On Fire

by Carla Neggers

  “I’ll put the groceries away,” she said. “You make sure nobody’s been fooling around with my lightbulbs.”

  She was just kidding—she told herself she was just kidding—but when Straker started poking around in the corners of her apartment, she couldn’t deny a sense of relief. Nobody’d blow up her apartment tonight, anyway.

  She set her bag on a cleared stretch of counter and unloaded the milk and juice. Her phone rang, and she shut the fridge, debating whether to let her machine take the call.

  She picked up the receiver, and Sig said, “Riley? Just checking in.”

  Riley frowned. “You sound terrible.”

  “Physically terrible or emotionally terrible?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, not to worry. I’ve got my feet up and a talk show on the tube. I’ll be fine.”

  “But you’re not fine right now,” Riley said.

  “Matt was here a little while ago. We—” She seemed to choke back a sob. “I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Take the night off. When I’m painting and run into a brick wall, I find it best just to stand back, abandon the project for a while, then come back to it fresh.” She inhaled, sniffled. “I know you’d find a way to go through the brick wall if you had to, but I have to—”

  “Sig, do you want me to come over?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. Are you alone?”

  Straker appeared in the kitchen doorway and gave her a thumbs-up. No linseed oil rags draped over her lightbulbs. Riley sighed. “No.”

  “John Straker’s there? Riley.”

  “It’s not what you think.” Well, it was, but she wasn’t getting into it with her sister. “There’s something you need to know. Be discreet, okay? It’s not public yet.”

  She told Sig about the Encounter’s engine, Sam’s pictures, Emile’s theory of sabotage. Straker didn’t look too happy about it, but he didn’t jerk the phone out of her hand or rip it out of the wall. Riley left out nothing, not even the parts about her brother-in-law’s role in bringing up the Encounter’s engine.

  When she finished, she said, “Are you still sure you don’t want me to come over?”

  “No.” To her surprise, Sig sounded firm, more in control. “I need to mull this over while I watch the talking heads.”

  She hung up, and Riley let out a long, cathartic breath. She was restless, her mind racing in a thousand different directions at once. She turned to Straker. “How about dinner out? There’s a quiet little Thai restaurant a few blocks from here. We can walk over and pretend we’re normal people.”

  “I didn’t know any normal people lived in Cambridge.”

  “Straker, you are so damned obnoxious. I don’t know how anyone stands you.”

  He grinned. “You stand me pretty well, as I recall.”

  “That was post-traumatic stress. It took jumping out of a burning building to get me into bed with you.”

  “Ah.”

  “No sane woman would go to bed with a shot-up, burned-out FBI agent who never could get along with anyone.”

  “But you’ve regained your sanity?”

  She eyed him, felt the traitorous reaction, low and deep. She licked her lips. “I’m trying.”

  “Try away, St. Joe. Come on, we’ll do dinner out. It’ll remove temptation for an hour or so.”

  Unfortunately, she thought, temptation would be right across the table from her.

  But maybe he, too, needed some semblance of normalcy, some balance between the life he’d led for the past six months and the highly charged atmosphere, the danger and questions and fears, of the past week—which, she presumed, was more like his “normal” life.

  They sat in the back of the tiny restaurant and ordered too much food, and by unspoken agreement, they talked about things other than fires, murder and sabotage. He wasn’t a regular guy. She’d known that when she was six. But he was even less of a regular guy at thirty-four. Regular guys didn’t rescue hostages from terrorists. They didn’t, she thought, have friends like Emile Labreque, and they didn’t touch her the way John Straker had.

  “Do you like being an FBI agent?” she asked.

  “I’m good at it.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  He smiled. “It suits me. It’s good work, rewarding work. For a while back in April, May, I thought I’d quit, buy a lobster boat.”

  “But you’ve changed your mind,” Riley said.

  “I figure dead bodies would keep turning up until I got the point.”

