Shiver of Fear (14 page)

“Not much longer,” he said. “But I will need more in the advance.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Look, this is a very expensive process, and some of it is out of our hands. I need a little more time and a little more money.
At least a week.”

“And then it will be done?”

“If Allah has his way,” Liam said, despising that he had to use the wrong God’s name but knowing it would give him points.

“Allah always has his way,” the man said simply. “And we have a timetable to follow for this project. Unfortunately for you,
I have found another supplier.”

Fuck
. “This tactic doesn’t scare me.” Although it did. Because Malik Mahmud Khel held every card in this game. And every dollar.
Liam had no doubt there could be other suppliers, probably right there in the Middle East, too.

Still, he dug for the confident leader’s tone that he used on his men. “My process is much further ahead than anyone’s, and
I have the quantity that no one else has. You know that and I know that. Please put two hundred and
fifty thousand U.S. dollars into the account you have for me.”

“Every good leader has a backup plan,” Malik said. “I have one, and so should you. I will give you your additional funds,
Baird, but then you have three days to deliver. At that point, you will receive one million U.S. dollars.”

“One?”

“When the substance is proven effective, you will receive the rest, and after our strike, the name of Tehrik-e-Jafria will
be on the lips of every man, woman, and child in the world. They will forget Osama bin Laden. And they will remember the heroes
of Tehrik. You can be one of those heroes.”

Fuck that. He wanted the two million dollars they’d agreed on, but the line had gone silent. He’d been dismissed.

Behind him, a step creaked. Furious, he stomped to the doorway to catch her spying, ready to strangle the doctor. But instead
Marie stood there, a question in her sad blue eyes. Always sad, all these years since her husband lay bloody and dead on Botanic
Avenue, the victim of a British bullet.

“No dinner, Mr. Baird? The doctor said you’re going out.”

Baird closed the phone. Maybe he
should
take the doctor to Four Points. Maybe she needed a little lesson in what happens when you delay and demand more than you’re
supposed to.

But he couldn’t hurt her. At least, not yet. He needed her. Once again, he looked out to the rolling fields of Milltown and
sent a silent salute to his dead mother, Malik Mahmud Khel’s heavy foreign accent still ringing in his ears.

Malik wasn’t the ultimate leader of Tehrik-e-Jafria, but he was close to the top, and he managed the money of that Islamic
sect. Which must keep him busy, because those Pakistanis had a bundle and they were going to spend it to get what they needed.

And Liam Baird could provide what they needed. Assuming he could manage the demanding doctor and the troublesome young woman
asking too many questions around Belfast.

Sharon was waiting with a coat on at the front door.

“I’m ready,” she said cheerily, as though they were longtime mates going out for a pint and darts.

“Then we should go.” He gave her a tight smile, ready and willing to placate this woman who held the key to what he wanted
most.

And if getting what he wanted most meant doing away with that nuisance of a girl, then so be it. Too bad Danny couldn’t get
the job done. He didn’t have many men who’d take out a female.

Well, too fucking bad. He’d do it himself if he had to.

Marc leafed through the scant pages tucked into the manila file folder Devyn had pilfered from Dr. Sharon Greenberg’s home
office. On the bed, Devyn crouched over his laptop, her eyes burning as she clicked her way through academic sites and online
scientific journals.

“I have to admit,” she said, “this is such a relief.”

“To have a computer with Internet access?”

She gave him a sincere look. “And a second brain. Between us and the search engines, surely we can find something that explains
what that drawing is, other than the obvious—a synaptic vesicle.” She pointed to the
screen. “Which I now know is a small membrane-bound structure in the axon-bound terminals of nerve cells.”

“You understand that?”

“Not a word. And none of this was what got me on a plane to Northern Ireland when I found these papers.”

“So what was?”

It was a fair question, and one she’d been dreading. “I found a picture of myself as a little girl, so…”
I hoped she cared about me.
“I knew she must know who I am. And I felt compelled to tell her how and why Joshua was killed.”

