Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
“Yes, I do,” he said. “If you are official FBI consultants, then I have to show casework, and I’m afraid we don’t have time
for that. You need to leave immediately, tomorrow if not sooner.”
Marc turned the photo of Devyn around to look at it, studying the coolness in her gaze, the distance in her expression. Like
she was dead cold on the inside. Why did the FBI want this widow out of Belfast?
He had a very strong suspicion that he was too smart to voice.
“Give us an hour to discuss it,” Marc said. “And during that hour, arrange a retainer check for expenses. I’m certain you
can do that without getting tied up in red tape.”
Colt nodded to the concession, sliding the pertinent files toward him. “I’ll be back before noon. Please have a decision for
me by then.” He glanced at Vivi and Zach. “I can show myself out.”
He left and none of them said a word until the door to the reception area closed behind him.
And then they all talked at the same time, Rossi-Angelino style.
“Contingency!”
“He’s holding back.”
“We need this job.” Zach took the lead, holding up his hand. “We
need
this job,” he repeated to be sure he was heard over the others. “Even if it’s contingency,” he said to Vivi. “And even if
he’s not telling us everything. We know enough to at least attempt to do what he wants. That’s the assignment and that’s what
we’ll do.”
“Spoken like a true Army Ranger,” Vivi said, pushing back from the table. “But not the CEO of a company.”
“Hang on, Vivi,” Marc said. “Zach’s right—we don’t
have to know everything, and we do need this assignment. If my gut is right, this has to do with finding Finn MacCauley, and
there’s no way he’s going to trust an unproven operation like ours with that information.”
She tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Then let’s get proven. Let’s find him.”
Zach snorted softly. “We’re good, Vivi, but we aren’t quite equipped to go after a fugitive who’s eluded the FBI for thirty
years. We prove ourselves by working with him, not against him, and by taking it one step at a time. Marc goes to Ireland,
finds this woman, convinces her to leave Belfast with him.”
“How are you going to do that?” Vivi asked.
Marc grinned. “Have you met me?”
She laughed but shook her head. “You are charming, but without knowing why she’s there, or what she’s doing, you’ll have to
do some fancy footwork.”
“I will. And Colt didn’t say I couldn’t ask her what’s going on. He just wanted me to get her out of there. Let me get some
intelligence on her situation, create a personal relationship with her, and get her out of there. Then we’ll figure out if
there’s more we can do. All of that is within the parameters of what he wants from this firm.”
“I hate parameters.” Vivi stood and paced the room, her hands deep in the pockets of her cargo pants. “What if we did bring
in Finn MacCauley?” she said.
Zach and Marc shared a look but didn’t say anything.
“You know damn well that would put the Guardian Angelinos on the map,” she said. “The national press coverage on that would
take us right to the next level.”
“Vivi, we haven’t even reached the first level yet,” Zach said. “Let’s just do this right and see if we can get
more business from the FBI. Marc says they use outside security and investigation firms all the time.”
“They do,” Marc agreed. “And they don’t always tell them everything about a case, so I believe this is legit and has potential.”
“Boatloads of potential,” Vivi said. “You go find her and we’ll give you whatever backup support you need here, and…” She
hesitated, locking gazes with her brother.
“Don’t turn this into a hunt for Finn MacCauley,” Zach said. “If that’s what the client wanted, he’d have asked for it.”
“So let’s overachieve,” she shot back.
While the twins stared each other down, Marc grabbed the files, taking one more look at Devyn Sterling. Perfect women made
his skin crawl… even though they were the only kind he ever wanted. “I wonder what she’s doing traveling around Belfast two
months after her cheating husband was killed?”
“I did some research on her when we were working on the Josh Sterling murder,” Vivi said. “You know she’s a Hewitt, right?
The bluest blood in Boston and richer than God’s little brother.”
“I know.” Marc studied the fine features and soft waves of warm blond hair. “Except,” he mused, “her blood isn’t really blue.
She’s Finn MacCauley’s illegitimate daughter. Her blood is… bloody.”
“And no one even knows who her mother is,” Zach added. “It was the big hole in the story Joshua was going to take public.”
Marc nodded, closing the file. “Can you make some calls and get me the flight information?” he asked Vivi. “I’m going home
to pack.”
