The Mist

Chapter 23

Near Kennebunkport, Maine

8:19 p.m., EDT

August 26

Lizzie took the stairs up to the wraparound deck of her small house built on the rocks near the mouth of the Kennebec River. The tide was going out, pleasure craft and working boats still making their way to the harbor. She let herself into her house-one main room with very little separation of space-and opened up the windows and doors, the evening breeze pouring in through the screens. She walked out to the deck and shut her eyes, listening to the sounds of the boats and the ocean at dusk.

The rambling house her grandfather Rush had built was two hundred yards up the rockbound shore. After an architect friend had walked through it with her, he’d sent her a book of matches in lieu of a plan for renovations. Lizzie loved Maine, but her father avoided it, just as he did Dublin and, to a lesser extent, Boston. “The water’s always too cold,” he’d say. But memories haunted him here, too. Nostalgia not just for what had been but what might have been.

Lizzie was ten when she’d first fantasized her father was a spy and fifteen when she knew he was one. He always deflected her questions without giving a direct answer, even as he taught her how to defend herself, how to spot a tail, shake a tail, do a dead drop-how to think in such terms.

Only when she went to Ireland herself was Lizzie certain that her mother hadn’t tripped on a cobblestone after all, and the circumstances of her death-his inability to stop it-were why her father had taught her how to jab her fingers into a man’s throat. “Don’t be bound by dogma,” he’d say. “Never mind niceties or rules when you’re in a fight for your life. Trust your instincts. Do what you have to do to get out alive.”

Lizzie opened her eyes, noticing a cormorant swooping low over the calm water. Her grandmother, famous for her frugality, had spent as much time as she could in Maine during her last years. She liked her crumbling house the way it was, liked the memories it conjured up for her.

“Sitting here by myself, the memories are like a warm, fuzzy blanket,” she’d told her only granddaughter. But that was a rare display of sentimentality for Edna Whitcomb Rush, and in the next breath, she’d said, “Tear this place down when I’m gone. It’s the location I love.”

Lizzie had smiled. “It’s magical.”

“Ah, you have your mother’s romantic soul.”

“Do you believe she tripped on a cobblestone, Gran?”

It was a question Lizzie had asked before, but her grandmother only answered it then, at the very end of her long, good life. “I’ll ask her when I see her in heaven, Lizzie, but no. No, I never believed your mother simply tripped and fell. But,” her grandmother had continued, some of her old starch coming back into her voice, “I do believe that whatever happened to her, justice was rendered. Your father would have seen to that.”

“What was she like?”

“She was very much like you, Lizzie.”

The sound of a car pulled her out of her thoughts and drew her attention to the gravel driveway down to her left. She walked to the railing and leaned over as a familiar sedan pulled to a stop behind the one she’d borrowed from Martha Prescott.

Jeremiah’s car.

Jeremiah who now owed her, Lizzie thought as she watched Will Davenport get out on the driver’s side and look at the darkening horizon. She waited, but no one else appeared.

At least he’d come alone.

She remained on the deck, listening to his even footsteps on the stairs. When he came around to her, she put both hands on the back of an old Adirondack chair she’d collected from her grandmother’s house farther up the rocks. “You got here even faster than I anticipated.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No. Not even a little.” It was true, she realized. “You’re more rugged looking up close. I can picture you humping over remote mountains with a heavy pack and a big gun.”

He smiled, walking toward her. “I see your imagination and flare for dramatics are at work again.”

“Ha. SAS and MI6 equal heavy pack and big gun.” She frowned. “Jeremiah told you where to find me? I have blabbermouth cousins.”

“Who adore you and whom you adore in return.”

“Serves me right for using them to run interference.”

But she saw the strain of the past day at the corners of his eyes as he squinted out at the Atlantic, seagulls crying in the distance, out of sight. “Is this your place, or does it belong to your family?”

“It’s mine. My great-grandfather Rush was a Maine fisherman. His son did well and married a Whitcomb from Boston, and he came back here and built a big-but not too big-house. I own it, too. No one else in the family wanted it after my grandmother died two years ago.”

