Текст книги "Tasting Fear"

Автор книги: Shannon McKenna

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

“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.”

Vivi had to stifle a giggle at the thought of that big block of seasoned manhood being referred to as a “dear boy.”

“Well, I’ll be running along. Come have a cup of tea with me one of these mornings when you’re settled in. And say hello to Jack for me.” She held out the bag. It was heavy and fragrant. “And you tell Jack to show you the hot springs,” Margaret added, a gleam in her eye.

“Hot springs?” Vivi was intrigued.

“Oh, yes, dearie. There are some natural hot pools a couple of miles upriver. Very private. Just beautiful. Something tells me you would like them, bless your heart.” She patted Vivi’s shoulder.

“Something told you right,” Vivi said, with relish. Wow. Cookies. Flowers. Hot springs. She’d hit the mother lode. This place was paradise on earth.

Vivi gazed after the old lady as she made her slow, careful way down the walk. How incredibly sweet of her. An intoxicating buttery-sweet fragrance rose from the bag. She peeked inside. Molasses cookies, warm and fresh. She sat down on the porch steps and reached for one.

Predictably enough, her hand was in the bag when Jack strode around the house, carrying an armful of what looked like columbines, though they were much bigger than any columbines she’d ever seen. She yanked her hand out guiltily, licking her fingers with embarrassed bravado. He stopped in front of her, and nodded in silent greeting.

“Hi. I, uh, just met Margaret.” Vivi closed the bag and folded down the top. “She brought you cookies.”

“So I see,” he said.

“She said I could have some,” Vivi said, before she could stop herself, and blushed furiously as he began to smile. The lines crinkling up around his eyes sparked a warm glow somewhere in the vicinity of her navel. It crept inexorably downward.

“Eat all you want,” he said. “What kind are they this time?”

“Molasses,” Vivi informed him. She wrenched her gaze away now from the smile that had now become a grin, complete with shockingly white, beautiful teeth, and focused on his long, work-hardened hands, gently holding those long flowers. Whew. That grin. This guy had a whole store of secret weapons. Every one calculated to lay her low.

She struggled to remember what she’d come down to ask him.

“Ah, I need to make some phone calls, and get on the Internet, too, to check my mail orders. And, ah, my cell has no coverage here,” she said. “So I was just wondering—”

“Of course. There’s a jack in your kitchen, but it’s my phone line. I assumed, considering your security problem, you weren’t going to want to list a number right now. You mind sharing a line with me? I don’t spend much time hanging on the phone.”

“Me neither,” she said. “That’s fine with me, if it’s okay with you.”

“If you want to use your cell, hike up to the top of that rise,” he said. “See that stand of spruce? You’ll get some coverage up there. But for now, use my phone. Hook your computer up in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“I meant to get you a phone. You weren’t supposed to arrive so soon.” He gazed at her accusingly through the stalks of columbine.

“Yeah, right,” she mumbled. “Don’t you want to go and put those down somewhere?”

“Yeah, and then I’m, going to make coffee. Come and have a cup.”

She watched, fascinated, as he walked across the yard toward a small outbuilding. Oh, boy. The back view of his jeans was as appealing as the front. She leaned her head on her hands and exhaled, slowly.

Inside his cozy kitchen once again, she gazed at trays of seedlings while he put on the coffee. When she felt his big, silent presence drawing near her again, she gave in to her curiosity. “Margaret and Duncan said you grow flowers,” she ventured

Jack stroked the bottom of a delicate leaf in one of the trays. It trembled above the forest of thin, delicate pale stems, as if floating there. “Yes. I’ve got some Aquilegia flavescens, and Delphinium exaltatum, and Dianthus barbatus coming in right now. I’m taking a load into Portland today.”

“What’s that in English?”

“Columbines, larkspurs, and sweet william,” he clarified.

She sneaked a quick peek at his somber profile. “Why do you use Latin names?”

