More Than a Mission

by Caridad Piñeiro

  Losin’ it, he chastised himself. The lady might be attractive, but that did nothing to change the fact that she was suspected of killing nearly a dozen people. Including Mitch.

  It was up to him to get close to her, to confirm whether or not she was the Sparrow and whether she had murdered King Weston’s heir, and then she could be punished for her crimes.

  Which meant he had to attempt yet again to get her to hire him for the bartending position that was now vacant since Corbett Lazlo had arranged for a friend in London to hire away Elizabeth’s bartender.

  Lazlo’s connections were part of what made the Lazlo Group tops in what they did—handling delicate and often-times dangerous investigations, like this one involving Prince Reginald’s murder.

  Pampered and spoiled royals like Prince Reginald held little appeal for Aidan. From what he had read in the dossier provided to him, Prince Reginald had been a selfish dilettante who probably would have made a hell of a bad leader for the centuries-old island kingdom.

  Not that he involved himself in politics, since his nomadic life rarely gave him reason to grow attached to any particular place, and he had no interest in what happened in this tiny little town. At least, not in anything that wasn’t related to this mission.

  As for the Sparrow, he thought, she wanted professional? He would give it to her.

  The bartending part was under control thanks to the earpiece and the program he had loaded on his and Lucia’s PDAs. He’d resorted to that after his best attempts at memorizing an assortment of drink recipes had failed. He was a magna cum laude grad of MIT in a number of majors, none of which included Mixology 101.

  But now he had to deal with his other dilemma—getting the Sparrow to hire him. He walked to the closet. Inside were an assortment of jeans, but also a few suits. He wasn’t normally a suit-and-tie kind of guy. In some ways, he found them too much like the uniform he’d had to wear for so many years in the military. Now that he was in the private sector, he preferred his clothes to be casual. It suited his rebellious nature better.

  In fact, the last time he had worn a suit had been to Mitch’s funeral two years ago. It was one of the suits in the closet. Somehow apropos, he thought, as he reached for it and pulled it out. The suit was dark charcoal-gray and designer—Helmut Lang. Mitch, who had always insisted that his clothes and women be top-drawer, had forced him to buy it, claiming that his friend was never going to meet the right kind of woman if he looked like a Hell’s Angels reject or a derelict surf dude.

  Aidan had to admit the suit was gorgeous. Maybe it was just what the Sparrow had had in mind when she’d said that her type was someone more professional.

  Watch out, Sparrow, ’cause here I come.

  Elizabeth was running late. After doing all her shopping and advising her sous chef and assistants as to what to prep for inclusion in that night’s dinner specials, she’d decided to tackle the slightly overgrown flowerbeds in the back of the restaurant during her afternoon break. In this backyard garden, which faced the shore, she had created an area for alfresco dining and dancing beneath the stars.

  She was rounding the corner of the building on the way to the front door when she smacked into someone heading toward the back patio. Hard hands grabbed hold of her to keep her from falling. “I’m sorry,” she said, noticing not just the strength in the hands clutching her, but the fine fabric of the suit jacket as she grabbed tight.

  She finally looked up and the familiar blue of his eyes gazed down at her, nearly laughing. “No, I’m sorry. Your sous chef said you were out back.”

  He released her and took a step away, which allowed her to get a complete picture of his total transformation. A suit the color of deep slate—definitely expensive—accented his lean muscular build and broad shoulders. His shirt was a pale gray and he was wearing a silk tie that had a stylish Keith Haring kind of pattern in maroon on a dark blue-gray background. His shaggy hair was brushed off his face, the longish strands secured somehow, exposing the sharp lines of his cheeks and jaw.

  He cleaned up well, she thought, although a part of her was remembering yesterday’s bad-boy look and regretting the change.

  “Mr. Rawlings,” she said with a polite nod of her head. “I must confess that I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

  He offered his arm and she looped hers around his, slightly surprised by the gallant gesture. She walked with him around the side of the building and to the front door.

