by Mia Marlowe
“Guilty as charged.”
“Well, come here then and let me show you.” He vacated the captain’s chair and took the one next to it. “The main thing to remember is small corrections. No sudden turns and you’ll be fine.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon tooling along the rocky coast, skirting little islands and cruising past quaint lighthouses. At one point, they dropped anchor and dived from the swim platform for a very quick dip to cool off. The water was too cold for more than a bracing in and out. Lulu danced along the fantail, scolding them from the safety of the boat.
As night fell, they tied up just off Cape Anne. With the boat secure, they worked together in the tiny galley to prepare supper. Sara sautéed scallops and shrimp and Ryan cooked the linguini and alfredo sauce. A fresh tossed salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing and a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc rounded out the meal.
They talked about their favorite books. Sara thought M.M. Kaye’s The Far Pavilions was the best epic adventure ever written, but Ryan argued that while it was good, enough time hadn’t elapsed to declare it a classic yet. Give him The Last of the Mohicans or Les Miserables. They both detested remakes of old movies on principle, but thought Young Frankenstein was comedic genius.
As Sara chased her last shrimp around her plate, she screwed up her courage. “You said you were engaged once. What happened with your fiancée?”
He dabbed his mouth with his napkin before he spoke. “I guess you could say we had a fundamental disagreement.”
She speared the shrimp. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”
“You wouldn’t be a woman if you weren’t curious,” he said. “I’d really rather not go into the gory details, if you don’t mind. Let’s just say Lisa and I came from totally different backgrounds and had conflicting ideas about…family.”
She popped the shrimp in her mouth and nodded. That made sense. If one of them wanted kids and the other didn’t, it would be a never-ending argument that could only end badly. She wondered which side he was on.
“So do you want kids?”
He blinked as if her question surprised him. “Sure. Someday, I suppose.” Then his mouth curved in a wicked grin. “Is that an invitation?”
She smacked his forearm. “No. Just curious.”
“Me, too.” He poured a little more wine into both their glasses. “You and your ex never got around to having any kids, I guess.”
“No, not that I didn’t want them,” she said with a sigh. “But in hindsight, it was probably a good thing there were no children.”
“What happened?”
She should have known the question was coming since she opened the door to the past, but the answer wouldn’t form easily on her tongue. She might be the more sinned against than sinning partner in her sad, dead marriage, but she still carried niggling guilt. It was demeaning to admit that she wasn’t woman enough to keep a man from straying.
Pathetic.
“There was…someone else.” She buried her nose in her wine glass so she wouldn’t have to look at him directly. The sauvignon was clean and crisp and went perfectly with their meal, but it didn’t do anything for the still raw wound in her heart.
He nodded slowly. “For you or for him?”
“Him.” She didn’t know whether to be pleased that he wondered if she might have had the affair or offended that he thought her morals were that shaky.
“The man was insane,” he said so quietly she had to rely on speechreading to understand him.
Temporary insanity. It almost seemed like that. Matthew really wasn’t the type to cheat. He’d never been a big flirt or had a roving eye. Brittany just sort of blindsided him. At least, that’s what Sara told herself. It was easier to hate Brittany than Matthew. Hating Matthew made her want to throw up.
“Well, when he wanted to leave, I wasn’t going to beg,” she said. It was little enough, but her pride was all that kept her going for those first few days. Love wasn’t something she could turn off immediately. Like a dripping faucet, her feelings for Matthew, raging and tender in turn, were a constant irritant. If there had been a child, would she have tried harder to keep him?
Probably, but it would have cost her dear.
She wondered sometimes if she’d have been able to forgive him if he’d asked. But he never did. Oh, he said he was sorry and tried to explain that he hadn’t meant to cause her pain, but he never asked for forgiveness. Once the affair came to light, Matthew seemed more relieved than anything else. He was out of the apartment the same day. She hadn’t even been given the dignity of demanding he leave.
There was never any question of reconciliation.
“Let’s dance.” Ryan’s voice intruded on her dark thoughts.
“What?”
He stood and pushed back his chair. Then he cranked up the radio, turning the bass up all the way so Sara could feel the rhythm of the music pounding inside her chest. He held out his hand. “Come on.”
She took his hand and let him guide her through a vibrant swing, made more challenging by the gentle sway of the deck. Soon she was laughing and clinging to him to keep her footing. Then the music changed.
The pace slowed and she detected a Latin beat. Ryan pulled her into a sinuous rumba. Quick-quick-slow, quick-quick-slow. Her hips swayed to the time of low bass.
“You’re a good dancer,” he mouthed into her ear.
“Arthur Murray. Eight easy lessons.” She and Matthew had taken the classes in the months before their wedding so Matthew wouldn’t disgrace himself at their wedding dance. He managed to acquire the basics, but Matthew never moved with anything remotely like Ryan’s self-assured easiness.
“You’re pretty good yourself,” she said as he signaled a slow under arm turn. “A lot of guys don’t like to ballroom dance.”
