He smiled. “You didn’t get this close.”

“Too dangerous.” She eased her hands up his arms, hard under the soft, light fabric of his sweater. “Way too dangerous.”

“I don’t know if I want to disabuse you of your romantic notions about me.”

“You mean that you’re as sexy-”

His kiss stopped her midsentence and took her breath away, a mix of tenderness and urgency. Lizzie tightened her grip on him just to keep herself on her feet. The ocean breeze gusted through the screens, hitting her already sensitized skin, and she let her arms go around him. There was nothing soft or easy about him.

“I’m breaking all my rules with you,” he whispered.

“You’re used to discipline and isolation.”

“My father left broken hearts in his wake. I learned at an early age the dangers of romantic entanglements.”

“Entanglements. Scary word.”

He kissed her again, lifting her off her feet, and she gave herself up to the swirl of sensations-ocean, seagulls, wind, wanting-and relished the taste and feel of him, imagined him carrying her to her bedroom, and making love to her for the rest of the night. She knew it wouldn’t happen. Not tonight.

Will pulled away, or she did, and they turned toward the water.

Lizzie cleared her throat and adjusted her shirt. “Our focus is rightly on Abigail, Norman, Fletcher and what we can do to help the situation.”

Will pivoted around to her, his eyes dark and serious now. “Not we, Lizzie.”

“You’re a British citizen. You shouldn’t be sneaking around southern Maine on your own, either.”

“Lizzie-”

“I know what you’re saying, but right now I’m here, and I’m safe. I hope the FBI and BPD find Abigail and arrest Norman tonight. I’d love to wake up tomorrow morning with nothing more dangerous on my mind than a trip to the lobster pound.”

“I’d like that, too, but whatever’s happened by morning, you need to leave Myles and Estabrook to real professionals.”

“And if I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time as I was with Norman and his friends in the drug cartels? Then what?” She smoothed the back of her hand along his rough jaw and didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ve a job to do. I won’t get in your way. But I really am falling for you. Tall, fair, handsome and loyal-and you can walk through an Irish pasture and hardly get a bit of manure on your shoes.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him and kissed her, nothing tentative or gentle about him now. He kept her close, smiled as he spoke. “You Rushes don’t do anything by half measures, do you?”

This from a man who fought terrorists.

He kissed her on the forehead. “Hiking the Beara Way. One day…” He dropped his arms from her and stood back. “Go to bed, Lizzie. I’ll stay out here. I’m not going anywhere, and I have no intention of taking advantage of a woman about to fall asleep on her feet.”

“Will…”

“We have time.”

“I hope so. You must be tired yourself.”

“I slept on my flight. I didn’t have a deck of cards to distract me, and I had the comforts of a private jet.”

She gave a mock protest. “I was in coach with a toddler kicking the back of my seat, and you-”

He laughed softly. “Next time perhaps you’ll think twice before you slip out on me.”

Chapter 24

Boston, Massachusetts

10 p.m., EDT

August 26

Fiona had left her full-size, classic harp in the corner of the Garrison house first-floor drawing room, in front of Keira’s sketch of the Christmas windowbox in Dublin. Bob plucked a string. Fiona had shown him how, but it made a twangy sound, nothing like the rich, full sound she could produce. He’d walked up from Charles Street. The joint task force was meeting at BPD headquarters in a little while. He’d be on his way there soon. They were making progress, but they still didn’t have Abigail or her captors.

Yarborough materialized in the foyer door. “Lieutenant?”

Bob resisted biting the guy’s head off and turned from the harp. “Yeah, what’s up?” Even he could hear the fatigue in his voice.

Yarborough, who’d been glum all night, was almost perky. “We have an ID on the dead guy, a South Boston thug named Walter Bassette. Lucas and a couple precinct detectives are on their way over to his apartment.”

Bassette. Bob liked having a name. It was something solid. “Good work, Yarborough.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. I’m just telling you.”

Credit where credit was due. He was ambitious, but he was also fair.

“We’re checking if Bassette was in Ireland recently, called there, met someone from there. Having a decent lead…” Yarborough shrugged, not getting himself too excited. “It helps.”

“The bombs weren’t sophisticated, but these bastards had to get the materials from somewhere and put them together somewhere.” Bob looked at Keira’s sketch of the Dublin windowbox. “Someone had to hire Murphy, the guy in Ireland. If it was Bassette-” He broke off with a sigh and shifted back to Yarborough. “Who has Abigail now? What was Bassette doing in that alley?”

Yarborough rubbed the side of his nose and didn’t answer. Bob recognized the tactic for what it was. The younger detective was giving him time.

Bob felt his stomach go south on him. “Bassette knew Fiona saw him. He’d talked to her. He came there to kill her.”

“Don’t think about it. He’s out of the picture, and she’s under protection. No one’s getting near her.” Yarborough walked into the empty room. “Abigail’s spent a fair amount of time here this summer. I think she’s trying this place on for size to see if it might work for her and Owen. Turn it back into a residence. She comes over and does paperwork while he does his thing. Sometimes Fiona and her friends are here practicing.”

“Tom?”

He got a little red. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s something here we missed.”

“I’ll check it out,” Bob said.

Bob saw past Yarborough’s arrogance to his worry, but it wasn’t a place either wanted to go. Bob liked being emotionally repressed and figured Yarborough was a fellow traveler on that score.

“I’ll see you back at headquarters,” Yarborough said.

“You getting any sleep?”

“There’s time for that.” He gave Bob a quick grin. “Us younger guys can go a few days without sleep.”

“Go to hell, Yarborough.”

“Do you need a ride? I can stay-”

“Nah. I’m all set. Go.”

After Yarborough left, Bob paced, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. Teams had gone through Abigail’s desk at BPD headquarters, her computer, her car, the remnants of her apartment. They’d only swept the Garrison house for bombs. They hadn’t searched it.

He walked up the stairs to the second-floor offices of the Dorothy Garrison Foundation. It focused on gardens and oceans-the things Owen’s sister had loved most. Bob couldn’t imagine losing one of his daughters at any age, but at fourteen?

He looked for any files or work Abigail might have left there and, tucked on a bookcase, found a laptop labeled with her name.

Yarborough wasn’t easy, but he had good instincts. Bob took another flight of stairs up to Keira’s apartment. She and Abigail were just getting to know each other. Simon had given her and Owen an early wedding present of one of Keira’s paintings, which Abigail loved. Bob figured Owen didn’t care one way or the other, provided she was happy.

And now they didn’t know if she was even alive.

He forced back the thought before it could take hold and noticed Keira’s apartment door was ajar.

Simon stood in the doorway with his Glock in one hand. “Hey, Bob.”

“I’m glad I didn’t have to shoot you,” Bob said wryly, then sighed. “Too damn much time on a desk. I’m getting stale. Then again, I’m brains not brawn these days. You here alone?”

A twitch of his mouth. “I think so.”

Meaning Simon had shaken his detail. “Bet your FBI friends aren’t happy about that.” Bob stepped past him into the little apartment. “A big target on your back-don’t stand too close, okay?”