  “I’m not a man who’s easily dissuaded, Ms. Moore,” he said as they stopped at the entrance to the restaurant.

  “And what if I told you the position had been filled?” she asked with an upward arch of her brow.

  “A gentleman such as myself wouldn’t dare call a lady a liar, but…” He pointed to the help wanted sign that was still posted in the front window.

  Heat rose to her cheeks, much as it had yesterday when he had caught her appreciating his backside. Definitely not good. The last thing she needed around here was someone who would be distracting her from all that she had to do. “Mr. Rawlings—”

  He stepped to stand in front of her, held out his arms and said, “You wanted professional. So here I am.”

  “I did say that, only—”

  “I know my way around a bar,” he jumped in.

  “I suspected as much, but—”

  “What have you got to lose?” he interrupted yet again.

  Elizabeth gripped the handle of her gathering basket tightly and examined him once more. Dressed like this, she could definitely see him preparing drinks for her patrons. Heck, he was dressed nicely enough to be one of her patrons. But could he mix a mean cocktail?

  “A martini,” she said out loud.

  “Excuse me?” he asked, clearly confused.

  “How do you make a martini?” she clarified and nervously swung the basket back and forth a bit, hoping for failure on his part.

  He raised one sunbleached eyebrow as if to say, Aw, come on. Try something harder. Then he rattled off, “One and a half ounces of gin. Dash of dry vermouth.” He paused, smiled and said, “Shaken, not stirred.”

  She had to chuckle at his imitation of Sean Connery because it was dead-on. “Too easy. How about a…” She hesitated, trying to think of one of the more unusual drinks with which she was familiar. “A B-52,” she finally said and watched him squirm, but not for long.

  “The drink, right, and not the alternative band from Athens, Georgia?”

  Smiling, she confirmed, “Right. The drink.”

  “One ounce each of Bailey’s Irish Cream, Kahlua and Grand Marnier.” He picked up his hands, mimicked the shaking, and she got the rest of the recipe. Not to mention getting the very appealing way the man could move his hips.

  Fresh heat came to her face. She gave it one last try to attempt to convince herself it was insane to consider him for the job. “You’ll never get this one—Mexican Sunset.”

  He grinned. It was an appealing little-boy kind of grin. A gotcha grin. “Too easy. Bottle of beer, preferably Corona, garnished with a slice of lime and less a sip so you can add the sloe gin. I’m assuming the sloe gin is homemade. I understand there’s a great abundance after the fall harvest of the local blackthorn bushes.”

  He knew his stuff. She had to give him that. “You don’t strike me as the type that will stay for long,” she said, firing the last salvo she had held in reserve.

  He hesitated since she had scored a direct hit and the grin ran away from his face as he grew serious. “You’re right. Dad was an army man so I’m used to a wandering kind of life.”

  “I know the type,” she interjected, thinking of her sister Dani and all her travels.

  “So you understand, then. But the way I see it, you need a bartender and I’m here. Not going anywhere for a while and I promise that when I do decide to go, because it will happen, that I’ll give you plenty of time to find someone else before I run.”

  Promises. She knew just how often they got broken. But he had a point—
she needed a bartender. The past few nights had been horrendous as she tried to cook while at the same time helping out the wait staff with the drinks. “It doesn’t pay much, but tips are generally good. If you get here by five, dinner’s included. You can start tomorrow.”

  He smiled and held out his hand to seal the deal. She hesitated before she shook it, and he said, “To new adventures.”

  “I’m not the adventurous type, Mr. Rawlings,” she replied, hoping to make it clear that she had no interest in anything he might propose.

  His grin broadened. “Aidan, please. And, Ms. Moore—”

  “Elizabeth. All my employees call me Elizabeth,” she corrected and pulled her hand from his since it was starting to feel rather warm. Again.

