"Manny sicced you on me, didn't he?" she demanded.
"I had a feeling you wouldn't thank me. Does it feel better to go on the offensive?"
She sighed, shaking her head. "I wish it did. At least I didn't push you out into traffic." She seemed calmer, but Ty could see the effects of the past twenty-four hours in the puffy, dark circles under her eyes, the paleness of her skin, the rigid hold she had on her camera bag. Her eyes, so damn blue, narrowed on him. "Are you on leave? I don't want you wasting any more of it on me. You can turn around and drive back to New Hampshire. There's a deli on Arlington. I'll buy you a sandwich for the road."
"Carine…hell, babe, you look like you're in tough shape. Let me—"
"Good. I'd hate to look great the day after I discovered a dead body." She looked up at the traffic light, apparently waiting for a walk sign. "And don't call me babe."
"Why'd you attack me?"
"I thought about throwing a rock through your windshield, but I couldn't find your truck. Or a rock."
North shrugged. "Makes sense, I guess."
"It was Manny who sent you, right? Gus wouldn't. He'd stonewall me if he knew you were on your way, but he would never ask you to keep an eye on me." She still didn't look around at North. "Does Manny think I'm in danger from the real murderer, or does he just not trust me to mind my own business?"
"Nobody trusts a Winter to mind their own business." He resisted touching her. "Damn it, I'm not going to stand out here talking murder with you. Let's go."
"The deli's just up Arlington—"
"You're not buying me a sandwich and sending me on my way."
A bit of color rose in her cheeks, and she refused to look at him, her shoulders hunched as she continued to wait for the walk signal. It came, but she didn't move. Ty remembered why he'd fallen in love with her—why, ultimately, he'd walked away from her. She was sensitive, loyal, artistic, a fighter and a dreamer. He was loyal and a fighter, but sensitive? Artistic? A dreamer? No way. Although she was the youngest of the Winter siblings and remembered their parents the least, she was also the one who seemed most affected by their deaths. She deserved a man who led a safer life than he did.
"This was a bad idea," Ty said, half under his breath. "All right, suit yourself. You're on your own."
She stood up straight and whipped around at him. "I am?"
"You bet. Go on. Scoot. I won't strong-arm you."
"You'll follow me," she said. "You're an expert in evading pursuit."
"I'd be doing the pursuing. That's a different skill."
"You'd manage."
"Not around here. I like the desert. Caves. Bugs to eat. A jungle's good, too. I could manage in a jungle."
She almost smiled. "You're totally impossible, Tyler. I don't know why I ever wanted to marry you." She thought a moment, then sighed. "But, seeing how you're listening to reason, I suppose I could let you drive me back to my apartment. I don't have the oomph to walk, and I don't think I could handle the subway again right now."
"Better me than the subway?" He grinned at her. "It's a start."
"You won't try to take me to New Hampshire against my will?"
"No, ma'am."
She looked faintly skeptical, but she was, at her core, the most trusting person he'd ever known. She wasn't naïve—she knew more than most about what life could throw at people, without rhyme nor reason. But she was an optimist, a glass-is-half-full type, a believer in truth and justice, all of which, in Ty's view, guaranteed she'd be a pain in the ass with Manny and this murder investigation. No wonder Manny had enlisted him to get rid of her.
Carine spotted his truck on Boylston and shot ahead of him, leaning against the passenger door until he got there to unlock it. She had her arms crossed, and more hairs had pulled out of her ponytail. "I know you're trained to resist the enemy," she said. "I probably could shove burning bamboo sticks under your fingernails, and you wouldn't talk."
"You're not the enemy." He unlocked her door and pulled it open. "And you wouldn't have the heart to torture me."
"I'd have the heart. There's just no point if it's not going to work."
She climbed into the truck, and when North got behind the wheel, he saw the tears in her eyes. But she turned away quickly and gazed out the passenger window. He started the engine. "Carine…ah, hell…"
"Feel like a heel, do you? Good." She sniffled, not looking at him. "Just don't get the idea that I'm not over you, because I am. I just need protein, that's all. I'm having a sugar low."
