On Fire Page 11

He settled into his chair and laughed, cocky, genuinely amused. “You still can’t believe you kissed me back, can you?”

  “It is rather hard to swallow. But I understand, and I forgive you. We’d just had a shock, and you haven’t—well, I’m the first woman you’ve come in contact with in quite a while. It’s only natural, if you think about it, that you’d end up throwing yourself on me.”

  “Jesus. You’re amazing.” He sat forward, holding up two fingers. “Two things. One, you enjoyed what we did down in my car as much as I did. I know you did. You know you did.”

  She squirmed and said nothing. Her tea, at least, was soothing.

  “Two, this six-months-on-a-deserted-island bit will get you only so far. You’re using it as an excuse for ‘succumbing’ to my demands or some damned thing. I’m not an animal. I can control myself.”

  “That was self-control down in your car?”

  He grinned. It was almost like a caress and set her skin tingling. “That was supreme self-control.”

  She took a breath. Sometimes she should know when to leave well enough alone.

  “My point is,” he continued, “you bear responsibility for your own actions. If you kiss me back, it’s because you want to, not because I demand it.”

  “I see. Well.” She cleared her throat, sipped her tea, decided he didn’t know the first thing about what she wanted. She was aware of his eyes on her, aware of his…self-control. If she so much as breathed the idea, he’d take her to bed. “Six months on Labreque Island hasn’t reverted you back to caveman status. Okay. That’s good.”

  His eyes flashed, sexy, knowing. “That’s not what I said. I said I could control myself. I didn’t say my months of isolation haven’t had an effect.”

  “You mean you do feel—”

  He cut her off. “‘Caveman status’ covers it.”

  This wasn’t going well at all. She felt exposed, as if he could see right through her dress, and she wondered if “caveman” conjured the same images in his mind as it did in hers. With a shaky hand, she tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear. “Now that we have that straight—”

  He laughed. “We don’t have anything straight, but go ahead.”

  “We have to find out more about the fire at Sam’s. How it happened, if it was arson, why Matt was there—and Emile. Where he was.”

  Straker shook his head. “We don’t have to do anything.”

  “That’s true. You can go back to Maine.”

  “You try a body’s patience, St. Joe.”

  His voice was low, serious, not as irritated as she could have expected. She drank more tea, closing her eyes briefly as she tried to let the chamomile calm and soothe her. “You’ve done enough. Tonight…fetching me at the fire. Thank you.”

  “I wish I had a tape recorder. Riley St. Joe thanking me.”

  She leveled her gaze at him. “Are you always this aggravating?”

  “You’ve known me since you were a tot. You tell me.”

  “You were beyond aggravating at sixteen.”

  “That’s when you gave me the scar above my eye. You were pretty much a pain in the ass yourself. Nose in a book, and when it wasn’t, you had to go around telling people how many individual hairs there were on a sea otter.”

  “A hundred thousand. I also hiked and kayaked.”

  “You were and still are a show-off.”

  “At least I wasn’t mean, and I didn’t go around trying to humiliate twelve-year-old girls.”

  “You were impossible to humiliate. You had too high an opinion of yourself.” He got to his feet, enjoying himself. “If I’d noticed even the smallest chink in your armor, I’d have left you alone. Instead you opened up my skull for me.”

  She smiled, remembering her shock at the blood, his barely controlled rage. He hadn’t thrown a rock back at her. “It’s a good thing I didn’t live in Maine year-round. We’d have killed each other.”

  “Nah. We’d just have ended up in bed together a lot sooner.”

  “Straker!”

  “Not when you were twelve. I’d have waited a few years.”

  “That’s it. I’m locking my door tonight.”

  She jumped up, set her mug in the sink, tried to push back a mix of images that had nothing, nothing, to do with the reality of the man standing in her kitchen. He’d stirred her up, and she needed to settle down and recognize that she and John Straker had always been a volatile combination.

  “Front door or bedroom door?” he asked, languid, deliberately sexy.

