On Fire

by Carla Neggers

  If she did let him in, what would he do?

  She unlocked her door and took the two flights of stairs two and even three steps at a time. She picked up so much momentum, she almost went head-overteakettle down the front stoop. After throwing up, all she needed was to split her head open at Straker’s feet.

  He had his window rolled down.

  Riley caught her breath. “I can’t believe you drove all the way down from Maine.”

  He popped the last of a Big Mac into his mouth. “Now that you mention it, neither can I.”

  “What do you want?”

  He reached for a backpack on the floor in front of the passenger seat, rolled up his window, locked his door and climbed out. He looked just as powerful and strong and unflappable on her Porter Square sidewalk as on Labreque Island. The city didn’t make him any more or less than what he was—a man she would be wise to avoid. His own mother had said so.

  “Our body came with a nasty blow to the head,” he said. “CID’s treating it as a suspicious death.”

  “You mean—what—” Her stomach rolled over. “Are you suggesting he was murdered?”

  “That’s my bet.”

  He hoisted his backpack over one shoulder and started for her front stoop as if he’d just told her a dog had peed on her rug. Riley stayed on the sidewalk next to his car. She couldn’t move. Her knees wobbled. He wasn’t just John Straker, obnoxious teenager from her past. He was an FBI agent. He’d been shot twice by some dangerous nut on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. He’d spent the last six months as a recluse.

  Straker turned back to her. He shook his head. “You aren’t going to throw up, are you?”

  That unmoored her. She brushed past him and walked up the steps with as much nonchalance as she could fake. She prided herself on her ability to look reality square in the eye. Right now, the reality was that Straker was here, and she had to deal with him. She headed upstairs, assuming he would follow. He did.

  “I figured you for a condo on the water,” he said from behind her.

  “Too expensive.”

  “Well, I guess you’re comfortable among Cambridge eggheads.”

  She glanced back at him, cool. “Don’t inflict your stereotypes on me, Straker.”

  He shrugged. “Tell me your apartment won’t have egghead written all over it.”

  “Just shut up.”

  She could feel his grin as she pushed open her door. He’d always known how to jerk her chain. He walked in past her, took in her living room with her stuff stacked and spread out everywhere and gave her a smug wink. “I rest my case.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to clean—”

  “You have enough books and magazines and crap in here to start your own think tank.” He walked over to her computer table, cluttered with printouts and Post-it Notes. The wall behind it was covered with nautical charts. He ran a finger over the flamingo Beanie Baby she kept on her monitor. “Egghead with a touch of kook.”

  Riley gritted her teeth. “Straker, I swear I don’t know how people stand you.”

  “They don’t.” He abandoned her computer and came closer to her. It was as if he’d brought an electric current into her apartment; the air sizzled. “You’re looking a little green at the gills. Want me to fetch you a drink?”

  “No. I want you to tell me why you’re here.”

  He lifted a stack of Audubon magazines off her futon couch, set them on the floor next to a stack of Smithsonian magazines and sat down. “Emile took off.”

  “What do you mean, he took off?”

  “I mean he took out the trash, made his bed, locked up and vamoosed. No car, no boat. He probably hid one—my bet’s on the car. Emile’s a sailor at heart. He’d go by water if he had a choice.”

  Riley ignored a sudden chill and uneasiness. “You’re thinking like an FBI agent instead of someone who knows Emile. He does this sort of thing. He’ll go off for days at a time without telling anyone.”

  “Does he always hide his car?”

  “You don’t know he hid it. He could have just used it to haul supplies to his boat, then didn’t want to take the trouble of driving it back up to the cottage, so left it.”

  Straker shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He leaned back and stretched out his thick legs. Riley didn’t remember him being so earthy. He seemed to exude sexuality. It had to be deliberate. A way of throwing her off balance in case she was hiding something from him. He glanced around. “No cat?”

  “What?”

  “I figured you’d have a cat.”

  She groaned. “This is outrageous. I think you should leave.”