Will turned and leaned against the railing, his back to the ocean, the evening breeze catching the ends of his hair. His eyes were more blue-green now, dark, observant. “Maybe they wanted you to have it.”

Lizzie dropped her hands from the chair and stood next to him on the railing, facing the water. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. My family-I love them all, Will.” She watched a worn lobster boat cruise toward the river harbor. “My parents planned to raise me here. Then my mother died, and my father-well, things changed.”

“Things always change.”

She glanced sideways at him. “How much do you know about me?”

That slight smile again. “Not nearly enough.”

She hadn’t expected the spark of sexuality in his eyes, but it was there. And it pleased her even as it unnerved her. “I looked up your family in Burke’s Peerage and Gentry.”

“You were in London in July,” he said.

“Josie’s been busy following my trail?”

“Very. I spoke to her on my drive up here.”

“I imagine the FBI will want to talk to her.”

“I gave them her number.”

“Supposedly you were in Scotland fishing when I was in London. I was careful to stay off any spy radar. I met people at a hotel bar where you and Simon often meet for a drink, and I walked past your sister’s wedding dress shop. I never saw her-I wouldn’t do that.” Lizzie shrugged, stood back from the deck railing. “I was just the hotelier on a London holiday.”

“I never knew,” Will said.

“That was the idea. I didn’t get close enough for you to find out.”

“You should have.”

Lizzie turned and faced him. “Maybe you should go back to Boston and join forces with Simon and the rest of the FBI, do what you can from there to find Myles Fletcher.”

“It’s Abigail Browning we need to find. Myles isn’t important compared to her safety.”

“Will…this place is my refuge. I’ve never…” She paused, tried to smile. “I’ve had my cousins over for lobster rolls, but otherwise this is where I come to be alone.”

“I get your meaning, Lizzie. I’m invading your space.”

“‘Invading’ is too strong. I had ants once. Now, that was an invasion-”

He touched a finger to the corner of her mouth. “I can see you battling ants.” He trailed his fingertip across her lower lip. “Are you all right, Lizzie?” he asked softly.

“Sure. Yes.” Her heartbeat quickened, but she tried to ignore its meaning. That she was reacting to this man. That she’d lost all objectivity with him. “I’m not the one lying dead in an alley or recovering from shrapnel wounds or-” But she squeezed her eyes shut at sudden images of where Norman could have Abigail Browning, what he could be doing to her. She tried to block them as she opened her eyes. “I don’t want him to hurt her.”

Will tucked his fingers under her chin and raised it so that she was meeting his eye. “Whatever happens won’t be your doing. Guilt gets us nowhere.” He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her softly. “I’ve been thinking about doing that for some time now.”

Lizzie smiled. “Long plane ride across the Atlantic.”

“I started wondering what it would be like to kiss you when you pretended not to recognize my name at Eddie O’Shea’s pub. When I saw you take on Michael Murphy-” Will kissed her again “-I knew it would be only a matter of time.”

“Very bold of you.”

This time, their kiss took on an urgency, nothing soft or tentative about it. She responded, putting a hand on his arm to steady herself. She was tired and raw emotionally, and all she wanted to do was to feel his arms around her, his mouth on hers.

“Kissing you is everything I imagined it would be,” he said.

“I hope what you imagined was good.”

He laughed. “Very good, just not sufficient.” His eyes sparked as he stood back from her. “I want more than a kiss.”

“Will-”

“Also only a matter of time, wouldn’t you say, Lizzie?”

She hoped so. Every nerve ending she had wanted it to be so. But she said lightly, “You are very bold, indeed, Lord Davenport.”

“A point to remember.”

He turned to face the ocean, and Lizzie shook off the aftereffects of their kiss as best she could and reminded herself who was standing next to her. What did she know about this man and why was he really here? “Maybe being attracted to each other is inevitable after all the adrenaline of the past twenty-four hours. Heightened senses and all that.”

