Shiver of Fear

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Where are we going?” she managed to ask.

  “Just move it.” He pushed her hard, passing the door to the bar, which she glanced at longingly. Where was the waiter who’d said he’d cover for her? Where was Marc? Suddenly he seemed like the much lesser of two evils. “You shoulda never come here,” he mumbled.

  She slowed her step, processing that. “What?”

  “You’re not wanted around here.” He punctuated that with a spit to the side.

  That was basically the same thing the man at the hotel had told her. Was it the same man? Is this what he meant by things would get worse?

  “Diggin’ around for trouble is what you’re doin’. We know you had someone look at her bags.”

  Oh, God. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t a mugging or a kidnapping. This was about Sharon.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “None of your fucking business.” He grabbed for her again, but she dodged him, scooting to the side and breaking away.

  “Who are you and how do you know me?” she demanded. She’d fight the damn knife if she had to, but she wanted answers.

  He lunged for her, but she managed to throw herself out of his way, rolling to the ground and scrambling to her feet, glancing over her shoulder to catch the glint of the knife as he launched toward her.

  “Bitch!” He jumped on her, pushing her back down with a crack of her back on the brick pavement, his weight like a truck on her. “No trouble, huh?” Spittle flew as he growled the words. “The doctor was fucking wrong about that.”

  The knife came down right next to her face, and Devyn turned her head and shrieked, the blade just missing. He slammed his knee onto her stomach, making her grunt in pain.

  He raised his hand to stab again. Time froze as she stared at the knife, her elbows locked, her hands fisted on his shirt, trying desperately to hold off the inevitable. She could feel the bones in her arms almost snap with his weight as she choked on another scream lodged in her throat.

  She shook her head, her only hope to be a moving target. The knife came straight for her throat, the air moving as it fell. The world exploded with noise and light and the punch of pain as his whole body fell on hers, and everything went black.

  Marc vaulted over a crate, his Glock still aimed at the dark figure he’d just shot in the alley. The body slumped over Devyn, and Marc didn’t dare take another shot for fear of hitting her.

  The guy rolled off her or she pushed him off; he couldn’t tell. But all that mattered was that her attacker still had enough strength to haul himself to his feet. Marc aimed again, but Devyn was getting up, too.

  “Stay down!” he ordered.

  “Don’t kill him!” she yelled.

  He ran closer, not sure he’d heard her right, giving the guy just enough time to take off. Marc whipped the pistol directly at him, cupping his right hand to get a dead aim.

  “He knows…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, too breathless from the fight.

  Holding his shoulder, the guy stumbled to the end of the alley. Marc reached Devyn, dividing his attention between the assailant and her, making sure she was okay.

  As he did, a BMW roared up to the alley entrance, slowing down as someone in the backseat threw open a door. Devyn’s attacker leaped in, and the engine and tires screamed as they peeled away.

  Marc dropped to his knees. “Jesus, Devyn, what the hell happened?”

  “Hey!” From the pub, several men poured out of the door, drawn by the gunshots, no doubt.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  “What’s going on?” one of the men yelled as they hustled closer. “Who’s firing out here?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, pushing hair off her face and looking anything but fine.

  The men reached them, one of them holding a pistol of his own. “Let ’er go, you bastard.”

  Marc ignored the order and asked them, “You know who came out here after her?”

  The two men looked at each other, then at him. One of them said, “Don’t lie, lad. I know she was runnin’ from you.” He bent down on his knee in front of Devyn. “Come with me, miss.”

  For a second, Marc thought she would. But she just shook her head and held up a hand. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”

  “You don’t wanna stay with him, do ya?” The man pointed at Marc. “No need to, lass. Come inside.”

  But she bit her lip and shook her head, glancing at the street for a second. “No, really. This man didn’t attack me—someone else did.” She turned to Marc, her eyes bright from the trauma. “He saved me,” she said softly.

  The thin-haired Irishman stood slowly, contempt on his face. “You don’t have to lie. I know you’re scared of him.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “Honestly. You can go back.”

  They did, grumbling and throwing looks over their shoulders as Marc helped her stand, squeezing her hands to stop the trembling. When they were alone, she took a deep breath, and as she let it out, she said, “I think my mother just tried to have me kidnapped.”

  “What?”

  “At least”—she glanced at the street again—“whoever that was knows Sharon Greenberg.”

  He searched her face, all the options on how to respond flipping through his brain.

  “Do you know who that was?” she demanded.

  He shook his head. “No.” And that was no lie. “Why would I know?”

  “You tell me. Was our meeting an accident? Or was it because of Sharon?”

  “I didn’t even know the woman existed until an hour ago,” he said, purposely not answering what he’d been asked.

  “You’re a liar. A good one,” she conceded as she brushed her hands on her jeans. “But you’re lying.”

  “I am not.”

  She practically spit when she puffed out a breath of disbelief. “Look, pal, I just knocked on death’s door twice in one night, and I want goddamn answers.”

  “Twice?”

  “Somebody broke into my room, a guy in a face mask. Made the same threat—told me to leave Belfast.”

