Shiver of Fear

by Roxanne St Claire

  A small crowd gathered in groups at the precipice, forming a single line to cross the bridge.

  “Ugh,” she said softly. “It’s a long way down.”

  “You’re not going down, Dev. You’re going across. With me.” He led her over to read a placard explaining that the bridge was built—and rebuilt every year, he pointed out—by fishermen who wanted to reach the island to catch the salmon that circled it during spawning season. After a few minutes, they joined the crowds moving toward the stairs that led to the rope bridge, and Devyn’s throat grew drier.

  By unspoken rule, people crossed with their groups, with no more than two or three on the bridge at the same time, pausing to take pictures or share giddy, terrified laughter. Some held hands. Every once in a while, someone froze in fear and had to be coaxed one way or the other.

  “I’ll hold your hand,” Marc promised as their turn approached.

  He went first, his fingers threaded through hers. The first step was pure hell, a jolt of terror going through her as the planks of wood wobbled under her sneakers. Instinctively, she let go of his hand to grab the braided ropes on both sides for balance.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Define ‘okay.’ ” She managed a rough laugh, proud that she could find any humor at all in this. “Just… don’t stop. Let’s get over there.”

  “Offer a woman a kiss and look at the heights she’ll scale.”

  She laughed again, nerves making this one come out like a giggle. “Go, Marc.”

  He turned and went a few feet ahead. With her gaze planted on his back and not the narrow body of water almost a hundred feet below, she took a step. The ropes creaked, the wind whined over her ears, and somehow they managed to make it to the middle.

  Where Devyn froze. Her feet refused to move, no matter how much she willed them to take the next step. Mind won over matter; fear beat out the promise of a kiss she wanted more than she was willing to admit.

  A few feet ahead, Marc turned and reached out a hand. “Come on, Dev.”

  “I want to.” She really did, but she couldn’t let go of the ropes, couldn’t take another step. In fact, she couldn’t breathe as fright clutched every cell and paralyzed her. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  With a few fearless steps, he returned to her, and she heard a soft “aww” from the bystanders waiting their turn. Still she didn’t move.

  Her gaze slid exactly where it shouldn’t have, over the side and down. So. Far. Down. The fall would be terrifying, her body in free fall, gravity taking ownership, the crash deadly.

  “I can’t,” she repeated, even when he placed his hand over hers.

  He looked right into her eyes. “You can do this,” he said softly. “I’ve got you, I promise.” He squeezed her hand and eased it off the rope. “I’ve got you, Dev. Show me what you’re made of.”

  The words had their intended effect, kicking her forward, spurring her on. What was she made of? Wasn’t finding that out the whole reason she’d come to Northern Ireland?

  Not that she expected to find out on a flimsy rope bridge almost a hundred feet above certain death.

  “Come on,” he coaxed. “We’ll take every step together.”

  She squeezed his hand in a death grip, her gaze pinned on him. One foot. In front of. The other.

  After about thirty endless steps, they reached Carrick Island, terra firma glorious under her feet.

  “I knew you could do it,” he said, pulling her into him for a congratulatory hug.

  “Thank you,” she managed to say. “I couldn’t have done that without you.”

  He grinned at her. “Yes, you could have, but I’ll take the credit. And also be the bearer of bad news.”

  “What?”

  “There’s only one way back.” He wrapped an arm around her and guided her toward the dirt path that encircled the top of the rock. “Let’s explore for a little while before we tackle the return trip.”

  So he was either forgetting the kiss or delaying the gratification. Either way, she didn’t let the disappointment show. They strolled along the path that circled the rock, leaning against the fence to look way down the limestone cliffs, which was only a little less terrifying than the rope bridge. But the salt air was cleansing, the squawk of birds and crash of waves like nature’s symphony, and the man she was with made her feel so steady.

  As they approached the end of the path that led back to the bridge, they stopped one last time to enjoy the view.

  “That is just one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen,” she said, trying to memorize the beauty of the endless rolling green hills.

  “So are you.”

  She looked up, only a little surprised to find him gazing down at her, his expression a mix of interest and desire. “You’re flirting again,” she teased.

  “I never stopped.” He lowered his head, his intentions clear as he turned his back to the view and reached out for her.

  Her heart did a little soar and drop, and she moved closer, their bodies easing into each other in the most natural way. An unfamiliar and exciting ache started very low, very deep inside her, tingling up her stomach and spine, up to her mouth, which suddenly ached to touch his.

  “You know, Marc,” she whispered, “I haven’t been paid for my act of bravery yet.”

  He cocked his head and gave her a sexy look. “Is this you begging for a kiss?”

  She laughed, giddy with an overload to every sense, including the sixth one that said she could and should trust this man.

  “I’m not begging,” she said. “In fact, I’m not even asking.” She stood on her toes and closed the space between them. “I’m just going to take my reward.”

  She lightly placed her lips on his, barely brushing them as he drew her into his body. Their bodies molded to each other, aligned, instantly like one.

  He intensified the kiss, his hands sliding up her back until they settled on the nape of her neck. He wove his fingers into her hair, tilting her head possessively with both hands, opening his mouth, inviting her tongue to touch his.

