friend."
She took her brandy glass to the bar and set it on the smooth wood, resisting a sudden surge of loneliness. She had friends. Family. Why was she doing this on her own? She glanced at Will, his quiet control as he dialed his BlackBerry more unnerving than if he'd been in a frenzy. He would be focused on first things first. He'd see to Keira's safety.
Then he'd deal with Lizzie.
Her trip to Ireland wasn't going at all as she'd hoped it would. Instead of disrupting Norman's plans for violent revenge, she'd landed in the middle of their execution. She could no longer pretend she'd just stopped by the little Irish village to see Simon Cahill while she was walking the Beara Way. Simon and his friend Lord Davenport had only to put their heads together and, with their resources inside and outside of government, they'd figure out who she was. In the meantime, she had room to maneuver.
Will held his BlackBerry out to Keira. "It's Simon. He and Director March weren't present when the bomb went off. Your uncle and cousin are unhurt." He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Detective Wisdom is seriously injured."
"What about Abigail?"
"She wasn't in the blast."
Keira took the phone. "Simon," she said in a raw whisper, "I'm fine. I love you."
Lizzie's throat tightened as Keira spoke to the man she loved. She'd found her soulmate, and Simon had found his.
Every instinct Lizzie had told her she had to get out of therenow or she wouldn't be able to leave. She didn't want to end up under the thumb of Irish law enforcement. They'd call the FBI and the Boston police, and then where would she be?
In cuffs herself as a material witness, or even a suspect.
If Scoop Wisdom was able to talk, he'd tell the FBI and his BPD colleagues about the black-haired woman he'd caught lingering in front of the triple-decker yesterday afternoon. He'd walked out from the backyard with a colander of green beans that, somehow, made him look more intimidating.
"Can I help you?" he'd asked her.
Hesitating, debating with herself, Lizzie had opted not to tell him the truth. "No. Sorry. I'm just catching my breath." She'd smiled. "Shin splints."
He hadn't bothered hiding his skepticism, but he hadn't stopped her as she'd gone on her way, boarding her flight to Ireland that evening. She'd decided to talk to Simon Cahill instead of John March's detective daughter, Abigail, or her detective friends.
And now, twenty-four hours later, a bomb had exploded on Abigail's back porch, severely injuring Detective Wisdom.
Lizzie reached for her backpack on the hearth. Had she screwed up by not talking to him yesterday? If she had, would he and his detective housemates have found the bomb?
Her father would tell her not to look back with regret but to learn and to help her figure out what she needed to do next.
She felt the sting of her cuts and scrapes now. "Norman isn't flying off to a resort to celebrate his freedom," she said, addressing Simon's British friend. "He'll be furious that his plan didn't work. He'll try again."
Will eased closer to her, his eyes changeable and intense in the heat of the fire. He was taking in everything, studying her, seeing,she was sure, more than she wanted to reveal. An image came, unbidden, unwanted, of them together in a pretty Irish inn, with no worries beyond which book to read or which bath salts to choose.
"You obviously know Estabrook," he said quietly. "Are you a friend?"
"Norman doesn't have real friends."
"He's very wealthy. Some people are drawn to wealth."
"Yes. Some people are." Lizzie saw clearly now what she needed to do. If she was to be of any help now that Norman was acting on his intentions, she had to remain anonymous for as long as possible. She couldn't explain her association with him and his entourage of wealthy investors, adventurers, staff, hangers-on and drug traffickers. "I imagine by now most everyone knows Norman Estabrook's not your basic mild-mannered billionaire adventurer. If you'll
She took her brandy glass to the bar and set it on the smooth wood, resisting a sudden surge of loneliness. She had friends. Family. Why was she doing this on her own? She glanced at Will, his quiet control as he dialed his BlackBerry more unnerving than if he'd been in a frenzy. He would be focused on first things first. He'd see to Keira's safety.
Then he'd deal with Lizzie.
Her trip to Ireland wasn't going at all as she'd hoped it would. Instead of disrupting Norman's plans for violent revenge, she'd landed in the middle of their execution. She could no longer pretend she'd just stopped by the little Irish village to see Simon Cahill while she was walking the Beara Way. Simon and his friend Lord Davenport had only to put their heads together and, with their resources inside and outside of government, they'd figure out who she was. In the meantime, she had room to maneuver.
Will held his BlackBerry out to Keira. "It's Simon. He and Director March weren't present when the bomb went off. Your uncle and cousin are unhurt." He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Detective Wisdom is seriously injured."
"What about Abigail?"
"She wasn't in the blast."
Keira took the phone. "Simon," she said in a raw whisper, "I'm fine. I love you."
Lizzie's throat tightened as Keira spoke to the man she loved. She'd found her soulmate, and Simon had found his.
Every instinct Lizzie had told her she had to get out of therenow or she wouldn't be able to leave. She didn't want to end up under the thumb of Irish law enforcement. They'd call the FBI and the Boston police, and then where would she be?
In cuffs herself as a material witness, or even a suspect.
If Scoop Wisdom was able to talk, he'd tell the FBI and his BPD colleagues about the black-haired woman he'd caught lingering in front of the triple-decker yesterday afternoon. He'd walked out from the backyard with a colander of green beans that, somehow, made him look more intimidating.
"Can I help you?" he'd asked her.
Hesitating, debating with herself, Lizzie had opted not to tell him the truth. "No. Sorry. I'm just catching my breath." She'd smiled. "Shin splints."
He hadn't bothered hiding his skepticism, but he hadn't stopped her as she'd gone on her way, boarding her flight to Ireland that evening. She'd decided to talk to Simon Cahill instead of John March's detective daughter, Abigail, or her detective friends.
And now, twenty-four hours later, a bomb had exploded on Abigail's back porch, severely injuring Detective Wisdom.
Lizzie reached for her backpack on the hearth. Had she screwed up by not talking to him yesterday? If she had, would he and his detective housemates have found the bomb?
Her father would tell her not to look back with regret but to learn and to help her figure out what she needed to do next.
She felt the sting of her cuts and scrapes now. "Norman isn't flying off to a resort to celebrate his freedom," she said, addressing Simon's British friend. "He'll be furious that his plan didn't work. He'll try again."
Will eased closer to her, his eyes changeable and intense in the heat of the fire. He was taking in everything, studying her, seeing,she was sure, more than she wanted to reveal. An image came, unbidden, unwanted, of them together in a pretty Irish inn, with no worries beyond which book to read or which bath salts to choose.
"You obviously know Estabrook," he said quietly. "Are you a friend?"
"Norman doesn't have real friends."
"He's very wealthy. Some people are drawn to wealth."
"Yes. Some people are." Lizzie saw clearly now what she needed to do. If she was to be of any help now that Norman was acting on his intentions, she had to remain anonymous for as long as possible. She couldn't explain her association with him and his entourage of wealthy investors, adventurers, staff, hangers-on and drug traffickers. "I imagine by now most everyone knows Norman Estabrook's not your basic mild-mannered billionaire adventurer. If you'll
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