On Fire (11 page)

“I don’t have any control over what Straker does,” she’d said. “And I don’t think what I do or don’t do should be dependent on him.”

Henry rubbed the back of his neck as if he were in pain. “Riley…I can’t risk another incident like last night. Give this some time.”

“You mean you can’t risk alienating the Grangers.”

He lost patience. “Of
course
I can’t risk it!”

“I’m not responsible for what John Straker does,” she said.

“No, you’re not. Riley, I wouldn’t want anyone to question your priorities and obligations. I understand your devotion to Emile, your loyalty to him in the face of what everyone else so clearly believes happened last year.”

The past few days had given any critics she had more ammunition. She liked Henry. He was good for the center. And it was the center he cared about, not Labreques, St. Joes, or even, ultimately, Grangers.

He’d gone on quietly, “If Mr. Straker is acting against your will, then, in my judgment, he can be accused of stalking you.”

She’d seen her opening and had seized it.

She dropped onto her chair now, her tote on her lap.
She didn’t know what had come over her. Sure, she’d gotten herself off the hook with Henry. But she should have anticipated what would happen—what
did
happen. Straker’s description was circulated to security, and he was barred from the premises.

And he’d found out about it.

It was the kiss.

It wasn’t the kiss. That was absurd. She’d been kissed before.

But not by John Straker.

She was so far in over her head she didn’t know if she’d ever come up for air. The man she’d kissed last night, the man she’d thwarted at every turn, was an FBI special agent. He wasn’t a marine scientist. He wasn’t even the teenager who’d tormented her as a kid.

She’d checked the Internet for various accounts of the incident that had nearly killed him six months ago. He and his team had tracked down three men wanted in connection with a string of armored car robberies. The thieves had killed four guards, seriously injured three. They were using the money to fund their own private, paranoid domestic army, with plans to target an array of state and federal government buildings and private institutions.

Straker and his team had managed to arrest two of the men without incident. The third took two teenagers hostage, shooting Straker in the leg and abdomen. The terrorist made the mistake of believing Straker was dead instead of just damned close to it.

None of the accounts went into great detail about John Straker. All portrayed him as skilled, well-
trained, professional and courageous. That he was also obnoxious and sexy and couldn’t get along with anyone didn’t enter the picture.

Way, way over her head she was.

Now she’d turned a respected FBI agent into a would-be stalker.

“He’s going to shoot me dead,” she said out loud, then noticed Abigail in her doorway.

She smiled a bit formally. “Henry told me you were taking some time off—I’m glad I caught you before you left. I don’t know if Caroline’s told you, but I’m joining her in Maine this weekend. Sam’s death has dredged up all the pain and controversy we’d hoped we’d put behind us.” She shuddered, not going further. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course. My father left an hour ago. He claims he needs to run up to Bath and check on the progress of the
Encounter II.
”

“He’ll be so much happier when he can spend more time at sea.”

Riley nodded. “It’s going to be a beautiful ship.”

“He invited you to go with him, didn’t he?”

“Pleaded would be more accurate. If I’d known Henry was going to kick me out of here, I might have accepted Dad’s offer. Have a good trip. Give my regards to Caroline. We’ve all had a pretty awful few days.”

Abigail lingered in the doorway. She bit her lower lip awkwardly. “I was wondering—do you think it’d be okay if I stopped in Camden to see Sig? It’s been ages.”

“If you’re asking me if she’d see you, I don’t honestly know.” There was still the matter of Sig’s
pregnancy. If Abigail noticed and Sig didn’t mention it, her sister-in-law wouldn’t say a word. “She won’t be ugly about it or anything. She’d just say she’s painting and can’t be disturbed.”

“I don’t want to get involved in her and Matt’s problems. I just—well, I don’t know what I’m thinking at this point.” She smiled, the strain of the past few days evident in her delicate features. “Caroline invited Henry, too. We’re driving up together.”

Riley wasn’t surprised, but she didn’t know what to say. “Oh.”

Abigail blushed. “Maybe if we’re not here for the media to pester, it’ll help defuse the crisis atmosphere.”

“What about your brother?” Riley asked. “Is he going to Maine with you?”

“I haven’t seen Matt since last night. I’m sure this has all been a nightmare for him. Caroline and I are worried about him. Henry is, too. That’s why I want to see Sig. If she can do something, suggest something we can do…”

“You don’t think he had anything to do with Sam—”

“No!”
She shrank back in horror, deeply offended. “How could you possibly say such a thing?”

Riley debated telling Abigail about seeing Matt at the fire last night, but quickly rejected the idea. She’d have to explain her
own
presence there. She said quietly, “I don’t mean to imply he had a hand in Sam’s death. Forget it. I don’t know what I meant.”

“It’s all right. We’re all on edge.” Abigail regained her poise, even managed a soft smile. “Have a good
weekend. I hope when we see each other next this will all have resolved itself.”

“I hope so, too.”

After Abigail left, Riley turned out the lights and headed for the subway. Straker and his car, she knew, would be long gone from her spot in the parking garage.

The rain had stopped, but gray clouds continued to hang over the city. The subway ride and walk back to her apartment did nothing to calm her. She climbed up her front steps, rummaging for her keys, and almost screamed when she heard a movement behind her.

She whipped around, keys in hand.

“Whoa,” Matthew Granger said. “You could poke an eye out with those things.”

“That was the whole idea.”

He looked haggard and drawn, as if he hadn’t slept in days. “You can hit me for last night if you want. Just leave my eyes alone, okay?”

It was an apology, and Riley accepted it. “You’re not worth hitting, Granger. I’m not even going to ask what possessed you, because I know. We’re all under a lot of stress right now.”

Sheepishness, however, wasn’t her brother-in-law’s long suit. Although clearly exhausted, he stood tall, patrician, his emotions under rigid control. “I know you mean well, Riley, but—”

“Don’t let’s start, okay?”

“I saw Emile on Beacon Hill last night. So did you. So did John Straker.”

He paused, his piercing eyes narrowing. Riley resisted the urge to explain, to defend Emile, to
distance herself from Straker. Matt hadn’t gone to the trouble of intercepting her just to apologize. He had an agenda, and she needed to let him get to it.

“Funny.” He came up another step, still two down from her. “Not an hour after Emile turned up on Beacon Hill, Sam’s house caught fire.”

So he hadn’t seen Emile in Arlington. Riley shrugged. “Funny you were at Sam’s yourself.”

She hadn’t caught him by surprise. He remained coolly under control, last night’s rage dissipated. This was the Matthew Granger who could charm and infuriate at will. “So that
was
you. I thought so. You must have followed Emile.”

He was trying to trap her into confirming his suspicions. Riley didn’t bite. “Emile? Did you see him at Sam’s?”

Matt exhaled slowly, not rising to her provocation. “I didn’t come here to go round and round with you. Riley, something very nasty and dangerous is going on. If Emile’s at the bottom of it or not, it doesn’t change the facts. Sam Cassain is dead—murdered—and his place was torched.” He paused, letting her digest his words. His gaze was serious, fraternal, just this side of patronizing. “You need to pull back.”

“So do you,” she said automatically.

He hissed through his teeth. This was her day to try everyone’s patience. “I know you care about Emile. I know you believe in him. But whatever his role in this business is, you know damned well he wouldn’t want you meddling.”

“And what are you doing if not meddling?”

“I’m not here about me. I’m here about you.”

“Well, thank you very much. Why bother? What difference does it make to you what I do?”

“If I didn’t make the effort and something happened to you…” He averted his gaze, and she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble of beard on his jaw, the difficulty he was having maintaining his unyielding stance. “It’s tough enough between Sig and me right now as it is.”

“You don’t need a dead or beat-up sister-in-law mucking up the works.”

His eyes flashed. “Bluntly put, no, I don’t.”

She swallowed. “You should go see Sig.”

“I saw her yesterday.” His eyes gleamed with affection, even humor, but sadness and frustration quickly crept in. “Why do you think I was in such a rotten mood last night?”

He couldn’t know Sig was pregnant. He’d seen her, and he still hadn’t figured it out. Riley groaned inwardly. He was even more thickheaded than she’d imagined. Wouldn’t a husband somehow divine these things?

As if she knew anything about husbands. Or even men. The one man she’d kissed in recent months she’d just sent packing as a stalker.

“Honestly, Matt,” she said, shaking her head with a sudden smile. “Sig can have you. If you were my husband, I’d have poisoned you by now.”

He laughed, but somehow ended up looking even more haggard. “I can’t wait to meet the poor bastard who falls for you, Riley. It’ll be a hell of a show.” He trotted down the steps; when he reached the sidewalk,
he glanced back at her, deadly serious. “I just gave you good advice. Follow it.”

