ROXANNE ST. CLAIRE
SHIVER OF FEAR
NEW YORK BOSTON
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For Kresley Cole, Louisa Edwards and Kristen Painter, who shower me with support, laughter, perspective, advice, and motivation (okay, and a little wine) from chapter one to the end. I love you and treasure our extraordinary friendship.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Huge debts of gratitude are owed to some patient, generous, and really smart people who were behind me on this book:
Jessica Odell, my eyes and ears in Belfast. Fact checker, map maker, and exceedingly kind recipient of way too many e-mails that all started with “I have one more question.” Thanks, Jess. I owe you a Guinness or two.
Beta reader and Brazilian buddy Barbie Furtado who read, reviewed, then reread and rereviewed, then reread until we were well beyond beta and zooming toward zeta. She is a superstar, cheerleader, and keen-eyed first reader.
Former FBI agent Jim Vatter, my go-to guy on anything that has to do with federal law enforcement; microbiologist Dr. Peter F. Bonaventre, who offered layman’s language for a complicated subject; the numerous individuals at the Ulster Historical Foundation Research Center and the “parish people” of St. Macartin’s Cathedral in Enniskillen. All of these folks (including the really nice guy with the sexy accent who answered the phone at the Europa Hotel but did not give me his name) did everything to keep me from stumbling on a fact. If I erred, don’t blame them.
The entire team at Grand Central Publishing’s Forever Romance imprint. Starting with editor extraordinaire Amy Pierpont, who knows exactly how to take good and make it better; to the crew of production, publicity, art, and sales professionals who work tirelessly to put my stories into the hands of as many readers as possible. A round of chocolate for everyone!
My patient, brilliant, supportive, and delightful literary agent, Robin Rue, who lets me gallop but skillfully takes the reins when she needs to keep me on track.
And, as always, my enduring love to my husband, Rich, and our amazing kids, Dante and Mia who don’t complain (much) when they hear the words “as soon as I finish this scene.” Even though they know the scene is never really finished, they love me anyway.
PROLOGUE
Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1978
The moment Sharon Mulvaney slipped the cushioned case containing three sealed vials of purified botulinum toxins into her handbag and left the microbiology lab, she became a criminal.
Before that, she’d never done anything worse than protest the administration on the lawn in front of MIT’s Dome. Drinking whiskey while talking trash with fervent Irish Catholic supporters in the basement of a bar in Harvard Square certainly hadn’t gotten her arrested. Even loving a man with deep ties to and deeper sentiments for IRA dissidents didn’t qualify as illegal, although the fact that he was married and almost thirty years her senior pushed the boundaries of what was kosher.
But stealing the most toxic substance known to mankind—after isolating, purifying, and crystallizing the spores herself and knowingly handing over the whole concoction for secret delivery to Belfast—was most definitely punishable with some prison time.
She wished her brush with crime thrilled her. Since it didn’t, she chose to believe she didn’t have an evil soul, just a weak heart.
The bitter wind buffeted her across a winter-break-deserted campus. She pulled her scarf over her mouth and dragged her cap down to her brows while navigating the ice and traffic-blackened snow. Fueled equally by the fear of getting caught and the desire to get out of the freezing cold, she shouldered the handbag deep into her down coat, kept her head low, and marched toward her apartment.
Even on a warm spring day when the only thing on her mind was grading papers as a graduate student TA, this was a long walk. But in a frigid New England winter, carrying enough poison to paralyze a regiment of British soldiers, knowing she was breaking the law and taking chances with every single thing she held dear, the trek became a brutal hike that pained every muscle in her body.
By the time she crossed Binney and the student pedestrian walkway widened into Sixth, her toes tingled with the bite of cold, her fingers were stiffened with numbness, and every brain cell was too deadened to even scare up some rationalization for what she was doing.
Anyway, she was way past rationalizing; she was in love.
She turned onto her street, carefully switching the bag to her other shoulder. It wasn’t heavy physically, but metaphorically, the weight of her crime pressed on her heart.
Sometimes a few have to suffer for the good of many.
Had Finn said that? Knowing him, it was probably more like, Do this for me, my darling girl, and I’ll… Leave my wife for you.
Right. Did she really believe that? She must, or she wouldn’t be taking a chance like this.
She stepped gingerly around a snowdrift and headed down the stone steps to the front door of her garden-level apartment, already imagining what she’d wear tonight. The black dress he liked, with the big gold buckle, and some high heels. Her lover brought out the girl in her. And the criminal, evidently, she thought as she turned the key and pushed.
“Did you get it?”
She gasped at the voice, squinting into the living room to see Finn, a drink in one hand and his three-hundred-dollar loafers propped on her coffee table, jacket open, tie loose, hair tousled like he’d been running his hands through it while waiting for her.
All the ice inside her just… melted.
“I got it,” she said, easing the bag down to her elbow and holding it out to him. With the other hand, she yanked off the knit cap, fluffing hair that was probably a flat, flyaway mess. Not to mention that the down jacket made her look like the Michelin Man, and she didn’t have a speck of makeup on.
