Free The Mist by Carla Neggers

point, she'd been trying to figure out what else she could do to fire up the FBI to go after Norman. But none of his drug-cartel friends had been with him, and she'd made an effort to relax.
    During a break in the game, a man with close-cropped brown hair had approached Norman and spoke to him briefly out of Lizzie's earshot. Whatever they discussed, it had seemed important. She'd retreated to the hotel bar, and ten minutes later, the Brit joined her. She did her best to look bored as she simultaneously nursed a bottle of water and a martini.
    He'd eased onto the stool next to her. Unlike Norman, he'd struck her as being very fit. "More of that water in your bag, love?"
    "Sure." She'd reached into her tote bag and handed him a bottle. It was Vegas. She knew to stay hydrated. "I'm Lizzie Rush. Who're you?"
    He'd taken the water and uncapped it. "You should behave, love." He'd winked at her, and she'd noticed he had gray eyes. "Sorry, I can't stay. I'm in a rush. No pun intended."
    He'd left, chuckling to himself, and later that night, Lizzie had reluctantly flown to Montana with Norman. Simon had beenscheduled to join them after visiting his friend Will Davenport in London. He and Norman were to work on plans for future high-risk adventures.
    Three days later, Norman was under arrest.
    Lizzie had provided the FBI with a description of the mysterious Brit in Las Vegas, anonymously, over the Internet, a trick she'd actually taught her father.
    As far as she knew, nothing had come of it.
    She'd asked her father about him before she'd left for Montana. "Who's the Brit?"
    "No one I know."
    He could have been telling the truth.
    Or not.
    And now here she was in Ireland with sheep nuzzling up to her. She got a disposable cell phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed her father's cell phone. "It's me, Dad. Are you in Las Vegas?"
    "Losing at poker. How are you, Lizzie?"
    She could hear the worry in his voice but sidestepped his question. "Do you remember the Brit who stopped to talk to Norman Estabrook in June?"
    "Who?"
    "You heard me. I asked you about him that night, and you said you didn't know him. I'm wondering if you've run into him since, or maybe done a little digging."
    "I'm losing at five-card stud, sweetheart. Just dying here. Where are you?"
    She pictured him at his poker table at the hotel, at just under two hundred rooms their largest. Harlan Rush was a tawny-haired, square-jawed man in his late fifties. He was handsome and rich, and he'd swept her Irish mother off her feet thirty-one yearsago after she'd stayed at the Whitcomb Hotel in Boston on business. She had been in Irish tourism development.
    Supposedly.
    Lizzie didn't want to tell her father where she was. "Let's just say I'm jetlagged."
    He sighed. "You're in Ireland. I told you not to go there. Years ago. I told you."
    "Ireland isn't the problem."
    "It's bad luck for us."
    "I love it. Cousin Justin is doing great at the Dublin hotel, which, I might add, is a huge success. Maybe Ireland was bad luck for you and my mother."
    "I remember you reaching for her as a baby. 'Mama' was your first word. She was gone, and it was still your first word."
    "Don't, Dad."
    "You're in trouble. I can hear it in your voice."
    She looked up at the sky. There'd be stars tonight. She could stay here and watch them come out. "I think the Brit we saw in Las Vegas might know another Brit, Will Davenport, who is friends with Simon Cahill."
    "Cahill? The FBI agent?" Her father groaned. "Lizzie."
    "And I think Will is from your world," she said.
    " Will , he is now? How well do you know him?"
    "We just met over brandy in an Irish pub."
    "You only drink brandy when you're in trouble."
    "Not only," she said with a smile, hoping it relaxed her voice, "but it's the best time."
    "Go back to Maine and watch the cormorants."
    "Dad--"
    "That bastard friend of yours, Estabrook, was turned loose this morning. He's not your problem. You understand that, don't you?"
    "Sure. So, nothing on my Brit in