“Maybe I should go find Matt and tell him everything,” Riley said. “I don’t know how much more of this she can stand. He loves her. I’m sure of it.”
Straker remembered the word from the lobster boats. Matt Granger was in deep, probably over his head, too. On some level, Sig knew, feared it, and that was why she was here. “Maybe you just shouldn’t meddle.”
Riley didn’t take offense. She sighed, the strain catching up with her. “You’re right. For a minute back there, I thought she’d hit the gas pedal or grab the wheel and run him over. Straker, they were so happy. Until last year—”
“Come on.” He touched her shoulder. “We need to get her back to Emile’s.”
“Should she see a doctor?”
Sig groaned in the dark. “I’m okay, goddamn it. It was the scallops. I never should have eaten the frigging scallops.”
It was another three minutes back to Emile’s. The air was cool and crisp, the water dark. A stiff breeze gusted, making the spruce trees creak and sway. Sig tried to walk, but she was shivering, wobbly, and finally Straker just scooped her up. Of course she swore. She was an ungrateful St. Joe. But she clung to him, too, and when he laid her in one of the twin beds upstairs, she squeezed his hand.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked. “We can get you to a doctor.”
“I’m fine.” She managed a weak smile. “I threw up like that a lot in the first few weeks.”
Pregnant and alone. If Granger knew, what would he do? That was what Sig couldn’t face. Straker knew she was afraid if Matt found out she was pregnant, he still wouldn’t end his vendetta against her grandfather. She couldn’t count on him. His father’s death had shattered the trust between them.
Riley covered her sister with old quilts, tucked them carefully around her. “Can I get you anything? A cup of tea…water…” But Sig was almost asleep, and Riley straightened, her hair sticking out, dark circles under her eyes. “I guess we should let her sleep.”
Straker built a fire in Emile’s woodstove while Riley paced. He could see that sharp mind of hers working. She had her arms crossed on her breasts and looked worried, frustrated, boiling over with unchanneled energy.
Finally, she stopped. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes almost black. She took a breath. “Thank you.”
Straker stood in front of the woodstove, the fire crackling, hot against his back. She was softening, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t. This was his opening, and he had to seize it. “I don’t want your thanks. I want you and Sig to pack up in the morning and get the hell out of here. Go back to your mother’s, go back to Boston. You two must have friends who’d take you in for a few days.”
To his surprise, she nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing. Sig…” She blinked rapidly, holding back tears. “What does Matt think he’s doing? Doesn’t he know she’s—can’t he tell?”
“He knows something’s wrong, but he thinks it’s him. The man’s caught up in his own hell right now. He can’t see your sister is, too.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“From your point of view, no, it’s not.”
She sighed, looking exhausted. “I’m in no mood to be reasonable.”
He smiled. “That’s a mood I know well.”
With another sigh, she ran a hand through her hair, muttered about needing air and suddenly shot outside. Straker could hear her race down the steps, and by the time he’d put another log on the fire and followed her out, she was charging toward the water.
The wind had picked up, howling in steady gusts. He walked at a deliberate pace, debating whether it would be best to climb into his boat and head on back to the island. Riley stormed off to the end of the dock, her arms crossed against the cold, her jaw set.
“You want to be alone?” he asked, coming up behind her.
She turned slightly. “I want…” She stopped, swallowed, caught her breath. “I want this all to go away. I want to toast marshmallows on the fire, I want Sig’s babies to have a chance at a happy life, I want Emile…” She couldn’t go on. She shifted back toward the water, dark and churning in the wind.
Straker said nothing. He knew what it was to have the world close in on him. His answer had been Labreque Island, six months of solitude, of a simple, if hard, life. If he didn’t do it, it didn’t get done. If he was socked in with fog for days on end, there was no running down to the store for milk and videos. There had been days—weeks—when he’d thought he wouldn’t come out of his exile sane or whole, able ever again to connect with another human being.