"You might be over me, but you're not neutral—"
"I've never been neutral about you. I wasn't neutral when I was six years old and you cut the tire-swing rope on me. It doesn't mean anything."
He let the engine idle a moment. "I'm sorry I hurty ou."
"You didn't hurt me, Ty. You did me a favor." She glanced at him sideways, her tears gone. "Isn't that what all the men who get cold feet say?"
"It wasn't cold feet."
"No, not you. You're way too tough for cold feet."
She wasn't going to give him an inch. He didn't blame her—she'd given him her heart, and he'd broken it.
He shifted his truck into gear. "Just for the record," he said, "I've never been neutral about you, either."
Eight
When they reached her apartment, Carine climbed out of the truck, thanked Ty for the ride and told him to have a safe trip home. She gave him a parting smile, shut the door and mounted her porch steps at a half run, not so much, he thought, because she wanted to get there fast but because she wanted to prove to him she could do it. Maybe to herself, too. She'd had a shock, and she was back on her feet, up and running.
He wondered how long before she figured out he wasn't going anywhere.
Hauling her back to Cold Ridge against her will was out, but Manny had his reasons—however closemouthed he was being about them—for asking Ty to keep an eye on her. She'd found Louis Sanborn dead. She'd worked with him. A murderer was on the loose. Something was up.
And Ty couldn't abandon her again. Gus would pitch him off the ridge for sure. When he wasn't looking, just when he let his guard down—off a ledge he'd go.
But it was more than Gus, more than Manny, more than murder that was keeping him in Boston—it was Carine, seeing her again after all these months. He had todorightbyher,somehowmakeupforwhathe'ddone.
She seemed to be having trouble with the front door.
That wasn't it. Her keys were in her hand. She hadn't touched the door. She glanced back at him, her eyes wide, her mouth partly open, and Ty was out of his truck in an instant. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know. Nothing, probably." She took a breath, pushed back more hair that had escaped from her ponytail. "The door sticks. I'm sure that's all it is. People leave it open all the time."
"Let's take a look."
Ty took the sagging steps onto the porch. The door to her building had dirty glass and peeling white paint that had grayed with neglect and the onslaught of city soot and grime. It was open slightly, about six inches.
"I don't want to overreact," Carine said.
"It's okay, Carine. Anyone would be on edge after what happened to you yesterday. Why don't I check your apartment, make sure everything's okay?"
She hesitated, long enough for him to push the door open the rest of the way and enter the outer hall. It was poorly lit and smelled like cat litter. Dirty steps led up to the second floor. Carine fell in behind him, then gasped and lunged forward, but Ty grabbed her wrist, keeping her from shooting past him. He saw what she obviously had already seen—the door to her apartment was also open.
There was no sign of forced entry—no ripped wood, no broken locks.
"I locked up this morning," she whispered. "I know I did."
Ty released her. "It was a rough morning for you. You were off your routines. Anything's possible."
"Anything's not possible. I locked my door. It's not something I even think about anymore. It's routine—"
&nbs
p; "All right. You locked your door. Do you want to call 911 and let the police check it out?"
She grimaced, then sighed heavily. "Not yet. I'd feel ridiculous if they're just going to tell me I forgot to lock up. I'll have a look first." She glanced at him. "It's my apartment, so it's my responsibility."
"Suppose someone's in there?"
"I'll yell."
Ty rolled his eyes. "Right."
"Don't argue with me. It's not like you came down here with an M16 strapped to your back." She lowered her camera bag. "Hang on. I'll get out my cell phone—"
"If someone hits me over the head, you'll call 911?"
"I might," she said, but her smile didn't quite make it.
While she dug out her cell phone, North slipped inside her apartment, moving quickly down a short hallway into the kitchen. The other rooms all connected to it. Bathroom, living room, bedroom. The doors were open, the apartment was quiet, still and, he thought, very bright. Yellow, citrus green, lavender blue, dashes of raspberry. Some white, but not much. Not enough.