  “Both. I swear, Straker, if I could do it, I’d handcuff you to your futon.”

  It was a mistake. His grin was slow and easy, and he slouched against the doorjamb, one knee bent, his eyes half-closed. “I think I have a set of cuffs down in the car if you want to give it a try.”

  “No wonder my mother worries.”

  “She’s a smart woman, Mara St. Joe.” He sauntered back into the living room, where he sat on the futon couch and stretched out his legs, relaxed. His mind was still working, however, she knew. “Take a nice hot shower and go to bed, Riley. Anyone calls or pounds on your door, I’ll get rid of them.”

  “The police…”

  “They didn’t see you at Sam’s,” he said, “but they’ll probably want to talk to you.”

  She nodded, the enormity of what had happened tonight sinking in. “This makes it more likely he was murdered, doesn’t it?”

  “His death might just have been inconvenient for someone who didn’t want the police pawing through his stuff. We don’t know, and because we don’t know, we need to keep an open mind.”

  “Is that what you do as an FBI agent?”

  “Nope. I get out my six-shooter and shoot everyone in sight.”

  In spite of herself, she laughed. “You’re impossible.”

  “Hot shower. Bed.”

  “You?”

  “Cold shower. Lumpy futon. But after you, of course.”

  Seven

  Straker ordered a breakfast roll-up thing at one of the food stalls at Quincy Market, a short walk from the Boston Center for Oceanographic Research, where he’d dropped Riley off for the day and parked in her spot in the garage. It was ten o’clock on a lousy Friday morning. He’d woken up with a score of reasons why he should be back on the island and damned few why he should stay in Boston. The prospect of sleeping with Riley counted as a reason to clear out. So did the prospect of not sleeping with her.

  He had a choice of eight different kinds of coffee. He stuck with Colombian, black, no sugar, and took it and the roll-up into the rotunda, where he stood at a wooden counter that serviced the throngs eating on the run, but still had the feeling of a trough. The place was empty. The drizzle and low clouds made everything seem close and claustrophobic. At least Boston Harbor was practically across the street. If worse came to worst, he could rent a boat and clear out.

  Worse had come to worst. He’d let Emile Labreque go on his merry way, and he couldn’t get Riley St. Joe out of his mind.

  He bit into his roll-up. Scrambled eggs, ham, cheese, peppers, onions. It wasn’t breakfast on his porch looking out at the sunrise, but it wasn’t bad.

  He knew he was exaggerating. Worst-case scenario wasn’t kissing Riley. Worst-case scenario was if he’d taken her to bed last night. They’d come close. Too damned close for sanity’s sake.

  She hadn’t repeated her previous morning’s mistake. She’d come out of her bedroom dressed for work, right down to panty hose and shoes, and had announced primly, “A good adrenaline rush can make one do the silliest things, can’t it?”

  He’d resisted comment. If thinking of the sexual currents between them as silly kept her on the straight and narrow, who was he to disabuse her?

  He finished his roll-up and took his coffee to a pay phone. He put a collect call through to a Maine state detective who owed him big-time. “I’m not one to call in a favor,” he said, “but I need to know what you guys have on Sam Cassain.”

  “It’s not my
case, Straker.”

  “I know. Get me what you can. I’ll wait.” He read off the number at his pay phone.

  Ten minutes later, he had his information. His friend was straightforward, detailed and professional. The medical examiner had determined that Sam Cassain had drowned after a blow to the back of the head had probably knocked him unconscious. It looked deliberate, but there were a lot of ways a man could get knocked cold working a boat.

  In the days before his death, Cassain had stopped at the Granger house on Mount Desert Island. He’d seen Abigail, Caroline, Matthew, Richard St. Joe, Henry Armistead and other members of the center’s staff and its Maine supporters.

  “Oh,” his friend said, “and we talked to Mara St. Joe. En route to Mount Desert, Cassain stopped in Camden and saw her.”

  This was a surprise. “Why?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What about Emile?”

