Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
She refused to look at the purse and think that it represented her utter willingness to give him whatever he wanted. Her body.
Her heart. Her very reputation.
And yet, he wouldn’t give her the legitimacy she needed more than anything. Even though she could give him what Anne could
not: a child.
He nudged her forward, already taking off her sweater, her bra, his jacket and shirt. By the time he lowered her to the bed,
they wore nothing but pants, and those came off quickly.
He angled his head toward the bathroom, pushing his boxer shorts over a throbbing red hard-on. “Get your protection.”
She fought the urge to shake her head. He was always so adamant about not taking chances and making her wear her diaphragm.
Why? Because he didn’t want to be tied to her, and a baby would bind them to each other forever.
He could never disappear if she had his baby.
She swallowed and made an impulsive decision to lie, looking him right in the eye without wavering.
“I already have it in.” At his slightly surprised look, she gave him a sly smile and eased her legs apart. “I knew you’d be
waiting here when I got home, Finn.”
He was inside her before she had a chance to change her mind, pumping and sweating and swearing until he came ferociously.
He fell on her, spent and satisfied, while she waited for an endearment that didn’t come.
“Listen, Sharon, if anyone, and I mean
anyone,
asks you about—”
“I don’t plan to tell a soul what I did today,” she interjected.
“Just when, or if, anyone asks you, you have to deny knowing me. Anyone at all, even—”
“I do deny you, Finn.” But she wouldn’t have to if he was the father of her child. Had they just made a—
A heavy pounding on the door silenced that thought, and the conversation. He rolled over and grabbed his clothes wordlessly.
“Miss Mulvaney, we need to speak with you. FBI.”
Finn mouthed the word “fuck” and seized his jacket, his eyes on fire as he pointed to the door. “Get out there and stall,”
he ordered in a harsh whisper. “Don’t give me away, Sharon, or you won’t live to talk about it.”
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. He’d kill her?
“FBI! We’re coming in.”
He grabbed her arm, fingers digging into her flesh, and flung her onto her feet with a shockingly strong jerk. “Go!”
She stood there, naked and stunned, as he lunged for her purse. Another hard rap forced a reply from a throat thick with fear.
“Just… a second,” she called, her heart thundering so loudly she could barely hear her own voice.
Finn pushed her again, rougher this time, and she stumbled out of the bedroom and into the hall. “You have to cover for me,
Sharon.” He closed the door and left her naked in the hall.
“I’m coming,” she called at the next insistent knock, spying her down coat on the chair. She slid the cool nylon over her
bare skin, shaking fingers working the zipper.
“Miss Mulvaney, this is the FBI. Please open the door.”
She’d been a criminal exactly one hour, and the FBI was already at her front door.
You have to cover for me, Sharon.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to find two clean-cut men who looked like they’d been sent from Hollywood to play
FBI agents.
“How can I help you?” she asked, blocking the entrance with her body.
Two ID badges were flipped open in front of her eyes, but her head was spinning and the words and pictures just blurred, her
ears not even registering their names.
“We’d like to ask you some questions.”
She blinked, nodded. “ ’Kay.”
The taller, darker of the two men looked pointedly at her coat. “Are you on your way out, miss?”
“Just got in.” From the lab. Where she’d stolen weapons of biological warfare that would be shipped to the distant cousin
of the married man who led one of Boston’s largest organized crime syndicates—a man who just happened to be naked in her bedroom.
“May we come in?”
“No, you may not come in.”
That got her double takes of surprise. Well, one of surprise. The other guy, the stocky blond, looked suspicious. He must
be the smart one.
“I’m sorry I can’t let you in,” she said, steadfast and stalling. “I see you have badges and all, but a woman alone can’t
be too careful.”
“Do you know a man named Finley MacCauley?”
Blood drained from her head and landed low in a nauseous stomach. “I don’t know.” Stupid, stupid answer.
Suspicious Blond Agent lifted both eyebrows. “You’ve never met a man named Finn MacCauley?”
“I might have,” she said, certain they could hear the drumbeat of her heart rattling her rib cage. “Who is he?”
