The Mist (12 page)

"Even if you can, would you? Do you trust anyone?"

It wasn't a question she wanted to answer tonight. "Norman doesn't know I've been helping you. I want to keep it that way." She tried a bite of the black pudding. "You didn't steer me wrong. Black pudding does take like sausage."

She shut her phone before he could respond.

Would March figure out who she was and have her hotel stormed by armed agents at sunrise? He could make it happen, even in Ireland.

But he wouldn't. John March was a hard man who often faced only bad choices, and right now, she was safe and his daughter wasn't. And he'd made his choice. He would let his anonymous source have room to maneuver and give her a chance to find Norman Estabrook--and save her own skin as well as his daughter's.

Lizzie ate a few more bites of her meal before she gave up and headed for the bathroom, turning on the water in the tub as hot as she could stand. She added a scoop of lavender bath salts and, as they melted, shed her robe and dipped slowly into the steaming water. The heat eased the ache and stiffness in her muscles and the scent of lavender soothed her soul. Images washed over her--Simon and Norman in Montana going over plans for a Patagonia hike...the enigmatic Brit winking at her in Las Vegas...Scoop Wisdom walking out to the street with his colander of beans...Keira Sullivan and the black dog in the stone circle.

Will Davenport eyeing her over his brandy.

Lowering herself deeper into the tub, an image came to her of John March at her family's hotel in Boston last August. It was the anniversary of her mother's death, and he was drinking Irish whiskey alone at a table in the pub named in her honor. Lizzie had been in Boston, making one of her strategic appearances at the hotel offices, and had stopped at the Whitcomb.

She hadn't approached the FBI director and former Boston detective and doubted he'd been aware of her presence. Now she couldn't help but wonder where they'd all be if she'd identified herself as the anonymous source who'd been supplying him information on Norman Estabrook and his drug-trafficking friends.

But she hadn't.

She got out of the tub, dried off with a giant towel and slipped back into her robe. She returned to the living room and, no longer in the mood for a chat, set her tray in the hall and called down for its removal. When she sat back on the sofa, she managed to deal another hand of bridge, but she didn't sort the cards and instead curled up under a throw made of soft Irish wool and gave in to her fatigue.

When the telephone rang, she bolted upright, instantly awake. She glanced at the clock as she answered. It was almost 4:00 a.m.

"He's here," Justin said. "What should I do now?"

"Send him up."

"Lizzie? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"All right, I won't tell anyone."

She felt a surge of heat. "It's not like
that
." But she couldn't tell him the truth. "I'll explain one day, Justin, I promise."

"I imagine it'll be a tale."

"Let Davenport think he's checking into his own room and I'll take it from there."

"You lead a complicated life," her cousin said.

As Lizzie hung up, her bathrobe fell open, the cool night air hitting her exposed skin.

This won't do, she thought. She'd come to Ireland to talk to an FBI agent about a man she was convinced would commit murder, not to greet a British lord in nothing but a hotel bathrobe.

Best to jump into some clothes before Will Davenport got to the door.

Dublin, Ireland
3:47 a.m., IST
August 26

B
y the time she heard a key card slide into the slot in the door, Lizzie had on a long knit skirt and a T-shirt. She was still barefoot, but at least she wasn't naked under her bathrobe. She unchained the door and opened it. Will had his trench coat slung over one arm and a scarred leather bag in his hand, which at least meant she didn't have to worry about Justin turning up.

"I had a feeling you were good," she said.

Will gave her the slightest smile. "And I had a feeling you were on the other side of this door."

"We Rushes like to keep an eye on spies in our hotels."

"You're imaginative. May I assume I'm invited in?"

"You may."

Lizzie stood back, and he walked past her and set his bag on
the floor next to the coffee table. As she shut the door, she noticed him glance at the scattered cards on the table. She ran a hand through her hair, remembered she hadn't combed it since her bath and wondered what had gotten into her, arranging for an MI6 agent to share her room.

She scooped up the cards. "Playing bridge by myself helps me think. My method of creative problem solving."

"What problems were you trying to solve tonight?"

"You. What to do when you showed up."

The soft light from a brass floor lamp created shadows that darkened his eyes and made them even more difficult to read. "And your answer was to have me sent up here to your room?"

"No, I'd already figured that one out. I knew I didn't want you wandering around on your own and eliciting secrets about me from the staff." Not to mention her cousin.

"You worked here yourself prior to becoming director of concierge services for all your family's hotels."

"Ah. You've been busy."

"I have an able assistant."

"I loved working here. I learned a lot. Ireland offers an incredible variety of opportunities--great restaurants, rich history, natural beauty."

"So it does."

"Most of what the staff could tell you about me is innocuous enough. I can speak a bit of Irish and have a fondness for Irish butter and fresh Irish seafood, especially mussels, and I love to walk." She tidied up the deck, using both hands, which, she noticed, were trembling slightly. An annoyance, but she blamed her interrupted sleep, not the man across from her. "But I decided I didn't want anyone telling you about my Grafton Street shopping sprees."

