Shiver of Fear

  “I’m not.” She’d made a compelling argument as they’d worked their way across the ballroom. “Fallon has to know something, and if someone else hadn’t tried to shoot at us, I might have gotten the old guy to talk.”

  “Do you think Fallon was shot?”

  “I don’t think so, but someone was,” he said. “There were, what, two shots?” Then a lot of chaos and Marc had moved on instinct, getting Devyn away from the bullets. “The guy at the top of the stairs was toast at that range.”

  “Was that the same guy you fought in the stairwell?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to see. Before we left, I sent a message to Boston asking for a background check on Fallon and a check of the numbers called on the phone I took from the guy who tried to get into our room.”

  “Maybe we can take a picture of this,” she said, holding out her hand and opening her fingers to reveal a small orange and silver medal. “And find out what the symbol means.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “When you throttled Padraig,” she said. “It popped off and I grabbed it.”

  “Let me see it.” Taking it, he glanced at the cross, then back to the road before returning it to her. “He’s Protestant—that much is clear.”

  “From the orange trim?”

  “Yeah, and I think the crosses are a little different than the Catholic one. It’s something.” In his pocket, the phone vibrated. “Maybe that’s Chessie.”

  But it was a male voice that greeted him when he answered, and it surprised him.

  “Where are you, Marc?” Colton Lang asked. “Because nobody seems to be able to find you.”

  “Didn’t know anyone was looking, Colt.” When the other man didn’t respond to that, he continued. “I’m in Northern Ireland, just as we discussed.” He glanced at Devyn, hoping she’d understand his vagueness. If Lang knew the secrecy element was gone, he might call Marc back to Boston. Which wasn’t happening. He wasn’t about to leave Devyn in the middle of this country without protection. “In fact, I’m driving out of Belfast right now.”

  Meaning, the job he’d been sent to do was complete, more or less.

  Still, Colt didn’t respond.

  “I’m with a lady,” Marc said meaningfully. “How can I help you?”

  “You can tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “Can’t really do that right now. As I said, I’m not alone.” If Colt thought Marc was staying undercover with Devyn, he certainly didn’t expect him to discuss the details in front of her, did he? “I’ll check in tomorrow.”

  “So she doesn’t know?”

  “Not much.” He weaved around a slower car and hit the accelerator to chew up the empty road ahead. “Full report tomorrow, Mr. Lang.” Then he had an idea. “But while I have you, I ran into someone over here and was wondering if you had any information about him in your files.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A former boxer by the name of Padraig Fallon. Lives in Bangor, east of Belfast. Can you check to see if we’ve ever done business with him in the past?”

  “I can do a cursory check now,” Colt said. “Hang on. You can answer questions while you wait.”

  “Shoot.”

  Next to him, Devyn fingered the medal, listening to every word he said.

  “Has she mentioned her biological father?” Colt asked.

  “Not by name.” At least, she liked to dance around the subject of Finn MacCauley as much as possible, so maybe that wasn’t a lie.

  “How about her birth mother?”

  Whoa. Where’d that come from? “What about her?”

  “Just curious how much information she’s sharing with you.”

  “Nothing too personal,” Marc said, the instinct that had kept him alive and on top of his game for so many years urging him to keep this vague. Or just outright lie.

  “Has she told you why she’s over there, then?”

  “On holiday, as we thought,” he said. “Anything on Fallon?”

  Colt hesitated a long, silent minute. Then, “There’s nothing in our records on him, Marc.”

  “E-mail me if you get anything on him.”

  “What time tomorrow will you call?”

  Marc glanced at her again, catching her eye, his gaze sliding down her face to her mouth. “Late. I’ll be busy.” Running around Enniskillen, looking for Mom.

  “Where will you be?”

  He glanced at a road sign, bathed in his headlights, and read it out loud. “Monaghan,” he said. “Some sightseeing.”

  “Just be ready to leave the minute I give you the word,” the agent said.

