The Mist (20 page)

"In different ways, but Norman has an unusual idea of trust. Relationships are entirely on his terms. He's the sun in his universe. Everyone else is a tiny planet that revolves around him. I was an especially tiny planet--but desirable to have around. That was helpful."

"Attractive, elegant, vivacious Lizzie Rush."

She gave a mock bow. "Compliment accepted with gratitude, especially considering you've now seen me in a knife fight and up to my knees in mud and manure."

"An image I shall never forget."

She managed a laugh, but she couldn't sustain it. "Norman's father was a police officer, just a regular guy. From what I've been able to put together, Norman felt inferior to him, vulnerable even as he was embarrassed that his father never rose up through the ranks."

"Going up against John March and the FBI makes him feel important. Why did you stay in, Lizzie? A year's a long time."

"I couldn't unring the bell. Once I knew, I knew. And I was in a position to help. I wasn't with Norman all the time. Not as much as Simon. I provided names, faces, numbers. I was careful. I didn't want March to know it was me. If something went wrong, I knew he'd blame himself."

"You never approached Simon or tried to find out if he was someone you could trust?"

"I couldn't let myself trust anyone."

But Will's changeable eyes narrowed on her, and she felt a surge of heat, as if he could see through her, straight to her secrets, her fears.

"There's more, Lizzie. Isn't there?"

She avoided his eyes as she came around the counter and sat upon a bar stool next to him. "How's Josie Goodwin? I figure she's MI6, too. Has she provided a complete dossier on me by now?"

"It's not complete."

"Does she know I love the smell of lavender?"

A chilly breeze blew through the little house. Will was very still next to her. "Do you?"

"I never knew why until I went to Ireland for the first time in college. I was on my own--my father would never go with me. I was standing in a lace shop and picked up a sachet filled with dried lavender, and I smiled and cried and laughed. I had an emotional meltdown there in the shop. I knew it was because of my mother. She loved lavender, too."

"Growing up without her must have been difficult," Will said.

"I didn't know any different. I'd watch other girls with their mothers..." Suddenly restless, Lizzie eased off the bar stool. "I love my family. My father's a mystery to us all. My uncle and aunt are kind and hardworking, totally dedicated to the hotels and to my cousins. And to me. But you know all this, don't you, from Josie?"

"Some." Will gave her a near-unreadable smile. "Josie is very thorough and dogged. I, on the other hand, am not."

"I don't know nearly enough about you. London, Scotland, lords and ladies. Made your own money, or at least that's what the U.K. government wants the rest of us to believe."

"Lizzie..."

She'd gone too far, and if he kissed her again, she was lost. "I could see what's in the freezer, or we could walk down to the river and have lobster rolls."

He got up from the bar stool, standing close to her, and tucked a few strands of her hair behind her ears. "I believe I've met my match," he said, a sadness coming into his eyes even as he smiled.

They sat at an outdoor table covered in red-checked vinyl. Tourists at nearby tables in the popular roadside diner glanced at Will as if they suspected he might be someone. Like British nobility, Lizzie thought, amused. "Forget cholesterol and calories," she said, "and order a cup of clam chowder, a lobster roll and wild blueberry pie--warm, with ice cream."

"With a salad?"

"Sure. You can order a salad."

He smiled. They resisted the lobster rolls and ordered clam chowder and salads.

Lizzie pushed back the fatigue from her long two days. "How did you and Simon become friends?"

"He saved my life two years ago."

"Because of Myles Fletcher," she said.

Will leaned back, tapped a finger on a white square of the tablecloth. "You see too much, Lizzie."

"My father taught me to be observant."

"I led a team into a remote area of Afghanistan. We--
I
trusted Myles. He betrayed us. Until yesterday, I had every reason to believe he'd been captured and executed by his terrorist friends."

"Your team," Lizzie said, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread. "What happened to them?"

Will leveled his gaze on her. "They were killed in action."

"What were their names?"

"David Mears and Philip Billings. They were the best men the U.K. has to offer. The best men I've ever known."

