Tasting Fear

by Shannon McKenna

  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 Co
co 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?”

  “Yes,” she heard herself say. Sealing her own doom.

  “Let’s go.” He started down the stairs, Edna scrambling after.

  “You mean, right now? This minute? Don’t we need towels, bathing suits? Anything?”

  “Bring what you want, but wear jeans. The poison oak is thick.”

  “One minute.” Vivi closed the door, shucked her clothes, and pulled on her old one-piece. She yanked her clothes on, tossed a towel over her shoulder. About to do the stupidest thing she’d ever deliberately done, and she couldn’t even breathe, she was so excited.

  The path was difficult. They hopped boulders by the rushing river for a mile or so, until sheer cliffs rose up from the swift, green glacial water. She followed Jack into a thicket of dense bushes, clambering up one steep hill and down another, through a narrow cleft between two towering boulders, and under the draped fronds of a blackberry bush.

  A tendril snarled in her hair. She was struggling to untangle it when he appeared beside her. He took the long, thorny vine in his hand. Vivi stared at the hollow at the base of his throat. He was so warm. He smelled so good. Her body ached to know how it would feel to lean against that solid chest. What would she do if he kissed her?

  Oh, please. Duh. She’d jump all over him. Eat him for lunch.

  He let go of the lock of hair, laying it over her shoulder. He turned without saying a word and started to climb. Vivi scrambled after him, relief warring with disappointment.

  The path merged with a smaller streambed from the hillside above that had carved a gully leading down to the river. The walls of the gully were steep, the rocks covered with moss, thick with wild mint and luxuriant, spotted yellow flowers with heavy heads like snapdragons, and tufts of fragrant wild mint. Vivi picked her way from boulder to boulder, Edna splashing ahead of her. At the mouth of the spring, Jack pointed upriver. “Look there, past that tall rock.”

  Her eyes followed his hand. There were several pools, sunken into the huge, flat gray rocks of the riverbank. They were surrounded by the nodding yellow flowers and mint. The last rays of sun that still managed to slant into the river canyon lit up the water, the multicolored pebbles, and the glittering sand. Faint curls of steam rose from the water. The river rushed noisily by a few yards away.

  He watched her face, intently. “Like it?”

  She looked around, enchanted. “Oh, my God. It’s superb.”

  Her delight was shattered when she realized that Jack had stripped off his shirt and was unbuckling his belt. Oh, God. Jack Kendrick fully clothed was already too much voltage for her circuits to handle. Jack Kendrick naked would blow her fuses to hell and gone.

  “Hey, you! Just wait a damn second!” she said sharply.

  His hands stopped on his waistband. “Yeah?”

  “Are you wearing swimming trunks?” she demanded.

  “No.” He waited patiently as she processed this.

  “I’m not comfortable with that,” she said. “Things are already funny between us. I’d rather not, uh…”

  “See me stark naked,” he finished.

  She blew out a sharp, nervous sigh. “Right on, buddy.”

  “Do you want me to leave? Can you find your way back alone?”

  Ow. That would be so flat. So blah. She did not want him to leave.

  Damn, she didn’t know what she wanted. She wanted the world to be different. She wanted him to be different. She wanted…aw, shit.


  She just wanted him to want her. Her, Vivi D’Onofrio. The whole damn tattooed, itinerant, sexpot, complicated, prickly package.

  That was too extravagant a thing to hope for. Besides being way too soon. For Pete’s sake, she’d just met the guy the day before. She just had so much intense, scary emotion about sex backed up in her system. After six years of celibacy anyone would be climbing the freaking walls. She had Brian Wilder to thank for that, too. The jerk.

  “No, don’t leave,” she murmured, abashed. “Can’t you just, um, keep your underwear on?”

  His lips twitched, making her feel foolish and prissy. “Yeah, whatever,” he said. “If it really bothers you.”

  He pulled off his jeans. He was wearing white briefs. The muscles in his torso were finger-licking delicious. Luxurious curling dark hair tapered down to his belly and turned into a furry mat that disappeared into those briefs. Narrow hips, powerful thighs. She might not survive this visual sensory experience even if he did keep his briefs on.

  He stepped into the water, descending until he sat in the pool cross-legged, clouds of glittering sand wafting up from the bottom to swirl and turn in the water, glinting in the sunlight. The water reached to his collarbone. He leaned against the rim of the pool and closed his eyes. A nice show of delicacy, while she undressed. He was in perfect gentleman mode now—but she knew his tricks. If she relaxed and let down her guard for one instant, he’d turn on her for sure.

  She pulled off her jeans and T-shirt, wishing her bathing suit were less thin and worn, and stepped into the water. Deliciously hot. Like an enormous, full-body kiss. A sprig of mint dangled over her shoulder, brushing her cheek. She was blushing furiously.

  “Why are you blushing?” His voice was silky, amused.

  “The water is hot,” she snapped. “And how did you know that with your eyes closed, anyway? That’s sneaky.”

  He smiled briefly and made no reply.

  They sat there, listening to the river rushing by, for a very long time. He kept his eyes closed, until it felt as if he were hiding from her.

  She wanted to make him reveal something about himself. She’d bared her soul in the restaurant the night before. He owed her some freaking personal history, too. “So. Nudity doesn’t embarrass you?”