Текст книги "Tasting Fear"

Автор книги: Shannon McKenna

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Chapter

2

“Grazie for the telephone call, Signorina D’Onofrio,” said the inspettore, Osvaldo Tucci, the person at the comissariato who had finally fielded her call. “I do not believe that we have any pending missing-persons reports from Castiglione Sant’Angelo, and to be sincere, without a surname for reference, it will take a long time to—”

“But that’s just my point,” Nell argued stubbornly. “If he got on a plane for New York weeks ago, why would it have ever occurred to anyone to declare him missing? Perhaps you can cross-reference. I know he was a resident of the Palazzo de Luca. And I know that he was married to Lucia de Luca, sometime between 1957 and 1964, I think. Doesn’t that help?”

“I am not familiar with all the palazzi of the noble families in Castiglione Sant’Angelo,” Inspettore Tucci said, his voice heavy with professional patience. “There are many of them, and I did not grow up here myself. I was transferred here from Calabria. But I assure you, we will look into this, and get in touch with the Detective Lanaghan as soon as possible.”

They closed the call with a polite round of pleasantries, and Nell hung up, frustrated and unsatisfied. Not that she’d expected anything to be easy, or obvious. But it would have been nice.

Lunch prep at the Sunset was as busy as ever, and she was glad. It kept her too frazzled to dwell on poor old Marco’s sad fate. Or wonder, uneasily, if Lucia had been forced to witness her husband’s murder.

The thought chilled her to the bone.

At three-fifteen, Nell felt a familiar tingle in the nape of her neck. She looked up from the banana kiwi smoothie she was blending. It was him.

Thank God. She welcomed the little thrill gratefully. Her drug of choice. A scary analogy, but damn it, she didn’t have much to thrill about these days. She’d take what she could get.

He was frowning at his favorite table, which was occupied. He chose another, pulling out his laptop. Monica jerked her chin in the direction of his table, even though the man had seated himself in her section, not Nell’s. Oh, God. Even Monica knew.

Norma tapped her shoulder. “Get that strip steak ready pronto, Nelly. That guy looks hungry.”

“I don’t want to give him the strip steak,” Nell said rebelliously. “Always the same damn thing, every day. It can’t be good for him. To say nothing of the nutritional implications and saturated fats, a person needs stimulation, variety, change! Or else they’re as good as dead!”

“You’re a fine one to talk, sweet cheeks. I have a suggestion for you. Go tap him on the shoulder and tell him he needs a change. Like the tofu cashew stir-fry. Or the curried chickpeas. Or dinner with you.”

“You’re crazy,” Nell said, aghast. “He doesn’t know I exist!”

“Whose fault is that? You’d be take-your-breath-away gorgeous if you played yourself up a little bit! Go get the man some coffee!”

Nell stomped out onto the restaurant floor, tired of being lectured, hounded. She set the coffee on the table beside the black-haired man with more force than necessary, slapped a menu down, and whipped out her order pad.

“What would you like? The usual?” she demanded. Monica passed with a tray of sundaes and made audible smooching sounds. Nell glared at her.

The black-haired man frowned into his screen. “Why do you even ask? You know exactly what I want.” He sounded irritated.

Nell braced herself. “Good question. One to which I have perhaps given more thought than it deserves. I’m prepared to answer, however.”

His fingers slowed their tapping on the keyboard, and then stopped. He reached slowly for his coffee. “Go on.”

Nell’s heart thumped. “Although I know you want the strip steak, the one day I don’t ask will be the day that, out of sheer perversity, you decide you want the bulgur pilaf.” She tried to sound breezy.

“Not likely.” He looked up. For the first time, she had his full attention. It was dizzying. He looked into her face, eyes narrowed. They were dark, penetrating. Gorgeous. He had unbelievably long lashes.

“Therefore,” she continued, “by saying, ‘the usual,’ I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’m acknowledging that you have a relationship with us, and that we will gladly cater to your preferences. But the fact that I ask at all pays homage to the fact that life is full of surprises—and people do change.” She poised her pen over the pad. “Your order?”

He stared at her for a long moment. Blinked. She waited, belly fluttering. “The usual,” he said.

Nell scribbled and fled.

Back behind the counter, Norma gave her cheek an approving pinch. “Good start! Not what I told you to say, but he sure took notice! No, don’t look now. He’s still looking. Practically staring! For goodness’ sake, look nonchalant. Look busy!”

“Yeah. Like, play it cool,” Monica advised.

“Leave me alone. You’re embarrassing me to death. Monica, would you take over his table? I can’t face him again,” Nell begged.

