"An exhilarating romantic suspense that is almost impossible to put down."
Reviewed by Suan Wilson
Posted July 7, 2009
Romance Suspense
While Lizzie Rush is working in her family's worldwide
hotel chain, she runs across thrill-seeking billionaire
Norman Estabrook. Estabrook has grown bored and crosses the
line when he joins an international criminal organization.
It leads Lizzie to turn into an anonymous informant for the
FBI. Believing he could outsmart the law, Estabrook goes
ballistic when he is arrested. Out on bail, he sets forth
an elaborate revenge plot against the people who dared to
betray him. Estabrook arranges the kidnapping of the FBI
director's daughter and the bombing of the families he
suspects wronged him. Lizzie believes she can thwart Estabrook's plans using the
tricks her father, a CIA spy, taught her over the years.
She and Will Davenport, a British intelligent officer, bump
into each other in Ireland where Lizzie is trying to stop a
minion from killing an FBI agent's fiancé. Will tells
Lizzie that Estabrook has disappeared. She puts limited
trust in Will, but knows she needs his help in finding and
stopping Estabrook. Ms. Neggers takes readers to Ireland, Maine and Boston for
an exhilarating romantic suspense tale that has readers
questioning all the characters' motives. Be ready for an
all night read as THE MIST is almost impossible to put
down.
Learn more about The Mist
SUMMARY
When Lizzie Rush uncovers evidence that thrill-seeking
billionaire Norman Estabrook may be at the center of an
international criminal network, she finds herself playing a
dangerous game of cat and mouse. Raised in the elite world
of her hotelier family, educated in reality by her spy
father, Lizzie is the perfect choice to slowly amass
information that will take down Estabrook. But no good deed
goes unpunished. Despite Norman’s arrest, Lizzie knows she’s not safe.
Estabrook will stop at nothing to exact revenge against the
people who took him down—unless she stops him first. When
she learns of a bomb that’s about to go off in Boston, her
instincts are proven right. But her warning doesn’t come
quickly enough. One detective is seriously injured in the
blast and another, the FBI director’s daughter, disappears.
Then intelligence officer Will Davenport arrives with a
single, simple message: Norman Estabrook is gone. Lizzie doesn’t know how Will found her or whose side he's
on, but she does know he can help her prevent the killers
from striking again. Now Lizzie—a woman who’s spent the
last year shrouded in a fog of deception—has no choice but
to trust Will, a man who lives by a code of personal honor
and answers to no one. At least until the mist clears and
the frightening truth is revealed.
ExcerptBeara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland 4:45 p.m., IST August 25 Lizzie Rush tensed at her table by the fire, watching out
of the corner of her eye as a tall, fair-haired man entered
the small village pub, shutting the door firmly against the
gale-force wind and steady rain that had been lashing the
southwest Irish coast for hours. The man wore an expensive
trench coat unbuttoned over a dark brown sweater neatly
draped across a flat abdomen, dark brown trousers and
leather shoes that, although suited to walking the isolated
hills of the remote Beara Peninsula, looked to be free of
mud and manure. The half-dozen local fishermen and farmers Lizzie had seen
arrive over the past hour had hung up wet, worn jackets and
scraped off their shoes and wellies or shed them and set
them by the door. The men were gathered now over pints of
Guinness and mugs of coffee at rickety tables by the front
window. They paid no attention to the newcomer, nor did the
brown-and-white springer spaniel flopped on the stone
hearth close to the peat fire. The dog belonged to the
barman and presumably was accustomed to the comings and
goings at the pub. Lizzie drank the last of her strong coffee. The past day
had been a whirlwind. A last-minute overnight flight from Boston to Dublin. A few
hours to check in to her family's small hotel in Dublin and
try to talk herself into abandoning her trip to the Beara
Peninsula. No luck there. Then it was back to the airport
for a short flight west across Ireland to the tiny Kerry
County airport and, finally, the drive here, to this quiet