  “He’s not an official suspect, but he’s their best bet. Doesn’t look good, him taking off like that. Palladino thinks Riley St. Joe’s holding back and has at least a fair idea of where grandfather could be. You, too.”

  No point mentioning they’d seen him last night. “What about the fire at Cassain’s house down here?”

  “Arson. Looks like a time-delayed device, crude. Massachusetts police are cooperating with us. Well, that’s it. That’s all I’ve got. We’re square, Straker. Next time you call, it better be because you’ve got something for me.”

  Straker tossed his empty coffee cup in a trash can and headed back to the Boston Center for Oceanographic Research. Sam Cassain had been to see Mara St. Joe. Ten to one Riley didn’t know, which meant Mara hadn’t told her. Interesting.

  He let this latest piece of information simmer while he concentrated on his surroundings. He passed a trio of men in expensive suits, two women in expensive suits, an old woman walking a cocker spaniel and a bunch of beefy guys in hard hats. The hard hats were working the interminable Big Dig, a massive project that had already added the Ted Williams Tunnel under the harbor and now was sinking the Central Artery.

  The noise of traffic and construction coupled with the dank weather and his frustrated inactivity magnified Straker’s overall squirreliness. For two cents he’d clear out. He didn’t have to go back to the island. He could go anywhere. He could go back to his damned job, where there were rules, procedures, and no slim, dark-eyed oceanographers.

  But he walked past the center’s marine mammal fountain and up to the main entrance, where he got the steel eye from the security guards and was told he wasn’t welcome back. Abigail Granger must have put out the word. The guards wouldn’t even let him pay up and visit the exhibits like a normal tourist. No trust. No sense of humor. A bit of an overreaction on Ms. Granger’s part, but there wasn’t much Straker could do about it.

  This wasn’t going to work. He stood in front of the fountain and contemplated his situation. Shadowing Riley would drive him over the brink. He needed to get moving on his own Big Dig, find out who’d killed Sam Cassain, what it had to do with Emile and Matt Granger and maybe even Mara St. Joe. He needed to get this mess unraveled, sorted out and tied up with a ribbon before someone did something stupid. Like Emile. Like Riley. He remembered the feel of her breast, the taste of her mouth. Like him.

  Abigail joined him at the fountain and smiled coolly. Dressed in a sleek navy raincoat, she had an umbrella and briefcase tucked under her arm, and her hair was pulled back, ready for a gale-force wind. “What are you going to do when it starts to rain?” she asked.

  “Buy an umbrella.”

  Her quick laugh didn’t reach her eyes. “You enjoy being irreverent, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ve got it figured out now. Sometimes I can be incredibly dense. You’re making sure Riley doesn’t get into trouble because of Sam’s death. Did Emile put you up to it? She was almost killed last year. We’ve all become rather protective of everyone who survived the Encounter.” “I’m not looking out for Riley. She can look out for herself.”

  “I see.” Abigail seemed nervous, out of her element, but she maintained her poise. “I suppose you heard about the fire at Sam’s house last night. This is all…” She faltered. “It feels as if everything’s spinning out of control.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  She shot him a look. “You’re no comfort.”

  “I’ve been told that a lot. Your brother blames Emile for your father’s death. Do you?”

  “I try not to think about it.” Her voice was quiet and sincere, all coolness gone. “No one can fault Emile for his dedication to his work. Without him, this center never would have come to fruition. My father had money and a passion for oceanography, but not Emile’s vision or expertise—or sheer energy. He and my father had so many, many good days. That’s what I prefer to remember.”

  “You’re dedicated to the center,” Straker said.

  She smiled, her eyes warming. “Yes. Henry and I share the same vision. My father and Emile were very old-school. They didn’t oppose our ideas—they were simply indifferent. With so much competition for people’s time and money, Henry and I are convinced we need to increase the center’s visibility, give it more life, more spice. We must do more to reach out to the public. My father was satisfied with a stodgy quarterly newsletter. That’s not enough these days.”

  “Sounds as if you two have a lot of plans for the future.”

