Tasting Fear (16 page)

She snorted and grabbed another piece. He made another cautious attempt at conversation. “So the conference is going well?”

“Excellently,” she said, fishing for a napkin. “I’ve given out scads of promo packets. We’ll get lots of bookings. And the showcases all went wonderfully.”

“I’m glad,” he said.

She took a sip of her soda. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation. In some ways, I think you’re right. But in others—”

“Let it go,” he offered. “I was way out of line.”

She studied him with her wide, brilliant, leaf-colored eyes. “Only somewhat out of line,” she conceded gently. She took her cell out of her purse, made a big show of turning it off, and got to her feet. “Have to wash off pizza grease,” she murmured, disappearing into the bathroom.

He pinched out the jack of the room phone. This was a delicate moment. He didn’t want anyone to interrupt it and fuck it up. He peeled off his shirt, in the interests of saving time, and followed her into the bathroom. She washed her hands and face, patted herself dry. Her eyes locked with his in the mirror. Full of longing.

He longed for it, too. He reached around, trapping her against his body. He plucked off her glasses, pulled her hairpins out, unraveled the coiled braided hair, and smoothed the crimped waves over her shoulders.

He wrenched his belt loose, got rid of the rest of his clothes. Nancy gave him that secret little sorceress smile that drove him wild and glanced down at his stiff, rampant erection. She petted it.

“Ever ready,” she murmured. “At attention.”

“Fuck yes,” he said. “For you. Always.”

He tugged the snug black sweater out of her jeans and peeled it off over her head. Her bra was silvery green, a sheer, lacy thing.

“Wow,” he said, admiring it. “Look at that. Fancy underwear.”

“I thought I might get lucky,” she whispered.

He unhooked the bra and tossed it away, ran his hands over her velvety softness, felt the muscles that moved sinuously beneath it. Marveling at the translucent perfection of her small, high breasts.

“I’m the lucky one,” he said. “God, look at you. So beautiful.”

She just smiled, but her eyes caught his in the mirror, and they both laughed. “See? I’m making progress, aren’t I?” she teased him. “I no longer flip out and get all uptight and scared when you say that.”

“That’s good,” he said. “But I want you to know it in your bones.”

Her gaze slid away, and she blushed. She didn’t know it, though. She liked to hear it, but she didn’t buy it. He could see it in her eyes, and it made his chest ache. That he could not get past that invisible barrier inside her. Her caution. So deep, it was beyond his reach.

He could only wait. He slid his hand down over her belly to the downy tuft of hair at her muff, and insinuated his finger against that tender, tight furled slit. Just resting it there. “I wish you could see what I see when I look at you,” he said. “It drives me nuts.”

Nancy twisted in his arms and looked into his eyes. Her gaze had suddenly become very focused. “Then we’ll just keep at it, then. Things take time. Right?”

They stared, gripped by tension. “Right,” he said hoarsely.

He turned her, sank down to his knees, and buried his face against the hot, fuzzy ringlets crowning her pussy. He pried her legs a little wider, just wide enough to slide his tongue inside, teasing and fluttering her clit, thrusting deeper to taste her hot, rich flavor.

Hunger swamped his mind, but he kept at it until she shivered and arched and cried out, her body jolting in his grip.

He picked her up, carried her into the other room. He flung her onto the bed. Touching her, kissing her, spreading her out wide and loving her again with his lips and his tongue, again, again. Making her sigh and sob and clutch him, begging.

When he finally fumbled the latex on and positioned himself, she took him in so completely, it felt like flames of pure pleasure were licking him, each stroke an agony of delight more perfect than the last. He clutched her, heartbeat clamoring in his ears.

Things took time. Hell yes, they did. All the time she liked. The more time the better. A lifetime would be fine with him.

That amazing idea lifted him up and blasted him into inner space.

Someone was pounding on her door, and probably had been for some time. Nancy struggled out of a dream that had a great deal of gratuitous pounding in it. Liam stirred as she slid out of bed. She found her nightshirt, and slipped it on as she went for the door.

The pounding had redoubled. She pulled the door open and focused on Peter and Enid, who looked electrified.

“Good God, Nancy, you’re not even dressed!” Enid said, dismayed. She peeked into the room, eyes widening when they landed on Liam sitting on the bed dressed only in his jeans. “Remember yesterday at the Exhibition Hall when you were talking to the promoter for the Jericho Arts Center in D.C.? Where Bonnie Blair is opening next week?”

“Uh, yes, of course. I gave him a promo packet. He seemed interested in an opening act sometime,” Nancy said, rubbing her eyes.

