Текст книги "Tasting Fear"

Автор книги: Shannon McKenna

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Chapter

4

Nancy regretted her decision when she was seated across from Liam in the pink, madly mirrored interior of Luigi’s Diner. She wished she’d left her hair loose, worn contacts instead of glasses. Something low cut. Not that she had any cleavage to speak of.

He just waited, sipping his tea, and after a couple of minutes of that, her control snapped. “What is it?” she demanded. “What the hell are you waiting for? What are you looking at?”

He discreetly looked away. “I was looking at you. You look…”

“What?” she snapped. “Unapproachable? Unfeminine?”

His mouth twitched. “No, not at all.”

“What, then?” she almost shouted.

“You look good, Nancy.” His voice was velvety, soothing.

Nancy wrapped her arms across her chest. “Sorry. Those long, significant silences of yours are making me twitchy. I appreciate you being nice, but tell me the truth. I look like hell, don’t I?”

His eyes narrowed. “You look stressed and scared. But that doesn’t keep you from looking good. I’m sorry about the long, significant silences. They’re hardwired into me. I’m not much of a chatterbox.”

“That’s okay.” She stared down into her coffee and fished Liam’s copy of Lucia’s letter out of her pocket. “I am scared. I’m scared that things didn’t happen the way the cops said they did. She wrote this letter, but we didn’t find it. And your classic butthead burglar looking to trade a TV or a diamond for a hit of crack or meth—that guy is not going to take this letter. That guy does not give a shit about this letter.”

Liam nodded. “No. You’re right. He doesn’t.”

His quiet agreement rattled her even more. She realized she’d been hoping that he would talk her down from this terrifying line of reasoning. “So who did take it? And what the hell is this ‘thing’ she’s referring to, and what’s the deal with these pendants? And if she had this great big hairy family secret, why did she not tell us before?”

Liam cleared his throat. “Maybe she was—”

“And what did it do to her father? And who the hell knew she was ever married? I mean, married? What kind of mom just sort of forgets to mention that little detail to her daughters, even if they are adopted?”

Liam waited patiently. People were starting to peek. She was making a scene. She hunched down over her coffee cup. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Flipping out on you in public. The breakfast date from hell.”

“You’re a great breakfast date,” Liam said. “We’re talking constant entertainment. I’m in no danger of boredom when I hang out with you. It’s just one humdinger after another. I can’t wait for the car chase.”

She exploded in shaky, snorting giggles that splattered coffee over the table, and to her horror, over her blouse as well. But when she peeked up from sponging her collar, he looked pleased with himself.

“You know what freaks me out the most?” She tried to keep her voice down. “It’s the responsibility”. I have nothing to help the cops. Just hints about a secret, and some mysterious, sinister ‘thing’ that I’ve never heard of. I don’t know what or where it is, just that somebody appears to want it. And that somebody might have…might have killed my mother.”

There it was. She let out a long, shaky breath. She’d said the unsayable, and Liam just accepted her words calmly, without reacting to them or negating them. She hid her face with hands that shook. “If somebody hurt Lucia, I have to do something about it. I can’t just lie down, let it go. But what? And to whom?”

He was quiet for a long time before he spoke again. “What’s with the necklaces?” he asked. “Do you know what she’s referring to?”

Nancy held up the pendant that glittered at her throat. “I assume she’s referring to these. They came the day before yesterday. Special hand delivery from the jeweler’s shop. Evidently she’d commissioned them for us before she…before it happened. Mine’s an N, for Nancy. Nell has an A, for Antonella, and Vivi has a V, of course.”

He leaned forward, peering at the pendant, and she unclasped it and handed it to him. He examined it from every angle and passed it back to her. “Very pretty,” he commented.

“Thank you,” she said, reclasping it. “That’s what I thought. It’s just pretty. No mysterious keys that I can see. And it was probably expensive, but not outrageously so. Several hundred dollars, maybe.”