He snatched a paring knife out of the dish drainer, Carine behind him, her cell phone in hand. She got her own knife and followed him as he entered each room and looked around, seeing no sign of a rigorous search or any obvious missing valuables. Television, laptop and stereo were all intact. What else there was to take, he didn't know. Carine had never been into jewelry. He remembered she'd wanted a simple engagement ring. When he pulled the plug on their wedding, she'd offered to feed it to him.
She led the way back into the kitchen and sank against the sink and its citrus-green cabinets, her arms crossed, the last of her ponytail gone. She chewed on the inside corner of her mouth. "Maybe you had a point and I did forget to lock up."
"Is that what you think?"
"I don't know that I can think. I'm a damn wreck. I keep expecting any minute I'll just put it all out of my head and be fine—" She broke off with another sigh. "It doesn't look as if anyone got at the door with a crowbar—I suppose it could have popped open on its own. This place is old, and the landlord doesn't fix anything until it's absolutely necessary. But why would it pop open today?"
"Who else has a key?"
"Antonia. When she started spending more time in D.C. I gave one to the Rancourts in case I ever lose mine. And Gus. He has one."
Ty returned the knife to the dish drainer and stood back from her, taking in her pale skin, her tensed muscles, her shallow breathing. A thick covered rubber band clung to the ends of a small clump of hair. He pulled it out and handed it to her. She'd had enough. She'd reached her saturation point. Time for him to break through. "Ten minutes," he said.
"What do you mean, ten minutes?"
"You've got ten minutes to pack up. We're leaving."
She straightened. "Says who? What about the police?"
"You're not even sure there's been a break-in."
"You don't want to explain why you're here to them, do you? You'd have to tell them about Manny—"
"You're under nine minutes. Keep talking." He settled back against the sink next to her, noticed the photograph of a red-tailed hawk above her table. It was one she'd taken—he remembered she'd had to lie on her stomach and hang off a ledge to get the angle she wanted. "If you don't have time to pack, I can always run into Wal-Mart with you for new undies."
She didn't budge. "What if I tell you to go to hell?"
He smiled, leaning in close to her. "Eight minutes."
Her arms dropped down to her sides, and she scowled at him. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am. You need to get out of here and clear your head. Anyone in your position would, so don't take it as a knock on you. You just can't see it. I can." He glanced at his sports watch. "I'm counting."
She disappeared into her bedroom without further argument. His head was pounding. Maybe it was all the cheerful, bright colors, so different from the warm, dark colors of her log cabin in Cold Ridge. It wasn't the same, not having her across the meadow, waking up to the smell of smoke from her woodstove on cold mornings. She was down here, finding dead people and painting things lavender.
A wave of nostalgia and regret washed over him, and he wondered if they could ever go back to the easy friendship they'd had before he'd decided he was in love with her, or recognized that he was, had been for a long time. Whatever it was.
He walked over to her bedroom doorway and watched her load things into a soft, worn tapestry bag opened on her bed. "Need some help?"
"No, thanks."
Cool. A hint of irritation. She womped a pair of jeans into her bag. North smiled. "Give it up, Carine. If you didn't want to go with me, you'd make me hit you over the head and carry you out of here."
She fixed her blue eyes on him. "Being an experienced combat medic, you'd know just where to hit me so it wouldn't inflict permanent damage, wouldn't you?"
"Actually, I would. But you want to go home. Admit it. You don't want to stay here by yourself—"
"Fine. You're right. So let's do it. Let's go home."
She zipped up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and marched across the shaggy blue rug to him, but when she started past him, he caught one arm around her waist. "Are you going to be mad the whole trip?"
"I knew I'd have to face you again one of these days," she said. "I just didn't think it'd be under these circumstances. No. I won't be mad the whole trip. I can't stay here. I know that."