“He’s a criminal, Ms. Mulvaney, and if you aid and abet his activities, you’ll be a criminal, too.”
Too late for the future tense. “Do you have a picture of him?” she asked, desperate for a stall. “Maybe I’d recognize him.”
“You don’t recognize the name?” the other man asked.
“I… I… don’t know.”
“Let us in, Miss Mulvaney.” He was definitely the bad cop, that blond one.
“Why?” She directed the question to the nicer cop, but the other one answered.
“Because we’ve received a tip that Finn MacCauley would be here today, and if you don’t let us in, we’re going to arrest you.”
He took a step forward, his body enough of a weapon to force her back.
Before she could stop them, they were inside. Balling her fists in her pockets, she watched the nasty one walk right over
to the coffee table and pick up the drink, sniffing.
“Jameson,” she offered before he asked. “Is that illegal?”
The other agent was already striding down the hall, weapon drawn and held with two hands as he shouldered his way into her
bedroom.
She didn’t breathe, waiting for a shout or a shot. Seconds later, the agent emerged. He shook his head and muttered, “Nothin’.”
Nothing?
Where was Finn?
She waited for the next question, but it didn’t come as they searched the tiny apartment, stuffed their guns away, and returned
to the front door.
“You better watch your back, miss,” the dark-haired agent said. “You’re hanging around with some pretty dangerous people.”
She just nodded, remarkably cool considering the somersaults her stomach was doing, the blood coursing through her veins,
and the question screaming in her brain.
Where was Finn?
They left and she remained still for a long moment, vaguely aware of the dribble of sticky moisture down her thigh, a reminder
that minutes ago she had been making love to a man wanted by the FBI.
“Finn?” she whispered, dragging her feet toward the bedroom, stepping in to see what the FBI agent had seen. A rumpled bed.
Her clothes strewn on the floor. The window wide open.
Finally, she exhaled, dropping on the bed from the weight of what had just happened. Her gaze shifted to the bureau. No surprise,
Finn had taken her bag.
Tears burned. Her throat closed. And a painful punch of regret hit her in the chest. God, she was a
fool
! A stupid, childish, trusting fool.
And he was the worst kind of man—a user.
For a long moment, she just sat there in her down coat, tears brimming but unshed. She listened to the silence of the apartment,
inhaled the bitter fragrance of sex that hung in the room.
And she waited.
Not for Finn; he’d never be back. Not until he needed something only she could give him again. Then he’d charm her and coerce
her and weaken her defenses and… get exactly what he wanted from her. That was Finn.
But she could say no.
So she waited for the agony in her heart to transform into something else. Visualized the change taking place deep in the
molecular level of her soul. Harmless, healthy proteins of love gradually degrading into deadly toxins of hate.
After all, wasn’t this her expertise? Creating poison from something as common as dirt? Love. What could be more common? Or
dirtier?
Minutes passed, maybe hours. Finally, she made a decision. She wasn’t sure how or when, but someday she’d find a way to use
Finn MacCauley the way he used her, and then she’d watch him suffer.
Until then, she damn well hoped some other molecular transformation wasn’t taking place inside her. Remembering her impetuous
decision, she pushed off the bed, slid out of the coat, and headed into the shower to wash away the remnants of Finn.
Please, God, let the hot shower water be enough to eliminate every drop of him from inside me.
Because the last thing she wanted now was a baby. She had something different to live for—revenge on Finn MacCauley.
Present Day
T
he halogen headlights sliced through the downpour like laser beams, turning the rain eerily white and illuminating each sudden
turn in the nick of time. With every near miss on the twisty roads of the North Carolina woods, Devyn Sterling cursed the
rental car company for not offering GPS, damned the weather for delaying her flight until this late at night, and wished to
God that she had a clue which street was Oak Ridge Drive.
And threw in one more vile curse for the impulsive nature that landed her in this situation.
Arriving on the doorstep of her birth mother to shatter the woman’s life should really be done under sunny skies. But Devyn
couldn’t wait another day. Or night. No matter the weather.
