Saint's Gate by Carla Neggers Read Free Book Online Page A

She’ll be professing her final vows soon. She’s an art teacher. She’s also working on a biography of Mother Linden.”
    Yank scrutinized her a moment. “Do you have a headache?”
    His question took her by surprise. “How do you know?”
    He gave her a slight smile. “Your eyes. They’re headache eyes.”
    “I landed hard when I jumped down from the fence, but it’s been a long, sad, miserable day.” She forced herself to rally. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”
    “Sure you will.” He walked over to the porch steps, the boats down on the docks shifting in the rising tide. “Have I ever told you I hate boats?”
    Emma smiled unexpectedly. “You have.”
    “I grew up in the mountains—what’d I know about boats? Then some jackass I know took me out on this dented, rusting, leaking junkyard of a boat in a gale that would have had Ahab wetting his pants.”
    “Doesn’t sound like much fun.”
    He pretended to shudder. “It was hell. I almost jumped overboard. Hated every damn second.”
    “Did you get seasick, or were you just afraid you’d capsize?”
    “I toughed it out. I don’t know why the hell we didn’t capsize.”
    “Was this jackass a friend of yours?”
    “Yeah. He grew up fishing. I think he was born on a boat. Bastard.”
    Emma bit back another smile. “Have you been on a boat since?”
    “Navy ships. That’s it. I like terra firma.”
    She frowned at her canvas, her headache easing now that she’d laughed a little. Her boat did look a little like a seagull. “Would you like a drink or something to eat before you leave?”
    “No, but you should eat. You have food?”
    “Some, and there are restaurants within walking distance.”
    “Be careful if you have any booze. It’s easy to overdo after something like today.”
    “I haven’t been to Maine in a few weeks. The last time I was here I painted, read, walked, ate lobster. I use this place as a refuge these days.” Emma picked up a paintbrush and ran her fingers over the soft natural bristles. “My past is going to come out, Yank.”
    “Yeah. Probably.”
    “It’s not a secret but I don’t automatically tell people.”
    “You were a nun, Emma. You weren’t a serial killer.”
    “You recruited a lot of tigers to your unit. Finding out about my past will change my relationship with them. It’ll draw attention to me, which could affect our work. We’re supposed to keep a low profile.”
    “Let me worry about that.”
    “If I’d stayed at the convent—”
    “Don’t go there. It won’t help you or anyone else. It won’t help find this killer.” Yank looked back at her, his gaze half a notch softer than pure granite. “Maybe it’s not a good idea for you to be here alone. What if our killer was targeting you, and Sister Joan gummed up the works?”
    “I stood alone by that gate for fifteen minutes if anyone wanted to attack me.”
    “I can put a protective detail on you.”
    “No, never. That’d do me in for sure.” Emma returned the paintbrush to a drawer in the chest. “Besides, I wasn’t a target today.”
    “Are you sure about that?” Yank’s expression was difficult to read in the fading light. “Don’t beat yourself up. Sister Joan would have had you escort her to this tower if she’d thought she was in danger. Whatever she was worried about, it wasn’t getting attacked in her own convent.”
    “It took me too long to get over that fence.”
    “You’re an art detective and analyst. You’re not supposed to be kick-ass.” There wasn’t even a hint of criticism in his tone. “You did what any of us kick-ass types would have done, except I’d have bitched and moaned climbing over that fence. Did it have spikes?”
    Emma managed a smile. “No spikes.”
    She followed Yank down the porch steps to the yard. He stood a moment in the light breeze. “What do you do, sit out here with your morning coffee and watch the boats?”
    “Sometimes.”
    He glanced at her. “What’s on your mind,