village on Kenmare Bay, in the rain and wind. She set down her mug and turned a page in the beautifully
illustrated book of Irish folktales she was reading while
enjoying coffee and warm blackberry crumble by the fire. As
tempting as it was, she knew she couldn't give in to the
lure of the cozy, romantic atmosphere of the pub and let
down her guard. As the newcomer walked over to the bar, she
reminded herself he could have a weapon—a gun, a knife—
concealed under his trench coat or tucked next to an ankle. Or he could be an ordinary, if well-dressed, tourist
getting out of the gale. The barman, a wiry, sandy-haired Irishman named Eddie
O'Shea, filled a pint from the tap. He'd been eyeing Lizzie
with a mix of suspicion and curiosity since she'd shed her
own dripping jacket and hung it on a wooden peg by the
door, but he gave the newcomer a warmer reception. "Ah," he said with a smile and a little hoot of surprise
and recognition, "if it isn't Lord Will himself." Lord Will. Lizzie forced herself to calmly turn another page in her
book. "Hello, Eddie," the newcomer said in an upper-class British
accent. Eddie set the pint on a tray on the gleaming, polished five-
foot stretch of wood in front of him and sighed. "You
wouldn't be in Ireland for a bit of golf, would you?" "Not today, I'm afraid." Lizzie stared at a lush watercolor of a quaint Irish farm,
grazing sheep and trooping fairies. Of all the things she'd
anticipated could go wrong on this trip, having William
Arthur Davenport turn up in the same Irish village, the
same Irish pub she was in, wasn't one of them. She let her gaze settle on the details of the captivating
water-color—the pink-and-lavender sunrise above the green
hills, the purple thistle along a country lane, the
mischievous smiles of the fairies. The book was the work of
Keira Sullivan, a Boston-based illustrator and folklorist
with deep Irish roots. Lizzie had yet to meet Keira, but
she knew Simon Cahill, the FBI agent with whom Keira was
romantically involved. Simon, Lizzie reminded herself, was the reason she was in
Ireland. She'd heard he was here with Keira on the Beara
Peninsula while she painted and researched an old Irish
story. As much as Lizzie hated to disturb the new lovers,
she felt she had no choice. She had to act now, before
Norman Estabrook could make good on his threat to kill
Simon and his boss, FBI director John March. Norman would kill Lizzie, too, if he discovered the role
she'd played in the FBI investigation into his illegal
activities over the past year, culminating in his arrest
two months ago on suspicion of money laundering and
providing material support to transnational drug
traffickers. He was a thrill-seeking billionaire with a
long reach. There was no doubt in her mind that he would
never go to trial, much less end up in prison. For Norman
Estabrook, death was preferable to confinement. He was
under arrest now— he'd given up his passport, posted a huge
bond and agreed to stay on his Montana ranch under
electronic surveillance. But it wouldn't last. There was
talk he was about to cut a deal with federal prosecutors
and walk. And when that happened, Lizzie thought, he'd come after the
people he believed had betrayed him. Simon Cahill, John
March—and their anonymous source. Her. When she'd finally decided to come to Ireland and talk to
Simon face-to-face, Lizzie had created a cover story that
would explain her presence on the Beara Peninsula without
giving herself away. If not the truth, it wasn't an
outright lie, either. She simply hadn't counted on Simon's handsome, dangerous
British friend turning up in Ireland, too. She had no
desire to pop onto Will Davenport's radar. Lizzie decided she wouldn't mind being a tiny fairy right
now. Or a shape-shifter. Then she could turn herself into
an ant. An ant could disappear into a crack in the floor and not be
noticed by the man at the bar. She'd done her research. Will Davenport was the younger son
of a British peer, the marquess of something—she couldn't
remember his exact title. Peter, Will's older brother,
managed the family's five-hundred-year-old estate in the
north of England, and Arabella, his younger sister,
designed wedding dresses in London. At thirty-five, Will
was the wealthy owner of various properties in England and
Scotland, with offices in an ivy-covered London brownstone. That wasn't all he did. Two years ago—supposedly—he had