“I wonder how she got that picture?” he mused.

And the phone number written on the back. “I did, too. But…” She bit her lip, still hesitant to trust him with more. “Someone
was in Sharon’s house the night I got this file.”

His head shot up. “What?”

“He attacked me.”

Marc just stared at her, not even blinking. “When were you going to tell me this?”

“I’m telling you now,” she said. “I don’t know who he was or if he was waiting for Sharon or working with her. There was a
powerful lightning strike and the lights went out, and as I made my way to the front door, he grabbed me from behind and made
me leave.”

“Another person who wanted you out.”

She nodded with a sigh. “There does seem to be a pattern.”

“And a message you refuse to get.”

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “My decision is made. I’m not going anywhere until I know who she—I mean, where she is. And why.”

He looked positively disgusted with that decision. “What else did this guy in her house say to you?”

She closed her eyes, remembering the darkness, the strength of him, the fear that blocked out parts of her memory. “He wanted
to know who sent me and told me if Sharon came back there without getting her job done, he’d kill her.”

“You shouldn’t have come over here alone,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t have a choice. My husband is dead. I don’t have brothers or sisters or cousins, like you. I’m a loner, always have
been. And impulsive, just ask Bitsy Hewitt, the woman who raised me and never let me forget that all my flaws were a result
of the wrong blood.”

He looked at her as though he didn’t believe her again, then his dark eyes softened into something like pity. “Mom sounds
lovely. No wonder you’re looking for the real thing.”

The words hit hard. “I’m not…” Yes, she
was
. “Fooling myself into thinking I’m going to have some special relationship with this stranger who gave birth to me, Marc.
But wanting to know what I’m made of doesn’t make me a freak. It’s pretty common, I think.”

He smiled, putting a warm hand on her leg, making her instantly aware that they were side by side on a bed and all they had
to do was fall backward and into each other’s arms.

Like that wouldn’t complicate things any worse than they already were.

“First of all, Devyn, there’s nothing common about you.” He added some pressure. “Second, finding her isn’t going to answer
all your questions. It’s just going to raise a lot more.”

She put her hand over his and removed it. “Lots of questions, like”—she jutted her chin at the computer screen—“what does
all that arcane scientific stuff mean?”

“I don’t know, but while I look through it, try Googling this e-mail address, from the person who sent her instructions on
where to go when she got here. It’s [email protected].”

She typed it into the search engine while he turned back to the file. The screen flashed.
Address invalid
. “That’s not an active e-mail account.”

“No surprise. I’ll send it to my office in Boston,” he said. “They can probably find out who owns it or at least the location
of the server it was on when this e-mail was sent. From that, we can probably get a more exact location.”

She glanced up. “Really?”

“My sister’s a hacker,” he said with a sly smile. “And my older brother’s a cop. And my other sister’s a shrink with an expertise
in criminal profiling. Oh, my other brother’s a spook, my cousin’s a former Ranger, and, well, I already mentioned Vivi, who
can suck information from sources like a tornado.”

She laughed softly. “They sound amazing.”

“They are,” he agreed, still studying the diagram that was in the file. “But not without their downsides, trust me. Hey, pull
up that screen you had a minute ago. The biochemical mechanism of toxicity.”

She did, and they compared the two images. “We’ve got a match,” she said.

The string of scientific terminology ran together under her exhausted eyes—
neurons
…
endocytosis
…
SNAP-25 proteins
…

“But this is Greek to me.”

“Not entirely,” he said. “This has to do with the spores that create toxic chemicals. Very toxic. Botulism toxic.”

She pushed the computer screen toward him and backed away, sliding down the bed to drop on the pile of pillows, closing her
stinging eyes and her stinging heart.

What the hell was Sharon Greenberg
doing
over here?

“You know, it could be something entirely innocent,” he said, as if reading her mind. “She could be participating in some
kind of international conference on chemical substances.”

