Tasting Fear (35 page)

T
he van was stuck in the mud. Nothing could be served by denying that fact any longer. She had to face it. And eat it.

Vivi D’Onofrio killed the engine, shoved her hair back behind her ears, and pounded the steering wheel. The world outside the windshield was a wavering blur of green. Lightning flashed, and she braced herself for the crash. Edna yelped, and scrambled into her lap. Vivi petted the quivering dog. “Easy girl,” she crooned. “It’ll be over soon.”

It had seemed like a good idea late last night, just push on, rain and all.

The real truth was, she’d been scared to stop, with all the weird shit that had been happening. It was hard to argue with stomach-turning fear when she was all alone, with no one to act tough for. She hadn’t been able to face a roadside motel with a single door lock against the night, which was all she could afford. She was the only D’Onofrio chick without a big, vigilant, protective guy giving the hairy eyeball to everyone within shouting range of his new lady. The obvious soft target.

Nope, Vivi was on her own, as usual. Not that she begrudged her sisters their good fortune. They both deserved to have a foxy guy worshipping at their shrines. In fact, those men still didn’t know how lucky they were. They would be discovering it for the rest of their lives.

Thank God, her sisters were as safe with Duncan and Liam as they could possibly be in these strange days. But she was feeling very unworshipped these days. Truth to tell, she’d been feeling that way even before Ulf Haupt and John the Fiend started attacking the D’Onofrio women.

Both her sisters and their men had tried to persuade her to stay with them, but that struck her as nonproductive and embarrassing. How long could a woman realistically sit around like a bump on a log in someone’s home, bored out of her mind, not working, being a financial drain and a big fat fifth wheel? And besides, she really missed her dog.

Nah, she just had to muddle on with her life. Fiend and all.

Vivi stroked Edna’s floppy, velvety soft ears and tried to avoid the hot cloud of dog breath from Edna’s panting mouth. She looked up at the heavy, swollen gray sky. She could call her new landlord, but how embarrassing was that? She checked her phone. Ah. No coverage anyway. She was in the ass end of nowhere. That was the idea. To hide out where the Fiend would never find her.

She’d made it to the town of Silverfish around two in the afternoon, if one could call it a town. Through the torrents of rain, all she had seen was a convenience store, a gas pump, and a boarded-up Dairy Queen. She had followed the directions to progressively smaller roads, arriving at a dirt track with a hand-painted sign that read MOFFAT’S WAY. The last detail scribbled on the envelope.

But Moffat’s Way wasn’t a driveway, but an old logging road, deeply rutted and steep. By the time she realized how rough the road was, the ruts were streams, no place wide enough to turn around. She made a turn into a puddle, sank into the mud, and that was that.

Vivi leaned her hot cheek against the cool window. Edna stuck her nose into Vivi’s hand and gave it a comforting lick. Who knew how much farther this road went on before it came to Jack Kendrick’s land? She hadn’t bothered to inform herself about the nitpicky details.

She spun the tires, just to torture herself, and pondered her options. Time for action. Self-sufficient, proactive Vivi D’Onofrio rises to any occasion, she affirmed bracingly to herself. Psychopathic kidnappers assholes? Bring ’em on.

A long shudder racked her body. Um, maybe not.

She flung open the door of the van, looked in vain for a solid place to put her feet. Edna crawled over her lap, and Vivi clutched the dog’s collar. “Oh, no! That’s all I need,” she said. “Get back in.
In
!”

Edna shrank back, looking reproachful. Vivi rolled her pants up, looked at her cheerful, bright-green high-tops regretfully, and jumped out.

Cold, sucking mud swallowed her feet. She slogged around the van. The tires were half buried. Chilly rain plastered her hair to her scalp and the green T-shirt to her body. She let loose with a stream of explicit profanity, the kind she’d learned in the Bronx as a child, and punctuated it by kicking a slimy tire. Pain shot up her leg.

That’s right,
she thought.
Very impressive, Viv. Very mature.

Farther back, she’d seen what looked like a collapsed shack. Maybe planks laid down in front of the tires would give them purchase to get out of the muck. Beyond the puddle, the road looked driveable.