“So we are definitely taking this job?” Vivi asked.
“Final decision is up to the CEO,” Marc replied. “Zach?”
“We’ll take it exactly as the client has asked us to,” Zach said. “He’s a straight-up guy and we’re not going investigating
behind his back. We do the job, we get paid, we get another job. We do this the conventional way, Vivi.”
Vivi rolled her eyes. “You know what a fan of convention I am. What do you need from us, Marc?”
“Information on the Belfast hotels. And I don’t mean room availability. I need guest lists.”
“Chessie,” Vivi said, referring to Marc’s youngest sibling, the hacker of the family. “She can, um,
research
the hotels in Belfast and see if we can find where Devyn Sterling is staying.” She put a hand on her hip and looked at her
brother. “That is, if Chessie’s creative database searches are still within the
parameters
of what the client wants us to do.”
Zach pushed up from the table. “Of course. We still use our secret weapons as long as we do what the client asks and do it
well.”
“I plan on using every one I’ve got,” Marc said, tucking the file under his arm as he headed to the lobby.
Vivi was beside him in three strides, bounding on her purple and white zebra-striped skate shoes. “You’ll stay in touch with
me, won’t you?” she said, soft enough that Zach couldn’t hear. “And tell me everything you find out.”
“You know I will. You just move carefully, Vivi. Finn MacCauley may be buried under the Central Artery, or he may be hiding
out on an island in the South Pacific. Wherever he is, there are people who don’t want him found.”
“Got it.” She opened the door for him and put a hand
on his shoulder. “So what’s your plan? Seduction? Heartbreak? A fellow traveler in need?”
“I’m just going to find her weakness and exploit it.”
“Whoa.” Vivi inched back, a smile threatening. “I didn’t think you were such a bastard, Marc.”
“I didn’t used to be.”
D
id I hear you say you were looking for a Dr. Greenberg, miss?”
For the first time since she’d started her search, Devyn felt a surge of hope. She blinked at the smooth-faced concierge and
hesitated a second, making sure she understood the thick Belfast accent. “Yes.”
He angled his head to the side and sent his thumb in the same direction, silently telling her to separate from the other guests
lined up for help in the lobby of the Europa Hotel.
“She’s here, but she’s not here,” he said, his youthful eyes wide, a sweet flush of color on his pale cheeks, as though getting
that close to a woman didn’t happen every day. “What I mean is she’s checked out but left bags.”
Hope soared for a moment. After all the B and Bs, hotels, and hostels she’d tried throughout Belfast and the surrounding area,
this was the first time someone had given her any concrete information. She resisted the urge
to grab his arm and demand more, asking calmly, “Are you certain it’s Dr. Sharon Greenberg, an American?”
He flicked his fingers around his cheeks. “Lots of silver hair, kinda curly?”
She’d seen Sharon’s pictures on the university Web site, and the description of Sharon’s distinctive white waves fit enough
that optimism took a stronghold in Devyn’s chest. “So she’s coming back here, to this hotel?”
“Thursday,” he said. “She told me herself.”
Two days. She almost kissed him. “Did she say where she was going?”
He shrugged, but something about the gesture indicated he knew more than he was telling. “A side sightseeing trip, I assume.
That’s why most guests leave their luggage here. Are you a guest at the Europa as well, miss?”
She should be. “Yes, I’m checking in today,” she announced without giving it a moment’s thought. She’d chosen a much smaller
inn, rather than one of the few glitzier hotels in Belfast, but with the possibility that she’d found Sharon, she would definitely
move into the Europa to wait for her. “Can you call me when she shows up for her bags?”
“Of course. I’m Patrick.” He smiled self-consciously.
“Thank you, Patrick.” She automatically reached for her bag to tip him, but he waved her off.
“No, not necessary, miss. I’m happy to help you find your friend, as she was a lovely lady, right down to the bone.”
That was reassuring. “And you’re sure she’s coming back Thursday? Could it be sooner?”
“She was quite specific, but you know, there’s plenty to do in Belfast while you wait.”
“I’ll just wait here,” she said.
“You can, of course, but most people who are sightseeing in this part of Northern Ireland go up the coast for the day. Maybe
your doctor’s up there. I can arrange a car for you, if you like, and you can see our sights. The Giant’s Causeway is quite
famous, as is the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge. It’s a lovely day for a ride, and I can have you taken care of by the best driver
we have.”