“Not in a million years,” Monica said, heartless. “All yours, babe.”

“I’ll dip up his coleslaw,” Norma said in a businesslike tone. “Put the roll in the grill, and tuck that hair behind your ears. Monica, get a bowl of soup, and pass me those veggies!”

Norma and Monica smartly assembled his lunch and passed the tray into Nell’s nerveless hands. The black-haired man pushed his computer to one side of the table and watched as she laid the dishes down. His gaze on her face made her skin tingle and burn.

Nell straightened her spine and forced herself to look into his eyes. “Will that be all?” Her voice was embarrassingly tremulous.

His eyes traveled down her body. Slow, cool, assessing.

She wished desperately that she hadn’t called his attention to herself. If he kept looking at her like that, she was going to melt, burn, fly into a million pieces.

“For now,” he said simply.

She fled again, and behind the counter, Norma and Monica hooted and cheered in whispers. “He’s eating you with his eyes, honey! Don’t look! Get the coffeepot and do a round of refills,” Norma directed.

“Yeah, chica, you did good. Tomorrow wear something sexier. Say, like, a tight ribbed turtleneck. Sleeveless, ’cause you got good arms. If you don’t have one I’ll lend you one of mine,” Monica offered.

“Ladies, do you mind?” Nell hissed, grabbing the coffeepot. She did as Norma suggested, refilling coffee cups to steady her nerves.

She didn’t really have much experience with men. She’d dabbled in college, but this guy was in another league from the unthreatening, callow literary types she’d discussed poetry and philosophy with.

It was embarrassing. Such a brief, inconsequential encounter, but look at her. She’d almost had a seizure.

The moment he had finally taken notice of her, a primitive emotion stabbed through her, part excitement, part naked fear. She couldn’t tell if the feeling was pleasurable or not. She had never felt so vulnerable, or so female. And all he’d done was ogle her.

Oh, no, no, no. She would be hopelessly out of her depth with this man. She was backpedaling. Like the dithering scaredycat coward that she was.

She went back to the counter to refill the coffeepot and assayed a sidelong peek. Yup. Still looking at her. Fixedly. Hungrily. Scorching dark eyes. Her stomach jumped up and crowded her lungs. Oh dear.

Norma presented her with a plate of apple crumb pie with vanilla ice cream. “You’ve got to see it through,” she said sternly.

“Norma, I can’t. I just can’t.”

“You must, or I’ll fire you,” Norma threatened.

“Go ahead. Do your worst,” Nell said, putting the coffeepot on the warmer and putting her hands over her very pink cheeks. “I don’t care.”

“Chica, if you don’t do it, I’ll start talking real loud about how you have this huge crush on the guy by the window. I swear. I’m not kidding,” Monica said, her voice rising perceptibly in volume.

Nell shot her a furious look and took the plate. She approached his table and laid it carefully beside his computer.

“You didn’t ask if I wanted the usual dessert,” he said. His resonant voice sent a shudder of excitement down her spine.

“I’ve taken enough risks today,” she said, gathering up dishes. “I haven’t given up hope of persuading you to try the pecan fudge brownies, though.” She scurried, feeling his hot gaze against her back.

He got up, dropped a banknote on the table, and walked out. When the door closed behind him she exhaled and sank down onto a chair.

Monica punched her shoulder. “Good job, chica. That’s some flirting to be proud of.”

“I wasn’t flirting!” Nell dropped her face into her hands. “I tried to persuade him to order something new and failed.”

“Right. If it was no big deal, how come you’re hyperventilating?” Monica asked.

“Because I’m stupid, okay?” Nell yelled back. “Is everybody on board with that assessment? Anybody need more clarification?”

“Calm down, Nelly.” Norma bustled over and patted Nell’s cheek. “Monica’s right. I couldn’t have done a better job myself. He is obviously intrigued. Come in early tomorrow and let me fix your hair.”

“Norma, please!”

“Oh, honey, indulge a fond old lady, do!”

“I’m gonna bring that shirt tomorrow. And I’m gonna put some makeup on you, too,” Monica said, looking her over with a critical eye. “You need a new look. What’s your shoe size? Got any spike heels?”

“For waitressing?” Nell asked, aghast. “You’re insane!”

“One must suffer in order to be beautiful,” Monica intoned.

Nell jumped to her feet. “I’m going out for a cigarette break.”

Monica looked perplexed. “Uh, you don’t smoke.”

