Shiver of Fear

  The shock of his touch stole her breath and made her rock against his hand until he replaced it with his erection. She instantly wrapped her legs around him, and their bodies melded.

  Between whispers of her name and groans of pleasure, he kissed her again and again, each wet, warm connection tasting like whiskey and chocolate and heaven, dragging her closer to the point where all she wanted was him inside her.

  She rolled her hips and reached down to feel him pulse and grow in her fingers. While she stroked him, he bit open the condom package, letting her slide it over him as part of her strokes.

  As he nestled between her legs and braced himself over her, they shared a long, silent look.

  She tried not to get lost in the darkness of his eyes, told herself not to attach too much meaning to what he’d freely admitted was just sex, but she couldn’t help the bits of daydream that flashed like sparklers in her head.

  What would it be like to love a man like this… always?

  She closed her hands around him one more time, guiding him between her legs, wanting him in her so badly she almost cried out. She lifted her hips and relaxed as he slowly took ownership of her body. Deeper and deeper, he entered, his eyes half-mast, his arms flexed, his neck strained with the fight against thrusting into her.

  And then he was all the way inside her, throbbing against her flesh, still and steady. He lowered himself enough to kiss her but still didn’t move his hips. She battled the same urge, aching to just rock and roll and ride, but instead took one more slow, wet, smoking hot kiss.

  Her sigh escaped into his mouth, and it was all he needed. He thrust harder and faster, and she met each stroke, building with him, grasping the granite of his shoulders, pulling his head to hers, hearing the sounds of their panting whispers in harmony with the crackling fire.

  He touched her, sliding his thumb between them, manipulating her like she’d been made for him to do just that. Dizzy and completely lost, she forgot everything and gave in to the heat, the touch, the need as she finally let the knot inside of her unravel under his relentless, magical fingers.

  He kept thrusting, adding to the sweetness inside, holding her with his other arm as she shuddered against him with a long, blissful orgasm.

  She barely stopped panting as he hissed in a breath of his own. He pushed harder into her, far less tender as he plunged in and out, sweat glistening on his face, his eyes closed, his lips parted. As lost as she was, he dragged out the pleasure, finally letting go with a ragged groan of surrender as he came inside her.

  For that one moment, everything, every single thing, felt right.

  “That wasn’t sex,” she whispered, the words out before she even realized it.

  He still couldn’t breathe but managed to lift his head and look at her with a rueful gleam in his eye. “Can’t wait to hear what you call it.”

  She was still floating, high on the sensations, numb to reality, all the pain deep inside her just… gone.

  “It was like that aloe I put on you,” she whispered, no control over the words. “Soothing and healing, taking away the wound.”

  The gleam disappeared as his expression grew serious. He placed one hand on her cheek, cupping her jaw. “See? The condom and body butter was mission critical. My mission is to make you feel better.”

  “That went way past better.” She closed her eyes and pulled him closer.

  “Who wounded you, Dev?”

  She wasn’t even sure how to answer that. Her husband, obviously. Her parents who never let her forget she wasn’t part of their blood. The birth mother who didn’t want her. And, of course, Finn MacCauley. The man whose legacy she carried in her blood.

  The reason she’d never know the answer to what it would be like to love and be loved by a man like Marc Rossi.

  “Dev?” he asked.

  She shook her head, shoving the demons into a drawer, wanting to be in his head, not her own. “No, Marc, it’s my turn,” she said. “Tell me about this woman who took everything from you.”

  He lifted his head, his eyes sharp.

  “You told me the last time you trusted a woman it cost you everything. Did she take you to the cleaners in the divorce?”

  “She’s in prison.”

  Oh. Wow. Prison? “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I put her there.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Marc didn’t want to talk about Laura while he was feeling the aftereffects of mind-blowing sex, still hard and nestled inside Devyn’s sweet flesh, riding an endorphin high that was meant for kissing and cuddling and, God, sleeping.

  “You put her in prison?” She moved just enough to dislodge him, the separation hurting more than he expected it to.

  “She’s a criminal. That’s what I do. Did. I put the bad guys—and girls—behind bars.” He knew he sounded cold; he had to. This wasn’t a discussion where he’d ever let his guard down. “Dev, you really want to drag ex-spouses into this beautiful night?”

  She sat up, reached for the protection of the robe, scrutinized his face. Not many men had the dubious distinction of putting their own wife in jail. The curiosity was natural.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “What happened was that I naïvely believed that no one could be that perfect on the outside and that messed up on the inside.”

  A shadow crossed her expression, or maybe it was the firelight. “What did she do?”

  Besides step on his heart and shatter his belief in womankind and top it all off by taking away the one thing he wanted from her? “Twenty-five counts of embezzlement, one of attempted murder. We divorced during the trial, and she’s doing seven years in a state prison.”

  “Who did she attempt to murder?”

  “Me.”

  She let out a little breath of shock.

  He closed his eyes, remembering the night he walked into the office building in the financial district, looking for evidence. Well, he sure found it. He could still remember the smell of the offices, the silence in the halls, until he heard… them.