  When they walked back to her apartment, she found her hand in his, found herself leaning against his strong shoulder, whispering, “You don’t have to sleep on the futon.”

  “What about the Holiday Inn?”

  “A cheap Mainer like you paying for a room when a free one’s available?” She smiled. “I don’t think so.”

  “A free room and a willing woman. Life could be worse.”

  She punched his arm.

  “St. Joe, you’ve been waiting for years for me to walk back into your life. You need a man who doesn’t tiptoe around that big mouth of yours.”

  “You didn’t walk back in, Straker. You barreled in.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Sexier that way.”

  When they reached her apartment, he made no pretenses, just scooped her up and carried her back to her bedroom caveman style, smothered her laughter with a breathtaking, spine-melting kiss. He was indeed, she thought, an intensely physical man, with an enthusiasm for sex that was staggering, that made her feel as if he would never get enough of her.

  They had a cycle going. The more he wanted her, the more she wanted him; the more she wanted him, the more he wanted her. On and on it went, until the cycle fell in on itself and they couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t imagine release.

  And when it happened, when release came, it wasn’t gentle, or slow, or easy, but soul penetrating, washing over them in great, searing waves, as if it had a logic and a will of its own, one that bypassed all careful reasoning, all knowledge, all common sense.

  “I can’t fall in love with you,” she whispered, drawing the blankets up over them as she settled against his shoulder.

  He slid his hand over the curve of her hip, moved lower, eased his fingers between her legs. “Of course you can’t. Falling’s not your style.”

  And his mouth found hers, his tongue probing with the same erotic rhythm as his fingers, beginning the cycle again. “What’s your style?” she asked as he kissed her throat, took a nipple between his lips.

  “I’m better at action than words.”

  He raised up off her and eased his fingers away, then entered with a deep, hard thrust that made her cry out with its intensity. He didn’t follow with another, but stayed in her, caught up her hand in his and locked eyes with her. A man of action. A man of great physical needs. He was asking her not to fall, but to take control, to choose.

  “Again,” she breathed. “Don’t stop.”

  “As if I could,” he said, thrusting harder, deeper.

  Much later, she slipped out of bed, pulled on a bathrobe and went into the living room. She turned on a light and sat on the futon with a clipboard and a pencil, drew a line down the middle of a yellow pad. On the left, she jotted everything she knew to be a fact. On the right, she jotted everything else.

  When she finished, her hands were shaking and she was fighting tears. There was more under the “everything else” column. None of it looked good for Emile.

  Straker came and sat beside her. He’d put on jeans, nothing else. He took her clipboard, examined it. “Not bad. You’d make it through Quantico.”

  “I’m afraid for Emile,” she said. “He’s always believed in destiny, fate. That’s how he could take on so much for so many years, without fear. He’s never been able to look over his shoulder and see his enemies coming. And Matt—” She gulped for air. “I’m afraid for him, too. He’s in over his head, isn�
�t he?”

  Straker was expressionless. “He should tell the police what he knows. Bow out and let them do their job.”

  “Sig couldn’t stand to lose him. Straker, she’s pregnant, she can’t—”

  “She knows all the risks.” He laid Riley’s clipboard on top of a stack of magazines. “Sig might be a free spirit instead of a scientist, but she’s no one’s fool.”

  Riley stared at her columns of facts, rumors, musings, suppositions. “Bennett Granger came aboard the Encounter at the last minute. I wrote that down under facts. I don’t know if it makes any difference—I just jotted down stuff as it came to mind.”

  “Why the last minute?”

  “Spur of the moment, he said. He did that sort of thing from time to time. This wasn’t one of Emile’s big research expeditions—we were just going out for a few days to test an experimental submersible. My own reasons for being aboard were tangential.” She swallowed, barely able to continue. “Do you suppose whoever sabotaged the Encounter would have done it if they’d realized Bennett was aboard?”

  “It’s something to consider.” Straker’s tone was professional, unemotional.

