Shiver of Fear (11 page)

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.

“Where are we going?” she managed to ask.

“Just move it.” He pushed her hard, passing the door to the bar, which she glanced at longingly. Where was the waiter who’d
said he’d cover for her? Where was Marc? Suddenly he seemed like the much lesser of two evils. “You shoulda never come here,”
he mumbled.

She slowed her step, processing that. “What?”

“You’re not wanted around here.” He punctuated that with a spit to the side.

That was basically the same thing the man at the hotel had told her. Was it the same man? Is this what he meant by things
would get worse?

“Diggin’ around for trouble is what you’re doin’. We know you had someone look at her bags.”

Oh, God. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t a mugging or a kidnapping. This was about Sharon.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“None of your fucking business.” He grabbed for her
again, but she dodged him, scooting to the side and breaking away.

“Who are you and how do you know me?” she demanded. She’d fight the damn knife if she had to, but she wanted answers.

He lunged for her, but she managed to throw herself out of his way, rolling to the ground and scrambling to her feet, glancing
over her shoulder to catch the glint of the knife as he launched toward her.

“Bitch!” He jumped on her, pushing her back down with a crack of her back on the brick pavement, his weight like a truck on
her. “No trouble, huh?” Spittle flew as he growled the words. “The doctor was fucking wrong about that.”

The knife came down right next to her face, and Devyn turned her head and shrieked, the blade just missing. He slammed his
knee onto her stomach, making her grunt in pain.

He raised his hand to stab again. Time froze as she stared at the knife, her elbows locked, her hands fisted on his shirt,
trying desperately to hold off the inevitable. She could feel the bones in her arms almost snap with his weight as she choked
on another scream lodged in her throat.

She shook her head, her only hope to be a moving target. The knife came straight for her throat, the air moving as it fell.
The world exploded with noise and light and the punch of pain as his whole body fell on hers, and everything went black.

Marc vaulted over a crate, his Glock still aimed at the dark figure he’d just shot in the alley. The body slumped over Devyn,
and Marc didn’t dare take another shot for fear of hitting her.

The guy rolled off her or she pushed him off; he couldn’t tell. But all that mattered was that her attacker still had enough
strength to haul himself to his feet. Marc aimed again, but Devyn was getting up, too.

“Stay down!” he ordered.

“Don’t kill him!” she yelled.

He ran closer, not sure he’d heard her right, giving the guy just enough time to take off. Marc whipped the pistol directly
at him, cupping his right hand to get a dead aim.

“He knows…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, too breathless from the fight.

Holding his shoulder, the guy stumbled to the end of the alley. Marc reached Devyn, dividing his attention between the assailant
and her, making sure she was okay.

As he did, a BMW roared up to the alley entrance, slowing down as someone in the backseat threw open a door. Devyn’s attacker
leaped in, and the engine and tires screamed as they peeled away.

Marc dropped to his knees. “Jesus, Devyn, what the hell happened?”

“Hey!” From the pub, several men poured out of the door, drawn by the gunshots, no doubt.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

“What’s going on?” one of the men yelled as they hustled closer. “Who’s firing out here?”

“I’m fine,” she said, pushing hair off her face and looking anything but fine.

The men reached them, one of them holding a pistol of his own. “Let ’er go, you bastard.”

Marc ignored the order and asked them, “You know who came out here after her?”

The two men looked at each other, then at him. One of
them said, “Don’t lie, lad. I know she was runnin’ from you.” He bent down on his knee in front of Devyn. “Come with me, miss.”

For a second, Marc thought she would. But she just shook her head and held up a hand. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”

“You don’t wanna stay with him, do ya?” The man pointed at Marc. “No need to, lass. Come inside.”

But she bit her lip and shook her head, glancing at the street for a second. “No, really. This man didn’t attack me—someone
else did.” She turned to Marc, her eyes bright from the trauma. “He saved me,” she said softly.

The thin-haired Irishman stood slowly, contempt on his face. “You don’t have to lie. I know you’re scared of him.”

“I’m not,” she said. “Honestly. You can go back.”

They did, grumbling and throwing looks over their shoulders as Marc helped her stand, squeezing her hands to stop the trembling.
When they were alone, she took a deep breath, and as she let it out, she said, “I think my mother just tried to have me kidnapped.”

“What?”

“At least”—she glanced at the street again—“whoever that was knows Sharon Greenberg.”

He searched her face, all the options on how to respond flipping through his brain.

“Do
you
know who that was?” she demanded.

He shook his head. “No.” And that was no lie. “Why would I know?”

“You tell me. Was our meeting an accident? Or was it because of Sharon?”

“I didn’t even know the woman existed until an hour ago,” he said, purposely not answering what he’d been asked.

“You’re a liar. A good one,” she conceded as she brushed her hands on her jeans. “But you’re lying.”

“I am not.”

She practically spit when she puffed out a breath of disbelief. “Look, pal, I just knocked on death’s door twice in one night,
and I want
goddamn
answers.”

“Twice?”

“Somebody broke into my room, a guy in a face mask. Made the same threat—told me to leave Belfast.”

“Then maybe”—he reached for her, but she swiped his hand away—“you should listen to them. Maybe it’s time you leave Belfast,
Dev.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, anger and frustration rolling off her. “Maybe it’s time you tell me the truth, Marc. What are
you doing here, and what does it have to do with my mother? The
truth
.”

“The truth is you are being told by all kinds of not real nice people that you should leave this city. You have no idea why
your mother is over here, but if your instincts are right and she just tried to have you kidnapped, then you’re not safe and
you should abandon this search. Let me take you out of this city—”

“Go to hell.” She started walking away, but not fast enough. He grabbed her arm and she shook him off. “Touch me again and
I’ll scream so loud you will spend the night in the nearest Belfast jail. I already have friends in that bar who’re ready
to kill you. And if you don’t give me a straight answer, I might do it myself.”

“I’m not here to hurt you, Devyn. I swear.”

She studied him, her body stiff, her beautiful face in a cold, unrelenting expression. “Then why
are
you here,
Mr. Rossi
? What do you want from me?”