He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “It might be worth a try to talk to the jeweler,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes. I most certainly will. Today.”

“I’ll take you,” he said.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it,” she said quickly. “I have my car, and you must have all kinds of things to do, so—”

“Nope. Nothing. I was going to work on Lucia’s house today. I can’t, so I’m just kicking my heels. And I wouldn’t miss it. So really. Don’t fight me on this. Trust me. You’ll lose.”

Whew. There it was, a naked challenge. Right out there in the open. She blinked as she looked at his set jaw, his narrowed eyes. Ahem. There he was, Mr. Alpha Dog. Woof. This was the part in the script where she crisply gave him to understand that he was not the boss here, and that he was not dealing with a fluttery pushover, and that her decisions were entirely her own, thank you very much. Buh-bye.

The words just didn’t come out. A strangled silence took their place. Having company today would be so very nice. Having big, tough, hard-muscled, keen-eyed protective company would be even better.

So. Maybe…just maybe she would let him have this one. A chunk of meat for a hungry wolf. Just this once, mind. Never again.

“Um. Let’s…let’s talk about something else,” she said.

He lifted his teacup, eyes smiling at her over the rim. Pleased with himself. “Whatever you like,” he said magnanimously. “Be my guest.”

His expression made her squirm on the plastic cushion.

“So what do we talk about, then?” she demanded.

His lips twitched. “Anything you like. You were the one who wanted to change the subject. I was fine with the subject.”

“Don’t start with me,” she warned.

“I’m not,” he said. “Try to relax.” He reached out, pausing as she flinched, and touched her forehead with the tip of his finger, massaging the anxious crease between her brows as if trying to erase it.

“Oh, that. That’s always there. That’s just part of my face,” she said with a shaky laugh. His boldness made her feel…naked.

Weird. She hadn’t known there was a good side to that feeling.

“So, Liam,” she said briskly. “Tell me about yourself. Lucia told you all about me, and that puts me at a disadvantage.”

His smile vanished. She felt a flash of regret for killing the moment. She hardened herself. She had to be tough, and careful.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“Whatever is relevant. You’re not married, engaged, or seriously involved. Lucia wouldn’t have thrown me at your head if you were.”

“True enough,” he agreed.

“So what’s wrong with you?” she demanded.

“What do you mean?” He looked mildly curious, not annoyed.

Nancy shrugged. “You’d think a guy like you would’ve been taken by now. You must be, what, thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-seven,” he said.

“Thirty-seven,” she repeated, in a wondering tone. “How have you escaped the noose for so long?”

“I don’t see it as a noose. But I haven’t met the ideal woman yet.”

Her cell phone rang as the waitress arrived with their food. The manager of the venue in Indianapolis where Peter was performing in three weeks, calling to postpone the date. Nancy made a note and promised to get back to him as soon as she had checked the artist’s availability. She hung up and gave Liam a thin smile. “So, back to this ideal woman of yours. What’s she like?”

“You really want to know?”

“Hell, yes,” she assured him. “I’m fascinated. I’m all agog.”

Liam swallowed a mouthful of omelet and washed it down with tea. “Okay,” he said. “My ideal woman is a great cook. She likes to bake bread. She wants lots of children. Would consider being a stay-at-home mom. She’s relaxed. Likes flowers. Loves to hike and garden.”

Nancy’s heart sank. Cut it out, loser. She had no designs on the guy, so why should it matter if she was the opposite of his ideal woman? She couldn’t tell a pumpkin from a hollyhock. Lots of children? What a concept. Although she hadn’t completely given up hopes of maybe at least one, someday. And cooking? Bread? Hah.

Liam went relentlessly on. “She puts home and family first. She’s content with simplicity. She’s sincere, and genuine.”

Nancy tried for a breezy tone. “I get her vibe. Earth mother. Dips her own candles. Makes her own soap. Carves her own toothpicks.”

His lips twitched. “Uh, that’s the general idea, I guess.”