She let her bag fall to the floor, didn't move away from him. He didn't know why, unless she was remembering, as he was, what it was like when they'd made love. "Ty—" She broke off, a warmth in her tone that hadn't been there before. "I don't know anyone else who'd do what you've done, come down here, follow me around, let me come close to shoving you into oncoming traffic."
"It wasn't that close."
But she was serious, sincere, and didn't respond to his stab at humor. "Here you are, trying to look after me, whether I want you or need you to or not, even wheny ou know—well, never mind what you know. Thank you."
"You were going to say even when I know what I did to you."
"I guess what I should say is even when we know what we did to each other."
"Damn it, Carine." He could hear the pain in his own voice, wished it had stayed buried. "I can't undo what I did. If I could…"
"It's okay."
She touched her fingertips to the side of his face and, without any other warning than that, kissed him, lightly, gently, but not, he thought, chastely. It was like being mule-kicked, like setting a match to superdry kindling. All the clichés. There'd been no other woman since her. He kept thinking there should be, that he ought to get on with his life, but the weeks had ticked by, now the months.
He fought an urge to carry her to bed, but she pulled away from him, smiled at him, her skin less pale, less cool to the touch. "A lot's changed in a year, hasn't it?"
He smiled back at her. "Not some things."
She gave him a pointed look. "Sex isn't everything, Sergeant North. You said so yourself when you gave me my marching papers."
"Did I say that?"
"Not in as many words—"
"Yeah, no kidding." He held her more closely, suddenly not wanting to let go. "The reason I didn't marry you was because of me, not because of you."
"Semantics. You ready?"
"Not quite."
And he kissed her this time, felt her arms tighten around his middle, her shirt riding up—he touched the bare skin of her midriff, and when she inhaled, he deepened the kiss. She responded, sliding her hands around to his belt buckle, her fingertips drifting lower, outlining his obvious arousal. She took his hand and eased it over her breasts.
"Carine—"
"Just this once." Her eyes were wide, alert, nothing about her anywhere but here, right now. "It's been such an awful twenty-four hours. Ty—please, I know what I'm doing."
She touched him again, erotically, and he was lost. He swept her up and carried her to the bed, laying her on top of
her down comforter. He paused, looking at her for any indication she'd changed her mind, giving her the chance to send him back to the kitchen. Ty told himself he should put a stop to this insanity, but he didn't. Neither did she. She scooted out of her clothes, and in five seconds, he was out of his, on top of her, stroking her smooth hips, her breasts—but she was in a hurry.
"Make love to me," she whispered. "Now."
She pulled him into her, shutting her eyes, no hesitation now. He kept his eyes open, watching her as he made love to her, the flush on her face, the way she bit her lower lip when she came, seconds before he did. It was then he shut his eyes, savoring his release, the feel of her body all around him.
Making love to her was natural. Perfect. And it couldn't happen again.
He kissed her forehead and rolled off the bed, grabbing his clothes. "No regrets?"
She shook her head. "Not this soon. Later, maybe."
"Carine—"
"Just turn your head when I get my clothes back on."
He did as she asked.
He had regrets. About a thousand of them. He couldn't seem to keep his head glued on straight when he was around her. He'd almost sent her an old-fashioned telegram to call off their engagement, just to make sure he got the message delivered, that she understood it—he couldn't marry her. Not that next week, not ever.
As if to prove his point, here he was. One minute, he was checking for intruders with a sharp knife, the next minute, making love to a woman who'd pretty much had him by the short hairs all her life. She deserved someone more like her, someone more attuned to her sensibilities. He wasn't as creative or perceptive or optimistic as she was. He was restless, an adrenaline junkie for as long as he could remember. He needed the kind of physical and mental challenges his work as a PJ provided. Even his mother would have had less trouble with a quieter kind of kid—he'd see her eyes glaze over many times as she became so absorbed in her work she was unaware of what was going on around her, and he'd clear out, head up the ridge. It wasn't like he'd sat there and played quietly by the fire.
Cold Ridge Page 8