She’d love to get out of Belfast and see the coast, but since she’d arrived in Northern Ireland, her entire focus had been
on trying to find Sharon—without even knowing if she was here—not sightseeing. So the suggestion was tempting.
“I may do that, but I’ll get my own car, thank you.”
“Be careful if you get a private driver, ma’am. They’ll rip your pocket book ’round here. Are you sure you won’t let me arrange
one?”
“I’ll rent a car,” she said. The freedom of driving up the coast, holding on to that hope that she’d found Dr. Greenberg,
suddenly appealed to her immensely. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Will you be here?”
“Until six tonight,” he said. “After that I’m on the graveyard, so you’ll only see me if you’re an insomniac.”
“Patrick!” Another concierge called from the desk with a dark look and a gesture to the line. “We need you, man.”
“Go.” Devyn gave him a friendly nudge. “And thank you.”
Feeling lighter than she had for days, Devyn turned to survey the hotel she’d just decided to check into,
heading to the front desk to hold a reservation for a few days. There, a sweet-faced young girl helped her and then iced the
cake by nodding and clicking a keyboard when Devyn asked if she could check on the status of another reservation.
“Yes,” she said, eyeing her screen. “Dr. Greenberg is due back on September fourteenth, holding a reservation until the sixteenth.”
Life was suddenly all sunshine and roses after days of doubt and dead ends. “Thank you so much,” Devyn said, hoisting her
handbag over her shoulder.
As she passed the rack of brochures, she snagged one with the words “Antrim Coast” in large yellow letters, flipped it open,
and walked right smack into a six-foot-tall man.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She backed away, feeling a heated flush rise along with a bump where her ankle had slammed the corner of
his luggage.
“Excuse me,” he apologized, hurriedly rolling the bag away.
“Not at all,” she assured him, holding the brochure as evidence of her clumsiness. “I wasn’t… looking.” And she should have
been. Because he made the Irish coastline pale in comparison.
“Not very smart of me.” His voice was melodic, warm. And American.
“Nor me,” she replied.
He melted her with a smile that lit eyes the color of ripe black olives, revealing straight white teeth that stood out from
a sexy shadow of whiskers. “You’re from the States. Where?” he asked.
“Boston.” The truth was out before she could think,
but then her brain had flatlined the minute he’d turned around. “You?”
“New York.” He winked at her. “We’re practically neighbors. Are you staying here?” he asked with just enough hope to give
her an unexpected tingle of pleasure.
“I just checked in.” She wanted to step away, but something magnetic kept her there for a beat too long.
“You’re off to the Antrim Coast?” he asked.
She drew back. “How do you know that?”
“Lucky guess.” He tapped the brochure. “Heard it’s pretty up there.”
“Looks like it’s”—she fingered the brochure—“pretty.”
He smiled again, a tease in his eyes that made her stomach flutter. Then he reached out his hand. “I’m Marc Rossi.”
His palm was warm and dry, his grip strong, his fingers long. “Devyn… Smith.” A New Yorker could easily have heard of Joshua
Sterling’s murder last summer, and she just wasn’t prepared to deal with that. This stranger in the lobby didn’t need to know
her real name. “It’s nice to meet you, Marc.”
In return, she got one more flash of a smile, a hint of dimples embedded in hollow cheeks, and warmth in his remarkable eyes.
“You’re not going to invite me along on your day trip, are you?”
She withdrew her hand slowly. “No. But I’ll take a picture for you.”
“I’ll look for you this evening, then. In the bar, right over there?”
“I have no idea what time I’ll be back. Maybe. We’ll see.” She gave him a wistful smile and stole a glance at
his expensive cotton shirt, but she really only noticed how nicely his shoulders filled it out. “Sorry for walking right into
you like that.”
“I’m not.”
She laughed softly. “You’re good at that,” she volleyed back, still not moving from the magic of his eyes. “But you’re not
getting the invitation.”
“Then I’ll work harder next time.”
Like he was so sure there’d be a next time. “Bye.” She turned away and headed to the door, the reason she’d come to the hotel
and the successful outcome of her discussion with the concierge momentarily washed from her mind.