Finger Prints
Page 18
“Know what your problem is?”
Tom sent him a droll glance. “What?”
“You’ve got too much upstairs to be fixated downstairs, if you know what I mean.”
“Ahh, hell.” Lecture time. His gaze flipped to the window with imminent boredom. Then, in a burst of annoyance, he looked back at Ryan. “No, I don’t. Spell it out.”
“You’re a bright guy. You need someone just as bright. But you’re so hung up on sex that you walk right by some of the best women out there.” He held up a hand. “Hey, so you don’t get them to bed the first night. Maybe it’d be worth it for a woman you could talk to.”
“Like a schoolteacher?” Tom drawled.
Ryan was about to correct his brother’s misconception of Carly’s job, then thought better of it. “Like a schoolteacher,” he echoed and let the subject drop. He was in no mood for sermonizing, particularly when, at the moment, it would have been a case of the pot calling the kettle black. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get Carly to bed; he just knew they both needed it badly.
Carly’s plane landed on schedule Monday at four. Hoisting her bag to her shoulder, she waited behind the other passengers for what seemed an eternity until at last the line began to move down the narrow aisle. She was nearly as excited now as she’d been when she’d landed in New York. It had been a wonderful five days, filled with everything she’d expected and more. But she was glad to be home.
Her eye began to pick through faces the instant she stepped into the terminal. Many of the passengers were students who hurried through to catch the public transit or businessmen heading for cabs. Others were met by friends or relatives. Heart pounding, she stood still, searching the crowd for the one face she’d missed over the holiday. Passengers from behind circled her; she took several slow steps forward and moved to the side and let her bag slide to the floor.
He wasn’t there.
She checked her watch. It was nearly four-ten. Once again she scanned the room, its crowd thinning fast. Braced against a wall, she watched the crew filter out and disappear. Five more minutes passed. No Ryan.
Disappointment came in a crushing wave, offset only by a glimmer of fear. Airports were decadent places, he’d said, where a woman alone was a likely target. Not only, it seemed, was Carly alone, but she very definitely was also a likely target.
Shouldering her bag, she left the arrival gate and started down the long corridor. The sooner she got a cab, the sooner she’d be locked back in her safe cocoon. Safe, if alone. She sighed. She’d done it before, she’d do it again. If only she hadn’t been so looking forward to….
A tall, dark figure came into sight, running toward her, his topcoat flaring open. She stopped walking. Three weeks before she might have been terrified had such a ravenlike creature homed in. But much had happened in three weeks. Her hopes soared. This man had the steady gait of a runner. No way could that bearded countenance be mistaken for anyone but Ryan. Again her bag slipped to the floor. This time she didn’t care whose path she blocked.
“Oh, hell!” Ryan gasped, skidding to a halt before her. Though his hair was blown every which way, he was dressed to kill…or to try a case. In either event, he looked thoroughly perturbed. “There was a breakdown in the tunnel. I sat honking my horn for twenty minutes, then was in such a rush that I took a wrong turn and drove in circles around the damn airport, trying to get into the parking lot.” He raked his hair back from his brow with tense fingers, then held them at his neck, as though seeing her for the first time. “I’m sorry, babe,” he whispered. “I wanted to be here.”
A deep, deep affection stirred within Carly and she broke into a smile. “You are here,” she breathed, reaching out as though to verify it. With exquisite tenderness, given his most recent state of agitation, Ryan took her into a close embrace.
“I am,” he whispered against her hair, then held her back to look at her. “It’s good to see you, Carly. I missed you.”
“Me too.”
His kiss was as urgently tender as his embrace had been. Strange, he’d spent so much time in the past few days thinking about getting Carly into bed, yet the only thing that mattered now was having her here by his side.
“Come on,” he said softly, lifting her bag without once taking his eyes from her face, “let’s go.” He put his arm around her shoulder and they started forward. “I want to hear all about New York. Think you can put up with me for the next couple of hours?”
Her hand found a perfect niche at his waist; her steps matched his comfortably. “I think so.” It was the understatement of the year.
The next few weeks flew. Carly would never have believed she could have been so happy, given the circumstances in which she lived. Sam saw the difference, as did her friend Bryna Moore.
“You look pleased with yourself,” the other woman observed as the two sat in the school cafeteria one blustery mid-December day.
“Why not?” Carly mused. “We’re doing Pride and Prejudice in my Lit II class. It’s a favorite of mine.”
Bryna waved aside the pat offering. “Besides that. You look more confident. Happier. Maybe you’re finally feeling more at home?”
Carly knew it was true. Not only was she more relaxed, but also there was Ryan, always Ryan.
Sheila Montgomery, too, noticed Carly’s glow. She pondered it as she paced her tiny apartment after returning from Cambridge one chilly Sunday afternoon. It wasn’t fair. The woman had everything. And what did Sheila have?
She thrust back the simple cotton drapes on her single small window and scowled out at the street. Two pairs of denim-clad legs passed by, one masculine, one feminine, and she felt worse.
