Free Tasting Fear by Shannon McKenna Page A

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