Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Like red, do you?” he called, straightening and starting down the steps with one hand in the pocket of his slacks.

  “Love it!” Her back was to him; only as he came closer did he see that she was arranging a small bunch of red and white carnations in a simple glass carafe. “It’s bright and daring. It demands notice.” Turning, she whisked around him and put the carafe on the center of the table. “Sometimes the shades clash, but this place is so dark and drab that it needed something to give it pep.”

  Greg looked around and shrugged. “Funny. It didn’t even occur to me to think of dark or drab.”

  “Are you kidding? Maybe the dark covers the drab. I’ve got lights plugged into nearly every outlet and I still feel like it’s constantly midnight.”

  “That’s because you’re below street level.”

  “I suppose. Still, gray brick on every wall? If I were ambitious I’d paint it all white. God only knows why anyone would go with yuck gray.”

  “Your red does a lot. I like it.”

  Hands propped on her hips, Sheila took a deep breath as she perused the room. “Well, this is only the beginning. From here I’ll take a one-bedroom above ground, then a three-bedroom several stories up, then the penthouse, then a mansion in the country, then…who knows!” Her grin had broadened with each step.

  Greg wondered how she was going to manage it on an agent’s salary. “Are those dreams, or plans?”

  Her grin vanished, her head shot around and, for the first time in a while, he saw the sharpness in her eyes he’d once commented on to Sam. She was really a stunning woman, with her flowing black hair, her slender curves, and, yes, those snapping eyes that spoke of mystery and fire. Of its own accord, and taking him slightly by surprise, his body tautened.

  Simultaneously hers relaxed and she broke into a gentle smile. “Dream or plan? A little of each, I guess.” She opened a cabinet and extracted bottles of Scotch and rum, and two glasses.

  Greg lounged against the counter by her side. “What do you want from life, Sheila?”

  She turned to the refrigerator for Coke, the freezer for ice. “In what sense?”

  “Work, for one thing. What are your long-range plans?”

  “I just got here. How can I think that far ahead?”

  “Tell me dreams, then. What do you want to do?”

  She made a face and struggled to separate the ice cubes from their bin. When the cold chips resisted her fingers, she turned to Greg for help. “Can you give these a try? This freezer stinks. The temperature is so uneven that the ice all sticks together.”

  Greg reached in and fumbled unsuccessfully for a minute. “Got an ice pick or a knife or something?”

  She took a knife from the drawer and handed it to him. After several hacks, he had freed enough cubes to fill their glasses. Standing back, Sheila let Greg fix their drinks and hand her hers. Then she led him to the wicker love seat, kicked off her heels and, tucking one leg under her, sat down.

  “Tell me about you, Greg,” she coaxed. “What do you want from life?”

  He hadn’t exactly planned to talk about himself, but since she seemed interested, he said, “I’d like to work my way up the ladder in the marshal’s service. When and if I decide to leave, the experience I’ll have had here will stand me in good stead to do other things in law enforcement. At some point I’d love to go to Washington.”

  They talked about that for a while, with Sheila asking question after question, seeming intrigued by the thought of a career in the nation’s capital. When she got up to fix dinner, Greg followed her into the kitchen and talked with her as she worked. He felt surprisingly relaxed, more so than he had expected, given the supposed “unsettling” effect that he was to be investigating. Strangely, as the minutes passed, he felt less and less the investigator and more and more the man. She had a way of doing that, a subtle way, a seemingly innocent way.

  It was in her eyes, those eyes that could be so sharp, yet seemed now direct and latently sensual, eyes that lingered on his or fell to focus on the warm pulse beat at his neck or studied his fingers as they curled around his glass. It was in her voice, sometimes bubbly, sometimes serious but strangely sultry in its nasal kind of way.

  As they talked through a dinner of shrimp, steamed rice and artichokes in butter sauce, Greg began to wonder what it was that had originally bothered him about Sheila. Nervous energy? If there was nervous energy now, he couldn’t see it. Rather, he saw a woman who was composed and poised, mature and apparently unaware of how truly attractive she was. Her sense of humor erupted often, but it was finely tuned to his own. She listened, questioned, spoke as little about herself as possible. By the time they’d polished off dinner and a bottle of wine, he was unbelievably titillated.

  Conversation waned. Sheila sipped kahlua-laced coffee, her eyes holding his over the rim of her mug. Then her gaze fell to his throat, and she was captivated by the curling tufts of hair that had escaped once he’d loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar.

  Greg Reilly was a very attractive man, she decided. Tall and well built, he claimed to have been something of a jock at Boston College. She believed him. Though he’d also said that his involvement with sports was now limited to membership in a weekend basketball league, he had easily retained his lean physique and fluidity of movement. With dark wavy hair, deep blue eyes and a faintly ruddy complexion, he was an Irishman to do Boston proud.

  “Sheila?” His voice held a sudden warning that brought her eyes instantly up from their intent study of him. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  She neither pled innocence nor smiled, but spoke in a soft, sure voice, her eyes steady on his as she lowered the cup to her lap. “Yes.”

  “It’s not very smart.”

  “Why not?” she asked gently. “We’re adults.”