abruptly abandoned his career as an officer with the
Special Air Service—the SAS—to make his fortune. Lizzie,
however, strongly suspected he had merely shifted from the
SAS to the SIS, the British Secret Intelligence Service,
popularly known as MI6. She did know her spies. Surreptitiously she tucked a few strands of black hair back
under her red bandanna. She hadn't tried to disguise
herself so much as make it less easy for anyone to describe
her later on. "Oh, yes, I saw a woman at the pub. She had
on a red bandanna and hiking clothes." If things went wrong for her in Ireland, which they seemed
about to do, that wasn't much for anyone, including the
FBI, the Irish Garda and MI6, to go on. Lizzie picked up her fork and scooped up the last of her
warm crumble, fat blackberries oozing out from under the
simple crust of sugar, flour and butter. She sat with her
back to the wall, facing out into the pub. "It's hard for
someone to stab you in the back if you've got it to the
wall," her father had explained on her thirteenth
birthday. "At least you'll have a chance to defend yourself
if someone tries to stab you in the heart. You can see the
attack coming." Harlan Rush didn't look at life through rose-colored
glasses, and he'd taught Lizzie, his only child, to do the
same. She wanted rose-colored glasses. She wanted, even for a few
minutes, to be someone who could settle into a quaint Irish
pub on a windy, rainy afternoon without considering that a
killer could walk through the door, looking for her. Across the pub, in their thick West Cork accents, the local
men kidded and argued. Alone at her table, alone in their
country, Lizzie was struck by their ease with each other—
one that spoke of a lifetime together. She was on her own,
and, by choice, had been for much of the past year, at
least when it came to her dealings with Norman Estabrook
and the FBI. "I was hoping Keira would be here," Will Davenport said,
with just the slightest edge of concern in his voice. Just Keira? Why not Simon, too? Lizzie settled back in her chair and reached down to pat
the dog, his fur warm from the fire. Something was wrong. Eddie set another frothy-topped pint on the bar. "Keira's
gone to Allihies for the day to research that old story.
The one about the three brothers and the stone angel. It
got her in trouble once. It hasn't again, has it?" "I stopped in Allihies before driving up here," Davenport
said. "She wasn't there, but I haven't come because of the
story." "The grandfather of the woman who told it to Keira heard
the story in the Allihies copper mines. The last of them shut down years
ago. Keira planned to visit the museum that's opened in the
old Cornish church there." The Irishman lifted the pints
onto a tray and gave Davenport a pointed look. "The mansion
the British owners built for themselves has been turned
into a luxury hotel." The Brit didn't rise to the bait. "Things change." "That they do, and sometimes for the better. Other times,
not." "Did Keira say when she'd return?" "You'd think she'd be back by now, with the gale. That
story of hers has drawn curious tourists all summer." As he
walked out from behind the bar with the tray, Eddie glanced
toward Lizzie. "They're all wanting to find the stone angel
themselves." "Assuming it exists," Davenport said. The Irishman shrugged, noncommittal, and carried the beers
to his fellow villagers. Lizzie was aware that both he and
Will Davenport had played a critical role in uncovering the
identity of a serial killer who'd become obsessed with
Keira's story. She and Simon had, from all Lizzie had
heard, encountered true evil. That was two months ago, when
Simon was supposed to be laying low ahead of Norman's
arrest. While Eddie delivered the drinks, Davenport walked over to
the fire, his gaze settling on Lizzie. She was used to
being around men. She worked as director of concierge
services and excursions for her family's fifteen highly
individual boutique hotels, and she'd grown up with her
four male Rush cousins, who now ranged in age from twenty-
two to thirty-four. They were all striking in appearance,
but, even so, she felt herself getting hot under the Brit's
scrutiny. He had the bearing and edgy good looks that could
spark even the most independent woman to fantasize about
having her own prince charming come to her rescue. Lizzie quashed that thought. No Prince Charming for her.
