Will said nothing.

“I kayaked out here with Norman last summer. If only…”

“It’s too easy to lose ourselves in regrets,” Will said. “And not helpful.”

“Maybe a drug cartel hired your friend Fletcher to deal with Norman-crash his plane, manipulate him, drag him out and shoot him. Whatever. Maybe yesterday and today weren’t Norman’s doing. If that’s the case, we’re clueless about who really does have Abigail.” Lizzie watched seagulls perch on the tumble of barnacle-covered rocks below the tideline. She shook off any doubt. “No. It’s Norman.”

“You’ve become accustomed to keeping secrets. Not telling anyone what you know. Not trusting anyone.” Will eased his arms around her, locking his eyes with hers. “You’re not alone, Lizzie.”

She smiled at him before there was no turning back. “Fat chance of that with the feds, BPD and MI6 after me.” She gave him a quick kiss. “Come on. I can at least make you dinner,” she said, yanking open a screen door, and he followed her into her little house. He seemed as comfortable there as he probably did in London, Scotland, the home of his father, the marquess, or wherever else he happened to be at a given moment.

He walked over to a wall covered with family photographs she’d framed herself. “How did you get involved with Estabrook in the first place?” he asked, his back to her. “His other friends didn’t know he had criminal dealings. Why did you?”

“Curiosity,” she said, pulling open the refrigerator and frowning at the sparse contents. “For once I was responsible and tossed everything before I left. I don’t even have a pint of wild blueberries to offer you.”

“When were you here last?”

“A couple weeks ago. I don’t need to be in an office every day. I did a little poking around-my trip to London, for example-but I figured I’d keep a low profile until Norman was tried and convicted. Once I realized he was about to make a deal…” She opened a cupboard, sighing as she glanced back at Will. “I have steel-cut oats, a couple of cans of kidney beans and salsa. Cooking’s not exactly my long suit.”

He pointed to the top photograph on the wall display and glanced back at her. “Your father?”

“Can you recognize a kindred spy soul?” She shut the cupboard and tried another. “Unopened spices and boxes of cornstarch aren’t very helpful, now, are they? How do you suppose I ended up with two boxes of cornstarch?”

“One does,” Will said with a smile, leaving the photos and taking a seat on a bar stool.

Lizzie shut that cupboard, too. “For a long time I didn’t know who was good, bad, possible law enforcement, or if I was completely off base about Norman. But March stayed in touch. That was a clue. I didn’t take crazy risks. I met a half dozen of Norman’s drug-cartel friends, at least that I’m aware of…sexy, macho guys who like high living and adventures and are very, very violent. They prey on other people’s weaknesses for their own pleasure and profit.”

“When did you first run into them?”

“At a resort in Costa Rica. I took their pictures and e-mailed them to the FBI.”

“To John March, you mean.”

“Yes.” She looked at Will and felt a rush of relief that she’d made the admission, even if he already knew and didn’t need her confirmation. “For personal reasons. But we’ve never met. I’ve only seen him from a distance.” It was the truth, if also a dodge. “I understand money, but I’m not in Norman’s league. I latched onto bits and pieces of what he was up to.”

“Did you tip off March in the first place?”

She shook her head, abandoning her efforts to muster together a dinner for two. “I wondered that myself, but no. He was already onto Norman. Simon took the big risks and got the most damning information against him. I did what I could to point whatever investigation might be going on in the right direction.”

“Norman trusted both you and Simon,” Will said.

“In different ways, but Norman has an unusual idea of trust. Relationships are entirely on his terms. He’s the sun in his universe. Everyone else is a tiny planet that revolves around him. I was an especially tiny planet-but desirable to have around. That was helpful.”

“Attractive, elegant, vivacious Lizzie Rush.”

She gave a mock bow. “Compliment accepted with gratitude, especially considering you’ve now seen me in a knife fight and up to my knees in mud and manure.”

“An image I shall never forget.”

She managed a laugh, but she couldn’t sustain it. “Norman’s father was a police officer, just a regular guy. From what I’ve been able to put together, Norman felt inferior to him, vulnerable even as he was embarrassed that his father never rose up through the ranks.”

“Going up against John March and the FBI makes him feel important. Why did you stay in, Lizzie? A year’s a long time.”

“I couldn’t unring the bell. Once I knew, I knew. And I was in a position to help. I wasn’t with Norman all the time. Not as much as Simon. I provided names, faces, numbers. I was careful. I didn’t want March to know it was me. If something went wrong, I knew he’d blame himself.”

“You never approached Simon or tried to find out if he was someone you could trust?”

“I couldn’t let myself trust anyone.”

But Will’s changeable eyes narrowed on her, and she felt a surge of heat, as if he could see through her, straight to her secrets, her fears.

“There’s more, Lizzie. Isn’t there?”

She avoided his eyes as she came around the counter and sat upon a bar stool next to him. “How’s Josie Goodwin? I figure she’s MI6, too. Has she provided a complete dossier on me by now?”

“It’s not complete.”

“Does she know I love the smell of lavender?”

A chilly breeze blew through the little house. Will was very still next to her. “Do you?”

“I never knew why until I went to Ireland for the first time in college. I was on my own-my father would never go with me. I was standing in a lace shop and picked up a sachet filled with dried lavender, and I smiled and cried and laughed. I had an emotional meltdown there in the shop. I knew it was because of my mother. She loved lavender, too.”

“Growing up without her must have been difficult,” Will said.

“I didn’t know any different. I’d watch other girls with their mothers…” Suddenly restless, Lizzie eased off the bar stool. “I love my family. My father’s a mystery to us all. My uncle and aunt are kind and hardworking, totally dedicated to the hotels and to my cousins. And to me. But you know all this, don’t you, from Josie?”

“Some.” Will gave her a near-unreadable smile. “Josie is very thorough and dogged. I, on the other hand, am not.”

“I don’t know nearly enough about you. London, Scotland, lords and ladies. Made your own money, or at least that’s what the U.K. government wants the rest of us to believe.”

“Lizzie…”

She’d gone too far, and if he kissed her again, she was lost. “I could see what’s in the freezer, or we could walk down to the river and have lobster rolls.”

He got up from the bar stool, standing close to her, and tucked a few strands of her hair behind her ears. “I believe I’ve met my match,” he said, a sadness coming into his eyes even as he smiled.

They sat at an outdoor table covered in red-checked vinyl. Tourists at nearby tables in the popular roadside diner glanced at Will as if they suspected he might be someone. Like British nobility, Lizzie thought, amused. “Forget cholesterol and calories,” she said, “and order a cup of clam chowder, a lobster roll and wild blueberry pie-warm, with ice cream.”

“With a salad?”

“Sure. You can order a salad.”

He smiled. They resisted the lobster rolls and ordered clam chowder and salads.

Lizzie pushed back the fatigue from her long two days. “How did you and Simon become friends?”

“He saved my life two years ago.”

“Because of Myles Fletcher,” she said.