Tasting Fear (38 page)

“Un-fucking-believable,” was his laconic comment.

“Tell me about it,” she agreed, fervently.

Then he started asking questions about herself. She told him about studying art in New York, and her brief, dizzying burst of artistic success when she signed the contract with Brian’s gallery. She did not mention her personal relationship with Brian, or why she’d broken the contract and run. In fact, she started glossing over more and more details. It was that cool, assessing look in Jack’s eye that shut her up. It bugged her. Like he knew something about her. Or rather, like he’d already made up his mind.

“So, you just left everything you built when it was all going so well, and ran off into the sunset to find yourself?” he asked.

She bristled. “I suppose you could say that, if you were being unkind. I didn’t like the way the gallery management was pushing me around. I decided I’d do better on the road, on the crafts fair circuit, developing my own designs. With nobody breathing down my neck.”

“I guess you must hate that more than anything,” he said.

She frowned, unnerved. “Hate what?”

“Having someone breathing down your neck.”

She frowned at him, pondering that. “Depends on the person,” she said slowly. “And it depends on what they want from me.”

“Doesn’t it always. Did you break any hearts when you ran?”

Vivi’s eyes narrowed. His hidden agenda was rearing its horned, fanged head, big-time. “That sounds like a trick question,” she said. “Personal, too.”

“Just wondering.”

She stared down at her half-eaten enchiladas. Her appetite was fading.

“So you did leave someone,” he said.

Her teeth clenched. “I broke up with the man I was seeing before I left, but I had damn good reason,” she said.

“Yeah? What?”

Well, actually, I found out that he was the devil
, she wanted to say, but didn’t, it being none of his damn business. “You have no right to judge me,” she told him.

From there, the conversation went sharply downhill. She did her part, but his responses were terse monosyllables. And his shuttered, glittering stare was starting to unnerve her.

She took a swallow of her margarita, and stared him in the eye. “Look, Mr. Kendrick—”

“Call me Jack.”

“Okay, Jack. Just tell me what’s on your mind, okay?”

His eyebrow tilted up at the corner. “What do you mean?”

Vivi shoved her hair back. “I mean, how you judge me for things you know nothing about. I mean, how uncomfortable you are with me.”

“Is that all?”

She shook her head. “What else would I be talking about?”

“I thought you might be talking about the fact that I’m attracted to you,” he said. “I figured you might have noticed that. It’s kind of hard to miss.”

Vivi’s fork clattered loudly down onto her plate. “Ah…”

“But since you brought it up,” he continued, “I might as well just be honest. You’re right. I’m uncomfortable, for two reasons. The fact that I’m attracted to you is one reason. And the other reason—and I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings—is that you are not the type of woman whom I want to be attracted to. That puts me in a bad place.”

Her mouth dropped. “My…type?” she repeated. “And what type is that? Are you one of those meatheads who think that girls with nose rings and tattoos are automatically promiscuous?”

He waved that impatiently away. “No, that’s not the issue. I’m talking about living in a van, moving around all the time, getting bored easily, and leaving things half done. I don’t want to get involved with someone who’s just passing through. It’s a big waste of time.”

Anger burned in Vivi’s stomach. “Hold on, here. Did I invite you to get sexually involved with me without me noticing it? Or did you just assume that my type is sexually available to everyone?”

Jack took a swallow of beer. “No. You didn’t. And I didn’t.”

“Let me get this straight. You want to nail me, but you think I’m scum, and you don’t want me around lowering your property value.”

He frowned. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t say ‘scum.’”

“I call it how I see it,” she shot back. “You want me to get so pissed off, I just pack up and leave, right? Is that your plan?”

He forked up a bite of his steak fajita and stared at it. “That would be my plan, if it weren’t for this danger issue,” he said, reluctantly. “It does sound like you’ve got one hell of a security problem. But I don’t—”

“Then let me make a revolutionary suggestion,” she announced. “Get this, Kendrick. I know this idea might shock you to your toes, but how about if we just don’t have sex?”

