Finger Prints (17 page)

“I saw her again,” Tom called, stretching his long legs over Ryan’s coffee table.

Ryan came to the door of his bedroom. A thick towel was knotted low on his hips. He was drying his hair with another. “Saw who?”

“The black-haired lady with the sexy legs.”

“Uh, yeah? Where?”

“Here. Downstairs. She was leaving as I was coming in. You’re sure she’s not your favorite neighbor in disguise?”

Ryan stopped his rubbing and draped the towel around his neck with a half laugh. “Carly? Fat chance. She’s as straightforward as the day is long.” As soon as he’d said it, he wondered why he’d felt so compelled. He should have left it at the half laugh. The fact was that there was a lot more to Carly than she let on. He’d seen that distant look in her eyes too often.

“Wonder who it could be,” Tom said with deceptive nonchalance. For that matter, now that Ryan thought about it, his brother had been different lately. Since he’d returned from the coast? Since Ryan had taken his own place? There was this intense interest in a black-haired lady with sexy legs….

“Beats me,” Ryan said, as he made a note to ask Carly about that one. He raised the towel and rubbed his bearded jaw. “Listen, let me get dressed. I’m picking Carly up at two. Why don’t you come meet her? Then you can scram.” His pointed look elaborated.

“Goin’ someplace nice?”

“I thought we’d go up to Rockport.”

“On a day like this?”

“Sure. Tom, Tom, where’s your sense of adventure?”

Tom grunted. “I think I’ve passed it on to you.”

Carly was delighted to meet Ryan’s brother, whom she instantly recognized as the blond-haired man Sheila had so expressively admired on the stairs several weeks before. Though she’d never seen herself as a matchmaker, she made a mental note of the definite possibilities. Later, alone with Ryan driving northbound on Route 128, she gently explored them.

“Tom is nice.”

“Uh-huh.”

“A real ladies’ man?”

“He’s lookin’. His latest fixation is some lady in our building. Black hair. Sexy legs. Do you know of anyone like that?”

“In our building?” Carly frowned. Unless there’d been another fast move, in which case Sam would have her head, there wasn’t anyone fitting that description living in the building. “Not that I know of.”

“How about visiting?”

The light dawned. “Sheila?”

“Hmm?”

“It might be Sheila.” Propitious. “My friend. She drops in to visit at odd times. They passed on the stairs once.”

Ryan suspected he’d hit on gold. Nothing would please him more than to do something for Tom. “Think you could arrange an introduction for me?”

“For
you
?” Carly arched a delicate brow.

“Sure,” Ryan countered, a sly smile forming. “Got to check her out before I sic her on my little brother. He’s at a sensitive time in his life.”

“So’s she.” Carly had been well aware of the subtle restlessness in Sheila. “Maybe we can work something out.”

Their afternoon in Rockport was wonderful. Though most of the small shops were closed for the winter, Carly and Ryan ambled down the narrow streets, admiring window displays, browsing through those craft shops that were open. They had steaming clam chowder in a restaurant overlooking the harbor and, arm in arm, admired Motif #1, the shed on the water that had become an art form extraordinaire. Then, driving farther up the coast, Ryan pulled the car to the side of the road, and they walked along the beach.

There was something breathtaking about the winter waves sloshing relentlessly against the shore. They were timeless, ever changing, never changing, their rhythmic force echoing the pulse of eternity. Robyn Hart…Carly Quinn…the tide was immune to such petty distinctions. The world went on, as it always would.

Mesmerized and slightly awed, Carly stood with Ryan in silent appreciation. When he put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close, she wondered if he felt it too, this sense of being something infinitely small in the face of perpetuity. They were a couple at that moment, finding strength in each other. Illusion, perhaps, but she liked the feeling.

Only when she spotted a piece of driftwood did she break away. “Look!” Running the short distance to where it lay, she knelt down, turned it, lifted it.

Ryan hunkered down beside her. “It’s beautiful.”

She fingered the damp, ridged forks of gnarled wood. “I’m bringing it home. It’ll look great in my living room.”

