On Fire(14)

       
           



       

This was the man she'd married. The man she'd loved. The man whose babies she carried.

She summoned all her bravado and ability to lie through her teeth.

"Hello, Matt. Excuse me for not getting up, but I've been on my feet since dawn. Mom made you tea?"

"An entire pot, yes."

Good. If all else failed, he'd have to hit the bathroom.

"What brings you to Camden?"

She hated how awkward she sounded, how formal. She'd always been able to  talk to Matt, even when they were kids and he and his father and sister  would sail up to Emile's from the big Granger house on Mount Desert  Island.

He crossed his arms on his chest.

"You know what."

She stifled a surge of irritation. Smug bastard. If she weren't so  obviously pregnant, she'd jump up and uncross those arms, make him stop  treating her like a recalcitrant nine-year-old.

"Just tell me.

Matt. Don't tell me what I know and don't know. "

She could see the flash of anger, the tightening of the muscles in his  arms. They knew exactly what buttons to push with each other, good, bad  and indifferent. As if he were counting to ten to keep from exploding,  he walked over to her board and eyed her painting. She wished she'd  covered it, but the paint was still wet. He'd taken art history classes  as an undergraduate at Harvard. He'd been to most of the world's great  museums. A damned art snob.

He glanced back at her.

"It's nice to see you painting again."

Another gush of annoyance. She was in just the mood to take exception to  everything he said. But if she let him get to her, she risked  forgetting she was hiding twins. She'd end up throwing off her blanket  and having at him, and he'd know. She had no idea how he'd react, and  she didn't want to find out. Not today. Not on his terms.

"I've been up to Emile's," he said.

"I've talked to the police. Sig, if you have any idea where he's gone"

-- "I don't." She hadn't seen her grandfather in months. She shared her  mother's concern he'd gone right off the deep end--but she refused to  give Matt the satisfaction of driving the wedge between her and Emile  even deeper.

"If I did, I wouldn't tell you. I'd tell the police. This is their  problem, not yours. They're not going to go off half-cocked and stick  their nose where it doesn't belong."

He spun around on his heels, eyes narrowed, thin, regal mouth clamped  shut. He took a calming breath. Grangers didn't lose control.

"I didn't come here to argue with you. "

"Sam Cassain's death isn't your concern. Or mine. Let the police do  their job." "We were on Mount Desert Island last week. Caroline,  Abigail, her kids, myself." He moved closer, his gaze probing, as if he  could see right through her blanket to the two babies growing inside  her.

"Ar- mi stead and your father were there, too. And your sister."

"I know. So what? It's got nothing to do with me."

"Sam Cassain showed up."

"What?" She almost popped to her feet, but caught herself in time.

"Why? What did he want? Did you see him? Riley didn't say a word"

"She didn't see him. My point is that the police understandably want to  know how he ended up dead on Labreque Island." Matt was silent a moment,  all his churning emotions back in check, under tight Granger wrap. "He  had the good sense to resign after the Encounter. It would have been  easier on everyone if your father and sister had followed his lead,  too."

"And quit their jobs? That's absurd. They didn't do anything wrong.

For God's sake, Riley nearly died. "

"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 blue blood 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 god damned 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  god damned '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.

Five -^Q )^~

Otraker 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 rose water 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.