Not now, not ever. He nodded to her book, still open at the mesmerizing
illustration of the farm. "Is that the Ireland you've come
here to find?" His eyes, Lizzie saw, were a rich hazel,
with flecks of blue, green and gold that changed with the
light. "Fairies, thatched roofs and pretty gardens?" Lizzie smiled. "Maybe it's the Ireland I have found." "Do you believe in the wee folk?" "I'm keeping an open mind. Keira Sullivan's quite the
artist, isn't she? I overheard you and the barman. I gather
you know her." "We met earlier this summer. Did you just purchase her
book?" "Yes. I bought it in Kenmare this afternoon." That wasn't
true. Keira's young cousin in Boston, Fiona O'Reilly, a
harp student, had given it to her, but that, Lizzie
decided, was something Will Davenport didn't need to
know. "I heard about the story that brought Keira here.
Three brothers tussle with fairies over an ancient Celtic
stone angel. The brothers believe the angel will bring them
good fortune in one form or another, and the fairies
believe it's one of their own turned to stone." Davenport studied her with half-closed eyes. "It's a wonderful story," Lizzie added. "So it is." His tone gave away nothing. Lizzie pushed her empty plate to the center of the table.
She wanted more coffee, but she'd already drunk two cups
and figured they'd give her enough of a caffeine jolt to
counteract any jetlag. She was accustomed to changing time
zones but had slept only fitfully on her flight from Boston. She turned the book over to the full-color, back-cover
photograph of Keira Sullivan in a dark green velvet dress.
She had pretty cornflower-blue eyes, and her long blond
hair was decorated with fresh flowers. "Keira could pass
for a fairy princess herself, don't you think?" "She could, indeed." Lizzie doubted she'd ever pass for a fairy princess, even
if she wore velvet and sprinkled flowers in her hair. Not that she was bad looking, but her eyes, a light green,
seemed to have perpetual dark circles under them lately.
She'd had a rough few days. A rough year, really. "Do you know Keira?" Davenport asked. "No, we've never met." "But you're familiar with the story—" "It was in all the papers," Lizzie said, not letting him
finish. "Yes." He was clearly suspicious now, but she didn't care. His
presence and Simon's absence were unexpected and called for
a revision of her plan. Whatever she might have ended up
telling Simon, she had no intention of telling his friend
Lord Davenport anything. She needed more information about what was going on, where
Simon was, where Keira was. "What brings you to the Beara Peninsula?" Davenport asked. "I'm hiking the Beara Way." She wasn't, and she didn't like
to lie, but it was easier—and possibly safer for all
concerned—than telling the truth. "Not start to finish.
It's almost two hundred kilometers. I don't have that much
time to spare." "You're on your own?" She gave him a bright smile. "Now, that's a bold question
to ask a woman having coffee and crumble by herself." His eyes darkened slightly. "I trust you've a room for the
night. The weather's terrible." He gestured back toward the
bar where Eddie had returned with his empty tray. "Perhaps
Eddie could direct you to a local B and B." "It's decent of you to be concerned." Lizzie doubted
concern for her had anything to do with his motive. She'd
sparked his interest by having Keira's book out, by being
there alone by the fire. If she was staying nearby, he
wanted to keep an eye on her. "I have a tent. I can always
camp somewhere." She saw the beginnings of a smile. He had a straight mouth,
a strong jaw, a hint of a wave to his dark blond hair. As
good-looking and expensively dressed as he was, he wasn't
in any way pretty or soft. "I wouldn't have taken you for a woman who likes to sleep
in a tent," he said, with the barest hint of humor.
What do you think about this review?
Comments
1 comment posted.
Re: An exhilarating romantic suspense that is almost impossible to put down.
WOW! This looks like a great book. Will definetly put it on my TBR pile! Congrats and Best Wishes!
(JoAnn White 12:25pm July 19, 2009)
Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!
|
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy