Finger Prints Page 8

  Halfway to the courtyard he stopped and looked up. That was his apartment on the second floor, hers on the third. It was at the windows of the latter that his eyes held.

  Carly Quinn. The thought of her was like a gentle breeze, easing his tension instantly. She was different, refreshing, in spite of the mystery that seemed to haunt her. He’d have given up work today for her, had she agreed to let him take her to lunch.

  Her living-room light was on, shining warmly through the woven drapes. As he watched, a shadow passed before them. His gaze sharpened, but there was nothing more. Lowering his eyes at last, he resumed his walk. In the courtyard, his pace quickened. By the time he reached the stairs, he was filled with resolve.

  Bypassing the second-floor landing, he was on the third in no time. He rapped lightly on her door. Then he waited, staring down at the leather of his loafers, listening for any sound that might come from within.

  From her comfortable perch in a deep corner of the sofa, Carly stared at the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She wasn’t dressed for company. Her eye fell to the long terry robe that covered her legs curled beneath her. Then the knock came again, and she slowly put aside the needlepoint she’d picked up moments before.

  Padding barefoot to the door, she laid a timorous hand on the jamb and put her eye to the viewer. Her heart began to hammer. It was Ryan. Resting her forehead against the wood, she sighed in frustration. If she were in her right mind, she would return to the sofa and let him knock until his knuckles grew sore. But he wouldn’t give up, and she would only have more explaining to do when she finally opened the door.

  Slowly, she released the bolts. Then she inched the door open, using her body as a shield to her apartment. It would be a none-too-subtle hint that he wasn’t invited in, a hint in keeping with the hours of contemplation she’d put in that afternoon. To her dismay, she’d thought of little else but him as she’d wandered from room to room in the museum. None of the American painters or the French or the Dutch had distracted her for long.

  Her conclusion? Ryan Cornell was a dangerous man.

  She was never more sure of that than when she gazed out at him now. Standing as tall as ever at her door, he wore a shirt, tie and slacks. One side of his blazer was pushed back to allow his hand burial in his pants’ pocket. He looked calm and relaxed, and unconscionably handsome.

  “Ryan?” She greeted him warily.

  “Hi, Carly.” He grinned, as though unaware that there had ever been an iota of tension between them. “Listen, I hate to do this to you again…but I wonder…I’ve got to make this quick call. Would it be too much of an imposition if I used your phone again? I mean, I won’t be long. I know you’ve got plans.”

  The first of her deceptions had come back to haunt her. She’d been vague enough, if misleading. The plans she had were for a safe, quiet evening at home. Ryan must have assumed she’d put on her robe as a prelude to dressing up. Even now, she didn’t have the courage to correct his misconception. Yet she felt contrite.

  “It’s all right,” she murmured, standing back for him to enter. It was the least she could do to make up for the deception. “Help yourself.”

  He tossed a light “Thanks” back over his shoulder as he made for the kitchen. In a moment’s indulgence, she watched him go, admiring the way his blazer fit his broad shoulders to perfection, the way his slacks moved with his stride, falling to just the right spot at his heel. She wondered if he’d been working. No natty three-piece suit? Then she tore her gaze away and retreated to the sofa to pretend nonchalance to match his calm.

  In the kitchen, Ryan lifted the phone and punched out the number of his office. The connection clicked, then rang. As a matter of show, he held the phone to his ear, while his eye closely studied his surroundings. Everything was new and clean, from the round butcher-block table with its white director’s chairs and the Plexiglas napkin holder with its mated salt and pepper shakers, to the shining copper-bottomed pots and pans suspended from a pegboard panel. It was a bright and airy kitchen, fresh out of Metropolitan Home, very beautiful, very proper. Something was lacking, though. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It didn’t look…lived in. It lacked the small personal touches he would have expected from a woman as intriguing as Carly. It lacked…history.

