The Whisper f-4

by Carla Neggers

  Lizzie, who had gone somewhat pale, nodded. "I don't, either."

  "That's precisely what you both should do, then," Josie said. "You needn't be involved with whatever's happening now in Boston. Arabella Davenport awaits you in London with her measuring tape."

  As Keira moved away from the window, she exhibited none of her usual positive spirit, the carefree wanderlust that Josie had seen in her even just a few weeks ago. Normally Keira was bubbling with creativity and enthusiasm. "I was never afraid in the ruin," she said. "I can't explain it, but I felt safe."

  "The fairies," Josie said.

  "The black dog was there, too," Lizzie interjected from her position on the sofa. "Of course, for all we know, he's a shape-shifting fairy himself."

  "Anything's possible." Keira settled her troubled gaze on Josie. "I can't not be involved, Josie. I have to do what I can."

  Josie added fresh fruit to her plate and finally sat with it on a side chair that seemed to envelop her in its soft cushions. "Oh, my, Lizzie," she said, deliberately cheerful. "Did you choose this particular chair to remind people how tired they are?" But when Lizzie managed only a weak smile, Josie made up her mind. "I think it best that you two return to London first thing tomorrow. I'll make the arrangements. If you don't want to let Arabella measure you for dresses, you can all have tea or visit Buckingham Palace--"

  "Or catch Taryn Malone on stage," Lizzie said, perking up.

  Josie sighed. "That's not what I had in mind."

  Lizzie didn't give up. "I'd love to see Arabella, but Keira and I can look into whether Percy Carlisle is in London."

  "Lizzie," Josie said, "the Boston police want to talk to Percy in connection with the highly suspicious death of one of their own."

  She nodded. "Exactly."

  Keira, too, seemed to rally now that a plan was in the works. "Maybe he's in London and just didn't tell his wife--not necessarily for nefarious reasons but because he's not used to being married."

  "I can get us names of his friends and acquaintances there," Lizzie added.

  The Rushes were themselves wealthy Bostonians, but even if they weren't, Josie had no doubt that Lizzie and Keira would manage to get the names. These were two very capable women--capable on multiple levels--but Josie wasn't keen on having to explain to her bosses in London, should Lizzie and Keira land themselves in trouble, why she'd given them free rein and even encouraged them.

  There was also the prospect of explaining herself to Will and Simon, too.

  "You've done your investigative bit these past few months," she said, "and you have no legal authority to start poking into this man's affairs."

  "It's perfectly reasonable that I'd look him up," Keira said.

  "How? You just said you don't know him."

  "We're both from Boston," Keira said, "and we share an interest in art, history and archaeology. He's a natural to approach about the Boston-Cork folklore conference. I'm surprised I haven't thought of him before now."

  Josie put far too much clotted cream on the last bit of her scone, but she didn't care. "That's utterly transparent. He'll know in a minute you have an ulterior motive."

  Lizzie dropped her feet to the floor and reached for a piece of brown bread and a small plate. "So? We'll have found him." She dipped a knife into soft butter and smeared it on her bread. "That's the main thing, isn't it?"

  "There's no danger, Josie," Keira said, the life returning to her eyes. "Even if this police officer in Boston was murdered and didn't commit suicide, his killer is there, not here."

  Josie recognized defeat when it was upon her. "I'll have someone meet you in London."

  "Who? Scotland Yard?" Definitely more animated now, Keira walked over to the small table and took the smallest triangle of cheese from the tray. "MI5--MI6?"

  Josie smiled. "Such an imagination."

  She was spared further grilling by Myles's belated arrival. He was freshly showered, shaved and as sexy as she'd ever seen him. She told herself her heightened emotions were a result of the troubling news from Boston and how it might intersect with the Kenmare fisherman's tale of a cave, blood and lost Celtic gold--not, she thought, to the reemergence of one formerly dead military and intelligence officer in her life.

  Well, not in her life. In her presence, at best. Myles wasn't a man who let himself be in anyone else's life. He preferred to stand apart. She'd known that about him even before the ill-fated firefight in Afghanistan.