She forced out a brittle laugh. “Well, good luck. I didn’t know they were even still making that brand of female. I bet you’d have more luck shopping for used and vintage models.” Her cell rang again. A presenter of a concert series in Portland, Oregon, wanted Mandrake’s promo packet. She took down his data in her organizer.

“You know, that thing has an off button,” Liam informed her.

Nancy gazed at him blankly. “What’s your point?”

He sighed. “Never mind. You haven’t touched your sandwich.”

Nancy looked down at her turkey club. “I’m not really hungry.”

Liam examined her face with a frown. “Try to calm down a little,” he said. “See if you can get down at least half of your sandwich.”

“I don’t want to argue about my sandwich. I want to know more about this ideal—”

“You’re not going to find out a damn thing worth knowing if you come at me with that attitude.”

She set down her coffee, taken aback. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended. I’m pissed off. There’s a difference.”

She stared down into the puddle of coffee while Liam finished his omelet with undiminished appetite. Finally, she looked up. “I’m not sure what just happened,” she said. “But I have a feeling it was my fault.”

“All I know is, one minute I was talking to you, the next minute I had an uptight, bitchy stranger in my face, wearing a Nancy mask.”

“Sorry.” She blinked back a startling rush of tears.

“Don’t be,” he said. “Come on, Nancy. Indulge me. Eat some of your sandwich. Please.”

Oh, for God’s sake. What did she have to lose by obliging him, anyhow? She picked it up and took a bite. His dimples flashed.

They talked, carefully and politely, about neutral subjects. She managed to eat almost three quarters of her sandwich, which made him happy. When the bill came, he snatched it from her hand and looked personally offended when she tried to pay. Wow. She’d never met one of those guys before, although she’d heard that they existed in the wild.

After they left the diner, Liam opened the truck door for her, climbed in, and started the engine. “So where’s the jeweler?”

The paperwork was buried in the rubble at Lucia’s house, but the name, Baruchin’s Fine Jewelers, was burned into her mind. A consult to her BlackBerry located it as a couple of towns away. The time it took to drive there was spent in conversation that was calculated to keep her calm. It wasn’t working. She got more distracted as they drew nearer.

They pulled up in front of the storefront. The metal sliding doors were down. Closed, on Saturday at noon. Prime shopping hours. Everything around was open and bustling. Odd.

Nancy’s neck prickled unpleasantly as she got out of the truck. There was a small restaurant, Tony’s Diner, next door. Nancy headed in and slid onto a stool at the counter. Liam joined her.

A middle-aged lady sporting a high red bouffant came over with a coffeepot. Nancy smiled and held out her cup. “Yes, please. I have a question. I need to speak to the jeweler next door about a delivery. I was wondering how long they’ve been closed. Is he on vacation?”

A splash of hot coffee slopped out of the pot and onto Nancy’s thumb. She jerked back with a gasp. The bouffant lady’s face crumpled. She set her coffee down, covered her face, and fled into the kitchen.

Nancy glanced at Liam. He was frowning. She sucked on her scalded thumb. “That’s not a good sign,” she said.

“Sure isn’t,” he agreed.

After a minute, a bent, scowling elderly man with bushy white eyebrows, wearing a paper cook’s cap, came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. He scanned the counter and headed straight for them. “You folks was askin’ Donna about Sol Baruchin?”

Nancy nodded. “I don’t actually know Mr. Baruchin personally,” she said, a little nervously. “I needed to ask a professional question—”

“Old Sol’s dead,” the old man said heavily. “He got murdered.”

The cold, weighty silence seemed to grip the whole room. Everyone was frozen, listening. Not a spoon clinked.

“M-m-murdered?” Nancy echoed, in a tiny, shaking whisper.

“When?” Liam asked.

“Last night, sometime. Him and his wife and his mother-in-law, all three. Christ, the mother-in-law was bedridden. Musta been ninety, ninety-five years old. Goddamn animals. I got this cop buddy, comes here for breakfast. He tipped me off about it. Frickin’ horrible mess.”

