Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I wish you were going to see your parents.”

  He shook his head. “Too much to do here. I’ll call them, though.” He paused. “Can I call you?”

  “I’d like that,” she said softly, pleased to have that to look forward to. Then she remembered. Jim was certain to have made reservations under his name, or, God forbid, under that of Robyn Hart. “But, uh, I’d better call you. I’m not sure exactly when we’ll be at the hotel or out. You know how it is with three young kids to please?”

  “Will you?”

  “Please them? I’ll try.”

  “Call. Will you call?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, feeling her insides knot. She hated goodbyes, particularly when it was Ryan she was leaving. Stretching up, she kissed him. Then, fighting the tears that might betray the depth of her feeling for the man, she turned and ran through the gate.

  She called twice during the week she was away, both times at night, both times when she was lying in bed thinking positively indecent thoughts.

  The first call came on Christmas Eve. Ryan was stretched out on his bed feeling sorry for himself. The loneliness was worse knowing that Carly was within his reach, yet not. When the phone rang, his heart thumped wildly.

  “Hello?”

  “Ryan?”

  So soft, barely a whisper. Self-pity was forgotten amid the torrent of pleasure he derived from hearing her voice and knowing she was thinking of him.

  “How are you, Carly?”

  “Fine.” She drew the phone closer and curled up around it. “The sun’s great.”

  “Getting a tan?”

  “Uh-huh. And a rest.”

  He angled himself up against his headboard. “Even with those kids?”

  She chuckled. “Yup. They’re more interested in the pool than the beach, which means that Sharon and I bask in peace.”

  “Sharon?”

  “My sister-in-law.”

  He nodded, but his thoughts weren’t of Sharon. He was picturing Carly on the sand. “What’s your bathing suit like?”

  “My bathing suit?” She blushed. “What kind of a question is that?”

  “Indulge me, babe. It’s cold and raw here. They’re predicting snow for tomorrow.”

  “For Christmas? That’s lovely!”

  “It’s a pain in the neck. Do you have any idea what a mess it’ll be? The streets around here are narrow to begin with. If it snows, they’ll be impossible.”

  “Playing Scrooge, are we?” she teased.

  “Just missing you. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m lonely.”

  “I thought you had a cocktail party to go to?”

  “I did. I went.”

  She waited for the punch line. “Well?”

  “It was boring. I didn’t last an hour.” He hesitated, then spoke again, this time more huskily. “Tell me about your bathing suit.” If he was to die of frustration, he’d go out in style.

  She lowered her eyes. “It’s royal blue….”

  “Go on.”

  “With diagonal mauve-and-white stripes.”

  “Mmm. Sounds nice. Two-piece?” He pictured a long slice of golden silk at her middle and shifted position to ease his burgeoning tautness.

  “One.”

  “Ahh. You’re saving it for me.”

  “Saving what?”

  “Your middle.”

  “Ryan!” she whispered hoarsely. “What if this line is bugged?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Then someone’s getting horny. I know I am.” Getting. That was a laugh.

  “Ryan….”

  Suddenly he was sober. “We have to talk when you get back, babe. You know that, don’t you?”

  Her hand was suspended, holding the phone. Tremors of excitement blended with those of apprehension. Oh, yes, they did have to talk. She’d known it was coming, just hadn’t been sure when. Since that night when she’d nearly flipped out in his arms, Ryan had been the essence of propriety. But he wasn’t a monk…thank God. And they could only avoid things so long.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “When you get back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then—” he sucked in his lower lip, let it slip slowly from beneath his teeth “—you have fun. You’ll call again?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Carly?”

  “Yes?”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  Slow tears gathered at her lids. “To you too, Ryan.” Her voice cracked. “Talk to ya later.”

  It wasn’t visions of sugar plums that danced in Carly’s head that night.

  That was on Thursday. Knowing she’d be returning to Boston the following Tuesday, she called again on Sunday. Ryan was full of news.

