Now tears streaked down her cheeks, one after the other, dropping onto the two tiny photos, making the cheap chemicals fade. She let them.

Carrying the small photos with her, she went to her bedroom and took the two enlargements off the wall. She ripped off the backing and pulled the two pictures out of the frames before she headed back to the elevator.

When it opened on the first floor, she strode to her office suite, closing the door to the reception area before she walked to the fireplace. As always in the winter, a small fire flickered there. She tilted the metal fire screen forward and flicked the photos into the flames, watching them curl and turn black around the edges before they burned.

As soon as the last ash dropped through the grate, she retrieved the key to her office safe and pulled the massive door open. The leather file box that held all the clippings and photos of Liam that she’d collected over the years stood on a shelf, right at eye level. She yanked it out and carried it to her desk, sitting down to lift off the lid.

She pulled the most recent folder out. It was filled with stories and photos announcing that Liam had signed on as head coach for the New York Challenge, the city’s new, high profile soccer team, created by the same organization that owned the New York Yankees. She flipped it open to be hit by a head shot of Liam looking directly into the camera with a confident smile on his face, just like the one he’d worn as he surveyed the vast emptiness of Yankee Stadium the night of their dinner there. She slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes until the anguish lessened enough for her to breathe again.

Swiveling, she fed the folder into the high-powered paper shredder, wincing as the razor-sharp blades chewed through the papers she’d pored over when she craved the sight of her old friend.

The next folder was a little easier to handle because it covered the time Liam spent coaching in Europe. There were fewer photos and they were older. It went into the shredder before the blades had finished destroying the first one.

When she reached the folder covering Liam’s years on Team Ireland, she couldn’t stop herself from turning over each article and photo. They were arranged in reverse chronological order by the service she paid to track every mention of Liam Keller. There was the photo Paddy’s Pub had on their wall, but the one she loved best was of his debut on the team, when he’d scored his first goal for Ireland on a penalty kick. The camera had captured the moment he’d fallen to his knees, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. She knew he wasn’t praying because neither of them had believed in heavenly intervention, so she’d always assumed he was imprinting the moment on his memory.

As she took one last look at the picture, she drew in her breath on a gasp. She’d never noticed before that one of his hands rested on his hip but not in the typical location. It was just enough lower to look odd. She dropped the folder on the desk and grabbed the computer mouse to open the file of game videos. The service had edited them to highlight Liam’s position on the field. She clicked on a different game where she knew he had taken a penalty kick.

The camera followed him as he placed the ball and then backed away to wait for the referee to blow the whistle. As he stopped, he raised his fingertips to his lips and then touched them to his hip. She found another game with a penalty kick and saw him do the same. And another.

Leaning back in her desk chair, she pivoted to stare out into the garden while she pictured the sculpted planes and curved muscles of his body stretched out on her bed, marked only by scars and a single tattoo low on his hip. The shamrock with her initial at the center of it. She closed her eyes as the knowledge washed through her like the warmest, bluest Caribbean Sea chased by the bitterest, grayest salt ocean.

Just as she’d carried him with her, he’d carried her with him.

She deleted the folder with the videos in it before she jerked out of the chair, making it spin so hard it slammed into her desk and left a dent in the exotic Bolivian rosewood.

“Frankie.” Gavin Miller’s voice carried surprise as she walked up to the table in the Bellwether Club’s bar.

Three men, all members, rose to their considerable heights, making her feel like an elderberry bush among redwoods. These were her three gamblers, who’d made a drunken bet on love three months before. They’d been strangers to each other then, but had been drawn into friendship by their wager.

Gavin, wearing his customary black sweater and jeans, was the bestselling author of the Julian Best novels, his super spy eclipsing James Bond as a cultural icon. Nathan Trainor, standing military straight in his custom-tailored navy suit, was the CEO and tech genius who’d founded Trainor Electronics, a Fortune 500 company. The golden-haired Luke Archer, his blue polo shirt and khakis stretched over a massive, but well-tuned athlete’s frame, was the all-star franchise quarterback of the New York Empire, leading them to four Super Bowl wins thus far in his career.

“Gentlemen, I thought I’d buy you all a drink,” she said. It was something of a joke at a club whose membership was limited to billionaires.

“We’d be honored,” Luke said in his low Texas drawl. He pulled one of the massive, leather-upholstered club chairs to the table as though it weighed no more than a wicker basket.

As they settled back into their seats, her head bartender, Donal, brought another glass and a bottle of her usual drink, the same Redbreast 21 she’d served to Liam. That sent a ripple of pain through her but she stopped herself from wincing. She raised her glass. “Sláinte.”

Jesus, she couldn’t stop herself from being Irish today.

The three men did a respectable job of echoing the Gaelic toast before they returned to the discussion of politics she’d interrupted. The exchange was lively because these were intelligent, worldly men, but she couldn’t summon up enough interest to contribute to the debate.

Gavin, of course, noticed her distraction. “Frankie, I fear we’re boring you.”

“Not at all,” she said, before sipping her whiskey. “I came to listen.”

“And drink,” Gavin said, as she refilled her glass for the second time. He was far too astute an observer. She should have avoided him.

“I can drink all of you under the table,” she said. “It’s in my DNA.” There she went with the Irish thing again.

“Didn’t I see you on the news with the new coach of the New York Challenge?” Nathan asked.