  “I’d have to sleep in my car. I don’t have enough dough on me for a hotel.”

  “Don’t you have a credit card?”

  “Nope. I got rid of all my plastic after I got shot.”

  He was perfectly calm, controlled and irritatingly at ease. Riley sputtered, “You can’t think…”

  She fought the overwhelming sense she was losing her mind. The man she’d found may have been murdered, Emile had slipped off and John Straker, who’d been living on a deserted island for the past six months, was in her apartment. She hadn’t had a man in her apartment in months, not since after the Encounter, when the oceanographer she’d been casually dating said for her to take a few weeks to pull her head together, he’d be in touch. He hadn’t been in touch, and her life had gone on. She had her work. Romance would take care of itself.

  She winced. It was dangerous to think about romance with John Straker standing inches from her. “You’re not spending the night,” she told him.

  His gray eyes leveled on her. “Sure I am. Why else the backpack?”

  Why else indeed. She should have connected the dots sooner, like out on the street. “Then what?”

  He shrugged. “The morning will bring what the morning will bring.”

  “To hell with you, Straker. You have a plan and you know it. What is it? Do you think Emile had something to do with that dead body? Do you think he’s going to contact me? Has already contacted me?” She thrust her hands onto her hips, in full outrage now. “Are you going to follow me around just in case I’m up to something nefarious?”

  “Nefarious?” He grinned. “I’ve been in law enforcement for ten years, and I don’t think I’ve ever used that word.”

  She all but sputtered again. “You listen to me. I do not need and will not tolerate a reclusive, lunatic FBI agent with post-traumatic stress disorder in my hip pocket.”

  He got to his feet, crumpled up his Big Mac wrapper and walked through the dining room into the kitchen. Riley followed him. She wondered if she’d said something wrong. If she’d said a lot wrong. She reminded herself that everything she’d said was true and thus it might have been wiser on her part not to say it out loud. What if he snapped?

  He glanced back at her. “Trash can?”

  “Under the sink.”

  He pulled open the cupboard and tossed in the crumpled wrapper. He turned back to her. His eyes were narrowed; his body was rigid. She wasn’t nervous, but she was on high alert. He said, “Two things.”

  “Okay.”

  “One, I don’t have PTSD. I’d have PTSD if the guy’d shot his hostages. He didn’t. He shot me. So, no PTSD.”

  She nodded. “No PTSD.”

  “Two, you need a drink.”

  “I don’t need a drink. I don’t need anything—”

  He sighed. “Now I remember why we threw rocks at each other when we were kids. Do you have whiskey or is wine it?”

  “Wine’s it.”

  He plucked a half-full bottle of chardonnay from her refrigerator. He didn’t bother tracking down her wineglasses, just filled two juice glasses. He handed her one. “Toast?”

  She was past arguing. “Sure.”

  He clinked his glass against hers. “To the first thing Riley St. Joe needs.”

  “I don’t know the first thing I need.”

  He winked. “That’s why we’re toasting
it.”

  “Huh?”

  “One night on your futon. Tomorrow I’ll figure out whether I need to jump into your hip pocket or not.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m a pro. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  Straker had never slept on a futon. As sofa beds went, it wasn’t bad, and he had to admit it was better than that thing in his cottage Emile called a mattress. It was the clutter and the city noises that got him. And perhaps the presence of Riley St. Joe under the same roof. At least she didn’t have a cat. If he’d had to put up with a cat, too, he might not have endured.

  She was up at the crack of dawn, putting coffee on, humming to herself, digging through piles for odd items she tossed into her leather tote bag. Straker had a pretty good idea she’d forgotten she’d let him sleep on her futon.

  Suddenly she gasped and went still. She had her back to him. He figured she was trying to make herself disappear. She had on oversize, black-watch-plaid flannel boxers and a T-shirt with a guy snowboarding down a mountainside on the back. She had slender, shapely legs. The boxers were too big for him to make out the shape of her bottom. Forget the T-shirt; he could fit in it. He could also get it off her in one fell swoop. She was small, sexy and not as easy to figure out as he remembered. From what he could see, she didn’t have much of a life. He guessed she’d gone underground since the Encounter disaster. Instead of a deserted island, she’d picked think-tank clutter.

