Tasting Fear (37 page)

He knew nothing lasted forever. That some people couldn’t stay in one place for long. No need to blame or judge, it was just a fact. Getting upset or uptight about it was like blaming a leaf for being green.

He put on a pot of coffee, just to do something with his hands. People like Vivi D’Onofrio were liable to climb into their truck, or motorcycle, or van and disappear in a cloud of dust. No hard feelings.

That was not the kind of woman he wanted to be attracted to. He knew how that story ended before it began. He was not going to do that to himself. He would not be so blind, so stupid. No fucking way.

He did not feel calm in his center when he looked at her. He wouldn’t be able to stay cool, detached. He’d get wound up, tied in knots. He’d fuck himself up. Royally. He knew it. For a goddamn fact.

But still, he pictured water streaming down over her body, and wondered. Curly ringlets, or straight swatches? Red pubic hair, or dark? Tightly furled, involuted, secretive pale pink pussy lips, or did she have a bright crimson one that burst proudly out of her slit like some sort of exotic flower? Shaved? Pierced, even? And her flavor?

Whoa. That gave him a head rush. He dangled his head between his knees. Trying not to imagine her flavor.

V
ivi tried to relax in the shower. She was so angry at herself for not stopping to bathe and dress before meeting Kendrick. How freaking irresponsible of her. First impressions were so hard to shake. And getting all snotty in his face—what had possessed her? Idiot. She’d always been impulsive, hotheaded. Lucia had lectured and scolded for years, trying to turn her into a lady.

With limited success. But it had been a noble effort.

She turned off the faucet and grabbed one of the big, fluffy towels she’d found on the shelf. She’d found some soap and shampoo over the tub, too, and thank God for it, since she hadn’t remembered to pack bath stuff into her duffel.

She sorted through her bag, hair dripping, taking inventory. Kendrick’s brooding presence outside the van had addled her wits. She’d remembered dog food, for instance, but had forgotten the can opener. She was usually extremely organized. Maniacally so. It was an essential survival skill when one lived in a camper van.

She dragged out bits and pieces from the pockets of her purse and duffel. Matches, pocketknife, flashlight. Strange guy, that Jack Kendrick. He seemed so mellow and quiet, soft-spoken, and then suddenly he was provocative and rude. She hauled out a handful of candles, a pack of her favorite incense. No pans, dishes, or human food. She had to hike back to the van if she wanted to eat.

A bleak, exhausting prospect. Her stomach rumbled.

First things first, though. Edna was waiting patiently, gazing through the glass door from the deck outside in limpid reproach. The pocketknife would not open a can of dog food. She would have to face the man and beg a can opener off him. No avoiding this necessity.

A few careful, anxious primping minutes later, she walked down the stairs, wishing she had a blow-dryer. She needed to fluff herself up, get some volume. With wet hair, she looked even smaller and more insignificant than she already was. Like a wet Persian cat.

She was angry at her silly self for being so nervous. This man had no power over her. He was nothing to her. He just happened to be good-looking and charismatic, that was all. No biggie. She was a normal hetero female. She noticed a good-looking man when one came into her field of vision.

Although she certainly hadn’t thrown out any come-hither glances since the Brian Wilder debacle. That bitter taste in her mouth still lingered, after six years. Six years of celibacy. She could hardly believe it herself, but there it was.

And this falling away, weak-in-the-knees feeling was absurd. Being afraid of what Kendrick thought of her. Wanting his approval. Yikes.

She could not afford to feel so vulnerable.

She’d spent too much energy fighting other people’s opinions and efforts to control her. Like she had with Brian. Just thinking about Brian made her angry, exhausted. Sickened.

She’d worked so hard, given up so much, to be free to do as she damn well pleased. She’d sacrificed a brilliant, lucrative career as a sculptor for that precious freedom and independence. That was why she’d been on the road so long, making the best of the hard choices she’d made. And working her ass off, too, incidentally, which was nothing to be ashamed of. She’d be damned if she’d let some pinheaded, muscle-bound doofus make her feel small, no matter how hot he was.

Her sense of self was too hard-won.

She walked across the luxuriant lawn, up the porch steps, admiring the thickness and variety of the flowers bordering the house and the flagstone walkway. The garden was over-the-top beautiful.

At the front door, she raised her hand to knock, and her hand stopped in midair as her chest constricted. Oh, please. Enough of this crap. She forced herself to rap boldly. Bam-bam, here I am.

The door opened after a moment, and there he was. He seemed even bigger than before, framed by the door. No poncho. She could finally check out all his assets. Wow.

