On Fire (7 page)

“They were in the middle of a controversy. They still are. Honor would dictate—”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about honor.” Sig tightened her grip on her shawl and throw. Her fingers were cold and stiff, the rest of her burning. Her head spun. “It’s not as if you’ve ever given a damn about the center.”

His eyes flashed. He smiled nastily. “I know what I’ve given a damn about and what I haven’t.”

She knew what he was saying. After three years of marriage, four years of loving him so hard at times she
thought she’d die, she knew how to read between Matt Granger’s lines. He blamed her for leaving their house in Boston. He wanted to come and go as he pleased, talk to her when the mood struck, pace in silence when it didn’t. He wanted it all his way because his father was dead and her grandfather was responsible.

“You’re not going to guilt-trip me, Matt. I didn’t walk out on you. You walked out on me. Maybe not physically, but emotionally you left long before I did.”

“I asked you to understand that I needed time to sort things out. Goddamn it, Sig, if my father had been responsible for Emile’s death, what the hell do you think you’d do? What do you’d think
I’d
do?”

Her stomach rolled over. She could feel every drop of blood draining from her head.
Shit.
She was going to pass out. The stress, the hours on her feet, the roiling hormones. Him.

“Sig? What’s wrong?”

She pushed her head down off the edge of the couch, careful not to expose her belly to his gaze. “I’m okay.”

He made a move toward her.

She held up a hand. “Matthew, I’m okay.”

He went all rigid and composed blueblood. His half-closed eyes slanted down at her. “You should learn to pace yourself.”

If she weren’t about to pass out, she’d have thrown something at him. Pace herself. The goddamned
nerve.
Instead she raised her head, which still spun, and croaked, “Anything else?”

A mistake.

She could see the lightbulb of suspicion click on. He took a step back and studied her, clinical, objective, sealing his fate. She wouldn’t tell him a thing. She’d be
damned
if she told him.

“All right,” he said. “What’s going on here?”

“What do you think’s going on? My grandfather’s missing, my sister found Sam Cassain dead and
you
have the audacity to come here and accost me just for having Labreque blood in my veins.”

“I’ve hardly accosted you, Sig.”

“Go back to Boston. Go sort out your goddamned ‘issues.’” She sank back against the pillows, drawing her throw up to her chin. She could feel a flutter of movement. Her babies.
Their
babies. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

He knotted his clenched hands into fists, inhaled and about-faced without another word.

When she heard his expensive car screech down the street, Sig burst into tears and sobbed into a pillow so her mother wouldn’t hear. It was so obvious, so painful. Her husband thought her grandfather—her own flesh and blood—was not just capable of criminal negligence, but of murder.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if it would help block out the tumble of thoughts and the harshness of the reality she was facing. She was pregnant, she was alone and her family was in deep, deep trouble.

After she couldn’t cry anymore, she stumbled over to her painting. Her lower back still ached; her head still swam. Her nose was stopped up. She brushed at her tears and tried to focus on the image before her.
Something was trying to emerge. Something
right.
It wasn’t just blobs of color.

Bullshit.

Matt hadn’t commented on its quality because it stank.

It was mud. Pure mud.

She grabbed her mop brush, dipped it in water and soaked the entire paper until all the colors had bled together and what she had was just how she felt. An ugly mess, a mishmash that didn’t know what it was or wanted to be.

S
traker took a hot shower to rid himself of the smell of dead fish and the lingering sense he should have kissed Riley in the parking garage. He’d exercised powerful restraint. He wondered if she had any idea how close he’d come to cranking up the tension between them another notch or two.

As it was, he couldn’t imagine wanting a woman any more than he did her. Circumstances, however, made him cautious. After months and months of celibacy, he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t simply reacting to her proximity, the intensity of the situation itself. He had never before in his life thought about kissing Riley St. Joe.

Kissing her, hell. He wanted to take her to bed.

He swore under his breath. What was wrong with him?