  “Then maybe”—he reached for her, but she swiped his hand away—“you should listen to them. Maybe it’s time you leave Belfast, Dev.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, anger and frustration rolling off her. “Maybe it’s time you tell me the truth, Marc. What are you doing here, and what does it have to do with my mother? The truth.”

  “The truth is you are being told by all kinds of not real nice people that you should leave this city. You have no idea why your mother is over here, but if your instincts are right and she just tried to have you kidnapped, then you’re not safe and you should abandon this search. Let me take you out of this city—”

  “Go to hell.” She started walking away, but not fast enough. He grabbed her arm and she shook him off. “Touch me again and I’ll scream so loud you will spend the night in the nearest Belfast jail. I already have friends in that bar who’re ready to kill you. And if you don’t give me a straight answer, I might do it myself.”

  “I’m not here to hurt you, Devyn. I swear.”

  She studied him, her body stiff, her beautiful face in a cold, unrelenting expression. “Then why are you here, Mr. Rossi? What do you want from me?”

  “Drinks, dinner, and—”

  She slapped his face, the smack echoing through the alley, the sting fiery on his freshly shaven skin.

  “I’ve had enough people lie to me,” she said through clenched teeth. “My whole life I’ve been lied to. My mother didn’t want me. My adopted parents bought me, then never let me forget I didn’t share their precious blood. And my husband? My husband—”

  “Tried to betray you and got himself shot in the head for it.”

  She stumbled backward a little, no words coming from her open mouth.

  “I know who you are, Mrs. Sterling. But I swear I don’t know anything about your missing birth mother.”

  Slowly, she raised her hand to her mouth. “You knew all day?�
�� The hitch in her voice broke his heart.

  “I did.”

  “Oh.” It came out as a sigh, almost like she expected the answer and it hurt. “So what do you want from me?” she asked in a whisper, the plea on her lips as heart-wrenching as the pain in her eyes.

  He stayed silent. She’d been threatened and the rules of the game had changed. All bets were off. She had to know why he was there, even if that was all he could tell her.

  “I want what everyone else seems to want from you. I want you to leave Belfast.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She blinked at him. “Then who sent you?”

  “The FBI.”

  “Are you an FBI agent?”

  “Not anymore. But I am working for them.”

  She swallowed, nodding, thinking, scrutinizing him. “This is about… Finn MacCauley, isn’t it?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I’ve been sent here with a simple job—to get you to leave Belfast.”

  “You think I have information about him. That’s the only reason the FBI would want me.”

  “I didn’t say they wanted you. They want you to leave.”

  “Well, you can tell the FBI that you failed on your mission, Mr. Rossi. I’m not going anywhere.” She turned and headed out of the alley. He stayed close behind, eyeing the road for the BMW.

  At the curb, under the harsh red light of another pub, a gaggle of smokers outside the door watched them.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because I’m going to find my mother.”

  “But you think your mother just sent a thug to kidnap you.”

  “I don’t know that for sure. I just know there’s a connection. I want to know what it is.” Determination drenched every word and step.

  He steered her away from the crowd to an empty section of the sidewalk. “Why?”

  She eased out of his grasp but was smart enough to avoid the crowds. “I guess a person happily ensconced in a family of seven would ask that. But put yourself in my shoes, Marc. I want to face my birth mother and find out her deal. I want to tell her that her secret might not be a secret anymore, because she has a right to know that.”

  “A right? After you think she tried to kidnap you?”

  She shrugged off the question. “All I know is I have nothing—and I mean nothing—to lose by finding out.”

  “Your life,” he said quietly. “You could lose your life.”

  “I have no life.” The words were flat and bitter, and he didn’t believe them for a minute.

  “You have a death wish?” he countered, pulling her deeper into the shadows, rocked by the urge to protect her from everyone around, every potential threat—real and imagined.

  “I have a wish not to spend another day torn by not knowing which side of the gene pool I belong on, and frankly I don’t care if you understand that or not.”

  He didn’t, but he could tell it mattered to her, a lot.

  “I know I’m not a crusty purebred Hewitt, and I don’t think I’m a vile, murderous MacCauley… that leaves Greenberg. Or Mulvaney, as I believe her maiden name was. But you know what? I came across the ocean to find the woman and meet her, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. If she’s made of the same evil as my biological father, then I just have to know that. If she’s not, then maybe…” She swallowed, unable or unwilling to finish.

  “Maybe what?” he prodded.

  “Nothing.”

  Probably not nothing at all. “You think you’ll have some sort of mother-daughter epiphany and you’ll feel all whole again?”

  She gave him a look of disgust, and he felt bad for the sarcasm, but not if it got her off this quest.

  “You never know, do you?” She turned and tried to walk away, but Marc stayed with her, let her walk and think.

  At the next block, she slowed her step and looked at him. “I don’t really want to do this alone and unprotected.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I don’t suppose I could… pay you?”