“If I did, I would take a cigarette break now.” Nell marched out the back door without taking off her apron and walked down the street through the blaring traffic, her face feverishly hot.

How could she be so susceptible, so flustered? She was almost thirty. All she’d done was serve him lunch. Imagine if she and he actually ever…no. Better not to imagine it. She felt faint already.

It had been years since she’d had a relationship. The more time that passed, the harder it got to contemplate. Her sister Nancy at least got out there and tried. She’d been burned miserably three times before she finally landed a winner in Liam. Grit and persistence had paid off.

But Nell hadn’t had the stomach to run that kind of risk. She wasn’t willing to face the chill, the sad ugliness she knew was waiting if she made a wrong move. Getting used. Getting hurt. Ugh. Brr.

Elena, Nell’s birth mother, never had any fear of men. Elena Pisani had been a beautiful woman. She’d used her beauty as currency, being a practitioner of the world’s oldest profession. She’d always looked perfect, no matter what the circumstances. Sexy clothing, makeup, and hair, those were the tools and weapons of her trade. Probably that was why Nell had always avoided makeup and wore baggy dresses and nerdish glasses, she reflected. Dressing down blurred her startling resemblance to her mother.

Nell herself had been an unpleasant surprise to Elena, a pregnancy that her mother had unaccountably decided to bring to term. For the first ten years of Nell’s life, she’d watched her mother being kept by a series of rich men in various lavish apartments around the country. When it was convenient, Elena brought her daughter along. When it was not, she stayed in a series of boarding schools.

Nell had just been old enough to start to understand the nature of her mother’s arrangements with this long string of “uncles” when Elena died suddenly, of an undiagnosed brain tumor. It had taken ten days, from the onset of the crushing headaches to her death under the surgeon’s knife. There were no relatives. No life insurance. Her mother had not had any friends to speak of. Her lover had swiftly disappeared from the picture.

Nell had entered the foster system. She’d been ten years old.

Three very dark years followed, years that she tried hard to forget, before Lucia found her. Those years, and having watched her mother ply her trade—they were reasons enough to be reticent about romance.

Not that she was fishing for an excuse. She flinched away from self-analysis. She vastly preferred to study books rather than herself, books being so much more interesting. One thing was for sure, though. Her childhood trauma had forged her into a hopeless romantic. Book junkie. Poetry addict. Her choice had been simple: romantic escapism or brutal cynicism. Romance was better. It was comforting to wallow in the highest, purest sentiments of which human hearts were capable. So what if it was all blather and bullshit. It was beautiful blather and bullshit, and she would dedicate her life to reading it, studying it, and teaching it. To hell with them all.

There was only one problem with that scenario. A real, live guy with all the warts would never fit in with her ivory-tower ideals. Particularly not a guy with no manners, no imagination, and dark eyes that burned with lust.

She didn’t want it to be about just lust. Call her stupid, but she’d seen what sex just for sex’s sake looked like. It had chilled her blood.

Although, oddly, the dark-haired man’s scorching gaze had not.

She couldn’t handle this kind of emotional voltage. She had a career to forge, rent to pay, the Fiend to stay alert for. Look at her, wandering the streets without even paying attention to her surroundings. She had to sharpen up, or she’d find herself stuffed in the trunk of a car.

After her shift, Nell changed into her suit and dabbed on lipstick, staring doubtfully in the mirror. She twisted her hair into the tightest knot she could, with all that curly volume. It was the best she could do.

The receptionist’s directions to her interview were easy. It was a twenty-minute walk through Midtown. She entered the lobby of a large office building, took the elevator to the sixteenth floor, and found a door marked “Burke Solutions, Inc.”

It was a big, well appointed office. The receptionist was a young man with bulging eyes and a bow tie. He smiled as she approached.

“Can I help you?” he asked, hanging up the phone.

“I’m here for an interview with Duncan Burke,” she said.

“Another poet?” He regarded her as if she were a rare bug.

“Uh, yes,” Nell said. “Why do you ask?”

“You wouldn’t believe some of the weirdos who have been coming in. You look relatively normal, but you never can tell. I’ll tell Duncan you’re here.” He pushed a button. “Duncan, I’ve got another poet for you.” He listened, hung up. “I’ll take you to his office. Follow me.”

Nell followed, waited as he knocked. “Come in,” a deep voice said.

The receptionist gestured for her to walk in first. The smile on her face froze as she saw the man who stood up to greet her.

It was the black-haired man.

Chapter

3

Nell’s mouth went dry. He stared at her, eyes narrowed. She lowered her outstretched hand. Her stomach was cartwheeling. She pressed her hand against it, and forced herself to drop the hand. It twitched.