“I like how specific it is. There are hundreds of subgroups for common flower names. Each one has its own totally different personality.”

“Wow,” she murmured, impressed.

He looked self-conscious. “I don’t mean to be a nerd. I got off on studying them when I was in the military. Nothing like staring at flowers when you’re sweating in the desert with sand rasping in every crack under your body armor.” He paused, and looked at her chest. “Like dreaming of water while you’re dying of thirst,” he finished.

He was standing so close, she could smell the loamy scent of plants and earth on him, although his hands smelled like lemon dish soap. “You’re, um, staring at my Eranthis hylematis, Jack,” she said. “It’s making me nervous.”

“Sorry,” he said. “And it’s Eranthis hyemalis, not hylematis.”

Whoa. That hot, dangerous flirtatious energy was starting to stretch and twist between them, muscular and dangerous and unpredictable.

She had to distract them, before things got weird. “How’d you get into this business?” she asked.

“I like plants,” he said. “My uncle Freddie was into organic gardening when I was a kid. I studied plant biology on the Internet when I was in the service, and afterward, when I worked overseas.”

“In Afghanistan? On that task force with Duncan, right?”

“Right. I’ve done some landscaping work for the parks department in Portland and Vancouver, too. Ornamental horticulture, stuff like that. But I prefer to live out here. I’ve built up a good business. The land down by the river’s good for rare specialty stuff, and I know florists who are happy to buy local and get stock that’s days fresher than the flowers they fly in over the pole from Holland. I’ve got a refrigerated truck and a twelve-by-twelve walk-in cooler. I harvest and deliver them myself. Simple and direct. Works out well for everybody.”

“What an awesome way to make a living,” she said.

“It’s hard work,” he said. “But I like the flowers.” He turned his silver-gray gaze on her face, and she realized what his eyes reminded her of. They had the same glowing depths that she’d seen in the eyes of a timber wolf.

“Did you sleep well on the futon?” he asked.

“Yes, wonderfully. Thank you.”

The coffee began to gurgle. He went to the stove, leaving her free to normalize her breathing and get herself in hand.

The coffee tasted wonderful with Margaret’s cookies. Jack finished his cup, got up, and rinsed it briskly. “I’d better get going,” he said. “You going to be okay by yourself here, with no wheels?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ve got Edna. We’re set.”

“Help yourself to anything you might need, in my cupboards, or the fridge,” he said. “There’s the phone, as you see. Oh, and I called Dwayne Pritchett about your van. He’ll be coming over with his tractor as soon as it dries up, but he doesn’t want to risk it for a few days yet.”

“Great. I appreciate that,” she said. “Also, could you tell me how to find the hot springs? Maybe Edna and I will hike up and take a look.”

He spun around. “Hot springs?” His eyes had gone cold.

She shrank back, apprehensive. “Uh, Margaret said there were some natural hot springs upriver a couple of miles. Something wrong?”

He scowled down into the sink. “Shit.”

“What’s the matter?” Vivi demanded. “Are you pissed at me?”

“Not at you. I’m irritated with Margaret. We have an agreement to keep the springs secret. Nobody wants hikers trespassing on our land. Now Margaret decides to tell a stranger.”

“I’m hardly a trespassing hiker,” Vivi pointed out, insulted.

“No. But it’s not as if you’re a long-term resident, either.”

“Does that mean you’ll be kicking me out soon?” She sprang to her feet. “Please be clear about that, Kendrick. Before I start ordering furniture.”

“Don’t take it personally. Margaret should’ve discussed it with me, that’s all. And don’t call me Kendrick. It makes me feel like I’m back in boot camp. I’ll take you to the springs when I get back from Portland.”

Vivi counted to ten, lips pressed flat. “Please, don’t trouble yourself.” She wished she hadn’t asked. She could probably find it on her own. A couple of miles upriver. How hard could it be?

He read her mind, and fixed her with a stern glare. “Do not go without me,” he said forcefully. “The cliffs are dangerous, and the path is washed out.”