  “Elizabeth,” he said and took a step toward her. “I think it’s going to be quite an experience working together.”

  She suspected he was right. “See you at five, Aidan. And while the suit is…nice, a white shirt and dark slacks will do.”

  With that, she turned and walked into the building.

  “Score one for the Mixmaster,” Aidan heard in the earpiece as he headed for the street.

  “Told you she couldn’t resist my charm,” he replied and hurried back to the hotel, eager now that it looked like the investigation might finally get under way.

  “And here I thought it was those drink recipes I was feeding you, only…How did you know about the sloe gin?” Lucia asked.

  “You never go into unknown territory without doing your research, Cordez. So I did a little fact-gathering on this town. Did you know that…” As he walked, he recited the details that he remembered, being careful not to be noticed whenever he walked by someone.

  He was back at the hotel within ten minutes and found that besides Lucia, Walker Shaw, the Lazlo group’s psychiatrist, waited for him in the suite, as well. “What brings you here?” he asked and patted the other man on the back in greeting.

  “Snazzy,” Walker said as he perused Aidan’s clothing.

  Aidan held out his hands. “The lady fell for it.”

  “Well, that’s good. At least there’s some progress going on here.” The frustration was apparent in Walker’s demeanor. “We haven’t been able to do anything yet with the information Zara and I found. So for now, we’re relying on whatever details the two of you manage to get.”

  “Not too much pressure,” Lucia quipped and handed Walker a piece of paper.

  It was a copy of the list she had provided to Aidan yesterday. Walker examined it and then looked up at him. “Seems like we’re on the right track. It’s just too much coincidence that Elizabeth Moore turns up in a lot of the same spots as the Sparrow.”

  “Including Rome,” Lucia added nervously, shooting a half glance at Aidan after she said it.

  “What?” He ripped the list from Walker’s hands and quickly read until he came to the date and location of Mitch’s death. Beside it was a new entry indicating that Elizabeth had been in Rome as part of a contingent for the Silvershire Tourist Board.

  “When did you find this out?” He jabbed the air in Lucia’s direction with the paper.

  “Late last night.”

  “What?” he repeated, his voice a little louder than before. “Why didn’t you say something before I went to see her?”

  Lucia shook her head. “Duh. I didn’t think it would accomplish anything besides getting you angry.”

  “Angry? You’re right that I’m angry. You’re part of my team and you withheld vital information,” he nearly screamed at her.

  “Because you’re totally capable of compartmentalizing your emotions to maintain neutrality about this job?” Walker said facetiously. He, more than any of them, knew how hard Mitch’s death had been on Aidan, who blamed himself for making the decision that the two of them should split up. He had been as responsible for Mitch’s death as the Sparrow.

  “Cut the psychobabble bullshit, Walker. I understand the nature of the assignment.”

  “Which is to find Prince Reginald’s killer. Period.” The other man’s tone brooked no disagreement.

  Aidan knew that on one level, Walker was right. They had been hired to identify Prince Reginald’s murderer, not Mitch’s. Taking a deep breath and relaxing his hands—he hadn’t even realized he’d made them into tight fists—he let his anger flow out of him. Anger was a distraction. There was no room for distractions with a killer as savvy as the Sparrow.

  “I understand and I’m sorry. It’s just tough at times, but…I’ve only failed once at an assignment.” He didn’t need to mention that Mitch had died as a result of that failure. “I won’t fail this time.”

  Walker stood and laid a hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “We all understand, Aidan. And we’re here for you.”

  “Together we will figure this out,” Aidan reassured Walker and Lucia, but then excused himself.

  Tomorrow he started working for the Sparrow. He had to be alert and ready to handle any kind of situation that presented itself. Which meant that he needed to do some additional research, and prepare a few gadgets that would allow him to keep a close watch on Elizabeth Moore.

  He also needed to get a better sense of the town. With that in mind, he quickly reviewed a map of the area that had been included in his dossier and then headed out again.

