Tasting Fear (11 page)

He rolled her slowly down onto her back, his finger still deep inside her clinging pussy. He folded her legs wide. She gazed up at him, with those huge, fathomless eyes, her hair a swirling mass against the sheet. So responsive, gasping and sighing at every caress. His finger was in ecstasy in the hot, clinging vortex. She was lifting herself, shoving against his delving hand, silently begging for more, deeper, harder.

His cock ached. She did a swirl twist of her fingers around him, and pulled.
Ah
. “I won’t be able to wait if you do that again,” he warned.

Her lips curved in a smile so lovely, it made his heart hurt. “Who asked you to wait?” she said.

He panted, his existence measured by heartbeats throbbing in his cock. “I wanted to make you come about ten times first,” he told her.

She shook with breathless giggles. “That sounds like fun, but I’m too wound up for anything lazy and drawn out. I just want you.”

Praise God, they were on the same page. He took her at her word and groped on the corner of the bed, where he’d laid a condom. He ripped it open, rolled the thing on, and leaned over her, balancing on one hand while he carefully nudged his cock into her slick opening.

What followed were the most excruciatingly wonderful moments of his life. He was big, she was tight and small. Her pussy hugged him. She arched, offered herself, wiggling to accommodate him. Damn. He should have insisted, gone for the ten orgasms. Gone down on her for an hour or so.

But with each shove, he slid deeper, felt her relax around him, her nails digging into his shoulders. He was dazzled at her alabaster pale body, so fragrant and smooth. Her arms, clutching him. Those perfect breasts, with the puckered dark nipples that he hadn’t even had a chance to properly feast on. No time. So much to do with her.

A man would need a lifetime for it all.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

She had to try about three times before she could get words out of her throat. “I…I think I’m going to fall apart.”

He tried to warm her with his body without crushing her. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I don’t know,” she said, through chattering teeth. “It’s an unprecedented thing.”

“Ah. Well. I guess…that’s good,” he offered. “I hope.”

“You’re huge, by the way,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said helplessly.

“Don’t apologize.” She slid her hands down his back, dug her fingernails into his ass, pulled him deeper. He couldn’t talk. He was too busy trying not to come as they rocked, looking for their rhythm.

They found it, and were off. Much harder and faster than he’d meant to go, but he felt possessed. She twined around him, hanging on, jarred by every thrust. Wild horses were thundering through his body, but she was with him, holding on. Riding the crest. Not trampled by it.

The orgasm jolted through him, each jolt blasting him deeper, wider, wide open to the stars, the wind. Naked and exposed.

When it subsided, he was the one who felt trampled. Humbled and destroyed. So shy, he didn’t dare look into her face.

The sky had brightened while they’d been busy, and he made out leaves rustling and moving in the pearly blue light outside the window.

Nancy cupped his face with her hand, pulling it around.

He rolled onto his side to face her, and they clasped hands, bodies still joined and slick with sweat and lube. Speechless. Eyes locked.

This time he was the one who couldn’t handle the long, significant silence. He was afraid he’d hurt her, scared her. He got up, got himself a drink of water, gulped it thirstily. He hesitated a moment, and got one for her, too. When he brought it back to the bed, she was sitting up, her slender body curled in a graceful pose like a mermaid on a rock, legs tucked to the side. He handed her the glass, and she held it up to her cheek for a moment. He steeled himself, and asked it. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. A soft smile curved her lips. She didn’t speak. It was driving him crazy. “What?” he demanded. “What the hell is it?”

She laughed, softly. “That’s funny, from you,” she said. “I’m just using your trick.” She saw the bewilderment in his eyes, and explained. “You know. Shutting up, and just looking at you. Feeling it, here.” She put her hand on her heart. “I like the way it feels.”

He squirmed, inwardly. “Oh. That’s not a trick. It’s just the truth.”

She nodded gravely and drank the water, looking over him with a frank approval that brought a blush to his face. His dick responded, too, standing up proudly. Not yet. Ten more orgasms. And they’d see how things went. He took the glass of water, placed it on the lamp table next to the bed, and then grabbed her and tugged her to the edge of the couch. She sensed his intention and grabbed his hair. “Liam—”

“Shhh.” He shoved her thighs wide. Her cunt was beautiful, juicy and plump and soft, adorned with a soft fuzz of ringlets wet with lube. He kissed his way up to the good stuff, and moaned with pleasure when he tasted her juice. Sweet and hot, slick and earthy. Fucking delicious.

