On Fire (17 page)

She poured the tea. She wasn’t that fond of green tea. The muffin looked and smelled wonderful, but she had no appetite. She sipped the tea, aware of Mara’s eyes on her.

Her mother sighed. Her dark eyes shone with unshed tears. “You’re going back to Boston, aren’t you?”

“I have to.” Now that her mother had articulated it, the thought was taking concrete shape. “How did you know?”

“Because I know you, Sig, just as I know your sister. She won’t stop until she finds her grandfather and proves his innocence.” Mara made a visible effort to control her feelings about her two daughters, her lack of control over their decisions. “You’ll need tonight to rest up. If you’re not feeling up to the drive in the morning—”

“I won’t leave unless I feel strong enough. Mom—”

“I know,” her mother said, smiling bravely. “You need to go home.”

R
iley slipped out of the cottage at dawn to watch the sunrise from a rock ledge. Cormorants dove for fish, gulls called in the distance, lobster buoys in a variety of bright colors bobbed in the outgoing tide. The horizon had turned lavender and purple, the sun a glowing sliver of gold where water met sky.

She had to go back to Boston. She needed clothes. Her one outfit, even after it had been washed in Straker’s sink and hung to dry on his porch, still stank of smoke. Her other clothes were totaled in the fire.

But more than that, she needed space. She needed time alone to think, to process the past few days and figure out where she went from here.

“Yep.” She wrapped his chamois shirt more tightly around her. “A few hours alone in your car will fix you right up.”

At least, she thought, it would be a start.

She heard the cottage door creak open. A few
minutes later, Straker climbed up onto her huge granite boulder and stood beside her. He wore his charcoal sweater, which fit snugly across his big shoulders. His gray eyes blended into the environment, made him seem almost a part of the island.

She quickly explained her rationale about going back to Boston. He nodded without hesitation. “Good idea. I’ll drop you off at Emile’s as soon as you’re ready to roll.”

His instantaneous reaction put her on alert. She couldn’t help it. Even on a good day, he wasn’t cooperative or accommodating—unless he had ulterior motives. That’s why he could do the work he did. “I thought Emile wanted you to keep an eye on me.”

He shrugged. “So you want me to go back to Boston with you?”

“That’s a slippery answer, Straker. I think you’re up to something.”

“Like what?”

“Like something you want to do without my help.”

His mouth twitched. “St. Joe, there are about a million things I’d like to do without your help. Where do you want to start?”

“Let’s start with what you’re planning to do after you drop me off at my car.”

“I think jumping out of a burning building has made you paranoid.”

She held her ground. “It’s a fair question.”

“I’m not asking you what you’re going to do when you get to Boston.”

“That’s just a tactical decision on your part to avoid
telling
me
what
you’re
up to.” On the horizon, the sun was a half circle of fiery orange. He was as maddening now, after years in the FBI, after six months recuperating from bullet wounds, after dealing with terrorists and fugitives, as he’d been at sixteen, frustrated with his life. “And I’m not paranoid.”

He was silent for a beat. “Okay. You’re not paranoid. You didn’t get enough sleep. You’re cranky.”

“Straker.”

He smiled. “I’ll go put on coffee. Or would you rather I toss you into the ocean? That would wake you up, maybe bring you to your senses.”

“Coffee will do. And I’m in full possession of my senses.” She thumped his chest with one finger. “
You
are up to something.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. Watch your sunrise. Maybe sunlight and caffeine will fire up your synapses and get you thinking straight.”

But she
was
thinking straight, and he damned well knew it. She watched him retreat, acknowledged the parts of her that were still warm from the last time they’d made love, only a few hours ago. She’d half expected him to kick her out yesterday after they’d first made love. Okay, months of celibacy finished, out you go. There’d been an urgency, a potency, to that first encounter that left her reeling even now. When it was over, he didn’t suddenly wince and say, “Oh, God, Riley St. Joe. I must be out of my mind.”

Instead they’d walked around on the island. She didn’t remember what all they’d talked about. Some about the past week, but not much. It was comfortable
talk, about his work, her work, families, friends, Maine, nothing overly intimate or soul searing. If anyone had told her a month ago she’d be chatting with John Straker about ways to reduce the fat in a good beef stew, she would have laughed herself silly.

She wondered if she’d have laughed herself silly at the idea of her and Straker making love. Probably. That or gagged. Now, with the morning sun spilling out over the eastern sky, it had seemed inevitable. Destined.