“Fine.” Vivi deposited her coffee cup in the sink.

“I’ll be back around four, if you want to go then,” he added.

“Like I said, don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. I meant what I said about not going alone.”

“I heard you the first time.” She let his door slam shut.

Oh, ouch. She’d done it to herself again. Whenever she let down her guard, zing, pow, he insulted her again. The second she heard his truck pull out, she went downstairs and into Jack’s kitchen and dialed Nell’s new cell.

Her sister picked up promptly. “Hey, you. Everything okay?”

“Hey, yourself,” Vivi replied. “How’s Italy?”

“Amazing,” Nell replied. “We were just finishing up a late lunch. Fabulous, of course. So how’s the flower farm?”

“Hmmph.” Vivi recounted the debacle in the rain and mud, and Nell expressed the appropriate horrified sympathy.

“Anyway,” Vivi concluded. “Here I am, stuck like a bug on flypaper. But that, I kid you not, is the least of my problems.”

“Oh, really? What’s going on?” Nell prompted.

Vivi paused, suspicious of the cheerful curiosity in her sister’s voice. “Jack Kendrick is my problem, as I am sure you know.”

“Oh? In what sense?” Nell asked, all innocence.

“Nell, what exactly do you know about the guy?”

Nell hemmed and hawed. “Um, exactly what Duncan told you,” she said. “There’s a photograph on Duncan’s wall of Jack climbing a sheer rock face. So I knew he was big, with dark hair, nerves of steel, and lots of thick, sinewy muscle. But that’s about it.”

“He despises me,” Vivi announced. “He thinks I’m a piece of insignificant fluff. A rootless, brainless tattooed bimbo incapable of making commitments or seeing anything through to the end. And he hates my van.”

“Wow.” Nell sounded impressed. “That sounds deep, Viv. Fear of commitment issues, after one evening’s acquaintance?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Vivi wailed.

“I never said it was, honey,” Nell soothed. “What’s the place like?”

“Out of my wildest dreams,” Vivi admitted, staring out the window. “The place is covered with flowers. Edna’s having the time of her life chasing something across the field. I hope it’s not a skunk.”

“So? What’s the problem?”

“What do you mean, what’s the problem? I told you! The man doesn’t want me here! He thinks I’m trash! This is a big, big problem!”

“But the van is stuck, right?” Nell prodded.

“Yes, at least until—”

“Well, good, then.” Nell sounded satisfied.

“Good?” Vivi’s voice rose to a squawk. “What do you mean, good?”

“I mean that, at least until your fucking van gets unstuck, I, your sister, and Nancy, too, will be able to breathe easy and sleep at night because for once in your goddamn life, somebody is looking after you!”

The violence in her sister’s voice startled Vivi. “Um, okay,” she whispered.

“I know what these guys are capable of.” Nell’s voice quivered. “You don’t. You have no clue, Viv. And you don’t want to. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Vivi assured her. “And I promise. I’ll be careful.”

“You know what we did this morning?” Nell asked.

Vivi hesitated. The tone in Nell’s voice made her wary. “Ah, what?”

“We talked to the domestic staff at the Palazzo de Luca. There was a lady there in her seventies, the daughter of the previous housekeeper. She remembers when Lucia left. And why.”

Vivi swallowed, hard. “And? Stop teasing.”

“It was after finding her father’s dead body,” Nell said. “In his study, under his writing table. The table we still have. He’d been tortured to death. Cut to pieces. Slowly. Like they threatened to do to me. Like they would have done to Nancy. Or to you, if they get you. Keep it in mind.”

Vivi flinched. It wasn’t like it was a big surprise, but still. This evil had deep roots.

“So be careful, okay?” Nell begged. “Just be very, very careful.”

“I will,” Vivi soothed. “I promise.”

Nell sniffled. “Right. At least, you’re finally attracted to somebody again. Thank goodness for that, at least. It’s about freaking time.”