Lizzie was aware of a car passing on the street by their table and the smell of scallops as a waiter came out with a tray, but her mind was in Afghanistan, a place she'd never been, with men she'd never met. Finally she said, "I'm sorry."

"I'd have died in their place."

She knew he meant it. "People are loyal to you, aren't they? Josie Goodwin. Your men."

"Not Myles. I led Josie to him." Will spoke without bitterness, without flinching from the truth. "I led David and Philip to their deaths."

"You don't want to trust or be trusted anymore, do you, Will?
No one to disappoint or to owe." Lizzie leaned over the table, aware now only of the man across from her. He was emotionally self-contained and mission-oriented, but he was also, in his own way, tortured by the past. "I'd love to see you really laugh one day."

"Lizzie--"

"You need to know what Fletcher's been up to the past two years. And you need to find out what really happened in Afghanistan. The answers you thought you had are looking a little muddy right now. Am I right?"

"I like clarity," he said with a small smile.

A couple at another of the roadside tables laughed loudly, enjoying their late-summer vacation. Lizzie had pulled on a sweatshirt before leaving the house, but she still felt chilly. "Did John March have a role in what happened in Afghanistan?"

Will hesitated ever so slightly. "I suppose since I've told you this much, I might as well..." He sighed and looked away from her a moment. "Simon found me in the cave where I was trapped. I assume he was there because of March. David and Philip were already dead. Myles had already been captured. Simon had only an ax and a rope with him, but you've seen him."

"He's built like a bull. Do he and March know about Myles Fletcher?"

"Yes. Most certainly."

This time, Lizzie noticed a trace of bitterness in his tone. "Fletcher will try to kill you if he gets the chance, won't he?"

"He'll make the chance."

"Because you know he's alive," Lizzie said.

"Because if everything I've believed for the past two years is true, I know what he did." Will looked across the narrow street at a flower shop and a pretty gray-shingled inn. "In a way, I hope
if Myles wants me dead it's because he can't tolerate having us know he's alive. Dead, he could still pretend he didn't betray us."

"It would say he still has something of a conscience." Lizzie reached across the table and took his hand briefly. "It would also say he knows you won't rest until you find him. You're handsome and elusive, Lord Davenport, and I do believe I'm falling for you. It's not just adrenaline and jetlag, either."

He smiled. "We'll see."

"Would your family be horrified?"

"Delighted. I've become something of a worry."

Their bowls of chowder arrived, thick, steaming. Lizzie tore open a packet of oyster crackers and dumped them into her soup. "My cousin Whit makes the best chowder of the lot of us. Are your MI6 and SAS comrades after Fletcher? The House of Lords? The prime minister? I hear you're mates."

Will managed to look something between exasperated and amused.

Lizzie shrugged. "Just trying to inject a touch of humor into a humorless situation. Are you a magnet for Fletcher?" She studied him. "You hope so. Do you suspect Norman has ties to some of the same people you ran into in Afghanistan?"

"Anything's possible."

"Ripple effects. Did you look for Fletcher after Simon saved your life?"

"Night and day for weeks."

"I guess he didn't want to be found. He's as dangerous as you say, isn't he?"

Will's expression didn't match their quaint, cheerful surroundings. "Myles can't have been in charge of every aspect of what happened yesterday in Boston and Ireland. Otherwise, the outcome would have been quite different."

"You mean he doesn't make mistakes. At least not that kind. He's a professional."

"You obviously have a sixth sense for..."

"Spies?"

This time, he smiled at her humor. "Eat your soup, Lizzie."

After dinner, they walked up to the rambling house her grandfather had built on the rocks above the Atlantic. There was no sign anyone was there now or had been since her last visit. Some days Lizzie wanted to renovate the house for the mother she'd never known and other days just to tear it down and start from scratch with a new house, fresh memories. Her aunt had asked her if Norman was in her sights and had been openly relieved when Lizzie had said no. Her aunt hadn't known then of his association with violent international criminals. She'd objected to him because of his personality. "He's self-absorbed, Lizzie. You wouldn't make a good trophy. You want a partnership, at the very least. You'd love to have a soulmate, but life doesn't always provide one. You might have to look under a few rocks and kiss a few toads."

