Текст книги "Tasting Fear"

Автор книги: Shannon McKenna

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“…with this kind of shit! It ain’t worth the fuckin’ money to get treated like fuckin’ dogshit,” he bitched. “All I say is, they better let me take my turn with the bitch after John works her over, because I mean to teach that cunt nobody messes with Curtis, man—ay!”

His monologue choked off to a shriek. He pawed at his buttock, and held up the throwing star Duncan had lobbed. “What the fuck?”

The second guy howled. A star protruded from his shoulder.

Curtis spun, and sprayed the woods with bullets from his Uzi. “Who the fuck are you, you fuck?!” he shrieked. “I’ll waste your ass!”

So much for stealth. Curtis was wavering, toppling. The other guy went down even faster. The points of the stars were treated with a high-power, quick-acting sedative. He waited for some reaction from the barn. Sure enough. The door opened. A man poked his head out.

“What the fuck is going on?” he snarled. He saw the unconscious men collapsed on the ground, and his face twisted with disgust. “Fucking jerk-offs,” he muttered, and lifted his automatic pistol.

He pumped a short burst of bullets into them both. The sprawled bodies jittered on the ground and then lay still.

Duncan stared through the foliage. The men were torn apart, lying in pools of blood. The Fiend lifted his gun and sprayed the woods in a wide arc. Bullets sliced through grass and leaves, right above Duncan’s head. Splinters of bark and earth flew, bullets thudded into the ground.

The Fiend laughed, hysterically. “Fuck off and die, shithead!” he howled. “It’s your turn, now! I got her! Go fuck yourself!” Another spray of bullets punched into the forest, rat-tat-tat-tat.

The guy ducked back inside. In the distance, police sirens started to wail. Duncan flew like a bolt from a crossbow across the carnage in the clearing and flung himself at the door. “Nell!” he bellowed.

“Duncan?” she called back, just as bullets pumped through the door.

One of them grazed Duncan’s hip like a lick of flame. Another caught his pocket above his knee, ripping the fabric. She screamed, a wrenching cry that curdled his blood.

He sprinted around the building.

“They’re coming,” John said to Haupt. “We have to cut loose. Curtis and Turturro are meat. Didn’t see Gerard. Probably dead, too.”

“They’re coming? Who is coming? How did they know where to come? How is it possible?” The man’s voice rose to a shrill, querulous squawk. “You stupid, incompetent—”

“You want to berate me on our way to jail, or save it for later?” John snarled back. “Move it!”

He slashed the ropes that bound Nell’s arms. Her arms fell free, numb and tingling. John yanked a handful of her hair, jerking until she cried out. “Be good, bitch,” he hissed. “Or I’ll gut you like a steer.”

He hoisted her up and flung her over his shoulder, letting her head and arms dangle down over his back.

Something banged against the door. “Nell!”

Duncan. Oh, God. Oh, God. “Duncan?!” she yelled.

“I said, shut up, bitch!” John swung up his gun, riddled the door with bullets. Light shone through the pattern of holes. She screamed again, in horror and despair, but John was running now, and her voice was jolting in her throat, her torso bouncing and thudding against his back.

They burst out of the back of the barn. She could not see where they were going, just green leaves, the ground behind John’s pounding heels, the fact that John’s belt was loose, his T-shirt riding up, showing acne-spotted rolls of flab hanging over the waistband of his jeans.

The sound of his footsteps changed. A hollow thud, on wooden planks. Haupt hurried along beside them, huffing and puffing.

A bridge. She heard hollow footsteps on wood, saw weathered planks below John’s booted feet. Water murmured below. John swung around, started shooting, a deafening barrage of bullets. Her whole body shook and jiggled with the jackhammer explosions.

Her blood-slicked hand tightened around her splinter. She worked it down in her hand until the sharp part protruded a couple of inches, and the blunt part was clutched in her fist. The point was wickedly sharp. She gathered her nerve for the blow. Everything she had to give: her passion for Duncan, her love for her sisters, for Lucia. Even for Elena. Her reverence for beauty, fineness, love. Her respect for effort and honest sweat. For things that could not be bought. Not for any money.

John turned. The gun rose up. No. Because he had no right to hurt her, or Duncan, or anyone.

He had…no…right!

She stabbed down, driving the splinter deep into the meat and fat that covered his kidney. He squealed. His shots went wild.

Bam, Duncan’s bullet blew John’s gun out of his hand. It flew up, curling and turning in the air. John lunged to catch it one-handed, but it danced off his fingers and down. An eternity later, it splashed into the river.

“Put her down.” It was Duncan’s voice, incredibly cool and even.

John stared back, panting. He laughed. “Sure thing, shitbird.”

He heaved her over the bridge railing.

She flew, fell, down, turning, spinning. Cold green water closed over her head.

Duncan sprinted to the middle of the bridge and pitched himself over the side. The current was strong when he came boiling up for air, the river swollen with the recent rains.

Nell bobbed to the surface, face plastered with hair, gasping for breath. He fought his way over to her, clasped her to him.

