Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
Once again, the realization squeezed her heart so hard it hurt. Why had Sharon kept track of Devyn? Worry? Regret? Curiosity?
Love?
She stabbed the key into her door and smashed an imaginary boot heel on that last one. A childish, baseless fantasy. If Sharon
loved the daughter she gave up for adoption, surely she would have tried to make contact by now.
Inside, she took off her jacket and began unbuttoning her blouse, the familiar battle so loud in her head she didn’t pay attention
to the footsteps outside her room. But she froze mid-button at the soft rap on her door.
Another knock. “Devyn?”
Oh
. He’d come back for her. She couldn’t help smiling because, deep down inside, she wanted to share all of this with someone.
With Marc.
“I’ll give you this,” she said, walking toward the door, “you’re persistent.”
Hand on the knob, she glanced down at her unbuttoned blouse. But something stopped her from rebuttoning and hiding the peek
of lace and cleavage. Something? How about
attraction
?
There was no peephole or she’d have checked to see if he was smiling like she was. Instead she unlocked the door and safety
bar, only to have the wood whiz right at her face, knocking her back.
A soft gasp strangled her as a man stepped inside, a mask covering his face.
“Oh my God,” she cried softly, stumbling and blinking in disbelief.
He was tall, big, and coming right at her. She opened her mouth to scream, but he smashed his hand over her face, whipping
her around and snapping her arm up behind her so hard she heard it crack.
She felt hot breath on her ear and the strength of him, the faint smell of something sour on his breath.
“Get out of here. Do you understand? Out!”
How had she thought he was Marc? This man had an accent. Irish. Or English. Thick and as gruff as his handling.
She tried to cry out again, but his hand silenced her scream.
“Get out or it’ll get much worse than this.” He pushed her hard, releasing her, but the force was enough to buckle her knees
and take her to the floor. She froze there, crouched and unwilling to turn and face him, waiting for something else—a blow,
a kick, another threat.
But the door slammed behind her and he was gone.
She stayed on her knees, shaking, the words reverberating in her ears.
Get out or it’ll get much worse than this.
What was he talking about? And who was he? Finally, she turned, terrified that he’d still be there. But she was alone.
Not really. She didn’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.
Very slowly, with the dead bolt in place, she packed her bags.
It would cost him a little, no doubt, but Marc was ready to part with some cash, and the ruddy-faced concierge who looked
nearly seventy and far too tired for this job seemed willing to take some payment for his labor.
“I might be able to help you,” the old man said as he made Marc’s twenty-pound note disappear with the ease of a magician.
“But if I get caught, I’ll deny I’ve ever laid eyes on you.”
As he would expect. “Deal. All I need is ten minutes, max, in your baggage hold room.” Long enough to get a last name to go
with Sharon, the name Devyn had let slip in the car.
The concierge frowned. “A dozen or so years ago, you’d be arrested just for asking that, you know.”
No doubt this man remembered the Troubles all too well. “Times have changed.”
“Some.” He shrugged. “But ya better not be planting a bomb in my closet, lad.”
“I’m not. I’m looking for some bags that a woman left here. A friend of mine was told by the concierge on duty this morning
that the bags are there, and if you can take me right to that luggage, we’ll be done in no time.”
He shook his head. “You can’t have them without a ticket. Sorry.”
“I figured that, but could I look at them? Just to make sure they’re here? You can watch me.”
He glanced toward the lobby, which was quiet for
the moment, then back at Marc. “I don’t know, lad. It’s unusual.”
Marc lifted his hand, this time sliding a fifty-pound note across the counter. “It’s important. And I don’t have to be in
there alone if that’ll make you feel any better.”
As he palmed the bill, two more guests approached the desk. “One minute,” he said to Marc. “Let me handle this first.”
Marc stepped away and waited while the man helped the other guests with a question about local restaurants. When they’d left,
the concierge signaled Marc closer.
“Let’s go now,” he said, nodding toward the door behind him. “And be fast about it.”
The storage area was less than twenty square feet, crowded with bags and a few packages waiting for pickup.
