Shiver of Fear

by Roxanne St Claire

She barely shrugged, indifference rolling off her. “Let’s just get back to the job I came here to do,” she said coolly. “These delay tactics aren’t helping your cause.”

  “Our cause,” he corrected.

  She reached over and put a hand on his arm, noticing her veins popping up to reveal her true age of fifty-five, reminding her it had taken Finn MacCauley thirty damn long years to give her this opportunity to ruin him. She wasn’t about to let age stop her now, and she wasn’t about to let his daughter stop her, either.

  “Let’s just get one thing straight, Mr. Baird.”

  He met her gaze. “I know, it’s not your cause.”

  “It’s not your cause, either,” she said. “You’re in it for the same reason I am. Cash. And as long as we’re straight on that, we can do business. That’s how I work. That’s how I’ve always worked.”

  “Obviously, I—we—need cash in order to reinvigorate the political forces and win the Republican cause we never should have… lost.” He stumbled over the words, backpedaling under her gaze.

  “Shut up,” she said simply. “You’re pushing drugs, girls, and guns to make money. And now you want to dig into some deep and dark pockets to get more.” She added a little pressure on his hand. “Don’t bullshit me, Mr. Baird, and I won’t bullshit you. I’m not interested in the Republican cause or your mafioso schemes.”

  “What are you interested in, Dr. Greenberg?”

  She’d wanted it for so long, there wasn’t even a word in her head to describe the feeling. Revenge. Payback. Destruction. “What I want should be obvious by now. And since I’ve passed your stupid little test today, the second payment should be made to my account.”

  He withdrew his hand. “It’ll be made when you do what we hired you to do.”

  “If there isn’t two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in my account by noon tomorrow, then I will not take one more step to help you.”

  He deliberately moved to show the Walther on his hip. “I think I’m the one calling the shots in this organization, Doctor. You are here as my guest.”

  She laughed softly. “Brains trump guns, my friend. And you know that or I wouldn’t be here. What will your client say if the delivery is late? Or worse, if it’s ineffective?” She arched a brow. “You’ll be dead long before I will.”

  He smiled at her, barely hiding his fear at how very right she was. “You’re shrewd and heartless. If you were twenty-five years younger, I’d be in love with you.”

  “If I were twenty-five years younger, you’d be useless to me.” She turned her body, shifting her attention to the coastline outside. “As it is, you’re beginning to annoy me.”

  “Danny,” Baird said softly. “Take care of the girl.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Sharon didn’t want to think about what that meant. But she knew.

  Emotion clutched her again, and she tamped it down.

  She needed someone on the outside to help. Someone she could trust. Someone Devyn Sterling would trust—and then Sharon would have to do the unthinkable. She’d have to contact Devyn and convince her to leave.

  But she’d have to be very, very creative.

  It wouldn’t do any good to grill Devyn on the way home. She was visibly shaken by what had happened at Carrick-a-Rede. So Marc mentally reviewed what he already knew.

  Her mother—the one who had raised her, at least—was definitely in Newton, Massachusetts. While Devyn stopped in the bathroom after they reached the bottom of the hill, he’d texted Vivi with a request to confirm that, and while they were driving back to Belfast, the answer came in.

  So this “mother” in Northern Ireland was her biological mother? Devyn must have more information than what was in the FBI files, then.

  Next to him, she quietly watched the scenery pass along the coastal road, obviously not ready or willing to reveal more than she already had: She thought the woman she saw on the hillside was her mother, and she’d been looking for her. She didn’t say if that was who she expected to meet later that week, but he was going to assume it was. He didn’t press for more.

  The best thing to do with a woman wound this tightly was to just let her uncoil on her own. He could think of a dozen quite pleasurable ways to help that process along, but pushing too hard would lose him all the ground he’d made today.

  But he did have to know one thing—would seeing her mother make Devyn more determined to stay in Belfast or more amenable to his secret agenda to get her out of there?

  No, he had to know something else as well. Did her mother have anything to do with why ASAC Lang wanted her out of there?

  “I guess I kind of killed the mood,” she finally said as they made their way into the beginnings of Belfast traffic, the skyline marked by a few distinctive buildings and the silhouettes of two cranes poking up from the waterfront shipyard.

  “No worries,” he said, glancing over at her. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, her smile tight. “Just a little blown away by seeing her, and missing her.”

  “Are you sure the person you saw was your mother?”

  “I think so. I don’t…” She turned her head and mumbled the rest of the sentence. “I don’t really know her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She hesitated a long beat, then looked at him, misery in her eyes. “I’ve never met her.”

  He didn’t react at all, except to slowly nod, hoping that would coax a little more out of her. She just swallowed and then whispered, “I’m adopted.”

  “Ah, I see. She’s your birth mother and you are trying to track her down?”

  “Yes.”

  He maneuvered through the traffic, purposely quiet until he stopped at the last light before the Europa. “Does she know that?”

  “No.” One syllable with a world of emotion.

  He couldn’t help reaching to hold her hand and wasn’t surprised when she clasped his back. “But I have to speak to her whether or not she wants to meet me.”

  “Why?”