When he finally got them over to the shore, he scooped her out into his arms. Her cheek was swollen, her lips split. There was blood crusted in her nostrils. They’d been hitting her. Rage clawed at him, but the fuckers were long gone. No one to catch and punish. Not yet.

Her eyes fluttered open and fastened onto his. Her lips chattered so hard, it took a long time for her to speak.

“Y-y-you c-c-came back for m-me,” she said.

She dropped her face against his chest and shut down. Shock. Her face was so pale. He struggled up the steep creek bank and launched into a heavy, stumbling run through the forest.

Hoping to God that whoever was blowing those police sirens had the presence of mind to bring a goddamn ambulance along.

Chapter

12

Duncan stared at himself in the hospital bathroom mirror. He stank of that foul, bitter antiseptic foam soap in the squeeze bottle over the sink, with which he’d attempted to clean himself up. He supposed it beat out the stench of river mud. But the blend was pretty nasty.

Nancy and Liam had brought him a change of clothes. Liam’s stuff fit well enough, although the shirt was tight around the shoulders. His own clothing lay in a clammy, mud-slimed snarl on the bathroom floor. He shoved the gun back into his jeans, covered it with the shirttail. He was crashing. He felt icy cold inside, and his hands couldn’t stop shaking. His face was a rigid, staring mask.

The doctors and nurses had forced him out of Nell’s room to get her examined, and all the various tubes, needles, and machines hooked up. He’d waited outside the door like a wet, patient hound shivering on the doorstep until they took pity on him and let him in again.

She looked so fragile. So pale. Only her hair had vitality, lying in great curling snarls all over the pillow.

He was so scared, he could hardly breathe. Wondering if he’d earned enough points with this stunt to get another chance with her.

He’d seen the world without her in it. He’d felt that reality to the fullest during that hellacious race against time. Gut-wrenching fear that never eased. The ache of loss. Emptiness, silence. Sick regret.

He couldn’t face it. He’d say any words she wanted to hear. He didn’t give a fuck whether they were true or not, realistic or not. He no longer cared about honesty, dealing straight, any of that meaningless bullshit. She could write out a script for him, if she wanted, and he’d parrot it back to her, get it signed and witnessed and notarized. He wasn’t even ashamed of it. He didn’t have the energy for shame. He knew when he was whipped.

The only reason he’d left her bedside at all was because Liam and Nell’s sisters were there, talking in hushed tones, giving him those worried looks. Vivi had brought him coffee and a sandwich at the lunch stand in the lobby. He hadn’t been able to eat it. His insides felt like they were turned to cold stone.

He kicked his stuff into the corner of the bathroom and walked out, braving the sympathetic glances. Vivi vacated the chair near the head of Nell’s bed. He jerked his chin at it, indicating that she should sit again.

“As fucking if. Sit.” She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him into the chair. “You’re the one who’s been out there being heroic.”

He slumped into the chair, and took up Nell’s hand again. The one that wasn’t torn up, bandaged into a puffy white ball. Her hand was so cold. But so was his. Clammy with fear. He had no heat to give her.

Vivi put her hand on his shoulder, leaned over, and kissed the top of his head. “Hey. Duncan,” she said softly. “You did good. It’s going to be fine. Try to relax, okay? You’re scaring us.”

He jerked his head and hunched lower over Nell’s hand.

Some time later, her fingers twitched inside his. His heart jumped up into his throat. Her eyes were fluttering open. Dazed.

Nancy and Vivi got up and came over to the other side of the bed.

“Hey, sweetie,” Nancy said, her voice thick with tears.

Nell gave them a tiny smile, as if the corners of her lips were too heavy to lift. Her eyes flicked over to Duncan’s. He stared back, mute. A silence took over the room. An electrical charge that grew. And grew.

“Ah, maybe the three of us can just go take a little coffee break,” Vivi suggested, her voice brisk. “Come on, you guys. Let’s, ah go.”

They trooped out the door, leaving the two of them finally alone.

Nell gazed up, so happy he was there. Both of them, still alive. How marvelous and improbable was that?

Her heart was swelling, so soft and full, it felt like a supernova inside her chest. She was exhausted, limp. And so soft. A fuzzy glow of light lying in the bed. Probably it was whatever they’d drugged her with. Nice stuff.

Duncan lifted her hand and leaned forward, elbows on the bed. Rubbing her knuckles against his cheek. His beard stubble was a delicious cat’s-tongue rasp of pleasurable friction against her skin.

He didn’t look good. His eyes were shadowed, and his mouth was grim.

She tried to speak to him, but her muscles wouldn’t respond.

“Don’t talk,” he ordered, frowning. “Rest.”

She finally got words out, letting them ride on the outbreath. “Did I thank you for saving my life?”

A smile softened the grim cast of his face. “Not too recently,” he admitted. “Not in the last thirty-six hours, at least.”

“Ah. Well.” She squeezed his hand. “For the record.”

There was so much to say to him, it was bottlenecked inside her. Then, suddenly her memories coalesced. And with them, a clutch of fear. “Elsie?” she asked. “And Wesley?”