Riley suddenly leaned against him, her arms still tightly crossed on her chest, her gaze still on the bay. Her body was warm, and her hair smelled of ocean and a citrusy shampoo. The months of isolation welled up in him, seized him with an urgency so ferocious it took his breath away. He wanted her. He ached with it, burned with it.
She turned into him, draped her hands around his neck, and he knew she couldn’t possibly know what he was feeling, thinking, fighting back. She whispered, “Straker, I swear, I don’t know what I’m doing,” even as she let her mouth find his, tentatively, as if she were testing her own resolve, or sanity.
The taste of her seared through him, but he knew he was dangerous, knew he had to exert his considerable willpower over the rest of him. One slender hand drifted over his shoulder. It might as well have been on fire. His pulse raced; need surged through him. He wanted to make love to her there, then, on the old wooden dock. His head, his soul, ached with the taste of her, the possibilities.
But he controlled the urge to push and push hard, sensed that what she wanted from him was tenderness, softness, a kiss that restored and gave, when all he wanted was to take and demand, end this pounding need.
She opened her mouth to his, took herself onto very dangerous ground. Restraint was impossible. Her fingers intertwined with his, and she placed his hand on her breast, a soft swell covered in layers of fabric he imagined tearing away. In another two seconds, he would. The sand had run out of the hourglass.
Instinctively, she must have known. She pulled back. She was breathing hard, her dark eyes shining. He was thinking about the fire in Emile’s woodstove, the long, comfortable couch, the blankets and cushions, the braided rug on the floor. Plenty of places to make love. They could go on all night, into the morning, until whenever Sig staggered down from the loft.
Riley smiled, touched a finger to the scar she’d given him above his eye. “I was a pretty good shot, wasn’t I?”
“I let you hit me.”
Finally a spark of humor lit her eyes. But it faded quickly, and she kissed him lightly, softly. “I’ll take care of Sig. You find Emile, find my brother-in-law.” Her eyes were black now, deadly serious. “Stop them.”
She turned abruptly and ran off the dock, up the dark road. She didn’t glance back, didn’t hesitate. Straker kicked a loose board in the dock. He could have ripped out every board and nail and post, flung the whole damned mess into the ocean.
Honor and restraint, he thought bitterly, had got him exactly nothing. A perfectly good fire, a perfectly good woman, and here he was, standing alone in the cold and the dark.
Sig awoke in a panic. Her heart was racing, and she couldn’t breathe. Nightmares. She’d dreamed of Matt. Dangerous dreams, frightening dreams. She needed air, a drink of water. Her head ached. Dehydration. She’d thrown up everything in her stomach.
Straker…he’d been damned decent. Riley was such an ass about him. Obviously he was smitten with her, even if she drove him crazy.
Air…she needed to breathe.
“Sig.”
“Huh?”
“Sig.”
Riley’s voice. Determined, fighting panic. She was shaking her. “Stop,” Sig said, feeling cranky. “That hurts.”
“Sig, we need to get out of here. The place is on fire.”
“Fire?” She sat up, her head spinning, pounding, her stomach reeling. Her sister stood close, her fear palpable. “Riley, you must be h
aving a nightmare. There’s no—”
“We don’t have time! Get up. I can’t carry you. You’re too tall.”
“Carry me—why would—” She stopped, could smell the smoke, could see it curling up the stairs. She saw Riley’s desperate look in the dark. Heard the crackle and spark of flames downstairs. She was wide-awake now. This was no nightmare. “Oh my God.”
Riley yanked the quilts off her. “We can make it through the window.”
“I don’t know…I…Riley, I can’t breathe!”
“Come on, Sig. You can do it.”
Sig dropped her feet to the floor. She had on socks. Straker and Riley had put her to bed in her clothes. She could feel the pull of skin over her bulging stomach. The babies were quiet. “I don’t want to faint,” she mumbled, and rose carefully. Riley had one hand on her elbow, steadying her.
“I’ve got to push the screen out.”
Sig gave her a shove. “Go.”