Fifteen minutes later, she had her backpack crammed with essentials—underwear, flannel boxers, toothbrush, makeup, water sandals, hiking socks, hiking clothes, regular clothes. The phone rang twice while she was packing. Reporters. With any luck, she’d get out before they or the police could land on her doorstep.

Straker had gone back to Maine. He must have. Where else would he go? Caroline Granger was en route, Abigail, Henry, her own father. Her sister and mother were already there. Riley had no idea where Matt would end up.

So. It made sense.
She
would go to Maine, too.

S
ig lay on the studio bed with her feet up and the hem of her voluminous dress pulled to her knees. She wasn’t wearing socks. She stared at her legs and wondered if she’d get varicose veins. She’d been on her feet again all day, painting, sketching, playing, but at least she’d gone for a long walk, too, not letting the off-and-on rain deter her. Now she just wished someone would bring her tea and toast. If she could, she’d stay on her mother’s porch forever. She had no desire to go out into the cold, cruel world. Let someone else slay the dragons.

It was the fight or flight principle at work, she knew. She would choose flight every time. Riley, of course, would choose fight.

Someone knocked on the back door, and Sig yawned. No doubt it would be the same person who’d been ringing the front doorbell, which she hadn’t bothered to answer;
her mother was out. It wasn’t Matt. Matt wouldn’t have bothered knocking. Maybe it was a dragon after all, she thought.

She roused herself enough to see John Straker’s deadly, sexy face in the doorway. “A dragon indeed,” she said to herself, then called, “Door’s open.”

He came in, and the years since she’d seen him fell away. He was the same John Straker she’d known since childhood, never mind the FBI and six months on Labreque Island recovering from bullet wounds. He was fit, agile, alert and just impatient and irritated enough for her to know Riley was under his skin.
Good for you, Sis,
she thought. Straker was the perfect kind of man for her sister—in her face, impossible to intimidate,
there.
Riley would never tolerate the kind of unconventional relationship their parents had.

“I tried the front door,” he said. “You didn’t hear the doorbell?”

“No, I did. I just didn’t bother with it, and Mom’s off to the post office.”

His gaze dropped to her abdomen, and he said with typical Straker frankness, “You’re pregnant?”

“Oh—shit, it’s that obvious?”

“Nah. I’m a trained FBI agent.”

She smiled. “It
is
that obvious. Mom hasn’t said a word.”

“Then she’s minding her own business, which isn’t a dominant gene in this family. Husband doesn’t know?”

She sighed and shook her head. Matt had stood right where Straker was standing, and he hadn’t noticed. Of course, she’d had a blanket pulled up to her nose.

“Well, good luck. Shouldn’t you avoid paint fumes?”

“They’re watercolors, and I have good ventilation out here.” She dropped her feet to the floor and stood up, feeling a mild strain in her lower back. “You’ve always been one to cut to the chase, haven’t you?”

He grinned. “I thought this was small talk.”

“For you, maybe.”

He walked over to her worktable and eyed the painting on her board. It was inspired by her mother’s yellow mums, spatter layers of yellow and white. Her best work of the summer. “You planning to sell any of your stuff?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought.”

“Are you any good?”

She smiled. “I like that particular painting. I guess it’s a start.”

He turned to her, his gray eyes taking in her sweep of dress, her bulging stomach, her wild hair hanging down her back. “What’re you doing up here in Maine, Sig?”

“Hiding.”

“From what?”

She blinked rapidly, trying to keep back the tears. Damned hormones. “Myself, mostly.” She breathed through her nose and refused to cry. “What about you?”

“That’s simple. I’m looking for Emile.” Straker took a couple of steps toward her. He radiated strength, virility, toughness. Sig wouldn’t be surprised if her sister hadn’t even noticed. “I think he’s out to track down whoever killed Sam Cassain.”

Sig could feel the weight of the past few days, the seriousness. A man was dead.
Sam
was dead. “I think so, too.”

“But you,” Straker said. “You’re just hiding.”

“I understand you were on Beacon Hill last night. I heard my husband behaved like a perfect jackass. You saw what it’s like. I don’t fit in. There’s no place for me there.”

“So? Make your place.”