She’d exhaust every possibility before limping to Jack Kendrick’s house on foot like a cat left out in the rain. Fine first impression that would be, she fumed. She knew only what Duncan had told her. Kendrick was some sort of ex-spy commando who’d been on some top-secret intelligence gathering task force with Duncan years ago. Now, unaccountably, he grew flowers. Duncan had been somewhat vague about the details of that career change, his brain being deep-fried from being insanely in love with Nell.

So this mysterious Kendrick lived in the woods, had an apartment in his barn, and was willing to let her huddle in his flowery bower and hide like a quivering, nose-twitching bunny until they all figured out what the hell to do about these art-hungry psychopaths. Nice of him.

Seriously, though. She was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Duncan assured her that Kendrick knew the score, had agreed to the plan. It had sounded perfect, back in NYC. Too perfect, actually.

Finally. There it was, a stack of gray, weathered planks, rusty nails sticking through them at crazy angles. She wrestled and yanked until she’d extricated a few boards, along with some ugly splinters. Negotiated the slippery boards through the fir thickets. Arrived at the van, soggy, scratched, and panting, issuing a stream of profanity. She hauled out her toolbox, hammered the nails flat, and got down to wrestle them into place. Mud oozed over the tops of the boards, and she was slimed from chest to feet, when she heard the deep voice from behind her.

“I don’t think that’s going to work.”

She started violently, knocking her head on the bumper. “Who is that?” She scrambled to her feet. There was no one there that she could see.

Vivi scanned the trees and reached for the tire iron stowed under the seat, groping until her fingers closed over cold, hard metal. “Where are you?” she called out. She was starting to shake.

“Over here.”

She spun, brandishing the tire iron. A tall man, stood there, half hidden in the trees. He was shrouded in a dull-green hooded rain poncho, dripping with rain. She would never have seen him if he had not spoken. Adrenaline zinged through her. She gave the tire iron an experimental heft.

“What do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that?”

He took a step forward. She raised the tire iron. He stopped. Edna whined.

“Stay, Edna,” she snapped. “Who are you?”

“I’m not going to attack you,” he said, pushing back his hood.

Light, silver-gray eyes, cool and unreadable. His face was brown, lean. High cheekbones, a hooked nose. A scar on one temple slashed down into one of his straight, dark eyebrows, leaving a white line. He had a short beard, or maybe long beard stubble. Dark hair, long and shaggy. He regarded her steadily. Drops of rain beaded his face. He did not look like the Fiend, as Nancy and Nell had described him. This guy was not loathsome, pig eyed, or malodorous.

By no means. This guy was oh-my-God fine looking. She tried to breathe. Her terror was transmuting itself into utter embarrassment.

“Put it down.” A small smile crinkled up the skin around his eyes.

“What?” She realized that her mouth was hanging open.

“The tire iron.” He glanced at her white-knuckled hand.

“Oh.” She felt foolish, panicked. Acutely conscious of the mud on her clothes, the hair stuck to her face, of the way her wet, muddy shirt clung to her tits. Of how incredibly tall he was. Even if he wasn’t the Fiend, he was a complete stranger, and there was nobody around here for miles. Just her. And Edna, the world’s friendliest dog. She looked at the hand that clutched the tire iron. It was shaking.

“The boards won’t work,” he said gently. “It was a good idea, but the mud is too wet and deep.” He took a step closer. She backed away.

He sighed, silently, and picked up a stick, walking away from her around the back of the van, prodding the mud.

Released from the spell of his eyes, she finally managed to exhale.
Get a grip.
He was not going to leap on her like a mad dog. He didn’t look like a killer. Try to be civil. Her face felt so hot, raindrops should be skittering on it like water on a griddle. Insane. She never blushed. “I asked what you were doing here,” she said, trying to sound authoritative.

“This is my land,” he said.

“Oh.” She dropped her gaze, before his bright eyes could catch it and nail it down again. “Do you always walk around in thunderstorms?”

“I like the rain,” he said. “I like the way it smells. And I wish you’d put that thing down.”

“I’ll put it down when I’m ready to put it down,” she said shakily.

He tossed down his stick. “Whatever. Just don’t hit me with it.”

“Not without provocation,” she said.

His mouth twitched. “Would you just chill the fuck out?”

She felt ridiculous, and threw the tire iron back into the van in disgust.

“You travel alone?” he asked.

“No. I travel with my dog,” Vivi replied.