Nancy covered her mouth with her hands and tried to process this information. It wouldn’t seem to go in. Everything was blocked.

“Sol’s been having breakfast and lunch in this joint every day for the last thirty-five years,” the old man said dully. “Donna’s all broke up. Christ, it’s hard enough at my age, with friends dropping like flies from heart attacks and strokes, without some sick bastard murdering ’em. So, anyhows.” He shook his head, his wrinkled mouth compressed into a grim, bluish line. “Sol’s shop ain’t gonna be open anytime soon, miss.”

She tried to answer him politely. Nothing came out.

Liam smoothly filled the gap for her. “Thanks for the information,” he said. “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” The old man turned and shuffled back toward the kitchen, his shoulders bowed.

Nancy lurched out into the street, desperate for a gulp of air, but it was even worse out there, with the murdered Baruchin’s shuttered shop staring at her morosely from behind heavy, gray, metallic eyelids. The effect was chilling. “Let’s get away from here,” she gasped.

“Where to?” Liam unlocked her door, hoisted her in.

“Anywhere,” she said.

Liam took her at her word. He was rattled himself by old Tony’s bombshell, and as soon as he pulled out onto the street, he was on autopilot, his mind racing. He was actually surprised when he found himself pulling up under the big maple that shaded his own driveway. Whoa. This was going to be tricky, in her present mood.

Nancy looked around herself, as if waking up from an unpleasant dream. “Where are we?”

“My house,” he said.

Her gaze cut nervously away from his. “Oh. I didn’t even see where we were going.” She twisted her hands and stared at the water that trickled down the windshield. “That poor guy,” she whispered. “And his wife, and her mother, too. God. How awful.” She looked back at him, her eyes haunted. “It’s not a coincidence.”

He hesitated for a long moment, unwilling to freak her out further, but honesty prevailed. “No. What happened to Lucia was bad enough. And after the break-in, the necklaces, the letter, and now the jeweler killed, I don’t know. I’m no expert. But it doesn’t smell good.”

They sat there in the rainy gloom, watching the drops of water coursing down the windshield, the waving green foliage surrounding them. He reached out for her hand. It was as cold as ice. He chafed it.

“Come in,” he urged her. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”

She stared down at her hand, clasped in his, but did not pull it away. “I’m the opposite of your ideal woman,” she blurted.

His jaw clenched. “I know,” he said.

“So, um, where does that leave us?” she asked quietly.

He looked up at the dripping trees, the heavy clouds. “At the moment, it leaves us parked outside, in a truck, in the rain.”

Her face turned deep, warm pink. “You want me to come in?”

“Only if you want to,” he said. Hah. He lied. He wanted her to come in more than he wanted his next lungful of oxygen.

“I hardly know you,” she whispered.

“We can fix that,” he suggested. “Come in for a cup of tea. Tell me about yourself.”

“That’s very nice of you. But it’s not a good idea to have a first date in one’s own private space,” she said primly.

He started to grin. “Is that what it would be? A first date? Doesn’t breakfast count?”

She looked flustered. “I don’t know. Second date, then. What would you call it?”

He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “I’d call it a cup of tea.”

Nancy wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t think breakfast counts. It wasn’t premeditated. And a first date—that is, um, any first encounter—should take place on a mutually agreed-upon neutral ground,” she told him. “A public place, like a bar, or a restaurant. And just a drink, not dinner. Just to see how it goes.”

“Oh. Is that how it’s done?” He pressed a kiss against her fingers. “Tea’s a drink, right? And I really think breakfast counts as a date.”

“No,” she said, sounding slightly breathless. “No way. We’re nowhere yet. Breakfast doesn’t count. Intention is everything.”

“Now that is the God’s own truth.” He reached out and stroked her cheek. It was as soft as he had imagined.

She made a low, inarticulate sound. He was dazed by the warmth of her, the downy softness. The delicate details.