“I know you,” he said slowly.

Nell whipped up some instant bravado.

“Strip steak sandwich, soup of the day, apple crumb pie with vanilla ice cream, and lots of coffee,” she responded.

“You’re the waitress.” His tone was accusing. He seemed so much taller. Of course. In the restaurant he’d always been sitting down. “You look different.”

“I’m not wearing an apron.” She resisted the urge to button up her jacket. No need to advertise her self-consciousness. And she’d buttoned her blouse to the top. Hadn’t she? Do not check. Don’t.

“You guys know each other?” the receptionist said, eyes goggling.

“Derek, that’ll be all,” the guy said.

Derek blinked innocently. “Can I make you guys some coffee?”

“Out, Derek.” Derek sidled out the door. Nell and the black-haired man looked at each other for a long, nervous moment.

“You told me you were an expert in poetry and a doctoral candidate at NYU,” he said.

“And so I am,” Nell replied.

“Excuse me for being personal, but you look far too young.”

She had to change her look. “I’ll be thirty in October,” she said. “Would you like to see my driver’s license?”

“Look, Ms…. uh…”

“D’Onofrio,” she supplied.

“Ms. D’Onofrio, I sympathize if you want to break out of waitressing, but I don’t hire young women just for scenery. If you’re not qualified, don’t waste my time. It would be unpleasant for us both.”

Nell was speechless. The nerve. And he’d just implied that she was, well…pretty enough to be scenery. A compliment hidden inside an insult, or maybe an insult hidden inside a compliment—she wasn’t quite sure which. “I gave you my credentials,” she reminded him. “And I didn’t misrepresent myself in the least. If you’d like to verify my references, feel free. I am more than qualified for the work you’ve described. I’m interested in the flexible hours. It’s difficult to find jobs that fit into a graduate seminar and teaching schedule.”

“If you’re a teacher, why are you waiting tables?” he demanded.

“Because it’s impossible to pay rent on a grad student’s stipend,” she retorted. “I’m a busy person, but I’m the best you’ll find for this project. If you want to interview me, let’s proceed. If you intend to keep insulting me, I’ll go.” She looked him in the eye.

He examined her for another long, harrowing moment, and tapped his pen against his keyboard. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s proceed.”

Nell rummaged in her bag and handed him a résumé. He stared down at it and nodded. “Fine. Pull up a chair.”

Nell looked around. The chairs were piled chest high with computer printouts. The black-haired man got up. His sleeves were rolled up, and the muscles in his forearms bulged appealingly as he grabbed armfuls of paper and dumped them on the floor. “Derek was supposed to recycle this stuff last week,” he growled. “Sit down.”

Nell seated herself gingerly on the edge of the chair.

“We’re creating a cutting-edge computer game. More puzzle solving, less blood and guts. At various points in the game, to move to the next level, the player must decipher a map, break a spell, or defeat some magical creature. Instructions for the tasks will be encoded in texts that are stylistically in keeping with the game. I also hope to use stuff that has actual artistic merit. Good stuff. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite,” Nell said.

“We’ve been interviewing for weeks, but I’ve been unsatisfied with the pool of applicants. It was my idea to fax colleges and universities. I figured, if I want fancy writing, I should go to the source.”

“Sensible,” Nell commented. “You said last night that you’d never done anything like this before.”

“Right. I’m not a game designer. I design programs with practical applications. The game is my brother Bruce’s baby. My mission is to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. I’ve invested a fortune in graphic designers and programmers. I can’t afford for this thing to fail.”

“I see,” she murmured.

“Let’s get back to what I want from you,” he said.

“Of course.” The intensity of his gaze made his choice of words seductive. Nell clasped her hands and forced herself to concentrate.

“For example, to move to the second level, the player finds a manuscript that gives him these clues: a silver vial, a scrying pool, and a jeweled dagger. You pour the contents of the vial into the pool to understand where to find the dagger, which leads you to the next level. The labyrinth. Got it?”

“Uh, yes,” Nell said.

“So write something that gives clues, but leaves the player to figure out the details. While alluding to the overall quest of the game.”

“Which is?” Nell inquired.

He shifted restlessly. “To rescue the enchanted princess.” Nell raised an eyebrow. “I know, it’s been done,” he muttered, uncomfortable. “Maybe we’ll come up with something more original later.”

“Stick with the princess,” Nell said. “That’s always a winner. So. A computer game for hopeless romantics. Lovely. Just my cup of tea.”

