On Fire

by Carla Neggers

  “Wait—where are you going?”

  He hung up. Screw it. He didn’t answer to Riley St. Joe.

  He got his car out of the garage, paid full price for parking because he didn’t have her with him to get the discount, and negotiated the narrow, busy streets to get on I-93 North. He wasn’t leaving much at Riley’s place. His toothbrush and razor, a couple of changes of clothes. Nothing he couldn’t replace.

  Camden was about four hours north. He’d stop in for a word with Mara St. Joe and Sig St. Joe-Granger, and after that, he’d see.

  Riley stuffed what work she could into her leather tote. She was just grabbing files and reports, dumping them blindly into her bag as she fought back her sense of frustration and humiliation. How could she have been such a coward?

  She had let Henry Armistead maneuver her into implying that Straker was stalking her. Now Straker was furious with her, Henry still had his doubts, and she was supposed to lie low for a few days, even at the risk of letting her work pile up.

  First thing that morning, Henry had popped into her office, paced in front of her desk. There wasn’t much room, but he’d been agitated, troubled by the terrible position he—or more important, the center—was in. “It’s not your fault you found Sam’s body,” he’d told her. “But with the media attention and the police scrutiny, I think we’d all be better off if you kept a low profile for a few days. Relax this weekend. Take Monday off. Then let’s see where we are.”

  “Henry, I’m already backed up—”

  “We can’t have John Straker skulking around. I know you can’t help it that he was on the island when you found Captain Cassain. Nevertheless…” He sighed. “You know what I’m saying.”

  “You’re saying I inflicted him on the center.”

  “He’s unpredictable, a loose cannon if you will. If you take a few days off and let the authorities figure out what’s going on, perhaps he’ll go back to Maine. That would be best for all of us.”

  Riley could understand his frustration and anxiety. The job of executive director of an oceanographic research institution, while never easy, wasn’t supposed to include things like suspicious deaths, fires and FBI agents lurking on the premises.

  “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.

  Eight

  Sig 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.”