  He sat up and rubbed his overnight stubble. “You wear boxers to bed, huh? Not me. I sleep in the buff.”

  She didn’t turn around. “I’ll put more coffee on,” she mumbled, and quickly retreated to the kitchen.

  He pulled on his pants and shirt and for once didn’t bother checking the scars on his lower right side and thigh. His wounds had healed. He could climb tall mountains if he wanted to.

  He went to join Riley in the kitchen, but she’d already dashed off, presumably to her bedroom for more clothes. He poured himself a cup of coffee, made a spot at the table and sat down to mull over his options. Yesterday his mission had seemed clear. Find Emile. Start with Riley. Boom. Here he was.

  This morning, things were muddier. Riley had a job and didn’t want him around. Emile could be anywhere. Neither necessarily had any connection to the body found on Labreque Island.

  The telephone rang. Who’d be calling at seven in the morning? He waited a half beat after the final ring before picking up the portable.

  Riley was talking. “Sig—slow down. What’s wrong?”

  “Mom just talked to the police.” Sig spoke rapidly, obviously not getting enough air. “Riley, they’ve identified the man you found. Oh, Jesus.”

  Straker stiffened. This wasn’t good news. He could hear Riley gulp in a breath. “Tell me.”

  “It’s Sam Cassain,” Sig said, sobbing.

  Riley was silent. Then, in a strangled whisper, “Oh, my God.”

  Straker frowned. “Who the hell’s Sam Cassain?”

  Sig almost screamed. “Riley? Who’s that? Who’s there?”

  “Straker, get off my damned phone!”

  He didn’t move. “Who’s Sam Cassain?”

  “John Straker?” Sig said, more calmly now. “Riley, what’s he doing in your apartment? Are you crazy?”

  This wasn’t getting him anywhere. Straker hung up and went into the bedroom. Riley was sitting on the edge of her unmade bed in her work clothes, no shoes. Her eyes were huge. Her skin was pale. She stared up at him. “I’ll call you later, Sig,” she told her sister, and hung up.

  “Who’s Sam Cassain?” Straker repeated.

  She placed a shaky hand on her forehead. “He—he was the captain of the Encounter.”

  The pieces fell together. “He’s the one who laid the blame for the explosion and fire at Emile’s feet.”

  She nodded dully.

  “He turns up dead on Labreque Island, and Emile disappears. Police’ll be calling you next.” He thought a moment, ignoring her increasing paleness. “Strike that. They’ll come see you in person. You didn’t recognize him?”

  “No. I didn’t get that close a look, and the gulls…”

  He remembered. “Emile must have figured it out.”

  “How could he? He never saw the body.”

  “Instincts,” Straker said.

  She slid to her feet. Her room was as cluttered as the rest of her apartment, but with feminine touches—a pair of earrings on the nightstand, a botanical print of beach plums above the bed, little jars of creams and perfumes on the bureau. She stood in front of him, smart, professional and quite pretty. And annoyed. “I don’t want you listening in on my phone conversations.”

  “Would you have told me about Cassain if I hadn’t?”

  “Probably.”

  “Probably” wasn’t good enough, but she was too unsteady and shaken for him to press the point. He made her drink a cup of coffee and eat a piece of toast, and when she protested about him driving her to work, he ignored her and coaxed her into his car. The rush-hour traffic into Boston reminded him why he’d retreated to an uninhabited island to recuperate. Lots of stimuli out here on the city streets. Cars, lights, horns, traffic helicopters, blaring radios, construction.

  Riley sat beside him, hugging her overstuffed leather tote on her lap so hard her knuckles turned white.

  “Remember to breathe,” he said.

  “I am breathing.”

  “Not from here.” He poked her breastbone. “From here.” He poked her low on her diaphragm. He could feel smooth, cool skin under her creamy blouse. More stimuli. “Slow, deep breaths. How well did you know Sam Cassain?”