“They’re okay,” he assured her. “Elsie was treated for shock and contusions, your sisters told me, but she’s already getting off on being a local celebrity. She’s in hog heaven, giving interviews to the local paper from her hospital bed. Wesley’s pretty bad, but he’s in stable condition now. Bullet to the shoulder, lost a lot of blood. But he should be okay.”

“Thank God,” she murmured. Her eyes drifted closed again. She felt like a radio, tuning in and out of the frequency of consciousness, but Duncan was always there, like a rock coming in and out of view in the mist. So comforting. Another factoid popped to the top of her mind.

“They’re looking for sketches,” she said.

He frowned. “Huh? Who is looking for what?”

“John and Haupt. The bad guys. Lucia’s treasure. They’re after sketches of some kind. Haupt told me his name and a bunch of other stuff, just for the fun of it. To taunt me. Hah. Funny, isn’t it?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t know if funny’s the word I’d use.”

“The Conte deLuca, Lucia’s father, hid these sketches from the Nazis during the Second World War,” she went on. “And they’re still hidden. Wild stuff. How did you know to come after me?”

“Found a bug in your laptop. Followed the GPS in your cell.”

“No way,” she whispered. “Saved by a cell phone. The irony of it.”

He pressed his face to her hand. “I couldn’t let them hurt you.”

She stroked his jaw. “You’re cold,” she fretted softly. “Why are you cold? You’re usually so hot.”

“I’m scared shitless,” he blurted out.

Her eyes widened, shocked. “Huh? You? Why?”

“I thought I’d lost you.” The words rushed out as if they were under pressure. “Nothing’s worth shit without you, Nell. If they hurt you, that would be it for me. I’d be finished. Dead meat. Worm food.”

She petted his cheek, trying to soothe him. “Duncan. Don’t—”

“I have to have you in my life,” he said. “Have to. I don’t give a shit anymore about all that crap we argued about. You want me to make a formal declaration of love, fine. I’ll do it. You want me to memorize poetry and recite it to you naked and standing on my head, I’ll do it. Any fucking song or dance routine you want—”

“No,” she said softly.

He cut off the stream of words, alarmed. “Uh, no in what sense?”

“No in the sense of no, it’s not necessary. You don’t have to stand on your head or do any routine. You don’t even have to tell me that you love me. Because you already did.”

He blinked. “I did? How do you figure? When?”

“Just now,” she told him, smiling. “And not only that. You get big points for being really poetic and original about it.”

His face cleared, but he still looked perplexed. “Great,” he said doubtfully. “Hold on, here. Points? What’s this I hear about points? I thought points pissed you off.”

She laughed, softly, petting his cheek again. She couldn’t bear to stop. “There’s something about staring death in the face that helps a girl get over her pet peeves.”

“Ah. Well, hell, I didn’t even know I was being poetic,” he said. “Don’t I have to tell you your eyes are like stars and your skin like lily petals? And your ass is like a ripe, juicy peach?”

She shook her head. “Stars, lilies, peaches, pah. Overdone. Having a guy charge in to save you from a horrible death at the hands of psychopathic sadists? Now, that’s poetry.”

He lay his head on her chest. His shoulders shook. She petted them and ran her fingers through his hair, again and again. She didn’t want to break their physical contact for a single second. She wanted to cling to him. Just stay eternally fused.

“So we’re getting married?” His muffled voice had a challenging tone. “Soon? Like, now?”

She smiled up at the ceiling, euphoric. She was going to float up there, get stuck on the ceiling. “As soon as you like,” she said.

He raised his head and fixed her with a narrow gaze, as if daring her to contradict him. “And we’re having our honeymoon in Italy.”

“Sounds amazing,” she said.

He hugged her tighter. “You are so beautiful,” he muttered. “And by the way. Your ass really is like a ripe, juicy peach.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “That’s a lovely sentiment.”

“I know I’m stubborn,” he went on. “And resistant to change, and I always order the same thing in restaurants. But the flip side is, I know what I like. Once I make up my mind, I don’t change it. I’m talking about to the end of time, Nell.”

“That’s wonderful,” she whispered. “To the ends of being, and ideal grace. Lovely. I’m melting. Keep going.”

He looked worried. “Keep going? Oh, God. This is the hard part, right? I have to keep being poetic? For the rest of my life? Fuck me!”

She giggled. “So the part that came before was easy, for you, then? The gunfights and the car chases and the mortal combat?”

“Oh, that stuff’s more or less straightforward,” he said gruffly. “You either get killed or you don’t. But love, man. That shit’s complicated. I don’t understand why it works now, but it didn’t before.”

She traced his mouth with a fascinated finger. “Because we met halfway,” she said softly. “You’re so beautiful, Duncan.”

“Uh, thanks,” he said. “So this is the halfway point, then?”

She pulled his face down, kissed him. “Yeah. Nice, isn’t it?”

“I love our halfway point.” He touched his lips to hers, as gently as if she were a newly opened flower. “Let’s live there forever.”

“Sounds great to me,” she replied.

Ready or Not

Chapter

1

The 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!”