“Yeah! That’s just it! Sammy Phillips with the Phelps Bay Blues Band was opening for Bonnie, but he wrecked his car yesterday, and—”

“Oh, no!” Dismay shocked her to full consciousness.

“Don’t worry, Sammy’ll be fine,” Peter said impatiently. “But he broke his collarbone. Enid and I were having coffee, and the promoter came up and asked if we’re free Wednesday! I told him are we ever!”

Nancy was wide awake. “Opening for Bonnie Blair? At the Jericho? You mean
this
Wednesday?”

Enid and Peter nodded violently, identical wide grins splitting their faces. “Is that megaspectacular, or what?” Peter crowed.

“That’s incredible,” Nancy breathed. “I’ve got to get on the phone right away to the presenter. To all the venues in D.C., Maryland, and Virginia. I’ve got to get pictures to the press, I’ve got to—”

“But that’s not all,” Enid said. “There’s more! Get this, Nance! There just happened to be this exec from MGM Studios in Hollywood staying at the hotel, and he heard our showcase! He loved it!”

“Hollywood?” Nancy rubbed her eyes again. “Excuse me?”

“His name is Maitland Sills, and he’s going to put his production department in touch with us! He says ‘The Far Shore’ is perfect for the closing credits of a big-budget feature film they’re doing, starring Brad Pitt! And you have to talk to him pronto, Nance, because he’s leaving for Logan Airport in an hour. He’s got a meeting this afternoon in L.A.”

“Holy crap,” she said slowly. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Enid and Peter exchanged long-suffering glances. “Your cell was off,” they said in unison.

“I was going to introduce you to Sills last night after the showcase, but you disappeared,” Peter scolded.

“So why not call the room?” she snapped. “You knew my number!”

“Disconnected,” Enid said triumphantly.

Nancy’s head whipped around to check. Sure enough. No jack in the phone. Liam met her eyes and lifted his big, muscular shoulders in an unapologetic shrug. She felt the tension begin to gather in her neck.

“Time to focus, Nance. No more distractions,” Peter said, staring at Liam. “You’ll come to the Jericho gig, right?”

“I definitely should,” she said.

“It’s happening, Nance!” Enid burbled. “We’re going to hit big!”

Liam moved around in the room behind her. Nancy suddenly remembered their sailboat plans. Her stomach took a nosedive. “Oh. I, um, did have plans for the next few days,” she said hesitantly. Liam’s naked, muscular back was to her. He rifled through his overnight bag.

“Postpone ’em,” Peter said carelessly. “This is the chance of a lifetime. We’ve gotta jump on it with both feet.”

“Uh…yeah,” she said, glancing anxiously behind herself.

Peter followed her gaze, and his face hardened. “He’s not coming with us, though,” he said. “So don’t even think about it.”

“Don’t worry,” Liam said remotely. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Peter made an impatient sound. “Well? Enid will stall Maitland Sills while you get yourself together. Hurry! See you in a few.”

Nancy shut the door and turned to face Liam.

His face looked hard. “So we can forget our plans?”

She pressed her fist against her mouth. Shit, shit,
shit.
“I’m so sorry, Liam, but everything has to stop for this gig,” she said apologetically. “I’ll be on the phone nonstop for days to publicize—”

“I understand perfectly,” he said.

Hope stirred briefly. “You do?”

“Of course. I shouldn’t have put down a deposit. It was stupid. There’s always going to be something more important for you. Always.”

Hope shriveled and died. She stared at his averted face as he fished under the bed for his shoes. “Liam, I would love to go on this boat trip with you! We can go when I get back!”

“Something else will come up. And something else after that. I know that tune by heart.”

She shook her head helplessly. “We’re not listening to the same tune, Liam,” she said miserably. “And we couldn’t keep up this eternal vigilance routine much longer anyhow. I understand the impulse, and I honor it, but we both have to make money, and this is the biggest—”

He held up his hand. “Stop. You’re just making it worse.”

Her knees went weak with dread. “We’ve hit that wall, haven’t we?”

Liam dragged a shirt over his head and tucked it into his jeans with swift, economical motions. “We are roadkill,” he said.

She lurched forward and laid her hand on his chest. “Liam, it can’t be over just because of this. This is stupid. It’s just bad timing.”

He stepped back. Her hand dropped, with nothing to hold on to.

Her jaw trembled. “I was starting to think we had a chance.”

“So come with me,” he challenged her. “You can’t, can you? Of course not. You’ve made your choice.

No big deal. Don’t sweat it.”