“You’re a goddamn madman,” he muttered to himself.

He washed quickly with an almond-scented soap.
Like so much of Riley, her bathroom was a surprise, soft and pretty, with nary a regular bar of soap in sight. He’d had to pick through a basket of little soaps and gels with scents like rosewater, lavender, goat’s milk and strawberry. The shower curtain, the array of sponges, the pink razor, the shampoos and fragrant soaps and gels all served as tangible reminders that he was a man in a woman’s shower.

He’d never been much on relationships. It wasn’t just the job. It was him. Sex with a woman was one thing. The give-and-take of a long-term relationship was another. He’d never been much good at give-and-take.

He dried off with a fluffy towel, pulled on his clothes and banked down his physical frustration before he returned to the front room. Riley was different from most of the women he knew, it was true. She had no illusions about him—she’d know what she was getting into if she got into bed with him.

No, he thought. She wouldn’t. She thought she was still playing games with the teenager he’d been.

He found her sitting on the floor, lacing up a pair of battered running shoes. “I’m going for a run,” she said without looking up.

If a shower was his way of restoring his equilibrium, maybe a run was hers. “Where?”

“On the river. I won’t be long. I need to burn off some restless energy.”

Likewise, he thought, but running wouldn’t do it for him. He made no comment.

She glanced up at him, took a quick breath as if she could guess what he was thinking, and returned to her
task. She finished with one shoe, started on the next. “I didn’t expect that body to be Sam Cassain.”

Straker sat on the edge of the futon. “You want some company?”

Her dark eyes met his. “No.”

He grinned. “Think I’d be distracted by the sight of you in running shorts?”

“That wouldn’t slow me down. That would slow you down. You’re the one who’s been sitting out on a deserted island the past six months. Not me.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t be distracted by the sight of me in running shorts?”

“You don’t even own a pair of running shorts.”

He was tweaking her and she knew it. “How do you know?”

“I know.”

“I own shorts. I just don’t have any of those high-tech, flimsy things.” He leaned back, enjoying himself. “They don’t look as if they’d hold in everything they were supposed to hold in.”

She jumped up. She had good muscle definition in her slim legs; probably elsewhere, too. “I don’t like where this conversation is going. You’re complicating things.”

“There’s no man in your life, Riley. I’m not complicating anything.”

“You’ve
always
complicated things, Straker. That’s why you ended up in the FBI.” She shot him a look. “And how do you know I don’t have a man in my life?”

“A woman’s bathroom tells all.”

“Bastard,” she muttered, and headed for the door.

“Did you stretch?”

“I’m fine.”

No stretches. She wasn’t going to plop down in front of him and do toe touches. He liked that. It meant she knew she was getting under his skin and wasn’t too sure what to do about it. A run on the river was a start.

After she left, he put on a pot of coffee and settled in at her cluttered kitchen table. Beyond the occasional urge to pelt each other with rocks, there’d never been anything physical between him and Riley, nothing even remotely sexual. If he could beam himself back in time and tell his sixteen-year-old self that eighteen years from now he’d want Riley St. Joe so bad it hurt, he’d probably fling himself off Schoodic Point.

Of course, Riley wasn’t twelve anymore.

He poured a cup of coffee and debated whether this new development—or this new twist in a very old development—would get in the way of finding Emile. Nah. Would it get in the way of getting his head sorted out after two bullets and six months alone on an island? Not if he didn’t turn stupid.

“Well, ace, stupid is as stupid does.”

Riley was the first woman he’d touched—virtually the first woman he’d had
any
contact with—since his self-imposed isolation. Of course he’d think about her in her red bra, covered in rosewater soapsuds in her shower, doing toe touches in her little shorts. It was natural. Like ducks and imprinting or something.

He raked both hands through his hair in frustration. Why the devil did it have to be Riley St. Joe who’d paddled out to his island? She was all wrong. She’d never be anything but all wrong. She liked doing things
like donning big rubber boots and wading into ice-cold water to help stranded whales. She lived in Cambridge. She had a lot of science degrees. She was maybe a notch above Emile when it came to social skills. Her family was weird.

