“Nothing,” she said quietly.
“I know better than that.” He slid his hand beneath the fall of her waves and lightly worked at the tautness of her neck. “I’ve seen it, Carly.”
She cast a frightened glance over her shoulder. “Seen what?”
“That haunted look in your eyes. And desire.” When she jerked her eyes forward again, he simply continued to stroke her neck. She didn’t pull away, a fact that gave proof to his words. “You feel it, too. I know you do. But something’s holding you back. I saw it on the stairs that day. You wanted me to kiss you, but you were afraid. Then, when we were running and I did kiss you, you opened to me with the same desire you felt just now. Then, too, something came between us as soon as you could think again. What is it?” he asked with such need that she nearly crumbled.
Which was precisely what she feared the most. Surrender. Confession. Discovery. Not that she doubted Ryan’s integrity any longer. She trusted him fully. There was no way he could be faking the emotion she saw in his face. But her cover was something for which she’d given up her job, her friends and, in many respects, her family. To spill all to Ryan would be to poke a hole in that cover. She simply couldn’t.
Which left her with the pain of deception.
“Tell me, Carly,” he pleaded, his voice low and gravelly. Slipping his hand down her back and around her waist, he came to her side and looked down at her. “Is it your husband? Was your love for him such that you feel guilty experiencing something you might have shared with him?”
“No,” she said quickly, then hastily qualified herself. “I did love him. Very deeply. Our marriage was something special. But, no, I don’t feel guilty.”
Ryan pondered her words and the urgent expression she wore. “It’s been four years, you said. Has there been someone else since?”
She hugged herself more tightly, as though to ward off the heartrending concern that even now threatened to make her cave in against him. “There was,” she said softly, unable to lie.
“Did you love him?”
“Not in the way I loved Ma-Malcolm.”
“Then in what way?”
“Peter was a friend. A co-worker.”
“A lover?”
She caught in her breath, then released it with a quiet, “No.” What she’d felt for Peter hadn’t ever approached the romantic, yet given what he’d sacrificed—in large part at her instigation—she felt nearly as attached to his memory as she did to Matthew’s.
“Is he still back in San Diego?”
Involuntarily she winced. “No.”
“Then he’s here?”
“No.”
“Are you in touch with him?”
She paused. To tell Ryan the truth, that Peter had died, would make her sound like a walking jinx. Which perhaps she was. But she didn’t want to go into that. “No,” she said simply, the finality in her voice conveying itself to Ryan, who took a deep breath and hugged her more tightly to his side.
“What about Sam?”
She was taken by surprise, jolted from one arena to another. Her heart pounded. “Sam? What about him?”
“Are you sure he doesn’t have a hold on you?”
“Sam’s a friend. I told you that. A very good one, but just a friend.”
Ryan studied her intently. “So there’s no one else. Then why not me?” he asked. “There are so many things I’d like to do with you, things that are awful to do alone. There are plays and new restaurants opening all the time—you still owe me an evening at Locke-Ober’s—and there’s the North Shore and the Berkshires and the White Mountains—do you ski?” When she shook her head he went quickly on. “I could teach you.” He paused on an up note, the look of pain on her face reminding him of what she’d once said about not being free. He couldn’t figure it out. “You’re human. You have needs and desires just like the rest of us.” His mind continued to labor. “Is it…a family problem?”
“No.”
“Something physical?” He studied her with sudden alarm, the arm at her waist drawing her around to face him. Perhaps she was trying to spare him some sort of pain. “Are you sick?”
She looked up blankly. “Sick?”
He completed the circle with his free arm. “You can tell me, Carly,” he urged, though torn apart by the thought. “Maybe I can help. If it’s a question of limited time—”
“A fatal disease?” For the first time, she laughed aloud, taken with his flair for drama. “Oh God, Ryan, no. I’m fine. It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what?” he came back instantly, relieved yet as curious as ever. “What could possibly have such a strong hold on you that it would keep you from feeling, from experiencing and enjoying?”
Her humor vanished as quickly as it had come. With her hands resting on Ryan’s forearms, she was aware of their strength, as she was of that of his thighs bracing hers, of his chest, his jaw, his personality. He’d kindled a flame and refused to let it die, and her body was in complete accord.
For a minute she simply looked at him, her eyes brimming with an anguished regret. Her voice was little more than a shaky whisper when she finally spoke. “Please, Ryan. Please don’t push.”
He held her gaze, his deep brown eyes mirroring her anguish. He half wished she would yell at him, demand he mind his own business, bodily kick him out. At least then he might be able to fight. But looking up at him the way she was, that lost doe, cornered and helpless yet wanting so desperately to survive, he couldn’t fight her. He couldn’t risk hurting her.
Instead, he gave a low moan and brought her against him. His head lowered protectively over hers. His encompassing arms formed a shield against the world. Eyes closed, he held her tightly, wondering whether she would ever take all he wanted to give. No, he couldn’t fight her. Not with force at least. But he was far from defeated. And she was far from immune. Even now he could feel her arms creeping around his waist.