Will seemed amused. “I was attracted to you before the adrenaline set in.”

Now she felt warm. She looked out at the water. Lights were coming on at the inns and houses down toward the river.

“Does Estabrook know about this place?” Will asked, back to business.

“Yes.”

“You think he’ll come here.”

“I think he knows I’ll come here.”

“Lizzie, you can’t deal with Norman Estabrook on your own any longer. No one would ask that of you.”

“What if I told you he kidnapped Abigail because of me? What would you say then?” She narrowed her gaze on him. “What would you ask me to do?”

He didn’t hesitate. “The same. You’re not a criminal, nor are you a law enforcement officer.”

“Did John March tell you to keep an eye on me?”

His expression darkened slightly. “I don’t work for March.”

“Did the queen tell you? Your friend the prime minister?” Lizzie didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re after Myles Fletcher.”

“I’m here because I want to help you.”

She noticed the air was cool, almost chilly, with nightfall. Maine’s too-short summer was coming to an end. “Thank you.”

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.

Will leaned back, tapped a finger on a white square of the tablecloth. “You see too much, Lizzie.”

“My father taught me to be observant.”

“I led a team into a remote area of Afghanistan. We-I trusted Myles. He betrayed us. Until yesterday, I had every reason to believe he’d been captured and executed by his terrorist friends.”

“Your team,” Lizzie said, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread. “What happened to them?”

Will leveled his gaze on her. “They were killed in action.”

“What were their names?”

“David Mears and Philip Billings. They were the best men the U.K. has to offer. The best men I’ve ever known.”

Lizzie was aware of a car passing on the street by their table and the smell of scallops as a waiter came out with a tray, but her mind was in Afghanistan, a place she’d never been, with men she’d never met. Finally she said, “I’m sorry.”

“I’d have died in their place.”

She knew he meant it. “People are loyal to you, aren’t they? Josie Goodwin. Your men.”

“Not Myles. I led Josie to him.” Will spoke without bitterness, without flinching from the truth. “I led David and Philip to their deaths.”

“You don’t want to trust or be trusted anymore, do you, Will? No one to disappoint or to owe.” Lizzie leaned over the table, aware now only of the man across from her. He was emotionally self-contained and mission-oriented, but he was also, in his own way, tortured by the past. “I’d love to see you really laugh one day.”

“Lizzie-”

“You need to know what Fletcher’s been up to the past two years. And you need to find out what really happened in Afghanistan. The answers you thought you had are looking a little muddy right now. Am I right?”

“I like clarity,” he said with a small smile.

A couple at another of the roadside tables laughed loudly, enjoying their late-summer vacation. Lizzie had pulled on a sweatshirt before leaving the house, but she still felt chilly. “Did John March have a role in what happened in Afghanistan?”

Will hesitated ever so slightly. “I suppose since I’ve told you this much, I might as well…” He sighed and looked away from her a moment. “Simon found me in the cave where I was trapped. I assume he was there because of March. David and Philip were already dead. Myles had already been captured. Simon had only an ax and a rope with him, but you’ve seen him.”

“He’s built like a bull. Do he and March know about Myles Fletcher?”

“Yes. Most certainly.”

This time, Lizzie noticed a trace of bitterness in his tone. “Fletcher will try to kill you if he gets the chance, won’t he?”

“He’ll make the chance.”

“Because you know he’s alive,” Lizzie said.

“Because if everything I’ve believed for the past two years is true, I know what he did.” Will looked across the narrow street at a flower shop and a pretty gray-shingled inn. “In a way, I hope if Myles wants me dead it’s because he can’t tolerate having us know he’s alive. Dead, he could still pretend he didn’t betray us.”

“It would say he still has something of a conscience.” Lizzie reached across the table and took his hand briefly. “It would also say he knows you won’t rest until you find him. You’re handsome and elusive, Lord Davenport, and I do believe I’m falling for you. It’s not just adrenaline and jetlag, either.”

He smiled. “We’ll see.”

“Would your family be horrified?”