“Liam, I’ve been working for this moment for my whole adult life!”

“Good luck, then.” He took the revolver from the back of his jeans, opened the cylinder and shook the bullets out into his hand. He tossed the empty gun into his bag. “You’d better start making those phone calls.”

“Wow,” she said. “You are the most rigid, uncompromising person I have ever known.”

“Remember what I said last night about putting my foot down? That’s what it all boils down to.”

“And you don’t care what gets crushed under your boot?”

He shrugged on his coat. “This conversation is over.”

Nancy grabbed his arm. “You can’t just cut me off like that!”

He wrenched away. “Watch me.” The door thudded shut.

Nancy sank down onto the bed. The silence was deafening.

J
ohn scanned the shifting crowds. His face itched from the fake goatee, and he sweated heavily in the overheated hall as he listened with half an ear to the self-serving prattle of the blond slut singer.

He’d begun to fantasize about shutting her up. Definitively. After she’d delivered the services she was blatantly advertising with the rolling eyes and the heaving tits. At least she wouldn’t be chattering for that. He’d keep that shiny pink mouth way too busy to talk.

Where the fuck was Nancy, anyway? He did not want to converse with these idiot musicians any longer than was necessary. He was good at improvising a rap, but his ruse as a Hollywood movie producer was a thin one. Anyone asking the right questions would cop to it in no time.

Fortunately, Enid Morrow was too self-absorbed to ask the right questions. And Nancy herself would never get a chance to ask them. He fingered the tiny little transparent gel capsule in his pocket. A designer drug, exactly calibrated for her size and weight.

But where the fuck was she?

He was anxious to get on with it. Instinct was pricking and prodding, saying
now, now, now.
Even with people around, if he started the job at the right moment and pushed on through, hard and swift and decisive, they would probably be too absorbed in their own shit to figure out what was happening. All they’d notice would be a confusing kerfuffle of motion, a brief swell in the noise level, and
voilà.
Back to normal.

“…sorry that she’s so late this morning. It’s totally unlike her,” the slut singer burbled.

He smiled and stared at her tits. She obligingly arched her lumbar spine to facilitate his view. “I just hope I have a chance to discuss it with her before I go,” he said. “I wanted to present this idea to the meeting with my team in L.A. this afternoon. Get the ball rolling.”

“Of course,” Enid cooed. “It’s like fate! That you happened to be at the hotel by pure chance, and heard us play!”

“Yes, it is.” He scanned the room with his peripheral vision beyond the halo of blond ringlets in the foreground.

There!
Looking pale and tousled and waiflike, her hair streaming loose. Last night’s makeup smudged around her huge eyes. She must not have even taken a shower. Probably had Knightly’s nasty spunk still inside her body. That dirty little bitch.

His heart rate quickened, his mouth watered, his dick stiffened. His instincts, his senses sharpening. Ah. He loved this part. She was his succulent little rabbit. He was the hawk, poised to dive and rend.

Enid craned her neck. The effort popped her bosom further out. “There she is! I’ll introduce you, Maitland—can I call you Maitland?”

“Of course,” he said. She hooked her arm around his elbow and towed him through the room. Aw. How sweet. His new little best friend.

“Hey! Nancy! This is Maitland! He’s the producer I was telling you about from MGM Studios!” Enid sang out.

Nancy looked over at her, her face oddly stiff and blank. “Huh? Oh. Enid, hi. Hey, have you seen Liam?”

Enid’s jaw dropped for a second. “Um, not lately, Nancy,” she said, in a warning tone. “Focus, please. Did you hear me? Maitland Sills? The guy from MGM Studios? Hollywood? Hello? Earth to Nancy?”

But Nancy kept rising onto her tiptoes, her gaze sweeping the room. “Hollywood? That’s nice. Could you folks excuse me for a sec?”

“Nancy!” Enid hissed. “Don’t be an idiot!”

“I’ll just be a moment. I need to check something in the hall.” She slipped like an eel through the crowd, and disappeared.

The predator inside him howled and gnashed its teeth.

Enid caught the vibe, and shot him a nervous look. “Um, ah, alrighty, then. I’m sure she’ll be right back. Say, how about if you just meet with me and Peter? We can speak for ourselves when it comes to big career decisions. Just come with me.” She began to tug on his arm.

Nancy had disappeared. The moment might be lost. The slut singer pulled again, babbling with a smile he wanted to knock right off her doll-like face. She tugged harder. His patience came to an abrupt end. He yanked his arm away, so roughly she teetered, stumbling on her tottering spike heels. “What is wrong with you?” she squawked.