  She noticed his gray eyes were less red-rimmed than an hour ago, and he moved with his usual energy and purpose. He plucked two slices of brown bread from the tray, skipped a plate, jam and butter and sat next to Lizzie. "Sorry to interrupt your chat."

  "We were discussing wedding dresses," Lizzie said with a wry smile.

  "Terrifying. Put me back on the Maine coast with Norman Estabrook's thugs. You were quite the firecracker ally that day, Lizzie, love."

  She scooted to the corner of the sofa with her knees tucked up under her chin, so that she was facing Myles. "I had no choice," she said.

  "We always have a choice. Yours was to act. Your father taught you well."

  She frowned. "It's him. In London. It's my father you're having meet us, isn't it, Josie? He was just in Ireland for the first time since my mother's death. I haven't heard from him in a week or so, but I know he hasn't returned to Las Vegas."

  Josie relished another bite of scone. "Let's chuck everything and open a tea shop on a tree-lined street in a little town on the Irish coast." She took a moment to consider the myriad complications that the mention of Harlan Rush presented. Widower, gambler, hotelier, veteran spy--and a man very devoted to Lizzie, his only child. "If your father is in London, Lizzie, perhaps he's there to help you site the very first Rush hotel in Great Britain."

  "Not a chance," Lizzie said. "My dear father may be a vice president in the family business, but that doesn't mean he knows a thing about it. My uncle would never let him get involved in opening a hotel."

  Josie ate some of her fruit, although she wanted another scone. "When I made that comment, I had no one specific in mind. I can't say I've ever met your father."

  Myles eyed Lizzie with a measure of respect he reserved for very few. They'd bonded in the last hours of Abigail Browning's captivity, when Norman Estabrook and his thugs had holed up in the old Rush house on the Maine coast. Once Estabrook and most of his men were dead and Abigail and Lizzie were safe, Myles had jumped in a boat and disappeared. Will could have stopped him, but he hadn't.

  Lizzie seemed to curl up into an even tighter ball. "You came back here voluntarily. Simon and Will couldn't order you. Even if they tried to, you'd only listen if you thought it was in the interest of your mission to do as they asked."

  Myles popped a chunk of brown bread into his mouth. "I'm starving. There's a pub in this place, isn't there?"

  "Lower level," Lizzie said. "You know I hate being ignored, don't you?"

  He grinned. "You'll definitely keep Lord Will on his toes."

  Keira shook her head. "You people," she said cheerfully. "If I could paint, I'd hole up here, but I can't." She returned to the window and looked out at the Dublin night again. "Maybe I'll turn into a painter of dreary, depressing scenes."

  "That's not even possible," Josie said.

  "I hope not." She let the drape fall back in place. "Lizzie, are you going to tell them about Justin?"

  "Oh, right." Lizzie seemed to put aside trying to get more information from Myles. "My cousin Justin reminded me that Jeremiah--his older brother--had a fierce crush on Sophie Malone when she worked at our hotel in Boston. He was still in high school."

  Josie resisted the crumbs on her plate. "Where is Jeremiah now?"

  "He's working reception at the Whitcomb. I called him while I was waiting for you all to get here." Lizzie sat up, dropping her feet to the floor. "He helped me remember that Sophie got to know John March. The FBI director. It could mean nothing--"

  Josie shook her head. "In my experience, the words
'John March' in a sentence never mean nothing."

  "True," Lizzie said, undeterred. "Jeremiah and I both think there's more that we're just not remembering. Justin, too. It'll come to us."

  They chatted a bit more, but Josie finally felt her fatigue and walked back up the stairs to her room. She thought Myles might head to the pub, but he was right behind her. She didn't get through her door before he had her in his arms. His mouth found hers, and a thousand responses flooded her at once--a stern reprimand, a knee to the groin, tears, another attempt at a heart-to-heart talk. He was physically stronger and an experienced combat soldier, but he was exhausted and obviously wasn't in a defensive mode. She was well trained herself and very much on her guard, but all her options fell away with the taste of him, the feel of his hands on her.