He smiled at her. It
would
look great in her living room. Had she not claimed it first, he might have done so. There was something terribly genuine about it, genuine as the wave of feeling that washed over him then. Taking the driftwood from her, he rose and tucked her by his side to walk the beach a final few minutes before heading home.

Only two things marred her total happiness during those weeks between holidays. The first was the physical frustration that had begun to haunt her. When she was with Ryan, she ached to be in his arms. His lean physique was a constant source of temptation. When she was away from him, the need was, if anything, greater. She found herself lying in bed at night thinking of him in the bedroom below, picturing his long limbs under the sheets, his muscled torso gleaming in the silver of light coming in from the street.

She recalled every vivid moment of that night on his sofa, and wondered what it would have been like if they’d made love. She imagined his body all bare and hard and hair-spattered, imagined her slighter, paler body entwined with his. If she was tormented, she couldn’t help herself. And if Ryan was tormented, he took no step forward. Oh, he was infinitely warm, touching her at every excuse—an arm around her shoulder, a hand in hers, a well-placed thigh, frequent kisses—but he made no attempt to go further. Much as she told herself to be grateful, the ache only grew.

She knew that he was waiting for a sign from her, yet she couldn’t quite get herself to give it. Along with those fevered memories of the evening in his apartment went the stark reminder of what had torn them apart. She was frightened. She’d been totally out of control for those few moments when her mind had betrayed her. It could easily happen again. Moreover, lovemaking implied, at least on her part, a commitment that she wasn’t yet sure she could make.

For there was still that other side of her that she couldn’t ignore. Therein lay the second source of her turmoil as the days passed. Sam kept her up to date on the progress of things in Chicago. Gary Culbert had been denied bail pending appeal of his sentence, which meant that at least she wouldn’t have to worry about his walking the streets in search of her. Now rumor had it that his lawyer was about to file a motion for a new trial, and if there was a new trial she would have to return to Chicago to relive her ordeal on the witness stand.

How could she explain it to Ryan? She saw him nearly every day. And what about the danger factor? It was always there, a new trial or no. And it was particularly frightening when she realized that it had been neither Gary Culbert nor Nick Barber who had come after her that dark night in Chicago. It had been a man with a gun and he’d never been caught. She didn’t even know his name.

His name was Horace Theakos, better known in the trade as Ham, and he was admitted to the visitors’ room after a cursory search by the prison guard. He sat down at one of the several tables and was satisfied to see that he had the room to himself. Culbert had promised that. A little palm money went a long way.

Culbert entered from a door on the opposite side of the room and quietly took a seat. They wouldn’t have much time. He’d get right to the point.

“We’re filing for a new trial,” he said in a very low, very even voice. “And I want something done about that witness.” He might have been ordering a bologna sandwich.

Theakos was a large man with angular features. His full shock of black hair was slicked back. His business suit belied his pastime. His eyes were small, black and hard. Gary Culbert would have been the first to run from him in a dark alley.

“That’s a tall order, Culbert,” he replied under his breath. “I risked a lot las’ time.”

“That was your fault,” Culbert murmured, his lips barely moving. “And you owe me. You let her get away.”

“She’s a fighter. I didn’t expect that in such a puny one.”

“Such a puny one put me in this place. I want her taken care of.”

Theakos didn’t budge. “Don’ know where she is. Don’ know
who
she is. They got her hidden away. Ya’ heard what they said at the trial.”

“Yeah. I was the one sitting way up in front while you sat hidden in the back.” Culbert stared across the table. “You know what she looks like. You know where she’s come from. Find her. Just keep it quiet.”

“Now you’re really dreamin’,” Theakos droned softly. “There’s no way I can get close to her after las’ time. I have to keep my distance. Y’ll need someone else.”

“
We’ll
need someone else, you mean. You’re in this over your head, Ham. Don’t forget. I know who held the gun last time.”

Theakos smiled and whispered through gritted teeth, “Y’re a bastard.”

“I’m in good company,” Culbert retorted as softly. “I want it done right this time. Make it look like an accident. Self-inflicted, if possible. That’ll muddy up the state’s case but good.”

“It’ll muddy ya up, if anything leaks.”

