Shiver of Fear

  The concierge frowned. “A dozen or so years ago, you’d be arrested just for asking that, you know.”

  No doubt this man remembered the Troubles all too well. “Times have changed.”

  “Some.” He shrugged. “But ya better not be planting a bomb in my closet, lad.”

  “I’m not. I’m looking for some bags that a woman left here. A friend of mine was told by the concierge on duty this morning that the bags are there, and if you can take me right to that luggage, we’ll be done in no time.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t have them without a ticket. Sorry.”

  “I figured that, but could I look at them? Just to make sure they’re here? You can watch me.”

  He glanced toward the lobby, which was quiet for the moment, then back at Marc. “I don’t know, lad. It’s unusual.”

  Marc lifted his hand, this time sliding a fifty-pound note across the counter. “It’s important. And I don’t have to be in there alone if that’ll make you feel any better.”

  As he palmed the bill, two more guests approached the desk. “One minute,” he said to Marc. “Let me handle this first.”

  Marc stepped away and waited while the man helped the other guests with a question about local restaurants. When they’d left, the concierge signaled Marc closer.

  “Let’s go now,” he said, nodding toward the door behind him. “And be fast about it.”

  The storage area was less than twenty square feet, crowded with bags and a few packages waiting for pickup.

  “What’s the name?” the concierge asked.

  “Sharon.”

  He got a quizzical look in response. “Surname, please?”

  Marc shook his head. “I’ll just look at the names on the tags.” How many Sharons could there be?

  “No, sir, I can’t—”

  The bell rang from the desk outside. “Excuse me, is anyone here?”

  Thanking his good luck and some woman’s impatience, Marc gave the man a nudge. “Go, I’ll be out of here in less than three minutes. I just need to check to see if she’s picked them up yet. I’ll be sure to stop by the desk and thank you properly.” His gaze dropped to the name tag. “Thomas.”

  “Hello? Is there a concierge?” The voice grew louder, and Thomas blew out a frustrated breath.

  “Just hurry it up,” he said, stepping out the door.

  As soon as Thomas was gone, Marc started in one corner, grabbing each bag to look for a luggage tag or ID, moving like the wind because Thomas would be back to order him out at any second. He scanned names. Michael, David, Mortimer, Eileen, J. Macmahon, Tim Ballough—there were five bags with that name. Damn, that was half the room.

  On the other side, he started at the top. R. Fink. Thomas MacAvoy. Dr. S. Greenberg.

  Sharon Greenberg? Doctor? The luggage tag was handwritten in black scratchy letters, UNC Microbiology Dept, Chapel Hill, NC.

  He checked the rest—no Sharons among them, no S first initials on these. He went back to S. Greenberg from North Carolina and tried the zipper, but the bags were locked tight. Still, Marc had enough to start.

  He almost collided with Thomas as he left, slipping him another twenty pounds with his thanks. In his room, Marc fired up his laptop and shot an e-mail to Vivi, hoping she’d look for any detailed background on Dr. Sharon Greenberg. Then he started his own search by Googling the UNC site. He found a faculty member at the teaching hospital with the same name who had a specialty in immunology, pathological diagnostics, and retrovirology.

  Could this be the woman who had had an affair with an Irish mob boss and gave birth to an illegitimate baby? He might be on the wrong track. He dug some more, into the microbiology department, into the faculty files, finding some papers she’d published. He was able to log into one, and found her bio.

  He skimmed it, zeroing in on one line.

  After participating in the Master’s Program at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1978, Dr. Greenberg transferred to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill…

  MIT in Boston. That would put her in the right city in the right year.

  Still thinking about the incongruity of Finn MacCauley sleeping with a microbiologist at MIT—and creating the beautiful, lively woman he’d just kissed in the car—he stripped and took a shower, considering where to have a drink and dinner. And how much better it would have been with Devyn Sterling.

  Scratch that—Devyn Smith.

  Not a real surprise that she’d choose a fake name. Her husband’s death made some notoriety, since he had been a well-known columnist for the Boston Globe who had made frequent appearances on cable TV as a talking head.

  Slathered in shaving cream, he took one swipe with a razor when someone knocked on his door.

  “Marc? Are you here?”

  He recognized Devyn’s voice immediately—and a note of desperation. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around his waist, tipped the laptop screen down as he passed, and unlocked the door.

  Her eyes were red, her cheeks as white as the shaving cream he’d just applied. “I need you.”

  He reached for her, pulling her in, cold fear palpable from her body language and the look in her eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” He instinctively put his arms on her shoulders, realizing she had her bags with her.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” He eased her into the room, glanced at the empty hall, and closed the door behind her. “What’s wrong?”

  She swallowed, a little breathless and flushed. “I just don’t want to be alone.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t hide the doubt in his voice. “You’re welcome to stay here.”

  “I just want to”—she looked up at him, a helpless, anxious expression tearing his heart right out of his chest—“have dinner with you.”

  “I see you brought your suitcases,” he said with a half smile. “Should I be really optimistic about that, or are you planning on checking into another room?”

  “I don’t want to check into another room.”

