Harlequin Holiday Collection - Four Classic Seasonal Novellas

specialty, y’see.”
    Clint Walker blinked behind his fake glasses. He’d been so absorbed in his prep work that he’d barely noticed the waitress when she’d approached his table.
    But she had his full attention now! With a shaft of sheer male appreciation, he took in her tumble of tawny curls, laughing green eyes and mile-long legs encased in black tights beneath a short cherry-red skirt. The enticing combination almost made Clint forget the dangerous assignment that had brought him to Dublin.
    Almost.
    “You’re a student?” he got out, recovering.
    “A doctoral candidate at Trinity College. What can I bring you?”
    “I’ll have a pint.”
    “Original, draft, extra stout, smooth or red?”
    “Draft.”
    “Righto.”
    While the blonde wove her way back to the bar, the interest she stirred in Clint took a sharp turn from personal to professional.
    He was on the trail of an art thief who specialized in obtaining prehistoric artifacts for a shadowy Miami-based drug lord with discriminating and extremely expensive tastes. Two days ago, the FBI’s Art Crimes Division had received a tip that the thief might be one of the handful of spectators who were allowed into the megalithic Newgrange tomb at sunrise on December 22. On that day—and only that day—the rising sun would align at precisely the right angle to illuminate the tomb’s inner chamber.
    Despite the fact that art theft ranked fourth in major international crimes after drugs, people trafficking and arms, most law-enforcement agencies—including the FBI—had only limited resources to devote to it. Hence why he was the only agent assigned to the case. Plus, his superiors hadn’t been impressed by the vagueness of the tip. Nevertheless, Clint had jumped on a plane the very next afternoon and landed in Dublin just a few hours ago.
    Problem was, what he knew about Stone Age tombs wouldn’t fill even one of the beer glasses on the sexy waitress’s tray. He was counter-narcotics, for God’s sake! But this as-yet-unidentified art thief was the Bureau’s best hope of nailing Rafael Mendoza. The drug czar had ruined hundreds of lives—Clint’s teenage nephew among them. One way or another, the bastard was going down.
    A contact in Ireland’s Arts and Antiquities Division had arranged Clint’s entrée into the exclusive group that would watch the sun light up the inner chamber tomorrow. He had until then to transform himself into a prehistoric art enthusiast.
    Like the alluring waitress…
    His gaze tracked the tawny-haired girl as she delivered a round of drinks to a group of boisterous young males. When she bent to place their order on the table, one of them reached out and fondled her rear.
    She stiffened, then smiled sweetly and dumped a pint of foaming stout over the jerk’s head. He leaped to his feet with an outraged bellow. His chair toppled backward, crashed into a gent at the next table and brought him to his feet. Fists bunched, the two looked ready to lay into each other…with the waitress caught between them.
    Clint came out of his booth and had started across the room when the blonde slapped a palm against each combatant’s chest.
    “Behave yerselves, lads! It’s Christmas, doncha know!” Green eyes flashing, she gave the one who’d groped her ass a bruising thump. “And as for you , Michael Quinn, yer a bleedin’ eejit. Lay a hand on me again, and I swear I’ll reef y’proper!”
    Clint had no idea what dire punishment she’d just threatened, but the hulking young male swiped a hand across his dripping chin and muttered a shamefaced apology.
    The tumult had subsided and the noise levels were back to ear-numbing levels when the waitress delivered Clint’s pint.
    “That’ll be five euros,” she said with a breezy smile, as if the fracas had never happened. “Or do y’want to run a tab?”
    “I’ll run a tab.” He leaned against the oak-backed booth and regarded her with a speculative look. “What’s your name?”
    “Sophie Hawthorne. And yours?”
    “Clint Walker. Listen, I was wondering—what time do you get off work?”
    “And why would y’be askin’, Clint Walker?”
    “I have a proposition for you.” She went stiff, and he added hastily, “A business proposition.”

Chapter Two
    “You’re going to be allowed inside Newgrange? At sunrise tomorrow?”
    Sophie’s voice spiraled to a near-squeak. At the man’s request, she’d dropped onto the bench opposite his to hear his “business”