re taking off for a few days to hike the Kerry Way. Doesn’t that sound idyllic?”
    “You mean more idyllic than spending the day on a crowded flight across the Atlantic?”
    “You have a wry sense of humor, Scoop,” Sophie said, leading the way to the cash registers with two bottles of water. She’d bought the biggest size. “The headwinds add time to flying west. It’s so much easier flying to Ireland than flying home from Ireland.”
    “You seem like an experienced traveler.”
    “I guess so. In some ways it feels as if I’m leaving home rather than going home.”
    Scoop reached for his wallet, but she shook her head, insisting on paying for both bottles of water herself. As she fished out euros, his cell phone vibrated in the front pocket of his carry-on pack. He stepped out of the line and took the call.
    “According to one of Will’s friends in London,” Josie Goodwin said, “Sophie Malone is booked on the same flight to Boston as you are.”
    “So she is,” Scoop said.
    “Standing right there, is she?”
    “Yep. What friend in London?”
    “Lord Davenport knows all kinds. I also learned that Dr. Malone met just last week with an octogenarian expert in art theft.”
    “Is he another of Davenport’s London friends?”
    “Not exactly. Our octogenarian’s name is Wendell Sharpe. He frequently consults with INTERPOL. He and Dr. Malone had tea at the Rush Hotel off St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin. Odd coincidence, don’t you think?”
    “Not after yesterday. What did they discuss?”
    “I don’t know yet. She’s a legitimate academic. Quite well respected. She recently completed her dissertation and a postdoctoral fellowship here in Ireland. Her field is the Celtic Iron Age, particularly in Ireland and Great Britain. She’s an expert in Celtic visual arts.”
    “Does she like sugar in her tea?”
    “Lemon,” Josie said.
    Scoop had no idea if she were kidding. “Who does she know in Ireland? Who are her friends here?”
    “We’re working on that.”
    “We?”
    Josie sighed. “Keira has painter’s block, and Lizzie’s bored.”
    “They aren’t law enforcement,” Scoop said. “Or spies.”
    “Neither am I. I work for a British aristocrat. I plan his fishing and golf trips.”
    “Where are you three now?”
    “Keira and Lizzie are en route to Dublin via Cork. I’m still at Keira’s cottage.”
    Collecting reports from her spy friends, no doubt. Scoop noticed Sophie had finished paying for the water and was headingtoward him. He had a sudden bad feeling about her—Myles’s visit, what she was holding back. “Stay put,” he told Josie. “Get Lizzie and Keira back there. You can all chase rainbows and drink Guinness.”
    “You can be quite