“What’s the name?” the concierge asked.
“Sharon.”
He got a quizzical look in response. “Surname, please?”
Marc shook his head. “I’ll just look at the names on the tags.” How many Sharons could there be?
“No, sir, I can’t—”
The bell rang from the desk outside. “Excuse me, is anyone here?”
Thanking his good luck and some woman’s impatience, Marc gave the man a nudge. “Go, I’ll be out of here in less than three
minutes. I just need to check to see if she’s picked them up yet. I’ll be sure to stop by the desk and thank you properly.”
His gaze dropped to the name tag. “Thomas.”
“Hello? Is there a concierge?” The voice grew louder, and Thomas blew out a frustrated breath.
“Just hurry it up,” he said, stepping out the door.
As soon as Thomas was gone, Marc started in one corner, grabbing each bag to look for a luggage tag or ID, moving like the
wind because Thomas would be back to order him out at any second. He scanned names. Michael, David, Mortimer, Eileen, J. Macmahon,
Tim Ballough—there were five bags with that name. Damn, that was half the room.
On the other side, he started at the top. R. Fink. Thomas MacAvoy. Dr. S. Greenberg.
Sharon
Greenberg? Doctor? The luggage tag was handwritten in black scratchy letters, UNC Microbiology Dept, Chapel Hill, NC.
He checked the rest—no Sharons among them, no S first initials on these. He went back to S. Greenberg from North Carolina
and tried the zipper, but the bags were locked tight. Still, Marc had enough to start.
He almost collided with Thomas as he left, slipping him another twenty pounds with his thanks. In his room, Marc fired up
his laptop and shot an e-mail to Vivi, hoping she’d look for any detailed background on Dr. Sharon Greenberg. Then he started
his own search by Googling the UNC site. He found a faculty member at the teaching hospital with the same name who had a specialty
in immunology, pathological diagnostics, and retrovirology.
Could this be the woman who had had an affair with an Irish mob boss and gave birth to an illegitimate baby? He might be on
the wrong track. He dug some more, into the microbiology department, into the faculty files, finding some papers she’d published.
He was able to log into one, and found her bio.
He skimmed it, zeroing in on one line.
After participating in the Master’s Program at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1978, Dr. Greenberg transferred
to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill
…
MIT in Boston. That would put her in the right city in the right year.
Still thinking about the incongruity of Finn MacCauley sleeping with a microbiologist at MIT—and creating the beautiful, lively
woman he’d just kissed in the car—he stripped and took a shower, considering where to have a drink and dinner. And how much
better it would have been with Devyn Sterling.
Scratch that—Devyn
Smith
.
Not a real surprise that she’d choose a fake name. Her husband’s death made some notoriety, since he had been a well-known
columnist for the
Boston Globe
who had made frequent appearances on cable TV as a talking head.
Slathered in shaving cream, he took one swipe with a razor when someone knocked on his door.
“Marc? Are you here?”
He recognized Devyn’s voice immediately—and a note of desperation. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around his waist, tipped
the laptop screen down as he passed, and unlocked the door.
Her eyes were red, her cheeks as white as the shaving cream he’d just applied. “I need you.”
He reached for her, pulling her in, cold fear palpable from her body language and the look in her eyes.
“What’s the matter?” He instinctively put his arms on her shoulders, realizing she had her bags with her.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.” He eased her into the room, glanced at the empty hall, and closed the door behind her. “What’s wrong?”
She swallowed, a little breathless and flushed. “I just don’t want to be alone.”
“Okay.” He didn’t hide the doubt in his voice. “You’re welcome to stay here.”
“I just want to”—she looked up at him, a helpless, anxious expression tearing his heart right out of his chest—“have dinner
with you.”
“I see you brought your suitcases,” he said with a half smile. “Should I be really optimistic about that, or are you planning
on checking into another room?”
“I don’t want to check into another room.”
What was going on with her? She was oozing fear, not pheromones. “All right. Let me finish shaving and change, and we’ll go
out for—”
“Room service.”