She followed her sister, crouching down, feeling the fire sucking the oxygen out of the small cottage. It was like a being, oozing, terrorizing. She heard the screen crash onto the woodshed roof below the loft window. The cold, clean air drew the smoke.
Riley coughed, grabbed Sig. “You first.”
“No!”
“Don’t argue with me.”
Sig choked for air. “My babies…I’m so big….”
“You’re not that big. You have to do this, Sig. Your babies won’t have a chance if you don’t. Jump onto the woodshed. Then slide off. Like when we were kids.” Riley squeezed her. “Go.”
If she didn’t, they’d both die up here. Staving off her panic, Sig pulled herself up onto the sill window-washer style, then dragged one leg over, until she was three-quarters out, the woodshed six or seven feet under her. She had to get the other leg out. Any further along in her pregnancy, any taller, and she wouldn’t have fit. Riley was there, helping her.
“Stand back,” Sig said. “I don’t want to kick you in the head and knock you out.”
Riley took a step back. Sig could hardly make her out with the dark, the smoke.
“You’re next. You understand me, Riley?”
“No, I’m going to stay up here and fry.”
In a single, unartful movement, Sig forced her stray leg over the sill, and before she could get tangled up, sprawled forward, landing hard on her feet on the cold, scratchy shingles of the woodshed roof. Pain shot up from her ankle, and her knees buckled, but she rolled out of the way, waiting for Riley to drop beside her.
Sig heard glass exploding, saw the glow of flames, smoke pouring from the loft window. She coughed, tasting the acrid smoke. Where the hell was her sister?
“Riley!”
“I’m coming. One, two, three…”
And she landed like a panther, her dark eyes gleaming and wild. She was totally focused, just as Sig remembered on the few times she’d joined her at a whale stranding.
“You have to jump to the ground now, Sig.”
Her head spun, sparks of light flashed, followed by passing waves of darkness. Everything seemed far away. You have to jump off this woodshed. It was a voice. She didn’t know where it was coming from. Riley? Where was Riley?
“Matt.”
Suddenly her sister’s face was in hers. She was screaming at her. “You are going to jump off this fucking roof.” Riley almost never swore. “Do you hear me? If you don’t, I’m going to push you.”
“Something’s wrong,” Sig mumbled.
“I know. Emile’s cottage is on fire.”
“With me. Something’s wrong with me.”
“It’ll be okay, Sig.” Riley had her by the shoulders, was scooting her down to the edge of the roof. “Listen, I can hear the fire engines. Music to our ears, isn’t it? Someone must have spotted the flames.”
“I can’t jump. I can’t think….”
“Sig, listen to me. I’m not going to count. I’m going to say ‘jump!’ and you’re going to jump.” She gave her half a beat. “Jump.”
Sig could feel the roof disappearing under her. She didn’t know if she’d jumped, if Riley had pushed her, if she’d simply fallen.
They landed almost simultaneously. Sig felt another sharp pain shoot up from her ankle and she sank to the ground. The grass was cold, damp, smelled of earth and ocean.
Riley, little sister Riley, tried to lift her from the hips, was crying, cajoling, “Sig, goddamn it, we have to get away from the cottage, it’s on fire,” until a voice—a man’s voice, not Matt’s—told her to move aside.
Sig couldn’t stay on her feet.
Strong, firm hands took hold of her. She could smell smoke, her own acrid sweat, could hear the fire, thought she could even hear the smoke. She tried to claw her way to full awareness, kept losing her grip, falling back.
“My babies,” she whispered, sinking again.
Eleven
They took Riley’s car to the hospital in Ellsworth. Straker drove. Riley sat rigidly beside him, unable to make herself look back at Emile’s burning cottage, cry, even speak. She’d managed to pull on hiking pants before clearing out of the loft with Sig, but there’d been no time for car keys, pocketbooks, anything. Luckily, she had an extra key taped inside her glove compartment.