  Laura and her fucking partner in crime. Literally.

  “How?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She tied the robe firmly. “It matters to me,” she said. Of course it did.

  “The details aren’t important, Devyn. I was investigating fraud in a group of small angel investment partners in Boston. When some of the evidence pointed to the firm where my wife worked, I wanted to get off the case. But Laura actually talked me out of that. She said she could help me infiltrate the company, find out who was involved.”

  “To keep you from finding the real culprit?” she guessed, accurately.

  “Who happened to be her boss.” He blew out a breath. “Who was also her lover.”

  “Oh,” she said, reaching a hand to him. “I know that feeling. That sense of…”

  “Betrayal.”

  “Yes.” She squeezed his arm but still didn’t slip down to hold him. “How did she… attempt murder?”

  “I caught her in the act.”

  “Of committing fraud?”

  “Of committing adultery.” He let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “The coward ran and left us to argue it out. She pulled a gun on me.” He was doing a great job of being emotionless, at least on the outside, considering just how much he hated this chapter of his life.

  “Did she shoot you?”

  “I shot her.” His smile was tight. “Just to take her down, not to fatally wound her. But the whole incident was a mess, and… I left the FBI. I felt I had to, after staying on a case I had no right to be on. And we divorced, obviously.”

  After a long, quiet, endless minute, she said, “We have a lot more in common than I realized. Starting with cheating spouses who get what they deserve.”

  “She was a user,” he said, more roughly than he meant to. “I should have listened to my brothers, my cousins. They couldn’t stand her, but I always had an excuse for her. She had a really rough childhood, beaten by her father, actuall
y locked in a closet when she was five. Serious trauma that left her with issues. You understand.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “To be fair, the worst thing my parents did was give me the cold shoulder over a formal dinner. Not rough, exactly.”

  “But you have that… issue”

  She gave him a funny look. “What issue?”

  “That sense that you’re not good enough,” he said, trying not to let the words rile, but he could see he’d struck a chord. “It’s in the subtext of everything you say. You’re the child of at least one fugitive parent and another who is lining up for that job. You wear that identity like… like armor.”

  “Armor?” Her voice rose a little. “I just let you past it.”

  “Did you?”

  She pushed herself up, but he grabbed her arm to keep her down.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Dev. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  She froze and gave him a hard look. “That’s very easy for you to say.”

  “I just told you what I carry around. I feel a lot of things about my ex-wife and what happened, but no shame.”

  “You married her, Marc. You weren’t born to her. Big difference. And your family is… is… glorious. I’m sure they’re great judges of character.” She shook off his grasp. “I have to get some sleep.”

  He studied her for a while, considering the benefits of arguing. None. “Alone?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “Of course not. Sleep in the bed with me. We both need company.”

  Company? Comfort. Sex. Why did that leave him wanting more? It was all he should expect to give or get from her. Anything more, and he’d be… rescuing again.

  He followed her into the bed, dragging the cover with him as they silently got into bed together. She kept her robe on, and he didn’t argue, turning her around to spoon with her, holding her as tightly as he could.

  He wasn’t being fair. There was so much more to the story he hadn’t told her. But some secrets should stay hidden.

  Neither of them spoke as the last of the embers cracked and a cowbell dinged softly on a distant farm. After a while, her breathing grew steady and slow, and so did Marc’s. He was just about asleep when he felt her shift, slide, and move away.

  He let her go, keeping his eyes closed. He felt her weight leave the bed, heard a bare foot hit the floor.

  She took a few steps, slowly and surreptitiously. From under his lids, he watched, wondering what she was doing. Getting another drink? Going to the bathroom?

  She very quietly opened the bag they’d brought, glancing over her shoulder when the zipper made a soft sound, checking to see if he was asleep.

  She reached into the bag, rooted around, checking him periodically. After a moment, she pulled something out. Not something. She turned a piece of paper over, read the back, her head shaking slowly.

  With one more look at him, she approached the fireplace and dragged the screen back very carefully, trying not to make a sound.

  He purposely breathed evenly, the sound of sleep.

  When she turned, he lifted his head to see a match flare, the flame dancing, ashes fluttering into the embers.

  On some weird level, he understood.

  If Finn MacCauley were captured, it would be next to impossible to keep Devyn Sterling out of the story. Her darkest, most shameful secret would become public information. And that, he suspected, mattered very much to this woman.

  The last of the flames ebbed, not as warm, but still… combustible. She stood for a long time and watched the ashes.

  Finally he spoke. “What are you doing, Dev?”

  She sucked in a guilty breath, looking over her shoulder to meet his gaze.

  Please don’t lie. Please, please just don’t lie, he thought.

  “I’m… getting warm.”

  He could take the questionable genes. But he couldn’t take lying. Lesson learned—or relearned, as the case may be.

  “Come to bed,” he said huskily. “I’ll keep you warm.”

  She glanced at the fireplace, which now held merely ashes. “All right.”

