Excerpt of Shiver Of Fear by Roxanne St. Claire

Devyn powered through the group of smokers outside the pub
door, the stench of their cigarettes strangling.  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, able to
see the door, but tucked away, still breathless from the
impetuous decision that sent her running through the streets
of Belfast.

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.

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 him, 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 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.

That back hall was poorly lit, a tiny corridor with two
closed doors and an overpowering smell of beer and
bathroom.  At the far end, an outside exit.  She pushed a
latch and stepped into a narrow alley, a brick wall right in
front of her, not much 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 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
knows what else to run.  He couldn’t hurt her inside that
pub, and he’d have to answer some questions. 

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.  Over her
shoulder, she saw a man step into the alley.  Not Marc, 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 steps 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 throw money at this guy and….

Five feet away, his nostrils flared with each breath. 
Shaved bald, thick-necked, fat lips.  Scarily silent.

A shiver of fear vibrated through her.  This man didn’t want money.