  She just shook her head, and he didn’t push it any further. “Back to the hotel, then?” he asked.

  She checked her watch with a sigh. “You know, I haven’t checked out of the Windermere, where I’m staying, so I guess I’ll spend the night there and figure out what to do tomorrow.”

  “I can take you to the Windermere and wait while you pack and check out, then drive you back to the Europa. You can get settled and wait for her.”

  She looked at him, a question in her eyes. “I didn’t tell you she was the person I’m waiting for.”

  “I’m making an assumption. Am I right?”

  She nodded without elaborating.

  Something just didn’t ring true of a typical “birth mother search.” Why would she fly all the way to Belfast instead of waiting in the States until her mother returned? “How long is she going to be here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t even sure she was here. I just came on a whim because I have to tell her something.”

  “That’s a pretty big whim.”

  “I’m impulsive, remember?”

  There had to be more than that. “What do you have to tell—” Her look stopped him. “Never mind, Devyn. It really is none of my business.”

  She gave him a quick smile. “Thanks. The Windermere is right down Lisburn near the university. I’d really appreciate if you just dropped me off there.”

  “Of course. Unless I can talk you into having dinner with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Marc. I need to be alone to sort things out.”

  He nodded as he turned at the intersection and headed south through Belfast’s colorful university district. The streets were jammed with tourists and students, the traffic slow enough for him to take plenty of looks at his passenger, but she stayed closed up tight.

  “I’m not trying to pry,” he finally said, “but if she doesn’t know you’re here, don’t you think it’s an incredible coincidence that in all of Northern Ireland, you’d
see her at a remote bridge on the coast?”

  “I thought of that,” she admitted. “But that’s such a common tourist attraction, and the concierge did think she’d left to take a brief sightseeing trip, leaving some of her bags behind. He even suggested I go up there, so… not that much of a stretch. Just serendipity.”

  “And a coincidence. Which I’m no fan of, by the way.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I was just meant to see her. You know, like the universe lined it up or something.”

  “You believe in that?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  “Not for a minute,” she said with a soft laugh. “But there’s not a lot of other explanations.”

  “I’d still like to spend an hour over a nice meal discussing all those possibilities, but I understand you’re no longer in the mood. Maybe I can get a rain check before you head back home.”

  She dropped her head back, and her smile relaxed into one he’d seen dozens of times during the day—pretty, natural, comfortable. “You’re a damn nice guy, you know that?”

  “Then my evil plan to fool you worked,” he said with a laugh, hoping it hid how close his statement was to the truth. Because he didn’t particularly like conning a woman who was wrapped up in a personal cause, no doubt seeking closure or answers on the heels of her husband’s murder. It didn’t feel completely right to be taking her away from Belfast when that cause was an emotional connection with the person who gave her life.

  Except, why did ASAC Lang want her out of Belfast? Did it have something to do with this woman she was searching for?

  “Well, Marc,” she said as they neared the B and B, “this afternoon’s events probably weren’t at all what you had in mind when you asked me to go sightseeing.”

  “Depends on what events you mean,” he said smoothly. “I had every intention of kissing you. I just didn’t expect you’d shove me aside and go running over a bridge that ten minutes earlier left you paralyzed with fear. Doesn’t say much for my kissing, does it?” But it said plenty about what she was willing to risk to talk to the woman.

  “You’re an excellent kisser,” she assured him. “Next time I promise not to get distracted.”

  “So there will be a next time?” He didn’t have to fake the hope in his voice as he slid into a parking spot across from the Windermere.

  She eyed him again, her walls threatening to crumble. She really didn’t want to be alone tonight, he suspected, but she didn’t trust herself with him, either.

  So he better get damn creative if he was going to succeed in his mission.

  “I don’t know about a next time,” she finally said. “I have to find Sharon, and then…”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “You know where I am,” he said, holding her gaze. “Room four-twelve at the Europa.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her eyes filling a little.

  He lowered their joined hands and leaned closer, the magnetism between them completely genuine. “I had a wonderful day with you, Dev.”

  She smiled. “I like when you call me that.”

  “I like you,” he said simply. “And if you need anything at all, just ask.”

  Sighing, she met him halfway for a kiss. He slid one hand under her hair and brushed over her mouth, able to feel her internal battle waging, the victory almost his. He opened his mouth just enough to heat up the kiss and invite her tongue to touch his, not forceful or fierce, but warm and sweet.

  The muscles in her neck relaxed under his hand as she inhaled softly and shuddered a breath into his mouth. On his leg, her fingers splayed and tensed. He deepened the kiss, not too much, not too fast.

  Her eyes were still closed when he broke the contact, opening slowly to reveal she’d been a little lost in the kiss. But she focused quickly, then unlatched the door, stepping out without smiling.

  “Bye, Marc.” She didn’t look back as she darted into the inn.

  So now it was time for Plan B.

  CHAPTER 6

  The air chilled Devyn’s heated skin as she dashed out of the car, stealing the warmth Marc had just created. She clutched her jacket, shivered, and shouldered open the door of the B and B, torn over her decision to leave him.