He stared into her eyes. “Get out of my way.” He put a vicious punch of venom behind each softly uttered word.

Enid shrank away, stammering.

He forgot her utterly the second he turned his back on her and hurried after his prey, blood pumping fast and hot and hungry.

As Liam strode through the lobby, he avoided the hostile gaze of that butthead Peter Morrow as he strode through the lobby. He felt like he was caught in the guts of some pitiless machine, and it would churn on whether he was smashed to a pulp in its grinding gearwork or not.

He didn’t want to leave her alone, with the stairwell assholes gunning for her. He didn’t want to leave her at all. But that was not his problem. She’d made that clear. It never had been. She wasn’t his wife, his fiancée, even his girlfriend, and she wasn’t going to be. Because relationships weren’t based on fleeting perfect moments. They were based on solid, firm things. Respect. Compatibility. Shared interests.

Strange, how tired and pat that thought felt. Like he’d thought it a thousand times before, and worn off the nap.

“Liam!” Eoin bounded across the room toward him like a jackrabbit on crack, his eyes alight like flashlights in his skinny face. He had partied all night long, but he was still revved. “Hey, what’s up?” He looked at Liam’s bag. “I thought you were staying till tomorrow!”

“Can’t,” he said, though his mouth felt dusty and dry. “Gotta go.”

“I’m glad I saw you, then. A favor before you go, eh? I’ve been telling Eugene about that set of reels you wrote. I remember ‘The Dusty Shoon,’ and ‘Traveler’s Joy,’ but not the B and C parts of ‘The Old Man’s Beard.’”

His stomach curdled in dismay. “I have to go. Another time.”

“Oh, man, please?” Eoin entreated. “It’ll only take five minutes. Eugene has his DAT to record it. I had this great arrangement worked out, and the lads love it!”

Liam’s jaw ached from clenching so hard. “I don’t have my fiddle.”

“Eugene will lend you his!” Eoin’s eyes pleaded. “Five minutes?”

Christ on a crutch. Five minutes of stomach-churning agony. But he didn’t want to burden Eoin by telling him that the world had just ended. He let himself be towed into the small conference room and tucked Eugene’s fiddle under his chin. Tried to compose himself.

The kid was having such a great time. Let him fly, as far as the air currents would take him. A guy crashed to earth soon enough.

Liam wasn’t in the lobby. Nor in the parking lot. Nor in the showcase halls, or the alcoves, or the vending machine corners, or the lounge, or the gift shop, or the restaurant. No. He was gone. It was over.

Sadness settled down, like a smothering blanket. She’d come to depend upon him for feeling good. The world looked wretched and empty, dirt poor without him. And she was so angry. She wanted to break windows, smash furniture.

She couldn’t have caved to his demand. It took two to make a compromise. If she blew off an opportunity like this out of fear, she’d never respect herself again. And he wouldn’t respect her, either.

“Ms. D’Onofrio? Are you all right?”

Nancy dashed away tears, and looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“Can I get you something?” It was Enid’s Hollywood studio exec. Big, beefy guy. Muscle going to fat. He had a sleek black goatee on his broad face, gleaming black hair. His eyes were full of concern.

She tried to orient herself, vaguely remembering that this guy was significant for some reason. She was supposed to be kissing his ass.

“No,” she whispered. “Thanks. I’m fine.” She dug around in her pocket for a tissue. It was coming back to her now, in little fragmented pieces. The studio exec. The time crunch. The plane leaving for L.A. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We were supposed to have a meeting, right?”

“Yes, but it’s all right. I can see you’re not well,” the guy said.

Her spine stiffened with embarrassment. “No, actually, I’m fine. You’ve got a plane to catch, so let’s go to the bar and have some coffee.”

But Sills led her right past the bar and into the restaurant. He walked briskly past the few free booths, and sat down in the oddest spot. A table, not a booth, and way in the back. Out of sight of all but a few of the booths, but annoyingly close to the kitchen door, which continually swung open as tray-laden waitresses bumped and bashed their way through with hips and elbows to carry out orders.

The waitress brought them a carafe of coffee. Maitland Sills poured and pushed the cup across the table. “You look tired,” he said.

Did he but know. She gave him a wan smile, and took a deep, grateful gulp of coffee.

She knew within three seconds that something was wrong. A numb, crawling feeling spread from the tips of her toes and fingers, creeping inward toward her core. Her heartbeat, louder and faster in her ears. She couldn’t move. She was frozen, fighting to keep breathing as the darkness rose. What the hell? Was this a panic attack?