“Okay,” he whispered into her hair. “Okay.” He kissed her brow, nudging her head back. “It’s okay.” His lips brushed her eyes, her cheeks, her jaw. “Come sit with me,” he breathed against her ear. “Just for a little while. I won’t ask for anything you don’t want to give.”
She slowly shook her head. “It won’t work, Ryan. It won’t work.”
“Why don’t we see?” he asked, pressing slow kisses along the line of her jaw. His hands slid forward along her waist, lightly scoring her sides.
“No,” she murmured, but her eyes were closed and she had unknowingly tipped her head to the side to allow him access to her neck. When his fingers skimmed the side swells of her breasts, she sucked in her breath. Then the fingers were gone, returned to her waist, leaving her with nothing to fear but frustration.
Framing her face with both of his hands, Ryan tipped it up. “A last kiss, then,” he whispered, and took it before she could think. No, he wouldn’t force her. He wouldn’t ask anything more than she was willing to give. But he’d found the key to that willingness, and he had every intention of using it.
Eight
“yOU NEVER DID TELL ME ABOUT THAT AUTOPSY report,” Carly said as they ran the next morning.
“No point,” Ryan responded. “It was worthless.”
“Didn’t show anything?”
His teeth gritted, giving his voice an edge. “Nothing conclusive. The warden claims there had been a scuffle in the prison yard two days before Luis died. The medical examiner claims that the bruises on his body could have come from that.”
She cast a glance up at his face. “What do you think?”
Only after several pensive strides did he answer. “I think we’ll never know.”
“And it ends there?”
“It’s ended. Oh, hell!” His sneaker hit a puddle, spattering them both. “Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea. It’s damn wet underfoot.”
“You’re just upset,” she said softly, dodging a puddle of her own. “Isn’t there anything else that can be done?”
�
�Luis is dead. The prime witness gone. Nothing came from the inmates. Or the guards. It’s not surprising.”
“But you still suspect foul play?”
“I don’t know. If someone feared Luis would spill his gut when his case came to trial, there’d be good reason to have him dead. He may have committed suicide. Then again, he may have been forced into it by a strong enough threat. His mother was the only person he had in the world. If he had to choose between his life and hers….”
Carly tugged her wool hat lower over her ears. It was cold. It had been so warm last weekend, yet today the wind was cutting and the sky was leaden. “I’m sorry,” she said at last.
“So am I.”
They ran in silence for a while. Carly wondered what she would have done if she’d been a reporter investigating the possibility of foul play. She would have gone to the warden, then to the files. She would have tried to interview convicts and ex-cons and guards and defense attorneys and the commissioner of corrections. Somehow she doubted she would have learned much more than that foul play was not unknown in correctional institutions. But would anything have come of it? Probably not.
Prison was hell. Ryan’s Luis had found that out.
After waiting for a week for his lawyer to show, Gary Culbert was impatient. The guard escorted him to a small windowless conference room, then shut the door, leaving him to pace the floor much as he’d done in his cell for what had seemed fifty hours a day since he’d been incarcerated one hundred and thirty-three days before. He took a cigarette from the pack in the pocket of his regulation blue work shirt and hastily lit it.
In the middle of the room stood a weathered wooden table around which three straight-backed chairs were set at odd angles, left carelessly by whomever had been there last. Completing the stark decor was a scratched metal bookshelf, bare of books, as depressing as the rest of the place, he decided with a snort. At least it was quiet here, a break from the incessant echoes of clanking metal doors and bars and voices raised in barely leashed anger.
The door opened and Philip Mancusi entered. A tall, thin man with a receding hairline and wire-rimmed glasses, wearing his usual three-piece suit, he carried himself well, looking the part of the cocksure lawyer to the hilt.
“Gary.” He nodded in greeting, then deposited his briefcase on the table along with an overstuffed brown envelope.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you all week! In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly have a princess phone in my cell!”
Mancusi cast a quelling stare over the rims of his glasses, clearly not intimidated by the outburst. “I’ve been in court,” he said casually, seating himself in one of the chairs. “You’re not my only client.”
“But I’m sure paying you one hell of a lot!”
“And we both know where the money came from.” In the silence that hovered, Culbert scowled, but had no further retort. His lawyer proceeded. “Have a seat, Gary.”
Angrily flicking his cigarette in the direction of the tin ashtray, Culbert sat. “What’s happening? Are you getting me out of here or not?”
“You were convicted of murder,” Mancusi reminded him with a steady gaze. “All I can do is take the appeals step by step. You know that. You’re a lawyer.”
“Was. Was. That’s the operative word. My license was revoked—or had you forgotten?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. But all that can be reversed. You can’t give up hope.”
“I haven’t!” Culbert growled, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “It’s the only thing I’ve got left, which is why I sit here wondering what’s going on.”
“We were denied the formal motion to stay execution of sentence.”
No bail. No freedom. There was a silence, then an explosive “Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“The written decision came down from the appellate court the day before yesterday. I thought it better to tell you in person. I’ve already begun preparing papers to file a motion for a new trial.”
