Carla Neggers - The Rapids

“No one does romantic suspense better!”

—New York Times bestselling author Janet Evanovich

“Neggers’s brisk pacing and colorful characterizations sweep the reader toward a dramatic and ultimately satisfying denouement.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Cabin

“These pages don’t just turn; they spin with the best of them.”

—BookPage on The Waterfall

“Neggers delivers a colorful, well-spun story that shines with sincere emotion.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Carriage House

“Suspense, romance and the rocky Maine coast—what more can a reader ask for? The Harbor has it all. Carla Neggers writes a story so vivid you can smell the salt air and feel the mist on your skin.”

—New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen

“Tension-filled story line that grips the audience from start to finish.”

—Midwest Book Review on The Waterfall

“Carla Neggers is one of the most distinctive, talented writers of our genre.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

A special thank-you to my Dutch cousins Henk and Christine Nouwen, Jan and Martha van de Leur, Amy Knechten, Sonja van den Akker and Bart, Leo, Marie Louise, Nanny and Rob Neggers for their warm welcome and many family stories on our visits to the Netherlands. Christine was my “Dutch pen pal” when I was growing up in small-town western Massachusetts and she was growing up in Eindhoven. Henk—who for some mysterious reason thinks the Neggers family is a bit argumentative!—went above and beyond the call of duty in answering my many questions for this book and even put me in touch with a Dutch police inspector, who was equally generous with his time and expertise. I’ve promised to keep working on my Dutch vocabulary…but I’ll never get those “g’s” down!

I’m so glad we got to see my cousin Carla, for whom I’m named, before her recent death. I will always remember our lunch in her beautiful garden…she and her husband, Daan, had the most gorgeous roses….

Many thanks to the deputy U.S. marshal who was so gracious and helpful in talking with me, and to my brother Mark and sister-in-law Kathy Neggers for showing me around the scenic and very special Hudson River Valley.

As I write this, hiking season is about to get under way here in northern New England. I’m still determined to hike all forty-eight peaks over 4,000 feet in the White Mountains…but it’s going to take a while, because I really like walking on the beach, too! I’m also diving into my next book. If you’d like to get in touch with me, please visit my Web site, www.carlaneggers.com.

Thank you, and take care!

Carla Neggers

P.O. Box 826

Quechee, VT 05059

To Kate Jewell and Conor Hansen

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Maggie Spencer stood paralyzed in front of the glass case in a small Dutch bakery not far from her apartment. Decisions, decisions. She’d arrived at the American embassy in The Hague three weeks ago, her first foreign assignment as a diplomatic security officer and already had fallen in love with Dutch bread.

“You’ll kill for a Krispy Kreme in another two months.”

She laughed as Thomas Kopac, a midlevel diplomat at the embassy, joined her. “Be careful. I’m talking myself out of chocolate sprinkles.”

“Ah. Hagelslag. It’s more like dessert than breakfast.”

“So’s Krispy Kreme.” Maggie smiled at him. “You said that so well. Hagelslag. My Dutch vocabulary is improving, but pronunciation? Forget it. Nobody understands what I’m saying.”

But she’d had chocolate sprinkles on buttered bread two mornings in a row and decided, instead, on a whole-grain roll with smoked gouda.

Tom didn’t order anything. “I just saw you in the window and figured I’d make you homesick.”

“Do I look like the doughnut-eating type?”

“Uh-uh. I’m not going there.”

They headed outside into the late August sun. A midnight rain had washed the humidity and pollution out of the air and perked up the summer roses and hydrangea blooming in dooryard gardens. The embassy was only a few blocks away. Maggie walked comfortably alongside Tom, a balding man in his mid-fifties who’d never married, a career foreign service officer who’d never rise to the top ranks of his profession. He was the sort who would wear the same suit for days on end. His job was his life. Maggie was trying to have more balance for herself, but it wasn’t easy. Still, she’d turned thirty in July and had already learned the hard way that life was too short.

There was, mercifully, nothing romantic in Tom’s offer of friendship.

“You can eat your broodje in front of me,” he said. “I would.”

“Do I look hungry?”

He smiled. “Starving.”

“I’ll have to pound the pavement after work to burn off the extra calories.”

Dutch breakfasts notwithstanding, she kept in shape. At five-five, she couldn’t count on her size to get her out of a jam. Fitness, training, experience and mental toughness were the trick.

And luck.

There was always the luck factor. But since luck wasn’t her long suit, she didn’t count on it, either.

“Look there,” Tom said. “Your hair’s the same color as those roses.”

She noticed the cluster of orange-red roses in a dooryard. “It’s not that red.”

“Is the red hair from your mother or your father?”

“Father.”

He hesitated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about him.” She smiled to prove she wasn’t just being nice. “My wanderlust is also a Spencer trait.”

The day she’d arrived in The Hague was the eighteen-month anniversary of her father’s death. Philip Spencer, ordinary American businessman, had walked into the middle of a bank robbery in Prague.

Talk about no luck.

The bank robbers still hadn’t been caught. Nobody seemed to be looking too hard for them.

Maggie gave up on resisting, took her roll out of the bag and bit into it, welcoming the smokiness of the cheese and the softness of the bread. Normalcy. She had to establish her routines, focus on her job and continue to move forward with her life. She couldn’t dwell on the past. And it wasn’t her job to investigate her father’s death.

She and Tom walked up Lange Voorhout, a tree-lined street of stately historic buildings that was said to be one of the prettiest in The Hague, or, as it was known formally in Dutch, ’s-Gravenhage, which meant “the count’s hedge.” Even the Dutch shortened it to Den Haag. Although Amsterdam was the official capital, The Hague was the seat of the Dutch government and the residence of its royal family, as well as home to dozens of foreign embassies and the International Court of Justice.

The functional concrete American embassy was often called the ugliest building on Lange Voorhout, possibly in the entire city. The original embassy—presumably more graceful—had been accidentally destroyed by an Allied bomb during World War Two.