“Maybe they don’t realize it’s the one time the guy gets to lead.” He pulled her closer so their bodies pressed against each other as they moved through the slow box step. “A guy doesn’t have control of the situation very often in a relationship. He needs to take it when he can.”
“And you accuse me of having control issues?”
“Maybe we both do,” he allowed.
The music stopped and the radio program switched to news, the female announcer splatting unintelligibly just beyond her hearing range, but Ryan didn’t release her. They continued to move in time with the rhythm of the gentle swells, dancing with the ocean under the deck. Then he stopped.
Warm and hard and strong—the feel of Ryan’s body against hers was more intoxicating than the white wine. She tipped her face up to his and he descended for a kiss.
He took his time about it. Gentle. Insistent. His arms around her felt so good.
So safe.
Her body responded with a deep ache and moist warmth that surprised her. The hard planes of his body were flush against hers. She felt his arousal press against her belly.
Safety was a fantasy. If she let him into her bed and her heart—she wouldn’t entertain the illusion that she could separate the two—she’d give him the power to hurt her.
Deeply.
She didn’t think she could bear it again.
Sara pulled away from him. To his credit, he let her go.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “It’s not you. I just…I can’t. Good night, Ryan.”
Sara scooped up Lulu and retreated to the small forward cabin below. Her body throbbed in protest. Sleep fled from her as she tossed on the narrow bed. The stars wheeled slowly across the skylight above her for hours before she finally drifted off.
Chapter 11
Sara had been afraid things would be awkward with Ryan the next morning, but he was banging around in the galley in high spirits when she climbed the companionway stairs. The coffee was waiting for her and Ryan fried a couple eggs apiece for them.
She manned the toaster and slathered some English muffins with generous dollops of butter and marmalade.
“H
ow’d you sleep?” he asked.
“Fine,” she lied. “You?”
“Like the dead.”
The faint dark hollows beneath his blue eyes begged a question, but Sara decided to let that non-sleeping dog lie.
Ryan pulled out a chart and they made easy conversation about the route they’d travel that day. He regaled her with the story of a famous shipwreck that had occurred near their present position during a nor’easter at the turn of the last century. He even managed to sound cheerful about it.
This time, she thanked God he was a morning person.
They didn’t discuss what happened last night. Or more precisely, what didn’t. But she suspected they were both thinking about it.
Sara was grateful for his tact, but she also noticed that Ryan went out of his way not to touch her. He was living up to his promise not to pressure her to do anything she didn’t want to do.
But she’d come to like his hand on the small of her back to direct her, his casual caresses and the way he let his hand rest on hers for a little longer than necessary if they should chance to come into contact. Now he didn’t even let his body brush against her in the crowded galley.
She missed his touch.
The rest of the trip passed much too quickly and a little after noon, they tied up the WaveDancer at her slip on the Mystic River near Ryan’s high rise. Ryan walked her home with Lulu prancing along side them, stopping to inspect each clump of flowers or tree trunk within the circle of her leash.
Sara paused at the front door of her building and turned to him. He was so handsome, her chest constricted.
“Thank you for everything,” she said. “Other than losing your car and nearly drowning, I had a wonderful time.”
He leaned against the door jamb. “Me, too.”
She put her key in the lock and stopped. “Would you like to come for supper tomorrow night? I’m no gourmet chef, but I do make a mean lasagna.”
He smiled, then shook his head. “I don’t so, Sara. Seems like you have some things to deal with and, to tell the truth, so do I.” He looked away from her for a moment, then met her gaze again. “But I hope we figure them out, because I really would like to see you again.”
Her jaw dropped. “Do you mean to tell me you won’t go out with me again because I wouldn’t sleep with you?”
“No, you were right about that. It’s a good thing we didn’t end up together last night.”
“Well, thank you very much.”
So he didn’t want her, after all. Any way it came, rejection still stunk. She turned the key and shoved the door to the building open. Ryan stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.
“I won’t go out with you because of the reason you wouldn’t sleep with me,” he said. “I don’t know for sure, but I suspect you still have feelings for your ex. If we’d made love last night, the bed would have been a too crowded. I don’t do threesomes.”
He leaned down and brushed his lips on her cheek.
“I know he hurt you. I’m trying like hell not to. Do what you need to do to get him out of your heart,” he said. “You have my number. Call me when you’re ready to get on with your life.”
Ryan turned and walked away with a long-legged stride. He didn’t look back.
Sara watched him for a stunned few moments, then shoved her way into the building and huffed up the stairs to her third floor apartment.
Why did he think she still cared for Matthew? There were plenty of other reasons for her not to sleep with him. Good reasons.
“How about that we hardly know each other?” Sara asked Lulu. The shared danger of the attack and the enforced intimacy of the small boat made it seem they knew each other much better than they actually did. “What about that?”
“Or how about, hey, I was raised to believe it’s actually not ok for unmarried people to sleep together, no matter how much they might want to at the moment?” she mumbled as she inserted her second key.
Lulu sniffed along the bottom of the apartment door and did a few quick circles.
