On Fire(37)

"Gives you a chance to leave the scene," Straker said.

Richard glanced back at the destroyed cottage, then said to Riley, "I  find it almost impossible to believe whoever set the fire didn't realize  you and Sig were staying there. I'm not saying whoever it was  deliberately tried to kill you." If possible, his face paled even more;  his beard seemed grayer, lifeless.

"I just don't think it mattered to him."

Riley's eyes burned; she thought of Sig in the hospital, of how close they'd come to not making it out of the loft.

"I wish I'd thought to check for bombs and booby traps."

"Emile needs to come in." Her father directed his unswerving gaze at her  as he summoned what were clearly his last shreds of strength and  energy. "If you have any idea where he is, tell the authorities."

"Dad, I don't" -He ignored her.

"You won't be violating your loyalty to him. You'll be doing him a  favor, especially if you're right and he's innocent. Think about it,  Riley. If Emile didn't set this fire, someone else did. Do you want a  seventy-six-year-old man to take that on alone?"

"I don't know where he is."

"You two work this out," Straker said.

"I'll be down on the dock.

Riley, let me know what you decide to do. "

As he walked away, her father shook his head in amazement.

"John Straker as an FBI agent. That's a tough one to get my head around.  Did finding a body on the island where he was staying stir up his  professional instincts?" He glanced at Riley with a ghost of a smile.

"Or is it personal?"

"Don't ask me to explain why Straker does anything. I know he considers Emile a friend."

"He seems to be looking after you, too."

She watched Straker's retreating figure, the thick, strong body, the  ease with which he moved. It would be a mistake on her part, she  thought, to let him or anyone else look after her. That was her  responsibility. She needed to be clear about her own interests, her own  motivations, what was at stake for herself and those she cared about.  She was tired, drained and scared, and letting Straker take charge, with  his experience and natural irascibility, could be so easy, almost  irresistible. It would get her off the hook and make her feel less  exposed, less vulnerable to her own fears about where this would end.

"Don't let Straker fool you," she said.

"He's as unpredictable and hard to get along with as ever."

Despite his exhaustion, her father managed a grin.

"Sounds like you're two peas in a pod."

"Ha! I'm nothing like Straker."

"Honey, you're kind and you're passionate about everything you do--but  you're not what anyone would call easy. You need a strong personality to  rub up against, keep you interested. Someone who won't back off the  first time he realizes you're not the type to wilt."

"Maybe, but it's not Straker. I admit he's been a rock. He was great  with Sig last night. But he's an FBI agent. He likes all this danger and  intrigue." She shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest to help  her keep from shaking.

"Not me. I can't wait to get back to recovery and rehab."

"Your mother and I had everything in common, and it almost didn't work.

You can't predict what keeps two people together. It's not a science."

He smiled gently.

"But you're being too intense, which proves my point. Just enjoy the man's company and be glad he's on your side."                       
       
           



       

But she wasn't sure Straker was on her side in the way her father meant.  He was on his own side, operating by his own code. Being on Emile's  side, she remembered, didn't mean Straker considered him innocent--it  meant he'd visit him in jail if he was proved guilty.

"Sig's getting out of the hospital this afternoon," her father said.

"Thank God she's all right. She needs to rest and recuperate." "I never should have brought her up here"

"Well, I don't know if you've noticed, but your sister has a mind of her  own, too. You're not responsible for her choices. Your mother's taking  her back to Camden with her. Caroline's let me use a car--I'll stay up  here a bit." He paused, eyed Riley in that way he did when he had  something to say she didn't want to hear.

"I think you should go with them. You're running out of your nine lives, kid."

She sighed.

"I understand your concerns" -- "I don't want you running around up here alone."

"That's not likely," she said with a small smile.

"You and Straker." He shook his head.

"Sam's death, Emile's inexplicable behavior, some maniac setting fires.

That's enough, Riley. No more."

Two investigators were making their way toward her.

"I'll be careful," she promised her father. She gave him a quick hug.

"Please don't worry about me."

"Aren't you even a little bit afraid?"

"Not of Emile."

Her father's eyes narrowed.

"Matthew?" he asked quietly, almost against his will.

The investigators joined them, giving her an excuse not to respond.

Her father left, reluctantly, urging her a final time to head for Camden  when she finished here. She answered the investigators' questions, many  of which Sheriff Don-man had already asked her, and tried to stay  clinical, matter-of-fact as she related how she and Sig had come to  Emile's cottage, what they'd done, how they'd realized it was on fire.  But as she spoke and they took notes, her heart raced and she couldn't  seem to draw a decent breath.

When they finished, she walked down to the dock. She relished the crunch  of the gravel under her feet, the smell of the clean morning air, the  coolness of the breeze off the water. The terror and the choking smoke  of last night seemed a little less close.

Straker stood on the end of the dock, his boat bobbing in the surf.

She walked out to him.

"Still here?"

"Yep. I was waiting to see if you'd head to Camden or go back to Boston  with your father." His gaze fixed on hers, impossible to read.

"I prefer to know where you are. I've decided it's in my best interests."

"I can take care of myself." She said it more to reassure herself than to argue with him.

He tilted his head back slightly, and if possible looked even more the kind of man who'd go after a gunman with hostages.

"Emile can take care of himself, too. It doesn't mean either of you won't come to no good."

She smiled.

"Is that a vote of confidence?"

"St. Joe, you haven't changed all that much since you were six." He motioned to his boat.

"Get in."

"Don't think you've changed one whit, either, Straker. Where are we going?"

He took her by the elbow.

"To my deserted island."

Straker sat out on his porch, feet up on the rail, mind on nothing more  productive than Riley St. Joe skinny-dipping in the chilly ocean water  off a stretch of rocks down by the dock. She was determined, she said,  to rid herself of her sooty smell. She'd borrowed a towel. And a shirt.

"The longest one you have. And one that buttons."

For what purpose he could only imagine, which he did in vivid detail.

If she got hypothermia in Maine's chilly waters, he'd have to warm her up. He might even have to pluck her out of the water.

He jumped to his feet, cursed. He'd gone from the isolation of six  months on Labreque Island to a dead body, a missing old man, arson, the  goings-on among a bunch of oceanographers, a pregnant woman estranged  from her rich husband and the insanity of wanting Riley St.

Joe.

He did want her. There was no denying, pretending or imagining otherwise. Wishing, yes. But wishing had never got him very far.

"Hell." He grabbed the porch rail and stared out at the water, every  muscle in his body rigid. Too many months of celibacy. He'd thought  they'd do him good. Instead they'd led him to wanting to make love to a  woman he'd never particularly liked. A snot- nosed egghead. A stubborn  know-it-all.                       
       
           



       

But he'd seen the fear in her eyes after the fire, the love and concern  and fight in her as she'd stood over her sister's hospital bed. He  admired her loyalty to her grandfather, her willingness--to a fault--to  stand up for those she loved. She'd always had a lot of heart.

Wanting her. that was another matter. If he hadn't spent the last six  months holed up on an island, would he have noticed the shape of her  mouth and breasts, the dark depths of her eyes, the curve of her hips?

A lobster boat rounded the point, heading for the island's old dock.

Straker instantly recognized his father's colors; every lobster man had  his own colors, to easily distinguish the buoys that marked his traps.

"Thank God," he muttered, grateful for the distraction. Riley was on her  own. Presumably she'd have the sense to scoot her naked little self out  of view.