Her phone rang. They froze. “Do you usually get calls at this hour?” Liam demanded.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she murmured.

Her machine clicked and whirred. A man’s voice came on the line. “Nance? Pick up, if you’re there. You have to come to the studio and listen to this great new order I came up with for the CD.”

Nancy reached for the phone that still lay by the couch. Liam leaned back. The guy’s voice went on “…try your cell phone next—”

She picked up. “I’m here, Peter.”

“What took you so long to get to the phone?” Peter demanded.

“It’s five in the morning, or haven’t you noticed?” She perched on the edge of the couch. “What do you mean, change the order?”

“I thought of a great new—”

“You’ve done this to me three times! If we don’t get those liner notes to Shepard by nine-thirty, the CD won’t be in the catalog at all!”

“But it makes more sense if I put ‘The Road to You’ at the end!”

“Tell me about it when I get there.” She hung up and looked around as if waking from a dream. “I forgot the liner notes. My mind was wiped.” She shot Liam a guilty look. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get moving. I’ve got a million things to—”

“No,” he said.

She froze, eyes tightening. “Excuse me?”

Rage was bubbling hot inside him. “What would it take to convince you that you can’t go bouncing around, la-di-da, and do your fucking errands like nothing even happened?”

“They are not ‘fucking errands’! This is how I support myself!”

“You can’t support yourself if you’re dead.” The words were a blow, as he’d meant them to be. “You’re coming up to Latham with me.”

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Am I? Thanks so much for discussing this decision with me.”

“You don’t have any grip on reality,” he told her.

“It’s you who needs to get a grip.” Her voice shook. “Don’t think that I don’t appreciate what you did last night. But don’t think that it’s all up to you, now, either, understand? I have a life, and I have to—”

“That’s what I’m trying to help you protect,” he said. “Not your work, Nancy. Not your career. Your
life
. Do you know the difference?”

“This city is swarming with millions of people—”

“Two of whom came at us with a knife last night.”

“Do not be sarcastic. I’ll be with people the entire day, and I’ll take cabs. I have to be in midtown by nine-thirty sharp, and I—”

“I’ll go with you,” he announced, his voice grim.

She struggled to marshal her arguments. “Liam, I’ll be racing from pillar to post, and I can’t concentrate if you’re watching my every—”

“Deal with it. Or come back with me to Latham.” He could tell already from the look on her face that he’d played his cards all wrong.

“Yes, and do what while my livelihood goes straight to hell?” she demanded. “Spend my days lolling in your bed, with my legs in the air? I’m sure it would be fun, Liam, but it’s not a long-term solution.”

“I never said it was,” he said, but that was the wrong thing to say. Her soft, pink mouth went all pinched and tight.

“I see. Of course. Just a temporary thing,” she said. “Sexual entertainment while you amuse yourself with your bodyguard hobby.”

Shit.
“Nancy, that’s not what I meant. I’m just saying you can’t—”

“It’s not up to you.” She stood there, auburn hair tousled out to here, eyes blazing, so beautiful it hurt his eyes. He grabbed his clothes.

“This is the biggest production company I’ve ever done business with. If I flake out on them, they’ll never take me seriously again.”

He finished tying his shoes. “Don’t try to justify yourself to me,” he said, his voice clipped. “Because you can’t.” He shrugged into his jacket. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’ll take you to your recording studio.”

Her chin went up. “I can get a cab.”

Two strides put him right in her face, one hand tilting her head back, the other digging into the soft, smooth swell of her ass cheek.

“Don’t push me any further,” he warned. “Give me this one. You owe me a hell of a lot more. But you will—give—me—this.”

Or else.
Her throat bobbed. They both heard the sexual menace in his tone. He had never used his size and strength to intimidate a woman. Never dreamed that he was capable of it. But look at him, actually wondering what he would do if she kept defying him.

His rock-hard, throbbing dick had some very good ideas.

She wrenched her chin away. Started getting ready. He was so relieved, he almost sagged to the ground. He’d bluffed her.

But the predatory beast inside him was as disappointed as hell.

“I
don’t see what the point was of you schlepping down here if you’re not even going to listen,” Peter said crabbily.

