The Mist

by Carla Neggers

  Lizzie smiled. “Long plane ride across the Atlantic.”

  “I started wondering what it would be like to kiss you when you pretended not to recognize my name at Eddie O’Shea’s pub. When I saw you take on Michael Murphy—” Will kissed her again “—I knew it would be only a matter of time.”

  “Very bold of you.”

  This time, their kiss took on an urgency, nothing soft or tentative about it. She responded, putting a hand on his arm to steady herself. She was tired and raw emotionally, and all she wanted to do was to feel his arms around her, his mouth on hers.

  “Kissing you is everything I imagined it would be,” he said.

  “I hope what you imagined was good.”

  He laughed. “Very good, just not sufficient.” His eyes sparked as he stood back from her. “I want more than a kiss.”

  “Will—”

  “Also only a matter of time, wouldn’t you say, Lizzie?”

  She hoped so. Every nerve ending she had wanted it to be so. But she said lightly, “You are very bold, indeed, Lord Davenport.”

  “A point to remember.”

  He turned to face the ocean, and Lizzie shook off the aftereffects of their kiss as best she could and reminded herself who was standing next to her. What did she know about this man and why was he really here? “Maybe being attracted to each other is inevitable after all the adrenaline of the past twenty-four hours. Heightened senses and all that.”

  Will seemed amused. “I was attracted to you before the adrenaline set in.”

  Now she felt warm. She looked out at the water. Lights were coming on at the inns and houses down toward the river.

  “Does Estabrook know about this place?” Will asked, back to business.

  “Yes.”

  “You think he’ll come here.”

  “I think he knows I’ll come here.”

  “Lizzie, you can’t deal with Norman Estabrook on your own any longer. No one would ask that of you.”

  “What if I told you he kidnapped Abigail because of me? What would you say then?” She narrowed her gaze on him. “What would you ask me to do?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “The same. You’re not a criminal, nor are you a law enforcement officer.”

  “Did John March tell you to keep an eye on me?”

  His expression darkened slightly. “I don’t work for March.”

  “Did the queen tell you? Your friend the prime minister?” Lizzie didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re after Myles Fletcher.”

  “I’m here because I want to help you.”

  She noticed the air was cool, almost chilly, with nightfall. Maine’s too-short summer was coming to an end. “Thank you.”

  Will said nothing.

  “I kayaked out here with Norman last summer. If only…”

  “It’s too easy to lose ourselves in regrets,” Will said. “And not helpful.”

  “Maybe a drug cartel hired your friend Fletcher to deal with Norman—crash his plane, manipulate him, drag him out and shoot him. Whatever. Maybe yesterday and today weren’t Norman’s doing. If that’s the case, we’re clueless about who really does have Abigail.” Lizzie watched seagulls perch on the tumble of barnacle-covered rocks below the tideline. She shook off any doubt. “No. It’s Norman.”

  “You’ve become accustomed to keeping secrets. Not telling anyone what you know. Not trusting anyone.” Will eased his arms around her, locking his eyes with hers. “You’re not alone, Lizzie.”

  She smiled at him before there was no turning back. “Fat chance of that with the feds, BPD and MI6 after me.” She gave him a quick kiss. “Come on. I can at least make you dinner,” she said, yanking open a screen door, and he followed her into her little house. He seemed as comfortable there as he probably did in London, Scotland, the home of his father, the marquess, or wherever else he happened to be at a given moment.

  He walked over to a wall covered with family photographs she’d framed herself. “How did you get involved with Estabrook in the first place?” he asked, his back to her. “His other friends didn’t know he had criminal dealings. Why did you?”

  “Curiosity,” she said, pulling open the refrigerator and frowning at the sparse contents. “For once I was responsible and tossed everything before I left. I don’t even have a pint of wild blueberries to offer you.”

  “When were you here last?”

  “A couple weeks ago. I don’t need to be in an office every day. I did a little poking around—my trip to London, for example—but I figured I’d keep a low profile until Norman was tried and convicted. Once I realized he was about to make a deal…” She opened a cupboard, sighing as she glanced back at Will. “I have steel-cut oats, a couple of cans of kidney beans and salsa. Cooking’s not exactly my long suit.”

  He pointed to the top photograph on the wall display and glanced back at her. “Your father?”

  “Can you recognize a kindred spy soul?” She shut the cupboard and tried another. “Unopened spices and boxes of cornstarch aren’t very helpful, now, are they? How do you suppose I ended up with two boxes of cornstarch?”

  “One does,” Will said with a smile, leaving the photos and taking a seat on a bar stool.

  Lizzie shut that cupboard, too. “For a long time I didn’t know who was good, bad, possible law enforcement, or if I was completely off base about Norman. But March stayed in touch. That was a clue. I didn’t take crazy risks. I met a half dozen of Norman’s drug-cartel friends, at least that I’m aware of…sexy, macho guys who like high living and adventures and are very, very violent. They prey on other people’s weaknesses for their own pleasure and profit.”

  “When did you first run into them?”

  “At a resort in Costa Rica. I took their pictures and e-mailed them to the FBI.”

  “To John March, you mean.”

  “Yes.” She looked at Will and felt a rush of relief that she’d made the admission, even if he already knew and didn’t need her confirmation. “For personal reasons. But we’ve never met. I’ve only seen him from a distance.” It was the truth, if also a dodge. “I understand money, but I’m not in Norman’s league. I latched onto bits and pieces of what he was up to.”

  “Did you tip off March in the first place?”

  She shook her head, abandoning her efforts to muster together a dinner for two. “I wondered that myself, but no. He was already onto Norman. Simon took the big risks and got the most damning information against him. I did what I could to point whatever investigation might be going on in the right direction.”

  “Norman trusted both you and Simon,” Will said.

  “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 cha
ngeable 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.”