“On what grounds?” Culbert shot back.
Mancusi’s shrug belied the pinched look around his mouth. “That’s what I’m trying to decide. We could always claim that the prosecutor never fully revealed the extent of the promises made to his witness. The argument could be made for excessive temptation.”
Culbert was as dubious as his lawyer. “Flimsy. What would our chances be?” It was a rhetorical question. He knew the score. Standing, he paced to the corner, then turned. “I want that new trial, Phil. This place is driving me insane.”
“What did you expect?”
Storming the few feet to the table, Culbert put both hands down flat. His eyes were hard. “I expected you to get me off in the first place. That was what you said you could do. That was what I paid you for.”
“That was before the state came up with Robyn Hart. She was a good witness.”
“She was an ambitious bitch who latched on to a cause and was determined to use it as a stepping stone in her career.”
“She’s relocated now.”
“Yeah.” Culbert straightened. “Probably sniffing around in someone else’s dirty laundry.”
“If there’s a new trial, she’ll be back,” Mancusi warned.
“And you’ll just have to try again to show that she was too emotionally involved to be objective. Hell, the woman lost a husband in a fire. Of course she’d want to nail someone.” He raised one hand. “Sure, sure, different fire, different city. But she was far from impartial.”
“The jury didn’t think so.”
“Well, we’ll have a different jury this time.”
“But the same witness. I’m telling you, Gary, it may be tough.” His gaze flicked to his papers, then back to Culbert. “There’s one possibility we might explore. The guy who died in that last fire—Bradley? If we can show some involvement between him and Hart—”
“Involvement as in sex?” When the other gave an acquiescent shrug, he scowled. “Come on, Phil. How’re you gonna do that?”
“There are ways. Vengeance can be a powerful motive in a woman’s mind.”
“But you said it yourself. She was a good witness. If you couldn’t break her regarding her husband, how in the hell are you gonna do it regarding some two-bit photographer?” Breaking into a spasm of coughing, Culbert stubbed out his cigarette.
Mancusi watched his client, one brow raised. “You should give those things up. They’re lousy for your health.”
“It’s this place that’s lousy for my health. I’m getting high blood pressure climbing the walls.” Calming himself, he sat back. “Without her the state hasn’t got much of a case. Any chance she won’t testify?”
Mancusi shrugged. “I don’t know. If they’ve relocated her, she’s given up a lot. So has the government. I doubt they’d let her renege. That was probably part of the deal.”
“But if something happened to her, if she couldn’t testify for some reason?”
“We’d probably get the case dismissed. Even with the notes she kept, I could make a case against her character. If something happened to her. But it depends what that was.” He eyed his client cautiously. “Gary, Gary, I wouldn’t even think it, if I were you. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“So what have I got to lose?”
“Exams beginning today?” Ryan asked as he and Carly set out on the river path. Though it was cold, the ground had completely dried. The weekend’s rain had stripped the trees of the last of their leaves. Winter was on its way.
“Uh-huh. We had review days Monday and yesterday. I think the kids are ready.”
“Will they study?”
A facetious laugh slithered from the back of her throat. “I hope so. Most of them will. I’m worried about a couple, though. One of the girls I counsel is rebelling against everything.”
“You counsel?”
She nodded. “All of us do.”
“Where do you get the time?”
“It’s built into the
day. I have four counselees. It’s not bad.”
“What do you do for them?”
“Get to know them. Keep in close touch. Watch for problems. Be on top of them when they occur.”
“Hmmph. Sounds different from the guidance counselors I remember as a kid. Seemed like all they did was give summary approval to the courses I wanted to take, write recommendations, shuffle papers.”
“Oh, I do my share of that too. But the theory at this kind of school is that the counselor is a friend.”
“That was what they said then.”
“But it’s true. At least here it is, though come to think of it I didn’t get a lot from my guidance counselors either. And they were working full-time at it.”
“Maybe that was why they failed. You know, the typical middle-level bureaucrat who creates things to fill his time?”
She ran a bit, then smiled up at him and nodded. “Maybe you’re right.” She sighed. “Anyway, it’s different at Rand. I think it works. The teachers are different. They’re very dedicated. They genuinely like kids. And care about what happens.”
“You do?” he asked, warmly meeting her gaze. He knew there was a reason he’d run at six since Monday. For every bit of time he spent with Carly, he learned—and liked—more about her.
“Yes. I do,” she said conclusively.
“I’m glad.” His voice lowered. “I’m also glad you decided to run during the week. Any regrets?”
She tossed him a single shy glance. “Sure. Sore muscles.”
“You’re doing fine, babe. Just fine.”
Given the grin he sent her, she had no regrets at all.
On Thursday morning he had something else on his mind. They’d run in the dark to their usual turning point and were headed back as the sky began to pale.
“Just a week till Thanksgiving. It’s hard to believe.”
Carly didn’t find it so hard to believe. Though the past ten days had zipped by, it seemed forever since she’d seen a family face.
“What are your plans?” Ryan asked.
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