On Fire(10)

"I don't need a drink. I don't need anything" -He sighed. "Now I  remember why we threw rocks at each other when we were kids. Do you have  whiskey or is wine it?"

"Wine's it."

He plucked a half-full bottle of chardonnay from her refrigerator. He  didn't bother tracking down her wineglasses, just filled two juice  glasses. He handed her one.

"Toast?"

She was past arguing.

"Sure."

He clinked his glass against hers.

"To the first thing Riley St. Joe needs."

"I don't know the first thing I need."

He winked.

"That's why we're toasting it."

"Huh?"

"One night on your futon. Tomorrow I'll figure out whether I need to jump into your hip pocket or not."

"I won't let you."

"Sweetheart, I'm a pro. You won't even know I'm there."

Straker had never slept on a futon. As sofa beds went, it wasn't bad,  and he had to admit it was better than that thing in his cottage Emile  called a mattress. It was the clutter and the city noises that got him.  And perhaps the presence of Riley St. Joe under the same roof.

At least she didn't have a cat. If he'd had to put up with a cat, too, he might not have endured.

She was up at the crack of dawn, putting coffee on, humming to herself,  digging through piles for odd items she tossed into her leather tote  bag. Straker had a pretty good idea she'd forgotten she'd let him sleep  on her futon.

Suddenly she gasped and went still. She had her back to him. He figured  she was trying to make herself disappear. She had on oversize,  black-watch-plaid flannel boxers and a T-shirt with a guy snowboarding  down a mountainside on the back. She had slender, shapely legs. The  boxers were too big for him to make out the shape of her bottom.

Forget the T-shirt; he could fit in it. He could also get it off her in one fell swoop.

She was small, sexy and not as easy to figure out as he remembered.

From what he could see, she didn't have much of a life. He guessed she'd  gone underground since the Encounter disaster. Instead of a deserted  island, she'd picked think-tank clutter.

He sat up and rubbed his overnight stubble.

"You wear boxers to bed, huh? Not me. I sleep in the buff."

She didn't turn around.

"I'll put more coffee on," she mumbled, and quickly retreated to the kitchen.

He pulled on his pants and shirt and for once didn't bother checking the  scars on his lower right side and thigh. His wounds had healed.

He could climb tall mountains if he wanted to.

He went to join Riley in the kitchen, but she'd already dashed off,  presumably to her bedroom for more clothes. He poured himself a cup of  coffee, made a spot at the table and sat down to mull over his options.

Yesterday his mission had seemed clear. Find Emile. Start with Riley.

Boom. Here he was.

This morning, things were muddier. Riley had a job and didn't want him  around. Emile could be anywhere. Neither necessarily had any connection  to the body found on Labreque Island.

The telephone rang. Who'd be calling at seven in the morning? He waited a  half beat after the final ring before picking up the portable.

Riley was talking.

"Sig--slow down. What's wrong?"

"Mom just talked to the police." Sig spoke rapidly, obviously not getting enough air.

"Riley, they've identified the man you found. Oh, Jesus."

Straker stiffened. This wasn't good news. He could hear Riley gulp in a breath.

"Tell me."

"It's Sam Cassain," Sig said, sobbing. Riley was silent. Then, in a strangled whisper, "Oh, my God."

Straker frowned.

"Who the hell's Sam Cassain?" Sig almost screamed.

"Riley? Who's that? Who's there?"

"Straker, get off my damned phone!" He didn't move.

"Who's Sam Cassain?"

"John Straker?" Sig said, more calmly now.

"Riley, what's he doing in your apartment? Are you crazy?"

This wasn't getting him anywhere. Straker hung up and went into the  bedroom. Riley was sitting on the edge of her unmade bed in her work  clothes, no shoes. Her eyes were huge. Her skin was pale. She stared up  at him.

"I'll call you later, Sig," she told her sister, and hung up.

"Who's Sam Cassain?" Straker repeated. She placed a shaky hand on her forehead.

"He-he was the captain of the Encounter."                       
       
           



       

The pieces fell together.

"He's the one who laid the blame for the explosion and fire at Emile's  feet." She nodded dully. "He turns up dead on Labreque Island, and Emile  disappears.

Police'll be calling you next. " He thought a moment, ignoring her increasing paleness.

"Strike that. They'll come see you in person. You didn't recognize him?"

"No. I didn't get that close a look, and the gulls..."

He remembered.

"Emile must have figured it out."

"How could he? He never saw the body."

"Instincts," Straker said.

She slid to her feet. Her room was as cluttered as the rest of her  apartment, but with feminine touches-- a pair of earrings on the  nightstand, a botanical print of beach plums above the bed, little jars  of creams and perfumes on the bureau. She stood in front of him, smart,  professional and quite pretty. And annoyed.

"I don't want you listening in on my phone conversations."

"Would you have told me about Cassain if I hadn't?"

"Probably."

"Probably" wasn't good enough, but she was too unsteady and shaken for  him to press the point. He made her drink a cup of coffee and eat a  piece of toast, and when she protested about him driving her to work, he  ignored her and coaxed her into his car. The rush-hour traffic into  Boston reminded him why he'd retreated to an uninhabited island to  recuperate. Lots of stimuli out here on the city streets. Cars, lights,  horns, traffic helicopters, blaring radios, construction.

Riley sat beside him, hugging her overstaffed leather tote on her lap so hard her knuckles turned white.

"Remember to breathe," he said.

"I am breathing."

"Not from here." He poked her breastbone.

"From here." He poked her low on her diaphragm. He could feel smooth, cool skin under her creamy blouse. More stimuli.

"Slow, deep breaths. How well did you know Sam Cassain?"

"He was the Encounter's captain for seven years. He was tough, no-nonsense and not one to suffer fools gladly."

"Who hired him?" "Emile did. His last captain had died of cancer. He was  a scientist, too, and when he died, Emile wanted someone new who'd tend  the ship and leave the science to him. The Encounter was old."

She swallowed, her gaze locked straight ahead, as if she couldn't turn her head.

"The center had already commissioned a new research ship. It's costing a  fortune, but it'll have all the latest ecological and technological  advances. We're calling it the Encounter //."

"Who's in charge of it now that Emile's out of the picture?"

"My father."

Straker took Storrow Drive along the Charles River, then cut over to the  waterfront. More construction. No room for the five million other cars  on the road. The center was located in a renovated nineteenth-century  warehouse on its own wharf. A huge, whimsical stone fountain out front  featured various marine mammals.

"You can just drop me off on the curb," Riley said.

He hated the idea of dumping her and retreating.

Cassain's body had been found in Maine, and Emile had exiled himself to  Maine. But the two men's relationship had begun here, in Boston.

"I think you should hire me to feed the penguins or something," he told her.

She blanched.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not in a position to hire you, and I don't want you underfoot."

Now that he'd seen her in her boxers, underfoot probably sounded less threatening to her than in her hip pocket.

"And you wouldn't fit in."

"I'd fit in. I grew up on the ocean. I probably have more practical knowledge about the ocean than most people who work here."

She managed to peel one hand off her tote and place it on the door  handle. "For God's sake, Straker, you haven't been around people in six  months. Even on a good day you're not volunteer material.

Please.

Just let me go to work and put this all into perspective. "

While she talked, he formed a plan. She didn't need to know it. It would  just upset her, and she was upset enough. He said, "Okay. See you  around."

Her brows drew together. She'd put on a little bit of makeup, but not  enough to hide how pale she was. Her lips were plum. They were also well  shaped. He had a feeling she didn't have a man in her life. She made a  face, obviously having no idea what he was thinking.                       
       
           



       

"I don't know if I like the idea of you running around out here by yourself."