He smothered a laugh, covering his mouth with his napkin, his eyes darting around the restaurant. “Uh—”

“It’s the perfect solution,” she went on, with false cheerfulness. “Amazing in its streamlined simplicity. You don’t have to fuck me, if it would be so upsetting to you. Aren’t you relieved? Isn’t that just an incredible load off your mind? Just ignore me, okay? It’s easy. I’ll just stay out of your way and do my own thing.”

He looked alarmed. “And what exactly is your thing?”

She shrugged. “Living my life. Making my art. Duncan mentioned that you have a studio in the barn, but I’ll understand if you don’t want me to use the space. The apartment will do nicely for now.”

Jack rose, bumping the table and knocking over the beer bottle. A fork fell to the floor. The restaurant went dead silent, and a waitress froze in position, holding her trays of food. Jack cursed softly. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Fine.” She got up, and began digging for her wallet.

“I’ve got the check,” he said.

She swept past him, elbowing him out of her way at the cash register. “I’d rather die than let you pay for my meal.”

Vivi sat as far from Jack as possible in the truck. After he pulled into the driveway, she climbed out without a word, slammed the door, and reached for her groceries.

He tried to take the bags from her. She jerked them away.

He yanked them back. “Don’t be stupid,” he growled.

She followed the crunch of his boots on the gravel through the darkness and followed him up the stairs, still fuming.

He opened her door with his own key, flipped on the light, and set her bags on the kitchen counter. They stared at each other as Edna leaped and danced and wagged her enthusiastic greeting.

“Good night,” Vivi said, pointedly.

“Where are you going to sleep?” he asked.

She opened and closed her mouth. “Wha—what?” she forced out.

“There’s no bed here. Where are you going to sleep?”

“Ah,” she murmured, blushing.

There was a faint, fleeting hint of a smile in his eyes. “I wasn’t suggesting my own bed.”

“I didn’t think you were,” she lied, her blush deepening. “I’m sleeping in my sleeping bag. It was hooked to my backpack. See?”

“Just a sleeping bag? On the bare floor?” He sounded shocked.

“I’m used to roughing it,” she said coolly.

He frowned, ruffling Edna’s ears. “No one sleeps on a bare floor in my place,” he said. “I don’t care what you’re used to.”

“Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but strictly speaking, it’s not your place. I’ll be paying rent. So don’t treat me like a guest.”

He turned and stalked out the door, disappearing into the dense darkness. Vivi shut the door behind him, breathing out a sigh of relief.

Her battle tension dissipated, leaving her exhausted. She opened the sliding doors and let the fragrant night air into the room. Then, slowly and systematically, she put away her groceries in the big, clean kitchen. So much space, for everything. It felt strange, after the van and her sisters’ microscopic apartments.

Then she lit her scented candles and some sandalwood incense, turned out the overhead light, and sat down cross-legged on her sleeping bag. The graceful, empty room flickering with candlelight soothed her. It felt strange and lovely, to have the door open to the night. To let her senses open and soften, to listen to frogs and insects singing their sweet night songs. She’d been so paranoid and closed up tight these last few weeks. But here, oddly, she felt…safe.

From the Fiend, anyway. If not her own sex-starved stupidity.

It was more a sense of his presence rather than any noise he made that made her nerves jolt into a state of alert. She jumped to her feet as he pushed open the mosquito screen with his boot and stepped through the sliding glass doors. He carried a rolled-up futon without apparent effort, a feather pillow wedged beneath his muscular arm.

“Knock next time,” she said. “I’d appreciate it.”

He gazed over the futon, looking aggrieved. “My hands were full.” He unfolded it onto the floor, tossed the pillow on top.

“For the record,” she persisted, “in the future, I prefer that you not barge in on me like that. Whether your arms are full or not.”

That condescending, dismissive movement he made with his shoulders was making her tense. “You’re not taking me seriously,” she said tightly.