  Puzzled, he turned his gaze toward the living room. She sat on the sofa with her back to him, occupied with whatever—was it sewing—she’d apparently been doing when he’d knocked on her door. His eyes wandered, taking in the room at a glance. Again, everything was perfect. Modular sofa, marble tables, wall prints, plush carpet. Too perfect. Where was she in all of it? If he’d hoped to learn about her through her home, it seemed he’d been thwarted again. Other than that she could afford to live in style, he knew nothing more now than he had before. And he grew all the more curious.

  Replacing the receiver on its hook, he entered the living room just as Carly looked up from her work.

  “No luck?”

  He shook his head. But then, he hadn’t expected luck. The office would have been dark and locked up hours ago. “I guess I’ve missed them. What’s that you’re doing?”

  “Needlepoint.”

  He took a step closer, coming up behind the sofa to lean over her shoulder. “It’s very pretty.”

  Not trusting the tremor in her hands, she spread the canvas flat on her lap to examine her progress. “I’m working with silk. It’s a challenge. The threads separate and the stitch can come out lumpy if you don’t pull the strands evenly.” She ran a slender finger over the field of gold. “It’s rewarding, though.”

  Ryan was as intrigued by the piece as he was by the finger that caressed it. “What will you do with it when you’re done?”

  “Have it framed. It’s a gift for my father.”

  “He lives nearby?”

  “No.” Willing her hands to steadiness, she picked up her needle once more. Though she’d probably have to rework each stitch when he left, it suddenly seemed safer to have her hands and eyes occupied.

  “Then you don’t see him often?”

  She shook her head, but didn’t look up. She heard Ryan’s sigh, knew that he’d straightened and was looking around the room. There was nothing here to betray her. There was nothing anywhere in the apartment to betray her.

  “Well,” he breathed softly, “I’d better be going.”

  “On your way out?”

  “Actually, in. I’ve been working all day.”

  She looked up then and caught a glimpse of fatigue in the depth of his gaze. “Do you always work on Saturdays?” she heard herself ask, knowing she should let him go, yet reluctant.

  “It’s a good time to get things done. The courts aren’t open. The office is quiet. Clients are too busy doing other things to keep me on the phone for hours. I rely on my weekends to clean up the mess of the week.”

  “I know the feeling. You work Sundays too?”

  “At home. I’ve got a pile of papers that I’ve got to get to tomorrow. But first I’ve got to make some headway unpacking the boxes of clothes and other things I moved in yesterday.” He rubbed the taut muscles at the back of his neck. “Your place looks a damned sight better than mine at this point.”

  She grinned. “I have this terrific vacuum cleaner with a self-drive feature. You turn it on, sit back on the sofa with your feet up—” she added a lower aside “—it tends to munch on toes—” then returned her tone to its normal pitch “—and watch it do all the work.”

  “Does it pick up clothes from the floor?”

  “None you’d want to wear again.”

  He waved his arm in disinterest. “Then you can keep it. I need something that will really clean.”

  “It sounds like you need a personal maid. Used to the fine life, are you?”

  He saw the teasing in her eyes, heard the warmth in her tone and found infinite pleasure in having been able to make her relax. “The fine life?” he asked, his lips twitching. “The fine life makes for idle minds, dou
ble chins and very boring dinner conversation. As far as I’m concerned, you can take the fine life and shove it. And with that bit of opinionated drivel, I’ll take my leave.” He paused. “Will you be running tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes.” It slipped out before she realized what she’d done.

  His brows rose in question. “Would you like to…?” He cocked his head toward the door, his invitation obvious.

  “Uh, I’m not sure. I don’t know just when I’ll be going.”

  Reluctant to push his luck, Ryan nodded. Then he opened the door. “I’m planning to head out at eight, then pick up the newspaper on my way back. I know it’s kind of early for a Sunday morning, but if you feel like the company….” His voice trailed off. The invitation could stand by itself. With a wave and a prayer, he shut the door behind him.