Sig was already on her way to the hospital by ambulance. Lou Dorrman was meeting them there. He had questions, he’d said when he arrived at Emile’s with the volunteer firefighters. A lot of questions. Sig had collapsed, semiconscious, incoherent, when Straker had carried her off. The woodshed had caught fire seconds later.
“If you hadn’t shown up…”
Riley’s words sounded unintelligible to her, but Straker, his eyes pinned on the long, dark, straight road, said, “I did show up.”
The EMTs had taken over, put Sig on oxygen and an IV as Riley hung over them, warned them her sister was almost five months pregnant with twins, aching to do something to help.
Her hands were blackened from smoke and soot, felt cold and stiff as she clasped them together on her lap. She stank of smoke. Her heart was racing, but she was very still, every muscle tensed against shaking, against a rush of emotion she knew she would never control if she let it slip through her defenses. She couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Her sister needed her.
“How did you know to come?” she asked.
“I saw the glow of the flames in the sky. It had to be a fire.”
“You called it in?”
He nodded. “I used the radio in my boat.”
“Thanks.”
He’d arrived on the scene just as she and Sig leaped off the woodshed roof. His training had kicked into gear, the tight control, the crisp professionalism. He’d dealt with the firefighters, the police, the EMTs, informed Sheriff Dorrman they were following Sig to the hospital. For once, Riley thought, she and Straker weren’t at cross-purposes—but she didn’t want to get ahead of herself. Right now, her interests dovetailed with his. When they didn’t, so much for being allies.
“Thank God you didn’t stay tonight.” Her voice was distant, almost as if it were coming from the back seat. “You’d have been downstairs where the fire started.”
“We might have caught it in time.”
She shut her eyes. We. As if she’d have stayed down-stairs with him. But whatever Straker was to her, at least he was there. Sig was so damned alone. Married, pregnant with twins, but alone.
Not, Riley amended, that she and Straker were a pair in the making. After months of isolation and recuperation, of course he’d have at her when he got the chance. It wasn’t a ringing endorsement of her attractions, but a practical, objective look at the facts that dictated that conclusion. This was John Straker. He’d never liked her. She wasn’t his type. The sexual electricity he generated just proved what all that time alone could do to a man.
As for herself, she had no explanation. The stress of finding Sam Cassain’s body, Emile’s disappearance? She didn’t know.
And yet earlier on the dock, she’d sensed the
possibility of more between them than sex. That, she knew, was dangerous thinking. There was no question he wanted sex. He was physical, earthy, unleashed after many long months of self-denial. It was a tough combination to resist, and she found herself increasingly unable—unwilling—to bother trying. But expecting anything else from him beyond hot, torrid sex was insanity on her part. She wasn’t one for self-delusion.
She felt a twinge of guilt at her train of thought. It was so much easier to think about going to bed with Straker than about fires and sirens and her and Sig’s narrow escape.
Riley twisted her hands together and blurted, “Sig thinks Matt might have financed Sam Cassain to find the Encounter and bring up its engine. That’s where the fire on the ship started.”
Straker nodded without surprise. “Makes sense.”
“He and Sam couldn’t have done it alone. They must have left a trail.”
He downshifted, turned into the hospital driveway. “If they did, Emile knows. That’s why he took off.”
Riley fell back against the seat. “He’s crazy.”
Straker pulled up to the emergency room. “Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk.”
But when she hit the sidewalk, her legs went out from under her without warning, and for a mortifying second she thought she might pass out. Some idiot saw her and called for a stretcher.
Straker came around the car and shook his head. “Forget the stretcher. You’d have to staple-gun her to it.”
But once inside, he turned her over to a very intense young doctor and told him to check her out. Straker had that FBI air of authority about him, and Riley looked like hell. Not a good combination. He slipped off to see about Sig while the doctor checked her blood pressure, eyes, nose, mouth, lungs. Any bruises or sprains or pain from jumping? Her right forearm was scraped and bloody. She hadn’t noticed. He had a nurse clean and bandage it.
“My sister,” Riley said. “How is she?”
“The doctors are with her.”
On Fire Page 16