He leaned forward, in tiny increments, until their faces nearly touched, and commenced a slow, careful dance of advance, retreat. Feeling her breath against his cheek, stroking her jaw. Tracing that elegant jut of delicately sculpted cheekbone beneath her smooth skin.

He waited, sensing her caution and her longing. Waiting patiently until the two found their perfect balancing point, and…ah.

Her eyes shut as he tasted her lips. So lightly. So carefully.

He gasped at the contact. Oh, Jesus, she tasted like light. Incredible, electrifying. Her lips, so soft and shy beneath his.

He explored her face with his fingertips, stroking her jaw, her pale throat. She dragged in a sharp breath as he slid his hand down her back, settling on the curve of her hip. Her nipples poked against her blouse. His fingers ached to caress them. He touched the first button, tugged it. It came loose, revealing the hollow of her throat, a warm cloud of some exotic, woodsy scent. He wanted to gulp it in. Lick it up.

He pulled her closer, kissed her jaw, then her throat. His lips brushed the warm gold of the little pendant Lucia had given her. His hand brushed down over her breast, just close enough that the nipple barely brushed his palm. The little nub was hard, tight.

His arm tightened. He felt it, the second that it happened. A door, slamming down between them in her mind. One moment she was melting in his arms, fingernails digging into his shirt. Out of nowhere, tension gripped her, and she arched away, stiff and brittle as a stick of balsa wood. He was so in tune with her, he actually felt alarm jangling through her, like warning bells clanging. As if the fear were his own.

He forced himself to let go. It was as hard as bending metal.

He eased back, hands clenched. Giving her the space she needed. He was doing it again. Pushing her. It was a piss-poor time for this. She was a complicated woman, grief stricken, stressed out, and he was a jerk-off for forcing the issue. Out of his fucking head. He struggled not to pant. Fists clenched. Slow breathing. Don’t even look at her. Don’t.

He looked away. Minutes ticked by, measured by drops of water making their meandering way down the window of the truck, by ragged, labored breaths that he struggled to keep silent.

At length, he heard her rustling, the soft sounds of fabric shushing together. Buttoning her blouse, getting herself in order. A cough. Clearing her throat. “Ah…um, Liam? That was, ah—”

“Amazing.” He stared fixedly at the lean-to, the pattern of the carefully stacked wood for his fireplace. “But you choked.”

She looked at her lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on. Look, I need to get back. I need to talk to the cops about that letter, and the jeweler, and clue my sisters in, and you’ve been really great, and I appreciate the company, but I…but I’m, ah—”

“Scared,” he said.

She sighed. “Not of you.” Her voice was muted. “You’re a really good guy. I know that. It’s just…well, everything.”

“Yeah?” Anger twisted in him, hard to wrestle down. “Everything’s not here in the cab of this truck, Nancy. It’s just me in here with you.”

She looked at him with big, beseeching eyes. He stared back, unrelenting. “It’s just a cup of tea. It’s not the end of the world.”

She made a sniffing sound. “Right. You know exactly what would happen if I went into your house, Liam.”

“Do I? Yes, actually,” he said reflectively. “I can see it. I’d pull up a chair for you. Put the kettle on the stove. Rummage around in the pantry for that tin of ginger butter crisps. Ask if you take milk or lemon. Ask leading questions about your childhood. Say nice things about your eyes, your hair, your earrings. Try my best to be witty and charming.”

“Really?” A smile flickered on her face. “Is that what you’d do?”

He nodded, willing it to be true.

“It sounds nice,” she said demurely. “But I…oh, never mind.”

Yeah, she didn’t have to say it. He saw that alternative scenario, too. The one where he ripped the clothes off that slim, lusciously curved body, pinned her up against the wall and nailed her, deep and hard, until they both exploded. His heart thudded. His ears roared.

Cool it, bonehead. The moment was so fragile, so uncertain. She was intensely sensitive to his every word, his every goddamn thought.