“Don’t worry, I heard you.” His eyes swept the room until they found her sleeping bag. “Will that keep you warm enough?”

“It always has before,” she said. “The futon wasn’t necessary, but thanks, anyway.”

“The incense smells good.” His eyes followed the thin stream of smoke that undulated sensuously from the tiny bronze censer.

“Yes, it does. It’s my favorite.”

A heavy silence fell. “Ah…thanks for the futon,” she said. She’d intended the words to be a dismissal, but they emerged so husky and low and tentative, they sounded almost inviting.

Vivi tried to think of something else to say, but after a couple minutes of strugging, she abandoned the effort. She was too tired. It felt false. And this guy wasn’t interested in social chatter. He just stood there like a mountain in her bedroom. As dense as granite. An unidentifiable emotion burning from his shadowed eyes. He wasn’t leaving until he was ready.

So Vivi waited. She quietly bore the weight of the silence that spread ever wider in the flickering dimness, until it became something more than silence. Anticipation, taut with things that were longing to be said. Waiting. A breeze wafted through the door and put out a candle, casting the room into deeper shadow.

Vivi took matches from her pocket, and turned to relight it.

She started to turn, and froze. He was right behind her.

“Just looking at this.” He pushed aside the hair hanging over her back with his fingertip, barely touching her sun tattoo. “I caught a glimpse of it while you were paying for your dinner, but I couldn’t tell what it was, under your hair.” He traced the small circle with radiating lines. “A sun. Does it have some special meaning? Like the flower?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It’s in memorium. For a friend I lost.”

His hand dropped. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded and turned to face him again. It took all her nerve to raise her eyes to his. When she did, the smoldering hunger in his gaze stole her breath.

“Do you have any other tattoos?” he finally asked.

She lifted her chin, straightened her spine. He had no right to do this, when she was all alone in the dark. Throwing those hot, intense sexual vibes at her, when she was feeling so vulnerable. “That’s for me to know, and for you to wonder about.” She aimed for a crisp, dismissive tone of voice. Insofar as she could, with no breath to back it up.

The breathlessness made it sound like…flirting. God help her.

Sure enough. He didn’t look dismissed. He looked like he was wondering, as she’d just invited him to do. And who could blame him?

He was wondering so hard, she could feel it against her skin.

If he made a move on her now, she wouldn’t have the force of will to push him away. She was gooey to the core. Sopping wet for him. One featherlight push, and down she’d fall, right onto her back.
Take me.

After all her uppity pronouncements. All her fighting words.

“Good night.” He turned, and headed out the door.

Vivi stood for a moment, looking at the black rectangle, open to the fragrant, noisy night. The candlelit room seemed blank and empty.

J
ack paced the length of his living room, hands clenched, stopping at each end like a caged beast.

He’d just spent hours on the Internet, researching Vivi D’Onofrio. Browsing around on her commercial website, looking at her jewelry designs. Necklaces, rings, brooches, earrings, nose rings. Perfume bottles, Christmas tree ornaments, mobiles, jewelry boxes. Made of glass, beads, metal, wood, homemade paper, found materials. The stuff was weirdly beautiful. Unusual. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly that he liked about it, but he liked it.

He wondered how she dealt with her mail-order business. If he were one of the bad guys, the first thing he’d do would be to order a pair of earrings from her site, go to the address they were sent from, and start pushing whoever he found there. Dangerous for everyone involved.

There were also a lot of references regarding a big-shot art gallery in New York City, run by a guy named Brian Wilder. There was a picture of him, one of those stiff, mannered shots, where the guy tried to look smart by holding on to his chin with a hooked finger as if hiding a zit. The guy’s photo triggered instant dislike. Made Jack’s prick-o-meter register way off the chart.

Then he’d studied shots of Vivi’s artwork from the archived catalogs of the Wilder Gallery, from five, six years ago. The same vibe as the pieces on her website, but they were bigger, bolder more ambitious. And the prices staggered him. Jesus wept. Even if the gallery took a huge cut, she could have gotten rich, if she’d stayed with it.

