Finger Prints Page 9

  Ryan smiled then, feeling pride in the spunk that had raised her chin a fraction of an inch. “It’ll work, Carly. You’ll see. You’re strong and bright.”

  His eyes held hers, melting her to the core. Then, struck by a sudden wave of self-consciousness, she tore her gaze from his and focused on the drying grass by the side of the path. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Blurting all this out. I usually have better control.”

  “Maybe that’s why it came out. Maybe it needed to come out.”

  “But to you?” She raised her eyes, perplexed. “We’re strangers,” she argued in stark reminder to herself.

  “Not really,” he said gently. “There are times when I look into your eyes and feel I’ve known you all my life.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  “Not yet.” He smiled again. “Speaking of which—” he tipped her face up with his thumbs “—you never did tell me what you teach.”

  For a final moment they stood there, looking at each other in silent awareness of something very special that had passed between them. For Carly, it was the sharing of her grief, something she hadn’t done in quite that way to any other human being. She had offered Ryan a bit of Robyn. And in that instant, rather than feeling duplicitous, she felt strangely whole.

  For Ryan, it was something else. For a few moments at least, he’d penetrated Carly’s shell, glimpsed a part of her that he sensed few people saw. She’d kissed him back…that was it…their lips had never touched…yet she had kissed him back.

  His thumb moved from her jaw to the softness of her mouth. Entranced, he slowly outlined its sensuous curve, feeling her lips part beneath his touch. His eye sought hers then, and he knew that she was, at that moment, as open to him as she’d ever been. His heart-beat sped; the pulse at her neck kept time. If it was the present he advocated, he had a point to make.

  Six

  wHEN HE LOWERED HIS HEAD THIS TIME, THERE was no hand to block his lips from hers. He kissed her in a whisper, barely touching her lips at first, then very slowly, very carefully deepening the touch. Her warmth was intoxicating, every bit as sweet as he’d imagined it to be when he’d lain in bed last night, frustrated and taut. He took his time; there was no rush. In a rare instance in his life, he simply closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation with total satisfaction. There seemed no goal more precious than this simple tasting of lips, this simple act of acquaintance.

  Carly felt it too. Time seemed suspended. Yielding all thought of consequence, she ventured into a world of pleasure. She felt Ryan’s lips against hers, firm and manly yet gentle and undemanding. There was a drugging effect to their movement. They were enticing, irresistible. As she opened her lips, she was aware of the tickle of his beard. It was nearly as heady a sensation as the deepening of his kiss.

  And she surged with it, surrendering to its lure, feeling lazy and lavish and light. Then his tongue joined the play and she felt something far deeper. It was an awareness, an awakening. She was a woman. For the first time in months and months, she felt her femininity.

  With a gasp, she tremblingly pulled back. Her eyes held longer though, clinging to the firm lips that had brought her to such a floating state, then, with a tight swallow, meeting his gaze.

  Words were unnecessary. He saw her stunned surprise, felt a bit of it himself. Those brief moments of contact had been more forceful than anything he’d ever felt. Even now his body was a tight coil, not so much in anticipation of what might have come next as in shock at what had just gone by.

  Carly caught her breath. “Ryan?” she whispered.

  “Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips and gently shook his head. It seemed all wrong to try to analyze what had happened, just as it would have been a travesty to apologize for it. It was one bright moment, over now but leaving in its wake a vibrant memory. Slowly he dropped his hand, then cocked his head toward Boston. With one last steadying breath, she nodded and they resumed the run.

  If anything, their pace was faster. When they reached the point where Carly normally turned, Ryan shot her a glance.

  “How’re ya doin’?” he ventured.

  “I’m okay.”

  So they ran on, turning by unspoken consent at the point to which Ryan had urged her the morning before, then making the round trip with nothing more than an occasional exchange.

  “What do you teach?”

  “English.”

  He took that in, then cast her a glance. “Speciality?”

  “Creative writing.”

  When a pair of cyclists came toward them, Ryan dropped back a step to fall into single file behind Carly until they passed. “Do much yourself?”

  “What?”

  “Creative writing.”

  She released a terse, “Some.”

  He left it at that, wondering if she was one of those teachers who could teach but not do. He recalled his highschool diving coach. The man was brilliant in explaining technique, in analyzing strength and spotting weakness. Yet he could barely do a simple jackknife, let alone a half gainer with a double back twist. With a fond smile, he refiled the memory in its bank and glanced down at Carly.

  “You’re happy at Rand?”

  “Uh-huh. The kids are great.”

  “Grades…?”

  “That I teach?” She returned his gaze, helpless to ignore the swath of sweat that dampened the front of his sweat shirt. When he nodded, his hair clung to his brow. He looked disturbingly masculine. “Sophomores and juniors,” she supplied abruptly, then poured herself into the run.

  Ryan quickened his step accordingly. Though warm, he was far from tired. There was a release in pounding the pavement this way, a relief from the urge to ponder the “what now” of things. He’d kissed Carly; she’d kissed him back. They’d shared something he felt was unique enough to pursue. Yet he sensed he was on shaky ground. He had to tread carefully.