  “Adults who work together.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “It can complicate things.”

  “I don’t see how,” she said in the same quiet voice. Its very guilelessness was a potent stimulant to Greg’s growing awareness of her warm body, so near and apparently willing. “You’re an attractive man. If you find me attractive….” Her voice trailed off, her eyes asking the question.

  Greg set his mug on the floor. Then he propped one knee by Sheila’s hip and, with his other leg stretched to the floor, he half knelt over her. When she tipped her head up, he spread his fingers under her thick fall of hair and supported her head while his gaze caressed her features.

  “I find you attractive,” he conceded tightly. “Too attractive. Believe it or not, this wasn’t what I had in mind when I came over here tonight.”

  “Does it matter?” she asked, “Some of the best things just…happen. There’s nothing complicated about our finding pleasure in each other. You know what you’re getting; so do I. One night. No strings attached.” Her breath had begun to come faster as she’d spoken. She waited a minute for Greg to say something. When he didn’t, but continued to drink her in with his eyes, she knew the battle was ninety-nine percent won. “Greg,” she whispered, looking up at him beseechingly, “don’t make me beg.”

  He didn’t need to hear more. The lure was too great, and he was far too hungry. He was no saint, had never claimed to be one. Nor had Sam Loomis made sainthood a prerequisite for this particular assignment.

  Taking her head between his hands, he captured her lips in a deep, heated kiss. When he finally dragged his mouth from hers and held her back, he saw that her eyes were closed, her lips still parted. He took them again, and again, finding her essence as intoxicating as the artful promise of her body.

  Arms circling his back, she moaned softly when he released her lips, and opened her eyes to his. “Take me to bed, Greg,” she breathed on a whisper. “Please…now….”

  She didn’t have to ask again. He was aroused, bewitched and more than willing to take his satisfaction from her warm, eager body.

  Only later, much later, did he realize that the name she c
ried at the moment of her climax wasn’t his.

  Seventeen

  cARLY COULD HAVE SWORN SHE WAS BEING FOLLOWED; the prickles at the back of her neck told her so. With a sharp glance behind, she quickened her step, she recalled the last time she’d felt this way, nearly three months before, when she’d run into Ryan. Tonight he wouldn’t be there; he had a late meeting and would be out until ten.

  After all these weeks of feeling so secure, she wondered why she should have the willies now. But, of course, it had everything to do with her talk with Sam last week, and the fact that, through the weekend, she’d had to suppress it all. Her every thought then had been of Ryan. He was tense about something, and when she’d asked him what it was, he had shrugged and mumbled something about a preoccupation with one of his cases.

  She didn’t believe him. There were those random times—she would be sitting on the sofa doing needle-point, or standing at her dresser combing her hair, or waiting in the kitchen for the coffee to drip—when she would look up to find him studying her enigmatically. She wondered whether he suspected something of her past or whether he was growing impatient about the future.

  The present wasn’t in doubt. When they were together doing things, they were totally compatible. But he never mentioned marriage, and now that she thought of it, he hadn’t said he loved her in days.

  Running up the steps to the courtyard walk, she cast another look behind. She saw no one. Perhaps it was her imagination again. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t. With each passing week, the judge’s decision on a new trial grew closer. If someone wanted to permanently prevent her testimony, the time was right.

  Fumbling with the lock, she finally let herself in, grabbed her mail and ran up the stairs. Once inside her own apartment, with the bolts safely thrown and the alarm system on, she stood listening to a silence broken only by her thudding heart. Instantly the emptiness of the place closed in on her, and she realized how much she’d come to depend on Ryan’s presence.

  Dropping her things on a chair, she went to the kitchen and picked up the phone. If she called Sam and told him of her fears, he would insist on assigning her a guard. But she desperately needed to talk, and there was only one other person who knew enough to allow her full freedom on that score. The phone rang eight times. She was ready to hang up when it was finally answered breathlessly.

  “Hello?”

  “Sheila? I’m sorry. Did I get you from somewhere?”

  “Oh, Carly! No! I just this minute walked in!”

  “Listen, I really need to talk to someone. Can you come over?”

  “Ah…”

  “You have plans?”

  Sheila thought quickly. Tom had asked to meet her for a light supper, and much as she’d been looking forward to it, instinct told her this was more important.

  “Nothing I can’t change.”

  “Are you sure? Hey, I’m really sorry—”

  “Don’t be silly! Give me half an hour, okay?”

  Carly breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

  True to her word, Sheila arrived thirty minutes later. Carly buzzed her in, then waited at the front door as she ran up the stairs.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said as soon as the other was inside.

  “Is something wrong?” Sheila asked, dropping her leather pouch on the chair and her coat over its arm.

  Carly ran a hand through her hair, lifting the bangs from her brow. “Not really. I’m just nervous. I had to talk with someone. Come on. Let’s sit down. How about a rum and Coke?”

  Sheila grinned. “I’d never turn down one of those.” She walked with Carly toward the kitchen. “What are the nerves about?”

  “My imagination, most likely. I sometimes think I’m going out of my mind. When I was walking home from school today, I was sure someone was following me. I mean, no one was. It was barely dusk. But there I was, one eye over my shoulder, scurrying through the slush like a zombie.”