He didn’t move to take the bag or, as she foolishly fantasized, rise to give her a kiss. Instead, he sat stone still, exuding power, control, authority, maturity, and knee-weakening sex appeal. How a fifty-three-year-old man with tiny creases at the corners of his eyes and a few threads of silver glinting in golden hair could make a twenty-five-year old microbiologist go so damn rubbery was a mystery.
One she had no desire to solve.
“And no one saw you.” It wasn’t a question. With Finn, everything was an order.
She shook her head.
He raised the amber liquid of Jameson she’d splurged on just so she’d have it in the apartment for him, cocking his head as eyes the color of summer skies raked over her appreciatively. “We should celebrate.”
Despite the automatic response of her body, her brain screamed out a protest. Should they celebrate a crime?
“Darling girl, you aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”
Naturally, he could read whatever subtle cues her nonverbals were shouting. “It’s a little late,” she said with a soft laugh. “The deed, as they say, is done.”
“I told you, no one’s going to use that stuff.” He jutted his chin toward the bag as if its contents were harmless, meaningless. “It’s a bargaining chip, and in Belfast these days, you just can’t get enough of those. I’m only sending that stuff over there to give them some power.”
Power? She suspected there was more cash than cache involved.
“That’s the name of the game these days,” he continued. “And they are, after all, family, however distant.”
Very distant. She’d done a little digging through a friend who studied the various clans of Ireland and couldn’t really find a connection between the names Finn had mentioned and the MacCauley clan. In fact, that spelling of his last name didn’t ev
en show up, but she knew better than to question this man. He hated to be questioned. When she did, he punished her by disappearing for a few days. Sometimes more.
“I realize that,” she said, feeling as weak and ineffective as she sounded. “I thought we’d celebrate over dinner.”
Then he stood, his gaze locked on her as he clunked the drink on the table. “That’s not what I had in mind. I don’t have time for dinner tonight.”
“Plans with Anne?” The question was too sharp; she knew it instantly. Instead of facing his fierce look, she turned to take off her coat.
“I have business tonight,” he replied. “So no dinner.”
She tossed the coat over a chair, her back still to him.
Business. That she wasn’t stupid enough to question. They pretended she didn’t know exactly what his business was, and in return, she got…
His hands slid around her waist, possessive and strong. She got this.
“You’re one of us now, sweet girl of mine.”
One of whom? A bunch of criminals? “Truly Irish?”
“Truly fearless.” He pressed his body, already hard, against her backside, nuzzling her neck with kisses, the tangy smell of Irish whiskey like a familiar trigger that warned her body to brace for an onslaught of Finn.
“I’m not…” She lost the ability to speak as he reached up under her sweater and took ownership of her breasts. “Fearless.”
Not for one minute was she naïve enough to think a man as powerful and important as Finn MacCauley saw fearlessness in her. But he must have seen something in her, other than her ability to get inside the microbiology lab to make and steal weapons of mass destruction. She had to believe that.
He turned her to face him, instantly feasting on her mouth, sliding his hands down to her buttocks, pressing her against his erection.
“Look what you do to me, darling girl.” He guided her back toward the bedroom, kissing her, pausing at the table to lift the strap of her bag. “Let’s not let these get too far out of our sight.”
She refused to look at the purse and think that it represented her utter willingness to give him whatever he wanted. Her body. Her heart. Her very reputation.
And yet, he wouldn’t give her the legitimacy she needed more than anything. Even though she could give him what Anne could not: a child.
He nudged her forward, already taking off her sweater, her bra, his jacket and shirt. By the time he lowered her to the bed, they wore nothing but pants, and those came off quickly.
He angled his head toward the bathroom, pushing his boxer shorts over a throbbing red hard-on. “Get your protection.”
She fought the urge to shake her head. He was always so adamant about not taking chances and making her wear her diaphragm. Why? Because he didn’t want to be tied to her, and a baby would bind them to each other forever.
He could never disappear if she had his baby.
She swallowed and made an impulsive decision to lie, looking him right in the eye without wavering.
“I already have it in.” At his slightly surprised look, she gave him a sly smile and eased her legs apart. “I knew you’d be waiting here when I got home, Finn.”
He was inside her before she had a chance to change her mind, pumping and sweating and swearing until he came ferociously. He fell on her, spent and satisfied, while she waited for an endearment that didn’t come.
“Listen, Sharon, if anyone, and I mean anyone, asks you about—”
“I don’t plan to tell a soul what I did today,” she interjected.
“Just when, or if, anyone asks you, you have to deny knowing me. Anyone at all, even—”
“I do deny you, Finn.” But she wouldn’t have to if he was the father of her child. Had they just made a—
A heavy pounding on the door silenced that thought, and the conversation. He rolled over and grabbed his clothes wordlessly.
“Miss Mulvaney, we need to speak with you. FBI.”
Finn mouthed the word “fuck” and seized his jacket, his eyes on fire as he pointed to the door. “Get out there and stall,” he ordered in a harsh whisper. “Don’t give me away, Sharon, or you won’t live to talk about it.”