  Fiery sparks exploded in every nerve ending, burning her skin and sending lightning bolts of pleasure from her mouth to her toes.

  From across the water, a bird shrieked, and someone on the bridge let out a little hoot of panic and pleasure. She knew exactly how they felt, poised at a death-defying height, facing a free fall.

  She couldn’t stop the kiss any more than she could avoid that bridge back to the mainland. His lips were soft, his whiskers rough, his tongue hot and sweet. It took all the power she had to finally stop.

  When she did, she opened her eyes and got a little lost in his.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to do that,” he said.

  “I’m impulsive. My mother says it’s one of my worst traits.”

  “Your mother’s wrong. It’s a wonderful trait. Be impulsive any time you want.”

  Smiling, she hugged him, still full of hope and happiness, putting her head on his shoulder just for the sheer joy of having someone strong to lean on. Her gaze traveled over the crowds, across the bridge, up to the lookout platform on the other side of the chasm.

  And landed on the most distinctive white hair she’d ever seen.

  Sharon.

  She blinked at the woman in a dark green jacket, far enough away that she couldn’t be certain it was Sharon, but the woman bore a striking resemblance to the pictures she’d seen when she’d researched Dr. Sharon Greenberg on the faculty of UNC.

  “What is it?” Marc turned to follow her stunned gaze.

  “Sharon!” The man’s voice was far in the distance, carried by the wind and the water, the sound coming from the opposite side of the bridge. The woman with the white hair spun around to follow the call. “Come here, Sharon!”

  The woman waved at whoever had called her and started walking toward the parking lot.

  “Oh my God, it’s her! She is here. The concierge said she might be.”

  �
�Who?”

  Devyn shoved Marc to the side, trying to get a better look. “Come on!”

  Without explanation, she grabbed his hand and started jogging toward the bridge, navigating around people, trying to keep her eye on those white waves of hair.

  “Devyn,” Marc said sharply, giving her hand a jerk as she muscled through the crowd. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to get to her. Excuse me,” she said urgently to a small group of tourists. “Can we get through?”

  She was rewarded with a vile look from one and a loud “tsk” from another.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her heart hammering with the need to reach Sharon Greenberg. “I have to get over there.”

  “And ya kin wait yer turn, lass,” a man said roughly, blocking her way.

  Devyn let out a soft grunt of frustration.

  “What the hell is going on?” Marc demanded, pulling her to a real stop. “You can’t just barge through all these people.”

  She ignored him, standing on her tiptoes to see over the group of about a dozen people in front of her. The woman she’d seen was gone, probably headed down the hill back to the visitor’s center and the parking lot. Maybe she could catch her there.

  “I see someone I… have to talk to,” she said, throwing the words over her shoulder as she practically jumped up and down to see over a tall man in front of her. “Excuse me, could I get by?”

  “Slow down,” Marc said. “We’ll get there.”

  She just shook her head, staring at the spot where she’d seen the woman who looked—from a distance—so much like Sharon Greenberg. A woman named Sharon. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “Oh, come on,” she whispered under her breath at a couple pausing to take pictures on the bridge, earning another dirty look from a tourist in front of her.

  She could feel Marc behind her, silent, not happy with her behavior, probably boring a hole in the back of her head trying to get an answer to her bizarre behavior. But she didn’t owe him an answer. She didn’t owe him anything just because she had given in to a little atmosphere and kissed him.

  So she used every ounce of energy to focus on the lookout platform across the chasm, willing the woman to show up again, to walk toward the railway, to head back toward the rope bridge.

  But there was no sign of her. They must have both been on this little island across the bridge at the very same time. What were the chances of that?

  Finally, it was their turn. Without even looking back at Marc, without dawdling for one heart-stopping second on the rubbery, bouncing bridge, she bounded across, as close to a run as one could make on a rope bridge. Marc kept up with her, one second behind her as her feet hit the other side.

  “Dinna like it, huh?” An older man on the other side teased, but she ignored him and muscled through the crowd, determined to reach the lookout point where she could see all the way down the hill along the pathway.

  There were a lot of people, even some with gray hair, but no white curls, no green jacket. No Sharon.

  Disappointment coiled through her, and she let out a half sigh, half cry of frustration. “She’s gone.”

  A few cars pulled out of the lot back onto the highway, but they’d be long gone even if Devyn ran down the hill at full speed.

  “You want to tell me who could make you try to mow down perfectly nice strangers like that? When half an hour ago you needed to be begged to get across? Who is that important?”

  She turned, focused on him again. Why would she tell anyone why she was here, let alone a complete and utter stranger?

  Because she wanted to trust him, and she just didn’t want to do this alone anymore. “My mother.”

  He drew back. “Well, she was right when she called you impulsive.”

  No, she thought. The other mother. The one who never called me at all.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sharon dug deep for composure. She couldn’t lose it now. She couldn’t possibly let him know the thoughts exploding in her head. Maybe if she didn’t think, she wouldn’t give herself away or show any sign of weakness.

  That’s what they’d trained her to do—never show weakness—so she certainly couldn’t risk an emotional response. She was a scientist. She had no emotions.