  “He was the Encounter’s captain for seven years. He was tough, no-nonsense and not one to suffer fools gladly.”

  “Who hired him?”

  “Emile did. His last captain had died of cancer. He was a scientist, too, and when he died, Emile wanted someone new who’d tend the ship and leave the science to him. The Encounter was old.” She swallowed, her gaze locked straight ahead, as if she couldn’t turn her head. “The center had already commissioned a new research ship. It’s costing a fortune, but it’ll have all the latest ecological and technological advances. We’re calling it the Encounter II.”

  “Who’s in charge of it now that Emile’s out of the picture?”

  “My father.”

  Straker took Storrow Drive along the Charles River, then cut over to the waterfront. More construction. No room for the five million other cars on the road. The center was located in a renovated nineteenth-century warehouse on its own wharf. A huge, whimsical stone fountain out front featured various marine mammals.

  “You can just drop me off on the curb,” Riley said.

  He hated the idea of dumping her and retreating. Cassain’s body had been found in Maine, and Emile had exiled himself to Maine. But the two men’s relationship had begun here, in Boston.

  “I think you should hire me to feed the penguins or something,” he told her.

  She blanched. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not in a position to hire you, and I don’t want you underfoot.” Now that he’d seen her in her boxers, underfoot probably sounded less threatening to her than in her hip pocket. “And you wouldn’t fit in.”

  “I’d fit in. I grew up on the ocean. I probably have more practical knowledge about the ocean than most people who work here.”

  She managed to peel one hand off her tote and place it on the door handle. “For God’s sake, Straker, you haven’t been around people in six months. Even on a good day you’re not volunteer material. Please. Just let me go to work and put this all into perspective.”

  While she talked, he formed a plan. She didn’t need to know it. It would just upset her, and she was upset enough. He said, “Okay. See you around.”

  Her brows drew together. She’d put on a little bit of makeup, but not enough to hide how pale she was. Her lips were plum. They were also well shaped. He had
a feeling she didn’t have a man in her life. She made a face, obviously having no idea what he was thinking. “I don’t know if I like the idea of you running around out here by yourself.”

  He grinned. “I’m a big boy.”

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

  “Think I’d do something to embarrass you?”

  She didn’t answer. “You aren’t on this thing officially, are you?”

  “Nope. Sleeping on a futon in your apartment isn’t part of my job description.”

  “What if I promise to call you if I hear from Emile?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have a cell phone in this car?”

  He gave her the number.

  “Thank you.” He assumed she meant for not pressing his case about the penguins, which was a misreading of the situation on her part. “This’ll work out. I know it will. Emile’s probably just checking out puffin nests.”

  Straker gave her an hour to get settled. He parked in her spot in the garage, bought a cup of coffee from a sidewalk vendor and sat by the stone fountain. The coffee was hot and strong, and he sipped it slowly as he avoided pigeons and tried not to let his thoughts run full speed ahead of him. One thought came to him crystal clear, impossible to ignore.

  Riley St. Joe was trouble. She always had been. He had the scar on his forehead to prove it.

  Four

  Riley holed up in her small, cluttered office and worked all morning. After her long weekend, she had plenty to do. She tried not to think about Emile or Straker. Emile worried her. Straker simply annoyed her. He always had. He took pleasure in it. The shock of having him roll off her couch that morning had nearly done her in. The dark stubble on his jaw, the unbuttoned shirt. He was earthy, masculine and relentless.

  Forewarned, she told herself, is forearmed. She needed to remember that nothing ever penetrated John Straker’s hard shell enough to reach his soul, not two bullets, not a dead body on the rocks.

  It was Sam Cassain’s body she’d found.

  She shut her eyes, the faint beginnings of a headache pressing against her temples. Sam was dead, Emile was missing—and Straker? She didn’t know what Straker was up to. It might have made more sense to keep him where she could see him, but she had nowhere to tuck an FBI agent.