But for some people, freedom was more important than wealth.

That was the thought that had propelled him to this frantic pacing.

The situation was fucked. He could hardly breathe, he was so tense. Wound up, turned on. The way things were going, he wasn’t going to be able to stop himself from tossing her down and having at her, like a beast in rut. And his instincts were telling him that angry and proud or not, she wasn’t going to stop him.

No checks or balances. Nothing to hold him back but his own fast eroding self-control. Everything about her pulled him. He was strung out on the fruity, sweet smell of her hair. The outrageous vivid color of it. He couldn’t get over those big, brilliant eyes, the exotic shape of them. Her delicate, pointed chin. Her pink, full mouth.

He wondered, uncomfortably, who that friend was, the one she’d lost and gotten the memorial tattoo for. He wondered if it was her lover who had died. Wondered if she still missed the guy. Or grieved for him.

Can of worms. None of his business.

Her shoulder was so thin and delicate, decorated with that tiny, stylized sun image. Her skin so smooth, her muscles sinuous and strong, despite how slender her small frame was. Small and perfect.

He looked up at the clock, and did the math. It was six-thirty a.m. in Italy, where Duncan was currently wallowing in romantic bliss, in some picturesque B&B in Tuscany. He’d be unthrilled to be dragged out of the clasp of his new lady’s silken limbs. Served the bastard right for getting him into this. Duncan’s satellite phone rang and rang.

Eight times, nine, ten, eleven. Jack waited, grimly.

Duncan finally picked up. “Jack? Huh? What the fuck?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“I think that’s my line,” Jack said.

“Is Viv okay?” his friend demanded.

“She’s fine,” he said.

“So? What’s the problem?”

“Think about it,” Jack snarled. “Figure it out, Dunc.”

A soft, feminine murmur in the background. A questioning tone.

“Nah, just Jack,” Duncan replied. Another questioning murmur. “He says Viv’s fine. I’ll go talk in the other room. Go on back to sleep.”

Jack heard the sound of a door clicking shut, and Duncan’s voice got harder. “You woke Nell, numbnuts. She needs her sleep. She’s been through hell. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“You never hesitate to call in the middle of the night when the urge takes you. Besides, the sun should be up where you are. Why didn’t you tell me what to expect?”

Duncan paused, baffled. “I did,” he said. I told you all about those sadistic motherfuckers who are after my fiancée and my soon-to-be sisters-in-law. What else do you need to know about the—”

“No. Not about them. I mean, about her.”

“Ah…” Duncan’s voice trailed off. “Oh. I see. You mean, why didn’t I tell you how cute she was? You’re mad because I didn’t fill you in about the long red hair, the big gray eyes, the slender limbs, the rosy lips?”

“Goddamn it, Dunc—”

“You’re a sad case when you need to be warned about shit like that. Did she knock you backward a couple of paces? Figured she might.”

“You didn’t tell me she was a tattooed flower child with a fucking dragon painted on her camper van.” Jack felt frustrated, and stupid. He couldn’t express why he felt so misled, jerked around.

“So it’s the tattoos that bug you.” Duncan clucked his tongue. “Did you see the one she has right over the crack of her ass?”

Jack sat straight upright, as if he’d been stung by a bug. “How the
fuck
do you know that?”

“Saw her in low-rise jeans and a halter top once,” Dunc said laconically. “Sweet.”

“You stinking bucket of festering slime! Aren’t you supposed to be in love with her sister?”

“Whoo-hah, aren’t we passionate,” Duncan murmured. “I
am
in love with the sister. I’m marrying the sister. I’m having fifteen kids with the sister. I’m all over that sister twenty-four seven, like white on rice. But I still notice a mandolin-shaped ass when I see one. So shoot me for sending it your way. God knows, you need something to get you going. Vivi’s good for giving jolts. Chick’s a walking firecracker.”

