On Fire(15)

       
           



       

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 burned 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 hightech, 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 rose water 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  nipped 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 La's breque. 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?"