He caught her eye flicking to his lap and darting nervously away. Yeah, the boner of the century, trying to rip the seams of his jeans loose. Aching with each heavy thud of his heart for the soft touch of that cool hand. Heat burned into his cheekbones. He gave her a shrug that said, yeah, and so? He couldn’t control his physiological responses, but he could, by God, control his behavior. He wanted her to know that, but there was no good way to say it. Better to keep his mouth shut.

“I just need for things to be…under control,” she whispered. “I have enough to be scared of right now, without piling it on, you know?”

He rubbed his hand against his face, feeling around instinctively with his senses for a way through this labyrinth. He did not want to turn around and go back. No. He could not. That wasn’t even an option.

He flung the door of the truck open. The rain on the earth had released a deep, sweet, spicy perfume, and drops pattered heavily down onto him. He circled the truck, and stood outside the passenger-side door, staring at Nancy’s huge eyes through the rain-spotted glass. He mimed rolling down the window. She did so, frowning in perplexity.

“What the hell are you doing out there in the rain?”

“Continuing our conversation. You need control. Control it, then. The car door’s the limit. I won’t violate it. I swear upon my sacred honor that I will not touch any part of you that’s inside that door.”

She looked away, embarrassed. “Oh, God, Liam. You don’t have to play elaborate games like that with me. You’re getting soaked.”

Like he gave a shit. “That’s my problem, not yours,” he said.

“But it makes me feel guilty!” she protested.

Ah. Yes. This was progress. “The guilt is your problem,” he informed her. “I can’t help you with that. Sorry.”

She laughed at him. Something primitive inside him capered with glee. Yes. It was working. She was lightening up. Praise God.

“So?” Her eyes sparkled. “You’re just going to stand out there and get drenched, then? That’s silly.”

“It’s a crafty attempt to disarm you with my gallantry,” he told her. “Is it working? Are you charmed?”

She wrinkled her nose at him, leaned out the window a little. “I think you’re out of your mind.”

His grin stretched all the way around his head. “You’re charmed,” he said. “And you’re outside the limit. Any part of you outside the plane of the window is fair game, remember? The tip of your nose and your forehead are at serious risk. This is by way of a courtesy warning.”

“Very gentlemanly of you,” she said demurely.

“I’m trying like hell,” he said, with stark sincerity.

And she didn’t pull back. In fact, she leaned a tiny bit farther out. And her fingers were curled over the side of the door.

He jerked his chin toward her hands. “Outside the limit.”

Her lips formed words that didn’t quite make it out of her mouth, so she swallowed, and tried again. “I…I know.”

His heart started to thud again. The rain was increasing, its soft, patter beading his face, and hers, as well.

Over the limit. Fair game. She’d been warned. She knew.

He reached out, as slowly as if she were a bird that would take flight at any sudden movement, and touched the backs of her cool, slender fingers. So pale. Wet with rain. Unexpectedly, her hands turned beneath his. Excitement jolted through his chest. Palm up, like flowers, blooming beneath his hands. Opening, offering. Yes.

He leaned closer. The rain whispered, murmuring, pattering tenderly against every new leaf. She glowed like a South Sea pearl, that faint blush of pink, barely a hint of color in her pale cheeks. Her huge eyes were wide open and luminous. Greenish brown. Leaves in the water. Dilated pupils, deep and endless. A sprinkle of ruddy freckles on her nose, now that he was close enough to see. A frivolous detail that made her beauty more believable, more approachable. More kissable.

He studied every drop of water beading her forehead. Followed the grain of her eyebrows, the jut of her cheekbone. Perfect. Radiant. He was dazzled. Lost. His wits gone. Like they’d never been.

