Chapter 1
“They arrived last night. There’s about ten of them, led by this one bloke from California who’s apparently the world’s biggest expert on whale anatomy,” John Doyle told Conor Kelly as they sat in their patrol car drinking coffee and surveying the empty beach. It was barely light, wind and rain lashing the sea into foamy peaks, the dark shape of a whale covered by tarpaulins visible against the pale sand.
Conor didn’t reply. John knew better than to expect much out of him so early in the morning.
The sleepy West Ireland village of Kinroe lay on the coast, twenty miles from Galway City, overlooking the bay. It had become famous over the last two days after a blue whale had become beached on its shores. After forty-eight hours of desperate work by marine conservation groups from all over Ireland and the emergency services, the animal had died before they could get it back into the water. This had left Conor, local chief of police, with a major headache: disposal of the body. A mere eight hours later, the mayor had called him into a meeting and told him an American nature channel wished to send a team to conduct a post-mortem on the whale and film it as a documentary.
“It’ll be good for tourism,” John, his sergeant, had pointed out after the meeting. He was a tall, thin man with carroty hair and a freckled face. There was no one in Ireland who looked more Irish than John.
“I don’t care about the tourism,” Conor snapped. “Didn’t that animal suffer enough without turning its death into a spectacle? Christ, people are going to come from all over Ireland to watch its guts being spilled on the beach.”
John was silent. Conor reddened a little at venting his feelings so publicly. At the frontline of the rescue attempt, he’d hardly slept in two days, and when the whale had gone and died, it had just about broken his heart, to his own surprise. A quiet, taciturn man, slow to anger and impulsiveness, it took a lot to upset him, and even more to move him, but this creature had. The idea of watching it being cut open was more than he could bear.
“It’s too big to move,” John offered.
Conor sank into a chair. “This is all bullshit.”
“I know.”
“Policing it will be a nightmare. I don’t want to do it. I’m too fucking tired.” His own words amazed him. Conor rarely complained about anything. He got on with his job to the best of his ability, and, as such, he was the most respected man in town.
“We’ll have reinforcements sent.”
Conor didn’t say anything else after that. He had spoken more after that meeting than he did sometimes in a whole day, and now he was done. He had nothing else to say. He would just get on with it like he always did.
He wore a heavy regulation jacket that morning over his uniform and boots, a beanie hat pulled down over his ears. Despite the car’s heater, he was still chilled. He wasn’t relishing standing around on the beach all day keeping ghouls away from the body. The mood he was in, he would arrest anyone who showed a hint of causing a disturbance.
“They said they’d be here at eight,” John said. “Guess they had a lie-in.”
Conor scowled. That was further negative points against them. He wasn’t sure how he was going to bring himself to be civil to these butchers. He’d hardly slept again for working himself up into a lather at the scenario to come, and his head ached fiercely.
Headlights suddenly illuminated the car, and a four-by-four swept past them, driving toward the whale. Conor tensed, because if this was an unauthorized person, he’d have something to say about it.
He climbed from the car and slammed the door, setting off across the sand to where the vehicle had pulled up.
Four people got out, three turning to face him, one starting toward the whale, clearly oblivious to his presence.
“Hi there, you must be the police.” A balding man stepped forward, holding his hand out. “Pierce Adams, Wrigley Institute for Environmental Studies, University of Southern California.”
Conor nodded curtly and shook the man’s hand, less than impressed. “Inspector Conor Kelly, chief of Garda. That’s Sgt. John Doyle.”
The two of them shook hands with the two men and one woman with introductions all around while Conor’s gaze strayed to the man who appeared to be running his hands down the side of the whale and talking to it.
“That’s Eli Sanders, comparative anatomist, marine biologist, zoologist….”
Conor walked off in the middle of his inventory. He approached the man in the blue parka. “You in charge of this farce?”
The man turned around, eyebrows raised at Conor’s abrupt tone. A shade under six feet, slightly shorter than Conor with a lean body, he was pale in the wan morning light with short, dark brown hair and impossibly dark eyes—probably a trick of the light. He looked about thirty-five, and the muddy light did nothing to disguise how attractive he was.
“Farce?”
“Yeah. Farce. Cutting a whale up on my beach.”
“Ah, right.” Eli Sanders’ accent was strong. Conor almost heard the sunshine and palm trees in it. “You must be the cops.”
“I’m the chief of police is who I am, and I want you to know that I don’t agree with this in any way, shape, or form.”
“Right. Okay.” Eli seemed disinterested and sarcastic. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m Eli Sanders.” He held out a gloved hand.
Conor ignored it. “I already got your name and an extensive list of your qualifications from your mate over there. This is my beach, and I’m in charge. You play by my rules or I shut this circus down. Got it?”
A small smile quirked Eli’s full, sensual mouth. “Yes, sir. What’s your name?”
“Inspector Kelly.”
“Well, Inspector Kelly, that’s a great accent you got there. I always got a little weak at the knees for the Irish accent ever since I saw Daniel Day Lewis in In the Name of the Father.” Eli smirked, dark eyes almost gleaming in the half light.
Conor stared at him, suddenly wrong-footed and embarrassed. Confusion swept through him. Was the American mocking him or…? No, it couldn’t be the latter. He turned and walked away quickly with his face burning.
Eli Sanders watched him go. What was the deal with the police inspector? He had expected some antagonism from the locals but not this much, and he didn’t want the project marred by squabbling and the cop throwing his weight around. What an asshole. But God, what a hot asshole. Even in the virtual darkness, his physical attributes stood out. The uniform, the startlingly blue eyes and black hair, the big shoulders and broad chest under that jacket. God, just imagine if Inspector Kelly really lost it with Eli and ended up restraining him, cuffing him, and throwing him in the back of his car. His pants tightened uncontrollably at the thought of being manhandled by the cop.
Jesus Christ, now was not the time for admiring the locals and their divine accents. Mind on the job, Eli, mind on the job. But his eyes followed the cop’s muscular form all the way back to his patrol car, and against his will he looked forward to crossing paths with the brusque Inspector Kelly once more.