Vivi felt strangely cornered. “You don’t get it, Nell. Whether I’m attracted or not, it’s a bad scene. He despises me. He sees me as a type, not a person. It’s just like when Brian—”

“Viv, stop it,” Nell cut in. “It’s been years since that dumb putz messed with you! Get over it! Stop living like a wandering nun!”

“I’m feeling manipulated,” Vivi said tightly.

“Manipulated?” Nell snorted. “Poor Vivi. Trapped in a flowering wilderness paradise with a gorgeous, eligible hunk sworn to protect you from the evil villains. How cruel of us, for doing this to you.”

“I’m hanging up,” Vivi said. “I’m too pissed to talk anymore, but I love you anyway. Later, bye.” She hung up, her face hot. The mention of Brian’s name made her squirm with anger. After six years.

She was twenty-one when she met Brian Wilder, at her student art show. It was during her rebellious period. Wilder was a suave gallery director out scouting for hot new talent. His gallery was affiliated with an art museum specializing in works by emerging artists. He expressed an interest in her work. Soon after, he expressed an interest in her personally. He was handsome, intelligent. She’d been dazzled. At first.

Everyone had been thrilled for her when Brian offered her a contract with his gallery. She remembered the fateful day as clearly as if it had just happened. They were sitting in a coffee bar on Bleecker Street. She drank espresso. Brian was sipping a decaf soy milk latte.

“What do you think?” Brian asked, flicking hair out of her eyes.

“I-I don’t know,” Vivi stammered. “I’m not sure yet what it entails.”

“Let me explain,” Brian said, in a patronizing voice. “I see huge potential in your work. Energy, anger, power. But it lacks discipline.”

“Um.” Vivi sipped her espresso, pondering that.

“Just like you,” Brian observed. His eyes flicked down, checking her out. “That skirt and boots you’re wearing, for instance.” His thin lips twitched. “You have to polish up your image.”

Vivi tugged down her purple velvet miniskirt to cover another couple of inches of thigh, wishing she hadn’t worn torn-up fishnet stockings. She stared down at her thigh-high lace-up black leather boots.

Brian flicked another lock of her hair back, and look her up and down. “We’ll start with a haircut and a new wardrobe.”

“I can dress myself,” Vivi said.

“Yes? Well. If this is the result…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes took on a weird, hot glow. He chucked her under the chin. “I’ve never gotten intimate with your type before.”

Vivi wrenched her chin away from his pinching fingers. “What do you mean, my ‘type’?” she demanded, irritated. “What type is that?”

“You know. The bad girl with the innocent eyes. The lost waif. You’re like something out of a Japanese anime film. All eyes, and that wild mop of hair. It’s…mmm. Stimulating.” He tilted her chin up again. “About the contract. What do you say?”

It was an incredible opportunity. Any of Vivi’s struggling artist friends would have cheerfully killed for it. And her jaw was aching with tension. Vivi pulled her face away from his fingers again. She gulped the rest of her bitter coffee, wondering why she wasn’t feeling happier.

“If you sign the contract, it will be with the understanding that you’ll accept me as an artistic mentor,” Brian said sternly. “And I’ll expect you to produce. I can make you successful, Viv. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Brian turned the full force of his cold gray eyes on her.

Her doubts felt vague and foolish. Destiny called.

“Yes,” she said.

She’d signed. Agreed to let Brian groom her into an artistic sensation. The stupidest move of her life. So far.

Vivi stared at the luxuriant spider plants that hung in Jack Kendrick’s kitchen, thinking grimly about the way one’s worst mistakes tended to repeat themselves, again and again. They dressed themselves in slightly different outfits, but the basic content was always the same.

Here was another man who saw just a type when he looked at her. Another man who made her feel inadequate and embarrassed, just for being what she intrinsically was. Except that this time, it was worse. Maybe because her desire for Jack Kendrick’s good opinion was so irrationally strong. And her chance of getting it so small.