  “This place is mine! Isn’t that great? The Amidons called this morning. They’ve bought something down there and want their stuff shipped as soon as possible.”

  “No kidding? That is great! But what are you going to do when everything’s gone? You haven’t got any furniture.”

  “Not yet. We’ll go looking when you get back.”

  “We?”

  “You’ll help me do the place up right, won’t you? I mean, your place is gorgeous. What do I know about decorating?”

  “Seems to me you had some pretty solid opinions on that score.”

  “Yeah. Well. I was just talking. I don’t know if any of that will look good.” In fact, the one thing he really wanted for his new home would take some doing. He’d seen the finished needlepoint Carly had been about to send to her father. It was beautiful, from the subtle blending of reds and oranges to the tiny robin she’d set in the corner. Her mascot, she’d called it, passing it off as a personal quirk unworthy of notice. He’d noticed, and he wanted something with a robin in its corner, too. He wondered if she’d mind working in navy. “I need your help, Carly. And your company. Won’t you like going shopping with me?”

  More than she would have thought possible. “Of course. It’d be fun. Sure, I’ll help you.”

  “Good. You get back on Tuesday. Maybe I’ll take Wednesday off and we can spend the day together.”

  She couldn’t resist teasing him. “And this is the man who had so much to do that he couldn’t get home for Christmas?”

  Ryan took it all in good humor. “Heeeeey, there are priorities and there are priorities. I need a bed. I mean, hell, I’ll be good for nothing in the office if I have to spend my nights on the floor.” His voice lowered. “Unless, of course, my upstairs neighbor offered to share her—”

  “Ryan.” Tingles shot through her. Her whispered, “Please,” was muffled into the phone.

  Ryan stared down at the coiled black wire he clutched. He’d said they had to talk and precisely about this topic. In the face of Carly’s reticence, he grew more determined than ever. But he didn’t want to upset her. Not now. Not when she was so far away. If he had a case to argue, he wanted to do it face to face. “Okay.” He took a breath. There was something else he wanted to tell her. “Anyway, I think I have an interesting new case.”

  She was more than willing to go for the diversion. Besides which, contrary to what she might have expected such a short time ago, she found Ryan’s practice intriguing. “You think?”

  “I have to do some preliminary work to find out if it’s feasible.”

  “It’s a good one?”

  “Could be. I got a call from the president of a construction firm in Revere. He wants to take on the Globe and one of its reporters.”

  “The Globe? Really?” She sounded puzzled, as though she couldn’t understand someone wanting to do a thing like that. Ryan found her puzzlement, and its suggestive naiveté, amusing.

  “Uh-uh. The reporter did an in-depth story on my client’s company. The article led to an investigation by the attorney general’s office, indictments against the president and several of his top people and a trial. This week an acquittal came in. If I decide to take the case, we’ll be suing for damages.”

  “Did you represent the co
mpany before?”

  “No. The guy who did was a cousin of one of the vice-presidents. He did okay; he got the acquittal. But the president doesn’t think the fellow is aggressive enough to successfully argue for the plaintiff.” Left unsaid was that Ryan’s reputation for aggressiveness in the courtroom had preceded him. “In the most general sense, forgetting sides, it’d be a fascinating exploration of the issues of freedom of the press and editorial responsibility.”

  “I’ll say,” Carly murmured. She pulled her blanket tighter around suddenly chilled feet. “Do you have much of a case?”

  “That,” he sighed, “is what I have to find out. According to the president, his company has suffered significant losses as a result of both the original publicity and that surrounding the trial. With the acquittal, the law states that he’s not guilty.”

  “Was he innocent of whatever he was accused of?”

  “Negligence and fraud. The jury said he was.”

  “The jury just wasn’t convinced beyond a reasonable doubt of his guilt,” she corrected, working to keep her voice light. “I don’t know, Ryan. If that reporter came up with substantiated evidence, the paper may have been justified in printing its article.”