Late in the evening, after dinner, when the cottage was dark and the bay quiet, empty of boats, they’d made love again. Slowly, tenderly, but with no less urgency. Straker had always been a supremely physical man. The feel of his scars, long healed but still recent, reminded her he was physical on more levels than those she’d personally experienced.

When he’d touched her in the pitch blackness before dawn, when it was so dark she couldn’t even make out his silhouette, she’d felt a connection to him that went beyond physical, went beyond two people who’d known each other forever and now had found themselves in bed.

Falling in love with him, she warned herself, was not smart. It wasn’t good for her. It was, in fact, insane.

Yet she could stay on the island and make love to him all day, have her fill of that thick, strong, amazing body. Pure sex with him was tough enough for her to digest.
Liking
him was tough enough. But this overwhelming emotional connection—it had to be smoke inhalation.

She turned away from the sunrise, watched him trot
up the steps into the cottage. He was holding back on her. No question about it. She charged down off her boulder and pounded up the porch steps. He was used to doing things his own way, flashing that FBI badge, not answering to anyone. His own mother had given up trying to tell him what to do when he was eleven and nearly flunked out of sixth grade.

Riley let the door slam shut behind her. “You think Sam brought Emile the
Encounter
’s engine, don’t you? You think he’s stashed it somewhere.”

Straker shoved a log into the woodstove without answering.

“If Emile has the engine,” Riley continued, “it’s to protect it as evidence. It’s not to protect himself. If he did wrong, he’d own up to it.”

“Not easy, stashing an engine as big as the
Encounter
’s.”

“Maybe Sam only needed to bring up parts of the engine to prove what happened—maybe he didn’t bring up anything, just took incriminating pictures.”

“You’re speculating.”

“I’m brainstorming,” she said. “There’s a difference.”

He straightened, looking strong, powerful. She’d need a weapon if she was going to stop him from following through with whatever sneaky plan he was implementing. “Don’t even think about it,” he told her.

“Quit reading my mind.”

“Then quit thinking about taking a poker to me. You want that ride to Emile’s or shall I leave you out here on an uninhabited island without a boat? I’ve laid in enough supplies for a week or so.”

It was his way or no way. “Forget it. I’ll draw my own conclusions about what you’re up to.” The man was infuriating. She started back to the bedroom. “And never mind coffee. I’ll get some on the way home. I want to leave now.”

Straker rocked back on his heels. He was about three yards away and irritatingly calm. Let him contemplate his options, she thought. He could come clean and accept her as a full partner…or not.

Finally, he said, “I agree. I think Emile got hold of whatever it is Cassain found when he searched the wreckage of the
Encounter.
The engine, presumably. Other evidence.”

“That’s why he went to Sam’s house the night of the fire.”

“It explains why Matt Granger was there, too.”

Riley nodded. “It also explains why Sam’s house was torched—someone didn’t want the police, or anyone else, finding any evidence of what happened aboard the
Encounter
last year.”

Straker yawned, as if he’d figured all this out days ago and now it bored him. “Satisfied?”

“Emile’s seventy-six. He’s not up to this.”

“He was up to pulling a gun on me.”

“That’s because you’re obnoxious.
I’d
pull a gun on you. You drive people over the brink, Straker.”

He grinned, eyes half-closed as they raked her from head to toe. “Yep. No argument there.”

She groaned. “I rest my case. You’re an outrage. I don’t know how I ever ended up in bed with you.”

“I do. You going to drive back to Boston in my shirt?”

Utterly outrageous. “You’re just trying to distract me. Do you know where Emile is?”

“No.”

“But you have a pretty good idea. Damn it, I know you do—” “I’ll be on the boat. If you’re there in three minutes, I’ll take you to your car. If not, enjoy your little island vacation.”

“You know, Straker, you’re awfully cold-blooded when you want your way. Did you consider the list of places I said Emile could be? Did one of them resonate with you? Or are you thinking about your father and the other lobstermen and what they know?”

“I don’t want my way.” He tore open the front door and glanced back at her. “I want you out of it.”

“It’s the lobstermen,” she said.

“The clock is ticking.”

“Just remember, you drive me every bit as crazy as I drive you. Probably crazier. It’s
my
grandfather we’re talking about. It was
my
sister who was almost killed.”