As far as she could tell, Will didn't respond to her attempt at humor or even notice it. "Has Norman Estabrook been to this hotel?"

"I met him here, actually. A year ago this past April." She set the cards back on the table. Interrogation time. "He hired Simon Cahill as a consultant a few months later."

Will laid his coat over the back of a chair. He looked every inch the British lord turned SAS officer and spy as his gaze held hers. "Perhaps you should tell me who you are."

"You're here. Obviously you already know."

"Lizzie Rush, hotelier and--what else?"

"I haven't had time for much else lately."

"Why did you come to Dublin tonight?"

"Would you believe I got tired of walking the Beara Way and had a hankering for nice sheets?"

His outright smile caught her off guard. "No."

"It's my favorite of our hotels. It opened twenty years ago--over my father's objections. He's not much on Ireland, but my aunt and uncle fell in love with Dublin. I was ten years old, and I wanted to come here so bad."

"Your father wouldn't allow it?"

"I never told him how much I wanted it." She spun over to a chest and pulled open a drawer. "My feet are cold," she said, grabbing a pair of wool socks. "I arrived in Dublin this morning and checked in here before I went off on my adventure. I always stay in this room. Cute, isn't it?"

"It's lovely." He obviously didn't care one way or the other about her suite. "Did your father visit you during your posting here?"

"No, he did not," she said, dropping onto a chair and slipping on her socks. It was an intimate thing to do in front of a man she'd known for mere hours, but cold feet were cold feet. "My
father and I get along, in case you're wondering. We just have different views on Ireland."

"Lizzie..."

His sudden intensity mixed with the softness of his voice shot her up from her chair. This was
not
one of her Rush cousins. "I'm talking too much. You must be hell in an interrogation. You're so smooth and--" She stopped herself. How many of his interrogation subjects would be affected by the concern in his voice, the drape of his sweater on his broad shoulders? "Never mind. I dozed off, and now I'm in one of those crazy half-awake, half-asleep states."

"You're not accustomed to the intensity of the fighting you did earlier tonight, and you're jetlagged. Why did you fly from Boston?"

"I didn't say I did."

The slight smile again. "As I said, I have an able assistant."

"Does that mean I really do have MI6 on my case?"

"You have a flare for dramatics as well as an active imagination."

"It's been that kind of year. Our main offices are in Boston. I spent a lot of time there growing up." She didn't go into more detail. "How's Keira?"

"She's safe in garda hands."

"That's good. I assume you wouldn't be here otherwise. I wish I could have met her under better circumstances. What happened in the stone circle was..." Lizzie tried to find the right word and realized she couldn't. "It was different."

"Where did you learn defense tactics?"

She gave him a knowing smile. "I read the SAS handbook on self-defense."

"You've been doing research of your own, I see."

"You're not denying you're a British SAS officer?"

"Did Simon tell you about my background?"

He had her there. She'd given herself away. "I knew you and Simon were friends, and I'm a curious type--which is how I ended up in a knife fight in the Irish hills. What about you?"

"I was looking for Keira. Were you drawn to Estabrook because of his adventures? I gather you're something of a daredevil yourself."

"I wasn't drawn to Norman at all. I just hung out with him and his friends on and off. Long weekends, vacations, when he was at one of our hotels."

"You came a long way to find Simon."

This time, she was ready for the dodging and darting of his questions. "I came a long way to hike the Beara Way. I'd heard Keira's story about the stone angel and thought I might run into her and Simon."

With a glimmer of a smile, Will moved close to her, just inches from her, and before she could catch her breath, he touched his fingertips to her hair. "You're an adept fighter but not a particularly adept liar."

"Not tonight, maybe. Ordinarily I'm a very adept liar."

"You were concerned Estabrook would go free, and you arranged a cover story that would allow you to talk to Simon without his thinking you'd come to Ireland specifically for that reason."

"Norman's legal situation was added impetus for me to choose the Beara Peninsula for my hike." She licked her lips, dry now, sensitive. "I've wanted to walk the Beara Way for some time."

"You didn't last long, did you?"

"A gale and a knife attack took all the fun out of my adventure."

"You also started in the very village where you'd expected to find Simon. Do you always hike alone?"

Lizzie decided she was in over her head with this man and broke for the closet. She yanked open the door. "Call downstairs for whatever you need," she said, standing on her tiptoes to reach
up to the shelf. "Help yourself to the tub. The lavender bath salts here are my favorite. My aunt Henrietta and I picked them out together. I soaked for thirty minutes earlier tonight. Almost fell asleep and drowned myself." But as she glanced back at him with a breezy smile, she realized she now had him picturing her in the tub.

Definitely
in over her head.

She pulled a fluffy duvet and pillow down from the shelf. "You can have the bedroom. I'll take the sofa. That way," she said, carrying the bedding to the sofa, "I can hear you if you try to sneak out."

"Lizzie."

