Page 11 of Edge of Ruin (The Edge Trilogy #3)

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.”

“Wow,” I said. “Like dreaming of water while you’re dying of thirst.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

He was standing so close to me now, I 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,” I said, in a warning tone. “It’s making me nervous.”

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

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

I had to distract us, before things got weird. “How’d you get into this business?”

“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, too, when I worked overseas.”

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

“Right. I’ve also 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, direct, and it works out well for everybody. ”

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

“It’s hard work. But I like the flowers.” He turned his silver-gray gaze on my face. “Did you sleep well on the futon?”

“Yes, wonderfully. Thank you. That’s another thing I want to do, is get myself a mattress so I can get your futon and pillows back to me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Use them for as long as you like.”

The coffee began to gurgle. He went to the stove, leaving me free to normalize my breathing.

The coffee tasted wonderful washing down 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,” I said. “I’ve got Edna. We’re all set.”

“Help yourself to anything you might need, in my cupboards, or the fridge,” he said. “There’s the phone, as you see. Feel free. 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,” I 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.

I shrank back, startled at his reaction. “Uh, yeah. Margaret said there were some natural hot springs upriver a couple of miles. Is something wrong?”

He scowled down into the sink. “Shit.”

“What’s the matter?” I demanded. “Are you pissed because I know about them?”

“Not at you. I’m just irritated with Margaret. We have a long-standing agreement to keep the springs secret. Nobody wants hikers trespassing on our land. Now, out of the blue, Margaret decides to tell a stranger about them.”

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

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

“Oh. Does that mean you’ll be kicking me out?” I rose to my feet, holding my back as straight as I could. “Please be clear about that, Kendrick. Before I start ordering furniture.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said impatiently. “It’s just that Margaret should’ve discussed it with me first, 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.”

I counted to ten, lips pressed flat. “Please, don’t trouble yourself.” I wished I hadn’t asked him at all. Hell, I could probably have found it on my own. A couple of miles upriver, right? How hard could it be?

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

“Fine.” I deposited my 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. I’m sure I’ll be extremely busy.”

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

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

Ouch. I’d done it to myself once again. Whenever I let down my guard, zing, pow, he insulted me again.

The second I heard his truck pull out, I went downstairs and into Jack’s kitchen and dialed Nell’s new cell phone number. My sister picked up promptly. “Hey, you,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

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

“Amazing,” Nell replied. “We were just finishing up a late lunch. Fabulous food and amazing wine, and everything is beautiful. So how’s the flower farm?”

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

“Anyway,” I concluded. “So 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.

I paused, suspicious of the out-of-place cheerfulness in my sister’s voice. “Jack Kendrick is my problem, Nell. 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. “More or less what Duncan told you. 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,” I announced. “He thinks I’m 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’s deep, Viv. You got all the way to fear of commitment issues? After one single evening’s acquaintance?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” I wailed.

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

“Out of my wildest dreams,” I 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, Nell! Don’t play dumb with me!”

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

“Yes, at least until?—”

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

“Good?” My voice rose to a squawk. “What do you mean, good? What’s good about me being stranded? Grounded?”

“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 my sister’s voice startled me. “Um, okay,” I said, cowed.

“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,” I assured her swiftly. “And I promise. I’ll be careful.”

“Hey. Guess what we did this morning?”

I hesitated. The tone in Nell’s voice made me wary. “Ah, what might that be?”

“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.”

I braced myself. “Yeah? 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.”

It wasn’t like it was a big surprise, but still. This evil had deep roots. It was a fresh dose of flesh-creeping, goose-pimpling shivers.

“Be careful, okay?” Nell begged. “Just be very, very careful. Dress down. Don’t show the van around town.”

“I will,” I soothed. “I promise.”

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

I felt 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 sharply. “It’s been years since that scumbag messed with you! Get over it! Stop living like a wandering nun!”

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

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

“I’m hanging up,” I announced. “I’m too pissed to talk anymore, but I love you. Later, bye.” I hung up, my face hot. The mention of Brian’s name made me squirm with anger and shame, after six long years.

I was twenty-one when I met Brian Wilder at my student art show. It was during my 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 my work. Soon after, he expressed an interest in me personally. He was handsome, intelligent. I’d been dazzled, flattered. At first.

Everyone had been so thrilled for me when Brian offered me a contract with his gallery. I remembered the fateful day so clearly. We were sitting in a coffee bar on Bleecker Street. I drank espresso. Brian was sipping a decaf soy latte.

“So? What do you think?” Brian asked, flicking an errant lock of hair out of my eyes.

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

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

“Um.” I sipped my espresso, pondering that unwelcome feedback.

“The lack of discipline is a general problem,” Brian observed. His eyes flicked down, checking me out. “That skirt and boots you’re wearing, for instance.” His thin lips twitched. “You have to polish up your image, if you’re going to run with me.”

I tugged down my purple velvet miniskirt to cover another couple of inches of thigh, wishing I hadn’t worn torn-up fishnet stockings.

I stared down at my thigh-high lace-up black leather boots, feeling ashamed of my fashion choices, my freckled thighs, the air that I breathed.

But he was offering to display my work. Everything had a price. Right?

Brian flicked another lock of my hair back and looked me up and down. “We’ll start with a haircut and a new wardrobe.”

“I can dress myself,” I said.

“Well, if this is the result...” His voice trailed off. His eyes took on a weird, hot glow as he chucked me under the chin. “I’ve never been intimate with your type before.”

I wrenched my chin away from his pinching fingers. “What do you mean, my ‘type’?” I demanded, irritated. “What type?”

“You know. The chaotic bad girl with the big innocent eyes. The lost waif. You’re like a creature out of a Japanese anime film. All eyes, with that wild mop of hair. It’s stimulating.” He tilted my chin up again. “So, about the contract. What do you say?”

It was an incredible opportunity. Any of my struggling artist friends would have cheerfully killed for it. But my jaw ached with tension, and my stomach clenched.

I had pulled my face away from his fingers and gulped the rest of my bitter coffee, wondering why I wasn’t happier.

“If you sign the contract, it will be with the understanding that you’ll accept me as an artistic mentor,” Brian said. “And I will expect you to produce. No excuses. I can make you successful, Viv. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Brian turned the full force of his cool, assessing gray eyes on me.

My doubts felt vague and foolish and childish. Destiny called. I had to say yes to it.

So I’d done it. I’d signed the contract. I had agreed to let Brian groom me into an artistic sensation. It had been the stupidest move of my life. So far.

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

Here was another man who saw just a type when he looked at me. Another man who made me feel inadequate and embarrassed simply for being what I intrinsically was, in the marrow of my bones.

Except that this time, it was worse. Maybe because my desire to gain Jack Kendrick’s good opinion was irrationally strong, and my chances of getting it so small.

For fuck’s sake, I couldn’t even make fat stacks of cash for him with my art to make up for my many personality flaws.

I had at least that going for me with Brian.

It was so strange, how I’d considered Brian to be very handsome, in his cold, austere way.

But compared to Jack Kendrick, Brian seemed dried up and stringy.

Maybe it was that empty, no-calorie crap he ate.

But Kendrick, whew. A girl could just sink her teeth into that one.

I would never wear that guy out. I would never use him up.

But there was absolutely no excuse for making the same mistake twice.

I grabbed a handful of cookies and marched out of the kitchen, munching them defiantly. Compensating was the only way to go. Grit my teeth. Resist the impulse.

Celibacy hadn’t killed me yet.