  Carly gave it much thought. Ryan appealed to her. He intrigued her. He amused her. He also frightened her. Since Matthew’s death, she had never been as naturally drawn to any person. Her relationship with Peter had been different—deep and meaningful, if devoid of heat. But heat was an early sign of fire. At the thought, she shuddered.

  With the struggle she was waging to adapt to her new life, involvement with Ryan was the last thing she needed. She’d had Matthew and the all-abiding love they’d shared. She’d had Peter and the warmth of an affection based on similarity of interest. She’d had more in the past ten years than many a woman had in a lifetime. More love. More grief. It always seemed to end badly. She couldn’t let Ryan in for that.

  What the mind resolved, however, the heart could overturn in no time. It was actually several minutes after eight the next morning when Carly found herself on the front walk approaching Ryan, who was very diligently occupied tying the laces of his sneakers for the third time.

  He looked up, straightened and offered her a self-conscious smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “Neither was I.” Having spent half the night debating the wisdom of joining him, of fostering any kind of relationship with him, she looked mildly tired.

  “Late night?” he asked cautiously. Her light had been on when he’d returned at one. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been alone.

  “Uh-huh.” It wasn’t wholly a lie.

  He glanced toward the river, shaking off that glimmer of jealousy, then returned a more placid gaze. “Shall we?” When she nodded, they took off slowly, reaching pace only when they turned onto the river path. They went for several minutes in silence, before Carly felt herself begin to relax. There seemed no point in rehashing the pros and cons of her decision. She knew that she was far too susceptible to Ryan’s charm. She also knew the danger entailed. But damn it, she wanted to run with him. She felt safe and happy. She deserved a splurge now and then. After all, they were only running.

  With several successive deep breaths, she shifted her awareness from the tall, lithe man by her side to the fresh, clear world all about. “Another beautiful one, isn’t it?”

  “Yup. Won’t be too many more.”

  “I wonder whether this path will be cleared in the winter.”

  “You’ve never run in the winter?”

  “I’ve never run here in the winter.”

  “You mean along the river?”

  “I mean in Boston.”

  “Then you’re new to the area?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “From…?”

  For the briefest minute she felt a pang of guilt. But she’d been given a past, an authenticated one at that, and it behooved her to use it. “San Diego.”

  “You grew up there?”

  “No. I worked there.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Teaching.” It came out more easily than she’d expected, the staccato exchange facilitated by the rhythm of the run. Had they been sitting over coffee, looking at each other, she might have had more trouble.

  “Is that what you do now?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where?”

  “Rand Academy.”

  “Rand?” He shot her a sidelong glance underscored with a grin. “No kidding? Several of my partners’ kids go there. It’s supposed to be top ranking.”

  “We do well in college admissions.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Since September.”

  “And in Cambridge?”

  “Since July.”

  They ran on, reaching the bridge, crossing over to hook onto the river path by Storrow Drive. The traffic was even lighter than it had been the day before. It was as though they had the world to themselves.

  “How about you?” she asked between breaths.

  “Yeeeeesssss?” he drawled.

  “Where did you live before yesterday?”

  “In Winchester. About half an hour thataway.” He flicked his head northward.

  “An apartment?”

  “A house.”

  “All by yourself? I mean,” she hastened to add, “You’re not married or anything, are you?” She’d just assumed him to be single. Now, posing the question, she wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or mortified.

  The punishing glance he gave her precluded both. “If I were married,” he stated firmly, “I’d never have come on to you the way I did yesterday. As for ‘or anything,’ the answer is no.”

  “Strange,” she mused, thinking aloud as, side by side, they followed the curve of the path.

  “What is?”

  “That you’re not attached. I would have thought—”

  “—that a dynamic, witty, handsome devil like me would certainly have been caught by now?”

  She saw the dark brow he arched in self-mockery and couldn’t help but smile. “Not exactly the way I would have put it, but the end result is the same.”

