Shiver of Fear
Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
OXANNE
S
T
. C
LAIRE
HIVER OF
F
EAR
NEW YORK BOSTON
For Kresley Cole, Louisa Edwards and Kristen Painter, who shower me with support, laughter, perspective, advice, and motivation
(okay, and a little wine) from chapter one to the end. I love you and treasure our extraordinary friendship
.
Huge debts of gratitude are owed to some patient, generous, and really smart people who were behind me on this book:
Jessica Odell, my eyes and ears in Belfast. Fact checker, map maker, and exceedingly kind recipient of way too many e-mails
that all started with “I have one more question.” Thanks, Jess. I owe you a Guinness or two.
Beta reader and Brazilian buddy Barbie Furtado who read, reviewed, then reread and rereviewed, then
reread
until we were well beyond beta and zooming toward zeta. She is a superstar, cheerleader, and keen-eyed first reader.
Former FBI agent Jim Vatter, my go-to guy on anything that has to do with federal law enforcement; microbiologist Dr. Peter
F. Bonaventre, who offered layman’s language for a complicated subject; the numerous individuals at the Ulster Historical
Foundation Research Center and the “parish people” of St. Macartin’s Cathedral in Enniskillen. All of these folks (including
the really
nice guy with the sexy accent who answered the phone at the Europa Hotel but did not give me his name) did everything to keep
me from stumbling on a fact. If I erred, don’t blame them.
The entire team at Grand Central Publishing’s Forever Romance imprint. Starting with editor extraordinaire Amy Pierpont, who
knows exactly how to take good and make it better; to the crew of production, publicity, art, and sales professionals who
work tirelessly to put my stories into the hands of as many readers as possible. A round of chocolate for everyone!
My patient, brilliant, supportive, and delightful literary agent, Robin Rue, who lets me gallop but skillfully takes the reins
when she needs to keep me on track.
And, as always, my enduring love to my husband, Rich, and our amazing kids, Dante and Mia who don’t complain (much) when they
hear the words “as soon as I finish this scene.” Even though they know the scene is never really finished, they love me anyway.
Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1978
T
he moment Sharon Mulvaney slipped the cushioned case containing three sealed vials of purified botulinum toxins into her handbag
and left the microbiology lab, she became a criminal.
Before that, she’d never done anything worse than protest the administration on the lawn in front of MIT’s Dome. Drinking
whiskey while talking trash with fervent Irish Catholic supporters in the basement of a bar in Harvard Square certainly hadn’t
gotten her arrested. Even loving a man with deep ties to and deeper sentiments for IRA dissidents didn’t qualify as illegal,
although the fact that he was married and almost thirty years her senior pushed the boundaries of what was kosher.
But stealing the most toxic substance known to mankind—after isolating, purifying, and crystallizing the
spores herself and knowingly handing over the whole concoction for secret delivery to Belfast—was most definitely punishable
with some prison time.
She wished her brush with crime thrilled her. Since it didn’t, she chose to believe she didn’t have an evil soul, just a weak
heart.
The bitter wind buffeted her across a winter-break-deserted campus. She pulled her scarf over her mouth and dragged her cap
down to her brows while navigating the ice and traffic-blackened snow. Fueled equally by the fear of getting caught and the
desire to get out of the freezing cold, she shouldered the handbag deep into her down coat, kept her head low, and marched
toward her apartment.
Even on a warm spring day when the only thing on her mind was grading papers as a graduate student TA, this was a long walk.
But in a frigid New England winter, carrying enough poison to paralyze a regiment of British soldiers, knowing she was breaking
the law and taking chances with every single thing she held dear, the trek became a brutal hike that pained every muscle in
her body.
By the time she crossed Binney and the student pedestrian walkway widened into Sixth, her toes tingled with the bite of cold,
her fingers were stiffened with numbness, and every brain cell was too deadened to even scare up some rationalization for
what she was doing.
Anyway, she was way past rationalizing; she was in love.
She turned onto her street, carefully switching the bag to her other shoulder. It wasn’t heavy physically, but metaphorically,
the weight of her crime pressed on her heart.
Sometimes a few have to suffer for the good of many.
Had Finn said that? Knowing him, it was probably
more like,
Do this for me, my darling girl, and I’ll… Leave my wife for you
.
