“I just sent him all this and he hasn’t answered. To be fair, it’s only five-thirty in the morning there, so he’s probably still asleep.” She arched her dark brows. “Or they are.”
“You think?” Vivi asked.
“Wouldn’t hurt him to get laid.”
“Chessie, if your mother heard you talk like that, she’d cry.”
Chessie snorted. “Ma cries if I say ‘shit’.”
“You’re her last great hope, that’s why. And, listen, Marc’s a flirt but not a player.” Still, she had heard a little something in his voice when they’d talked last night. A level of tenderness she hadn’t heard in a long time. Not since Laura. “When he called me about going to Raleigh today, he told me he came clean with her on why he’s there. I’m telling you because you have to know this, but if Lang calls and asks you anything, play it dumb.”
“He’s the client.”
Yes, he was, which was why his caginess irritated her. “He’s also not shooting entirely straight. It makes me wonder.”
Chessie looked up at her. “You investigated too many bad cops when you were a reporter.”
“Hell, yeah, and that’s why my nose is so adept at smelling a rat.”
“You think Mr. Lang’s a rat? He’s so… straightlaced. And kind of cute, don’t you think?”
Vivi would rather die before she admitted she agreed. Mr. Lang was hot in a way that made her want to… mess up his hair. With her teeth.
“Cute if you like the Dudley Do-Right type. Which”—she pointed a finger in Chessie’s face—“I know from experience can be an act to hide the insidious evil underneath.”
Chessie laughed but pushed back from the desk to pop her feet up, purple-tipped toes peeking out of black strappy sandals. “I know this is totally not part of my job, but don’t you think we should be straight with the client even if he’s a little evasive with us?”
“I do and I don’t,” she admitted. “But Marc’s pretty damn sure they’re in a hornet’s nest of some kind, and Super Special Assistant Whatever Agent Lang never even mentioned Dr. Sharon Greenberg to us. I don’t know if he knows she exists or if she’s the reason he wants Devyn out of there. But Marc said Devyn’s not going anywhere and happens to have a little something that could earn the Guardian Angelinos a big, fat bonus and national acclaim.”
Vivi walked to the picture window to look down at the lunch crowds milling about the brick sidewalks of Newberry Street. She wanted to bring in Finn MacCauley so bad she could taste it.
“We just have to be very careful not to blow it,” she said. “There’s a fine line between not playing by the rules and taking a risk that costs us everything.”
“I have a feeling we’re going to walk that line every day,” Chessie said.
Vivi turned and smiled at her cousin, who was so much like a sister to her. “And that’s what’s going to make the Guardian Angelinos the best in the business. There are a zillion security firms that offer bodyguards and investigations. We have to be different, better, sharper—riskier. And that Lang character? Shoot, he probably never took a risk in his life.”
“He took one by hiring us,” Chessie said.
Vivi grinned. “Touché on that one. So, we have to make it pay off for him.”
“What if your gut’s right and he’s not, you know, a good agent?”
“Then he’s a bad agent,” Vivi countered. “In which case, I’ll nail his ass to the FBI headquarters’ front door, and his boss will be my new best client. We can’t miss.”
Chessie swiped a lock of dark hair over her shoulder and rounded the reception desk she’d poached as her home base on her first day. “What you can’t miss is your flight, which leaves in less than two hours.” She grabbed a black tote Vivi had dropped on her way in. “Are you staying overnight? Is that why you have this?”
“No, but I have to check a bag so I can bring my pistol.” She looked at her watch. “Damn, I really wanted to talk to Zach before I left.”
“Call his cell. I told you, he’s just house hunting with Samantha. You can call him.”
“I was hoping to kind of read his mood in person.”
“His mood’s good,” Chessie said. “He’s ridiculously in love. We should all be so lucky.”
“All the more reason for me to not bore him with the details of this assignment.”