  And as much as she wanted food, libation, and about two hours more of nonstop mouth-to-mouth with the guy, she didn’t want to have him pulling secrets out of her.

  She’d shared enough secrets, broken enough confidences, taken enough reckless risks.

  Anyway, that man was attracted to Devyn Hewitt, the socialite debutante blue-blooded Bostonian who could make small talk and witty repartee. He was obviously a classy guy, despite the undercurrent of sex that oozed from his every pore. A few more questions and he’d know exactly who and what she really was.

  The bastard child of a wanted fugitive.

  Not to mention that this quest wasn’t for some joyful, heartstring-tugging reunion with a mother forced to give up her child because she was only a child herself when she gave birth. Sharon Greenberg had made no effort to find Devyn.

  And, frankly, this potential meeting could be dark and ugly. Not only did she have to tell Sharon that Joshua might have shared her secret before he was murdered, but she also had to tell her someone else was waiting to pounce on her when she got home.

  Once she delivered those messages, then maybe Devyn could think about dating and flirting and kissing a man like Marc Rossi.

  Not that it would change who she was. But maybe…

  Nodding to the young woman at the front desk as she passed, Devyn glanced at the cozy lobby, happy she hadn’t yet checked out of this precious, undersized inn. The Europa was big and impersonal and cold.

  And Marc Rossi was there.

  Here, a fire crackled and the thrum of conversation and laughter floated out from a pleasant little restaurant and pub where she would have dinner tonight.

  Alone.

  She turned the corner and walked up the wooden staircase to the second floor, heading down the narrow corridor to her room, determined to stop all rationalization and second thoughts and focus on what mattered.

  Tonight she’d sit down with the few pieces of paper she’d retrieved from Sharon’s home office and try again to put the puzzle pieces together. If only she had a computer and Internet, she probably could have figured out exactly what the drawing was, and maybe who’d sent Sharon the e-mail about her airport pickup.

  Marc Rossi probably had a laptop with him.

  If you need anything, just ask.

  She needed… everything. Everything a man like that had to offer, except as soon as he found out the truth, she doubted they’d be offered so easily. And even if they were, what made him any different from Joshua or her parents? People she loved and counted on, only to find out her second-class-citizen status made her unworthy of their love and trust.

  And what about Sharon Greenberg? Who knew Devyn’s name and saved pictures of her. With Devyn’s biological father’s phone number jotted on the back.

  Once again, the realization squeezed her heart so hard it hurt. Why had Sharon kept track of Devyn? Worry? Regret? Curiosity? Love?

  She stabbed the key into her door and smashed an imaginary boot heel on that last one. A childish, baseless fantasy. If Sharon loved the daughter she gave up for adoption, surely she would have tried to make contact by now.

  Inside, she took off her jacket and began unbuttoning her blouse, the familiar battle so loud in her head she didn’t pay attention to the footsteps outside her room. But she froze mid-button at the soft rap on her door.

  Another knock. “Devyn?”

  Oh. He’d come back for her. She couldn’t help smiling because, deep down inside, she wanted to share all of this with someone. With Marc.

  “I’ll give you this,” she said, walking toward the door, “you’re persistent.”

  Hand on the knob, she glanced down at her unbuttoned blouse. But something stopped her from rebuttoning and hiding the
peek of lace and cleavage. Something? How about attraction?

  There was no peephole or she’d have checked to see if he was smiling like she was. Instead she unlocked the door and safety bar, only to have the wood whiz right at her face, knocking her back.

  A soft gasp strangled her as a man stepped inside, a mask covering his face.

  “Oh my God,” she cried softly, stumbling and blinking in disbelief.

  He was tall, big, and coming right at her. She opened her mouth to scream, but he smashed his hand over her face, whipping her around and snapping her arm up behind her so hard she heard it crack.

  She felt hot breath on her ear and the strength of him, the faint smell of something sour on his breath.

  “Get out of here. Do you understand? Out!”

  How had she thought he was Marc? This man had an accent. Irish. Or English. Thick and as gruff as his handling.

  She tried to cry out again, but his hand silenced her scream.

  “Get out or it’ll get much worse than this.” He pushed her hard, releasing her, but the force was enough to buckle her knees and take her to the floor. She froze there, crouched and unwilling to turn and face him, waiting for something else—a blow, a kick, another threat.

  But the door slammed behind her and he was gone.

  She stayed on her knees, shaking, the words reverberating in her ears.

  Get out or it’ll get much worse than this.

  What was he talking about? And who was he? Finally, she turned, terrified that he’d still be there. But she was alone.

  Not really. She didn’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.

  Very slowly, with the dead bolt in place, she packed her bags.

  It would cost him a little, no doubt, but Marc was ready to part with some cash, and the ruddy-faced concierge who looked nearly seventy and far too tired for this job seemed willing to take some payment for his labor.

  “I might be able to help you,” the old man said as he made Marc’s twenty-pound note disappear with the ease of a magician. “But if I get caught, I’ll deny I’ve ever laid eyes on you.”

  As he would expect. “Deal. All I need is ten minutes, max, in your baggage hold room.” Long enough to get a last name to go with Sharon, the name Devyn had let slip in the car.