  She shivered, suddenly cold. “I don’t know how you do this kind of work for a living.”

  “Because it’s necessary.”

  She nodded. “If this was your case—”

  “It’s not my case. I haven’t been treating it as my case. I’m Emile’s friend. I’m your friend. I told you right from the beginning I’m not acting in a professional capacity.” He managed a quick smile. “Which is a good thing. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to sleep with you, and that wouldn’t be any fun.”

  She smiled, feeling less cold. “Thank you.”

  “It’s easy to be reassuring in the middle of the night. In the cold light of day…” He got to his feet, touched her hair. “We’ll take another look at your list in the morning.”

  Fifteen

  Straker listened to Riley explain her plan of action—or, more accurately, inaction—as he drove her into Boston in the morning. With her leather tote on her lap and wearing a crisp white shirt and black pants, she was ready to spend the day as director of recovery and rehabilitation for the Boston Center for Oceanographic Research. Henry Armistead, she said, would just have to put up with her.

  “I’m going to try to sit tight,” she said. “I think it’s important to give the authorities a chance to pick apart Sam’s movements in the past few weeks and get on with finding out how he died, who’s framing Emile and setting fires.”

  Straker had his doubts about Riley St. Joe ever sitting tight, but he kept silent.

  “I suppose answers would be easier to come by if my damned grandfather and brother-in-law quit their cloak-and-dagger games and talked to investigators.” She inhaled, her frustration with them palpable. “But I understand. I was aboard the Encounter, Straker. If I were in Matt’s or Emile’s place, I’d probably do what they’re doing.”

  “You haven’t been much better,” he pointed out. “It’s going to be a close call whether they end up with charges against them.”

  Her arms tensed, and her eyes darkened a fraction. A week ago he might not have noticed. Now he noticed everything she did. Which, he knew, would be of no comfort to her whatsoever. She said, “Emile won’t care. Matt…” She inhaled. “He’s probably never even had a parking ticket. But he can afford a good lawyer.”

  Straker shook his head. “Yep. You’re going to sit tight.” His tone was laced with sarcasm and amusement at how unself-aware she could be. “You’ll start to twitch the minute someone hands you a report on the skin problems of a moray eel and you realize this is it, no bad guys to root out.”

  “I like my work.”

  “So?”

  She shot him a stubborn look. “So what?”

  “So I give you thirty minutes before you start climbing the walls.”

  “You’re not going to give me anything. You’re going to leave me alone. Got it, Straker? I mean it. Henry still has you down as a stalker, you know.”

  He smiled. “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s bad enough I’m showing up today. If you show up, too, he’ll have a fit. And I don’t blame him. Caroline’s round of parties on Mount Desert was supposed to signal a new beginning for the center—the end of our year of mourning the Encounter and the five lost.”

  “Then Sam turns up dead.”

  She winced, staring out the open window. It was a cool, beautiful morning. “I didn’t mean to sound hard-hearted. Sam had his downside, but he didn’t deserve—” She stopped, and Straker knew she was seeing the body on the rocks. “He didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

  Straker negotiated the maze of Big Dig detours and the city traffic, and was struck by the normalcy of something as simple as dropping Riley St. Joe off at work.

  “I need to let everything simmer,” she went on, almost absently. “Sig does that. She’s convinced that abandoning a problem for a while is the best way to solve it.”

  “I thought you were giving the authorities a chance.”

  “I am. But if I come up with any answers, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing if you call them first and don’t go off half-cocked.”

  She scowled. “Typical FBI agent. You don’t trust anyone.”

  “I don’t trust you. You get a lead on Emile, you’ll be out of there.”

  “Well, fine. What are your plans for the day?”

  “I thought I’d pay your sister a visit.”

  Riley nodded, obviously concurring with the idea. “I plan to call her after I get in. She’s so unhappy. Are you shifting your focus from Emile to Matt?”

  “Nah, I’m taking you to work.”

