Tasting Fear Read Free Page B

seconds already. And she’d just been staring at him.
    Mouth open, no doubt.
    “…Mrs. D’Onofrio here?”
    Ah, God. Not again. Irrational anger flared inside her. Why was it always her goddamn duty to announce it to the world? She’d been the one to find Lucia’s body. She’d called the cops. She’d called her sisters. She’d told the neighbors. She’d told the delivery people. She’d written the obit. Could somebody else please take a fucking turn?
    Not his fault, she reminded herself. She shook her head.
    “Lucia’s dead,” she croaked.
    The man’s face went blank. “Oh, my God,” he said. “When?”
    She swallowed hard, rubbed her eyes under her glasses, and tried again. “Last week,” she said thickly. “The funeral was yesterday.”
    He was silent for a long moment. “I am so sorry,” he said finally.
    There was no good response to that. She’d learned that this week. Painfully. Nancy sniffed and said, “Me, too. Who are you?”
    “I’m Liam Knightly,” he said. “I’m the carpenter. I’m here to start the work on the house.”
    “Work? On the house? What work?”
    “She didn’t tell you about the renovation she was planning?”
    “I hadn’t spoken to her for a couple of weeks before she died.”
    “Me, neither,” he said. “We set this date weeks ago.”
    Nancy shook her head, bemused, and stared at his big truck.
    “Not a word?” Knightly wiped rain off his face. “Would it make you nervous if I stood under the awning with you? I’m getting drenched.”
    “That’s fine,” she said distractedly. “That is, do you want to come in? For a cup of coffee, or tea? If Lucia has tea. Or had, I guess I should say.” Babbling, again. She hated that. So damn stupid.
    His eyes gleamed with a smile he was too polite to allow to emerge. “Thank you,” he said. “One moment. I’ll go tell Eoin to wait.”
    “He can come in, too,” she called. Hmm. His ass was as fine as his quadriceps had suggested that it would be. More so, even.
    “No, he’s shy. He’ll be fine in the truck.” Knightly jerked open the driver’s-side door and exchanged a few words with whoever sat on the passenger side. A few graceful strides brought him back up the stairs. It took forever to get the locks open. Her hands felt clumsy and thick.
    The funeral smell of lilies and other florist shop herbiage was intensely strong in the front room. Knightly followed Nancy through the house. She snapped on the light and had a bad moment when she remembered that they had trashed the kitchen last night. Every surface was covered with spilled flour, shreds of dough. Grapes were squished on the floor. The scorched remains of the schiacciata looked sad and unkempt on the serving plate. Lucia’s fine-cut crystal liquor glasses were sticky with port. The bottles lay empty and forlorn under the kitchen table. He must think her a total lush. And a slob, too.
    “We had a wake for her, last night,” she felt compelled to explain. “Me and my sisters. Up all night, with port wine and Tuscan pastry.”
    He nodded. “A good thing to do.”
    Nancy touched her aching head with her fingertips. “Felt that way at the time. So what was I…oh, yes. Coffee. Or tea.” She started rummaging in drawers. “Which do you prefer?”
    “Tea, please. If Lucia has it. Or had it, I should say.”
    She whipped her head around, suspicious. Was he teasing her?
    The smile in his eyes disarmed her. She was almost betrayed into smiling back, but a vague sense of inappropriateness stopped her. “I thought you’d pick tea,” she murmured. “What kind? Green? Herbal?”
    “Black tea,” he said. “With sugar and milk, if you have it. I’m Irish. I get the tea thing from my folks.”
    “I’m Irish, too,” she confessed, for some odd reason. Like he cared.
    He looked perplexed. “With a name like D’Onofrio? And Lucia…”
    “Was Italian, yeah. Right down to her toenails.” Nancy yanked a green canister of Irish Breakfast tea out of