“Or that he and I don’t love each other? Bet that one didn’t even cross his mind.”
Sara turned the knob and gave the door a kick. First thing she was going to do was take these designer duds she was still wearing to the cleaners. Then she’d ship them back to him with a nice little sterile ‘no-thank-you’ thank you note. She threw the deadbolt behind her with vehemence.
“What makes him think I still have feelings for—Matthew, what are you doing here?”
She jumped, startled to find her ex-husband sitting in her little living room. Sara realized suddenly that Lulu had done her ‘alert’ dance at the door and she’d ignored it, too absorbed in her rant against Ryan. She’d have to give the dog a reward treat later.
“Who let you in?”
“I still have a key.” Matt Kelley stood, his face stern. “Who were you talking to?”
“Lulu. I have to practice talking to someone, you know,” she said.
The dog ran over to Matthew and pawed his leg, wanting to be picked up, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Sara held out her hand, palm up. “I’ll take that key right now.”
He dug in his pocket and came up with it. He gave it up so easily, she figured he probably had a spare someplace. “Where’ve you been, Sara?”
“None of your business.” Her pulse jumped several notches just looking at Matthew. Irritation pinched her last nerve. Ryan might be right. “Why are you here?”
“I’ve been worried sick,” Matthew said. “I was within an inch of reporting you missing.”
“Brittany will do the same for you if she finds out you’re here.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Well, aren’t you just a bundle of little worries,” she said. “Look, Matt, you’re not my husband anymore. If you let yourself into my place again, I’ll be the one doing some reporting.”
It was an idle threat. They both knew the unwritten Blue Code would protect him even if she did file a complaint.
“Sara, I came over here last night to tell you something.”
“You’ve been here since last night?”
He nodded. “And when you weren’t here, I decided to wait. You have no idea how long last night was. Sit down. We need to talk.”
We need to talk. That was how he’d started that other conversation. The one that stood her world on its head. Her stomach clenched with foreboding. What could be worse than learning about him and Brittany?
She sank into one of her faded armchairs. Threadbare and sagging, they belonged in someone’s attic, but she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of them yet. She and Matthew started housekeeping with them when they couldn’t even afford an end table to put between them. Matthew settled into the other one.
“You were right, Sara,” he said.
“About?”
“The coroner went back and took a second look at Anthony Valenti’s body. Turns out the water in his lungs was chlorinated. He didn’t drown in the Mystic River. His body was just dumped there.” Matthew’s brows knit in a frown. “He was murdered.”
Sara nodded. “And thanks to the media, the killer knows I told you what I saw. Were you able to find out who leaked that?”
“I have my suspicions, but I can’t prove them,” he said. “The important thing is if the killer thinks you can identify him, you’re in danger.”
“Well, the paper was kind enough to make me sound like a flake who just wanted my fifteen seconds of fame. They were pretty specific about the fact that I couldn’t give a good description,” Sara said.
“Given the kind of perp we’re dealing with that may not matter. There’s more,” Matthew said. “The FBI is involved now. Turns out they’ve been investigating a string of accidents throughout New England, all just on the border of questionable, but with enough common threads to create a pattern. They think we’ve got a serial killer out there who specializes in murders-for-hire that are designed to look like accidents. You’re
the first real break they’ve had in the case.”
Sara blinked hard. A serial killer. Sometimes, being right really sucked.
“I need to take you down to their office so you can tell their profiler everything you told me.” Matthew stood.
“Am I going to be detained?”
“Don’t look at it like that,” he said. “That’s why I told them I’d come get you.”
“A trip to the FBI will be so much easier with you sheep-dogging me,” she said testily. Truthfully, she would feel better going in to the Federal Building with Matt beside her, but she was still upset with him for letting himself into her place.
Or maybe it was just that he was still in her heart, like Ryan said, and demanding the key back wouldn’t fix that problem.
“Sara, please don’t be mad at me.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “When you didn’t come home last night…if you knew how scared I’ve been for you…”
She realized suddenly that his news threw a disturbing light on the T-bird incident. Ryan was wrong about that. It wasn’t just random meanness. She was the target. Someone had tried to kill her.
She told Matthew everything she could remember about her weekend with Ryan Knight. He took notes as she spoke, his face was etched with lines of concern. And sometimes annoyance whenever Sara said Ryan’s name. His posture stiffened when she told him about the trip back to Boston on Ryan’s boat. If Matthew had been a dog, his ruff would have been standing on end.
“We’ll follow up on this. I’ll contact the police in Maine and get a copy of their report,” Matthew said.
“There isn’t one. We didn’t contact them.”
She explained Ryan’s reasons for not calling the police. They sounded less convincing now.
“I’m going to have a talk with this joker,” Matt said. “I assume you have his number. I don’t like the sound of this Ryan Knight. A guy who doesn’t want to talk to the police usually has a reason. And it isn’t a good one.”
“You have no right to voice an opinion on him.”
“I’m just saying, he smells like trouble.”
Sara narrowed her eyes at him. “Matthew, don’t make this personal.”