  She groaned. “Were you this bad before you were shot? Never mind. I know you were. That’s why I threw that rock at you.”

  “You threw more than one rock at me. Lucky for you only one hit.”

  “Lucky for me?”

  “Definitely.”

  He pulled up to the plaza in front of the center, and a wild-haired man in his late twenties jumped out in front of Riley’s car. He thumped the hood in excitement. “Riley St. Joe. A word?”

  “I’m not talking to reporters, Straker. Can you—”

  Straker shook his head. “I’m not running him over. He has a right to do his job.”

  “If he jumps in front of a moving car, he should expect to get run over.” But she sighed. “This is all Henry needs to see. You at the wheel of my car, a reporter pelting questions at me.”

  The reporter held on to the driver-side mirror as if to keep the car from pulling away. He stuck his head in Straker’s window. “John Straker,” he said. “You’re the FBI agent who was wounded in the hostage situation up on the Canadian border earlier this year. You were on Labreque Island when Riley here found Captain Cassain’s body.”

  “That’s me.”

  “So there you were recuperating from your injuries on a quiet coastal island and a dead body turns up. How did that feel? Did it bring everything back? Did you have a flashback to your own near death?”

  Straker kept both hands on the wheel. This wasn’t a professional journalist, this was an idiot. He was feeling fewer qualms about running him over. “I’m not answering questions this morning.” There. That was reasonable.

  “You and Emile Labreque are from the same small town in Maine. Are you two friends?” When Straker didn’t answer, the reporter squinted at him, undeterred. “You know where he is? Don’t you think it’s virtually impossible for a widely recognized man like Emile Labreque to elude authorities for this long without help?”

  Riley placed her hand on her door handle as if to make a run for it.

  “Okay,” Straker said to the reporter. “Riley needs to get to work, and I haven’t had my second cup of coffee.” He put one hand on the gearshift. “You might want to back away from the car.”

  The reporter—or whatever he was—hung on to the mirror and leaned farther in t
he window. Straker could easily give his scrawny neck a twist. “Riley, what about you? Are you hiding your grandfather? Do you think he killed Sam Cassain?”

  She clenched her tote, glared at him. “That’s a hell of a question—”

  “I’ve heard rumors Cassain could prove your grandfather sabotaged the Encounter.”

  One of the many lessons Riley had yet to learn, Straker thought, was turning the other cheek. Her eyes darkened; her jaw set hard. “He did no such thing.”

  “Rumor has it that’s what got Cassain killed. Emile popped him on the head, let him drown, dumped his body where he thought no one would find it. Didn’t he try to discourage you from kayaking to Labreque Island?”

  She grabbed Straker’s arm, ready to jump over him and go for the guy’s throat. “That’s outrageous. Who’s spreading these rumors?”

  “Well, then, maybe you helped your grandfather dump Sam’s body, then pretended to find it to divert suspicion—”

  She was going for the window. She shoved her tote on the floor with one hand and tightened her grip on Straker’s arm, ready to crawl over his lap and jump through the window. He could smell her hair, her light perfume, felt a jolt as he remembered last night. Now, however, she wanted blood.

  Straker held her off and turned to the reporter. “Okay, ace, time to back off. We’re done here.”

  The reporter stood his ground smugly. “I’m not.”

  Straker ignored him and hit the gas, pulling forward, giving the guy about half a second to let go of the mirror. He did, but he smacked the trunk as a final gotcha. Straker plopped Riley back in her seat, gunned the engine and whipped around to the parking garage, where, presumably, she’d have a better chance of avoiding other reporters.

  “You’re an FBI agent,” she muttered. “Can’t you arrest him?”

  He glanced at her. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’d rather keep a violent act from happening than clean up after one.”

  She snorted. “You think that weasel would have tried to hurt me?”

  “Other way around, sweetheart.” He smiled as he pulled to a stop just inside the garage. “I can see why the center doesn’t have you do PR. The pitbull approach.”