“So you admit it, then? You set me up?” Jack demanded.

Duncan was silent for a moment. “You’re thinking this is all about you and your deep-frozen dick, aren’t you?” he said slowly. “Well, it’s not, man. Did she tell you what they did to Nell when they took her?”

Jack rubbed his aching forehead. “Dunc, that’s not what I’m—”

“They drugged her. Shoved her into the trunk of a car. Tied her to a chair. They beat her. They would have cut and raped and killed her, if I hadn’t gotten there in time. These are the guys who are after Viv. That’s what they’ll do to her. Think about it, butthead. You paying attention?”

Jack let a fierce sigh hiss between clenched teeth. “Yes.”

“The reason I’m breaking your balls about this is because it’s the only way I could think of to keep her relatively safe short of tying her, gagging her, and locking her in a fucking closet. She is not the most reasonable of females. In fact, she’s, ah, real independent minded.”

“I’ve noticed that,” he said sourly.

“Family trait,” Duncan confided cheerfully. “It’ll drive you bug-fuck, buddy.”

“You need to resolve this thing before that happens,” Jack said tightly. “Got any leads?”

“Not much. Nell and I are renting a car tomorrow, to drive down to Castiglione Sant’Angelo and ask some questions. Nell speaks fluent Italian, you see.”

The fatuous pride in the guy’s voice set Jack’s teeth on edge. “Well. How nice for you,” he said sourly. “Eat a pizza for me. Isn’t that a great excuse to run off and leave me holding the bag.”

“Dude.” Duncan’s voice dropped thirty degrees. “That’s no bag you’ve got there. That’s Nell’s precious little sister. You don’t get any further from a bag than that.”

Jack gritted his teeth. “I didn’t mean to imply that she was a—”

“Stop being such a contrary dickhead. I send a hot, sexy little redheaded thing to liven up your monotonous existence, and you complain? Jesus, Jack! Get the fuck over it!”

“Oh, shut up,” Jack growled.

“Hah! You’re the one who woke us out of a sound sleep at six-thirty in the morning. Just stay on your toes, man. Because those bastards are looking hard for her, and if they find her, she’s meat. And so am I, incidentally, if Vivi doesn’t stay okay. So make her lay low.”

“Yeah, right,” Jack scoffed. “Like I can ‘make her’ do anything.”

“Sweeten her up,” Duncan said impatiently. “Take her to bed. You’re suffering from testosterone poisoning anyway, man. Unload some of that energy before you hurt yourself. Use your dick, use your tongue. Melt her brain. Do what you have to do. Find a way. Keep her safe. Or else.”

Jack hung up on him. He slumped in his chair, dropped his throbbing head into his hands, shifted uncomfortably in his jeans. He was going to rip out his seams if this shit went on much longer.

Sweeten her up. Take her to bed. Use your tongue. Melt her brain.

Right. Duncan’s helpful suggestions contained a small but problematic snag.

The brain in question that was melting was Jack’s own.

John did a drive-by of the Jersey City address stamped on the outside of the mailer. The one with the Vivi D’Onofrio art box in it. Excitement pulsed through him. Finally, a new lead, after these weeks of waiting, listening to Haupt’s shrill lectures. Two weeks ago, he’d ordered the gift box from Vivi D’Onofrio’s website, for the modest price of $115. Today, it had arrived. Finally, a chunk of meat to throw to the old bastard. Finally, something to fucking
do
.

He was trembling with sexual anticipation. Vivien was a skinny little thing compared to her older sisters, with no tits to speak of, but her ass was nice and round, and he liked the fiery hair and the full, pink lips.

He bet she was excellent at sucking cock. She’d have ample opportunity to demonstrate her skill. Girls tried so hard to please when they were motivated. And bad-boy Johnny knew just how to motivate them. Oh, boy, did he ever.