Right. Did she really believe that? She must, or she wouldn’t be taking a chance like this.
She stepped gingerly around a snowdrift and headed down the stone steps to the front door of her garden-level apartment, already
imagining what she’d wear tonight. The black dress he liked, with the big gold buckle, and some high heels. Her lover brought
out the girl in her. And the criminal, evidently, she thought as she turned the key and pushed.
“Did you get it?”
She gasped at the voice, squinting into the living room to see Finn, a drink in one hand and his three-hundred-dollar loafers
propped on her coffee table, jacket open, tie loose, hair tousled like he’d been running his hands through it while waiting
for her.
All the ice inside her just… melted.
“I got it,” she said, easing the bag down to her elbow and holding it out to him. With the other hand, she yanked off the
knit cap, fluffing hair that was probably a flat, flyaway mess. Not to mention that the down jacket made her look like the
Michelin Man, and she didn’t have a speck of makeup on.
He didn’t move to take the bag or, as she foolishly fantasized, rise to give her a kiss. Instead, he sat stone still, exuding
power, control, authority, maturity, and knee-weakening sex appeal. How a fifty-three-year-old man with tiny creases at the
corners of his eyes and a few threads of silver glinting in golden hair could make a twenty-five-year old microbiologist go
so damn rubbery was a mystery.
One she had no desire to solve.
“And no one saw you.” It wasn’t a question. With Finn, everything was an order.
She shook her head.
He raised the amber liquid of Jameson she’d splurged on just so she’d have it in the apartment for him, cocking his head as
eyes the color of summer skies raked over her appreciatively. “We should celebrate.”
Despite the automatic response of her body, her brain screamed out a protest.
Should they celebrate a crime?
“Darling girl, you aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”
Naturally, he could read whatever subtle cues her nonverbals were shouting. “It’s a little late,” she said with a soft laugh.
“The deed, as they say, is done.”
“I told you, no one’s going to use that stuff.” He jutted his chin toward the bag as if its contents were harmless, meaningless.
“It’s a bargaining chip, and in Belfast these days, you just can’t get enough of those. I’m only sending that stuff over there
to give them some power.”
Power? She suspected there was more
cash
than
cache
involved.
“That’s the name of the game these days,” he continued. “And they are, after all, family, however distant.”
Very distant. She’d done a little digging through a friend who studied the various clans of Ireland and couldn’t really find
a connection between the names Finn had mentioned and the MacCauley clan. In fact, that spelling of his last name didn’t even
show up, but she knew better than to question this man. He hated to be questioned. When she did, he punished her by disappearing
for a few days. Sometimes more.
“I realize that,” she said, feeling as weak and ineffective as she sounded. “I thought we’d celebrate over dinner.”
Then he stood, his gaze locked on her as he clunked
the drink on the table. “That’s not what I had in mind. I don’t have time for dinner tonight.”
“Plans with Anne?” The question was too sharp; she knew it instantly. Instead of facing his fierce look, she turned to take
off her coat.
“I have business tonight,” he replied. “So no dinner.”
She tossed the coat over a chair, her back still to him.
Business.
That
she wasn’t stupid enough to question. They pretended she didn’t know exactly what his business was, and in return, she got…
His hands slid around her waist, possessive and strong. She got
this
.
“You’re one of us now, sweet girl of mine.”
One of whom? A bunch of criminals? “Truly Irish?”
“Truly fearless.” He pressed his body, already hard, against her backside, nuzzling her neck with kisses, the tangy smell
of Irish whiskey like a familiar trigger that warned her body to brace for an onslaught of Finn.
“I’m not…” She lost the ability to speak as he reached up under her sweater and took ownership of her breasts. “Fearless.”
Not for one minute was she naïve enough to think a man as powerful and important as Finn MacCauley saw
fearlessness
in her. But he must have seen something in her, other than her ability to get inside the microbiology lab to make and steal
weapons of mass destruction. She had to believe that.
He turned her to face him, instantly feasting on her mouth, sliding his hands down to her buttocks, pressing her against his
erection.
“Look what you do to me, darling girl.” He guided her back toward the bedroom, kissing her, pausing at the table
to lift the strap of her bag. “Let’s not let these get too far out of our sight.”