Culbert’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll go down together. Got that?”

“Guess what?” came the nasal voice over the phone. Carly instantly recognized it as Sheila’s.

“What?”

“Harmon called.”

“The Chicago Harmon? That’s great!” she exclaimed, then caught herself. “Or is it? I thought you were done with him.”

Sheila’s grin was almost audible. “I was. But that was before he called last night. He wants to see me.”

“No kidding? Is he coming to Boston?”

“Uh-uh. I’m flying out there.”

“To Chicago? But when will you have time? With the holidays and all….”

“That’s when I’m going. Over Christmas. For the long weekend. Isn’t it exciting, Carly?”

Carly hadn’t heard quite as much enthusiasm in Sheila’s voice since she’d first arrived in Boston. “I’m happy for you, Sheila.” So much for matchmaking. “Listen, if I don’t talk with you before you go, have a wonderful time. Okay?”

Two days before Christmas, Carly was off to the Bahamas to meet her brother and his family. As he’d done at Thanksgiving time, Ryan drove her to the airport.

“I wish you weren’t going,” he said, as once more they stood at the boarding gate. “It’ll be lonely here without you.”

“I wish you were going to see your parents.”

He shook his head. “Too much to do here. I’ll call them, though.” He paused. “Can I call you?”

“I’d like that,” she said softly, pleased to have that to look forward to. Then she remembered. Jim was certain to have made reservations under his name, or, God forbid, under that of Robyn Hart. “But, uh, I’d better call you. I’m not sure exactly when we’ll be at the hotel or out. You know how it is with three young kids to please?”

“Will you?”

“Please them? I’ll try.”

“Call. Will you call?”

“Yes,” she whispered, feeling her insides knot. She hated goodbyes, particularly when it was Ryan she was leaving. Stretching up, she kissed him. Then, fighting the tears that might betray the depth of her feeling for the man, she turned and ran through the gate.

She called twice during the week she was away, both times at night, both times when she was lying in bed thinking positively indecent thoughts.

The first call came on Christmas Eve. Ryan was stretched out on his bed feeling sorry for himself. The loneliness was worse knowing that Carly was within his reach, yet not. When the phone rang, his heart thumped wildly.

“Hello?”

“Ryan?”

So soft, barely a whisper. Self-pity was forgotten amid the torrent of pleasure he derived from hearing her voice and knowing she was thinking of him.

“How are you, Carly?”

“Fine.” She drew the phone closer and curled up around it. “The sun’s great.”

“Getting a tan?”

“Uh-huh. And a rest.”

He angled himself up against his headboard. “Even with those kids?”

She chuckled. “Yup. They’re more interested in the pool than the beach, which means that Sharon and I bask in peace.”

“Sharon?”

“My sister-in-law.”

He nodded, but his thoughts weren’t of Sharon. He was picturing Carly on the sand. “What’s your bathing suit like?”

“My bathing suit?” She blushed. “What kind of a question is that?”

“Indulge me, babe. It’s cold and raw here. They’re predicting snow for tomorrow.”

“For Christmas? That’s lovely!”

“It’s a pain in the neck. Do you have any idea what a mess it’ll be? The streets around here are narrow to begin with. If it snows, they’ll be impossible.”

“Playing Scrooge, are we?” she teased.

“Just missing you. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m lonely.”

“I thought you had a cocktail party to go to?”

“I did. I went.”

She waited for the punch line. “Well?”

“It was boring. I didn’t last an hour.” He hesitated, then spoke again, this time more huskily. “Tell me about your bathing suit.” If he was to die of frustration, he’d go out in style.

She lowered her eyes. “It’s royal blue….”

“Go on.”

“With diagonal mauve-and-white stripes.”

“Mmm. Sounds nice. Two-piece?” He pictured a long slice of golden silk at her middle and shifted position to ease his burgeoning tautness.

“One.”

“Ahh. You’re saving it for me.”

“Saving what?”

“Your middle.”

“Ryan!” she whispered hoarsely. “What if this line is bugged?”

His eyes twinkled. “Then someone’s getting horny. I know I am.” Getting. That was a laugh.