But Lizzie had held tight to her secrets for a long time. Once she let go of them, they wouldn’t just be hers anymore. She’d be giving up the security they’d provided her for over a year. She’d be forced to trust whomever she confided in.
It was a big step. Too big.
“What I’m up to right now,” she said lightly, “is falling asleep on my feet.”
Will responded by easing his arm down her back to her hips, as if helping her to stay upright. “You’re trying to keep yourself from telling me the truth.”
No kidding. “What I’ve told you is the truth.”
“It isn’t everything.”
“A two-way street, I’m afraid.” She suddenly realized she still smelled of lavender and wondered if he noticed. “You’re an attractive and dangerous man, Will Davenport, and you’re wearing a very soft, warm sweater. That’s a near-irresistible combination for a sleepy woman.”
He kissed her forehead, so close now she could feel the warmth of his sweater. “Then I’ll be noble and resist for both of us,” he said, a slight roughness to his voice that suggested resisting wasn’t that easy for him.
Lizzie’s throat tightened, and part of her wanted just to sink into his arms and let him protect her, keep her safe. How much longer could she carry on alone? Norman had crossed a threshold in the past twenty-four hours. People had nearly died. A woman was missing. He was missing. But he still trusted her, Lizzie thought, and that gave her a certain leverage with him, perhaps the only leverage anyone had. If she let anyone-the director of the FBI, Simon, this Prince Charming of a stranger with her now-interfere, she risked losing the one advantage she had in helping to find Abigail Browning.
And, possibly, in staying safe herself.
Will touched a thumb to her upper cheekbone. “You’ve dark circles under your lovely eyes. You’re exhausted.” He let his thumb drift down to the corner of her mouth before his hand fell back to his side. “Good night, Lizzie.”
“Why did you come here?” she asked, a little hoarse.
He winked at her. “The lure of a beautiful, mysterious woman.”
“You’re a very charming liar, Lord Davenport.”
“Sweet dreams,” he said.
He picked up his bag and ducked into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him.
Lizzie blew out a breath.
A very attractive, dangerous man.
She stretched out on the sofa in her skirt and T-shirt and pulled the duvet and her wool throw up to her chin.
Morning couldn’t come soon enough.
Lizzie had left her robe on the bathroom floor.
Will picked it up and hung it on a hook on the back of the door, noting that the soft terry cloth was still damp from her bath.
A perilous observation, that one. He abandoned it before it could take hold and spawn images that would make for an even longer night ahead.
“Too late,” he muttered, picturing small, green-eyed Lizzie Rush settling into her bath.
The bathroom smelled of lavender and, very faintly, of dried mud. He saw the rucksack she’d had with her on the Beara in a corner behind the door and immediately seized on the distraction. If he was too “noble” to take advantage of her fatigue and her own desire for distraction, he was perfectly at peace with having a look in her rucksack.
He got onto one knee and unzipped the main compartment. It was packed with supplies anyone would take on a multiday hike. The garda had her bungee cords. After seeing how quickly she’d thought of them and the skill with which she’d used them on Michael Murphy, Will wouldn’t be surprised to discover she’d packed them with tying up a prisoner in mind. He continued his search but found no weapons or any other items that would immediately undermine her story of how she’d happened upon Keira Sullivan and the man sent to kill her.
Feeling no guilt whatsoever at having invaded her privacy, Will showered and returned to the bedroom. It was small and tastefully decorated in neutral colors, but he found himself unable to relax. He stared at the closed door to the living room and debated going out there to argue sleeping arrangements.
He could also go out there and demand Lizzie tell him about the Brit she’d described to Michael Murphy and whom Eddie O’Shea in turn had described to Will.
If it was Myles…
Now, when Lizzie was about to fall asleep and would just be letting down her guard, was the perfect time to confront her. Why had she asked about that particular man? What did he have to do with Norman Estabrook and her relationship with the American billionaire? But not only had Will seen the dark circles under Lizzie’s eyes and the tremor in her hands, he had to acknowledge an attraction to her that was both dangerous and compelling.
And perfectly natural, he thought with a small smile.
She needed sleep and time to recover from her ordeal, and he needed a few hours to chase back the ghosts and remember why he was here, now, in Lizzie Rush’s suite in Dublin. His physical reaction to her only complicated matters.
He could have easily carried her in here and made love to her.
He could hear David Mears and Philip Billings teasing him about his love life. “You’re a lone wolf, Will,” David had said; he had been a stocky, hard-drinking man with a wicked sense of humor. “Heaven pity the poor woman who falls for you.”
Philip, a formidable ladies’ man but who had lately fallen for one of Arabella’s friends back in London, had hooted in agreement. “And heaven pity you when you meet your match, because such a woman won’t be like any you have in mind. She’ll knock you on your arse, and we’ll be there, Mears and me, saying we told you so.”
Will pulled back the duvet on his bed and climbed in.
The sheets, too, smelled of lavender.
Chapter 15
Off the coast of Massachusetts
1 a.m., EDT
August 26
Abigail had just started to play pool when Estabrook and the Brit-Fletcher-entered her stateroom. She’d slept fitfully before giving up, deciding she preferred to stay awake and alert. Estabrook wore a porkpie hat and yachting attire that might make a casual passerby less likely to recognize him, but he’d had his face plastered in the media for weeks while people speculated why a self-made billionaire would take up with ruthless criminals. Abigail had made a point of memorizing his face after he’d threatened to kill Simon and her father.
Fletcher calmly grasped the pool cue in her hands. She relinquished it without a struggle. “I’m not very good, anyway-at pool. You’re right in thinking I could do some damage with the cue.”
He said nothing as he set the cue aside.
Estabrook smirked at her. “I see your black eye’s blossomed, Detective. Have you slept?”
She decided to answer. “A little.”
“As much as I relish your father’s suffering, I regret seeing you suffer. You’re in pain, and you’re frightened.”
Abigail wanted to kill him. “You should let me go. Release me and give up the people who actually set the bombs. It wasn’t you. You were in Montana.”
Of course, since he’d hired the men who’d carried out the attacks, he was ultimately responsible. There’d be no deal. He hadn’t beamed himself east. There’d be a trail, and her colleagues in law enforcement would pick it up and follow it to her. She trusted them. In the meantime, she had to stay alive and do what she could to throw Estabrook off balance and keep him there.
He thrived on risk and wouldn’t rattle easily.
“Don’t play me for a fool, Detective. May I call you Abigail?” He smiled, having fun with her.
“Sure. Why not?”
“Have a seat,” he said.
She shrugged and started for the sectional on the wall.
“Not there.” Estabrook smiled nastily and pointed to the metal chair his men had tied her to earlier. “There.”
Abigail made herself keep her eyes on him. “Suit yourself.”