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.