Shiver of Fear (16 page)

Opening the door, he fought a smile. “I think it’s cute.”

You think that, FBI guy
. Her youthful appearance had fooled plenty of sources into giving her more information than they wanted to. No one took a
skateboarder with a nose stud seriously. Big mistake.

As he climbed into the driver’s seat, she took in his long, lean body, his slim but predatory hands over the wheel. Without
looking at her, he said, “I’d like you to tell me everything that he’s discovered about the target.”

Oh, boy. This was going to be a very long trip to the airport. “I really don’t know much. He’s still, you know, working his
magic, trying to get her comfortable enough with him to consider leaving.”
Lie, lie, lie
.

“Has she mentioned anyone?”

Anyone like Finn MacCauley? “I have no idea.”

“Let’s call him.”

“He’s with her right now,” she said quickly. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“So, Vivi.” He glanced at her, down to her bag, then back to her face. “Where are you going?”

She never questioned her gut, and right now it was screaming not to tell him anything about this trip. “New York,” she said,
grabbing at the first thing that popped into her head. “To see… my cousin.”

“The one who works for the Bullet Catchers?”

Very little got by Colton Lang. “Yes,” she lied. “The very same.”

Yep. A very long trip to the airport.

Devyn hadn’t slept much, and she doubted Marc had, either, as he’d spent the night in one chair with his feet propped on the
other. Even though she’d made a halfhearted invitation for him to sleep on the bed, he’d turned down the offer.

Either he was a perfect gentleman or he wasn’t the least bit attracted to her.

The truth, she suspected, lay somewhere in the middle.

They’d risen early, had breakfast, and headed out, armed with the information his company had sent. He drove them past a sprawling
shipyard, which boasted the
dubious distinction of being the birthplace of the
Titanic
and looked pretty dismal and deserted, even in the early morning sunshine.

Still, it was one of the more hyped tourist spots in Belfast, marked by huge shipbuilding cranes that towered over the water
and dry docks. She leaned forward to check out the monstrosities.

“I’ve heard you can arrange to climb Samson and Goliath,” he said, referring to the colloquial names for the two yellow cranes
with arms and flatbeds swinging hundreds of feet in the air.

“Are you forgetting how I froze on the rope bridge? You couldn’t get me up there with a gun to my head.” She shifted her attention
to the papers he’d handed her when they got in his rental. “Your assistant is thorough. The pug surnames is a stroke of genius.
As far-fetched as anything I’ve ever heard, but clever.”

“Chessie? She’s all that, and more. But she’s not my assistant. She’s my baby sister.”

“What’s Chessie short for?”

“Francesca, like my mom. I guess she’s going to be everyone’s assistant in the company. I haven’t had one since I left the
FBI, though a couple of good managers run my gun shop for me.”

“Why’d you leave the FBI?” she asked.

“Eh, long story.”

“Is that code for ‘don’t ask’?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Ignoring the clusters of redbrick and gray stone homes, warrens of winding streets, and the occasional village sprouting up
from the hills as they left Belfast behind, she looked at his profile instead. Roman and strong,
handsome and square. The man came from gorgeous stock, she’d bet.

And she suddenly really wanted to know why he’d left his job with the FBI.

“You’re awfully young to retire. You don’t look like you got injured, and—correct me if I’m wrong—you like this kind of thing.”

He laughed softly. “Ignore code much?”

“I’m curious,” she admitted.

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I noticed that you came alive around the time the trouble started.”

He considered that, narrowing dark eyes in a quick glance her way. “I wasn’t dead during our trip up the coast yesterday.”

“Not at all,” she agreed. “You were nice and entertaining and… fine.”

“Nice and
fine
?” He took his hand off the gear shift to stab his heart. “Ouch.”

“And pleasant,” she added teasingly.

“And after all that pleasant niceness, what, my killer instinct reared up?”

“Not exactly,” she corrected. “But once you got your gun out, I saw something in your eyes.”

“The willingness to kill the guy trying to kidnap you?”

“What I saw was… your passion,” she told him. “Like you came alive.”