And he, John Straker, wounded FBI agent, someone she’d known and disliked pretty much all her life, was the last man on the planet she’d want fantasizing about going to bed with her.

He swallowed the last of his coffee and shot to his feet. No, she wouldn’t—and that was half the problem. She was out there trying to run off the same fantasies he was having.

He wanted to find out how Sam Cassain’s body had ended up on Labreque Island. He wanted to find out where Emile had taken himself off to. If shadowing Riley would help him get answers, Straker needed to maintain a high degree of self-control.

She burst in after her run, and he knew he was doomed. Even with sweat glistening on her arms and legs and dampening the ends of her hair, he found her sexy. He wanted to take her into the shower, peel off her running clothes slowly and completely, and go from there.

“I’ve got a dinner tonight,” she said. “I need to get dressed. Can you check the local news and see if they’ve picked up the story about Sam yet? I’d like to know what I’m in for.”

“Sure.”

She frowned. “Are you okay? Maybe you should go for a run. It energized me.”

That wasn’t what he needed to hear. Something about his expression must have told her so because she took a step backward, gulped and quickly retreated into her bedroom.

Another night on the futon just wasn’t going to work. He’d rather strap on an IV and jump back in his hospital bed than torture himself trying to spend another night under the same roof with her. Swearing softly, he flipped on the tiny television in the front room.

One of the local stations had the story: “Mystery and tragedy once again swirl around world-famous oceanographer Emile Labreque.” The report didn’t have all the details. It said the death of the former captain of the ill-fated
Encounter
was under investigation and police were as yet unable to locate Emile, who had a habit of vanishing for days at a time without notice.

The report didn’t mention who had found Cassain, and it called the island where his body was discovered “uninhabited.”

The news shifted to a traffic report. Straker shut off the television and considered the ramifications of reporters on Riley’s doorstep. It was bound to happen. Right now they’d just want a quote from her as the granddaughter of the famous, tragic Emile Labreque. When they found out she was the one who’d spotted Cassain’s body on the rocks, they’d swarm.

Toss a recuperating FBI agent into the mix, Straker thought, and there’d be no peace. He wanted to maintain some level of maneuverability and anonymity. Riley was already cramping his style. Reporters would do him in.

The doorbell rang. Reporters already? He looked out the window and saw two cops on the doorstep of Riley’s building. Maine CID. Hell, he’d rather have reporters. He debated hiding in a closet, but his car was parked two down from theirs. Beat-up Subaru, Maine plates. He couldn’t pretend he’d gone back to his island.

Riley emerged from her bedroom in a simple black dinner dress that was perfect for her trim little body. She hadn’t put on her stockings or shoes, and she had a towel wound around her wet hair. The intimacy and normalcy of the moment struck him, reminded him of the barren life he led, not just since Labreque Island, but before. For a long time work and the occasional affair had been enough. He’d thought after his months alone on a five-acre island he’d go back to that life. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Of course, he reminded himself, it wasn’t exactly normal to have two state cops at the door.

She adjusted a small earring. “Someone’s here?”

“It looks like a couple of Maine State Police detectives.”

Her earring flew out of her hand. “Can you let them in? I’ll slip on some shoes and comb my hair.” She squatted down, running a palm over the floor in search of her earring. Straker could feel her nervousness. No one liked having the police at their door. “I suppose they want to talk to me about Sam.” She scooped up the earring, a tiny bit of gold, and got to her feet. Her towel had come loose. He watched her swallow. “And Emile. Damn. Straker, I don’t know anything.”

“Tell them that.”

“You think it’ll be that easy?”

“No.”

The doorbell rang again.

She nodded at him. “Go ahead.”