  She kicked the door shut with her heel. It'd been a month since she'd learned he hadn't been dragged off and killed, wasn't a traitor. She'd had time to imagine this moment and how she'd respond--or, more to the point, wouldn't respond.

  She pushed back all the warnings she'd given herself not to succumb to being near him again and do exactly what she was doing now. Kissing him back, aching for him.

  "This kept me going so many times," he said, drawing her to him, every inch of him lean and rock-hard. He lifted her as if she were slim and small, which she was not, and she could feel his arousal against her. "Just thinking about loving you again got me through one dark night after another."

  "Rubbish." Josie draped her arms around his neck and tilted back from their kiss. "You never think about the past or the future."

  He grinned at her. "Except when it comes to you, love."

  He kissed her again, and she was hot now, her mind spinning. She responded to him, deepening their kiss, letting go of everything but that heady combination of needs she always felt with him. It'd been two years since she'd had a man. But she wouldn't tell him. Never.

  The thought rocked her to her core. She clutched his upper arms and pulled back from their kiss. "I mourned you, Myles. I didn't have the luxury of thinking this day would come."

  He set her back on the floor. "I'll be mature and give you time to sort this out." He took a curl of her hair and tucked it behind her ear, as gentle a move as he'd ever made with her. "Just not too much time. You're decisive. You'll know."

  "There's nothing to sort out. You were wrong for me two years ago. Now you're just more wrong." She adjusted her clothing and cleared her throat. "I know it's not that late, but it's been a long day in the car."

  He winked at her. "Now it'll be a long night alone in our beds."

  He went back out through the hall door, and before she could change her mind, Josie threw on the dead bolt and pulled a chair in front of the connecting door. If he tried to sneak in, at least she'd have fair warning and could dry her tears. In her thirteen years with British intelligence, not once had she let a colleague see her cry.

  And that was what Myles Fletcher was. A colleague.

  "Bastard," she said, picking up a pillow and flinging it to the floor.

  What would she get if she trashed her five-star hotel room out of pure frustration? She could present Myles to hotel security. Lizzie Rush could intervene and explain. Having taken on armed thugs and a violent billionaire with Myles, she would understand why Josie had been driven to breaking windows and kicking the feathers out of pillows.

  Instead she picked up the pillow and sat on the bed with her knees tucked up under her chin. She touched her lips with her fingertips and looked at the connecting door. "Damn you, Myles," she said in a hoarse whisper. "I love you as much as ever."

  Which, of course, was why he'd kissed her. He knew she loved him. He'd always known--and if that had given him comfort during the past two years, wasn't it a good thing? As a professional, shouldn't she draw some satisfaction that their relationship had helped an agent on a difficult, dangerous mission--one he hadn't expected to survive?

  Some, perhaps, but never mind the past. What about the future?

  Not to mention the present. Josie dipped under the silken duvet, shivering at the feel of the cool sheets. It would, indeed, be a long night alone in her bed.

  14

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Scoop returned to his desk at BPD headquarters in Roxbury for the first time since he'd been shredded by shrapnel. Everything was just as he'd left it. He'd turned over all his notes on the possible involvement of a member of the department with the thugs who'd kidnapped Abigail Browning. The firewall was up between him and the investigation. It had gone up the second the bomb went off.

  There was nothing for him to do except avoid people he didn't want to talk to. Josie's report was raging in his head, but he had to pull himself together before he talked to anyone--especially Sophie. He returned to Charles Street, the temperature dropping fast, the early evening air cool, even chilly. For once Jeremiah Rush wasn't at the reception desk in the Whitcomb lobby. Scoop rode the elevator with a couple from Houston who were in town to see as many historic sites as they could fit in. The wife wanted to be sure to visit the Louisa May Alcott house in Concord. The husband wanted to visit Bunker Hill in Charles-town.

  They looked at Scoop to settle the issue. He grinned. "I'd go to a Red Sox game."

  "Do you work for the hotel?" the wife asked. "Our tub drain's slow."

  The husband winced as if he wanted to crawl out of there, but Scoop just said, "I'll let the front desk know."