  But the word rushed through her head, like the wind over that cliff, and with it came feeling. Ancient, buried, long-dead feeling.

  Rose.

  No, not Rose, she chided herself. Devyn Sterling. That was her name now. The last picture she’d seen was recent enough for her to know exactly who that young woman was. Her daughter.

  How in God’s name had Devyn found her?

  “Well?” Next to her, Liam Baird shifted in the backseat of the sedan, his hazel, Irish eyes narrowed in question. “Did you see her?”

  “Yes,” she said, brushing back a wave of wind-whipped gray hair, a reminder that she was too old for this cloak-and-dagger stuff.

  “And?” the man prodded, his impatience palpable as always, making him seem younger than his forty-some years.

  “I just told you, I have no idea who she is. I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Not since handing her over, signing some papers, and moving on.

  Liam dropped back against the leather seat with a dramatic sigh, running a hand through thick, sandy locks. “Then you better have an explanation for why this woman is gallivantin’ around Belfast askin’ for you at every corner.”

  “No idea.” But she sure as hell better come up with one, and fast. She went with the story she’d been concocting ever since Baird hit her with this news. “My guess is she’s a former student who heard through the university that I’d taken leave over here, and she’s trying to find me. I just don’t recognize her from this far away.”

  “Then perhaps we should bring her closer.”

  Oh, God, no. She turned to him, skewering him with a look she knew from experience could buckle anyone. She’d perfected the power of her gray-eyed stare. “Are you as stupid as that?” she asked. “An American girl? Whoever she is, you don’t want that kind of publicity. Get her out of here, put her off my track rather than send her right into it like you did today.”

  “It worked,” he said with a shrug. “One suggestion where you might be, planted by one of my people, and—wham—she shows up. She should be quite easy to manipulate.”

  Would she be? What kind of woman had Rose grown up to be? Sharon only had an inkling. A fine family, a rich lifestyle, oblivious to her dirty roots. Except there was the nasty incident of her husband’s murder. Sharon had tried not to follow the news, but it had been impossible.

  “Then use your considerable powers to convince the young woman to leave,” she said. “Scare her off. Threaten her. Send a man to woo her away, whatever it takes, Mr. Baird. We have work to do and can’t afford a distraction like this.”

  Baird just eyed her. “You better not be lying. About anything.”

  She never even blinked. “Don’t suggest that again, Baird. You don’t want to offend me. If I take my toys and go home, you are in a lot of trouble.”

  He shifted his long, lean frame and bent forward to talk to the driver. “Did you get a good look?” he asked Danny, who glanced into the rearview mirror to make eye contact.

  He nodded. “I got a good look. I can find her.” Danny’s hands curled around the steering wheel. Deadly, strong hands. Hands of a man who would kill without compunction.

  Even a woman.

  No weakness, Sharon. No weakness. They’d use weakness against her. They’d kill anyone in this operation who showed weakness.

  “Then find her,” she said coolly, throwing the order at Danny as if he worked for her and not Baird. “And get her the hell out of Belfast. She’s a young woman, for crying out loud. How hard can she be to handle?”

  “She’s got a man with her,” Baird said. “Did you see that? Do you know him?”

  “No, I do not. But you said she’s been alone up until this point. She probably picked him up in a bar last night
.”

  “She’s been alone, my contacts tell me,” he said. “Alone, all over the city, knocking on every door in Belfast, seeking a Dr. Greenberg.”

  “Maybe she’s looking for someone else.”

  “She’s described you.”

  Sharon’s stomach tightened. How? How did she know who Sharon was, what she looked like?

  Of course, she’d followed the death of the girl’s husband a few months ago, a murder committed by some dirty cop and Joshua Sterling’s mistress. Could there be a connection somehow? The only person they had in common was…

  He wouldn’t have sent her, would he?

  “As I told you, Mr. Baird, I’m sure there’s a perfectly legitimate explanation. Without causing a stir of any kind, I suggest you use your considerable resources and network of contacts to get that girl to give up and go home.”

  He sniffed, but Sharon just stared out the window. Go home, Rose. Get out of here.

  “Unless we can use her somehow,” Baird said. “She might be useful to us.”

  She didn’t react, letting her head rest against the glass as the questions slammed her brain. Why is she here? How did she find out? Is this a trick, a way to trip me up, or test my loyalty?

  Because if Devyn Sterling was sent here by who Sharon thought had sent her here, then…

  She swallowed, an ancient phrase replacing all the questions.

  Sometimes a few people die for the good of many. But which people? And who made those decisions?

  “Can we get back to the business at hand, Mr. Baird?” she asked briskly. “This has been quite a delay tactic, and as far as I’m concerned, completely unnecessary.”

  “Not unnecessary, Doctor.” Liam stretched his legs. “This young woman has raised a red flag in my organization. I wanted you to identify her so we can stop her. No matter who sent her here.”

  “No one sent her here,” she shot back with a glare. “And I know you’re testing me. Don’t lie about what you’re doing, Mr. Baird. You think she’s some kind of plant or decoy or spy.”

  “You’re right,” he acknowledged. “I was testing you. I didn’t get where I am by trusting anyone.”