He gripped the door. She could see the muscles in his forearms tense. He banged the door shut, marched over to her, grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her. It was a hard, possessive, spine-melting, Rhett Butler kiss. Straker lifted her off her feet with it. When he released her, she had to call on all her various forms of physical conditioning to keep from collapsing.

She cleared her throat, caught her breath. “What was that about?”

“I’ll reset the clock at two minutes.”

He stormed outside without another word. Riley
knew he’d seize any excuse to leave her there. She’d find a way off the island. She’d flag down a passing boat, see if he had a kayak, build a raft if she had to….

She managed to throw her things together and leap into his boat as he was untying it.

It was chilly out on the bay. His shirt was big on her and made her think of the three times they’d made love, the incredible feel of him inside her. But when he pulled up to Emile’s dock, he didn’t even turn off the engine, just unceremoniously motioned her out.

“Go straight to your apartment,” he said. “Stay there. I’ll be in touch.”

“I hate dictatorial men.”

“St. Joe, how many burning buildings do you need to jump out of before you realize this is serious?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go straight to my apartment. I’ll stay there. I’ll wait for you.” She hesitated. “Do you have a gun?”

“No, I don’t have a gun. Who the hell would I shoot?” He narrowed his eyes on her. “
You
don’t have a gun, do you?”

“I’m just thinking—”

“Don’t think. Just go before I change my mind and take you with me.”

“Take me with you where?”

“St. Joe. Get off my boat.”

Definitely a man with a mission, and one he wanted to take on alone. He didn’t want her as a distraction, a target, a hindrance. She jumped onto the dock and watched him speed off toward the mouth of the bay. Something must have jiggled loose and he had at least
a pretty good idea where Emile was holed up. And he didn’t care if she knew it.

One of her sleeves unrolled, dangling several inches past the tips of her fingers. Emile was her grandfather. She didn’t believe he’d gone off the deep end. She believed he was trying to put things right and make sure no one else ended up dead on the rocks. He wanted justice for the five people who’d died aboard the
Encounter.

She thought of Bennett Granger, his dignity, his kindness and generosity. He wasn’t a marine scientist, but he’d loved the ocean every bit as much as Emile did, had wanted a marine life that was healthy and vital for future generations.
For his grandchildren. Sig’s babies.

If someone had sabotaged the
Encounter,
Emile would go to the ends of the earth to find out who. Let them set him up. Let them frame him for fires and murders—let the world think whatever it wanted to think. He wouldn’t care.

Riley kicked a loose stone into the bay. She had responsibilities, a lot at stake. Straker had
nothing
at stake, which was probably why he’d gone off on his own.

Such was her state of mind when she drove into the village and parked in front of his parents’ house. Mrs. Straker was in the garage with an unlit cigarette in her mouth and an upholstery hammer in one hand. “Riley St. Joe,” she said, beaming. Her alert gaze took in her oversize shirt, and she shook her head. “I guess that rumor’s true.”

“What rumor?”

“You and my son on Labreque Island.” She removed her cigarette, sighed almost as if she were exhaling smoke. “I wondered if you two’d ever get together after you bloodied him that time.”

“Mrs. Straker, we’re not—I mean—” Knowing she was doomed, Riley rolled up her errant sleeve. “How did that particular rumor get started?”

“Honey, nothing happens on this coast the lobstermen don’t know about.”

Riley nodded. “I understand. In fact, that’s what I’m counting on. Can we talk?”

Straker didn’t know how long he had before Riley tracked him down. It was a foregone conclusion she’d try. He’d kicked her out of his boat to buy himself a little time. In her place, he had to admit, he wouldn’t sit quietly on the sidelines, either. And he’d never been much on anyone telling him what to do.

He docked in the village harbor. It was a small, picturesque harbor, relatively quiet at this time of morning with its moored boats, its glistening water and surrounding landscape of modest houses, Victorian bed and breakfasts, shops. The only eyesore was the old sardine cannery.

This was his home turf. Riley could pretend it was hers, too, but she’d never spent a long, cold, damp winter here. She’d never warred with herself over staying and leaving, over wanting something more yet wanting this to be enough, knowing it could be if only he’d let it.

He didn’t see his father’s boat. A few other lobster
boats were in. Straker was aware of eyes on him as he walked out onto the ancient wooden pier. He stopped, waited to see what would happen. Nothing did. These were men he’d known all his life, and they were treating him like a rich yachtsman.