She looked into the eyes of the MGM studio exec. Her insides flash froze. Those dark eyes, fixed and cold. Reptilian. His mouth, so wet. Her eyes fluttered, and in those brief eyelid flickers, she saw like tiny nano-sized film clips the monstrous thing he was beneath his human mask. Something fanged, tusked. Ravenous and foul.

His breath was fetid. It smelled like death.

He leaned forward and pitched his voice low, like a snake’s hiss. “Do you wonder what your mother’s last words were when she was gasping on the floor, Nancy?” he crooned. “Do you want me to tell you?”

She tried to open her mouth, scream for help. Nothing worked.

A waitress burst through the kitchen door and bustled past them without looking at them. The open door let a wave of clattering sound swell in volume, then diminish again as it swung shut.

He reached across the table, seized the pendant Lucia had given her, and began to twist. The burn of the gold chain tightening around her throat kept her conscious.
Snap.
The chain broke. He pocketed it.

He got up, came around the table, and reached for her.

“Let us by!” John bawled. “Move over! She’s going to be sick!”

He shoved his way through the snarl of employees in the restaurant kitchen. Nancy stumbled alongside him, nearly unconscious. He’d plastered her own hand over her mouth to muffle any sounds she might make, clamping his own hand on top of it. Her hair dangled down to hide her face. He dragged her past a waitress carrying a loaded tray, jostling her hard enough to make her stumble.

Plates of eggs Benedict flew, splattered. Shouts of protest. He hustled on, bellowing, “She’s going to be sick!” whenever anyone tried to interact with him, and burst out the kitchen entrance. He loped past the Dumpsters, toward the corner and the hotel parking lot.

He dragged her into the shrubbery, still doubled over, and let her drop, right next to a big fiberglass instrument case that he’d planted there four o’clock the previous morning. It was for an upright string bass, and big enough to carry a slender, curled-up, drugged woman.

He made barfing, choking noises, for the benefit of any employees who might have poked their heads out of the kitchen, but it was probably overkill, after the mess he’d made in there. They’d be too busy scrambling to clean up and replace orders to pay attention to him.

He snapped open the case in feverish haste and followed his carefully planned choreography. Rip off goatee and wig. Shove them into the case. Shake out his own shaggy dark hair. Strip off jacket. Replace with a fringed yellow leather jacket. Mirrored aviator sunglasses.

He scooped up the D’Onofrio woman, dumped her slight, limp weight into the wide part of the case, folded and tucked her limbs until she fit. Curled up like a chick in an egg. Soft and helpless. Prey.

He did up the fastenings, peeked out of the bushes, and yanked the rolling case onto the asphalt. Walking, oh so nonchalantly, toward his car. He glanced at his watch. From restaurant table to parking lot, barely over three minutes. Good show. He forced himself to stop grinning. Wouldn’t do to get sloppy, or too self-satisfied, or overexcited.

Time enough for excitement later. When it was time to indulge.

A big-name showcase was about to begin. Liam had gotten stuck in the crowd. He shoved his way through the crush, having finally extricated himself from Mandrake’s clutches. Something inside him was pulled so tight, it hurt like a bastard. When that part snapped, he did not know what would happen. He just knew he didn’t want it to happen in public.

A high-pitched commotion was taking place. He tried to wiggle around it, but the press of bodies filing into the hall was too thick. It was the blonde, the singer who was married to the butthead. She was having a snit fit. He didn’t particularly want to know the details, but someone was wheeling a fucking piano into the hall. It blocked his way.

“…can’t believe that guy! That asshole! Can you believe what he said to me?” She caught his eye and promptly directed her outrage toward him before he could turn and shrink away unnoticed. “He shoved me!” she shrieked. “How dare he?”

“Calm down, baby. Don’t freak. There are concert presenters all over the place,” the butthead pretty boy was muttering desperately.

“Calm down? Screw you, Petey! I was, like, attacked in public, and all you can say is just calm down?” She turned her bug-eyed blue gaze to Liam. “He shoved me!” she repeated. “I almost fell!”

“Who shoved you?” Liam asked.

“The producer asshole, but you know what? I bet he wasn’t a producer at all. I mean, he didn’t look like one. He didn’t have that Hollywood gloss. And he was big and fat, and he had bad breath. Like, nobody’s fat with bad breath in Hollywood! And why would he want to talk to Nancy, and not me? I mean, I’m the talent! She’s just—” Enid struggled for a word sufficiently dismissive—“administrative help!”

First the hairs on his back prickled, and then icy cold talons sank into his gut. Big fat guy. Bad breath. Wanted Nancy.
Shit.