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. He’d kill her?
“FBI! We’re coming in.”
He grabbed her arm, fingers digging into her flesh, and flung her onto her feet with a shockingly strong jerk. “Go!”
She stood there, naked and stunned, as he lunged for her purse. Another hard rap forced a reply from a throat thick with fear.
“Just… a second,” she called, her heart thundering so loudly she could barely hear her own voice.
Finn pushed her again, rougher this time, and she stumbled out of the bedroom and into the hall. “You have to cover for me, Sharon.” He closed the door and left her naked in the hall.
“I’m coming,” she called at the next insistent knock, spying her down coat on the chair. She slid the cool nylon over her bare skin, shaking fingers working the zipper.
“Miss Mulvaney, this is the FBI. Please open the door.”
She’d been a criminal exactly one hour, and the FBI was already at her front door.
You have to cover for me, Sharon.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to find two clean-cut men who looked like they’d been sent from Hollywood to play FBI agents.
“How can I help you?” she asked, blocking the entrance with her body.
Two ID badges were flipped open in front of her eyes, but her head was spinning and the words and pictures just blurred, her ears not even registering their names.
“We’d like to ask you some questions.”
She blinked, nodded. “ ’Kay.”
The taller, darker of the two men looked pointedly at her coat. “Are you on your way out, miss?”
“Just got in.” From the lab. Where she’d stolen weapons of biological warfare that would be shipped to the distant cousin of the married man who led one of Boston’s largest organized crime syndicates—a man who just happened to be naked in her bedroom.
“May we come in?”
“No, you may not come in.”
That got her double takes of surprise. Well, one of surprise. The other guy, the stocky blond, looked suspicious. He must be the smart one.
“I’m sorry I can’t let you in,” she said, steadfast and stalling. “I see you have badges and all, but a woman alone can’t be too careful.”
“Do you know a man named Finley MacCauley?”
Blood drained from her head and landed low in a nauseous stomach. “I don’t know.” Stupid, stupid answer.
Suspicious Blond Agent lifted both eyebrows. “You’ve never met a man named Finn MacCauley?”
“I might have,” she said, certain they could hear the drumbeat of her heart rattling her rib cage. “Who is he?”
“He’s a criminal, Ms. Mulvaney, and if you aid and abet his activities, you’ll be a criminal, too.”
Too late for the future tense. “Do you have a picture of him?” she asked, desperate for a stall. “Maybe I’d recognize him.”
“You don’t recognize the name?” the other man asked.
“I… I… don’t know.”
“Let us in, Miss Mulvaney.” He was definitely the bad cop, that blond one.
“Why?” She directed the question to the nicer cop, but the other one answered.
“Because we’ve received a tip that Finn MacCauley would be here today, and if you don’t let us in, we’re going to arrest you.” He took a step forward, his body enough of a weapon to force her back.
Before she could stop them, they were inside. Balling her fists in her pockets, she watched the nasty one walk right over to the coffee table and pick up the drink, sniffing.
“Jameson,” she offered before he asked. “Is that illegal?”
The other agent was already striding down the hall, weapon drawn and held with two hands as he shouldered his way into her bedroom.
She didn’t b
reathe, waiting for a shout or a shot. Seconds later, the agent emerged. He shook his head and muttered, “Nothin’.”
Nothing? Where was Finn?
She waited for the next question, but it didn’t come as they searched the tiny apartment, stuffed their guns away, and returned to the front door.
“You better watch your back, miss,” the dark-haired agent said. “You’re hanging around with some pretty dangerous people.”
She just nodded, remarkably cool considering the somersaults her stomach was doing, the blood coursing through her veins, and the question screaming in her brain.
Where was Finn?
They left and she remained still for a long moment, vaguely aware of the dribble of sticky moisture down her thigh, a reminder that minutes ago she had been making love to a man wanted by the FBI.
“Finn?” she whispered, dragging her feet toward the bedroom, stepping in to see what the FBI agent had seen. A rumpled bed. Her clothes strewn on the floor. The window wide open.
Finally, she exhaled, dropping on the bed from the weight of what had just happened. Her gaze shifted to the bureau. No surprise, Finn had taken her bag.
Tears burned. Her throat closed. And a painful punch of regret hit her in the chest. God, she was a fool! A stupid, childish, trusting fool.
And he was the worst kind of man—a user.
For a long moment, she just sat there in her down coat, tears brimming but unshed. She listened to the silence of the apartment, inhaled the bitter fragrance of sex that hung in the room.
And she waited.
Not for Finn; he’d never be back. Not until he needed something only she could give him again. Then he’d charm her and coerce her and weaken her defenses and… get exactly what he wanted from her. That was Finn.
But she could say no.
So she waited for the agony in her heart to transform into something else. Visualized the change taking place deep in the molecular level of her soul. Harmless, healthy proteins of love gradually degrading into deadly toxins of hate.
Shiver of Fear Page 1
