Shiver of Fear (8 page)

Her heart did a little soar and drop, and she moved closer, their bodies easing into each other in the most natural way. An
unfamiliar and exciting ache started very low, very deep inside her, tingling up her stomach and spine, up to her mouth, which
suddenly ached to touch his.

“You know, Marc,” she whispered, “I haven’t been paid for my act of bravery yet.”

He cocked his head and gave her a sexy look. “Is this you begging for a kiss?”

She laughed, giddy with an overload to every sense, including the sixth one that said she could and should trust this man.

“I’m not begging,” she said. “In fact, I’m not even asking.” She stood on her toes and closed the space between them. “I’m
just going to take my reward.”

She lightly placed her lips on his, barely brushing them as he drew her into his body. Their bodies molded to each other,
aligned, instantly like one.

He intensified the kiss, his hands sliding up her back until they settled on the nape of her neck. He wove his fingers into
her hair, tilting her head possessively with both hands, opening his mouth, inviting her tongue to touch his.

Fiery sparks exploded in every nerve ending, burning her skin and sending lightning bolts of pleasure from her mouth to her
toes.

From across the water, a bird shrieked, and someone on the bridge let out a little hoot of panic and pleasure. She knew exactly
how they felt, poised at a death-defying height, facing a free fall.

She couldn’t stop the kiss any more than she could avoid that bridge back to the mainland. His lips were soft, his whiskers
rough, his tongue hot and sweet. It took all the power she had to finally stop.

When she did, she opened her eyes and got a little lost in his.

“I wasn’t expecting you to do that,” he said.

“I’m impulsive. My mother says it’s one of my worst traits.”

“Your mother’s wrong. It’s a wonderful trait. Be impulsive any time you want.”

Smiling, she hugged him, still full of hope and happiness, putting her head on his shoulder just for the sheer joy of having
someone strong to lean on. Her gaze traveled over the crowds, across the bridge, up to the lookout platform on the other side
of the chasm.

And landed on the most distinctive white hair she’d ever seen.

Sharon
.

She blinked at the woman in a dark green jacket, far enough away that she couldn’t be certain it was Sharon, but the woman
bore a striking resemblance to the pictures she’d seen when she’d researched Dr. Sharon Greenberg on the faculty of UNC.

“What is it?” Marc turned to follow her stunned gaze.

“Sharon!” The man’s voice was far in the distance, carried by the wind and the water, the sound coming from the opposite side
of the bridge. The woman with the white hair spun around to follow the call. “Come here, Sharon!”

The woman waved at whoever had called her and started walking toward the parking lot.

“Oh my God, it’s her! She
is
here. The concierge said she might be.”

“Who?”

Devyn shoved Marc to the side, trying to get a better look. “Come on!”

Without explanation, she grabbed his hand and started jogging toward the bridge, navigating around people, trying to keep
her eye on those white waves of hair.

“Devyn,” Marc said sharply, giving her hand a jerk as she muscled through the crowd. “What are you doing?”

“I have to get to her. Excuse me,” she said urgently to a small group of tourists. “Can we get through?”

She was rewarded with a vile look from one and a loud “tsk” from another.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her heart hammering with the need to reach Sharon Greenberg. “I have to get over there.”

“And ya kin wait yer turn, lass,” a man said roughly, blocking her way.

Devyn let out a soft grunt of frustration.

“What the hell is going on?” Marc demanded, pulling her to a real stop. “You can’t just barge through all these people.”

She ignored him, standing on her tiptoes to see over the group of about a dozen people in front of her. The woman she’d seen
was gone, probably headed down the hill back to the visitor’s center and the parking lot. Maybe she could catch her there.

“I see someone I… have to talk to,” she said, throwing the words over her shoulder as she practically jumped up and down to
see over a tall man in front of her. “Excuse me, could I get by?”

“Slow down,” Marc said. “We’ll get there.”

She just shook her head, staring at the spot where she’d seen the woman who looked—from a distance—so much like Sharon Greenberg.
A woman
named
Sharon. That
couldn’t
be a coincidence.