Henrietta was as near to a mother as Lizzie had ever known, even more than her grandmother, but neither woman had ever tried to be something she wasn't. Successful, creative, not bound by clocks and routines, Henrietta Rush was a devoted wife and mother of four sons. The daughter of the Whitcomb's head maintenance man, she'd met Bradley Rush when she hand-delivered a list of a hundred things her father thought the hotel was doing wrong. The two of them still lived in the same drafty Victorian north of Boston. Lizzie considered it home as much as anywhere. When she was growing up, her father had maintained an apartment in Boston because it was convenient for him to leave her with his brother and wife when he had to be away for weeks at a time and couldn't take her with him.

When she left for college, he moved to Las Vegas.

"I was supposed to grow up here," Lizzie said, Will close to her in the dark. She could hear the wash of waves down on the rocks. "Then my mother died, and my father--I think that's when he gave up on leaving the CIA or whatever alphabet agency he works for."

"Do you believe your mother died because of his work?"

"I believe I don't have all the facts about her life or her death."

Will stayed close to her as they made their way back to her little house. The tide had shifted and was just starting to come in, bringing with it the cool night breeze and smells of the ocean.

Lizzie was intensely aware that Will would be sleeping close by again tonight. "I'm just enough on Irish time to be exhausted," she said.

"Taking on a killer and finding a man shot to death can't help."

"I didn't think. I just acted."

"You fight well." He nodded to her small living area. "Do you train here?"

"Sometimes. I almost took out a window in July with my kicking."

He stood in front of her, looking at her as if he wanted to push back all her defenses and see into her soul.

Which was just nonsense. She had to stay focused and couldn't indulge in romantic fantasies. But he took her hand into his and she leaned into him, letting herself sink against his chest.

He put his arms around her, and she lifted her head from his chest so that she could see his face. "When you walked into Eddie O'Shea's pub..." She wasn't sure she could explain. "There's something about that village. It's as if Iwas meant to be there, sitting by a fire reading Irish folktales. When I was in London, I thought you were just another spy. Of course, I didn't actually see you."

He smiled. "You didn't get this close."

"Too dangerous." She eased her hands up his arms, hard under the soft, light fabric of his sweater. "Way too dangerous."

"I don't know if I want to disabuse you of your romantic notions about me."

"You mean that you're as sexy--"

His kiss stopped her midsentence and took her breath away, a mix of tenderness and urgency. Lizzie tightened her grip on him just to keep herself on her feet. The ocean breeze gusted through the screens, hitting her already sensitized skin, and she let her arms go around him. There was nothing soft or easy about him.

"I'm breaking all my rules with you," he whispered.

"You're used to discipline and isolation."

"My father left broken hearts in his wake. I learned at an early age the dangers of romantic entanglements."

"
Entanglements
. Scary word."

He kissed her again, lifting her off her feet, and she gave herself up to the swirl of sensations--ocean, seagulls, wind, wanting--and relished the taste and feel of him, imagined him carrying her to her bedroom, and making love to her for the rest of the night. She knew it wouldn't happen. Not tonight.

Will pulled away, or she did, and they turned toward the water.

Lizzie cleared her throat and adjusted her shirt. "Our focus is rightly on Abigail, Norman, Fletcher and what we can do to help the situation."

Will pivoted around to her, his eyes dark and serious now. "Not
we
, Lizzie."

"You're a British citizen. You shouldn't be sneaking around southern Maine on your own, either."

"Lizzie--"

"I know what you're saying, but right now I'm here, and I'm
safe. I hope the FBI and BPD find Abigail and arrest Norman tonight. I'd love to wake up tomorrow morning with nothing more dangerous on my mind than a trip to the lobster pound."

"I'd like that, too, but whatever's happened by morning, you need to leave Myles and Estabrook to real professionals."

"And if I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time as I was with Norman and his friends in the drug cartels? Then what?" She smoothed the back of her hand along his rough jaw and didn't wait for an answer. "You've a job to do. I won't get in your way. But I really am falling for you. Tall, fair, handsome and loyal--and you can walk through an Irish pasture and hardly get a bit of manure on your shoes."