Free Saint's Gate by Carla Neggers Page A

down.”
    “Why did you borrow your brother’s boat, Mr. Donovan?”
    “Because I don’t have one.”
    His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were half-closed, alert, as if he were calculating just what he’d do if she decided to shoot him. Whoever he was, Emma had the feeling Colin Donovan wasn’t a regular lobsterman.
    “I’ll be checking you out, Mr. Donovan,” she said.
    “By all means. It’ll be at least an hour before the tide rises enough for me to get Andy’s boat off the rocks.” He nodded to her. “Don’t let me keep you from your work.”
    Emma considered the situation. He wasn’t a suspect, and he had done everything she asked. She had no reason to detain him or search him for weapons. She couldn’t help noticing that he was extremely fit. “How did you get yourself hung up on the rocks?”
    “I got too close.”
    “On purpose, or you weren’t paying attention?”
    His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and she had her answer. He’d run aground on purpose. But he said, “Just one of those things.”
    A state marine patrol boat made its way around the tip of the small peninsula and maneuvered toward the Julianne . “I’ll notify them of your situation,” Emma said.
    “No worries.”
    He turned and whistled and waved at the two officers on board, giving them an all clear.
    They waved back.
    “They know you,” Emma said, relaxing slightly. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a direct threat.
    “We lobstermen know a lot of people. I got my feet wet jumping out of my boat. Anywhere I can dry off before I get hypothermia?”
    Just his shoes and the ends of his jeans were wet. Maine’s notoriously cold water didn’t seem to bother him at all. He didn’t look any more worried about hypothermia than he had been about tripping on the rocks.
    “You’ll be fine,” Emma said. “You were at the docks in Heron’s Cove last night.”
    “That’s right. How’d you know?”
    “I saw you and I saw your boat.”
    “My brother’s boat,” he amended.
    Not a man easily intimidated. “Are you spying on me, Mr. Donovan?”
    Again he gave no hint of uneasiness. “Why would I do that, Special Agent—”
    “Sharpe,” she supplied. “Emma Sharpe. Enough with the games, Mr. Donovan. You know who I am. Did you see me leave this morning and figure I’d head out here to the convent?”
    He shrugged without answering.
    “Who are you? CID? Marine patrol?”
    “Aren’t FBI agents supposed to have partners? Why did you come here alone?”
    “I want to know who you are. You ran your boat aground deliberately. Why?”
    “Would you have let me in through the main gate? No. Neither would the nuns or the state cops.”
    He hadn’t wanted to go through the main gate. He’d wanted to do exactly what he’d done. Emma could see that her approach with him wouldn’t get her far. Colin Donovan would tell her what he wanted to tell her and not one word more.
    She glanced down at his boat, still hung up on the rocks. “Don’t tell me you’re an average, everyday lobsterman, because you’re not. What’s your interest in what happened here?”
    “Maybe it’s you.”
    “You’re checking me out? Last night, too?”
    He raised his eyes to her and she saw that they were a flinty gray now. She remembered Yank lingering on the docks as if he were discussing seagulls with a Maine lobsterman.
    Yank hated boats and couldn’t care less about seagulls.
    And she knew.
    “You’re FBI.” She sighed. “You could have said so.”
    He grinned at her. “No fun in that.”
    Emma gritted her teeth, but she heard someone panting behind her in the trees.
    “Agent Sharpe?” Sister Cecilia emerged tentatively from the cover of a spruce. “I saw you from the motherhouse and wondered what was going on.”
    “This is Colin Donovan,” Emma said, noticing Sister Cecilia eyeing him nervously. “He ran his lobster boat aground.”
    “Oh. So I see.” She hugged her oversize sweater to her and peered down at the battered