Chessie tilted her head and gave Vivi her best get-real look. “You don’t want him to know what Marc’s doing over there, do you?”
The girl was smart, and intuitive. She’d make a great Guardian Angelino. “Look, Zach might be my twin, but he’s more conservative than I am about these things. That’s why managing the business is his area and pushing the envelopes is mine. Just tell him I’m doing some intel in North Carolina and I’ll bring him up to speed when and if I have to.”
“When will that be?” Chessie asked.
“When I’m able to say ‘Hey, Zach, the Guardian Angelinos brought in one of the FBI’s most wanted.’ ”
Chessie laughed. “I want to be you when I grow up.”
Vivi tipped her chin. “You’re twenty-five, baby. You are grown up. Be you. I’m a mess.”
“A beautiful mess.”
But Chessie had no idea what she was talking about, and Vivi loved her for it.
“Oh, don’t forget this,” Chessie said, grabbing a file from her desk. “All the information Marc sent me about Dr. Greenberg. And I printed out some stuff about microbiology and the UNC campus and her lab as plane reading.”
“Good, because I’m going to start at her office before I go to her house.”
“Oh, and I hacked the airline site again and got you out of that window into an aisle.”
“Damn, you’re becoming downright indispensable in this business.”
“That’s my evil plan.” She waggled her brows. “I might get paid.”
“You will get paid,” she promised. “Before anyone else.”
Chessie screwed up her face. “Dude, there isn’t anyone else but Uncle Nino. Who, by the way, wants to put a stove in the employee kitchen so he can cook for us.”
“God love that man.” She gave Chessie a quick kiss and added a hug of gratitude. “I’ll call you when I get there.”
Still smiling, Vivi darted into the hall, holding on to the scarred banister as she rounded the corner and looked down to the Newbury Street entrance. And stopped as the front door opened and a tall, imposing man walked in and looked up at her.
“Special Assistant Agent in Charge Lang.”
He nearly smiled at the title she knew she’d botched again. “Just ‘Mr. Lang’ is fine.”
Not, she noted, Colton. He’d never suggest she call him that.
He stayed at the bottom of the stairs, right outside the door to Silk, watching her as she descended.
Damn, she didn’t want to miss her flight. “We weren’t expecting you,” she said.
“That’s the best time to pop in, I find.” He was kind of a great-looking guy, handsome in a clean-cut way—if there was such a thing—with hazel eyes that could go green or light brown, depending on the light, and thick, short chestnut hair.
“I’m afraid I’m late to catch a flight, and Zach is at an appointment. Can we reschedule a meeting tomorrow?”
“I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“Not necessary, but thank you. I’m planning to take a cab.”
“I’m parked right out front.”
The only person to get a parking spot on Newbury, naturally. “The traffic will suck at this time.”
“Traffic sucks all the time.” His smile widened, as if it amused him to use the word “suck.” He probably didn’t drop F-bombs, either. “I’d like a chance to talk to you.”
Well, hell. She’d lost this battle. “All right.” She’d just be careful. The text of Marc’s e-mail remained top of mind, including his clear instructions that she tell Lang nothing about what he’d discovered—specifically the clouds surrounding Dr. Sharon Greenberg
and the fact that he’d broken cover with his target.
Just for good measure, she imagined the headlines: Newly Formed Security Firm Zeroes in on Fugitive Missing for Three Decades.
Oh, yeah. She could do this.
“What did you want to talk about?” she asked brightly.
“Marc’s progress.”
Of course. “He’s found Devyn in Belfast, has made her acquaintance, and is spending time with her. I really don’t know any more specifics than that.” That would be her mantra.
“When is she leaving Belfast?” he asked, his hand just hovering over her back as they navigated some foot traffic outside.
“Well, she isn’t in such a big hurry to do that, so he’s working on it. I’ll keep you posted the minute he succeeds.”
“Has he been able to figure out why she’s there?”