Nancy rubbed her eyes. Peter’s handsome face swam into focus. “Peter, please,” she said wearily. “I haven’t slept, and I risked death and abduction last night. Spare me the attitude.”

“I very much doubt that anyone was trying to abduct you,” Peter said with a sniff. “I mean, why would they? You’re having delusions of grandeur. Do I need to brew some coffee, or can you stay conscious long enough for me to run this new song order by you?”

“Hit me with it,” she said, dragging herself to her feet. “I’ll stand. Easier to stay awake.”

“Good idea,” Peter said. “My thought was to put ‘Glory Road’ at the top. Hit ’em with everything we’ve got, bada-bam-bada-boom. Once we’ve got their attention, ‘The Slippery Slope.’ Then Enid’s a cappella intro to ‘The Far Shore.’ And then, we’ll put…”

Despite her best efforts, Peter’s voice faded into background noise. Nancy shifted her weight from one foot to the other, thinking of Liam’s eyes when he left her. It made her want to bawl. But she couldn’t throw her whole life into the air and leap into his pocket. She couldn’t.

She shook the memory away, keeping her eyes fixed on Peter’s refined, ethereal good looks that had so attracted her back in college. They had met freshman year and formed a band: Peter on lead vocals and guitar, herself on acoustic bass, Henry on drums, Chad on keyboards. She’d worked herself to the bone finding gigs, planning spring-break tours. She’d fancied herself in love with Peter, and he loved her, too. At least, he’d assured her that he did, even on the day that he and Henry and Chad had sat her down and told her they were looking for a new bass player. Someone with more natural rhythm.

“We need somebody with a jazz background. Someone who can lay down a really killer bass line,” Peter explained earnestly.

“Oh,” Nancy squeaked, trying not to cry.

“It’s not that we don’t love you, Nance. What we’re trying to say is, everybody should do what they’re best at,” Henry coaxed.

“Yeah, and what you’re best at is finding gigs, Nance!” Peter encouraged. “You should be the band’s business manager!”

“Yeah?” Nancy sniffed.

“Yeah! We can’t do without you!” Henry said eagerly. “It’s like, you take care of us, you know? Like how you always make sure that Chad’s shirt doesn’t clash with his pants before he goes on stage. Like the way you find gigs. That’s what we need! Bassists are a dime a dozen. We can find a bassist anywhere!”

Peter patted her shoulder. “Come on, Nance, be a sport.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” she said dully.

Yes, she’d tried to be a sport. She’d tried again, years later, when Peter fell in love with Enid. He’d used almost the same words as when he’d dumped her as a bassist. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” he’d said, patting her shoulder. “It’s just a different kind of love. The love I feel for Enid is, like, she sets a match to my heart, and poof! I go up in flames. A match to my heart. Cool image.” He began to hum, and stopped when Nancy burst into tears. “Oh, God. Don’t do this to me,” he begged. “It’s not like we had this grand passion, you know? Come on! Be a sport.”

She had choked back her tears, and been a sport for Peter and Enid. She’d been a sport again, when Ron dumped her for Liz. And damned if she hadn’t been a sport yet again, for Freedy, when he jilted her for Andrea. She was a professional sport. A real trouper.

How crushing the loss had felt then. How far away, how insignificant it felt now. After losing Lucia. After facing death in a nylon mask and a switchblade. After making love to Liam.

Ron, Freedy, Peter. They were like dimly remembered games of hopscotch and tag from kindergarten. She blinked. Peter was yelling her name. “Nance! For God’s sake! Are you having an epileptic seizure?”

“I’m fine,” she said faintly.

Peter’s frown became a pout. “I need your feedback, and I don’t feel like you’re there for me! Listen while I play the new order for you.”

Nancy braced herself for the raucous burst of percussion that opened “Glory Road.” Halfway through “Devil’s Bargain” she zoned out again, staring at Peter’s ethereal beauty. It struck her as effeminate and insubstantial. Liam’s stern masculine beauty was imbued with strength, whereas Peter’s had an air of fragility. In fact, her instinct had always been to protect Peter from harsh reality, to buoy his confidence. To manage his career so he could make a living doing what he loved.

There was nothing fragile about Liam. She would never have to make sure his socks matched. She would never need to find work for him. Strange. All these years, she’d been so busy frantically trying to earn what love and attention came her way. It had never even occurred to her how immensely sexy self-sufficiency was in a man.