  “You could never look like a zombie,” Sheila said, chuckling. “And I’m sure you were imagining the whole thing. Has anything else happened?”

  “Sam’s been in touch with Bill, and they’re trying to keep on top of anything Culbert might try. If I’m not around for that new trial, the outcome might be very different for him. And for Barber. Actually he was the one Sam was talking about last week.” She handed the drink to Sheila, who was regarding her intently.

  “Barber? Barber’s a nothing.”

  “That’s what they all say.” She poured herself a glass of wine. “But I guess he’s the one who’s been talking about the new trial and the possibility of getting off.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Don’t I wish!”

  “What’s he saying?”

  Carly headed for the living room. “Nothing specific. Just that he plans to be walking the streets before long.” She sank onto the sofa. Sheila followed closely.

  “He doesn’t say how?”

  “If only. Then we might have more to go on.”

  “So what does Sam say?” she asked more cautiously.

  Carly sighed. “Sam says that if I want he could assign someone to cover me. But that’s the last thing I want. Ryan would know everything. As it is, he doesn’t like Sam. I can just imagine what would happen if either Sam or someone else from the office were to squire me around town. It would be so disruptive.” She hung her head. “When I let my mind wander, I go mad. Can you imagine if my cover is breached and they decide to give me a new one?” She looked up then, torment etched in each fine feature. “I don’t think I could go through it again, Sheila. New name. New place. New occupation. New friends. No Ryan.”

  Sheila reached over and gently patted her knee. “Don’t think about that now. There’s no cause for alarm yet. Your cover is really solid. Just because some bozo in prison is talking big doesn’t mean he’s got anything to back it up.”

  But Carly wasn’t easily mollified. Her voice quavered. “I really love Ryan. There’s no way I could leave him. It was different in Chicago. Sure, I had a home and a career and friends. But there was never anyone special like him. He was exactly what was missing in my life. I can’t conceive of a future without him. So help me, even if there is some awful danger, I think I’d almost rather live with it than give up everything!” Her voice dropped, weighed down by an element of defeat. “A person can only run so far.”

  Sheila sat back quietly for a time, watching her. She sipped her drink thoughtfully. “You’re a very lucky woman, to have found someone like Ryan.”

  There was a note of wistfulness—no, harder—in her voice that, even amid her own turmoil, Carly couldn’t ignore. “I’m sorry. I’ve been going on and on feeling sorry for myself. You’re right. I am lucky.” She paused, then ventured on. “How about you? Are things looking up?”

  “Oh yes,” Sheila answered quickly. She thought back to the Friday night before and felt a ripple of satisfaction. Things had gone just as she had so carefully planned. Greg was on her side; she had an ally in the office. She had pleased him, and he hadn’t been that bad himself. Through the night he’d taken her repeatedly. He was forceful and imaginative in bed. If she’d had to sell herself to someone, she could have done much worse.

  “How about Tom?” Carly asked, and Sheila’s satisfaction was dimmed by a wave of regret. “You’re seeing a lot of him?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s quite a man.” She meant it. While, for the time being at least, her body might be Greg’s, Tom was the one who captivated her thoughts. “Very different from Ryan, but every bit as charming. He has a fantastic house. Did you know that?”

  “Ryan told me a little about it.” Ryan hadn’t found it quite that “fantastic,” but the time he’d spent there hadn’t been under the best of circumstances. “I understand Tom’s got a good business going now.”

  Sheila nodded. “Computers. He’s taught me a lot about them. They’re not really so bad. Oh, they don’t pick up the dirty laundry or do boring case reports or—” she glanc
ed down “—fix rum and Cokes, but they’re pretty clever when it comes to things intellectual.” She drawled the last for every syllable it was worth.

  “Do you think there’s any future in it?”

  “In computers? Sure—”

  “In Tom. You and Tom.”

  Sheila’s flippancy vanished. She grew serious, almost troubled. “I don’t know. I hope so. But there’s so much….” When her voice trailed off, Carly’s picked up.

  “He’s free, and he’s clever and good-looking, and he has those muscles and a wallet.”

  She’d been teasing, but Sheila didn’t crack a smile. “But will he love me? I mean, really love me. Will he be able to accept me for what I am and what I do?”

  “He doesn’t mind your work, does he?”

  Sheila’s half laugh was dry. “Only the times I have to be home early for a six o’clock assignment the next morning.”

  “But his work hours are flexible. You could work around that.”

  “I know.” Work hours were the least of her worries. “Well—” she gave an exaggerated sigh “—we’re doin’ all right, anyway. But back to you. Do you feel any better?”

  “Yes. Talking about it helps.”

  “Want my professional opinion?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think that you ought to relax and forget about all this. No one’s chasing you. No one knows who you are. No one’s going to come after you. Hell, if either Barber or Culbert tried anything, they’d only be in worse trouble afterward.”

  “They haven’t got much to lose,” Carly reminded her pointedly. “Barber had a record. He’s no stranger to prison. But I can’t imagine Culbert cares much for it.”