He laughed softly. “Stay in, then. Hang on.” He grabbed his clothes from over the chair and headed back into the bathroom,
moving quickly, fearing she might up and change her mind.
Picking up the razor, he considered not shaving at all, just to get out there with her faster. Then he’d have one stripe down
his whiskery face. He took a second swipe.
“Did you take a cab here?” he called, hoping small talk would relax her.
She was quiet for a moment, then, “Yeah, I did.”
He couldn’t think of another question except to ask why she’d changed her mind, but he wanted to do that face-to-face. He
nicked himself going too fast, then
splashed water on his face, shook his hair, and dressed in jeans and a shirt. Without taking the time to button his shirt,
he stepped out into the bedroom.
The laptop was open in front of her. Instantly he knew why she’d been quiet and what was on the screen in front of her. And
why her expression was stricken.
“Why were you looking up my birth mother’s biography?”
“Why are you looking at my laptop?”
“I need one,” she said. “I thought I’d check to see if you had Wi-Fi here.” Her expression shifted from shock to flat-out
anger, dismay, and distrust, all powerful enough to make him momentarily consider the benefits of telling her the truth.
But then he’d be completely compromising his assignment.
“I thought I was helping you,” he said. “I asked the concierge about the luggage and figured if I could find out—”
On the dresser, his cell phone beeped with an incoming call, and she shot to her feet.
“All right, I overstepped my bounds,” he acknowledged, ignoring the phone. “But it was only because I thought it would buy
me some more time with you.”
“I should have known better than to trust you.” She spat the words. “To trust anyone.”
“I meant to help, maybe help you find out for sure if she was coming back. I found one set of luggage that was a possible
match—it said S. Greenberg—so I did a search. Is that the right person?”
“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed in anger. “Which means that of all the Sharon Greenbergs in the entire world,
you somehow zeroed in on exactly the right one. That is beyond amazing. That is an absolute unbelievable coincidence.” Her
shoulders squared a little as she slowly inched back. “From the man who is no
fan
of coincidences.”
The phone stopped ringing, and Devyn grabbed the door knob.
“Please, let me explain,” he said, striding to stop her, but the landline hotel phone chirped loudly with a distinct European
double ring. Someone wanted him badly.
“Wait,” he said, torn. “Don’t go yet. You can trust me.” She just eyed him as he picked up the receiver. “What?”
“It didn’t take long to get some very interesting information on Sharon Greenberg, that’s what,” Vivi said in his ear.
But Devyn bolted, leaving her bags and letting the door slam behind her.
Damn. “Vivi, I’ll call you back.”
“No, you have to know this.” Something in her voice stopped him from dropping the phone. “It’s mission critical.”
“E-mail it to me. I gotta go.” With that, he threw the receiver down on the desk, scooped up his shoes, phone, and room key,
and tore outside to an empty hall. Swearing, he jogged to the elevator bank, smashing the button as he spun around looking
for stairs.
He ran down the hall, whipped open the door under an exit sign, and jogged down to the lobby, but she was gone.
He headed for the street, searching left, right, and into the square across the way. Dusk was turning to dark, and a light
drizzle made it even more impossible to find her among the pedestrians.
The smell of fried chips wafted from a street vendor
whose cart and customers blocked Marc’s view. He ducked to the left, stepped off the curb, then powered through, walking fast
through the crowds, pausing at the sight of a woman with similar-colored hair and a dark jacket, then moving on as time ticked
away, along with any chance of finding her.
Just as he was ready to give up and go back, he caught a flash of caramel hair over a navy jacket, dashing into a doorway
a few blocks from him.
Got her.
D
evyn powered through the group of smokers outside the pub door, the stench of their cigarettes strangling her. Inside, the
place was as dark and crowded as she hoped it would be, the patrons in tight groups around the bar, a soccer game on TV, all
drowned out by the sound of unfamiliar and screechy rock music. Perfect.
As she hustled toward the back, her sneakers stuck to beer residue on the floor, and a few curious gazes bored boozy holes
through her. She slipped into a back booth, tucked away but still able to see the door, breathless from the impetuous decision
that sent her running through the streets of Belfast.