  “That’s been the one bright note in this otherwise dreadful year.”

  “What about Sam Cassain?”

  Her eyes narrowed; the coolness returned. “Sam’s death has nothing to do with the center or my family.” She frowned, looking past Straker. “Here comes Henry. He’s not very happy with you.”

  Henry Armistead edged in between them, touching Abigail’s arm. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I was delayed.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble, Henry.” She smiled awkwardly. “Do you know John Straker?”

  Armistead’s manner changed. “I certainly know of him.” He gave Straker a frosty, pursed-lip once-over. “I asked security not to allow you onto the premises. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about our public spaces.”

  The fine drizzle had turned to a light rain that collected on his gray hair. Like Abigail, he had an overcoat, a briefcase and an umbrella, which he didn’t unfurl.

  Straker had on a sweatshirt, jeans and running shoes. He didn’t care about a little rain. “So I’m persona non grata because I fed a few sharks under false pretenses?”

  “There was last night in Louisburg Square as well,” Henry said. “I’ll be straightforward with you. I was in favor of calling the police. I’d already heard about your intrusion earlier in the day here at the center.” He tilted his head back slightly. “I simply will not tolerate having someone on my staff stalked.”

  Straker frowned. Stalked?

  “I understand you’re with the bureau. You were shot earlier in the year while apprehending a federal fugitive.”

  The bureau. He liked that. “I’m on leave.”

  “You’re an expert on domestic terrorism, correct?”

  “Nah. I just catch regular old bad guys.”

  “That’s not what I hear. Well, I expect the stress of your work coupled with your long recovery and self-imposed isolation have taken their toll. It’s on that basis that I’m giving you another chance.”

  “Another chance for what?”

  The older man squared his shoulders and took in a breath. He was supercilious and commanding, but Straker could see Henry Armistead wasn’t sure he wanted to be telling a nutty FBI agent to buzz off. “Riley doesn’t want you here.”

  “Riley?”

  “If you’re keeping watch on her, for any reason, it’s without her consent. That makes you a stalker, or, to put it more kindly, a potential stalker.”

  “She told you I was stalking her,” Straker said.

  “That was the implication, yes.”

  He should have l
eft Riley St. Joe out on her kayak in the middle of the North Atlantic all those years ago.

  Spots of color formed high on Abigail’s cheeks. She hadn’t popped her umbrella, and the drizzle, heavier now, was matting down her fair hair. “Henry,” she said.

  “I’m almost finished.” Armistead straightened, whipped open his umbrella and held it over her. He turned back to Straker. “We’ve been enduring a media assault all morning thanks to the arson fire at Captain Cassain’s house last night. Kids, I suspect. They probably heard he’d died and decided his house was fair game. In any case, I have no desire to compound my problems by taking this matter with you any further. I can count on your cooperation?”

  Straker got the picture. If he showed his face at the center again, it was off to the clink with him as a wounded FBI agent who’d lost his grip.

  “No problem,” he said without expression. His fight wasn’t with Armistead. It was with Riley.

  Armistead politely, but coldly, excused himself, took Abigail by the arm and escorted her across the plaza. She didn’t say a word. Straker found a pay phone in the garage, dialed the center’s switchboard and had them put him through to Riley’s office.

  “That kiss last night must have frustrated you more than I realized.”

  “What?”

  “You’re trying to buy time, St. Joe. It won’t work, not with me. You’re not weaseling out of this one. You told Armistead I’m stalking you. Now he’s barred me from the premises.”

  “Stalking? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She wasn’t going to come clean. Straker clenched the phone. He was losing objectivity. Control. All he wanted to do was march up to her office, grab her and finish what they’d started last night. That was where this stalking nonsense had come from. She knew what the score was between him and her, and she’d panicked.

  He had to act, and he had to act now. Too much was at stake. He needed his mind back. He needed to be able to sit and calmly, objectively, put the pieces together.

  “All right,” he said. “Have it your way. If you end up with your ass in a sling, it’s your own damned fault. I’m out of here.”