He trotted down the stairs and opened up for the two detectives. “John Straker,” the older of the pair said, shaking his head. Teddy Palladino. Straker knew him to say hello. He was a stringy, smart detective on the verge of retirement. “You go to an island to recuperate and a stiff lands practically on your doorstep?”

“Lucky me.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m not surprised Sheriff Dorrman thought it might be someone out to kill you.” He grinned at his own sick humor, then frowned, beady eyes narrowed. “What’re you doing here?”

“I was just watching TV.”

The detective snorted. “Dorrman warned me about you, Straker. I take it you’re not here in any official capacity?”

“No.”

“You a friend of the family or just Emile?”

“I’ve known Riley St. Joe all my life.”

Palladino let the sideways answer go. “She in?”

“She’s powdering her nose just for you.” Straker motioned up the dark, narrow staircase. “After you, gentlemen.”

Riley was waiting on the futon couch. She’d finger-styled her damp hair, slipped into stockings and low-heeled shoes and rosied her cheeks and lips with a bit of makeup. She looked poised, if a little pale. Straker saw the detectives take in the clutter, the nautical
charts, the flamingo Beanie Baby. They didn’t know what to make of her, either. If he had his island, Straker thought, she had her kooky egghead apartment. A narrow escape from death, a grandfather’s reputation shattered, five people dead. The
Encounter
disaster had left her with her own demons to fight. This was a good place to keep them at bay.

Palladino introduced himself and his partner, Chris Donelson. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, Miss St. Joe.”

“Sure.”

He turned to Straker. “You mind taking a walk for a half hour?”

“I’ll go put my feet up in the bedroom.”

“What, you don’t trust us?”

“Nah. I just could use forty winks.”

He was wide-awake. He had no intention of sleeping, but if he left the building, he wasn’t sure that, in her current frame of mind, Riley would let him back in. She’d never admit it, but she was close to snapping. Sam Cassain dead on Labreque Island, Emile gone and now two Maine CID detectives in her living room—it was enough.

On his way back to her bedroom, he heard Palladino say, “You know the body you found on Sunday has been identified?”

“Yes, it was Sam Cassain.” She said it as if she were in science class. “He was captain of the
Encounter
until it sank last year.”

“And you didn’t recognize him?”

“No.”

Straker shut the bedroom door behind him. He’d let Palladino and Donelson do their job. Riley would hold up, and she had nothing to hide. She had no more idea of what was going on than any of them did.

The bedroom was softly lit, the colors warm and soothing. Straker took in things he’d missed that morning when he’d barged in after Sig’s call. She had a fluffy down comforter and lace-trimmed sheets, the bedstand piled with a mix of popular novels, magazines and work-related documents and texts.

He noticed a watercolor on the wall, recognized the surf and rocks of Schoodic Point. It was signed in the lower right corner by Sig St. Joe. Straker stared at the painting. It captured both the resilience and fragility of the Maine coast, as well as its beauty—everything he missed most during his years away at college, law school, Quantico, his various assignments with the FBI, first in the Boston field office, more recently with a counter-terrorism unit based in Washington. Where to next—he didn’t know.

Looking at Sig’s painting, he could understand, if not articulate, why her little sister worked so hard rescuing and rehabilitating marine animals—why the world’s oceans so consumed her family. It was different from the forces that had driven Strakers to sea for generations, although his lobsterman father always seemed to understand Emile’s passion and dedication to oceanographic research and conservation.

Straker pulled his gaze away. He hadn’t chosen a life on the water. He couldn’t predict what would happen to the North Atlantic in fifty years—but he
could predict what questions the detectives were asking Riley St. Joe. They would ask her what she knew about the animosity between her grandfather and Sam Cassain, details about their working relationship over the years, her take on the
Encounter
tragedy. They’d ask her how she’d come to be on Labreque Island to find Sam’s body. Why she was visiting Emile, why she hadn’t told anyone, why she was kayaking alone, how she’d come to be caught in the fog. They might get to Emile’s relationship with the center he’d founded, the Granger family, his own family. But they might wait on that, too.