By three, Abigail was in the living room.

At zero, as promised, came the explosion, thrusting her to the floor and sucking the wind out of her. She’d crawled to her feet, her ears ringing as she’d pulled open her front door.

Scoop…Fiona…Bob…she remembered thinking she had to get to them.

She’d run into the main entry and opened that door. As she’d leaped down the steps, two men swooped in on her in a coordinated maneuver and dragged her to the van. Disoriented from the blast, she’d clawed one of them-the one with the Southie accent-enough to draw blood, but she’d been unable to do more to defend herself.

They stuffed her in the back of the van, dived in with her and sped off, a third man at the wheel.

Three armed men against her. Not good odds. When they finally came to a stop, the driver had muttered something about going on ahead to get things ready and left Abigail with the two men in the back of the van.

“Careful,” the man to her left said now. “We don’t want to lose you to the sharks, do we?”

“Sharks,” she said through the blanket. “Funny.”

Half lifting, half shoving her, they got her onto what was obviously a boat. A decent size one, too. They forced her down narrow steps before pulling the blanket off her head and taking her into a small, dark stateroom, where they pushed her onto a metal chair.

Working quickly, they blindfolded her with some kind of scarf, tying it so tightly, it pulled even her short hair enough that her eyes teared up. Using what felt like rope, they tied her hands and ankles to the chair back and legs.

Abigail knew she had to control panic and claustrophobia before they could get started and spiral, taking on a life of their own. She breathed in through her mouth to the count of eight. She held her breath for eight. She exhaled through her nose for eight.

Finally she said, “I hope you didn’t bleed on me.”

Her sarcasm was met with a backhand smack to the left side of her face, striking her cheekbone. The pain was immediate and searing, but she bit it back.

“Ouch,” she said without inflection.

“It’ll be a pleasure to kill you when the time comes,” the man with the Southie accent said.

She did her breathing exercise again.

In for eight. Hold for eight. Out for eight.

“Estabrook and his Brit friend can deal with her,” the man added “This whole business stinks. I’m going up for a drink.”

“They’ll be here in a few hours,” the second man said.

“Then they can have a drink with me.”

Abigail heard a door shut, the click of a lock turning. She listened, but heard no one breathing nearby, no footsteps.

She was alone.

Estabrook.

So. Norman Estabrook was free. He was the reason Abigail’s father and Simon were in Boston. The reason, ultimately, that she’d called them that morning and asked to talk to them.

Had Estabrook just tried to carry out his threat to kill the men he claimed had betrayed him?

Abigail did three more sets of her breathing exercises and pictured Owen on his deck at his summer house on Mount Desert Island, smiling at her. He was rugged, hard-edged, a sexy mix of Boston and Texas, a search-and-rescue expert and a man of action who wouldn’t take to having his fiancée kidnapped.

But what if he’d been targeted, too?

And Simon and her father. What about them? Had the men who’d grabbed her known they were en route to see her?

Did they know why?

She stopped the thoughts in their tracks. Even if she was alone, there could be a surveillance camera in the room. She didn’t need to spool up if she were being watched for signs of distress.

In for eight. Hold. Out for eight.

The boat got underway. The marine patrol would be on the lookout for her. She hoped her captors made a mistake-that they’d already made one and the yacht was under watch now, SWAT planning her rescue.

Owen…

Abigail saw him coming to her on a moonlit Maine night and felt him making love to her, imagined every touch, every murmur of his love and passion. She heard the waves crashing on the rocks outside their window and the cries of the seagulls in the distance.

He was with her.

Whatever happened, Owen was with her.

Chapter 8

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

9:10 p.m., IST

August 25

Farther up the peninsula, Lizzie turned off the main road onto a sparsely populated lane that crawled over the twilit hills and would take her to the market village of Kenmare at the head of the bay. It wasn’t a shortcut, but she hoped she’d be less likely to run into the An Garda Síochána-the Guardians of the Peace.

In other words, the police.

Once in Kenmare, she would go on to the small Kerry County airport and fly to Dublin.

At least she had the start of a new plan.

She pulled over to the side of the road-it wasn’t much more than a sheep track-and got out, welcoming the brisk wind in her face. The physical effects of her first real fight with an opponent determined to kill her and the thought of what had happened in Boston had left her drained.

And encountering Will Davenport had left her thoroughly rattled.

She looked out across the hills that plunged sharply to the bay, its water gray under the clearing, darkening sky. She walked along a barbed-wire fence. She hadn’t passed another car since leaving the main road. The only evidence of other people were the lights of a solitary farmhouse far down on the steep hillside.

A trio of fat sheep meandered across the rock-strewn pasture toward her. Even in the dark, she could see the splotches of blue paint on their white wool that served as brands. She could put aside her distaste for camping and pitch her tent right here among the rocks and sheep and forget everything she had on her mind, including the good-looking Brit who, she suspected, would have her name before the clock struck midnight Irish Summer Time.

Will Davenport could become a very big problem. As she watched the sheep nudge closer to the fence, she wondered how Will knew the Brit she’d run into in Las Vegas. Because she was sure he did…

Yes. He definitely could become a problem.

She’d arrived in Las Vegas in late June after a few days on her own at her house in Maine and a quick stop in Boston to make an appearance at the family hotels’ main offices. Her uncle, Bradley, her father’s younger brother, ran the company and had been losing patience with her erratic schedule. He’d even begun making noises about finding another role for her. She was very good at getting a lot accomplished in a short time and had managed to placate him. Traveling from one Rush hotel to another had allowed her the flexibility to dip in and out of Norman’s world as well as to breathe new life into her ideas about the concierge services and excursions the hotels offered. Her uncle, however, liked to see her at meetings and behind a desk once in a while. Since his older brother lived in Las Vegas, Bradley hadn’t objected to Lizzie’s heading there. He’d given up seeing her father at meetings or behind a desk a long time ago.

She’d enjoyed being back in the hot, dry, sunny, vibrant town her father called home, but Norman had arrived unexpectedly that same morning for a high-stakes poker game. Lizzie hadn’t been able to bring herself to smile at him. Still unaware of Simon’s undercover mission at that point, she’d been trying to figure out what else she could do to fire up the FBI to go after Norman. But none of his drug-cartel friends had been with him, and she’d made an effort to relax.

During a break in the game, a man with close-cropped brown hair had approached Norman and spoke to him briefly out of Lizzie’s earshot. Whatever they discussed, it had seemed important. She’d retreated to the hotel bar, and ten minutes later, the Brit joined her. She did her best to look bored as she simultaneously nursed a bottle of water and a martini.