Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

  When they came in to shower though, Ryan in his place, she in hers, she was quite serious. Crossing directly to the phone, she called Sam.

  “I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” he teased.

  “I haven’t been alone. Listen, Sam, are you sure there wasn’t anything more to your worries? Was there any news from Chicago?”

  “On a holiday weekend? Are you kidding? No, there was nothing. Hey, I really am sorry about being there like that when you and Ryan came back. Did he calm down?”

  “In time. I told him a little about you. You know, about Ellen and Sara and—” she emphasized each word “—how you went to school with my brother.”

  “Did he buy it?” came the quiet rejoinder.

  She sighed. “I think so. I feel awful about lying.”

  “Do you want to tell him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any special reason?” When she didn’t answer, he went on. “I’d say you’re very serious about him. You had a good time in Vermont, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “In love with him? God, Sam, I haven’t known him very long.”

  “It can happen like that.”

  “Not to me,” she argued forcefully. “There’s too much at stake. Love wasn’t in the game plan.”

  “Still—”

  “No!” Then she lowered her voice. “No. I can’t think about love yet. It’s enough that Ryan is patient and good and a wonderful companion.” And lover, she thought, but couldn’t quite say it, though she knew that Sam knew that she and Ryan hadn’t gone to Vermont to roast chestnuts.

  “Well, I’m glad of that, at least.” He caught his breath. “Oh, damn, Sara’s screaming and Ellen’s across the street. I’ve got to run.”

  “Sam?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Should I…do you want…I mean, if I take off again….”

  “No, Carly.” He grinned. “You’re a big girl. You don’t have to report every little weekend tryst to me. I really jumped to conclusions far too quickly. From now on I’ll know to call Ryan’s number before I panic.”

  “He’ll love that,” she muttered.

  “He’ll just know I’m concerned.” He covered the phone and yelled a muffled, “I’m coming, baby! Daddy’s coming!” Then he spoke directly into the receiver again. “Gotta go, Carly. Take it easy.”

  “Sure, Sam. And thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For worrying.”

  He chuckled. “Any time, hon. Anytime.”

  No, Ryan, I don’t agree with you,” Carly declared. Wearing her long terry-cloth robe, she sat on the sofa with her legs tucked up beneath her. It was a lazy Saturday morning, and she was thoroughly enjoying a colorful discussion with Ryan. “You can talk until you’re blue in the face about the civil rights of your client, and I’d still argue in favor of the first-amendment rights of the press. That reporter saw a story, researched it, wrote it, and the Globe printed it. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Ryan’s long frame was folded into the chair across from her. In the week since their return from Vermont, he’d spent more time in her place than his own, particularly as of the Monday before when the movers had left him without a stick of furniture. Carly had teased him at the time, accusing him of having planned her seduction to coincide with his needing a place to sleep, but she hadn’t minded. She was grateful for an excuse to have him around.

  He crossed his ankles on one of her low sculpted tables and scowled at her. “Nothing wrong with that? What about the principle that a man is innocent until proven guilty? What about the danger of trial by the media?” He thumped his chest indignantly. “My client was proved not guilty in a court of law. Which means he’s innocent!”

  “Watch it, Ryan. You’re spilling coffee all over the place.” She leaned forward to put her own cup down and hand a napkin across to him, then watched him distractedly blot drips from the navy velour of his robe. “Innocent—” she quietly resumed the discussion, settling comfortably back once more “—only in the formal sense that the jury wasn’t convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that he was guilty. That doesn’t necessarily mean he was entirely without guilt.”

  Ryan crushed the napkin in his fist. “In the eyes of the law it does.”

  “But doesn’t the public deserve more? I mean, you’re a whiz of a lawyer; you can get people off right and left. Either the jury isn’t convinced, or there’s a technicality on which the verdict is overturned or you plea-bargain before the whole thing begins. But what about the public’s right to know? You’ve told me the facts of this case, and you agree that your client may have cut corners here and there in the construction of that building. Okay, so a jury wasn’t convinced there was malicious intent. Don’t you think that the public deserves a warning? Don’t you think that a reporter like Mahoney has an obligation to set out the facts as he uncovers them? After all, the A.G.’s office didn’t do much of an investigation itself, and it had been receiving complaints for months.”

  Ryan sat forward, clutching his coffee cup. “That’s not the point. The point is that my client’s business has been adversely affected by not only the original series of articles but by slanted press reports of the trial. The press cannot be given the power to make or break. It’s not God. It’s not judge and jury. And it sure as hell isn’t elected by the people!”

  “But it is responsible.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Come on, Ryan! Do you really think—” the phone rang but she ignored it “—that Mahoney had a personal motive in ruining Walfleet Construction?”

  Ryan thought about that for a minute. “Personal? As in inflated sense of self-importance, maybe.” Another ring. Ryan’s voice softened instantly. “Want me to get that, babe?” It was as though he’d been playing a part and suddenly reverted to himself. Though Carly was coming to be used to it, at first she’d been stunned by the way he could turn on or off at will. What she realized was that he was strong in his beliefs, and he enjoyed the discussion for discussion’s sake. She was finding that she did too.