  “I may not be able to, uh, extricate myself that easily.”

  “Well you better be. You’re not on holiday, Marc.”

  Don’t I know it. “Got it.” He ended the call, put the phone down, and reached over to take Devyn’s hand. “That was the FBI agent who sent me here.”

  She threaded her fingers through his. “Nothing on Padraig Fallon?” she asked.

  “Nothing at all.”

  She just closed her eyes and held out the medal, letting it catch the lights of a passing car. “Twice now this man has tried to help us. He just appears from nowhere, like an apparition, giving us assistance. Like an angel.”

  “More like a spook.” And that, Marc knew, was the piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

  CHAPTER 17

  Even Devyn wasn’t impulsive enough to suggest they start their search for “notes” the minute they arrived in Enniskillen. It was the middle of the night, and they had to sleep.

  They had to sleep together.

  In the bathroom of the farmhouse-style inn where Marc had managed to get them a room with a fireplace, Devyn slathered a palmful of body butter down her freshly shaved leg. Closing her eyes, she reached for a tiny crystal snifter of Baileys that they’d found in the room and Marc had insisted she take into the bath, with orders to relax.

  She was anything but relaxed. Her head swam with so many unanswered questions that she didn’t even know how to sort everything out. For one thing, she might meet her birth mother in a matter of hours. And that would put her lifetime of wondering to bed once and for all.

  And speaking of bed… there was Marc, right outside the room.

  Closing her eyes, the sensations that she’d felt earlier that night rolled over her again, making her melt. The power of his kiss, the certainty of his touch, the delicious, wild ride her body took when he undressed her and… tasted her.

  How could she handle this now?

  How could she not?

  She could barely remember the last time she’d made love with Joshua. He’d been perfectly competent, able to elicit an orgasm, yes, but not… heat. And, always, always, the fight.

  Every single time, they fought over her desire for a baby and his refusal. He lorded the possibility over her head, using her closed adoption as an excuse, then, of course, gloating over the fact that he’d been right.

  She had bad blood.

  She shook her head, trying to get him out of there. Maybe she didn’t have completely bad blood. Maybe Sharon…

  She stood and grabbed the inn’s white bathrobe from the back of the door, easing her arms into the soft terry, tying the belt, and smoothing the V-neck. Her fingers lingered over an embroidered logo on the pocket and then her breasts underneath.

  This thing could come off with the flick of a finger.

  She towel-dried her wet hair, glancing in the mirror, unable to ignore the pallor of her skin. But there was something else in her face, something unusual. For the first time in a long time, there was a spark in her eyes, like a little gas burner was lit inside her, burning bright. Marc put that there; she was certain of it.

  Was it possible she’d come halfway across the world to find her birth mother… and found something entirely unexpected instead?

  Opening the door, she froze at the sight. Marc stood in front of the fire, shirtless, his back to her, silhouetted against the fire. Bra
ced on the glossy white mantel, his hands rested inches from a half-glass of whiskey. He still wore the dress pants he’d put on earlier, but the gun and holster were gone.

  He pushed off the mantel, stabbed his fingers through his hair with a long exhale, then knocked back the rest of the whiskey.

  “Now what makes a man like you sigh with such sadness?”

  He turned, a frown drawing his dark brows together, the firelight and sienna-colored walls casting a glow of gold over olive-tanned skin. “I’m not…” He stopped, fighting a smile. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

  She tightened the robe self-consciously and stepped into the room. “I was thinking about you in the bath.”

  He just looked hard at her, his eyes like ebony spikes, his jaw tight. “Funny, I was thinking about joining you in the bath.”

  She laughed, but he didn’t even smile, and for some reason, that was just dead sexy. “And?”

  “The door was locked.”

  Her stomach took a ride down to her bare toes.

  “Were you thinking the same thing?” he asked.