“Matt thinks Emile should be in jail.” She wondered why she was telling this man anything, much less her deepest thoughts and feelings. “He’s obsessed with proving that my grandfather’s negligence and arrogance led to the
Encounter
tragedy. He won’t let go. His father died a terrible death, and Matt wants vengeance. Justice, he’d say.”

“What about you?”

Her shoulders slumped. “I just want the whole thing to go away.”

“It won’t, not until the police have Cassain’s death settled. Emile thinks it’s murder. Otherwise he wouldn’t have taken off.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s murder. I’d look to the
Encounter
disaster for clues.”

She was definitely dealing with cut-to-the-chase John Straker. It was a quality that had made him few friends, even in high school. The friends he had, Sig knew, would die for him. “Riley didn’t come with you, did she?”

“I let her fry in her own fat awhile. She’s a damned pain in the ass.”

“She’s not in any danger—”

“Only from me. I might strangle her.”

Sig smiled, saw the scar her sister had put in his forehead. “You two.”

But he didn’t smile back. “I need to find Emile, Sig. He was in Boston last night. He must have a base—a friend’s house, an old campsite, a pile of rocks somewhere. Do you have any ideas?”

“No, I wish I did. I haven’t had much to do with him the past year. To be honest, I’m not so sure Matt’s not right about him. Emile…” She threw up her hands. “You know what he’s like.”

“When you and Riley were kids,” Straker persisted, “you must have had places the three of you talked about, visited. If you think of anything, even if it’s unlikely, let me know.”

“Where will I find you?”

“Hell if I know. I’ll check back with you from time to time.” He moved to the kitchen door, listened. “I think I hear your mother coming in. I need to talk to her. You staying out here?”

Sig nodded. “Forever if I could.”

He hesitated at the door. “Your husband might be a jackass, but unless you think he’d hurt you or the baby, you should tell him he’s going to be a father.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” she said, more as a point of information than out of anger.

“Don’t worry—it’s free.”

“And it’s babies. I’m having twins.”

He grinned and gave her a wink. “Hell. Maybe you shouldn’t tell him. Or if you want to give him a heart attack, lay the news on him without any warning.”

“You’re terrible!”

“So I’ve been told. By the way,” he added, pulling open the door, “I figure I had about a two-hour head start on your sister. She’ll be here before nightfall.”

“She knows you were headed here?”

“No.”

“Then how—”

“Trust me. She hasn’t changed since she was six years old. She’ll be here.”

Mara gave him about three minutes before she insisted on serving him tea and a fresh, gooey coconut macaroon in the front parlor. She wore drawstring pants and a plaid flannel overshirt, and every instinct Straker had said she was holding on to the last shreds of her sanity and self-control. Her family was in crisis. Her father, her two daughters. It couldn’t be easy. She was tense, preoccupied and couldn’t stand still.

“I have a few calls I need to make,” she said. “Would you excuse me? I won’t be long. Then we…” She swallowed, unusually nervous. “Then we’ll talk more.”

“Sure.”

The time out would give him a chance to consider how much was left unsaid among the Labreques and St. Joes. He set his cup and saucer on the gleaming butler’s table. Mara had gotten out the good china. He felt like a nineteenth-century ship captain home for a spell with the womenfolk.

She claimed Sam Cassain had stopped by late last week merely to say hello, not to drive the wedge between her and her father deeper; not for old times’ sake; not, apparently, because he knew he was about to be killed.

Straker didn’t disbelieve her. He thought there was more.

The front door banged open, and Riley burst in. She’d changed from her work clothes to jeans and a high-tech hiking top that delineated the shape of her breasts probably more than she’d want him noticing. Or not. She scowled. “I should have known I’d find you here.”

“You did know. That’s why you came.”

That didn’t sit well. She stormed around the living room. The long drive and long days had taken their toll. This was bluster. Fatigue. Even buried anguish. She flew at him, her jaw set hard. “Where’s my mother?”

“Back in her office. She had some calls to make. Sig’s gone for a walk.” He sat back on Mara’s handsome couch, which wasn’t particularly comfortable. “It’s been a rough few days for them, too.”

She gave a tight nod. “I know. They won’t admit it, but they’re worried about Emile. They don’t want to see him in over his head.”

“That goes for you, too.”

She sank into a wing chair and kicked her feet out in front of her. He could see some of the frustration and anxiety wash out of her now that she was in a safe place, with people she cared about and who cared about her, even if he was among them. “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, without looking at him.

Straker made no comment.