She was absurdly glad that she’d changed into the green rayon dress. She’d even considered taking out the nose ring. Then she’d concluded that the damage was done. Taking it out now revealed more about her fears and insecurities than leaving it in did. And as if that wasn’t enough to make her feel self-conscious, the dress she’d shoved into the duffel was the very one that dipped down in the front and the back, showing off the little flower tattoo over her breast and the sun tattoo on her shoulder.

Just as well. It kept her honest. She’d flaunt ’em. He’d just have to deal with the tattooed, itinerant sexpot that she was. Nyah, nyah.

Other than that particular, the dress was quite modest and feminine and pretty. It was ankle length, just skimming her curves, and it looked great with the little gold and emerald V pendant that Lucia had given her. If her hair had only been dry, it would have covered both tattoos, being more than long and thick enough. But not when wet.

His eyes swept over her, and she suffered a burst of agonizing self-consciousness. She hadn’t packed a bra into her duffel. Her brights were on, big-time, and not just because of the cold, either. She’d put on a little bit of makeup, too, just because, and he was noticing it. Maybe he would think she was trying to impress him. Allure him. God forbid.

He was still in his mud-spattered jeans. Without the poncho, she could see how barrel-chested he was. The T-shirt revealed the muscular breadth of his shoulders. The faded jeans affectionately hugged his powerful thighs.
Talk to the man, Viv,
her frozen brain pleaded.
Say something. Anything. Don’t just stand there gawking at the guy’s pecs.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said, kicking herself for the breathless, kittenish tone. None of that fluttery shit. She had to be an Amazon. A tough broad.

“No bother. Come on in. I made coffee.”

Vivi followed him into a big room with an open kitchen on one side, banks of windows on all sides, paneled in rosy, fragrant cedar. An old-fashioned woodstove had a couple of soft, battered-looking couches grouped around it, and a stack of cut wood tucked into a recessed space in the wall. There was an old-fashioned braided rug, in deep, brilliant colors, on the wood-plank floor. Plants were everywhere: ferns, jades, spider plants, begonias, scores of others she couldn’t begin to identify. The deep windowsills were all lined with clay boxes filled with pale sprouts and tender seedlings. It was warm, cheerful, welcoming. Beautiful.

Jack gestured toward an old trestle table in the kitchen area. “Have a seat. How do you like your coffee?”

“Milk, if you have it, and sugar, please.”

He poured coffee into a huge earthenware mug, reached into his refrigerator, and held up a carton of half-and-half. “This do?”

“Oh, yeah! How luxurious. Nobody I know uses half-and-half anymore. It’s always one percent, or skim. Or that foul nondairy stuff.”

He grunted. “I eat what I like.”

A sudden memory of Brian, who had a precision scale in his kitchen and counted every gram of fat he ate, rose up in her mind. She fought back a silly impulse to giggle and concentrated on stirring a spoonful of glistening, sticky brown sugar into her coffee. She tried not to stare at the way his biceps distended the short sleeves of his shirt.

He sat down across from her. She took a cautious sip. The coffee was delicious. “Great coffee,” she offered, feeling idiotic.

He nodded. Vivi tried to relax, studying the plants, and then noticed that he was staring fixedly at the neckline of her dress. She glanced down, terrified that it was gaping scandalously over her nipple, or something, but no. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Sorry,” he said, looking down. “I, um, was just looking at your eranthis hyemalis.”

She blinked. “My…ah, my
what
?”

He looked embarrassed. “The flower. On your chest. I thought at first that it was
Ranunculus acris,
but then—”

“A
what
?”

He let out an impatient sigh. “A buttercup. But then I saw the leaves. Definitely
Eranthis hyemalis.
Winter Aconite, I mean.”

She looked down at her tattoo. “Oh. Yeah. I like this flower. I noticed it in a friend’s garden, blooming in the snow. That impressed me. The perfect combination of toughness and a good attitude.”

“Yeah, they’re great flowers.” He tore his gaze from her body and stared down into his coffee cup as if there were something really interesting at the bottom of it.

Vivi shoved her damp hair behind her ears. “I came down to ask you a favor.” She took another sip of the bracing coffee. “I forgot some key things when I left the van. Most I can do without, but the most important is a can opener, so I can feed Edna.”

He reached around, pulled open a drawer, and handed her one.

“And some sort of bowl? I forgot her dish, too,” she admitted.

He rummaged in a cupboard for a plastic dish. “Anything else?”

“If I could borrow your broom to sweep out the mud?”

He gestured behind himself, to a corner where a broom and dustpan were tucked. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you. Edna thanks you, too. As only a Labrador retriever can.” Viv took a final sip of coffee and scooped up the bowl and can opener. “I’ll just head on back up to my apartment, then.” She grabbed the broom and dustpan, and pointed herself toward the door. She’d managed not to giggle or simper. Now, if she could get out the door without tripping over the rug, she was home free.