  What was going on with her? She was oozing fear, not pheromones. “All right. Let me finish shaving and change, and we’ll go out for—”

  “Room service.”

  He laughed softly. “Stay in, then. Hang on.” He grabbed his clothes from over the chair and headed back into the bathroom, moving quickly, fearing she might up and change her mind.

  Picking up the razor, he considered not shaving at all, just to get out there with her faster. Then he’d have one stripe down his whiskery face. He took a second swipe.

  “Did you take a cab here?” he called, hoping small talk would relax her.

  She was quiet for a moment, then, “Yeah, I did.”

  He couldn’t think of another question except to ask why she’d changed her mind, but he wanted to do that face-to-face. He nicked himself going too fast, then splashed water on his face, shook his hair, and dressed in jeans and a shirt. Without taking the time to button his shirt, he stepped out into the bedroom.

  The laptop was open in front of her. Instantly he knew why she’d been quiet and what was on the screen in front of her. And why her expression was stricken.

  “Why were you looking up my birth mother’s biography?”

  “Why are you looking at my laptop?”

  “I need one,” she said. “I thought I’d check to see if you had Wi-Fi here.” Her expression shifted from shock to flat-out anger, dismay, and distrust, all powerful enough to make him momentarily consider the benefits of telling her the truth.

  But then he’d be completely compromising his assignment.

  “I thought I was helping you,” he said. “I asked the concierge about the luggage and figured if I could find out—”

  On the dresser, his cell phone beeped with an incoming call, and she shot to her feet.

  “All right, I overstepped my bounds,” he acknowledged, ignoring the phone. “But it was only because I thought it would buy me some more time with you.”

&
nbsp; “I should have known better than to trust you.” She spat the words. “To trust anyone.”

  “I meant to help, maybe help you find out for sure if she was coming back. I found one set of luggage that was a possible match—it said S. Greenberg—so I did a search. Is that the right person?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes narrowed in anger. “Which means that of all the Sharon Greenbergs in the entire world, you somehow zeroed in on exactly the right one. That is beyond amazing. That is an absolute unbelievable coincidence.” Her shoulders squared a little as she slowly inched back. “From the man who is no fan of coincidences.”

  The phone stopped ringing, and Devyn grabbed the door knob.

  “Please, let me explain,” he said, striding to stop her, but the landline hotel phone chirped loudly with a distinct European double ring. Someone wanted him badly.

  “Wait,” he said, torn. “Don’t go yet. You can trust me.” She just eyed him as he picked up the receiver. “What?”

  “It didn’t take long to get some very interesting information on Sharon Greenberg, that’s what,” Vivi said in his ear.

  But Devyn bolted, leaving her bags and letting the door slam behind her.

  Damn. “Vivi, I’ll call you back.”

  “No, you have to know this.” Something in her voice stopped him from dropping the phone. “It’s mission critical.”

  “E-mail it to me. I gotta go.” With that, he threw the receiver down on the desk, scooped up his shoes, phone, and room key, and tore outside to an empty hall. Swearing, he jogged to the elevator bank, smashing the button as he spun around looking for stairs.

  He ran down the hall, whipped open the door under an exit sign, and jogged down to the lobby, but she was gone.

  He headed for the street, searching left, right, and into the square across the way. Dusk was turning to dark, and a light drizzle made it even more impossible to find her among the pedestrians.

  The smell of fried chips wafted from a street vendor whose cart and customers blocked Marc’s view. He ducked to the left, stepped off the curb, then powered through, walking fast through the crowds, pausing at the sight of a woman with similar-colored hair and a dark jacket, then moving on as time ticked away, along with any chance of finding her.

  Just as he was ready to give up and go back, he caught a flash of caramel hair over a navy jacket, dashing into a doorway a few blocks from him.

  Got her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Devyn powered through the group of smokers outside the pub door, the stench of their cigarettes strangling her. Inside, the place was as dark and crowded as she hoped it would be, the patrons in tight groups around the bar, a soccer game on TV, all drowned out by the sound of unfamiliar and screechy rock music. Perfect.

  As she hustled toward the back, her sneakers stuck to beer residue on the floor, and a few curious gazes bored boozy holes through her. She slipped into a back booth, tucked away but still able to see the door, breathless from the impetuous decision that sent her running through the streets of Belfast.

  Maybe her gut had been right when she answered her hotel door? Maybe it had been Marc behind that mask, and he’d done that to scare her and send her to him? No, that made no sense. But why did she feel so violated?

  He couldn’t have honed in on Sharon that quickly… could he?

  She wanted so much to believe him, to trust him, to lean on him. But that had never worked out for her, not since… well, not since the day she was born and the first person who was supposed to love Devyn decided she wasn’t worth it.

  And if that hadn’t been Marc in her room, then who had broken into her room to threaten her, scaring the life out of her? And why?

  God, the irony was she needed him now more than ever. But how could that be? She’d only met him today, by accident. Or was it an accident?

  She dropped her head back and closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the way she’d bumped into him, entirely unexpected and unplanned.

  A hand landed on her shoulder from behind, making her jump and whip around. She expected Marc, but a different man loomed over her. Fairer, older, definitely a local.