Her revelation brought her no pleasure, however. If anything, it made her more miserable. He was so angry and hurt by the fight they’d had. He probably never wanted to see her again.

The final strains of “The Road to You” were dying away. Peter was staring at her expectantly. “So?” he prompted. “What do you think?”

Exhaustion rolled heavily over her. “It’s fine, Peter.”

His face fell. “Just fine? That’s all you can say?”

“I need a nap,” she said. She flung herself onto the couch, and slid instantly into sleep. Peter’s scolding babble faded to black.

At some point during her nap, a vivid dream came to her. Liam was sitting on a chair, lit by a beam of sunlight, playing a haunting melody on his fiddle. In the unaccountable way of dreams, she knew the lovely tune was for her. She woke up smiling, into Enid’s face. Enid knelt by the couch, waving a cup of coffee under Nancy’s nose. Nancy’s smile faded, and she struggled into a sitting position and grabbed the coffee. “Thanks, Enid.”

Peter walked briskly into the room. “Sorry to drag you back to the real world,” he said. “But it’s eight-ten, and you’re going to have to move your butt to get those liner notes redone in time before we head up to meet with Shepard.”

The familiar pressure settled on Nancy’s chest—and suddenly, she thought about the dream. Something clicked in her mind.

The painful pressure lightened, like magic. This was not life or death. The liner notes, the meeting—they were insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Close encounters with sex and death did wonders to reorder a girl’s priorities. “Not,” she said, sipping her coffee.

Peter and Enid glanced at each other. “What do you mean, ‘not’?” Peter asked, his voice cautious.

“‘Not’ meaning that you and Enid have to move your butts, not me. As of this moment, the liner notes are no longer my problem.”

Peter’s face was blank. “What are you talking about? We have to deliver the layout to Shepard this morning, and if we don’t—”

“You, Peter. Not we. I’ve revised those notes three times. The disk is in my purse.” She dug it out and handed it to him. “Change it on your computer. Deliver it to Shepard yourself. I can’t go today.”

“Can’t go? Are you nuts?” Peter looked horrified. “Nance, I don’t do desktop publishing! I’m an artist, not a secretary!”

“You could always leave the album order like it was, if you get desperate,” she suggested. “It was fine before.”

“You’re not coming?” Enid’s limpid blue eyes widened with outrage, to the point of bulging, Nancy noticed with detached interest. “What’s gotten into you? What are we supposed to say to Shepard?”

“Call and reschedule, if you don’t want to go alone.” Nancy suggested. “Or tell him that I’m having some personal problems.”

“What personal problems could be more important than—”

“Being attacked by masked kidnappers. Being threatened with death and dismemberment,” Nancy said. “Just for starters.”

“Oh, please, Nance. You don’t even care if the album gets into the catalog or not?” Enid sounded wounded.

“Of course I care. But you guys have to do your part. I’m done pulling rabbits out of hats. I have to go. Peter, get your shoes on. You have to come back with me to my apartment.”

“Today? Why?” He sounded outraged. “Nancy, don’t be ridic—”

“You owe me,” Nancy said, her voice steely. “I work my ass off for you. I almost got killed last night, and I promised a friend I’d get company everywhere I go. And that means you’re up to bat. Lucky you.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Your timing is—”

“Plus, I need help packing my computer and scanner and printer into the car. I’m going up to Latham for a while.”

Enid and Peter exchanged shocked glances. “Latham?” Peter repeated. “Now is not the time for country air! Tonight’s the gig at the Bottom Line with Brigid McKeon! The liner notes are due, we’re going on tour in two weeks, the FolkWorld Conference is coming up—”

“It’s really not that far,” she assured him, patting his shoulder. “And I’ll be in touch. By e-mail and cell. It’s really no big deal.”

Peter accompanied her with bad grace, but she ignored his sulking. Outside, it was a beautiful morning. A brisk wind made the bits of garbage dance and swirl cheerfully over sidewalk grates.

She snagged them a cab back to Avenue B on the first wave.