  And as he held her, he forced himself to remember exactly how betrayal felt. Not good, not good at all.

  Every muscle in Sharon’s body hurt. She’d broken at least one rib when the car pinned her to the fence. Her face stung where Liam Baird had smacked her, her lower lip swollen and dripping blood. Her wrists burned from the ties that bound them behind her.

  If this went on much longer, she’d tell him everything he insisted on knowing.

  And then she’d be dead.

  She hung her head, her eyes opening and closing in exhaustion and pain, her gaze landing on a few wavy strands of silver hair on the floor. So that’s why her scalp hurt.

  He’d left her in the lab, the lights on, the cabinets open. Such a fool when it came to science. But no fool when it came to pain and misery. That he could inflict like a professional.

  The door popped open, so hard it hit the wall behind it with a resounding crack. She managed to lift her head, making out two men in her blurred vision. One was Liam. The other was one of the men she’d seen come and go in the house.

  “Who did you call?” Liam asked her for the twentieth time.

  “No one.” She couldn’t waver.

  The back of his hand slammed so hard she felt her brain dislodge and heard her neck crack. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Doctor Greenberg.” He said it as though he didn’t even believe she was a doctor anymore.

  Her face throbbed, white blades of misery shooting through her head.

  “A call was made to an American cell phone number—that much we picked up with our monitoring system. You were seen dialing a phone. Who did you call?”

  “I didn’t.”

  He raised his hand again, and she braced for the next blow, but the other man grabbed his arm and stopped it.

  “Wait a sec, Liam. Let me have at her.”

  Oh, God. That didn’t sound good.

  Liam backed down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a disgusted look directed at her. “She’s a plant, Ian. We were had. Fucking had with this one.”

  The other man took a step closer, and Sharon could make out his features, classic black Irish with thick dark curls and deep blue eyes. She remembered his name now—Ian O’Rourke.

  He didn’t strike her as one of Liam’s thugs. More brainy and calm. Maybe that meant he wasn’t about to pound the holy shit out of her.

  “Dr. Greenberg,” he said, his voice soft. Too soft. Like the blow would come when she least expected it.

  She squinted at him. Not that she had any choice; her left eye was so swollen she could barely see out of it.

  “It doesn’t seem likely that you’re a plant, now, does it?”

  “What the fuck?” Liam asked. “She’s running off at night, having secret phone calls, lying about it, demanding more money, all the time delaying everything we’re trying to do here.” He gestured wildly to the lab. “I don’t trust her.”

  “That might be,” Ian continued. “But we went after her, Liam. You did the research on this deadly spore business and sought out the world’s expert.”

  Liam snorted softly, as if he doubted she was an expert on anything. “You told me to get a woman.”

  “Usually they’re more pliable,” Ian said, giving her a harsh gaze, as though she should know better than to not be pliable. “But we found her, so how could she be a plant?”

  Exactly what she’d wanted them to think back when this whole plan came together.

  “Is this your phone, Dr. Greenberg?” Ian asked.

  Oh, Lord. They’d found it in the cemetery. “I’ve never seen it.”

  “Ian found it not ten feet from where you were,” Liam said.

  Did the text go through?

  “Where’d you hide the battery?” Liam demanded.

  “I… don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The battery could have fallen out on impact,”
Ian said.

  Then it was a miracle. But had the message gone through? Had they traced it? Could they find out who she’d called? She’d been careful to delete everything else, including the message sending her the phone number. But had she been careful enough?

  Baird turned to Ian and they shared a look, and a quick comment, too soft and too thick with Irish accents for her to follow.

  One more time, Ian dipped to get face-to-face with her. “Dr. Greenberg, you don’t want to die, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then do what Mr. Baird asks you to do.”

  “I never said I wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, for Chrissake,” Liam said, pushing off from the lab table he leaned against. “This is a fucking waste of time, Ian. Get out of here. I’ll deal with her.”

  But Ian didn’t move. “Why don’t you go cool off, Liam? Freaking out isn’t going to help anyone or anything. Let me have a minute alone with her.”

  Liam narrowed his eyes at the other man, assessing him and then backing off. “I have to piss,” he said brusquely. “Then she gets to work and I don’t give a flying goddamn hell if the spores are full grown or not. She can finish the job or die.”

  And die, more likely. She closed her eyes as another wave of pain cascaded through her as he left. How the hell could she get out of this? Who would help her now? She was in a self-made no-man’s-land.

  Ian stepped even closer. “You had no idea it could hurt so much, did you, Sharon? We tried to tell you.”

  For a second, she stopped breathing, sure that she’d misunderstood him over the sound of her labored gasps. We? Who did he work for?

  “Tried to warn you not to contact anyone.”

  With superhuman strength, she lifted her head to see him, to dig for the subtext she imagined she heard in his voice.

  Did he know who sent her here? Who really sent her here?

  “You’re on your own now, Doctor,” he whispered. “You know nobody can help without compromising everything.”

  She drew a ragged breath. “Do you—”

  He silenced her with a deadly look. “You might die.”