Riley’s head throbbed. When she turned the corner and saw a nondescript red Cape engulfed in flames, her stomach lurched.
Residents of the neighborhood had come out onto their lawns and walked into the street, as if they thought they should stop themselves but couldn’t. Someone said, “It’s that sea captain’s place. The one who was found dead in Maine.”
The police set up a line to keep onlookers back. Firefighters swarmed over the burning house, working madly to contain the fire and keep it from spreading to other houses on the quiet residential street.
Riley melted into the edges of the gathering crowd. She stood on her tiptoes, searched faces, backs, physiques, hair for any sign of Emile. Her teeth chattered. She was cold now, scared.
Sam hadn’t left his iron on, she thought. He was dead, undoubtedly murdered, and someone had set fire to his house.
Emile. How could Straker have let him go? Were they in cahoots?
Her gaze fell on a figure on the far side of the crush of onlookers. Not Emile. Matt. There he was, hands shoved in his pockets as he stared at the burning house.
Had he followed Emile? Or had Emile followed him?
“What in God’s name is going on?” she whispered, forcing down her frustration. The police would know this was Sam Cassain’s house. Riley didn’t need to call attention to herself—or to her brother-in-law.
She squeezed between an older couple, pushed past a young family, a throng of teenagers, two ten-year-olds on bicycles. She slipped under elbows and stepped over feet and used her small stature to her best advantage, but she lost sight of Matt. People were packed tightly, eyes fixed on their dead neighbor’s burning house. They didn’t know she had to get to Matt, talk to him, find out what he knew, why he was there.
She finally broke from the crowd, but Matt was gone. She ran up the street, away from the fire. Was he on foot? Did he have a car? Had the police recognized him?
A car rattled behind her. She spun around.
A beat-up Subaru with Maine plates. Another inch and it would have run her over. Straker had the passenger window rolled down, and eyed her darkly from behind the wheel. “Get in, St. Joe.”
“You—”
“Now.”
She wanted to get off her feet. She wanted to get away from the police, the firefighters, the burning house. But she resisted. “You let Emile go. What were you, out of your mind?”
“Goddamn it. Get in here or I’ll come out there and drag you in.”
She was so cold. “What if he’s inside?”
“The firefighters will handle it. There’s nothing you can do.”
She didn’t move. She couldn’t speak. Emile. Matt. What were they doing here? What was Straker doing here?
“In, Riley. Now.” When she still didn’t move, he un-clamped his seat belt. “The hell with it. I’m coming after you.”
“No, don’t.”
She pulled open the door and slid in beside him. Her stocking snagged on a torn section of the passenger seat. She sank back, numb.
“Dead bodies and fires. You’re a menace, St. Joe.”
“Go to hell.”
“No ‘thank you, Straker, for rescuing me’? It’s just like that time when I pulled you out of the bay in your kayak. What were you, nine? A damned ingrate. At least you cried.” He eased down a side street, not going too fast. “I always figured you hated me because you cried in front of me.”
“I hated you because you gloated.”
He glanced over at her. “Do you want to cry now?”
“No.” She settled into her seat, fighting tears. “I want to find Emile.”
Straker stayed under the speed limit until he reached Massachusetts Avenue. Then he accelerated, tight jawed, eyes on the road, arms tensed as he negotiated traffic, stoplights, pedestrians. It was a straight shot to Porter Square.
When he turned onto her street, he glanced sideways. Riley saw no humor in his eyes. No softness. If anything, he was even madder than when he’d picked her up. He didn’t say a word. Neither did she.
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.
&nbs
p; 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 something 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. He seemed as at ease there as he did anywhere. He chose a chamomile tea bag and dangled it in a mug.
The phone rang. She snatched up the portable and hurled it across the room.
Straker eyed her knowingly. “See?”
She could hear her message machine taking the call in the next room. Her mother’s voice came on. “Riley? Are you there? Your father just phoned. He told me about the fire at Sam’s. He’s worried about you. I am, too. Call me—”
Riley grabbed the portable off the floor where she’d hurled it. “Hi, it’s me. Mom, I’m fine. There’s no need to worry.”