  “More or less.” She took a few steps into the darkened room, drawn to the fire. Drawn to him. “I didn’t have much… control. Back there in the hotel. I’m…” Sorry? No, she wasn’t sorry at all. “I’m sure you understand how much I need…”

  “Sex,” he said.

  “I was thinking comfort, but call it what you want.”

  He laughed softly, walking to the bed and grabbing hold of the eiderdown comforter that fluffed over the mattress. “It’s called sex. But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll just sleep in front of the fire and you can have the bed.”

  Disappointment fluttered through her when he snapped the cover off the bed.

  No, that wouldn’t make her feel better. Only smarter and safer. “Of course.” At an antique sideboard, she poured another glass of Baileys.

  “Not that I wouldn’t want to finish what we started, Dev.”

  The admission turned her insides as liquid as the creamy drink in her glass.

  “But I don’t want to take advantage of a woman who is seeking comfort while all I can offer is sex.”

  Come to think of it, sex would be fine. “I appreciate that.” She took her glass to the bed, which he’d covered in a lighter afghan.

  “Will that be warm enough for you?”

  Not without him under it, with her, next to her, inside her. “Yes, that’s fine. You need the down for the hard floor.” She set the drink on the nightstand, pulled the covers back, and slid in, robe and all.

  He disappeared into the bathroom, the faucet running for a long time. While he was gone, the fire burned down a bit, and she sank deeper into the pillows of the massive antique bed. Longing squeezed her throat, and some remaining tendrils of lust tortured her between her legs.

  She hadn’t expected him to be that much of a gentleman.

  Maybe it was… her. He knew too much about her, knew her devils, knew her secrets. What she needed was a man who would never know where she came from. Was that possible? If Finn MacCauley was ever caught, it was only a matter of time before her name was dragged into it; she knew that.

  So how could she ever hope to keep the truth from a man?

  She couldn’t.

  Marc came back in, and she feigned sleep, watching him cross the room through her almost closed eyes. She heard the down rustling, another drink poured, another exhale of exhaustion and… frustration.

  The fire crackled and eventually smoldered. He turned again. And again. Another sigh.

  A slight shiver shook her body and made her clutch the afghan tighter.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, the sound of his voice jolting her.

  “I’m fine.”

  She heard him move, the fireplace screen slide open, a log hit with a hiss. The room brightened in shades of fiery orange, and a wave of heat rolled toward her.

  But not enough.

  “It’s warm down here, Dev.”

  She swallowed hard, her breath catching, her heart a steady thump against the terry robe.

  Warm. Safe. Comforting. Sexy.

  Impulse won the battle, not that reason put up much of a fight.

  Without making a sound, she slipped out of the bed, finishing what was left in her glass with a fortifying slug. The liquid burned, despite its sweetness, fiery on her throat, giving her a push she really didn’t need.

  She silently walked to the foot of the bed.

  He lay on his back, arms locked behind his head, the comforter under him and spread open, wearing nothing but boxer briefs, which were tented with a full erection.

  “I’m still thinking about you in the bath,” he said with a sly smile. “As you can see.”

  She dragged her gaze over his body, over each cut of defined muscle, over each line of male beauty, to the strained shorts. Her mouth actually watered to taste him; her fingers itched to touch.

  Very slowly, her knees bent, as though she had no will to stop herself from kneeling next to him.

  Holding his gaze, she felt captured. The connection was real, palpable, a physical pull that she couldn’t stop. She placed her hands on his chest, and his heartbeat vibrated up her arms, like she was channeling his pulse.

  She lowered her head, letting her hair fall near his face, the scent of Baileys mingling with the malty smell of fine Irish whiskey. She wanted to close her eyes but didn’t want to stop looking at him.

  What would it be like to love a man like this? The possibility, the longing, the pure want of that stole her breath.

  “I’m cold,” she whispered.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, lower, then back to her eyes. “I’m not.” He released one hand from behind his head, and for a moment she thought he was going to flip the cover over her, but his hand went to the robe’s belt. Just like she’d imagined, one flick of the finger, one easy tug, and it was open.