Squinting into the downpour, she tapped the brakes
at a cross street, slowing to a crawl to seize the millisecond of clarity between windshield wipes to read the street sign,
aided by a sudden bolt of lightning.
Yes
. Oak Ridge. Thank God.
Thunder rolled just a second or two later, but Devyn powered on, inching down the residential street, peering at the houses,
set far apart on acre-sized lots, most of them dark for the night. As she reached the end of a cul-de-sac and neared the address
she’d memorized, Devyn drew in a nervous breath, practicing what she would say when Dr. Sharon Greenberg opened the door.
No matter how many times she rehearsed, the words came out wrong. Especially because Devyn doubted she could get through the
whole story before she got the door slammed in her face.
Still, she needed a game plan for this encounter.
Her icy New England upbringing told her to be brutally blunt. Just knock on the door, open her mouth, and say,
I’m the daughter you gave up in a secret adoption thirty years ago.
But deep inside, because her blood wasn’t truly the chilly WASP of her Hewitt upbringing but some cocktail of hot Irish, she
wanted to tell Dr. Greenberg the story with all the drama that had unfolded a few months earlier on the streets of Boston
so the woman could fully appreciate the reason for Devyn’s visit.
I hired an investigator, found out your identity—and that of my fugitive mobster father—and told my husband, who decided to
betray me, only to get murdered by his mistress and a dirty cop who tried to frame Finn MacCauley for the crime. Uh, can I
have some shelter from this storm?
Without knowing much about Sharon Greenberg, it was hard to be sure if that tact would work any better than cool bluntness.
She slowed at the last home, the brick ranch house bathed in the headlights of her rental car. Snapping the lights off, Devyn
turned into the empty driveway and stared at the house. Maybe she should go for the heartfelt approach.
I’m sorry, Dr. Greenberg. I know you don’t want to meet me, and I really planned to respect that wish, but I told my husband
your name and I don’t know if he told anyone else before he was murdered. Just in case he did, I thought it only proper that
I be the one to screw up your life…. And while I’m here, can we talk about why you gave me up?
Don’t go there, Devyn. Not at first
. The woman had every right to give up a child fathered by a legendary street thug like Finn MacCauley. She didn’t even have
to
have
a baby.
Still, Devyn thought as she looked at the darkened house, maybe… maybe they would talk about it. But first, Sharon had a right
to know that her secret was no longer buried. And Devyn had a right to know who gave birth to her.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the night, followed almost immediately by a quick explosion of thunder. Chills feathered
Devyn’s skin despite the warm blasts from the dashboard. The storm was close.
As her eyes adjusted and the rain washed the windshield, she studied the large picture window in the front, nine panes of
glass, the blinds behind them closed tight. Water sluiced out the gutters, noisily splattering mud below.
Proper New England upbringing pinched at her conscience. A lady would call before arriving.
Okay, she could do that. Devyn picked up her cell phone and pressed the speed dial she’d foolishly programmed in while delayed
at Logan. Back when she was still waging an internal debate, considering abandoning the plan and driving home. But rationale
won over reason, and she’d stayed at the airport, gotten on the late plane, and… here she was.
If she hit Send, maybe she’d wake Sharon, and then when Devyn knocked on the door, it wouldn’t be such a shock. The older
woman would have a minute or two to prepare. That seemed fair.
Devyn watched the words appear on the tiny screen:
Calling Dr. Sharon Greenberg
.
Oh, God.
The fourth ring cut off halfway and clicked into voice mail. Devyn pressed the phone to her ear, blocking out the rain beating
on the car so she could listen and absorb the sound of her birth mother’s voice for the first time.
“Hey, it’s Shar. I’m not able to take your call, but do what needs to be done and I’ll get back to you. Leave a message, try
my office, text me, send a smoke signal. Peace out.”
Devyn stabbed End and slipped the phone back into her purse, staring ahead at the shadows around the house, her heart matching
the rhythm of the rain. Fast. Hard. Loud.
Was she going to turn back now? Away from a woman who invited callers to send a smoke signal? Obviously Sharon had a sense
of humor. But did that mean she had a heart?