“Oh, come on,” she whispered under her breath at a couple pausing to take pictures on the bridge, earning another dirty look
from a tourist in front of her.

She could feel Marc behind her, silent, not happy with her behavior, probably boring a hole in the back of her head trying
to get an answer to her bizarre behavior. But she didn’t owe him an answer. She didn’t owe him anything just because she had
given in to a little atmosphere and kissed him.

So she used every ounce of energy to focus on the lookout platform across the chasm, willing the woman to show up again, to
walk toward the railway, to head back toward the rope bridge.

But there was no sign of her. They must have both been on this little island across the bridge at the very same time. What
were the chances of that?

Finally, it was their turn. Without even looking back at Marc, without dawdling for one heart-stopping second on the rubbery,
bouncing bridge, she bounded across, as close to a run as one could make on a rope bridge. Marc kept up with her, one second
behind her as her feet hit the other side.

“Dinna like it, huh?” An older man on the other side teased, but she ignored him and muscled through the crowd, determined
to reach the lookout point where she could see all the way down the hill along the pathway.

There were a lot of people, even some with gray hair, but no white curls, no green jacket. No Sharon.

Disappointment coiled through her, and she let out a half sigh, half cry of frustration. “She’s gone.”

A few cars pulled out of the lot back onto the highway, but they’d be long gone even if Devyn ran down the hill at full speed.

“You want to tell me who could make you try to mow down perfectly nice strangers like that? When half an hour ago you needed
to be begged to get across? Who is that important?”

She turned, focused on him again. Why would she tell anyone why she was here, let alone a complete and utter stranger?

Because she wanted to trust him, and she just didn’t want to do this alone anymore. “My mother.”

He drew back. “Well, she was right when she called you impulsive.”

No,
she thought.
The
other
mother. The one who never called me at all.

S
haron dug deep for composure. She couldn’t lose it now. She couldn’t possibly let him know the thoughts exploding in her head.
Maybe if she didn’t
think,
she wouldn’t give herself away or show any sign of weakness.

That’s what they’d trained her to do—never show weakness—so she certainly couldn’t risk an emotional response. She was a scientist.
She
had
no emotions.

But the word rushed through her head, like the wind over that cliff, and with it came
feeling
. Ancient, buried, long-dead
feeling
.

Rose
.

No, not Rose, she chided herself. Devyn Sterling. That was her name now. The last picture she’d seen was recent enough for
her to know exactly who that young woman was. Her daughter.

How in God’s name had Devyn found her?

“Well?” Next to her, Liam Baird shifted in the backseat
of the sedan, his hazel, Irish eyes narrowed in question. “Did you see her?”

“Yes,” she said, brushing back a wave of wind-whipped gray hair, a reminder that she was too old for this cloak-and-dagger
stuff.

“And?” the man prodded, his impatience palpable as always, making him seem younger than his forty-some years.

“I just told you, I have no idea who she is. I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Not since handing her over, signing some
papers, and moving on.

Liam dropped back against the leather seat with a dramatic sigh, running a hand through thick, sandy locks. “Then you better
have an explanation for why this woman is gallivantin’ around Belfast askin’ for you at every corner.”

“No idea.” But she sure as hell better come up with one, and fast. She went with the story she’d been concocting ever since
Baird hit her with this news. “My guess is she’s a former student who heard through the university that I’d taken leave over
here, and she’s trying to find me. I just don’t recognize her from this far away.”

“Then perhaps we should bring her closer.”

Oh, God, no. She turned to him, skewering him with a look she knew from experience could buckle anyone. She’d perfected the
power of her gray-eyed stare. “Are you as stupid as that?” she asked. “An American girl? Whoever she is, you don’t want that
kind of publicity. Get her out of here, put her off my track rather than send her right into it like you did today.”

“It worked,” he said with a shrug. “One suggestion where you might be, planted by one of my people,
and—
wham—
she shows up. She should be quite easy to manipulate.”