  “The end result. Ahh. I have to confess that I have had my experience with that end result.”

  “You’ve been married?”

  “That’s right. Like you.”

  At first she said nothing in response to his bait. Then, feeling particularly bold, she took it. “I’m not divorced.”

  He frowned. “But you live alone. Separated?” When she shook her head, he felt something freeze up inside. The European connection. A right-hand wedding band. “Then your husband is away?”

  Carly looked out across the water. Its surface mirrored the few, still clouds, peaceful until the silent rush of a lone racing shell cut an even slash through its plane. “He’s dead.”

  Ryan’s pace faltered. A widow? At her age? Of all the possibilities, it hadn’t entered his mind. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, readjusting his stride. “Was it recent?”

  Her eyes were distant. “Four years ago.”

  “Four years?” From mind to tongue, the words spilled out. “You were so young.”

  “I was twenty-five.”

  “What happened? Uh—” he shook his head, appalled at himself “—strike that. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s all right.” For some reason that she didn’t stop to analyze, she wanted him to know. It was the one part of the fabrication that wasn’t fabrication at all. “He was in a hotel.” Her phrases were clipped by her bobbing pace and that something else that seemed to grip her each time she allowed a return of those thoughts. “There was a fire. He was on the fortieth floor. He couldn’t get out.”

  She was barely aware of the hand on her arm until it tightened to slow her up. Startled back from images of hell, she came to a stunned stop facing Ryan.

  “I’m sorry, Carly. That must have been very painful for you.” It certainly accounted for the anguish he’d seen in her eyes. Even now, they bore a tortured look.

  “Painful for me?” she gasped in a whisper. “Painful for him! The smoke…and flame. He tried to reach the stairs, they said. He nearly made it….”

  Ryan wasn’t sure whether she was on the verge of tears or whether the raggedness of her breathing was due to exertion. But he knew that over the past four years she must have tortured hersel
f many times. It was the torment of the survivor to imagine the terror of life’s last moments. He’d been eyewitness to that torment once before, in the grief of a mother whose young daughter had drowned in an improperly attended municipal pool. Then his case had been for negligence. Now, beyond the law and the courtroom, he had no case save compassion.

  Bidden by the overwhelming need to comfort, he put his hands on either side of her neck and gently massaged the tight muscles. She seemed far away still. It frightened him. “It’s all right, Carly,” he began softly. “Things like that just happen sometimes.”

  “But to Matthew?” Her husband’s name was supposed to be Malcolm. Lost in the world of memory, she was oblivious to the slip. “He was so kind and good.”

  “Tragedy doesn’t discriminate. Kind, unkind, good, bad, we don’t have any control over it.”

  Her eyes grew misty, yet there were no tears. “I know. But there are still all those What ifs. What if he’d been out drinking with the rest of the guys? What if he’d been on the third floor? What if the department had never authorized the trip in the first place?”

  “But it did,” he countered gently, able only to guess that her husband had been on a business trip, perhaps at a convention. “He wasn’t on the third floor. And he wasn’t out drinking. Don’t you see, you can’t agonize over what might have been. What’s done can’t be changed. You can only go on living. You can only look ahead.”

  Above and beyond his words, it was the glimmer of hope in his eye that captured Carly’s senses. Very slowly, she returned from that charred hotel room to the present, to the comfort of this man, to the long fingers that moved gently on her neck. With the sound of approaching footsteps, another runner passed them with a salute. Occasional cars sped by on Storrow Drive. A flock of geese winged southward. Ryan’s head shaded her from the rising sun, whose vibrant rays shimmered around the richness of his hair.

  “I know you’re right,” she whispered, lost in his gaze. “And I do try.” It was hard to look ahead at times, when so much of the past was a consuming flame. Reason dictated she look ahead, echoing not only Ryan’s, Sam’s and her father’s advice but her own common sense. And though her heart didn’t always cooperate, she tried. She did.