Carla Neggers - The Mist

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.”