  As they ran on, Carly wondered what he was thinking. Captured in a surreptitious glance, his expression was intense and calculating. She assumed his mind had turned to his work. Didn’t she often use her running time to mentally outline lectures or plan upcoming assignments? If only she could do that now! But her lips still burned from Ryan’s kiss and the trail of fire lingered lower. In a bid for diversion, she turned her thoughts to New York.

  It had been several years since she’d been back, and even aside from the excitement of seeing her father, she was looking forward to it. The years she and Matthew had spent there had been delightfully irresponsible. He had been an assistant professor of economics, she his student. They had married in the middle of her sophomore year, before she’d reached the age of nineteen. Very much in love, they had been convinced that their fourteen-year difference was irrelevant. And so it had been. They went to school together and studied together. When she graduated, they moved to Chicago, where he was offered a full professorship. There had been more pressure after that—greater responsibility for Matthew, hard-won assignments for Carly—all of which made her memories of New York that much sweeter.

  And now she would return. She and her father would eat in style, stroll the avenues together, perhaps take in a show or two. Was it safe? A spasm flicked across her brow. Sam said it was. He had been the one to promote New York from the start. Anonymity in crowds, he’d said. She supposed he had a point. At least, she was determined to believe it. She needed this trip. She needed to see her father’s familiar face. For those few days, she would be Robyn again. It would be odd….

  When they reached the small incline to the bridge, Ryan took her elbow. They slowed until the roadway cleared, then jogged across and resumed their trek on the other side of the river.

  Well after he released it, Carly felt his touch on her arm. How would he take to a deception of the sort she practiced? He was a lawyer; perhaps he would understand. But when his eyes took on that smoldering gleam, he was first and foremost a man. He would expect honesty from her—which was precisely why he was dangerous.
Of the men she had met since she’d begun her new life, it seemed that only Ryan had the potential to reach her. That much had been obvious from the very first when he’d caught her in the courtyard and spoken so gently. With Ryan she felt guilt at the dual nature of her life. Guilt. She neither wanted it nor needed it. But she’d made a decision long months ago; now she intended to abide by the consequences.

  Feeling suddenly tired, she fell back a bit. Ryan slowed immediately. He watched her closely for several paces, noting the faint drop of her shoulders.

  “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

  Startled, she looked up. “Hmm? Sure.”

  “You looked a little sad there.”

  She shook her head in denial and made a concerted effort to maintain a steady pace.

  “Game for trying the Square?” he asked when they neared the side street he wanted to take. At her questioning glance, he explained. “The newspaper. I wanted to pick one up.”

  The sensible thing, given the train her thoughts had just taken, would have been to go on straight while he made his detour. She could return to her apartment, shower and make breakfast, then sit down with her own paper, which would have been delivered by then. But the air was so fresh and home was so lonely. For just a little longer she would indulge herself.

  “Lead on,” she said, and he did, guiding her across Memorial Drive to the narrow side streets that zigzagged into the Square. Signs of life were scarce, as was usual on a Sunday morning. But Harvard was everywhere—in the brick buildings that lined the streets, in the Beat Yale decal that graced more than one bumper, in the bevy of deserted sandwich shops that by afternoon would be crowded with students.

  At the kiosk in the center of the Square, they stopped. “Want one?” Ryan asked, eyeing the papers stacked into a miniature skyline of newsprint.

  She shook her head with a smile. “No, thanks.”

  “You’re sure?” He extracted money from his sock.

  “I’ve got one waiting at home.”

  Nodding, he paid for the paper, passing a glance at its headline before tucking the thick wad under his arm.

  “How about a doughnut?” he asked, spotting a sign at the corner coffee shop.

  “Nope.”

  “Some coffee?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “A cold drink?”

  She shook her head.

  “The afternoon?” What the hell. He had nothing to lose.

  She sent him a good-humored frown. “What do you mean, the afternoon? It’s for sale?”

  “I could be bargained down to a very reasonable price.”

  She chuckled. “You’re impossible.”

  “No. Just lonely. I was planning to work, but….” Tipping back his head, he looked at the sky. “It’s such a beautiful day. It’s a shame not to take advantage of it. Given New England weather, we’ll have snow within the week.”

  “Go on! It’s got to be in the midsixties by now.” Her skin felt damp; her pale blue running shirt clung to her chest. As they turned and began to walk in the general direction of home, she savored the stirring of air against her face. “You really think it’ll change that quickly?”

  “It usually does. Something about the sea breeze, I think.” He paused, then sprang. “So, how about it? We could take a ride to Gloucester and spend the afternoon walking the beach.”

  But she shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve got to work.”

  “Work? You do that all week. Don’t you owe yourself one afternoon of relaxation?”

  “I had one afternoon of relaxation. Yesterday.”

  “What did you do?” He remembered going to her apartment when he’d gotten back from work and finding her sitting curled on the sofa in her long white robe. He assumed she’d just showered and was waiting to dress for the evening. Again, he wondered with whom she’d been. But his feelings of jealousy were minor in comparison to those other feelings she evoked. She’d looked so innocent, so appealing, so thoroughly sensuous—even now he fought the urge to reach out and touch her.

