Finger Prints (23 page)

Carly put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Ryan.” She sounded far more complacent than she felt. “I’m sorry, Sam. We were in Vermont.” There was an urgent question in her eyes as she asked, “There wasn’t something special you wanted, was there?”

Sam deftly read between the lines and smiled comfortably. His eyes held gentle apology. “Just to wish you a Happy New Year. That’s all. I should have assumed you’d taken off, but you’ve never done that before.” His last words were spoken with meaning.

“I know.” She thought of the men outside, realized that they would be from Sam’s office
and
that Ryan would realize it too. She moved quickly to avert his suspicion, rationalizing that it was as good a time as any to reveal Sam’s position, particularly with Sam there to help her out. “You’re just not used to leaving work at work,” she scolded, then explained to Ryan, “Sam’s with the U.S. marshal’s office. He gets carried away at times. Finds it hard to leave his white charger at the stable.”

Ryan’s eyes were dark and unreadable. “The marshal’s office? Then those are your henchmen parked out front?”

Sam glanced at his watch. “Actually, we were supposed to be somewhere half an hour ago. I’d better run.” As he sidestepped Carly he gave her arm a squeeze. “Glad you had fun. Talk to you later.”

“Sam?” Carly moved to the railing to follow his descending figure. “How about you? How was the Ritz?”

He flashed her a wide grin. “Ritzy.” Then, raising a hand in farewell, he was off.

When Carly turned back, Ryan was gone. She went to the door of her apartment to find him standing in her foyer carefully scanning the premises. Stepping forward, she eyed him quizzically.

His slow sweep of the room continued. “Anything look out of place?”

“Of course not. That was
Sam
, Ryan. He wouldn’t touch anything.”

“Can’t be too careful,” he muttered, taking off down the hall. As Carly stood stock-still, he perused the bedroom, then, backtracking past her without a word, the kitchen for outward signs of disruption. “Everything looks okay,” he said, returning to her at last. “What’s with the Ritz?”

With his hands low on his hips and his dark eyes unyielding, he waited. There was an imperiousness about him that she’d never seen before. It might have bothered her had she not been as sensitive to his feelings. But she knew that the jealousy and resentment he felt were largely her fault. If Ryan knew the truth, the
whole
truth, he would easily understand Sam’s concern.

“Sam and his wife spent New Year’s Eve at the Ritz. It was the first time they’ve left their daughter overnight. She’s barely two.”

“Sam’s married?”

“Yes, to Ellen.”

“Oh.” That made him feel slightly better and the tiniest bit foolish. “And he has a daughter?”

“Uh-huh.”

He nodded at this, his mind moving on. “How do you know them?”

Carly didn’t correct the “them”—in a sense, she knew both Ellen and Sara, too. Feeling uncomfortable, she forced herself to explain. “Sam went to school with one of my brothers. We’ve known each other for a long time. When I moved here last summer, he jumped right in as an older brother once removed.” It sounded very legitimate. She held her breath, releasing it only when Ryan’s features slowly began to relax.

“Older brother once removed?”

“Um-hmm.”

“That’s why you gave him your key?”

“He was the only person I knew when I came here. It was Sam who helped me find this place and get settled. At the time it seemed logical that, of anyone, he should have my spare.” That much was very definitely the truth. Not that Sam had ever used the key before. He’d kept it locked in his files, preferring to ring the bell and call up from downstairs as any other visitor would do. The fact that he’d been worried enough about her to take the key from its place,
and
to bring along three of his cohorts, brought home with stark precision the true nature of their relationship. She had to struggle to keep her voice steady. “Just in case…you know, just in case I locked myself out or something….”

Ryan stared at her a minute longer. Then, tipping his head to the side, he let out a deep breath. “Damn it, that guy bugs me.” He thrust his fingers through his hair, leaving it disheveled, in keeping with his frustration. Turning his back, he stalked several paces, halted with his feet set in a broad stance, tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and eyed the ceiling. “I know you’ll say that I’m jealous, and I am.” He swiveled around. “He comes between us.” He held out a hand when she opened her mouth to argue. “You’ve told me there’s nothing between you two romantically. And it helps to know that he’s got a wife and kid at home. You’re not the type to fool with married men. I know that. But, hell—” he threw his hand in the air “—he calls and upsets you, he scares the living daylights out of both of us by barging into your apartment—”

“He didn’t barge in. He had a key.”