  “Whadya havin’, lass?”

  She shook out of his touch, her mind blank.

  “A pint?” he prodded.

  “Yes, fine, thank you.” The door opened and she looked beyond the waiter, her eyes widening as Marc Rossi pushed his way in, already scanning the place.

  The server glanced over his shoulder, then automatically stepped to the side to block her from sight. “You runnin’ from him?”

  She looked up and nodded. “I am.”

  He pointed behind her. “There’s a back door. I’ll cover for you.”

  She almost took a second to think about that, but pushed up instead, murmuring her thanks as she rounded the back of the booth and darted to a dimly lit corridor. She still needed space and time, and Marc was barreling down on her with questions and an agenda.

  What was it?

  The back hall was little more than two closed doors and an overpowering smell of beer and bathroom. At the far end, an exit to outside. She pushed a latch and stepped into a narrow alley, a brick wall right in front of her, nothing but filth and shadows in either direction. She’d have to pick one way and run, though.

  Unless she wanted to face him. Which she had to do eventually. She’d left her bags in his room, after all.

  She hesitated, leaning back against the door as it closed, the image of Dr. Greenberg’s bio on his screen replaying in her mind. What had that man in her room said?

  Get out or things will get worse for you. Her heart ratcheted higher than she thought possible as fear and confusion racked her body. What had she stepped into over here? And what part did Marc Rossi play in this?

  She cursed herself for trusting him in the first place, for kissing him like a teenager in heat.

  Idiot!

  Taking a breath, she took another glance left, then right. Escaping would literally mean plucking through trash and God knew what else. Marc couldn’t hurt her inside that pub, and he’d have to answer some questions. She should go back in and face him.

  She turned to open the door, yanking hard and jolting her shoulder. Locked.

  She tried again, fiddling with the latch, but she was most definitely locked out. No choice now. Stepping back, she chose the route with the least amount of trash and started walking toward the busier of the two streets. Her head throbbed from the foul smell and the vicious frustrations that had piled on her one after another the past few hours.

  Behind her, the hinges on the pub door squeaked. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a man step into the alley. Not Marc, and not the waiter who’d helped her escape—someone beefier than both.

  Hesitating and dropping back into the shadows, she waited to see which way he was going, tensing when he started toward her. She squinted at him, about to continue, when she caught his direct gaze and froze.

  “Not another step.” Broad shoulders flexed as he took direct and purposeful strides toward her. She retreated, her feet hitting a broken bottle and crunching on glass.

  He kept coming.

  Damn it, she hadn’t even taken her handbag when she ran out of Marc’s room. She could have thrown money at this guy and…

  He was five feet away, his nostrils flaring with each breath. Shaved bald, thick-necked, fat lips. Scarily silent.

  A shiver of fear vibrated through her. This man didn’t want money.

  She stumbled, reaching for the brick wall to keep from falling. He got two feet closer, and she whipped around to run, but he snagged her elbow in a viselike grip, wrenching her right back to him.

  “Let me go!”

  He shoved her against the wall, hard enough that the brick slammed her skull. Bile rose in her throat as he smacked his hands on either side of her head and rammed his knees around her thighs. She pushed his chest, but she might as well have been pushing the wall behind her.

  “Get away from me,” she ground out,
ready to bite, spit, kick, or kill to protect herself.

  He did just the opposite, closing in on her face, his dark eyes cutting her. “Listen to me.” His voice was low and thick with a Belfast accent, but the words were spoken eerily slow.

  “You…” He growled the word, dragging it out. “Are coming with me.”

  “No, no,” she said as he breathed hot air on her face. “I won’t. Please, don’t hurt me. Let me go.”

  “You’re coming now. Is that clear?”

  She shook her head. Nothing was clear, except his breath smelled like pretzels, and droplets of spit stung her cheeks with his every word.

  “Then let me make it clearer.” He increased the pressure of his legs, locking her in place, then slid both hands to grasp her shoulders. Something in his right hand glinted.

  Oh, Lord, he had a knife.

  “Please…”

  “I’m gonna make it real easy for you, miss.” The tip grazed under her jaw. “You’re gonna get the fuck out of Belfast. Right now. Wi’ me.”

  She opened her mouth to scream, and the blade pressed right against her side.

  “You’ll be dead before anyone hears you.” He slammed her against the wall. “There’s a car coming down that street.” He jerked his head in the opposite direction. “We’re gonna get into it. Or I’m gonna cut you to ribbons. Is that clear?”

  So, so clear.

  She fought for inner strength, but there wasn’t much but watery terror and rushing blood inside her. Oh, God, where was Marc now?

  “Let’s go.”

  “No,” she said, spinning through every self-defense class and article she’d ever come across in her life, her brain a useless blank.

  Don’t fight him. Let him take down his guard, then… She had no idea what then, but it was all she could come up with. She forced her body to relax, and sure enough, the pressure from the blade eased up. Still, he kept a firm grip on her shoulder.

  “Go,” he said simply, shoving her forward.

  She staggered on the uneven bricks but found her footing and went with him, light-headed.