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.”

Fletcher stood back, quiet, observant, and she passed him and sat down, stretching out her legs and crossing her ankles. During her hours alone, she’d done yoga to loosen up after having sat in one position for so long. “If you give yourself up,” she said, addressing Estabrook, “I’ll tell my friends you’re not the one who smacked me in the face.”

“Do you think I care?”

“You will when they catch up with you.”

He leaned against the pool table and put his hands on either side of him, gripping the edge as he gazed down at her. “Your father put Simon up to betraying my trust and friendship, but they’ve failed. Here I am, a free man.”

Abigail yawned. “Bugs you, doesn’t it, that the feds used you to get to bigger fish? You’re not happy being a little fish. You knew exactly what you were doing when you hooked up with drug traffickers, but it never occurred to you they were a bigger deal than you were.”

Estabrook smiled, as if he was reading her mind and drawing strength from her fear.

Let him. She’d have her chance. “So what happened today?” She kept her voice matter-of-fact. “Your guys screwed up. Did they not know my father and Simon were in Boston?”

“I hired professionals,” he said, an edge in his voice. “I gave them free rein to make decisions based on their best judgment. I operate that way in everything I do. Micromanaging is a sign of weakness.”

“They were on their way to see me-Dad and Simon.” She said “Dad” deliberately and saw Estabrook’s reaction, the gleam of fury in his eyes, the thinning of his mouth. She didn’t let herself react to his hatred. “If your guys had better intel and had just waited a few minutes…” She sighed. “But, no. They pulled the trigger on their bomb and grabbed me.”

Estabrook breathed in through his nose. “I wish I could have been there when Simon and your father arrived to smoke, fire and blood.”

“Your guy’s blood. He dripped on the sidewalk.”

Fletcher remained impassive, but she could see she’d gotten to Estabrook. He stood up from the pool table, his hat crooked on his head. “You’re not half as clever as you think you are, Detective.”

She ignored him. “I was home all morning, and Scoop went down to his garden early. He’s trying to stay ahead of the harvest. I figure your guys planted the bomb sometime before this morning. Overnight? Yesterday? I guess it could have been anytime. There were two explosions. The second was my gas grill, right? Haven’t used it in weeks.”