“Don’t remind me,” he murmured, then seemed to lose his momentum, for he shook his head and spoke more quietly, almost to himself. “What is it about him that sets me on edge?”

Drawn as much by his upset as by her own guilt, Carly went to him. “Maybe it’s just that he was here before you were,” she offered softly. She put both hands up to his shoulders. “It’d be natural for you to distrust him. But you’ve got to trust me and believe that you’ve got nothing to fear in Sam. He’s been worried about me since I came, getting after me to date and all. He feels a responsibility toward me. Whether it’s right or not, it’s meant a lot over the months.”

Soothed by her tone, Ryan grew more gentle. “Then I should be grateful to him, shouldn’t I?”

She nodded, thinking how true that was. And she hated herself for not being able to tell him everything. But Sam’s appearance had been a poignant reminder that her future was still precarious. Given the choice between hiding part of herself from Ryan and subjecting him to the fears with which she lived, she still had to opt for the former. Someday, perhaps, she would tell him….

After a late dinner in the Square, they spent the night at Ryan’s place. If his passion was particularly intense, Carly welcomed it in reinforcement of all they’d shared in Vermont. Deep down inside she knew that he wouldn’t quickly forget Sam, or accept him, for that matter. In compensation, she gave of herself more than she ever had, responding to his fierceness with a high fire of her own.

Sunday morning they ran together. They joked about the variety of activity they’d had in the past few days, wondering if their running time would be better or worse for it, speculating on the long-range effects of lovemaking on hamstrings and quads and other more private bodily spots.

When they came in to shower though, Ryan in his place, she in hers, she was quite serious. Crossing directly to the phone, she called Sam.

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” he teased.

“I haven’t been alone. Listen, Sam, are you sure there wasn’t anything more to your worries? Was there any news from Chicago?”

“On a holiday weekend? Are you kidding? No, there was nothing. Hey, I really am sorry about being there like that when you and Ryan came back. Did he calm down?”

“In time. I told him a little about you. You know, about Ellen and Sara and—” she emphasized each word “—how you went to school with my brother.”

“Did he buy it?” came the quiet rejoinder.

She sighed. “I think so. I feel awful about lying.”

“Do you want to tell him?”

“Not yet.”

“Any special reason?” When she didn’t answer, he went on. “I’d say you’re
very
serious about him. You had a good time in Vermont, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“In
love
with him? God, Sam, I haven’t known him very long.”

“It can happen like that.”

“Not to me,” she argued forcefully. “There’s too much at stake. Love wasn’t in the game plan.”

“Still—”

“No!” Then she lowered her voice. “No. I can’t think about love yet. It’s enough that Ryan is patient and good and a wonderful companion.”
And lover
, she thought, but couldn’t quite say it, though she knew that Sam knew that she and Ryan hadn’t gone to Vermont to roast chestnuts.

“Well, I’m glad of that, at least.” He caught his breath. “Oh, damn, Sara’s screaming and Ellen’s across the street. I’ve got to run.”

“Sam?”

“Mmm?”

“Should I…do you want…I mean, if I take off again….”

“No, Carly.” He grinned. “You’re a big girl. You don’t have to report every little weekend tryst to me. I really jumped to conclusions far too quickly. From now on I’ll know to call
Ryan’s
number before I panic.”

“He’ll love that,” she muttered.

“He’ll just know I’m concerned.” He covered the phone and yelled a muffled, “I’m coming, baby! Daddy’s coming!” Then he spoke directly into the receiver again. “Gotta go, Carly. Take it easy.”

“Sure, Sam. And thanks.”

“For what?”

“For worrying.”

He chuckled. “Any time, hon. Anytime.”