  “And,” Ryan pointed out, playing the devil’s advocate, “the grand jury did see cause to return indictments.”

  “Isn’t it possible that the company’s gone sanctimonious on the rebound? You know, the indignant rogue?”

  Another time and with another person, Ryan would surely have argued, for the sake of argument if nothing else. Now, though, he was filled with generosity. “Mmm. It’s possible. But I hope not. It’d be a fun case to try. The mood lately has been in favor of the press; we’d be the definite underdog, which makes it more challenging in a way. I’ll have to go over the trial transcript in detail before I make any final decision.” It suddenly occurred to him that he was talking on Carly’s dime. “Listen, we can talk more when you get back.” He gave a sheepish grin. “You’re good to run things past. You think. For a layman,” he drawled, “you seem to know the score. Are you sure you haven’t got a law degree stuffed up your sleeve somewhere?”

  Not quite a law degree, but certain other qualifications that would enable her to carry on quite a discussion. She would have to be careful. He was hitting close to home.

  “I’m sure,” she murmured. Wanting to change the subject yet not quite ready to let him go, she tried a different tack. “Did you get that snow?”

  “Oh, yeah. Three inches worth. Not enough to ski on, just enough to snarl traffic.”

  “Poor baby.”

  “Don’t ‘poor baby’ me. You’ll have to deal with it in a couple of days.” Two, to be exact. He was counting them closely.

  “Maybe it’ll be warm when I get back. After what you said about New England weather….”

  “Don’t count on it, babe,” he said softly. “Winter’s here. It’ll be a while before we’re free and clear.”

  Those words would haunt Carly long after she hung up the phone.

  Tuesday evening found Ryan sitting in a coffee shop at the airport sporting a frown. Carly’s plane was late. It would be another thirty minutes at least. That much more time for him to brood.

  Elbows propped on the table, he distractedly stroked the bristle of his mustache with his thumb. It had to have been a mix-up. That was all. He must have mistaken the name of her hotel. All he’d wanted to do last night was to hear her voice. It had seemed like an eternity since he’d spoken with her Sunday.

  Sitting back, he raised his coffee cup, drained the last of its tepid contents, then shot a glance at his watch. Stretching his leg, he dug some change from the pocket of his pants, tossed it on the table and stood. Head down, he walked slowly toward the arrival gate, wondering how he could feel so very close to a person yet so distant. It was irrational, he knew, and thoroughly emotional. But then, Carly meant a hell of a lot to him.

  The sight of her coming into the terminal, though, was enough to chase all brooding from his mind. Her skin a golden tan, she looked well rested and positively beautiful. She was here. And she was looking for him.

  He waved once, then quickly wove through the incoming crowd. No less impatient, she did the same toward him. Then they were in each others’ arms and Ryan was lifting her clear off her feet.

  “Ahh, Carly,” he moaned, “it’s good to see you.”

  At that moment, Carly wondered if the whole purpose of her trip hadn’t been to come home to Ryan this way. She held on for dear life, reacquainting herself with the feel of him, the smell of him, the wonderful warmth that had no rival in the sun she’d known all week. When he finally set her back down, the eyes that looked up at him were misted with happiness.

  “You look great,” she breathed.

  “Not as good as you,” he teased back. “Health personified. I’m jealous.”

  Her cheek dimpled becomingly. “No need. It’ll fade in no time.”

  They stood there then, grinning at each other, happy to neither move nor speak. Later, in his apartment, when Ryan was to think back on that moment, he would be all the more perplexed. She’d been his then, fully his. Heart and soul. He was sure of it.

  Until that phone call had come through.

  Eleven

  aFTER LEAVING THE AIRPORT, THEY’D STOPPED for a bite to eat downtown, then picked up fresh eggs and juice at the supermarket before returning to her apartment. Ryan had wanted to hear about her trip; Carly had wanted to hear about all he’d done while she’d been gone. They sat on the sofa facing each other, knees touching, arms and hands astir in tune with the discussion. Ryan felt as alive as Carly looked, their mutual animation reflecting the excitement of being together again.