Would she be? What kind of woman had Rose grown up to be? Sharon only had an inkling. A fine family, a rich lifestyle, oblivious
to her dirty roots. Except there was the nasty incident of her husband’s murder. Sharon had tried not to follow the news,
but it had been impossible.

“Then use your considerable powers to convince the young woman to leave,” she said. “Scare her off. Threaten her. Send a man
to woo her away, whatever it takes, Mr. Baird. We have work to do and can’t afford a distraction like this.”

Baird just eyed her. “You better not be lying. About anything.”

She never even blinked. “Don’t suggest that again, Baird. You don’t want to offend me. If I take my toys and go home, you
are in a lot of trouble.”

He shifted his long, lean frame and bent forward to talk to the driver. “Did you get a good look?” he asked Danny, who glanced
into the rearview mirror to make eye contact.

He nodded. “I got a good look. I can find her.” Danny’s hands curled around the steering wheel. Deadly, strong hands. Hands
of a man who would kill without compunction.

Even a woman.

No weakness, Sharon.
No weakness. They’d use weakness against her. They’d kill anyone in this operation who showed weakness.

“Then find her,” she said coolly, throwing the order at Danny as if he worked for her and not Baird. “And get her the hell
out of Belfast. She’s a young woman, for crying out loud. How hard can she be to handle?”

“She’s got a man with her,” Baird said. “Did you see that? Do you know him?”

“No, I do not. But you said she’s been alone up until this point. She probably picked him up in a bar last night.”

“She’s been alone, my contacts tell me,” he said. “Alone, all over the city, knocking on every door in Belfast, seeking a
Dr. Greenberg.”

“Maybe she’s looking for someone else.”

“She’s described you.”

Sharon’s stomach tightened. How? How did she know who Sharon was, what she looked like?

Of course, she’d followed the death of the girl’s husband a few months ago, a murder committed by some dirty cop and Joshua
Sterling’s mistress. Could there be a connection somehow? The only person they had in common was…

He
wouldn’t
have sent her, would he?

“As I told you, Mr. Baird, I’m sure there’s a perfectly legitimate explanation. Without causing a stir of any kind, I suggest
you use your considerable resources and network of contacts to get that girl to give up and go home.”

He sniffed, but Sharon just stared out the window.
Go home, Rose. Get out of here.

“Unless we can use her somehow,” Baird said. “She might be useful to us.”

She didn’t react, letting her head rest against the glass as the questions slammed her brain.
Why is she here? How did she find out? Is this a trick, a way to trip me up, or test my loyalty?

Because if Devyn Sterling was sent here by who Sharon thought had sent her here, then…

She swallowed, an ancient phrase replacing all the questions.

Sometimes a few people die for the good of many
. But which people? And who made those decisions?

“Can we get back to the business at hand, Mr. Baird?” she asked briskly. “This has been quite a delay tactic, and as far as
I’m concerned, completely unnecessary.”

“Not unnecessary, Doctor.” Liam stretched his legs. “This young woman has raised a red flag in my organization. I wanted you
to identify her so we can stop her. No matter who sent her here.”

“No one sent her here,” she shot back with a glare. “And I know you’re testing me. Don’t lie about what you’re doing, Mr.
Baird. You think she’s some kind of plant or decoy or
spy
.”

“You’re right,” he acknowledged. “I was testing you. I didn’t get where I am by trusting anyone.”

She barely shrugged, indifference rolling off her. “Let’s just get back to the job I came here to do,” she said coolly. “These
delay tactics aren’t helping your cause.”

“
Our
cause,” he corrected.

She reached over and put a hand on his arm, noticing her veins popping up to reveal her true age of fifty-five, reminding
her it had taken Finn MacCauley thirty damn long years to give her this opportunity to ruin him. She wasn’t about to let age
stop her now, and she wasn’t about to let his daughter stop her, either.

“Let’s just get one thing straight, Mr. Baird.”

He met her gaze. “I know, it’s not your cause.”

“It’s not
your
cause, either,” she said. “You’re in it for the same reason I am. Cash. And as long as we’re straight on that, we can do
business. That’s how I work. That’s how I’ve always worked.”