Carla Neggers - The Mist

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

By 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?”