“Delighted. I’ve become something of a worry.”

Their bowls of chowder arrived, thick, steaming. Lizzie tore open a packet of oyster crackers and dumped them into her soup. “My cousin Whit makes the best chowder of the lot of us. Are your MI6 and SAS comrades after Fletcher? The House of Lords? The prime minister? I hear you’re mates.”

Will managed to look something between exasperated and amused.

Lizzie shrugged. “Just trying to inject a touch of humor into a humorless situation. Are you a magnet for Fletcher?” She studied him. “You hope so. Do you suspect Norman has ties to some of the same people you ran into in Afghanistan?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“Ripple effects. Did you look for Fletcher after Simon saved your life?”

“Night and day for weeks.”

“I guess he didn’t want to be found. He’s as dangerous as you say, isn’t he?”

Will’s expression didn’t match their quaint, cheerful surroundings. “Myles can’t have been in charge of every aspect of what happened yesterday in Boston and Ireland. Otherwise, the outcome would have been quite different.”

“You mean he doesn’t make mistakes. At least not that kind. He’s a professional.”

“You obviously have a sixth sense for…”

“Spies?”

This time, he smiled at her humor. “Eat your soup, Lizzie.”

After dinner, they walked up to the rambling house her grandfather had built on the rocks above the Atlantic. There was no sign anyone was there now or had been since her last visit. Some days Lizzie wanted to renovate the house for the mother she’d never known and other days just to tear it down and start from scratch with a new house, fresh memories. Her aunt had asked her if Norman was in her sights and had been openly relieved when Lizzie had said no. Her aunt hadn’t known then of his association with violent international criminals. She’d objected to him because of his personality. “He’s self-absorbed, Lizzie. You wouldn’t make a good trophy. You want a partnership, at the very least. You’d love to have a soulmate, but life doesn’t always provide one. You might have to look under a few rocks and kiss a few toads.”

Henrietta was as near to a mother as Lizzie had ever known, even more than her grandmother, but neither woman had ever tried to be something she wasn’t. Successful, creative, not bound by clocks and routines, Henrietta Rush was a devoted wife and mother of four sons. The daughter of the Whitcomb’s head maintenance man, she’d met Bradley Rush when she hand-delivered a list of a hundred things her father thought the hotel was doing wrong. The two of them still lived in the same drafty Victorian north of Boston. Lizzie considered it home as much as anywhere. When she was growing up, her father had maintained an apartment in Boston because it was convenient for him to leave her with his brother and wife when he had to be away for weeks at a time and couldn’t take her with him.

When she left for college, he moved to Las Vegas.

“I was supposed to grow up here,” Lizzie said, Will close to her in the dark. She could hear the wash of waves down on the rocks. “Then my mother died, and my father-I think that’s when he gave up on leaving the CIA or whatever alphabet agency he works for.”

“Do you believe your mother died because of his work?”

“I believe I don’t have all the facts about her life or her death.”

Will stayed close to her as they made their way back to her little house. The tide had shifted and was just starting to come in, bringing with it the cool night breeze and smells of the ocean.

Lizzie was intensely aware that Will would be sleeping close by again tonight. “I’m just enough on Irish time to be exhausted,” she said.

“Taking on a killer and finding a man shot to death can’t help.”

“I didn’t think. I just acted.”

“You fight well.” He nodded to her small living area. “Do you train here?”

“Sometimes. I almost took out a window in July with my kicking.”

He stood in front of her, looking at her as if he wanted to push back all her defenses and see into her soul.

Which was just nonsense. She had to stay focused and couldn’t indulge in romantic fantasies. But he took her hand into his and she leaned into him, letting herself sink against his chest.

He put his arms around her, and she lifted her head from his chest so that she could see his face. “When you walked into Eddie O’Shea’s pub…” She wasn’t sure she could explain. “There’s something about that village. It’s as if Iwas meant to be there, sitting by a fire reading Irish folktales. When I was in London, I thought you were just another spy. Of course, I didn’t actually see you.”

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.”