He no longer even bothered to ask himself why he hung around to take the abuse from Haupt. John was a skilled professional, at the top of his game, very highly thought of, in certain select circles. He didn’t need the money, God knew. He could retire right now if he wanted to.

But he wouldn’t. He’d gladly kill for free, for the fun of it, but he didn’t advertise that fact. Bad for business. And besides, he liked money just fine, too. But this job had gone down the tubes weeks ago. It was like he was cursed. It had gotten under his skin. He’d lost his professional detachment, gotten personally invested in the outcome. That was dangerous. A man had to be able to walk when he reached a point of diminishing returns.

His returns on this job had been diminishing almost from the start, but here he still was. Taking it, right up the ass. Day after day.

He couldn’t help himself. He’d been insulted, thwarted, shot at. Stabbed, for God’s sake. That sneaky bitch Antonella had practically punctured a kidney. He’d needed internal and external stitches to fix the damage. He was still on antibiotics. It was still bruised. It still hurt.

Those girls were his now. All three of them. He wanted to feel their hot blood pumping over his hands. Wanted to feel each of them in turn flailing desperately in his grip. Hear them shriek and beg.

Vivien was the obvious one to target. Security was too tight around the other two, at least for now. When the dickheads currently fucking Nell and Nancy were put down like rabid dogs, the situation would be different. Then the way would be clear. Much simpler.

But Vivien had not cooperated with his plan. She’d dropped out of sight. She could no longer be found on the crafts fair circuit. Nor had she been spotted, on vid or in real time, outside her sisters’ residences.

Maybe she was hiding here. In any case, whoever lived at this Jersey City address was going to get a long, chatty visit from John about that mail-order business, and where its owner could be found.

A car stopped outside. John slumped, watching. Four large, burly men in dark suits got out and trotted up the steps of the place.

They entered without knocking. The subtle bulges under their jackets were immediately recognizable to a trained eye. Oh.
Shit.

John’s teeth began to grind, and he clicked open his laptop, typed the street address into a search engine, scanned the hits.

Fuck
. Braxton Security? He knew the name. It was the security firm that rich prick Burke, Antonella’s boy toy, was affiliated with. She’d based her fucking mail-order company out of a goddamn security firm. Swarming with ex-military types, mercenaries, spies, techs.

John was not going to have stimulating chats with anyone today.

Probably cutthroat computer geeks were analyzing all e-mails that arrived at her site. And the addresses to which her merchandise was sent. He accelerated out into the street and peeled away, infuriated.

Fortunately, he was smarter than that. The addresses he’d used were untraceable. The address at which the package had arrived was a busy post office in Queens. He was confident he had not been observed.

But even so. How dare she. Challenging him. Flipping him the finger. He drove for a while, until he came to a large chain store with a vast parking lot and pulled into it. His laptop was still open, so he put it on his lap and pulled up his short list of Vivi D’Onofrio favorites.

One was Brian Wilder’s art gallery. Her work hadn’t been in the Wilder catalog for years, but John was confident Wilder would remember her. Any guy who had sold pieces of art for twelve, fifteen, even eighteen K, would remember the artist who had produced them.

He called up Vivi D’Onofrio’s own commercial website. Clicked on her bio for the photos. She smiled in the sunshine, hair blowing free, wearing a diaphanous white blouse. In another photo, she was decked out like some pagan bride from the Bronze Age in her own jewelry designs. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, armlets, chokers, even a headdress.

Smiling that mischievous angel smile into the camera. He rubbed his tingling dick as he stared into those gray eyes.

Slut
. Laughing at him, from the computer screen. That full, pink mouth wide with mirth.
You idiot
, those eyes said.
You dumb fuck. You just can’t get us. You can’t get close enough. You’re not smart enough.

He could actually hear her shrill, mocking laughter in his mind.

The white mailing box sat on the seat next to him. He wrenched it open and pulled out the gift box. Imagining how her hands had touched it, rubbed it, caressed it. His erection was painfully hard.