“We have time.”

She concentrated on taking her shot, but she was too late.

Fletcher had already seen that she’d lied.

“Enjoy your game,” he said quietly, and left.

Chapter 16

Dublin, Ireland

7:23 a.m., IST

August 26

The bedroom door was still shut when Lizzie awoke, the early morning sun finding its way through the sides of the room-darkening window shade. She slipped into comfortable slim black pants, a black top and her new flats and dabbed on just enough makeup to convince people she’d slept okay.

Making as little noise as possible, she went out into the hall and took the stairs down to the lobby. She smiled at the woman at the front desk, who was new, and headed for the hotel’s small street-level restaurant, its tables covered in Irish lace. Lizzie chose one on the back wall that had a view of the door out to the lobby. She ordered coffee and scones and chatted a moment with her waiter, a college student from Lithuania. Last night on the Beara Peninsula suddenly seemed surreal, and she half expected her cousin to wander in and act as if she’d just arrived from Boston and none of it had happened. Her fight in the stone circle, the bomb, Abigail Browning, Norman ’s disappearance…the fair-haired Brit asleep in her suite.

Lizzie could blame her delusions on jetlag and go shopping.

But as she spread her scone with butter and raspberry jam, her handsome suitemate, dressed in another deliciously soft-looking sweater, joined her at her table.

Without waiting for an invitation, he sat across from her. “My sister loves Dublin. I’ll have to ask her if she’s stayed here.”

“She’s a wedding dress designer in London. Arabella. It’s a pretty name. You have an older brother, too. Peter. He manages the family farm, that being a five-hundred-year-old estate in the north of England.”

“All of which,” Will said, marginally impressed, “you could find on the Internet.”

“In fact, I did.”

She’d also done a bit of spying on the Davenports herself when she was in London in early July, but she chose to keep that fact to herself. Will had sparked her interest after she’d learned Simon wasn’t ex-FBI after all and remembered the two men were friends.

Will’s pot of tea and a steaming scone arrived. For a man who had slept only a few hours, he looked remarkably alert. And serious, Lizzie thought.

He poured his tea. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Lizzie. It’s time to stop.”

She reached for more jam. She’d combed her hair and pinned it back, but she suspected there were still knots in it. It’d been a long night on the sofa. “If you were going to sic the FBI or the guards on me,” she said, “you’d have done it by now.”

As he set the teapot down, she noticed a thin, straight four-inch scar on his hand, perhaps from a knife fight that hadn’t gone as well as hers had last night.

“You’re not the dilettante you’ve pretended to be,” he said, lifting his cup and taking a sip as he eyed her over the rim. “You didn’t learn your fighting skills from reading a handbook. Who taught you?”

“I frequently travel on my own, and I decided it would be smart to take self-defense classes. But I do have the SAS handbook.” She sat back. “You’re not smiling, Will.”

“I woke up worried about you.”

“Ah. Maybe I should have given you the sofa instead. I slept just fine. Nothing to worry about.” She slathered jam on a chunk of scone and indulged, relishing the sweet, rich taste. “It’ll be back to mesclun soon. You and Simon are obviously good friends, but that’s not why you followed me here.”

“Do you have friends, Lizzie?”

“You mean in addition to my four cousins and Norman?”

Will still didn’t smile. “Correct.”

“Yes, I have friends, although I’ve neglected most of them lately.” She leaned back and studied him as he placed his cup in its saucer and broke off a piece of his scone. “No jam, no butter? You’re an ascetic.”

“I wasn’t the one who engaged in hand-to-hand combat last night.”

“Combat? When you put it that way…” But Lizzie couldn’t maintain her light mood, feigned as it was. “I’m not that hungry, having had a full Irish breakfast at midnight. How long have you known Simon?”

Will deliberated a moment. “Two years.”

“ Norman got very curious when he found out Simon was hanging out with you in London. Did you know he was working undercover, or did you think he was a former FBI agent with a grudge against Director March?”

“Simon and I didn’t discuss Norman Estabrook.”

“Then MI6 isn’t interested in him?”

Will gave her a slight smile. “Very clever, Lizzie. What are your plans for today?”

“Defying jetlag. Past that, I don’t know.” She abandoned her scone for her coffee, not meeting his eye as she said, serious now, “I asked Michael Murphy about one of your countrymen last night. I saw your reaction, Will, and I think he’s why you’re here in Dublin. You know him, don’t you?”

“As I indicated,” he said, picking up his teacup again, “you’re playing a dangerous game.”

Lizzie didn’t relent. “Who is he?”

“A ghost.”

“Another spook?”

He sighed. “I never said…”

“You didn’t have to. This man showed up in Las Vegas a few days before Norman ’s arrest. Is he SAS? Special Branch? A fugitive?”

“He’s a killer. Eddie O’Shea ran into him on the Beara Peninsula last week. Simon and Keira weren’t there.”

Lizzie absorbed this new information and felt a sting of regret that Eddie and his brothers had had their quiet lives disrupted. But they seemed capable of handling anything. “Did this man arrange the attack on Keira?”

“Whatever he did, Lizzie, you must stay away from him. As capable as you are, you can’t best him. If you know anything about him, tell me now.”

“At least give me his name.”

Will steadied his gaze on her, the blue, green and gold of his eyes melding into a gleam of black. “His name is Myles.”

She stifled an involuntary gasp at the pain in his voice. “He’s your friend,” she said. “Will-”

“I haven’t seen the man you and Eddie O’Shea described myself.” His words were measured, everything about him under control. “I could be wrong.”

“We only talked for a few minutes. He joined me at the hotel bar and asked me for a bottle of water and…” Lizzie paused, remembering that strange encounter in Las Vegas. “He told me to behave.”

There was an edge of sadness to Will as he smiled. “That sounds like Myles. Had he and Estabrook already met?”

Lizzie nodded. “He-Myles, the Brit-went up to Norman in the middle of his poker game. No one else at the table seemed to know him. I couldn’t hear what he and Norman said to each other, but it seemed important. That’s one reason why I remember him.”

“There’s another reason?”

She didn’t look away but instead met Will’s gaze straight on. “I was trying to remember everything.”

“Why, Lizzie? This was before Estabrook’s arrest. Were you aware of his illegal activities?”

She smiled easily. “I should take the Fifth on that one. That’s the Fifth Amendment. Bill of Rights. U.S. Constitution-”

“Lizzie. We’re not discussing one of your hotel luxury excursions.”

Didn’t she know.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “That was patronizing.”

“I shouldn’t have gone vapid hotel heiress on you.”

“Which you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. Will, if your friend Myles is helping Norman exact his revenge, Abigail Browning is in serious trouble, isn’t she?”

“For the past two years, I’ve thought Myles was dead.”

“Until you heard me describe him last night. That’s why you let me leave, isn’t it? You didn’t want me stuck for hours with garda detectives. You wanted to talk to me yourself. Have you told the FBI?” But Will’s expression startled her, and she almost knocked over her coffee. “I see now. Simon, you, Myles. Comrades in arms?”