It was odd. She’d always considered Brian handsome, in his cold, austere way. But compared to Jack Kendrick, Brian seemed effete. Dried up and stringy, even. Maybe it was that empty, no-calorie crap he ate. But Kendrick, whew. A girl could just sink her teeth into that one. She would never wear that guy out. Never use him up.

But there was no excuse for making the same mistake twice. She grabbed a handful of cookies and marched out of the kitchen, munching them defiantly. Compensate, Viv, compensate.

Celibacy wouldn’t kill her. At least, it hadn’t killed her yet.

Chapter

4

Tap, tap, tap on the office door. Interrupted again, Brian Wilder whipped the herbal face pack off his face and waved away the masseuse doing his foot reflexology treatment.

“What the fuck is it this time?” he rapped out.

The door to his office cracked open. Damiana, his current assistant, peeked in. Her huge, dark eyes were big in her kittenish face.

“There is a client outside who needs to speak to you,” she said, with her faint Italian accent that utterly failed to charm him today.

“Can’t you help him? What the hell have I trained you for?”

Damiana shrugged, helplessly. “He says just you. He says it cannot wait. I do not know what to do with him. He is a strange type.”

Brian gestured for Coco to wipe off the Ayurvedic oils that were dripping off his feet and to collect crystals and stones from his body. Looked like his fucking chakras would have to get tuned another time. Another swollen ego to wank.

He shot Damiana an unfriendly look. What was the point of hiring pretty fluff from the local art school if not to have her do the ego wanking? Damiana should be down there, making the guy come in his pants while Brian was left unencumbered to rake in dough. But no. He could not seem to delegate. The ego wanking always fell to him.

Coco and Damiana exchanged commiserating looks as Brian threw on his linen trousers and shirt. He shoved past them, jostling more roughly than he needed to. Punishing them in advance for the whiny cat bitching they were going to do behind his back, on his time, on his payroll, as soon as he was out of earshot. Treacherous twats.

He headed out onto the second level of the gallery, a broad balcony all the way around the room. He took the opportunity to look down and check the guy out. He was currently staring at the Waylan Winthrop bronze that Brian had just placed on display in the center of the gallery. A strong piece, entitled Teeth. Price, a modest $38,000. The jaws of the beast reared toward the heaven in a wordless shriek of inchoate rage, its snarl of teeth pointing straight up, like spikes.

The guy looked baffled at the spectacle, but maybe that was the default expression on his thick face. Brian sized him up as he headed toward the stairs. A behemoth. Six four, but an extra eighty pounds on him. Brian brushed his hand over his own washboard abs as he trotted down the stairs. He had only contempt for such a lack of discipline. His own body was buff and toned. Seven days a week in the gym. He watched every bite he ate, made sure it was pure, organic, and calibrated to fine-tune his health and well-being. His body was his prized possession. He honed it.

This guy did not. Brian analyzed the guy’s wardrobe, pricing every stitch, as Damiana should have done. Off the rack, bargain basement. Not even particularly clean. And his breath, God. He was going to have to send Damiana around with a lemon essential oil spritz bottle. The stench of the man’s halitosis was sucking all the prana out of the room.

He extended his hand and smiled. “My assistant said you’re looking for me?”

“You’re Brian Wilder?”

The man’s voice and manner were not cultured. He sounded like he’d come from the wrong side of the tracks in some depressed industrial town upstate. This guy was not walking money. Brian retracted his outstretched hand and gave him another smile, carefully dosed this time. Briefer, thinner. “That would be me. And you are?”

“My name is Craig Wilcox,” the man said. “I was told you once handled the work of an artist my client is interested in acquiring.”

Brian stuck his fingers into his pockets. “And your client is?”

“My client prefers to stay nameless at this time.”

Brian waited. “And the artist? He or she will stay nameless, too?”