A tiny alarm bell dinged in her head. Not because of the question, but the wee bit of concern hidden deep inside his tone. Most people would have missed it, but investigative journalism had honed Vivi’s skills. “She’s on vacation.”
“A vacation? Who vacations in Northern Ireland?”
“Plenty of people.” They reached a black sedan so nondescript it might as well have had a placard that said “undercover law enforcement” on the side. “It’s not a bomb fest over there anymore, you know. Bangor, for instance, is a darling little seaside town.”
He shot her a sharp look. “That’s where she is?”
Way to vomit information, Vivi. “I think they’re taking a day trip there. But from what he says, Belfast isn’t the center of a civil war anymore.”
“It’s not completely over,” he said, as if he had inside knowledge. “Hot spots bubble up, believe me, Ms. Angelino.”
She shot him a smile and caught him looking at the diamond stud in her nose. “Call me Vivi,” she said. “Since I seem to butcher your title on a regular basis.”
Opening the door, he fought a smile. “I think it’s cute.”
You think that, FBI guy. Her youthful appearance had fooled plenty of sources into giving her more information than they wanted to. No one took a skateboarder with a nose stud seriously. Big mistake.
As he climbed into the driver’s seat, she took in his long, lean body, his slim but predatory hands over the wheel. Without looking at her, he said, “I’d like you to tell me everything that he’s discovered about the target.”
Oh, boy. This was going to be a very long trip to the airport. “I really don’t know much. He’s still, you know, working his magic, trying to get her comfortable enough with him to consider leaving.” Lie, lie, lie.
“Has she mentioned anyone?”
Anyone like Finn MacCauley? “I have no idea.”
“Let’s call him.”
“He’s with her right now,” she said quickly. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
“So, Vivi.” He glanced at her, down to her bag, then back to her face. “Where are you going?”
She never questioned her gut, and right now it was screaming not to tell him anything about this trip. “New York,” she said, grabbing at the first thing that popped into her head. “To see… my cousin.”
“The one who works for the Bullet Catchers?”
Very little got by Colton Lang. “Yes,” she lied. “The very same.”
Yep. A very long trip to the airport.
Devyn hadn’t slept much, and she doubted Marc had, either, as he’d spent the night in one chair with his feet propped on the other. Even though she’d made a halfhearted invitation for him to sleep on the bed, he’d turned down the offer.
Either he was a perfect gentleman or he wasn’t the least bit attracted to her.
The truth, she suspected, lay somewhere in the middle.
They’d risen early, had breakfast, and headed out, armed with the information his company had sent. He drove them past a sprawling shipyard, which boasted the dubious distinction of being the birthplace of the Titanic and looked pretty dismal and deserted, even in the early morning sunshine.
Still, it was one of the more hyped tourist spots in Belfast, marked by huge shipbuilding cranes that towered over the water and dry docks. She leaned forward to check out the monstrosities.
“I’ve heard you can arrange to climb Samson and Goliath,” he said, referring to the colloquial names for the two yellow cranes with arms and flatbeds swinging hundreds of feet in the air.
“Are you forgetting how I froze on the rope bridge? You couldn’t get me up there with a gun to my head.” She shifted her attention to the papers he’d handed her when they got in his rental. “Your assistant is thorough. The pug surnames is a stroke of genius. As far-fetched as anything I’ve ever heard, but clever.”
“Chessie? She’s all that, and more. But she’s not my assistant. She’s my baby sister.”
“What’s Chessie short for?”
“Francesca, like my mom. I guess she’s going to be everyone’s assistant in the company. I haven’t had one since I left the FBI, though a couple of good managers run my gun shop for me.”
“Why’d you leave the FBI?” she asked.
“Eh, long story.”
“Is that code for ‘don’t ask’?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
Ignoring the clusters of redbrick and gray stone homes, warrens of winding streets, and the occasional village sprouting up from the hills as they left Belfast behind, she looked at his profile instead. Roman and strong, handsome and square. The man came from gorgeous stock, she’d bet.
