blunt way, Duncan blocked her path. For some reason he’d always harbored a dislike of her. Time hadn’t changed anything.
“Hello, Duncan, long time no see.” Sorcha gave him a smile, but he scowled.
“Not long enough.”
The whole bar went quiet and watchful. The barman picked up the telephone and started dialing.
“What are you doing back, witch?” Duncan spat.
She flinched from the hatred that glittered in his eyes and the shared memories of a day that had shaped her whole life.
Mouth dry, her voice cracked. “I came home—”
“You don’t belong here!” He leaned closer until his nose almost touched hers. The American stared—she could feel his gaze drilling into her back. Carolyn’s concern trickled through her as Duncan’s breath brushed her face with loathing.
He’d been drinking. The stench alone made her stumble back a half step. He straightened with a leer, as if satisfied his bullying techniques were once again working.
She fingered a clean cotton handkerchief in her pocket. An image of her grandmother flared through her mind. A memory she hadn’t known she possessed. Her fingers tightened on the handkerchief. With great showmanship she drew it out and tied a knot in one of its four corners.
“That’s for you, Duncan Mackenzie.” She reached out and placed it in his shirt pocket, patted his shoulder
And the blood drained from his ruddy cheeks. He didn’t move. It was as if he’d been turned to stone. Or cursed.
Sorcha pushed past him and walked out of the smoke-filled pub. The drumming waves reverberated thunderously off ancient stone, emphasizing her inner turmoil. She wasn’t a witch, but her grandmother had known things. Duncan was no more cursed than she was, but the ploy had stopped him for now.
Old hurts clung to her with the residue of odium, a stale perfume of childhood memories. Taking a steadying breath of fresh air, she looked up, wishing answers were written in the stars.But the stars were hidden and all she could see was the gloom of mist-laden skies, and all she could feel was the cold press of moisture, sharp against her skin.
An ephemeral whisper brushed past her and suddenly there was her father walking along the road. She fisted her hands, wanted to let him walk away and fade into the ether. Instead, she started running through the abandoned streets, desperate for answers from a dead man’s ghost.
Chapter Four
Adrenaline spiking through his system, Ben moved swiftly through the streets toward the harbor.
Sorcha hadn’t gone home.
Blood rushed through his body, anticipation sharpening his senses. She’d had her little encounter with the local bully boy and disappeared. He frowned. That scene bothered him. Men intimidating women always bothered him, but he’d needed to see it play out in case any secrets were revealed.
She’d impressed him the way she handled it, though the stunt with the handkerchief confused the crap out of him. What the hell was that all about?
Where had she gone? A pre-arranged rendezvous? A midnight meet? He didn’t know, though he intended to find out.
Waves crashed on the beach, the sound amplified by the sea mist that hung in the air. Despite his stomach-twisting fear of water, he forced himself to walk to the harbor, toward the Kilmore, Sorcha Logan’s fishing trawler. He skirted a group of kids who wouldn’t have looked out of place on Chicago’s South Side. Passed the unlit lifeboat station, tucking his face into his collar out of the wind.
Halyards clinked and moorings creaked. He snuck past boarded-up amusement rides and dry-docked sailboats in the inner harbor. The wind snapped at the canvases and he jumped, his hand itching for his Glock 23. Even after what happened in Magangue, he wasn’t authorized to carry a firearm while working undercover on foreign soil. But, dammit, he wanted to.
The end of the pier loomed in the darkness, and panic raced over his skin. Taking small shallow breaths, Ben forced himself to
“Hello, Duncan, long time no see.” Sorcha gave him a smile, but he scowled.
“Not long enough.”
The whole bar went quiet and watchful. The barman picked up the telephone and started dialing.
“What are you doing back, witch?” Duncan spat.
She flinched from the hatred that glittered in his eyes and the shared memories of a day that had shaped her whole life.
Mouth dry, her voice cracked. “I came home—”
“You don’t belong here!” He leaned closer until his nose almost touched hers. The American stared—she could feel his gaze drilling into her back. Carolyn’s concern trickled through her as Duncan’s breath brushed her face with loathing.
He’d been drinking. The stench alone made her stumble back a half step. He straightened with a leer, as if satisfied his bullying techniques were once again working.
She fingered a clean cotton handkerchief in her pocket. An image of her grandmother flared through her mind. A memory she hadn’t known she possessed. Her fingers tightened on the handkerchief. With great showmanship she drew it out and tied a knot in one of its four corners.
“That’s for you, Duncan Mackenzie.” She reached out and placed it in his shirt pocket, patted his shoulder
And the blood drained from his ruddy cheeks. He didn’t move. It was as if he’d been turned to stone. Or cursed.
Sorcha pushed past him and walked out of the smoke-filled pub. The drumming waves reverberated thunderously off ancient stone, emphasizing her inner turmoil. She wasn’t a witch, but her grandmother had known things. Duncan was no more cursed than she was, but the ploy had stopped him for now.
Old hurts clung to her with the residue of odium, a stale perfume of childhood memories. Taking a steadying breath of fresh air, she looked up, wishing answers were written in the stars.But the stars were hidden and all she could see was the gloom of mist-laden skies, and all she could feel was the cold press of moisture, sharp against her skin.
An ephemeral whisper brushed past her and suddenly there was her father walking along the road. She fisted her hands, wanted to let him walk away and fade into the ether. Instead, she started running through the abandoned streets, desperate for answers from a dead man’s ghost.
Chapter Four
Adrenaline spiking through his system, Ben moved swiftly through the streets toward the harbor.
Sorcha hadn’t gone home.
Blood rushed through his body, anticipation sharpening his senses. She’d had her little encounter with the local bully boy and disappeared. He frowned. That scene bothered him. Men intimidating women always bothered him, but he’d needed to see it play out in case any secrets were revealed.
She’d impressed him the way she handled it, though the stunt with the handkerchief confused the crap out of him. What the hell was that all about?
Where had she gone? A pre-arranged rendezvous? A midnight meet? He didn’t know, though he intended to find out.
Waves crashed on the beach, the sound amplified by the sea mist that hung in the air. Despite his stomach-twisting fear of water, he forced himself to walk to the harbor, toward the Kilmore, Sorcha Logan’s fishing trawler. He skirted a group of kids who wouldn’t have looked out of place on Chicago’s South Side. Passed the unlit lifeboat station, tucking his face into his collar out of the wind.
Halyards clinked and moorings creaked. He snuck past boarded-up amusement rides and dry-docked sailboats in the inner harbor. The wind snapped at the canvases and he jumped, his hand itching for his Glock 23. Even after what happened in Magangue, he wasn’t authorized to carry a firearm while working undercover on foreign soil. But, dammit, he wanted to.
The end of the pier loomed in the darkness, and panic raced over his skin. Taking small shallow breaths, Ben forced himself to
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