The guy’s eyes squinched in the puffy fat of his eyelids, not appreciating Brian’s quip. His black hair was the wrong color and texture for his face, Brian thought. Wig, or dye job. Strange.

“The artist is Vivien D’Onofrio,” the man said.

If Brian had needed anything to convince him that his time was being wasted, hearing that woman’s name was it. “I no longer handle D’Onofrio’s work. In fact, I make a point of seeing that none of my professional colleagues handle her work, either. I don’t even think she’s a working artist anymore. For her sake, I hope not.”

The guy blinked, stared with those strange dark gray eyes. Flat, opaque, and metallic, like hematite. “Why?”

“She’s unreliable and unprofessional,” Brian announced, as he did to anyone who would listen. “And her work is uneven and derivative. Let me suggest some far better investments for your client. There’s a new artist I’ve just taken on who’s created a stunning series of—”

“My client’s only interested in D’Onofrio’s work,” the man said.

“I’m the last person you should ask about her,” Brian informed him. “I’m not in touch with her, and have no plans to be in the future.”

“That’s a terrible shame,” the man said blandly.

Brian was about to tell the buffoon to stop wasting his time and leave when he caught the man’s eyes. Brian’s eyes stuck there. As if those hematite eyes were magnets. Sucking at his vital energy, like a vampire.

The fleeting thought gave him an irrational stab of fear. He shook it away. “It’s not my problem,” he said.

“That’s an unhelpful attitude, Mr. Wilder,” the man chided. “My client hates to be denied. Price is no object. He likes to indulge himself, especially when things are forbidden. Surely you can relate to that? Can’t you, Mr. Wilder? I think…maybe…you can. Hmm?”

Fear stabbed, deeper. “What do you mean?”

The other man lifted his shoulders, in a casual shrug. “I make it my business to inform myself about people. I’ve heard about your late-night assignations from the escort agencies. You like them young, right? No more than fourteen? Slim, small breasts to none, big eyes, no makeup? A different one every time? Perv.”

Not possible. Brian stared, transfixed. The man began to smile. He stepped closer, words coming fast like a concentrated venom. “You like those little lost waifs, hmm? Poor vulnerable creatures, no big strong daddy to protect them. What do you do to them, Wilder? Do you like to make them cry?” He studied Brian’s face and let out a muffled crack of laughter. “You do! You sick, sick fuck.”

“G-get out of here,” Brian quavered. “Are you threatening me?”

Wilcox laughed. “Threatening? God, no. My client has so much money, he has no need to threaten.”

“Then why…why—”

“Let me reiterate. D’Onofrio is the one my client wants. If you want someone else to sell her pieces to my client, and let that person enjoy my client’s good opinion and all that it entails, that would be a big shame—for you. Think about that, Mr. Wilder. And think fast.”

“I don’t know where she is,” he repeated. Fear loosened his bowels. He struggled to control his physiological functions.

The guy’s grin looked discolored. “I bet you could run her down. The art world is small. It’s worth getting over your differences.”

Brian needed to sprint for the bathroom, but he didn’t have the nerve to just walk away from Wilcox. “I, um…”

“Take this.” The guy handed him a card, with a cell phone number scribbled on it. “I’ll be back to see you, if I don’t hear from you first. I know some people are shy about calling. Don’t be shy, Wilder.”

Wilcox walked out. Brian made his way up the stairs, clenching the banister and his sphincter muscle with the same desperation.

Damiana came out of his office, eyes big with curiosity. “So what did he want? I am so sorry, but he kind of creeped me out, so I—”

“Go get my electronic organizer. Get on the Internet,” he snapped. “I want you to find Vivien D’Onofrio for me. Now.”

“Her? But I thought you…I thought she—”

“Do it!” he bellowed, and she darted away, heels clicking.

He lurched into his office, dismayed to see Coco taking her own sweet time putting away all her oils and colored crystals. “Get out!”