“Wait. Do you have anything to eat tonight?” he demanded.

“No, but Edna and I might just hike back to the van and grab some stuff. It’s no big deal.”

“I’ll take you into town to do some shopping.”

“No, really,” she said hastily. “You’ve gone to enough trouble.”

“No trouble. I need groceries anyway. There’s just the convenience store here in Silverfish, so I’ll take you to the Safeway in Pebble River.”

She was still shaking her head. “I don’t want to put you to—”

“Look,” he said, impatiently. “I won’t be able to eat tonight if I know you’ve got no food up there.”

“Well. That’s, uh, sweet of you,” she said, flustered.

“No, just practical. If you fast, I have to fast. And fasting makes me crabby.”

That was a new concept for her, and she didn’t know what to do with it. He took her baffled silence as assent, scooped up her coffee cup, and took it to the sink. “Be ready in half an hour,” he said.

She opened her mouth to argue but stopped when her stomach rumbled. It was thunderously loud. He glanced over his shoulder, gave her a smile that dazzled her.

And oh, for God’s sake. Whatever.

“Thanks.” With all the dignity she could muster, she still managed to trip over the rug as she left.

To shave or not to shave. It took him ten minutes to work out that philosophical conundrum. He’d been letting his beard grow, figuring what the hell, but after assessing himself in the bathroom mirror, he decided he looked scruffy. He couldn’t go into town with her looking like a bum. Not if she was going to wear that green thing.

He should take her out to dinner, he thought, lathering his face. The thought made him nervous. Like he was a teenager, asking a hot girl out to a dance. What the fuck was he going to do with her now?

His dick had some very good ideas, but they weren’t practical.

The way she’d talked about the flower she’d seen in the winter garden surprised him. That combination of toughness and a good attitude in the Winter Aconite. She’d seen it. That was rare. Most people saw plants as a commodity, a decoration, a means to an end, if they saw them at all. Not many saw them as entities in their own right.

Yeah, and she was probably a woo-woo earth mama type who would commune naked with nature spirits, or something terrifying like that. Jesus. He had to stop shaving for a minute to process that concept, or else risk nicking an artery. Pathetic, sex-starved mountain man that he was.

It had been so long for him, he didn’t even want to do the math.

Maybe he could make the situation go away by pissing her off until she left in a huff. She was proud, prickly. Shouldn’t be too hard.

He wiped off shaving cream as he pondered that option. Maybe he could make crude sexual advances. Infuriate her into leaving. Duncan would kick his ass, but hey. A man had his limits.

But excitement flooded him at the thought of touching her. Stiff dick, red face, pounding heart. He gripped the sink with both hands, and thought it through.

Bad idea. Too volatile. She might press charges against him for sexual harassment, which would be embarrassing and stupid.

Worse yet, who knew? Maybe she’d reciprocate. God help him then. And there was the danger issue, too. Entirely aside from the evil Nazi art freaks, it was flat-out insane for a tiny woman like that to wander around alone in a fucking van, flaunting her sexy little body right and left. Any ignorant redneck dickhead who saw tattoos and a nose ring would instantly draw his conclusions and make a pass.

Repeat after me,
he told himself grimly.
Not. Your. Problem.

That would be the mantra for the day.

Vivi opened to Jack’s knock. He’d shaved, and combed his wet hair back off his face. His face was even more striking now that she could see the stark, lean angles of his jaw, his chin.

She suddenly wondered how long she’d been staring.

At the grocery checkout stand in Pebble River, they eyed each other’s choices with open curiosity. She went for fruit, veggies, stuff from the health food section. He was classic in his tastes, and definitely a carnivore, but most of his groceries were real food, not empty junk. Which did not surprise her, when he looked at his body.

Which she did, at absolutely every opportunity. Unreal. So hot.

In the parking lot, he turned to her as soon as he started up the engine. “Let’s get food,” he said.

“Didn’t we just?”

“I mean a restaurant. You like Mexican?”

“Uh, yes,” she admitted. The idea of a plate of steaming, cheese-smothered enchiladas took her by storm.

The meal went smoothly enough, at first. He started by asking her for a rundown of the security situation, so she munched freshly fried tortilla chips with fabulous fresh salsa and regaled him with the long and harrowing tale of Lucia’s death, the necklaces, the abductions of her two sisters, and the evil Ulf Haupt and his nasty, piglike minion, John, both of whom were convinced that the D’Onofrio sisters could reveal the whereabouts of these mysterious lost sketches if sufficiently terrified or tortured. She showed him her necklace, with its emerald
V
, the last of the trio that Lucia had given them. He squinted at it for a while, from every angle, and handed it back, shaking his head.