Duncan tapped his pen impatiently. “There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s for magic and fantasy freaks.”

“You don’t think rescuing a princess is romantic?”

“That isn’t the point,” he snapped. “What can you do with the clues?” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands, waiting.

She blinked. “You want me to write something on the spot?”

He nodded. Nell pulled off her glasses and polished them. It was easier to look him in the face when he was blurry. “What type of poetry?” she asked, in her most professorial tone. “Early, mid, or late medieval? Renaissance? Classical antiquity? Homer, or Catullus? Chaucer? Spenser? Sidney? Heroic couplets, like Pope? Or something more, say, Miltonian?” She put her glasses back on, blinking as his fierce, hawklike face came back into focus. Whew. Potent.

He scowled. “How the hell would I know? I don’t know anything about poetry. That’s why you’re here.”

“You don’t have to know anything,” Nell said. “The more clues you give me, the quicker I can structure the piece. I’ll just choose a style arbitrarily for now. A Shakespearean sonnet, for instance.”

He nodded. “Fine. Whatever. Go for it.”

He passed her a notebook and a pen. Nell scribbled down the list of elements: vial, scrying pool, dagger, labyrinth, enchanted princess.

She swiveled her chair so he was out of her line of vision, and let the magic happen. The world and Duncan Burke disappeared as she submerged herself into a state of inward concentration.

Twenty minutes later she turned back. “Take a look.”

He reached for the notebook. “Finished already? Just like that?”

“It’s a familiar exercise. I make my students do it all the time. The best way to study a poet’s style is from the inside out.”

He read the page she’d passed him, looked at her for a long moment, read it again, pen tapping ceaselessly against the keyboard.

“You want the job?” he asked.

The seductively pretty waitress had the wiles of an Arab street merchant when it came to bargaining. Duncan escorted her grimly to the door after finally agreeing to pay far more than he’d anticipated. She had a high opinion of how much her time and skill were worth. He admired that in a person, if it was backed up by content. Which it was, in her case. She was good. High-quality production, under pressure, while he watched. That was the kind of focused, high-octane energy he liked to infuse into his projects. It was expensive, but it was worth it.

Except for one little thing. Since lunch, he’d been considering asking the cute Sunset Grill waitress out, and this heated fantasy had made his afternoon brighter than it had been for a long time. Now his succulent waitress had morphed into a key employee.

That scenario was no longer feasible. And that sucked.

Derek had the poor judgment to approach him at that moment, his eyes goggling wildly. “So, Duncan, did you hire her, or what?”

“Derek,” Duncan said with deceptive calm, “remember when I told you to put the printouts in my office into the recycling bin?”

“Uh,” Derek mumbled uncomfortably.

“Put the phones on voice mail, Derek, and do it. Now.”

Derek scurried away. Duncan scowled out the window. What the hell was his sloe-eyed waitress doing being a poetry professor, anyhow? How fucking improbable was that? She’d ignored him while she was writing her piece, giving him the perfect opportunity to study the sensual shape of her full lips. He’d wanted to tug on one of those fuzzy dark ringlets, watch it spring back up into shape. Her pinup-girl curviness made his hands clench with the urge to handle her.

It had been a very long time. He’d gotten good at sublimating the need for sex. Dealing with women was so exhausting. The constant shrill demands, the fuckups he didn’t comprehend or even remember having committed. The constant demands for him to reveal feelings he didn’t feel. Talk of love that always gave him acid stomach. Their endless, perennial need to know “where this relationship is going.”

Which was usually straight to hell.

He didn’t have the stomach to lie to them. He just couldn’t pretend. He got the urge for sex as often as the next guy, but he’d learned to shove it under the rug. Exercise, hard work, cold showers, and as a last resort, his own right hand. But every now and then, it reared up, tossed the rug aside, and bit him in the ass. Hard.

That was his problem, he thought. Today in the restaurant, when she provoked him, the urge had surged. A wild beast, rattling the bars of his cage. His dick had been hard on and off all afternoon.

He grabbed his jacket. He needed air. He had more business to attend to, but the business never ended. He could keep himself busy until midnight or beyond, and usually did. But not tonight.

Maybe he’d go knock around a punching bag in the gym. He’d already spent two hours there that morning, from five to seven, but he needed to unload some excess energy before he did something extremely stupid.

He ground his teeth going down in the elevator. He had a personal code. Don’t fuck the employees was high on the list of key rules. He might as well just shoot himself in the head right off the bat rather than pull a stunt like that. He’d save himself a lot of time and trouble.