She shoved her stuff into her case and scurried.

He got to the bathroom just in time to avoid the unthinkable. He sat there so long, his ass fell asleep on the cold ring of porcelain.

How had that man known? No one in his life knew. He kept his dirty little thing so fucking secret, it was practically secret from himself.

He had many lovers. This had nothing to do with his love life. This was a private thing. Deep in the night, he got that secret, nasty itch. To play with a fantasy that had started with his affair with Vivi D’Onofrio.

So small, so slender. A lost kitten. So young. She’d been twenty-one when he met her, but she could’ve easily passed for fifteen. And so talented. He had secretly hated her for that. All that talent, coming out her fucking pores, and she didn’t even know it. So goddamn innocent.

The talent was wasted on her. It had driven him mad with envy.

The next best thing to having talent was controlling talent. And he had tried. God, how he had tried. But she was like an unbroken horse. Ungrateful, whining bitch, biting the hand that fed her. They’d have made money hand over fist, if she’d just done as he told her. But no.

He’d wanted to play her, like an instrument. Wanted it so bad, he lay awake in the dark of the night, grinding his teeth, milking his dick.

After she left, he’d held his nose and done a little digging into the seamy underworld of the New York sex industry and commenced a brand-new secret indulgence. Re-creating a scenario calculated to make himself feel exactly the way he needed to feel. To get off. Explosively.

He didn’t do it often. Every couple of months or so. A slender big-eyed girl in a hotel room, lost and scared. Him, controlling her. Using her. Punishing her for what Vivi had done to him. Making her cry.

His heart rate kicked up, hot and jagged, just thinking of it.

This situation was probably Viv’s own fault. She’d behaved badly, got on the wrong side of some criminal badass. The badass was out for payback. Brian was an innocent bystander. Caught in the crossfire.

Fuck that. He was rolling over on her, the minute he got the chance. He owed Viv D’Onofrio nothing. She’d stiffed him in every way.

Let her pay the price for her own fuckups.

He was already imagining how he’d respond when the news of her violent, untimely end came to him. He would be shocked and sad but not surprised. What a waste, he’d say, his face pale and grave. Shaking his head at the tragedy of it. But he’d seen it coming. Oh, yes, he had.

It was just the law of karma in action.

Vivi was deeply absorbed in making a list of all the furniture she wanted. Bed, couch, coffee table, bookcase. A nice rug. A dresser, a floor lamp. A spice rack, even, by God. Such a luxury, to hang clothes in a closet. To tape a favorite photo onto the fridge.

The knock on the door made her jump. “Who is it?” she called.

“It’s me.” His deep voice made the entire surface of her skin tingle madly. She braced herself as she opened the door.

Jack stood there, holding a tray of tiny, feathery green seedlings. She stared, confused. He handed the tray to her. “These are for you.”

“For me?” she repeated stupidly.

“Eranthis hyemalis,” he said. “Winter Aconite. I saw some, at the nursery. I thought of you. They’re not blooming now, of course, and it’s late to plant them in the green, but what the hell. We can give it a try. They like well-drained soil, and lots of shade. We can set them out beneath those big oaks over at the far side of the lawn. If you want.”

She closed her open mouth. “Ah…wow. I, uh—”

“If we get lucky, they’ll multiply. Make a floral carpet.”

She was so charmed, she felt her face heat up and her throat clutch. “That is so sweet of you,” she whispered.

He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I was a jerk, today. And last night.”

The heat in her face and her throat spread, a soft, warm glow.

He stepped in the door as she laid the seedlings on the kitchen counter. “Do you want to go to the hot springs now?”

Nothing had changed, even if he had apologized, Vivi reminded herself. Going to a beautiful remote place to sit in a pool of hot water all alone with this man was a dumb idea. And the fact that he was acting sweet was all the more reason to stay away. “I don’t know much about plants,” she stalled, stroking a tender frond.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll show you,” he said. “So? You coming?”