No, Ryan, I
don’t
agree with you,” Carly declared. Wearing her long terry-cloth robe, she sat on the sofa with her legs tucked up beneath her. It was a lazy Saturday morning, and she was thoroughly enjoying a colorful discussion with Ryan. “You can talk until you’re blue in the face about the civil rights of your client, and I’d still argue in favor of the first-amendment rights of the press. That reporter saw a story, researched it, wrote it, and the
Globe
printed it. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Ryan’s long frame was folded into the chair across from her. In the week since their return from Vermont, he’d spent more time in her place than his own, particularly as of the Monday before when the movers had left him without a stick of furniture. Carly had teased him at the time, accusing him of having planned her seduction to coincide with his needing a place to sleep, but she hadn’t minded. She was grateful for an excuse to have him around.

He crossed his ankles on one of her low sculpted tables and scowled at her. “Nothing wrong with that? What about the principle that a man is innocent until proven guilty? What about the danger of trial by the media?” He thumped his chest indignantly. “My client was proved not guilty in a court of law. Which means he’s innocent!”

“Watch it, Ryan. You’re spilling coffee all over the place.” She leaned forward to put her own cup down and hand a napkin across to him, then watched him distractedly blot drips from the navy velour of his robe. “Innocent—” she quietly resumed the discussion, settling comfortably back once more “—only in the formal sense that the jury wasn’t convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that he was guilty. That doesn’t necessarily mean he was entirely without guilt.”

Ryan crushed the napkin in his fist. “In the eyes of the law it does.”

“But doesn’t the public deserve more? I mean, you’re a whiz of a lawyer; you can get people off right and left. Either the jury isn’t convinced, or there’s a technicality on which the verdict is overturned or you plea-bargain before the whole thing begins. But what about the public’s right to know? You’ve told me the facts of this case, and you agree that your client may have cut corners here and there in the construction of that building. Okay, so a jury wasn’t convinced there was malicious intent. Don’t you think that the public deserves a warning? Don’t you think that a reporter like Mahoney has an obligation to set out the facts as he uncovers them? After all, the A.G.’s office didn’t do much of an investigation itself, and it had been receiving complaints for months.”

Ryan sat forward, clutching his coffee cup. “That’s not the point. The point is that my client’s business has been adversely affected by not only the original series of articles but by slanted press reports of the trial. The press cannot be given the power to make or break. It’s not God. It’s not judge and jury. And it sure as hell isn’t elected by the people!”

“But it is responsible.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Come on, Ryan! Do you really think—” the phone rang but she ignored it “—that Mahoney had a personal motive in ruining Walfleet Construction?”

Ryan thought about that for a minute. “Personal? As in inflated sense of self-importance, maybe.” Another ring. Ryan’s voice softened instantly. “Want me to get that, babe?” It was as though he’d been playing a part and suddenly reverted to himself. Though Carly was coming to be used to it, at first she’d been stunned by the way he could turn on or off at will. What she realized was that he was strong in his beliefs, and he enjoyed the discussion for discussion’s sake. She was finding that she did too.

“No, I’ll go.” She rose from the sofa. “But I still think you’re wrong. I’ve known my share of newspaper people and the ego thing was minimal.” When the phone rang again, Ryan shooed her with the sweep of his hand. She continued talking as she walked, thankful that given her detachment from this situation she was free to express views so close to her heart. “Investigative reporters work hard. For every one story that pans out, they’ve hit dead ends on four or five others. It’s an ugly job—” She picked up the phone well after the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“Carly?” came the cautious voice on the other end of the line. With one word alone, its nasal quality gave it away.

“Sheila! I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever made it back from Chicago. How are you?”

“Great!” Sheila answered lightly. “But I’ve been really busy since I got back. How are you? Have a good trip?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Carly,
you
told me,” she scolded with playful indignation. “More than once. The Bahamas, Jim and Sharon and the kids, lots of sun. God, was I drooling.”

“Oh, the
Bahamas
.” It seemed like an eon ago. She’d been thinking of her more recent trip, that glorious one with Ryan. Standing at the door of the kitchen from where she could see the object of her desire, she grinned. “I had fun. But it was good to get back.” Her smile grew more catlike when Ryan pushed himself from the sofa and approached.