On Fire(39)

"I hate arguing with old men with guns."

"That's twice now you've let him go. I thought he was the reason you left the island."

"Would that my life were so simple. No, Emile was the trigger. I  consider him a friend, and I didn't like the idea of his dead captain  washing up on my shore. But you're the reason." He noticed she'd but  toned up his shirt crooked, and it almost did him in.

"It took having Emile point a gun at my head for me to figure that one out."

Her teeth were chattering. Too much time in the damned sixty-degree bay.

"He wasn't pointing at your head."

"Close enough."

"I can't..." She pushed a hand through her wet hair.

"I can't think."

He settled his arm on the small of her back and said, "Maybe I should at  least get you to room temperature before I ask if I can make love to  you. I wouldn't want you to suggest I took advantage of you. "

She shook her head. "No. Skip room temperature. And don't ask."

"What?" "Just do it, because if you ask" -she smiled in spite of her  shivering "--I'll have to examine the pros and cons, the risks and  rewards, and pretty much give you a dissertation" -- "I don't want a  dissertation."

"If you can carry Sig," she said, leaning against his arm, letting him take her weight, "you can carry me."

Straker scooped her up. She was cold, wore nothing under his flannel  shirt. He took long strides up to the cottage, then pounded up the porch  steps. This time there was no emergency, no collapsing pregnant woman  in his arms. This time it was Riley.

"I'm so cold," she whispered.

"How long were you in the water?"

"Too long. After a few minutes I couldn't even feel the cold. I sat on a  rock in the water and let the waves wash over me. It felt so good."

She smiled.

"I don't smell like a chimney anymore."

He laid her on his bed, kissed her throat, her mouth.

"No, you don't."

He slipped the shirt over her head. Her slim body was cold under his  hands. He tried to hold back and go slow, ran his palms up her legs and  over her stomach and breasts, lingering there, feeling her temperature  rise.

"Body heat is a quick cure for hypothermia," she said.

He smiled.

"Ever the scientist."

But he was past holding back. He'd been holding back for days, from the  moment he'd confronted her on the rocks in the fog. He'd dismissed his  jolts of desire as being driven purely by his self-imposed isolation and  celibacy. Wanting Riley St. Joe for her own sake was mad. Yet here he  was, consumed by the taste of her, the feel of her, the unending longing  for her.

She tore at his shirt. She was breathing hard, her eyes dusky, her body warm.

"You don't have the excuse of six months on a deserted island," he said.

"No, I have the excuse of seventy-hour work weeks. Don't make me wait."  She slipped her hands under his shirt, spread her palms on his bare  skin. "I can't wait."

"For once we're in complete agreement."

He had his clothes off, with her eager help, in an instant, and he fell  onto her with a ferocity that took him aback. He couldn't get enough of  her. He couldn't make himself slow down, go easy, not that she showed  any sign of wanting him to do anything but what he was doing.

And what she was doing to him, the feel of her mouth and hands, the  thrust of her hips, the eager movement of her legs, urged him on. The  old bed creaked and moaned as they came together, her body hot now, with  no sign of blue lips and chattering teeth. They rolled onto the floor  in a tangle of sheets, the mattress half off the bed.                       
       
           



       

Straker didn't stop. Couldn't. He peaked once, then again as her body  quaked under him, her arms clasped around him as she pulled him even  more deeply into her. It was as if the last six months of isolation,  meditation, running, working had prepared him for this moment. He wasn't  sure he'd have survived otherwise. She filled up his mind and body, his  soul, in the way no other woman ever had.

He kissed the damp ends of her hair, breathed in the smell of ocean and  lovemaking. Outside the wind had picked up. The tide was coming in.

A few boats were out.

"We could stay here," he said, "and make love for the next six months."

She smiled.

"Tempting, isn't it?"

"Place isn't winterized. Pipes'd freeze."

"Oh, who cares," she whispered, snuggling against him; she was warm and almost liquid, nothing shivering or trembling or tensed.

She slept. They were still on the floor, arms and legs intertwined.

He pulled an old blanket up over her shoulders. Her clothes were  probably still out on the rocks. He'd fetch them later. Right now, he'd  let her sleep against him and imagine the rest of the world falling away  until it was just the two of them on their tiny windswept island.

Sig staggered into her studio. She was shaky and queasy and burning with  fatigue. She couldn't imagine painting. The urge was gone. She tried to  remember what it felt like to want to paint. Dipping her mop brush into  water, squirting out dots of vibrant colors, pastels, earth tones.  Spattering, washing; blending, playing. Being absorbed in what she was  doing. Loving it.

She dropped onto her high work stool and stared at her large, empty  board. For a second she pretended she was signing her name in the corner  of one of her paintings. Sig St. Joe. Who was that? Wife of Matthew  Granger. Expectant mother. Riley's sister. Mara's daughter.

Richard's daughter. She wasn't sure she knew anymore.

Her mother was making her tea and toast. Her cure- alls. Whether it was  the body, mind or spirit in pain, Mara would make tea and toast.

Sig smiled, glad for her mother's company, her constancy.

"Matt," she whispered, choking back tears.

"You asshole."

But she'd felt his agony when he'd come to her in the hospital, heard it  in his voice, sensed it in his touch as he'd placed his palm on her  swollen abdomen. He was consumed by demons. In that moment in the  hospital, with her pit fighter of a sister protecting her, Sig had known  he was convinced they were his demons alone to confront. Not hers. This  wasn't something they could do together.

Perhaps that was what he'd tried to explain to her months ago, however  inadequately and superficially. She didn't want to understand.

Couldn't. He was her husband, her soul mate, her partner in life, her lover.

She wanted to be at his side no matter the dragons that needed slaying.

Her eyes burned with exhaustion. She could still taste the smoke. The  doctors had urged her to rest and drink lots and lots of water. She  needed to rebuild her strength and slowly ease the shock of the fire out  of her system. The doctors had assured her that if she took care of  herself, her pregnancy should proceed without incident. She was healthy.  Her babies were healthy.

Mara came out onto the porch with a tray. "I made green tea, and I found  a lovely oatmeal muffin in the freezer. I heated it up and put a little  pumpkin butter on your plate."

"Thanks."

"Oh, this was easy. Seeing you and Riley last night--that was hard."

She set the tray on the gate leg table; she looked tired herself, and  guilty, as if she'd done something wrong. She manufactured a cheerful  smile.

"I can feel fall in the air, can't you?"

Sig smiled back.

"I love fall."

"I'll leave the tray" -- "No, Mom. Sit down with me. You've had a hell  of a scare, too. It's not--you know it's not your fault Riley and I were  up at Emile's. You couldn't have predicted..."

"Yes. I could have predicted. Riley went to sea with Emile and was  almost killed. On Tuesday, she goes kayaking at Emile's and finds a dead  body." Mara gave Sig a hard look.

"I should have stopped you both."

"We're adults" -- "You'd have listened if I'd told you to stay put."

"I might have," Sig said with a small smile.

"I'm not so sure about Riley."                       
       
           



       

Her mother inhaled, said nothing.

"Do you want to fetch a cup? We can share the tea and muffin."

Mara shook her head.

"I'm fine, thanks."

But she sat on Sig's studio bed, staying on the edge, too tight and nervous to lean back and relax.

"It's been a rough week for all of us.

I didn't want to acknowledge how it's affected me. Seeing Sam again,  then having Riley of all people find him dead"-She broke off quickly,  gave herself a shake.

"The last thing you need is to have me whining and moaning to you.

We'll all be fine. You, Riley, me. We're strong women."

"That's one positive result of Emile's hardheadedness. It must be a dominant gene."