  Talk about double-dipping and pissing off the biggest, and only, client of the new firm. “I’m already working for the FBI,” he said. “And if you don’t leave, as they’ve asked me to coerce you to do, then… I failed.” And nobody got paid. But right now, money wasn’t the issue. Her safety was.

  “They want Finn MacCauley,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t know what they want,” he admitted. “Other than you out of Belfast.”

  “What if you delivered Finn?”

  “You know where he is?”

  She didn’t answer for a good ten seconds. “I might.”

  “And you’re offering this information in exchange for protection while you hunt down your mother, or at least wait for her to show up.”

  Her expression grim, she nodded. “I can even sweeten the deal,” she said. “I’ll leave the minute I’ve talked to her. So you accomplish your goal and you get Finn.”

  It was a sweet deal. If he got her to leave and turned over a lead to one of the FBI’s most wanted, everybody would win.

  “Are you in touch with him? You’re certain he’s still alive?”

  “You’re just going to have to trust me on this.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Why not?”

  He slowed his step, placing his arm on her back, inching her closer to make his point. “The last time I trusted a woman—another beautiful, perfect woman who happened to be my wife—I lost.”

  She stopped and stared at him. “You lost what?”

  “Everything.” They stood face-to-face, the challenge hanging in the night air. “So you’re going to have to give me more than your word. I need proof.”

  They both took slow, even breaths, their gazes locked. “My word is all I’ve got,” she finally said. “Will you help me or not? Because if the answer is no, I want my bags and I want you to disappear.”

  “And if the answer is yes?”

  “Is it?”

  How could it be anything but? He wasn’t about to leave her to fend for herself against kidnappers and street thugs. He wasn’t about to get on a plane as a failure and face Colton Lang or his cousins. He had no choice but to help her, to trust her.

  “Yes.”

  She rose up on her toes and put her hands on his cheeks, her palms cool against the skin he’d just shaved. “Thank you.” Without a word, she kissed him, her lips parted, her breath warm, her mouth sweet and soft and full of promises.

  Promises he couldn’t make or keep.

  But, apparently, he just had.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Guinness tasted bitter, but Devyn managed to swallow it, needing the Irish salve on her soul as Marc told her his role in bringing in the people responsible for having her husband killed. He chose his words carefully, but even his diplomacy couldn’t soften the blow of reliving the day Joshua was shot in cold blood in the wine cellar of a Boston restaurant.

  “I’m sure this is tough on you,” he said, sipping his own ale across the small table in his room, watching her reactions to his words.

  “I’ve accepted his death, and the fact that he planned to betray me in the most public way,” she said. “But honestly? Your version isn’t anything like what I’ve been told by the police or read in the papers.”

  “The Guardian Angelinos weren’t in it for credit or publicity. Our only goal was to protect the witness, Samantha Fairchild.”

  But they had closed the case, helping to bring in a dirty cop and one of Boston’s most highly paid madames, who was Joshua’s lover. That woman had wanted Joshua dead, and when she’d learned he was about to do a revealing story on the fugitive Finn MacCauley, the elusive Irish mobster became the perfect person to take the rap for the murder.

  And they might have succeeded, if not for Marc and his brothers and cousins, who’d unearthed the truth.

  “Frankly, I’m happy to know the real story of what happened so I can tell you how much I ap
preciate what you did.”

  “Zach did the most,” he said. “But I always wondered if you knew about the story your husband was going to write.”

  She pushed her half-eaten food away. “I found out that day, and I decided to leave him.”

  “Yet you went out to dinner with him that night?”

  “I didn’t want him to know I knew. I had to get a lawyer, figure out a plan. Then”—she closed her eyes, remembering the melee in the restaurant—“he was murdered that night.”

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin, tossing it on the plate before getting up from the table, kicking off his shoes, and dropping his long body on the bed, arms locked behind his head as he regarded her.

  His bare feet were just inches from where she’d propped hers on the end of the bed, the almost touch of skin sending an unwanted tremble through her. She carefully lowered her feet.

  “Sorry your marriage had to end in such an ugly way,” he said.

  “Sounds like yours wasn’t much better.”

  He waved his hand, fending off the subject, so she took the cue and let it drop.

  “I’d read Joshua Sterling’s columns in the Globe for years,” he said. “He was a very insightful guy and had a real handle on local politics.”

  “He was,” she agreed. “And I’m very, very sorry he had to die so young. But I won’t be a hypocrite and act like a grieving widow. My husband was a liar, a cheater, a user, and a pig.”

  He grinned. “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Well, notice that I didn’t say he was stupid.” She shifted in the chair. “Sadly, he was smarter than I am, and counted on me being exactly what I’d always been.”

  “Which is?”

  “Raised to protect the hallowed family name and willing to smooth things over to avoid a scandal.”

  “Is that what he expected you to do when he broke the story?”

  She’d often wondered that, but he had died before she ever got the answer. “Maybe, or perhaps he thought it would make me agree to a quick divorce so he’d be free to marry his mistress. He wasn’t thinking about me; he was thinking about himself. He was either going to land a cable news job with the notoriety or get my father—my adopted father—to pay him millions of dollars before he went with the story.”