Peter stared stonily out the window, leaving her free to be self-absorbed. Peter usually required a lot of attention, but she wouldn’t be capable of giving it to him today if she wanted to. And she couldn’t be bothered. She felt strange, manic. Something had happened to her last night. She had changed. She wasn’t sure exactly what the change was, but she liked it. She was going to pack up every piece of her life that was portable, collect her cat, drive up to Latham, and throw herself on Liam’s mercy. And a couple of other choice body parts.

Doubt clutched at her. No way could it work. A guy like him, with his mellow country lifestyle, his earth mother ideal. A busy, citified madwoman like herself. Besides, he was so angry at her. And there were the armed abductors and angry burglars. Add a murdered jeweler to the mix, a mysterious letter, a deadly hidden object, and yikes. Having Nancy D’Onofrio for a girlfriend was quite a proposition.

Problematic didn’t even begin to describe it.

But at least she no longer felt like she would disappoint him in bed. Oh, no, she knew just exactly what she wanted to do to that big, strong body. She thought about the look in his eyes when he told her how to look at the flower. The feeling that pierced her. The sweetness. It made her heart catch, and her lungs squeeze, painfully.

She was going to Latham. And if she got her heart crushed to a fine powder, well, whatever. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But it would definitely be the worst.

Eoin shuffled up the driveway to Liam’s house at 2:00, red eyed and shamefaced, like any guy would who had been guzzling Guinness all night and had faced the new day without sleep or a shower.

Liam looked up from the chopping block. He’d been trying to unload excess adrenaline and misery by chopping wood. So far with limited success. “Look who the cat dragged in,” he commented sourly.

Eoin flushed. “I was playing tunes with the lads at this pub in Sheepshead Bay, and I lost track of the time. I had to hitchhike back.”

Liam grunted. “Hear you’ve got a new job.”

“Uh, yes. I’m going on tour with this band, Mandrake. Next week.”

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate—after all you’ve done for me—”

Liam held up his hand, and Eoin choked off whatever he was about to say. “It’s okay, Eoin,” he said wearily. “You should be making music. You’re doing the right thing.”

Hope dawned on Eoin’s pallid face. “You’re not mad?”

“Do you want to work for Matigan until you leave, or don’t you?” Liam demanded. “If you’re too busy, I need to let him know right now.”

Eoin straightened his thin shoulders. “I’d be glad to work,” he said with dignity. “I start rehearsing Sunday. I can work until then.”

“Go get some rest,” Liam said. “You look like hammered shit.”

Eoin hesitated. “So. Ah. Liam. Is, ah, something happening? With you and Mrs. D’Onofrio’s daughter, I mean?”

Liam shot him a look that made Eoin spin on his heels and bolt.

Inviting her to the seisiun had been his first mistake. Taking her home was the second, though he’d paid for that by getting pounded by masked assholes. But the crowning stupidity had been fucking her. Now he knew what it felt like. And he could think of nothing else.

He was begging for the trouble he’d spent the first eleven years of his life watching. Bitterness that ate away love until it was gone. Was he programmed to repeat this bullshit? Was he fucking doomed?

Memories rolled into his mind, sickening and vivid. The vacation to Niagara Falls his mother had planned, a last-ditch effort to unite them as a family. The bags were packed, train tickets in his mother’s clutch purse. She’d been waiting, dressed in her eggshell blue pantsuit. But when his father walked in the door, Liam took one look and knew that it wasn’t going to happen. Dad had done it again. You could count on him to let you down the way you could count on the sun to rise.

“It’s about time you got here,” his mother said, reaching for her coat. “We’ll have to hurry to catch the train.”

“Something’s come up, Fiona,” his father said flatly.

His mother laid her coat down, her face carefully expressionless. “What do you mean, something’s come up?”

“There’s a problem with a shipment, and I have to go look into it.”

“Why can’t you send Martin, or Brady?”

“You want something done right, you got to do it yourself.”

“That doesn’t apply to your family, however,” she said frigidly.

His father’s mouth became a hard line. “I make sacrifices to keep you in style, Fiona, and all I ever get from you is whining and nagging.”

“Did I ever ask you to make these sacrifices? No, Frank. All I want is to see you more than once a month.” His mother’s voice shook. “All I’m asking is that you keep your word and go with us to Niagara.”

His father’s fists clenched. “God, Fiona, why can’t I make you understand? It’s my responsibility—”

“Go, then. Just go. Your bag is right by the door.” She walked stiffly out of the room. Her back was very straight, but her face was crumpled.