He’d been working out the perfect scenario in his head before she walked in with her goddamn four-page résumé. A secret affair with a woman too young to be seriously husband hunting. A nubile girl who would be content with nights of pounding sex, not a whole lot of conversation, some costly gifts from time to time. Someone who had no connection with his family, professional or social life. No one would meet her, or know about her. She would meet no one. She’d be all his.

A few nights a week, a car service would bring her to his condo, where he would rip her clothes off and make her come screaming until she’d forgotten her own name. Then, coffee and a croissant, and the car service would take her away again. He could shower and get back to work. Refreshed and restored.

He loved sex, under carefully controlled conditions, with no repercussions, no regrets. Hard conditions to create.

So much for his scenario. This poetry professor was not that girl. Twenty-nine was plenty old enough to be husband hungry, and it was clear that she was complicated, demanding, too smart for her own good.

This one would not be content to be a fuck buddy. She’d want to converse. She would insist on connecting with him, on levels that he didn’t even know existed. The idea made his head ache. He preferred to know in advance what he would eat for lunch. Much less did he want uncertainty when it came to sex.

The evening air was cool; the street was wet with rain. Traffic blared from the downtown avenues. He picked a direction at random as his internal monologue droned on. It wouldn’t be much of an issue, he lectured himself. She’d be working much more closely with his younger brother than with him. Bruce. The charming, flirtatious womanizer. They’d scheduled a meeting with Bruce the following evening to discuss the project. Bruce was going to lick his chops when he saw her.

That thought, unaccountably, irritated the living shit out of him.

He rounded the corner onto Eighth Avenue, stopped, and retreated into the shadow of a restaurant awning. Nell stood at the curb just a few yards away, arm lifted high as she tried to flag down a cab. It swept on by. The river of yellow cabs were all taken. She kept trying. After each attempt, she looked around at all the people who passed her.

He was good at reading body language in a glance. He’d served for years as an NSA field agent abroad, gathering intelligence. He recognized all the tiny indicators of stress that her body betrayed.

She was afraid of something.

Curiosity burned inside him. What could a girl like her possibly have to be afraid of? An asshole ex? That was a classic.

He could rip the fucker’s throat out for her, if she wanted him to.

The thought took him by surprise. It had sneaked up on him while he stared at the way that button strained ever so slightly over the swell of her tits. How sooty and long her lashes were. The fey upward tilt to her eyes, her brows. Hers was not a glossy magazine sort of pretty, and that was fine. He’d never gone for the hollow-cheeked, toothpick-legs look. He liked a nice round ass, that deep inward curve at her waist that cried out for the grip of his hands. That Mediterranean milkmaid look: creamy skin, rosy cheeks, bouncing tits. Dimpled knees.

He checked out her knees, but her dowdy skirt was just a shade too long to ascertain the dimple situation.

She finally noticed him lurking and shrank in on herself, clutching her blazer closed. So. She felt the animal rattling its cage, after he had tried so hard to play it cool. “Looking for a cab?” he asked.

“Not having much luck,” she murmured. Her gaze skittered around shyly. “It’s hard when it’s raining.”

He gazed at her, unable to stop himself. Fuck all, he’d been through this. He’d drawn his conclusions. Don’t think with your prick.

But she was afraid, it was late, it was raining, and he really needed to know what the hell she was so afraid of.

And also, incidentally, if her knees were dimpled.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said.

“Oh, no. Thanks, but I couldn’t. It’s okay, really,” Nell babbled. She leaped, waving her arms at the next cab that went by, even though its meter light was off. “I’ll just, ah, walk. Until I find one.”

Or the Fiend finds you. She and her sisters had promised each other to take cabs. Not that it had helped Nancy, who’d been nabbed right out of a crowded hotel restaurant. Surrounded by people she knew.

“No,” Burke said. “You’re not walking. It’s late. And it’s raining.”

She opened her mouth to slap him down politely. Who did he think he was, anyway, announcing what she would do or not do?

Then she looked into his eyes, and the commentary in her mind just…stopped. It was dark. No cabs were stopping. Her neck was prickling in the worst way. The business crowd had gone home, and this part of Midtown was dismal and deserted at night.

The man was scary in his own right, but he was not the Fiend. She was not a brainless bimbo, whatever he might think, with that provocative, hiring-young-women-just-for-scenery comment. She could handle him.

She licked her dry lips without thinking and regretted it when his gaze flicked right to them—and stuck there. “Um, thank you.” Her voice felt dry, was scratchy.