  Then the phone rang, and Ryan had watched the bubble pop. He could remember every word of that half conversation, as well as the slow crumble of Carly’s features as she spoke.

  “Hello?” she’d answered with a smile. “Sam! How are you?” Eyes on Ryan, she set her hand on her hip. “It was great! The weather was gorgeous!” Then she glanced at the wall clock and looked slightly puzzled. “Is everything okay?” As she listened to Sam’s response, her brows knit, her hand fell to her side. When she spoke again, there was an incipient tension in her tone. “Oh.” She slowly revolved until her back was to Ryan. Though she lowered her voice, he heard every word. “Oh, God. When? I know, I know. What? Tomorrow?” She shook her head and seemed to shrivel into herself. “I’m spending the day with Ryan.” Ever so softly, the slightest bit apologetic. “No. Mmm. Are you sure? Okay.” Barely a whisper. “Yes.” Then, head down, she put the phone back on its hook, leaving her hand clinging there for several long moments before she turned back to him.

  She’d refused to discuss the phone call, other than to acknowledge that it had indeed been her friend, Sam Loomis, that he had a personal problem, that she’d connect with him later. Though she made a valiant attempt to recover from whatever it was Sam had said, the moments of unblemished pleasure she and Ryan had shared were gone.

  Thinking back now, Ryan paced to the window and planted both fists on its sill. He’d half hoped to be spending the night with Carly, but she hadn’t been in a mood to discuss lovemaking, much less do it. Oh, she’d forced several smiles and had clung tightly to his hand when he’d finally walked to the door, but she’d been so obviously preoccupied that he hadn’t had it in himself to push the issue. Instead, he’d simply kissed her goodnight and left, trying to curb his own mounting frustration, which was precisely the state he was in now, and in which he remained for a good part of the night.

  Come sunup, in defiance of the slush outside, he stubbornly laced his sneakers and headed for the street. To his surprise, Carly materialized behind him on the stairs.

  “It’s pretty messy,” he warned.

  “That’s all right,” was her quiet response. “I need it.”

  And well she did. Jaws clamped tight, fists clenched, she ran hard. It had been a horrendous night. She needed the o
utlet. Ryan’s unquestioning if somber company was some solace. From time to time, when she felt his eyes on her and met his gaze, she consciously relaxed her facial muscles and gave a semblance of a smile. But inevitably, eyes back on the path, the tension returned.

  By the time they returned home, sneakers wet, running suits filthy, they looked as though they’d been through a war. Panting, they walked idly around the front steps for a while before entering.

  “Feeling better?” Ryan asked.

  She nodded and shot him a look of gratitude. He was so good, she mused. And she’d hurt him last night. He was no fool; he had to know she was being more secretive than usual. Guilt consumed her. She and Ryan had come to share so many things. Having to shut him out now was an agony in itself.

  “Are you still game to go shopping?”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  He bit his upper lip for a moment as he studied her. “I wasn’t sure. If you’d rather—”

  “No, Ryan. I’d like to go with you.”

  “Then I’ll come up for you at, say, ten?”

  “That’s fine.” With a tentative smile, she headed into the building.

  It was well after nine when Sam arrived. Having showered and dressed as soon as she’d come in from running, Carly was trying unsuccessfully to pass the time reading the morning paper when his quiet knock came. Running to the door, she peered through the viewer, then quickly released the bolts. Her barrage began the instant Sam was over the threshold.

  “How did you get in downstairs?”

  “Someone was leaving.”

  She made a face. “So much for security.”

  “It was only me,” Sam offered gently.

  “But it could have been anyone—”

  “Which is why you’ve got a viewer and all these bolts. Listen, Carly, just relax. It was only a matter of time before they filed the motion for a new trial. We knew they were going to.”

  “But it’s different, somehow, knowing it’s done. What did John Meade have to say? He was the one who called, wasn’t he?”