A little luck was all she asked. Where was it? New city, new assignment…and nothing. Jordan was married. She’d suspected as much when he’d brusquely refused her Thanksgiving invitation; she’d confirmed it the following day when he’d appeared at her door and she’d confronted him. So much for one up-and-coming bank executive.
Even her job grated strangely. Maybe it was Sam Loomis, always guarded, abundantly skeptical of her abilities. Oh, she was good. She didn’t doubt it for a minute. She knew just how to handle her wards. Hadn’t she proved it last week when the family of one of her charges had staged a near riot outside the courtroom? She’d been firm and in charge, and the clamor had died. But had Sam appreciated her efforts? No, sir.
Then again, maybe she was tired of the whole job. Maybe the real reason she’d requested a transfer from Chicago had been in hope of retrieving the spice that seemed to have vanished somewhere along the line. She was going nowhere. Turning, she made a despairing perusal of her apartment. Oh, she’d done it up well enough, with reds to brighten things. But aside from splurging on her bed—double job covered with ruffles and lace—it was bargain basement all the way. Not that there was much of a way to go. Perhaps she was lucky the place was so small. Less to furnish. Less to heat.
But she wasn’t a pragmatist by choice. She wanted something better, damn it. Something better!
“I saw her again,” Tom called, stretching his long legs over Ryan’s coffee table.
Ryan came to the door of his bedroom. A thick towel was knotted low on his hips. He was drying his hair with another. “Saw who?”
“The black-haired lady with the sexy legs.”
“Uh, yeah? Where?”
“Here. Downstairs. She was leaving as I was coming in. You’re sure she’s not your favorite neighbor in disguise?”
Ryan stopped his rubbing and draped the towel around his neck with a half laugh. “Carly? Fat chance. She’s as straightforward as the day is long.” As soon as he’d said it, he wondered why he’d felt so compelled. He should have left it at the half laugh. The fact was that there was a lot more to Carly than she let on. He’d seen that distant look in her eyes too often.
“Wonder who it could be,” Tom said with deceptive nonchalance. For that matter, now that Ryan thought about it, his brother had been different lately. Since he’d
returned from the coast? Since Ryan had taken his own place? There was this intense interest in a black-haired lady with sexy legs….
“Beats me,” Ryan said, as he made a note to ask Carly about that one. He raised the towel and rubbed his bearded jaw. “Listen, let me get dressed. I’m picking Carly up at two. Why don’t you come meet her? Then you can scram.” His pointed look elaborated.
“Goin’ someplace nice?”
“I thought we’d go up to Rockport.”
“On a day like this?”
“Sure. Tom, Tom, where’s your sense of adventure?”
Tom grunted. “I think I’ve passed it on to you.”
Carly was delighted to meet Ryan’s brother, whom she instantly recognized as the blond-haired man Sheila had so expressively admired on the stairs several weeks before. Though she’d never seen herself as a matchmaker, she made a mental note of the definite possibilities. Later, alone with Ryan driving northbound on Route 128, she gently explored them.
“Tom is nice.”
“Uh-huh.”
“A real ladies’ man?”
“He’s lookin’. His latest fixation is some lady in our building. Black hair. Sexy legs. Do you know of anyone like that?”
“In our building?” Carly frowned. Unless there’d been another fast move, in which case Sam would have her head, there wasn’t anyone fitting that description living in the building. “Not that I know of.”
“How about visiting?”
The light dawned. “Sheila?”
“Hmm?”
“It might be Sheila.” Propitious. “My friend. She drops in to visit at odd times. They passed on the stairs once.”
Ryan suspected he’d hit on gold. Nothing would please him more than to do something for Tom. “Think you could arrange an introduction for me?”
“For you?” Carly arched a delicate brow.
“Sure,” Ryan countered, a sly smile forming. “Got to check her out before I sic her on my little brother. He’s at a sensitive time in his life.”
“So’s she.” Carly had been well aware of the subtle restlessness in Sheila. “Maybe we can work something out.”
Their afternoon in Rockport was wonderful. Though most of the small shops were closed for the winter, Carly and Ryan ambled down the narrow streets, admiring window displays, browsing through those craft shops that were open. They had steaming clam chowder in a restaurant overlooking the harbor and, arm in arm, admired Motif #1, the shed on the water that had become an art form extraordinaire. Then, driving farther up the coast, Ryan pulled the car to the side of the road, and they walked along the beach.
There was something breathtaking about the winter waves sloshing relentlessly against the shore. They were timeless, ever changing, never changing, their rhythmic force echoing the pulse of eternity. Robyn Hart…Carly Quinn…the tide was immune to such petty distinctions. The world went on, as it always would.
Mesmerized and slightly awed, Carly stood with Ryan in silent appreciation. When he put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close, she wondered if he felt it too, this sense of being something infinitely small in the face of perpetuity. They were a couple at that moment, finding strength in each other. Illusion, perhaps, but she liked the feeling.
Only when she spotted a piece of driftwood did she break away. “Look!” Running the short distance to where it lay, she knelt down, turned it, lifted it.
Ryan hunkered down beside her. “It’s beautiful.”
She fingered the damp, ridged forks of gnarled wood. “I’m bringing it home. It’ll look great in my living room.”