She opened one eye. “And that would be why some nitwit in the alley tried to kidnap me. Why some goon came into my room wearing
a mask and threatened me. Oh, and don’t forget the nice man at her house.”

He reached out, closing his hands over her ankles, gliding them up her legs to add pressure to her calves. He meant it to
be comforting, she had no doubt, but the contact was intimate and sexy, even through her jeans.

“You could just go home now, and be safe and smart.”

“And never know? I can’t go through my life wondering anymore. I just… can’t.” She cursed her voice for breaking, and him
for looking like he could possibly understand. “Stop it,” she ordered.

He instantly lifted his hands, and she regretted the loss of warmth.

“I mean the way you’re looking. Sympathetic.”

“I am sympathetic.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, but you have no idea how it feels to know your blood is tainted.”

“Better tainted than spilled,” he replied.

He didn’t argue her point, though. Didn’t tell her that blood wasn’t important. Because it was. It would be extremely important
to a man who came from such an impressive bloodline, cops and soldiers and spies.

No doubt he’d hate to water down that gene pool. “I need a shower and some sleep,” she said suddenly, rolling off the bed
to stand up.

“Make yourself at home. And I’ll sleep on the chair.” When she didn’t answer, he looked up. “Unless you’d rather I slept in
the bed with you.”

She managed not to let any response show on her face as she connected one more dot—one that led to her and that bed.

“So was that your plan?” she asked. “Were you going to seduce me into leaving Belfast with you?”

“The thought never crossed my mind… until I saw you.”

“And then it crossed your mind?”

He smiled. “And hasn’t left since. But don’t worry. I have no intention of taking advantage of you.”

For a moment, she just looked at him, not sure if she was disappointed or relieved. A little of both, she imagined.

“While you shower, I’m going to call Boston,” he said. “I want to send someone down to Sharon’s house in Raleigh to check
it out.”

“Good idea. I suppose any of the people in your organization can handle whoever they meet.”

“My family can handle anything.”

Must be nice,
she thought as she grabbed the smaller of her two bags, which held toiletries, and slipped into the bathroom. There, she
locked the door and flipped on the water, stripping down and climbing into the shower before it reached the usual feverish
temperature she liked.

His family could handle anything. And hers? Daddy is a fugitive and Mommy is a… God knows what.

She dropped her head back and let the warm water roll over her, closing her eyes to block out those thoughts and think about
the good ones. About Marc Rossi.

He’d lied to her, yes. He had an agenda, yes. He wanted her to leave before she found out what she needed to know—all true.

So could she trust him? She had to.

Would she sleep with him? The thought heated her a lot more effectively than the water. He admitted the possibility had crossed
his mind. And stayed there. The thought had crossed her mind, too. Crossed her whole body, in fact, every time he was six
inches away.

No, Devyn
. There was impulsive… and then there was stupid.

Climbing out, she dried herself and her hair, and realized she hadn’t brought in any clean clothes. Curling her lip at the
clothes that had been in the filth of the alleyway, she wrapped the towel tighter under her arms, but it wasn’t long enough
to tuck and knot. Holding it with one hand, she turned the doorknob, inching it open silently… to find him digging through
her suitcase.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Finding you some clothes.”

His fingertips were inches from the zipper compartment where she’d tucked the picture with the phone number. Is that what
he was looking for?

If he had it, he didn’t have to help her. Hell, he could just force her out of Belfast at gunpoint if he really wanted to.
That phone number was her only bargaining chip.

“I’ll get them,” she said.

His gaze dropped over the towel. “I was trying to help.”

Clutching the towel to her chest, she walked to the bag and grabbed a T-shirt and sweatpants, dipping at the knees to keep
from exposing her body under the towel.

She had to tuck the clothes under her arm so she didn’t drop them as she slipped her hand to the back of the bag, searching
for a bra. None was in reach.

With a bemused expression, he stood and watched.

Abandoning the search for a bra, her fingers slowed. Should she take the picture? Would he see her do that? She could memorize
the number and destroy the photo in the bathroom.