  “I went to the museum.”

  “You did?” he asked, diverting ardor into enthusiasm. “The Museum of Fine Arts?”

  “Uh-huh. You approve?”

  “I suppose.”

  “What do you mean, you suppose?”

  “It depends who you were with at the museum.”

  With a coy smile, she ticked off her companions. “Let’s see, George Washington was there, John Hancock, Ben Franklin, Auguste Renoir, Vincent van Gogh—”

  “Any live males?”

  “Several. I didn’t know their names. None of them were alone.”

  “But you were?”

  With a sigh, she reluctantly left the banter behind. “In the way you mean, yes.” Passing Ferdinand’s and The Blue Parrot, they continued on at a comfortable walk.

  “Does that bother you?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “To go places alone?” It was a loaded question. On the one hand, she had never been one to shy from striking out on her own. On the other, she had indeed been gun-shy since the run-in with Gary Culbert’s thug that had resulted in her acceptance into the Witness Protection Program. “No,” she began, careful to choose words that weren’t a total lie, “I’m used to being alone. Not that it isn’t nice to have company sometimes.” Fearing that Ryan would hear an invitation she hadn’t intended, she rushed on in a higher voice. “So that was for relaxation’s sake. Today I work.”

  “What do you have to do?”

  “Grade a stack of essays, make up an exam.”

  “You have exams coming up already?”

  “We’re on the trimester system. By Thanksgiving the first term will be over. Exams begin in a week and a half. I have to get my rough copy in to the office by Wednesday so the secretary can get to work. Fortunately I’ve only got one left to do.”

  They walked on. In the absence of conversation, Carly realized how much she seemed to have told Ryan, rather than the other way around. But then, the less she knew about him the better. They had no future together.

  She was unaware how somber her expression had grown until Ryan caught her on it. “There you go again. Tuning out on me.”

  Looking quickly up, she forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about exams and all.”

  He suspected the “all” had nothing to do with exams, but couldn’t force the issue. Rather, he concentrated on how best to worm his way into her life. When inspiration hit, his eyes lit up. “Listen, I’ve got work to do today too. We could work together. I mean, we could work on our own things together—in the same room.”

  She conjured up an image of them at her kitchen table, knees touching beneath the butcher block, and knew in the instant that she, for one, would never be able to concentrate. “I really need to work.”

  He followed her thinking, but was far from defeated. “Then the library. Harvard Law is as quiet as they come. We wouldn’t dare talk there.”

  But it wasn’t the talking that frightened her as much as the looking, the sensing, the savoring of companionship. One such working date could lead to another, then coffee during, then dinner after. It would be all too easy to get used to that kind of thing.

  “Thanks, Ryan, but I’d better stay home.”

  He eyed her askance. “You’re sure?” With her nod, he dropped it. For now. There had to be a reason for her reticence. He couldn’t believe that she still mourned a husband who had been four years dead. Nor had he found an explanation for that look of abject fear he’d seen in her eyes more than once. He wished he had the courage to ask outright. But he doubted she’d answer, and he feared he’d only jeopardize the frail bond between them.

  When the courtyard came into sight, Carly took a deep breath. “This was nice. Thank you.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Well, it was fun running anyway.” It would have to last her all week.

  They walked up the path to the front door. “It was fun,” he said quietly, then drew t
he door open and let her pass. Looking down at her, he felt drawn once again. She barely reached his chin, even to the top of the loose ponytail into which she’d gathered her hair. Stray tendrils had freed themselves as she’d run and now clung damply to her neck. In her running shorts and sneakers she seemed small, vulnerable and…brave. Brave. The word popped unexpectedly into his mind. He was pondering it distractedly when she stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned to regard him in question.

  “Aren’t you going to get it?”

  “Get what?”

  “That note sticking out of your mailbox.”

  He looked back toward the foyer.” Sure enough, a piece of paper had been folded and worked into the narrow slit of the box, with just enough showing to attract his attention.

  Carly watched him unfold it and read a brief scrawled message. When he frowned, she momentarily forgot her need for distance.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, coming closer to where he stood staring at the slip of paper.

  “I don’t know.” His eyes were troubled. “It’s from Howard Miller, my partner. He wants me to call him right away.”

  “Does that mean trouble?”

  “I’m not sure.” He looked again at the note in a futile attempt to uncover some hidden meaning. “If he made the effort to drive all the way in from Wellesley, there must be something on his mind.” His dark brows knit in the struggle to guess what it was.

  “You can use my phone,” Carly heard herself offer. Turning, she headed up the stairs, knelt at her door to gather up her newspaper, and let herself in without looking back. Ryan materialized in her foyer moments later.

  “I really apologize for this,” he said, going straight toward the kitchen, pausing only to drop his paper on the table before lifting the receiver. “I’m giving your phone quite a workout.”

  She smiled. “It’ll survive.” Then she set her own paper in the living room and headed down the hall. When she returned, she carried two clean towels, one of which she offered to Ryan before settling on the sofa to mop the sweat from her forehead and neck as she eyed the Sunday headlines. From where she sat, she couldn’t help but hear Ryan’s half of the conversation.