  She blushed. "Thank you. I'm sorry. I thought--"

  "Not a problem."

  They looked relieved when he got off the elevator. His room had been serviced, even his toothbrush, razor and toothpaste set in a clean glass. He didn't know what to do with himself. He thought about having a drink at the bar. Calling O'Reilly to join him. Tracking down Abigail on her honeymoon. Before the bomb, the three of them would get together in the backyard or in one of their kitchens and talk about whatever was on their minds. Now everything was different. He, Abigail and Bob O'Reilly were stuck on the wrong side of the investigation.

  He rubbed a palm over his head.

  He could go up and fix the Houston couple's drain.

  Scoop grabbed a zip-up sweatshirt and returned to the lobby, bypassing Morrigan's and heading back outside. He turned up Mt. Vernon Street, telling himself he was just getting some air, working off the last of his jet lag and the effects of his long day. The nagging questions about Cliff's role in the bomb blast. His death. The bizarre scene at his apartment.

  Sophie's wide, blue eyes as she'd taken in the disturbing, bizarre skulls, glass beads, DVD, cast-iron pot--the bomb-making materials and the former police officer hanging in his dining room.

  As he came to the top of Beacon Hill, Scoop gritted his teeth, but he already knew what he was going to do. He continued on to the Malone twins' apartment. The gate was unlocked, which was an issue for him. He didn't ring the bell, just descended the steps and walked through the archway back to a cute little courtyard.

  Sophie was, in fact, arranging mums. She was on her knees, a half dozen mums in apple baskets in front of her. She moved a yellow one behind a dark maroon one and rolled back onto her heels. "There. Better." She glanced up at Scoop. "What do you think?"

  He nodded back toward the street. "I think you should keep your gate locked."

  "That must have been one of the neighbors who share the courtyard. I'm in a batten-down-the-hatches mood myself."

  "Smart. The mums look great. Perfect. Don't touch a thing."

  She stood up and smiled at him. "You don't care, do you?"

  "I like gardening when it involves something I can have for dinner."

  "Ah. What have you been up to?"

  "I just got mistaken for a plumber. Thought you'd be pleased. Not everyone looks at me and thinks 'cop.'"

  She brushed loose potting soil off her hands. "Would you like to come inside?"

  "I'm homeless. Sure."

  She led him into the tiny apartment. The low ceilings would have hi
m nuts in half a day, but that was affordable Beacon Hill. Unaffordable Beacon Hill came with higher ceilings. He noticed a laptop and papers by the fireplace, but otherwise, there was no indication Sophie had truly moved in.

  "I know why you're here," she said.

  That was good because he wasn't sure he knew.

  She motioned to what passed for a kitchen. "Can I get you anything?"

  "No, but help yourself."

  She shook her head. "I haven't been able to eat a thing since that half of your sandwich. Have a seat."

  He pulled out a chair at the table by the windows and sat down, but she stayed on her feet between him and the entry, watching him as if she were wondering if she'd lost her mind inviting him in. She'd twisted her hair up into some kind of knot that was coming apart, tangled strands of dark red falling into her face.

  She walked over to the low sectional and stood in front of the fireplace. "It'll be easier if I start at the beginning." She took a moment to study him with those smart, bright blue eyes. "But you know my story already, don't you? Two Brits talked to a fisherman in Kenmare this morning. They're friends of yours, aren't they?"

  "Not friends, exactly."

  "They're reporting to you--"

  "Sort of, yes. It doesn't matter, Sophie. I want to hear you tell me what happened."

  "All right." She stared past him out the window, but he doubted she even saw the array of autumn flowers. "Last September, I explored a tiny, uninhabited island off the Iveragh Peninsula as a break from writing my dissertation."

  Scoop smiled at her. "Couldn't just go to the local pub?"

  She seemed to relax a little. "I did some of my best writing in my local pub. My island trips were different. I'd get out on the water and in the air and not think about my page quotas, my arguments, my future. How many years it'd taken me to get to that point and how in debt I was, with no certainty I'd get the kind of job I wanted in the end."