She unfurled the duvet. "If I'm wrong about you, I can defend myself. I don't care if you're SAS, MI6 or a bored British aristocrat."

Will slipped an arm over her shoulders and turned her gently to him, surprising her. "You're exactly what you seem to be, aren't you?"

"And that would be?"

"A hotelier who's more comfortable picking out bath salts and hiking the Beara Way than defending herself and a perfect stranger from a killer."

"Maybe I'm comfortable with picking out bath salts
and
taking on killers."

"I should have followed you from the pub. I could have spared you..." He seemed to shake off any regret. "Lizzie, you're not a professional. Whatever you're up to, you don't have to go about it alone."

He
was
good, she decided. Under the expensive clothes and polished manners, the upper-class bearing, were the quiet competence and self-assurance of a man who knew what he was doing--who, in fact, had real training and experience.

But Lizzie had held tight to her secrets for a long time. Once
she let go of them, they wouldn't just be hers anymore. She'd be giving up the security they'd provided her for over a year. She'd be forced to trust whomever she confided in.

It was a big step. Too big.

"What I'm up to right now," she said lightly, "is falling asleep on my feet."

Will responded by easing his arm down her back to her hips, as if helping her to stay upright. "You're trying to keep yourself from telling me the truth."

No kidding. "What I've told you is the truth."

"It isn't everything."

"A two-way street, I'm afraid." She suddenly realized she still smelled of lavender and wondered if he noticed. "You're an attractive and dangerous man, Will Davenport, and you're wearing a very soft, warm sweater. That's a near-irresistible combination for a sleepy woman."

He kissed her forehead, so close now she could feel the warmth of his sweater. "Then I'll be noble and resist for both of us," he said, a slight roughness to his voice that suggested resisting wasn't that easy for him.

Lizzie's throat tightened, and part of her wanted just to sink into his arms and let him protect her, keep her safe. How much longer could she carry on alone? Norman had crossed a threshold in the past twenty-four hours. People had nearly died. A woman was missing.
He
was missing. But he still trusted her, Lizzie thought, and that gave her a certain leverage with him, perhaps the only leverage anyone had. If she let anyone--the director of the FBI, Simon, this Prince Charming of a stranger with her now--interfere, she risked losing the one advantage she had in helping to find Abigail Browning.

And, possibly, in staying safe herself.

Will touched a thumb to her upper cheekbone. "You've dark circles under your lovely eyes. You're exhausted." He let his thumb drift down to the corner of her mouth before his hand fell back to his side. "Good night, Lizzie."

"Why did you come here?" she asked, a little hoarse.

He winked at her. "The lure of a beautiful, mysterious woman."

"You're a very charming liar, Lord Davenport."

"Sweet dreams," he said.

He picked up his bag and ducked into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him.

Lizzie blew out a breath.

A
very
attractive, dangerous man.

She stretched out on the sofa in her skirt and T-shirt and pulled the duvet and her wool throw up to her chin.

Morning couldn't come soon enough.

Lizzie had left her robe on the bathroom floor.

Will picked it up and hung it on a hook on the back of the door, noting that the soft terry cloth was still damp from her bath.

A perilous observation, that one. He abandoned it before it could take hold and spawn images that would make for an even longer night ahead.

"Too late," he muttered, picturing small, green-eyed Lizzie Rush settling into her bath.

The bathroom smelled of lavender and, very faintly, of dried mud. He saw the rucksack she'd had with her on the Beara in a corner behind the door and immediately seized on the distraction. If he was too "noble" to take advantage of her fatigue and her own desire for distraction, he was perfectly at peace with having a look in her rucksack.

He got onto one knee and unzipped the main compartment.
It was packed with supplies anyone would take on a multiday hike. The garda had her bungee cords. After seeing how quickly she'd thought of them and the skill with which she'd used them on Michael Murphy, Will wouldn't be surprised to discover she'd packed them with tying up a prisoner in mind. He continued his search but found no weapons or any other items that would immediately undermine her story of how she'd happened upon Keira Sullivan and the man sent to kill her.

Feeling no guilt whatsoever at having invaded her privacy, Will showered and returned to the bedroom. It was small and tastefully decorated in neutral colors, but he found himself unable to relax. He stared at the closed door to the living room and debated going out there to argue sleeping arrangements.

He could also go out there and demand Lizzie tell him about the Brit she'd described to Michael Murphy and whom Eddie O'Shea in turn had described to Will.

If it
was
Myles...

Now, when Lizzie was about to fall asleep and would just be letting down her guard, was the perfect time to confront her. Why had she asked about that particular man? What did he have to do with Norman Estabrook and her relationship with the American billionaire? But not only had Will seen the dark circles under Lizzie's eyes and the tremor in her hands, he had to acknowledge an attraction to her that was both dangerous and compelling.

And perfectly natural, he thought with a small smile.

She needed sleep and time to recover from her ordeal, and he needed a few hours to chase back the ghosts and remember why he was here, now, in Lizzie Rush's suite in Dublin. His physical reaction to her only complicated matters.