On Fire(20)

He parked in front of her house and pulled on the emergency brake with  such ferocity it nearly broke off. He stared straight ahead and swore  under his breath. Viciously.

"Hey," Riley said, "I'm the one who should be mad. You skulked around  after I'd asked you not to. You ended up siccing Matt Granger on me.

Then I go outside and see you watching Emile slip off into the night.

Did you two cook up something? Did you plan to meet him on Beacon Hill? Did you know he'd head for Sam's place? "

Straker didn't answer. He didn't even look as if he were listening.

"Well, obviously you did. No other reason for you to be there."

He slammed his palms on the steering wheel.

"Damn it, Riley."

"What? I'm just speaking my mind."

"Your mind can get you into a lot of trouble." She started to answer but  some primitive instinct told her he was a man pushed beyond all limits.  Before she could slip quietly out of the car and give him a chance to  cool off, he dropped an arm over her and hauled her to him.

He didn't give her a chance to take in a breath. His mouth found hers.

It wasn't a tender or tentative kiss, but had all the hunger, passion  and need of a man too long on a deserted island, too abruptly catapulted  back into the world of people, death, police and fires. He was in no  mood to hold back, but took from her what he wanted, even as she could  feel him fighting for self-control.

She knew she should push him away. Help him regain his senses.

Instead she kissed him back, soaked up the feel of him, let him bring  her back to life. He was warm, strong, kissing her with such unrelenting  intensity she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. If he'd waited until  they were in her apartment, they'd be on the floor by now, clothes  ripped off. Nothing would have stopped him.

Or her, she admitted as his palm cupped her breast through the thin  fabric of her dinner dress. He placed her hand on him, as if to make  crystal clear what would come next. He was thick, hard. She imagined the  feel of him inside her. Yes. She wanted him tonight, now.

If they didn't stop immediately, they wouldn't. In another half second there would be no going back.

She pressed her palm against him, gave a silent moan as desire burned through her.

He pulled back so suddenly she lost her balance. Her hand flew back to her lap almost of its own accord.

His breathing was fast and ragged. His eyes had turned a dark charcoal. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth.

"For three or four minutes I didn't know if you were trapped in that fire or not."

He bit out each furious word, then paused, his narrowed gaze settling on her.

"I didn't know which way I wanted it."

"Well." She checked her own breathing; at least she wasn't shivering and  numb anymore. She licked her lips. Now she knew what her friends meant  when they said they'd been kissed senseless. That had never happened  with her and her various oceanographers. Not like this. She cleared her  throat, tried to regain her equilibrium.

"That's not a very nice thing to say to a woman you've just ravaged."

His mouth twitched, almost in spite of himself.

"Ravaged? Forget it, St. Joe. You've got too many clothes left on to make that claim."

"You're an outrage, Straker. I must have inhaled toxic fumes or  something to have wanted--to have just..." Her body still reeled with  wanting him.

"Never mind."

He grinned.

"Sure. It's pretty obvious what you wanted, anyway."

Sex, she thought. Hot, torrid sex. That's what she wanted. And that's what she'd have gotten. And nothing more.

Or less, she thought with a fresh surge of desire. She silently cursed  her treacherous mind. What was wrong with her? It wasn't as if she'd  spent the last six months on a deserted island and John Straker was the  first man she'd seen.

But he was the first she'd kissed in. well, forever. The occasional  celibate date was about all she'd managed in the past year. It was as if  she'd shut down after the Encounter.

Such thinking would get her nowhere. She had to take control of herself. What did she want?

She reached for the door handle. Never mind want. What made sense?                       
       
           



       

"You're still sleeping on the futon."

"As you wish." His tone was wry, sexy, as if he knew what was going on inside her.

"Or feel free to go back to Maine." She gave him a cool, sideways glance.

"I can manage just fine without you."

"If not for me, you'd be sitting under a hot lamp, answering questions from a couple of irate cops."

"That's ridiculous."

"No, it's not. If I were a cop and saw Riley St. Joe in front of Sam Cassain's burning house, I'd pounce."

"You did pounce," she muttered, and slipped quickly onto the sidewalk.

Straker was right behind her. He slammed his door a bit harder than  seemed warranted. She glanced at him. The sexual energy was still  sparking between them like a dangerous downed wire. If she didn't do  something to dissipate it, she couldn't possibly let him back into her  apartment. She'd have to be mad.

"Matt Granger was there," she said.

"At Sam's."

He grimaced.

"Hell."

"He could have been following Emile, too. Or me."

"Or the damned Pied Piper. Who knows?"

She unlocked the door to her building. The apartment on the first floor  was occupied by three medical students, the second floor by a young  couple with jobs in Boston's financial district. Riley wondered if  they'd seen her in the car with Straker.

She pushed open the door, glanced back at him as he followed her in.

"Did Emile tell you he was headed to Sam's place in Arlington? Is that how you ended up there?"

"Emile didn't tell me a damned thing, Riley. I let him go on his way  because I was going to have to use bodily force to stop him. And because  he asked me to." Straker sighed, obviously trying to make sense of his  own behavior.

"He's a persuasive old cuss."

"It's his one-track mind. He just exhausts you."

They started up the stairs. Riley finally kicked off her shoes and walked in her stocking feet.

"To answer your question," Straker said from close behind her, "I heard  about the fire on the radio. I drove out to Arlington and looked for the  action."

"Did you expect to find me there?"

"No. I knew I'd find you."

Her message machine was full and her telephone rang thirty seconds after  they entered her apartment. Reporters. Riley had no intention of  talking to any of them. Straker turned on the television to a regional  all-news channel that was covering the fire. It was under control, and  early reports from eyewitnesses suggested it might have been caused by  an explosion. Investigators suspected arson. No one had been inside the  house. "The Encounter fire was caused by an engine explosion," Riley  said for no reason. Her mind was skipping around, trying to make  connections where none necessarily existed.

"It was an old ship. A refitted minesweeper from the fifties. I just figured it was one of those things. But Sam blamed Emile."

"Riley, we're not going to make sense of this tonight."

"It's so..." She threw up her hands, let them fall to her sides as she  felt her frustration build. At least for a few minutes, with Straker in  the car, she'd been unable to think.

"It's unbelievable Emile was heading for Sam's place right as it went up in flames."

"But you didn't see him there," Straker said. "I wonder if he was set  up, if someone tipped him off...." She stopped, her stomach twisting.

"What about Matt? Why was he there?

Damn. If you hadn't come along, I might have caught up with him. "

"And done what?"

"I don't know. Made him tell me what's going on. He must know something.  What if Sam said some 5 thing to him on Mount Desert last week? " She  paced, another call coming in; she ignored it.

"I suppose I should tell Sig."

Straker flipped off the television. "And what would that accomplish?"

"Matt's her husband" -- "So?"

Riley didn't answer. Straker headed into her kitchen, his calm a  distinct contrast to her growing agitation. So many questions, fears,  countless stabs of doubt. What if she made the wrong decision? What if  she did the wrong thing? She stood in the kitchen doorway and watched as  he filled a kettle with water.

"What are you doing?"                       
       
           



       

"Making you tea. If you don't settle down, you're going to blow a gasket."

"I'm not going to blow a gasket."

Not just agitated, she thought. Contrary, too. Argumentative.

Straker ignored her and rummaged through an assortment of teas she had  in a basket on her counter. It was an older kitchen, charming,  serviceable.