“That’s interesting,” he said slowly, a look of appreciation in his eyes. “I’ve had people who were… close to me never figure
that out.”

Like his ex-wife? The one who cost him
everything
?

“But, yeah,” he agreed. “I do like the work, generally.”

“Then why’d you quit the FBI?”

“Look.” He pointed to a green street sign. “The Ulster Folk and Transport Museum is right up ahead. We could stop there.”

“Nice try.” She lowered his arm, making sure it didn’t land on her thigh. “Why’d you quit the job?”

“And ‘relentless’ can go on that attribute list, too,” he said, laughing.

“Answer the question.”

“It’s personal,” he said simply. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to share. She of all people should respect that. “But
you’re right—work is my passion. What’s yours?”

“My passion?” She glanced out the window, wishing she had one. Other than the one she didn’t have: children. “Oh, you know,
stuff.”

“Stuff?” He coughed a laugh. “What kind of stuff? And remember, I’ve read your file. I know more about you than you realize.”

“I’d like to forget I
have
a file. But, since you’ve read it, then maybe you know my passion and you can tell me.”

He tore his gaze from the road, intrigued. “I admit, when I read your file, I thought your life looked pretty… vacant.”

A chillingly accurate assessment. “And now that you’ve met me?”

“Hey, it’s just a file.”

Vacant. “I guess it looked kind of empty because I don’t have a job, lived vicariously through my husband, and haven’t ever
accomplished anything of note.” God, that sounded bad.

“I did notice that despite a Wellesley education, you’re not working,” he said diplomatically.

“I didn’t figure out what might interest me until I met Joshua. I was twenty-five then, about the same age as your ‘baby’
sister.”

“And what interested you?”

“Joshua,” she admitted, a little sadly. But why lie? She had thought she was in love with him, and he promised her that family
she wanted so desperately. “Before that, I certainly didn’t need to work. My parents have more money than they could spend
in three lifetimes, and my husband had enough ambition for both of us.”

“Ambition isn’t passion. What do you love?”

She tried to look at the scenery, but it blurred. What did she love? All she’d ever wanted was to have a child—or four—and
create a home she never had. A simple, old-fashioned, kind of embarrassing goal in this day and age, but it was hers nonetheless.

“I do volunteer work,” she said. “That’s where I met my husband.”

“What kind of volunteer work?”

“For kids, mostly. Troubled or disadvantaged.”

“And Joshua Sterling did that kind of volunteer work, too?” He sounded surprised. “Doesn’t fit with the sarcastic political
columnist image.”

“There was media coverage,” she said dryly, “so he was there. I’d helped manage the fund-raising for a new facility for autistic
children, and, anyway, that’s how we met.”

“Was it love at first sight?”

“Not even close,” she said, remembering how she’d bristled at his ego at first. She should have paid attention
to that first impression. “How about you? How long were you married? How did you meet?”
How did she make you lose everything?

She knew better than to ask that, though.

“We were married for six years and met at a mall on Christmas Eve.”

She laughed. “
Who
goes to the mall on Christmas Eve?”

“Guys.” He grinned at her. “I was with my brother Gabe and my cousin Zach.”

“The Army Ranger and the spy?”

“I like a woman who listens,” he said with a wink. “They are, but not in that order. Gabe’s the spy; Zach’s the soldier.”

“And… at the mall… you met…,” she coaxed.

“Laura,” he said quickly. “Was there with a friend.”

Laura. His ex-wife. She filed that, but her brain had already gone back to his impressive family. “You must have had great
family Christmases.”

He frowned at her non sequitur, probably expecting questions about his wife. She was interested, but more riveted by the big
family. “Christmases in my family are great, once we get back from the mall and have the feast.”

“What’s the feast?” she asked.

“The Feast of the Seven Fishes is a big Italian tradition on Christmas Eve. My grandfather goes nuts and cooks for days, and
we eat for hours until it’s time to go outside and…” He laughed self-consciously. “I know it sounds preposterous to an outsider,
but we go out and play in the snow until, you know, Santa comes.”

For a minute, she couldn’t speak, choked by emotion.