  He inched up, using both hands to slide it over her shoulders, the flames behind her sending a wall of searing heat over her bare back. For a long moment, she remained still, letting the warmth of the fire penetrate her skin and the warmth of his gaze break through to her heart.

  He reached for her, touching her cheek with his palm first. “I want you,” he said simply.

  “I want you, too.” She tilted her head, getting more of his touch like a needy cat, her hands moving toward him with an ache of their own. She wanted to touch him. She had to.

  She fingered the top of his boxer briefs, her palm less than an inch from the hard-on that stretched the fabric. Very slowly, she lifted the waistband and dragged them down, revealing his shaft, pulsing, red, already glistening at the tip, daunting in the dancing firelight.

  She just stared at him, her hands trembling, her breath trapped, her mouth aching to close over him.

  He barely arched in invitation. She lowered her head, but he scooped behind her neck and pulled her upward to his face.

  “Kiss me,” he demanded. “Kiss me.”

  She did, letting herself fall on his chest to meet his mouth, the contact so much more intimate than what she’d intended, so much more personal.

  So not… sex. Comfort.

  She took it greedily. He opened his mouth and plunged his tongue deep inside, the flavor of whiskey bitter and sweet, his lips soft and strong, his arms determined as he pulled her onto him and rose up to make their chests touch, their stomachs, their hips.

  Ending the kiss, she backed up enough to study his face in the firelight, memorizing the lines, trying to etch the moment into her brain. No matter what happened to them, no matter what the future held, she’d have this night. This sexy, romantic, loving man. The kind of man she’d always wanted but didn’t even know existed.

  She stroked his strong jaw, drinking in the shadows formed by his cheekbones and whiskers, the power of his Roman nose and full lips. She dragged her hand over his chest, down the symmetry of his abdomen, and finally closed her hand around his erection.

  H
e closed his eyes and let out a moan.

  His tip was wet, slippery under her fingertips. She kneeled again, straddling him, kissing the skin of his stomach, then fluttering her tongue over the head of his shaft. It tasted as creamy as the Baileys she’d been sipping, and just as smooth. She closed her mouth over the top, sliding her hand down the length of him slowly, letting every muscle and vein glide through her palm, taking him a little deeper into her mouth as he rocked his hips forward.

  Once, twice, a third time and his hands dug into her hair, stealing another stroke before he lifted her head and eased her back on the pillows, sliding down with her.

  “I want to be inside you.” The demand was husky and irrefutable. “All the way inside you.”

  Without waiting for her response, he eased her to the side and got to his feet in one move. Instead of feeling bereft of his warmth, she pulled the comforter around her, watching him open the bag he’d dropped on the settee.

  “So condoms were mission critical?” she asked.

  “Guess that depends on the mission.”

  “And I was feeling guilty about a tub of body butter.”

  Returning to her, he dropped the packet next to them and climbed back into the nest, reaching for her, then caressing her breasts, her stomach, her hips, and finally settling on her backside. “If that’s what makes you feel like satin and silk, then it was also mission critical.”

  He kissed her breast, suckling just enough to make her ball the comforter under her fists; then he lifted his head, his eyes hooded and dark. “I didn’t plan to seduce you, Devyn,” he said. “I want you to know that wasn’t my intent.”

  “I know.” She splayed her hand over his chest, reveling in the mightiness of it and the amazement over what all these muscles covered. A good, good heart. “I came to you, remember?”

  “But I was only going to give you five more minutes in that bed.”

  She laughed softly. “But you know I’m impulsive.”

  “I was counting on it.” He silenced any response with a deep kiss, laying her back and delving into her mouth with his tongue.

  He stroked every inch of her, branding her skin with his touch, making every spot come alive when he reached it and making her beg for more when he left. Finally, his hand settled between her legs, watching her eyes as his thumb found the sweet spot of her clitoris.