  Leaving the hotel, he walked briskly to the furthest edge of the town where the docks were located. He stepped from the main street onto the large and very old granite slabs that led to the docks. Although it was late in the day, fisherman were hauling boxes and bushels with their catches onto the docks to be transported to the nearby fish market.

  The scene reminded him of one of the seaside towns he had lived in briefly before his father’s army career had demanded they move somewhere else. Although he didn’t consider himself a settling-down kind of guy, it occurred to him that if he ever did decide to let some moss grow under his feet, it might be in a town like this one.

  Mitch and he had always loved to go surfing, sailing or fishing whenever their assignments gave them a break. His best friend who was dead. Murdered by the woman who had hired him earlier that morning.

  With that thought in mind, Aidan hastened his pace, familiarizing himself with the area around the Sparrow’s restaurant. He noticed the clean and tidy homes along the streets, a combination of older stone buildings and slightly more modern stucco-and-wood edifices.

  Nearing the edge of the village, which was not all that far from the wharf, mom-and-pop-type stores appeared here and there, interspersed with the residences. Eventually, he was within sight of the restaurant once more.

  He couldn’t help but admire the carefully kept gardens and manicured lawns surrounding the central building. As he slowly strolled past, he noticed a cottage way in the back, close to the shore. It was similar in style to the restaurant building, made of stone with a slate roof, but with two stories. Colorful blossoms graced the front of the cottage while in back, tall sea grasses waved with the ocean breeze.

  If he recalled correctly from his files, the cottage was the Sparrow’s home. Her nest.

  In time, he would get in there and locate the information he needed. He was sure about that. He would do whatever he had to in order to complete this mission since it was more than a mission to him. It was long-denied payback for his friend’s death.

  He only hoped that once the mission was completed, he would finally have the peace of mind that had eluded him for the past two years.

  With that thought in mind, he hurried back to the hotel to prepare for his first day of work for the Sparrow.

  Chapter 3

  The early-morning hours at the markets were the ones Elizabeth liked the best. She enjoyed investigating the stalls to search out ingredients for something new and playfully haggling with the vendors over the prices. As she walked past one merchant or another, they shouted their greetings. Most of them had known her since she was a child.

  Sometimes, if she finished with the shopping early enough, she w
ould walk down to the water’s edge and take the long way back home. If the tide was just right, she could skirt the edges of the tidal pools lingering along the shore and find what the ocean had left behind. Small crabs, seashells and even some lobsters every now and then.

  From the shore just past her cottage, she could see the mile or more to where fisherman harvested mussels from the pilings of an ancient stone bridge. The Romans had built the bridge centuries earlier to join Leonia to the smaller seaside town of Tiberia across the narrowest part of the harbor. She served those fresh mussels every day in a garlic-and-white-wine-infused broth. Her parents used to sell them in the fish shop they had owned at the time of their deaths.

  She could understand why her sister, Dani, found it so hard to be in Leonia. Everywhere she went there were reminders of their parents.

  Elizabeth continued walking along the shore, the bag filled with her purchases dragging at her arm. Memories dragging at her heart as she recalled her mother, father and Dani strolling together along the beach. At times, she felt totally alone with all of them gone. Forcing such thoughts away on what had started out as a delightful day, she trudged onward, trying to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the caress of an ocean breeze sweeping along the coast.

  At the beach behind her cottage, she detoured up a rocky path until she was at the edge of the back patio to the restaurant. She paused but a moment to appreciate all that she had built with her hard work. Then she was striding across the yard and to a side door by the vegetable garden. As she neared the entrance, the sounds of activity welcomed her. Walking into the kitchen, she greeted Natalie, her friend and sous chef, who inclined her head in the direction of the front of the restaurant. “Someone’s up there for you. Says he’s the new bartender.”

  Elizabeth placed her bag on a prep table and shook a cramp out of one arm. “If you could unpack, I’ll see what he needs.”