“I shouldn’t have gone along with Henry’s suggestion that you could be a stalker. It was…stupid.” She rubbed her forehead, not because she had a headache, Straker reasoned, but because she hated admitting she
was wrong. “He’s upset with me for finding Sam’s body, for bringing you onto the scene last night and enraging Matt. He offered me a chance to throw you to the wolves, and I did.”

“You were trying to save your own neck?”

She nodded, obviously not proud of herself.

Straker picked up his teacup. “I thought it was because I’d kissed you and you were scared of what came next.”

“I wasn’t scared then,” she said. “And I’m not scared now, because nothing comes next.”

She slid off her chair and poured herself a cup of tea from Mara’s china tea service, then sat back down. She still hadn’t met his eye. “Then you had cold feet,” he said.

“You only get cold feet when you stop yourself from doing something you deep down want to do or know you need to do.” Now her eyes lifted, zeroed in on him. “So that leaves cold feet out.”

No, that left cold feet in. But Straker decided not to push her. She’d had a lot of time to think things over on her solitary drive up to Camden. “Armistead tell you to get out of town?”

“To lie low is more like it.” She sipped her tea, which was only lukewarm. “I want to find Emile before he runs afoul of the wrong people.”

Afoul? Maybe it was the antiques and the nineteenth-century atmosphere, Straker thought. “What makes you think you won’t run ‘afoul’ of the same people?”

She set her teacup in its saucer. “I know how to shoot.”

“Jesus Christ,” Straker breathed. “All this mess needs is Riley St. Joe armed to the teeth. Did you slip a gun into your backpack?”

“No, I don’t even own one. You’re the FBI agent. You must have all kinds of guns.”

“Riley. Forget it.”

She refused to give up. “I can always use tranquilizer darts.”

“Sit back,” he said softly. “Tell me about your work.”

“I don’t want to tell you about my work. I want to find Emile.”

“What does the director of recovery and rehabilitation for the Boston Center for Oceanographic Research do?”

She sighed. Her dark eyes fixed on him. “I know what you’re doing.”

“If I were a dolphin,” he said, “would I want Riley St. Joe to rescue me?”

It worked. She gave another sigh and started. She explained the basic philosophy of the center’s recovery and rehab program, the constant search for funds, the training and mobilization of volunteers when there was a mass stranding, the ongoing research. Straker tried to pay attention to her words, but it was her manner that captivated him—her passion, her common sense, her dedication. This was work she loved. Work she could never give up. He’d once felt the same way about his own work, but not in a long time.

Mara St. Joe joined them in the parlor. A pair of reading glasses hung from her neck, and she fingered them nervously as she greeted Riley. “John said you’d be along. Did you have much traffic?”

Riley shook her head, a tiny spark in her eyes all that
suggested she didn’t like the idea of him predicting her movements. “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead.”

“There’s no need. You’re always welcome here.” Mara dropped her glasses, but didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. She seemed unusually ill at ease, even for someone whose daughter had recently found a dead man. “Riley, we need to talk. I have something I—something you deserve to know.”

Graceful exits weren’t one of his strengths, but Straker got to his feet. “I could use some air. I’ll take a walk around the block.”

Mara seemed relieved. Riley just seemed confused, as if she couldn’t imagine what her mother might tell her that she didn’t already know. Straker had a policy of avoiding mother-daughter conversations whenever possible. It was bad enough when his own mother got him by the ear and sat him down. Hadn’t done that in years, not for lack of provocation.

He ran into Sig halfway down the front walk. The clouds were moving out over the water, the sky clearing. “I see Riley’s arrived,” she said. “She boot you out?”

“I took my cue.”

Her face clouded, and she nodded with understanding. She was breathing hard from her walk, her cheeks red from exertion and the stiff breeze, but she wasn’t winded. “Then she’s telling her. Damn. I think I’ll sneak around back. You want to join me?”

“That depends.”

“Then you don’t know,” she said.

He remained silent.

“I thought you came up here because you knew.”

“To be honest,” he said, “I haven’t thought much about you St. Joe women until Riley came screaming into my cottage about a dead body and threw up.”

Sig’s eyes narrowed on him. She’d combed her hair and braided it, put on comfortable shoes. At the right angle, she didn’t look pregnant in her flowing dress. She was artistic, creative, intense in ways different and less obvious from her scientist sister, mother, father, grandfather. And Straker could see her debating what to tell him, wondering if she’d said too much already.