“Knock when you’ve finished. You have two minutes.”

“I can’t-”

“You can, love.”

He opened the door and shut it softly behind her when she went in, leaving her in the pitch-dark. She banged up against something-a sink, she thought-and righted herself, feeling on the wall for a light switch. She found one and flipped it on. She saw she was in a small, tidy head equipped with a shower, sink and toilet. There were dispensers of liquid soap and hand cream, a basket of potpourri, a stack of neatly folded hand towels. Touches of comfort and elegance for the prisoner.

Abigail locked the door and turned on the water in the sink while she did her business.

She washed up with soap and water as best she could, skipped the hand cream and buried her face in a fluffy, expensive white towel, indulging in a few seconds of self-pity and fatigue. But there was no time. She dropped the towel on the floor and stuck her mouth under the faucet and drank as much water as she dared. She didn’t want to be sick, but she couldn’t count on when she’d be allowed to drink again. Or eat. She was starving.

Finally she inspected herself for injuries that adrenaline and the numbness from sitting in one position for so long could have kept her from feeling. Her wrists and ankles were rope-burned but not bleeding. She had bruises here and there from struggling to get free on the ride to the marina, but nothing she needed to worry about.

“Thirty seconds,” Fletcher said from the other side of the door.

She looked in the mirror at the swelling on her cheek. She’d have a shiner.

When she unlocked the door, Fletcher took her by the elbow and led her back to her chair. “I won’t tie you up again,” he said, sitting her down, “but not because I trust you not to attempt escape. Because I know you won’t succeed.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“For a little boat ride.” He straightened, looked at her without expression. “Do you play pool?”

“Not really.”

“Your chance to practice, then, love.”

“Why did you stay with me if you weren’t going to tie me back up?”

“I wanted to be here in case you passed out once you got on your feet.” He nodded to the wet bar. “There’s ice, food and drink. Help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

He left without another word.

Chapter 13

Dublin, Ireland

1:05 a.m., IST

August 26

Lizzie welcomed the lights and activity of Dublin late at night. Her cab dropped her in front of her family’s boutique hotel, located on a side street off St. Stephen’s Square. Two uniformed bellmen, one of them her twenty-two-year-old cousin Justin, greeted her at the brass-trimmed main door with a bow that always made her feel like a princess, which she decidedly was not, especially tonight. She was too stiff, too scraped and felt too hunted to be anything but what she was-a woman who needed a hot bath and a friendly face. Although the flight from Kerry to Dublin was less than an hour, she finally felt her fatigue, dragging down her spirits, making her even more aware of her isolation-of what she’d done.

Fresh out of college, Justin was the youngest of the Rush brothers, working in Dublin for at least the next six months. His sensitive mouth and dreamy navy-blue eyes were from his mother, but his tawny-hair and square jaw were all Rush.

He eyed Lizzie’s backpack, her walking shoes tied to the strap by their laces. She’d brushed the mud and dung off them as best she could, but he wasn’t impressed. “Those shoes, Lizzie. Do you want me to toss them?”

He hadn’t had Rush frugality drilled into him by their Whitcomb-Rush grandmother the way she had. “You don’t think they can be salvaged?”

He peered at them. “What did you do, tramp through a pasture? They’re filthy inside and out, and, no, I don’t think they can be salvaged.” He shifted his gaze to her. “Where have you been?”

“A stone circle in West Cork.”

“In a gale?”

“The best time.”

She smiled and started up the half-dozen steps to the lobby, but he grabbed her muddy pack from her. “Excuse me, ma’am, but carrying luggage, even luggage that smells like a barn, is my job.”

“You’re not supposed to comment on whether a guest’s luggage is old, ripped, cheap-”

“Covered in sheep manure?”

“I think it’s cow manure.”

“Terrific,” he said without enthusiasm.

When they reached the lobby, quiet and softly lit this late, Lizzie felt herself start to relax. She was back on familiar ground and just wanted to sink into one of the comfortable chairs angled in front of the fireplace.

Justin was staring at her bloodied knuckles now. “What did you do, get into a brawl in your stone circle?”

“I discovered that Beware of Bull signs are posted for a reason.”

Technically it wasn’t a lie. Her cousin looked skeptical, but there was no need to involve him or anyone at the hotel in her problems, or to give them any information that the garda or the FBI might decide they wanted.

She retrieved her room key from the front desk and turned to Justin. “I’ll take my bag upstairs myself. If anyone asks about me, say I’m in Las Vegas. No. Not Vegas. My father’s there. Rome. Tell them I’m in Rome.”

“How is Uncle Harlan?”

“Losing at poker last I spoke with him.”

“He wouldn’t know what to do with a winning hand,” Justin said. “I can have your shoes cleaned overnight. Try, anyway.”

“Thanks, Justin, but I’ll hang on to them.” Lizzie pushed a hand through her hair, still tangled from the wind and her fight with Michael Murphy. “Do you happen to know if a Brit named Will Davenport is scheduled for a late check-in?”

“Lizzie…”

She could see from her cousin’s expression she’d guessed right. Justin would be on top of all guest arrivals. “When he gets here, call me, okay? He’s British. Tall, blond.”

“We’re talking about Lord Davenport, right?”

“You know him?”

“We’ve never met. His younger sister’s a wedding dress designer in London. Lady Arabella Davenport.”

“How do you know these things?”

He grinned. “I’m the bellman. I know everything. Lady Davenport designed the dresses for a wedding here this summer. Mum was visiting then, and you know how she is.”

Lizzie did, indeed. Her aunt loved anything connected with fabrics and design, especially if it involved hotels or weddings. Preferably both. “She put you through an analysis of every stitch?”

Justin gave a long-suffering nod. “It would help if you’d hang out with her once in a while and let her talk to you about these things.”

“I adore Aunt Henrietta, but talking wedding dresses-”

“Better than taking on an Irish bull.”

Lizzie pictured Arabella Davenport’s older brother walking into the quiet pub before her fight in the stone circle. Whatever his sister’s talents, Lizzie was certain that his didn’t involve weddings. As controlled and polite as he’d been, he’d clearly arrived in the little village on Kenmare Bay prepared to do battle. But she suspected he arrived everywhere prepared to do battle.

She shook off the image. “I’m wiped out, Justin. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She got two steps before her cousin spoke again. “Did Lord Davenport have a role in muddying your shoes?”

She glanced back at him. Perhaps because he was the youngest, or so much his mother’s son, Justin had a tendency to see more than most people in a similar position would see. “It’s a long story.”

“With you, Lizzie, it always is.” He sighed. “I’ll call when your Brit gets here.”

Should her circumstances call for a quick exit, Lizzie’s one-bedroom suite was conveniently located on the second floor near the stairs. She brought her backpack into the bathroom and set it on the tile floor, where any crusts of dried mud and manure that fell off would do the least damage. As she stripped to her skin, she fought back images of whipping her pack against Michael Murphy’s assault knife…of the drooling, snarling black dog…of the swirling fog and mist.