And she suddenly really wanted to know why he’d left his job with the FBI.
“You’re awfully young to retire. You don’t look like you got injured, and—correct me if I’m wrong—you like this kind of thing.”
He laughed softly. “Ignore code much?”
“I’m curious,” she admitted.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I noticed that you came alive around the time the trouble started.”
He considered that, narrowing dark eyes in a quick glance her way. “I wasn’t dead during our trip up the coast yesterday.”
“Not at all,” she agreed. “You were nice and entertaining and… fine.”
“Nice and fine?” He took his hand off the gear shift to stab his heart. “Ouch.”
“And pleasant,” she added teasingly.
“And after all that pleasant niceness, what, my killer instinct reared up?”
“Not exactly,” she corrected. “But once you got your gun out, I saw something in your eyes.”
“The willingness to kill the guy trying to kidnap you?”
“What I saw was… your passion,” she told him. “Like you came alive.”
“That’s interesting,” he said slowly, a look of appreciation in his eyes. “I’ve had people who were… close to me never figure that out.”
Like his ex-wife? The one who cost him everything?
“But, yeah,” he agreed. “I do like the work, generally.”
“Then why’d you quit the FBI?”
“Look.” He pointed to a green street sign. “The Ulster Folk and Transport Museum is right up ahead. We could stop there.”
“Nice try.” She lowered his arm, making sure it didn’t land on her thigh. “Why’d you quit the job?”
“And ‘relentless’ can go on that attribute list, too,” he said, laughing.
“Answer the question.”
“It’s personal,” he said simply. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to share. She of all people should respect that. “But you’re right—work is my passion. What’s yours?”
“My passion?” She glanced out the window, wishing she had one. Other than the one she didn’t have: children. “Oh, you know, stuff.”
“Stuff?” He coughed a laugh. “What kind of stuff? And remember, I’ve read your file. I know more about you than you realize.”
“I’d like to forget I have a file. But, since you’ve read it, then maybe you know my passio
n and you can tell me.”
He tore his gaze from the road, intrigued. “I admit, when I read your file, I thought your life looked pretty… vacant.”
A chillingly accurate assessment. “And now that you’ve met me?”
“Hey, it’s just a file.”
Vacant. “I guess it looked kind of empty because I don’t have a job, lived vicariously through my husband, and haven’t ever accomplished anything of note.” God, that sounded bad.
“I did notice that despite a Wellesley education, you’re not working,” he said diplomatically.
“I didn’t figure out what might interest me until I met Joshua. I was twenty-five then, about the same age as your ‘baby’ sister.”
“And what interested you?”
“Joshua,” she admitted, a little sadly. But why lie? She had thought she was in love with him, and he promised her that family she wanted so desperately. “Before that, I certainly didn’t need to work. My parents have more money than they could spend in three lifetimes, and my husband had enough ambition for both of us.”
“Ambition isn’t passion. What do you love?”
She tried to look at the scenery, but it blurred. What did she love? All she’d ever wanted was to have a child—or four—and create a home she never had. A simple, old-fashioned, kind of embarrassing goal in this day and age, but it was hers nonetheless.
“I do volunteer work,” she said. “That’s where I met my husband.”
“What kind of volunteer work?”
“For kids, mostly. Troubled or disadvantaged.”
“And Joshua Sterling did that kind of volunteer work, too?” He sounded surprised. “Doesn’t fit with the sarcastic political columnist image.”
“There was media coverage,” she said dryly, “so he was there. I’d helped manage the fund-raising for a new facility for autistic children, and, anyway, that’s how we met.”
“Was it love at first sight?”
“Not even close,” she said, remembering how she’d bristled at his ego at first. She should have paid attention to that first impression. “How about you? How long were you married? How did you meet?” How did she make you lose everything?
Shiver of Fear Page 12