  “No, I’ll go.” She rose from the sofa. “But I still think you’re wrong. I’ve known my share of newspaper people and the ego thing was minimal.” When the phone rang again, Ryan shooed her with the sweep of his hand. She continued talking as she walked, thankful that given her detachment from this situation she was free to express views so close to her heart. “Investigative reporters work hard. For every one story that pans out, they’ve hit dead ends on four or five others. It’s an ugly job—” She picked up the phone well after the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Carly?” came the cautious voice on the other end of the line. With one word alone, its nasal quality gave it away.

  “Sheila! I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever made it back from Chicago. How are you?”

  “Great!” Sheila answered lightly. “But I’ve been really busy since I got back. How are you? Have a good trip?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Carly, you told me,” she scolded with playful indignation. “More than once. The Bahamas, Jim and Sharon and the kids, lots of sun. God, was I drooling.”

  “Oh, the Bahamas.” It seemed like an eon ago. She’d been thinking of her more recent trip, that glorious one with Ryan. Standing at the door of the kitchen from where she could see the object of her desire, she grinned. “I had fun. But it was good to get back.” Her smile grew more catlike when Ryan pushed himself from the sofa and approached.

  “You sound strange. What’s happening?”

  “Nothing.” Carly kept her eyes on Ryan, who moved close up and pressed her slowly back against the wall. His essence, clean, male, and unique, taunted her senses. “Just…the usual,” she managed in a mildly strangled tone.

  “The usual sounds weird. Am I interrupting something.”

  Ryan was nibbling on her earlobe, marveling at his phenomenal attraction to this woma
n. He loved every minute he spent with her, intellectual arguments such as the one they’d been having included. She was supremely bright, stimulating both in bed and out. Oh, yes, questions remained; he knew there were things she hadn’t told him. Quick to talk of her childhood and even her married years, she seemed to fade out after that. At times when she thought he wasn’t looking he still caught that haunted look in her eyes, and he couldn’t forget their first few times together and the fear he’d sensed in her. Then, of course, there was Sam. Something about him—a certain air of authority regarding Carly—went beyond simply the “older brother once removed” syndrome. All too often Ryan found himself daydreaming at work, trying to solve the puzzle; yet when he was with Carly, it flew from mind. Even now, as he pressed his lips to the soft pulse beneath her ear, he could think of nothing else.

  Carly cleared her throat. “Not really. We were just, uh, just having an argument.” Frustrated, she sent Ryan a quelling stare. “You called at an opportune time.”

  “‘We’? Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Ryan and I.” When the man in question ran his tongue down the slender column of her neck, she closed her eyes and tipped her head to ease his access. Her voice was more of a purr. “We were just having coffee.”

  “Then you’re still seeing him?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “A lot?”

  “Um-hmm.” “Does that mean that I can’t stop by for a few minutes this afternoon?”

  “This afternoon?” Coming to attention, Carly put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder to hold him off for a minute. Her eyes held the question, which he answered with an accommodating nod and a whispered explanation. “I’ve got to stop in at the office for a couple of hours.”

  She had several things to do herself, particularly now that she seemed to be feeding two mouths more often. Not that she minded; for every time she cooked for Ryan, he took her out another. She hadn’t eaten as well in years. “Sure, Sheila. This afternoon’s great. But I’ve got a few errands to run. How about making it after three?”

  “After three you got. See you then.”

  When Ryan took the phone from her and hung it up, she looped her arms around his neck. “That should be nice. Maybe you’ll get a chance to meet her. How late will you be?”

  “I should be back by four. Think she’ll still be here then?”

  “Knowing Sheila, yes. She loves to talk.”

  Arm in arm they walked back to the living room, where they stopped. “This place looks better,” Ryan remarked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “More lived-in. Look, the newspaper’s all over the place, there are coffee cups and empty plates. And I like the clay piece on that wall.” On the Saturday they’d shopped in Vermont, in addition to buying clothes Ryan had insisted on picking up a small handcrafted plaque that had caught Carly’s eye. It was textured, stones intermeshing with clay in a distinctly modern arrangement that was warm and interesting. “Between that and the driftwood you adopted in Rockport—” which had found a fitting resting place on one of the shelves of the wall unit “—your decor has taken on a more personal note.”

  She poked an elbow into his ribs. “Hah. That’s just because you like seeing your fingerprints on things. I know your type,” she teased. “Has to have a hand in everything.”

  He turned her into his arms and eyed her more solemnly. “When it comes to you, you’re right. I like seeing evidence of the times we’ve spent together.”

  “Spoken like a true lawyer,” she quipped, but her voice lacked the lightness she’d intended, sounding soft and wispy instead.

  “Mmm.” He kissed her once. “And if this lawyer doesn’t get dressed and to work, he’s apt to be out on his ear.” He paused, then spoke hesitantly. “Hey, you’re sure you don’t mind going out with the Walkens tonight?” Cynthia Walken was a partner of Ryan’s; it was her party to which they’d gone on New Year’s Eve.

  “Of course not. We owe them an invitation. They both seemed very nice…not that I had much of a chance to talk with either of them that night.”