Edna bounded out when her existence was mentioned, landing in the mud with a wet plop. She shook herself, trotted over to the stranger, and gave his large brown hand a sniff. She yelped her approval and leaped up on him.

“Down, Edna,” Vivi ordered, startled. Edna had never cozied up to strangers. It made her feel vaguely betrayed. “Get back in here!”

The dog trotted back, panting into Vivi’s face. “Sorry about that,” she told him.

“No problem.” A brief smile lit his face. “Nice dog.”

“Too nice,” Vivi muttered. She started to push back the tangled hair that clung to her face, but stopped. Mud on her hands.

He gazed at her, with that supernatural calm. Maybe hanging out in nature for too long did that to a guy. Look at him, walking through the pouring rain because he liked the way it smelled. Give her a break.

It made her feel frantic, citified, stressed out. A shallow little squeaking hamster racing on the wheel. And the hungry fanged kitties lurking, licking their chops. Waiting for their lunch.

Oh, Christ, she needed a vacation. A night’s sleep. Something.

“You’re stuck,” he remarked.

She suppressed a sarcastic comment about stating the glaringly obvious, and concentrated on wiping her hands on her drenched T-shirt. Good grief. He could see everything through that shirt. She hadn’t worn a bra. She wasn’t wearing a jacket. She was blushing. Again.

“I noticed that actually,” she said. “Can you tell me how might I get a tow around here?”

He prodded the mud with his stick once again, looked up at the lowering clouds. “No,” he said. “See how steep that hill is? No one can pull you out until this dries up.” He stroked Edna’s head. “So why did you bring this piece of junk out onto the worst road in the county in the middle of a thunderstorm?”

“This van is not junk,” Vivi flared. “It’s been my home for years, and it’s perfectly fine. It’s the road that’s the problem, not my van!”

He looked incredulous. “You live in this thing?”

“I’m a craftswoman,” she informed him. “I work the craft fair circuit, so I live on the road. Up till now, that is.”

“Interesting, but it doesn’t explain what you’re doing on my land.”

Why, that arrogant putz. “None of your business,” she snapped.

“It is now,” he said. “This thing is blocking my road.”

Vivi lifted her chin. “Didn’t you just say that nobody’s going to be driving on it until it’s dry?”

His eyes caught hers, held them fast. “True enough,” he said. “But it’s still my land.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. Not ogling her, but her body still shivered, as if he were checking her out inch by inch.

She suppressed an urge to cross her arms across her breasts. She would remain nonchalant, or die in the attempt. “Besides, I’m not trespassing. I’m going to my new place. How far is it to Kendrick’s?”

The man’s face went blank for a second. Then his brow furrowed. He stared at her, then at the mud-splattered, fantastical painting on the side of her van. “Don’t tell me you’re Vivien D’Onofrio.”

Tension started to tighten, in her belly, her neck. “And just why shouldn’t I tell you that?”

“You’re not what I expected,” he said. “I have to talk to Duncan.”

“Oh, my God. You mean, you’re Jack Kendrick?” She stared at him, speechless. She’d been expecting a stolid jarhead type, older, thicker, with graying hair buzzed off.

Not a silver-eyed sex god who loved to walk in the rain.

“You’re early,” he said, an accusing note in his voice. “Duncan sent me an e-mail last night saying you were still in Idaho yesterday. I expected you this evening, or tomorrow. What, did you drive all night?”

“Uh, yes.” He didn’t need to know what a cowering scaredy-cat she was, so she skipped the explanations, while running their entire conversation through her mind, trying to assess how rude she’d been.

Hmmph. Pretty bad. No ruder than he deserved, but still. She had to make an effort. He was doing her a big, fat favor, after all. “Um. Seems like we got off to a bad start,” she said, trying to sound conciliatory.

“Yeah, it does.” He no longer looked Zen mellow. He looked pissed.

Vivi asked carefully. “What do you mean, not what you expected? she asked. “What were you expecting?”

“Duncan told me you were a professional designer with a stalker problem who needed to drop out of sight for a while. He did not tell me that you were a tattooed, itinerant teenager sexpot neo-hippie.”

Vivi’s jaw dropped. Teenager? Neo-hippie?
Sexpot
, for God’s sake? All thoughts of conciliation vanished. “You rude son of a bitch!” she hissed. “I
am
a professional! You owe me an apology!”