“I know, ridiculous,” he said, still chuckling. “But it’s a holdover from when we were kids and my parents needed to get us
out and get the stuff under the tree so we could open presents all night long and sleep late.”

She had to work hard not to cry. “That sounds wonderful.”

He glanced at her, his mirth fading a little as he realized he’d struck a chord. “It’s tradition now. We still go out and
have a snowball…” His voice faded. “Are you okay?”

No. She wasn’t okay. She was envious and empty and emotional. “You have no idea how lucky you are,” she said softly. “I’ve
always wondered what the big, happy families were like.”

“They’re great,” he said, splitting his attention between her and the road. “I know I’m lucky.”

“And…” She had to ask. Had to. “You want a family of your own, don’t you?”

He swallowed, his expression shifting. “I take it your childhood wasn’t so happy. Tell me.”

Of course he wouldn’t share his dreams about creating a family of his own. Not with a woman who obviously could never qualify
for that job. Her bloodline would have no place in a family like his. That’s what Joshua had said, over and over again.

“My childhood was… cold.” She gave her arms a rub, the chill of the subject all too familiar. “We should be there soon. Where
to first? The Pug families?”

He tapped the brakes and slowed at an intersection. “You should talk about it,” he said. “My sister, Nicki, is a shrink. She’d
tell you to talk about that childhood to make it go away.”

“My childhood was fine,” she said coolly, turning from him. “Now let’s just focus on finding Dr. Greenberg, okay? The sooner
I can close this chapter of my life, the better chance I have for starting a new one.”

And she couldn’t forget that, not for one minute.

W
hen I’m on a job like this,” Marc told her as they reached the outskirts of a small but thriving coastal city centered around
a horseshoe-shaped marina, “I like to sniff around. We’ll keep a low profile, just a couple of quiet American tourists.”

“Looking for a bioterrorist.”

He shot her a look. “You believe that now?”

“I don’t know what I believe.” She dropped back on the seat rest, letting out a heavy sigh.

“There’s plenty of time to turn back, get on a plane, and go home. Or Paris, if that sounds like a better plan.”

A smile lifted her lips. “You could do me a favor and not be so damn sweet.”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t want to like you,” she chided.

That made him laugh. “That makes two of us.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I don’t blame you.”

He didn’t understand the comment, so he gestured toward the town.

“Looks a lot like Marblehead and Gloucester,” he said, taking in the waterfront atmosphere as they meandered closer to the
heart of the city.

“Or Bangor, Maine,” she added, indicating the pastel walk-up Victorian houses with bowed windows that lined each road, the
first levels all shops and restaurants catering to tourists and, more likely, day-trippers from Belfast or even up from Dublin.

“Don’t think we’re going to run into any pharmaceutical companies up here or international conferences on botulism,” he said.
“So don’t get your hopes up that there’s a simple explanation.”

“My hopes aren’t up.”

He pulled into a parking lot near the heart of the harbor, squinting into the sun to look around and memorize their location.
“Let’s see what we can find out.”

They got out and started down a narrow main street, the salt air much more intense here than it was in Belfast, and warmer,
thanks to the sun. The weather brought out lots of locals and tourists, and the shops had opened their doors and put items
for sale in the street.

They passed a few cafés and food vendors, the smell of coffee and pastries mixing with the brine in the air.

“Have you heard of the needle and the haystack?” she asked.

“Have some faith and patience, Dev,” he said, sliding an arm around her and tucking her neatly into his side. “She isn’t going
to walk out the door of one of these stores and magically appear.”

Sea breeze and sunshine made a picture-perfect day for touring a seaside resort, but not, it seemed, for finding missing persons.
After a few hours of walking every cobblestone and brick, they’d stopped in multiple eateries to quietly chat up the locals
and tracked down every lead Chessie could send their way. They even visited a small kennel where they saw some cute dogs,
but they met no one who might have contacted a microbiologist in North Carolina and arranged for her to fly to Belfast.

They finally ate a late lunch in a pub, where they ordered a pint they both deserved and asked the waitress for a local phone
book so Marc could peruse it while they ate.