  Ryan’s grin cut through his beard in a devilish way. “We were in a hurry, weren’t we?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “We’ll have to try to be more patient this time.”

  “I should hope so.”

  He held her closer. “Know what I could go for?”

  “Don’t even think it, Ryan Cornell!” Carly exclaimed, pushing herself from his arms and making ceremony of gathering the scattered sections of the newspaper.

  Ryan stood with his hands on his hips in a righteous pose. “How did you know what I was going to say?”

  “Because I know you,” she said, not in the least intimidated by his stance. “And I know that one-track mind of yours. Now, are you going to leave so I can get something done?”

  He gave her a wicked grin and strode toward the bedroom. “As soon as I get some clothes on. You weren’t thinking of sending me out in the cold like this?”

  Eyes glued to his retreating form, Carly knew she didn’t want anyone else to see how gorgeous he looked in a rich robe that stopped just short of his knees, broadcasting the longest of muscled calves. “I’ll give you five minutes. Then…out!”

  It was more like ten, for she made the mistake—the very pleasant mistake—of joining him in the bedroom, where he quickly made her forget all those other things she had to do. His kisses were long and lingering, heating her as they always did. She would have thought she’d get used to this, but she never did, so she couldn’t help but yield to his fire for those few final minutes before he left. Even then it took a tepid shower to still her ache. The knowledge of Sheila Montgomery’s impending visit helped. As always, Sheila was a timely reminder of what her life really was…and what it wasn’t.

  “So, tell me about Chicago. How was Harmon?”

  Sheila sat back on the sofa and let her gaze wander around Carly’s living room. “Harmon is Harmon.”

  “What does that mean? Are you two on or off?”

  “Off.”

  “You don’t sound upset.”

  She tossed her raven-black hair over her shoulder in a gesture of indifference. “I’m not. He can be a pill some times.”

  “But you were so excited when he called. You spent Christmas with him, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. But he split after that. He wanted to go skiing.” She shrugged. “That mattered more to him than me. It’s just as well. I found other things to do.” She changed the subject, idly fidgeting with a throw pillow. “Tell me about you and Ryan. Thick as thieves, are ya?”

  Skipping over the more intimate aspects of their relationship, Carly told Sheila of the days before New Year’s, of New Year’s Eve itself, of Vermont, of their return. Sheila seemed to want to know everything—whom she’d met at the parties, the name of the inn where they’d stayed, what exploring they’d done there, what they’d ordered for Ryan’s place—and she showed enthusiasm even when Carly feared she was rubbing salt on the wound. But Sheila asked, following one question fast with another, so Carly answered, finding a strange kind of satisfaction in giving Sheila, who’d known her in that other world, this proof of her new life.

  By the time Ryan arrived, Carly was beginning to feel decidedly guilty about talking so much about herself. She was relieved by the knowledge that Ryan would redirect the discussion. Sure enough, after depositing a large bag and a bouquet of flowers on the kitchen counter, he extracted a dark bottle from the bag, ferreted out three glasses from Carly’s cabinet, filled each with mahogany-hued liquid, then joined the women in the living room.

  “Sherry, ladies? It’s about that hour.”

  Sheila was about to speak up in favor of a rum and Coke when she caught herself and smiled shyly, suddenly more subdued. “Thank you. This is lovely.”

  Carly cast her vote of agreement through the smile she gave Ryan. She’d seen the flowers, and though she didn’t want to make a big thing of them in front of Sheila, her smile spoke her thanks
for that gift as well.

  Ryan settled into a free chair. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Sheila. Carly tells me you were away?”

  “That’s right.” She gripped her glass tightly. “I had to take care of some things back in Chicago.”

  “You haven’t been here long, have you?”

  “I transferred to the Boston office a little less than two months ago.”

  “What office is that?” he asked politely, causing Sheila to look in alarm at Carly, not quite sure what to say. It was Carly who spoke, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I’d told you. Sheila works with Sam. That’s how we met.”

  It was Ryan’s turn to look surprised, and the slightest bit dismayed. At first Carly feared he had suspected something of a strange coincidence in Sheila’s occupation. Then she reminded herself of Ryan’s displeasure at anything involving Sam Loomis, and she forced herself to relax.

  “I didn’t know,” he stated thoughtfully. Evidently coming to the conclusion that a grudge against Sam shouldn’t extend to Sheila, he smiled. “It must be interesting work.”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s pretty boring.”

  “Isn’t any job? Tell me about yours. What kinds of cases are you working on?”

  Carly sat back and listened while Sheila recounted several of the assignments she’d had since she’d come to Boston, then, at Ryan’s prodding, spoke of some of the more exciting cases she’d handled in Chicago. She had enough sense not to mention Carly’s case, taking her cue from Carly’s impromptu fabrication of how they’d met. When she asked Ryan about his practice, he obliged with easy conversation. At least Carly thought it was easy, though Sheila seemed less than relaxed. She wondered if there was something about Ryan that made her nervous; Sheila Montgomery was not usually one to shy from men. She didn’t have long to speculate though before the downstairs buzzer rang.