He smiled at her. It would look great in her living room. Had she not claimed it first, he might have done so. There was something terribly genuine about it, genuine as the wave of feeling that washed over him then. Taking the driftwood from her, he rose and tucked her by his side to walk the beach a final few minutes before heading home.
Only two things marred her total happiness during those weeks between holidays. The first was the physical frustration that had begun to haunt her. When she was with Ryan, she ached to be in his arms. His lean physique was a constant source of temptation. When she was away from him, the need was, if anything, greater. She found herself lying in bed at night thinking of him in the bedroom below, picturing his long limbs under the sheets, his muscled torso gleaming in the silver of light coming in from the street.
She recalled every vivid moment of that night on his sofa, and wondered what it would have been like if they’d made love. She imagined his body all bare and hard and hair-spattered, imagined her slighter, paler body entwined with his. If she was tormented, she couldn’t help herself. And if Ryan was tormented, he took no step forward. Oh, he was infinitely warm, touching her at every excuse—an arm around her shoulder, a hand in hers, a well-placed thigh, frequent kisses—but he made no attempt to go further. Much as she told herself to be grateful, the ache only grew.
She knew that he was waiting for a sign from her, yet she couldn’t quite get herself to give it. Along with those fevered memories of the evening in his apartment went the stark reminder of what had torn them apart. She was frightened. She’d been totally out of control for those few moments when her mind had betrayed her. It could easily happen again. Moreover, lovemaking implied, at least on her part, a commitment that she wasn’t yet sure she could make.
For there was still that other side of her that she couldn’t ignore. Therein lay the second source of her turmoil as the days passed. Sam kept her up to date on the progress of things in Chicago. Gary Culbert had been denied bail pending appeal of his sentence, which meant that at least she wouldn’t have to worry about his walking the streets in search of her. Now rumor had it that his lawyer was about to file a motion for a new trial, and if there was a new trial she would have to return to Chicago to relive her ordeal on the witness stand.
How could she explain it to Ryan? She saw him nearly every day. And what about the danger factor? It was always there, a new trial or no. And it was particularly frightening when she realized that it had been neither Gary Culbert nor Nick Barber who had come after her that dark night in Chicago. It had been a man with a gun and he’d never been caught. She didn’t even know his name.
His name was Horace Theakos, better known in the trade as Ham, and he was admitted to the visitors’ room after a cursory search by the prison guard. He sat down at one of the several tables and was satisfied to see that he had the room to himself. Culbert had promised that. A little palm money went a long way.
Culbert entered from a door on the opposite side of the room and quietly took a seat. They wouldn’t have much time. He’d get right to the point.
“We’re filing for a new trial,” he said in a very low, very even voice. “And I want something done about that witness.” He might have been ordering a bologna sandwich.
Theakos was a large man with angular features. His full shock of black hair was slicked back. His business suit belied his pastime. His eyes were small, black and hard. Gary Culbert would have been the first to run from him in a dark alley.
“That’s a tall order, Culbert,” he replied under his breath. “I risked a lot las’ time.”
“That was your fault,” Culbert murmured, his lips barely moving. “And you owe me. You let her get away.”
“She’s a fighter. I didn’t expect that in such a puny one.”
“Such a puny one put me in this place. I want her taken care of.”
Theakos didn’t budge. “Don’ know where she is. Don’ know who she is. They got her hidden away. Ya’ heard what they said at the trial.”
“Yeah. I was the one sitting way up in front while you sat hidden in the back.” Culbert stared across the table. “You know what she looks like. You know where she’s come from. Find her. Just keep it quiet.”
“Now you’re really dreamin’,” Theakos droned softly. “There’s no way I can get close to her after las’ time. I have to keep my distance. Y’ll need someone else.”
Theakos smiled and whispered through gritted teeth, “Y’re a bastard.”
“I’m in good company,” Culbert retorted as softly. “I want it done right this time. Make it look like an accident. Self-inflicted, if possible. That’ll muddy up the state’s case but good.”
“It’ll muddy ya up, if anything leaks.”
Culbert’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll go down together. Got that?”
“Guess what?” came the nasal voice over the phone. Carly instantly recognized it as Sheila’s.
“What?”
“Harmon called.”
“The Chicago Harmon? That’s great!” she exclaimed, then caught herself. “Or is it? I thought you were done with him.”
Sheila’s grin was almost audible. “I was. But that was before he called last night. He wants to see me.”
“No kidding? Is he coming to Boston?”
“Uh-uh. I’m flying out there.”
“To Chicago? But when will you have time? With the holidays and all….”
“That’s when I’m going. Over Christmas. For the long weekend. Isn’t it exciting, Carly?”
Carly hadn’t heard quite as much enthusiasm in Sheila’s voice since she’d first arrived in Boston. “I’m happy for you, Sheila.” So much for matchmaking. “Listen, if I don’t talk with you before you go, have a wonderful time. Okay?”
Two days before Christmas, Carly was off to the Bahamas to meet her brother and his family. As he’d done at Thanksgiving time, Ryan drove her to the airport.
“I wish you weren’t going,” he said, as once more they stood at the boarding gate. “It’ll be lonely here without you.”