Straker arched a brow at her.
Her mother gasped in relief, half sobbing. “Riley! Oh, thank God. I was afraid you were caught in the fire. After the Encounter…” She couldn’t go on. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” She made an instant decision not to give her mother all the details about her evening. Emile, Matt, her presence at the fire. Kissing Straker in his beat-up Subaru. “Thanks for checking up on me.”
“I hate the thought of you being there alone.”
In her mother’s view, having Straker camped out on her futon might be worse than being alone. He poured boiling water into her mug. Naturally he was listening. He was on alert at all times, never mind when a suspicious death and a suspicious fire were at hand. It was his nature. His training.
“Riley?”
“Sorry. I’m a little distracted. The past few days haven’t been easy, that’s all.”
“You can always stay with your father.” He had a studio apartment in the North End of Boston, getting up to Camden when he could. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And me—you’re welcome here.”
“Thanks.”
Her mother sucked in a breath, and Riley could predict what was coming next. “Your father told me about Matt’s behavior tonight. It’s inexcusable. Was John Straker outside?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, he was.”
“But that was none of your doing,” her mother said.
“No.” It was the truth, as far as it went.
“Good. I know he’s an FBI agent, but I can’t…” She paused. “I have my doubts about him, that’s all. I can’t help it. He’s been living out on that island for months and months, and he’s in tight with Emile.”
And he was making her chamomile tea. “Right. I’ll be careful.” But Riley felt an immediate tug of regret at deceiving her worried mother—and she’d learned the hard way over the years that bad news was best delivered early and completely. She had to get this over with. “Mom, John Straker’s staying here.”
“In your apartment? With you? Riley.”
“It’s okay. I can handle him.” She ignored another arched brow. “Mom, Emile will be okay, too.”
“I don’t give a damn about Emile. I’m past caring about him.”
But this was a lie, or denial. He was her father, and Riley was convinced that for all her frustrations and fears, Mara still loved him. It wasn’t a point they could argue. “You haven’t told Sig about Matt showing up at dinner and being such an ass, have you?”
“No, I don’t see the need. You just be careful, Riley St. Joe. I came close enough t
o losing you last year. I won’t go through that again.” Her tone softened, lost some of its vehemence. “If you need me, I’m here.”
Riley thanked her, and after they hung up, she sank onto a chair at the kitchen table. Straker shoved a mug of fragrant, calming chamomile tea in front of her. “Your mother wasn’t comforted by my presence?”
“I’m not, why should she be?”
She crossed her ankles. One foot kept jiggling. Her hands had started to shake again. She could see the tea jumping around in her mug as she tried to take a sip. Straker had given it to her straight, no honey, no milk, no sugar. He sat on another chair, watching her with those cool gray eyes. He wasn’t shaking. The only indication he’d been through any kind of ordeal was a slight frown.
“I suppose tonight was nothing to you,” she said.
He shrugged. “You weren’t in the fire. Emile wasn’t in the fire. I managed not to kill anyone despite all provocation. I’d say I got off light. You, on the other hand, had Matt Granger go berserk on you, then made the mistake of following Emile instead of minding your own business.”
“So I got what I deserved?”
“I think you did.”
She used both hands to grip her mug. He was the most obnoxious man on the planet. Yet not even an hour ago, she’d all but had sex with him in his car. It was the fire, of course. Sirens, flames, the crush of people, adrenaline. On an ordinary Thursday night, she wouldn’t have let him touch her, much less touch her where and how he had.
He smiled. “Wishing we hadn’t stopped when we did?”
“What?” She shook off her thoughts as his words sunk in. “What are you doing, reading my mind now? You really do have a lot of gall, Straker.”
“You were looking distracted.”
“Because of the fire,” she said.
He smiled in that confident, disbelieving, know-it-all way. “Ah.”
“Just because you’ve been sitting on a deserted island for the past six months doesn’t mean I have. I’m not as hot to trot as you are.”
“You were thirty minutes ago.”
“That’s projection.”
On Fire Page 10