She extricated her hand, and touched his face from cheekbone to jaw. The trail of her finger was a path of light, moonlight on water, a beckoning shimmer. Rain dripped into his collar, soaking his shoulders. Rain defined the dimensions of this sensual liquid otherworld. Pearly gray, green, silvery, glittering cool. And beneath it, secret hidden heat. The blush in her cheeks, the warmth of her lips. Wet with rain, sweet with rain. Her scent, escaping him every time he tried to inhale it. Elusive, alluring. Driving him mad. He swayed. Their lips touched.

The kiss pierced through him, broke something open. He started to shake and clutched the edge of the door to steady himself. Moved, by a shy, cautious, trembling kiss. Tears started into his eyes. Luckily, his face was already wet. He closed his eyes, tasted her, felt her. The delicate texture of the inside skin of her lips, the flick of her shy tongue. He drank it up. Like fine liquor. So sweet, for being given, and not taken.

The cell phone could have been ringing for hours by the time he registered it. He never wanted to come back, but the sound was a grappling hook that dragged her away from him. He begged her, in his mind, to turn the goddamn thing off. Stay with him. Let this magic go on.

She pulled away, groped for her purse. Avoiding his gaze. “Hello?”

She listened to a loud burst of talking on the other side, and her eyes flicked up to him. “Just a sec, Eugene. Um, Liam? This is going to take a few minutes. You might as well get back into the truck.”

Yes, it was definitely over. Fuck. He stood there, fists clenched.

She was paying no attention. She was all business now.

He got into the truck, feeling stupid and dismissed. Chump asshole. Winding himself up into thinking he was on the verge of something important.

But not more important than a fucking phone call.

“Thank God you picked up. We’ve got a disaster on our hands!”

Eugene was the fiddler from Mandrake, her Afro-Celt fusion band. She avoided looking at Liam as he got back into the truck. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Dennis! He’s deserting! The stinking rat bastard!”

“Calm down, and let’s take this step by step.”

“He just got a gig with a touring show of Riverdance! He’s blowing us off, a week before the tour! The gigs in Boston and Albany and Atlanta all specified Uilleann pipes in the contract! We can’t show up without a piper!” Eugene’s voice cracked.

“Calm down,” she said again. “This is bad, but we’ll fix it.”

“How, Nance? Every piper we know is booked solid those weeks! I’ve already made seven phone calls! We’re completely screwed!”

“We’ll fix it!” she insisted. “I’ll be back tonight. When I get home, I’ll call you and we’ll work something out. Don’t panic.”

She listened with half an ear to Eugene’s carrying-on, her body still quivering. After all her resolutions to be tough. Making out madly with a stranger in his truck. Getting swept away, too, toward God alone knew what. His house, his couch, his rug, his bed. She hadn’t been swept away since…well, never. Swept away was not in her repertoire.

She’d never known anyone that good. She’d never known that good existed. She was squirming, hot. Practically desperate for it, and after some gallant moves, a light kiss, one single collar button undone.

He’d barely touched her. How had he done that?

She jerked her attention back to Eugene before she lost the thread. “All this work for nothing,” he moaned. “I can’t take it. I’m going back to school. I’m going to be an accountant, like Mom wanted.”

“You’re not going to be an accountant,” Nancy soothed with practiced ease. “It’s too late for that. You’re not fit for any work but being a fiddler now, so get yourself a cup of tea, and calm down.”

“Where the hell are you, anyway?” Eugene demanded.

Nancy’s eyes flicked up to Liam’s impassive face. “Later,” she said, clicking “stop.” She dropped the phone back into her purse.

The rain was slanting in her open window. She rolled it up.

“I’ll take you back to your car,” he said. The warmth was gone from his voice. She missed it.

They were silent for the twenty minutes it took to get back to Lucia’s house, and every minute that passed, she felt like she shrank further into herself against his quiet reproach.

When they arrived, he parked behind her car. So much had happened since she’d been there last, though it had been less than two hours. The whole gamut of human emotions blazing through her. She was wrung out, hollowed. Practically transparent.

She stared up at the shabby old house, bright yellow crime scene tape festooned across the door, and started rummaging for her car keys.