Tasting Fear

by Shannon McKenna

  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.

  The box was made of variously sized chunks of translucent, sand-smoothed bottle glass, both brown and green. Edges lined with strips of copper foil. Soldered together by a webwork of fine silver wire. Her business card was tucked into the bottom of it.

  His hand closed over the box in a tight, shaking fist, crushing it. Pieces of glass cracked. Pain stabbed into his hand. Blood dripped out between his fingers. He forced them to open.

  The box was mangled, shapeless, poised on his bloody, shaking claw. The business card with Vivien D’Onofrio’s name was crumpled, bloodstained. He liked the effect.

  He stared at the chunk of garbage and began to laugh.

  Uppity bitch. She thought she’d won. Thought she was smarter. But she’d see who was boss, in the end. Oh, yes, she’d see.

  Vivi woke up slowly, in a bright patch of morning sunshine that streamed through the curtainless window, straight into her eyes.

  She rolled over and found Edna panting right into her face. She stroked the dog’s velvety ears. Wow. She felt so comfortable. The futon was so much softer than the little mattress in her van. Ah.

  And she had to find another bed, fast. She could not be obligated to Kendrick for something so intimate as a bed.

  She pulled clothes on, fed Edna, and munched on some yogurt and granola. The weather was gorgeous. A great day to hike back to the van, locate someone with a tractor, and stay out of Jack Kendrick’s way. But first, she needed to touch base with her sisters and check her e-mail.

  The cell phone had no coverage. She looked around the apartment for a phone jack, and found one next to the back door in the kitchen, but there was no phone attached. She needed a vehicle to buy herself a phone. But it was probably the same phone line as the one in his house. Which meant she would have to ask permission to use it.

  That thought turned her legs rubbery with anticipation.

  She marched out—and a spasm of doubt stopped her on the steps. Maybe just a casual peek in the bathroom mirror, to wash the crumbs out of her eyes. She hustled inside and did the facial-cleansing routine. With toner. And moisturizer. And brushing her hair would be good. And that sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped out was terribly shabby. She rummaged through the duffel. Maybe the green tank—no. Too revealing. The red jersey. A belt, with a big, intimidating buckle. A hint of mascara. And a tiny swipe of gloss for her lips. Barely any.

  One last look into the mirror sent her back to her purse to pull out a pair of silver and carnelian drop earrings. She posed for Edna, who wagged her approval, and out they stepped into the cool morning.

  The fragrance was overwhelming: earth, flowers, pine needles, dew, rain. The air itself seemed to sparkle as it went into her lungs. Birds warbled. Pale sunlight sifted through pine needles, in a fluttering, swaying pattern. She looked around, openmouthed.

  She hesitated before his door. It was seven-thirty, after all. Maybe he was a late sleeper. She’d decided to come back later when an unfamiliar voice called from across the yard. “Hello, there, missy!”

  Vivi whirled around. A small, elderly lady with bluish hair, dressed in a rose-spattered dress and carrying a paper bag, was making her way up the path with the help of a cane. “Good morning,” she replied, smi
ling at the welcome that creased the old lady’s wrinkled face.

  “And what’s your name, young lady?”

  “Vivi D’Onofrio. Pleased to meet you.” She extended her hand.

  The old lady set down the paper bag and took Vivi’s proffered hand, squeezing it gently. “My name is Margaret Moffat O’Keefe, but you can call me Margaret. So! My Jack has been a naughty fellow, hmm?”

  Vivi was nonplussed for a moment, until she understood the twinkle in the old lady’s eyes. “Oh, no! Um, not with me! I barely know him. I’m just a friend of a friend, staying here for a while. In the apartment. Up there.” She pointed to the barn. “I was just looking for him. I was afraid he might be sleeping, so I didn’t want to—”

  “Oh, good heavens, no. Jack’s no slug-a-bed.” Margaret’s faded eyes took on a speculative gleam as she stumped up the porch steps. She rapped smartly with the head of her cane on the front door.

  “Jack, dear?” she called. “Are you home?”

  There was no response. “Well, his truck is here, so he’s probably just gone down to see to his flowers,” Margaret said. “Have you seen his flowers?” Vivi shook her head, and Margaret clucked her disapproval. “Young Jack must show you his flowers! They are a sight.”

  “Not these, you mean?” Vivi indicated the flower beds in the yard.

  “Oh, no. I mean down by the river. I think he has columbines and lamb’s ears and Sweet William coming in now. And bachelor buttons, of course, and heaven only knows what else.”

  Vivi smiled at the beaming old lady. “It sounds magical.”

  “I’d take you down myself, but this arthritis has slowed me down some. You just sit down on the porch and have a cookie, and Jack will be along. I baked some molasses crinkles for Jack. He loves cookies.”

  “Is he related to you?” Vivi asked.

  “Not technically, but I think of Jack as my honorary grandson, since he came here to live with me some twenty-five ago, or so. In fact, he bought this property from me some years back. Dear boy.”