Finger Prints (31 page)

Sheila was about to comment on her own relationship with Tom and the fact that that, too, might work out well, when she recalled that Greg was hearing everything she said. “Ryan already knows me and knows that Carly and I are friends. Assuming I fade into the background when the two of them are together, it wouldn’t be much of a problem.”

Sam shrugged. She had thought it all out. “Well—” he sighed, giving the pencil an idle move “—let me think about it. Maybe I’ll give her a call and feel her out about the whole thing.”

“She’ll fight you,” Sheila argued in a last-ditch effort to plead her case. “She went so far as to say that even if her cover is blown she won’t budge. I think she’s nearing her limit, and her involvement with Ryan isn’t helping matters. He may be putting pressure on her for some kind of commitment.” It sounded good. “The poor woman’s being torn apart.”

That Sam could believe. “I know. It’s tough on her.”

When Sheila would have jumped in to say that she could make things easier, she caught herself. She’d already made her point. Subtlety was in order. The decision had to be Sam’s.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll let you know what I decide.” His tone reeked of finality. With a nod, Sheila turned, sent a gentle smile Greg’s way and left.

In the wake of her departure, silence filled the room. It was Sam who broke it, though Greg was right on his wavelength. “How did it go Friday night?”

“Okay. She’s nice.”

“Is that an endorsement?” He had to admit that she had seemed more subdued, more serious than usual. Perhaps she was settling down. If something about her still bothered him—an unspoken intensity, a strange if subtle urgency—maybe that was
his
problem.

“I…think so.”

“But you’re not sure.”

Greg had grown suspicious when Sheila had spoken of Ryan’s acceptance of her. It would certainly be convenient—Ryan and Carly and Sheila and Tom. But that was his own ego speaking, and it had little to do with the facts of Sheila’s ability on the job.

“I guess I’m sure,” he said at last. “She’s serious when it comes to work. She was the one who came up with the lead that netted Phillinski while you were in Chicago. She’s good with informants, handles them well. Phillinski had been running the feds in circles for two years.” He frowned. “No, any doubts I might have are personal.”

“She’s a lousy cook,” Sam speculated, but Greg was quick on the rebound.

“She’s a
great
cook. Claims she learned everything she knows from her old Uncle Amos. He recalled the amusing dissertation that had been delivered along with a midnight snack. “Sheila’s a character. She lives in a subbasement apartment, which she hates, but she drives a brand new Mazda, which she loves. She serves me Chivas Regal, then helps herself to a rum and Coke. She talks as freely about having come from poverty as about the mansion in the country she plans to have one day.” He took a deep breath, then, perplexed, let it out. “She
is
a character.”

“Do you think she’d be okay guarding Carly?”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t see why not. If they spent all that time together in Chicago and are still friends, Carly must be aware of her eccentricities. Sheila’s good company once you get used to her.”

Sam thought back to Sheila’s arrival in Boston. “That’s what Carly’s been telling me from the start. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m too conservative for my own good.”

Greg wondered the same about himself. No strings attached, Sheila had assured him, and he wanted it that way. She might have been great in bed, but it didn’t change the fact that she stirred nothing else in him. So why did it bother him that she had used his body as she dreamed of Thomas Cornell? It bothered him because of the weird feeling he had that, though he’d been in the dominant position, she had been calling the shots.

Carly sat in class feeling worse by the minute. She’d had it again this morning—that awful sense of being followed. Neither Sheila’s pep talk nor a night in Ryan’s arms seemed to have made a dent in her paranoia. Her stomach was in knots. She felt decidedly drained.

By lunchtime she discovered one source of her problem. She had gotten her period.

By early afternoon she had the answer to the other. Sam had called. She phoned him back as soon as she returned to her office.

“How could you have done that, Sam?” she cried when he told her about the man he’d had following her.

“I thought about it all weekend and decided that I’d feel better knowing you were covered, at least during those times you were most exposed.”

“But I was terrified! I felt your man on my tail from the start!”

“I know, Carly, and I’m sorry. He tried to be discreet, but I think you have fine-tuned antennas in that lovely head of yours. Anyway, I’ve pretty much decided to let Sheila cover you. She wouldn’t be on it full-time. We don’t have sufficient evidence of a problem to justify that. But she could walk back and forth from school with you, or drive you if you want, then go with you if you have things to do after—”

“What’ll I tell Ryan? He knows Sheila and I are friends, but he’s apt to suspect something strange.”

“Do you leave with Ryan in the mornings?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes he gives me a lift.”

“Then I could have Sheila waiting, watching from her car. If you’re alone, she’d be there to join you. If you’ve got Ryan, you won’t need her. And there’s no problem in the afternoons. Ryan works.”

“I suppose.”

“See? An easy solution to a problem that probably isn’t any problem at all. I’ll keep up the patrols around your place. You weren’t aware of those, were you?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m sure Ryan wasn’t either. Sheila will start tomorrow morning. For tonight, I’ll let the same agent—”

“No, Sam. He doesn’t need to follow me. I don’t care who he is, but he makes me nervous. I’ll be all right. It’s just one night.”

“You’re sure? I mean, the whole purpose of this is for your peace of mind.”

“And yours,” she reminded him tartly.

“Right. Well, that’s an idiosyncrasy of mine you’ll just have to put up with. But I will pull Ben now if you’d rather.”

“I’d rather.”

“Then it’s done. Give me a call if Sheila gets on your nerves.”

“Sam, Sam, Sam. You’re still down on her?”

“She may be a damn good deputy, but I don’t care what you say, she’ll always be a flake to me.”

Carly sighed and closed her eyes, feeling lighter of mind but very tired of body. “Well, if I have to have a bodyguard, I’d rather Sheila than anyone else.”

“You’ve got her.” His voice grew mischievous. “Have fun.”

She smiled wanly. “Thanks.”

She should have felt better, but she didn’t. The afternoon dragged on. She moved gingerly through two classes, then several student conferences, than a department meeting. By five, when she would have started home, she felt terrible.

Lifting the phone, she called Ryan. He was in conference, but she was quickly dispatched through.

“Carly?” His voice was low and accompanied by the hum of others in the background. “Is everything okay?” She rarely called him at work. He couldn’t help but worry.

“Everything’s fine,” she said quietly. “I, uh, I just thought I’d stick around here for a while and clean up some work. Do you think you could swing by for me on your way home?”

“You sound tired.”

“I am.”

“I can get away in an hour. Is that too late?”

“No. That’s fine.”

“You stay in your office. I’ll come for you.”

“I can wait at the—”

“I won’t have you waiting anywhere. If I’m held up in traffic, at least I’ll know that you’ll be getting something done. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“See you then.”

“Bye-bye.”

The extreme softness of her voice conjured up an image of the vulnerability Ryan had seen in her so often at the start of their relationship. He hadn’t seen it as much lately; she seemed more confident, more content. Now, though, he was as affected as ever by it. Replacing the receiver in its cradle, he realized that regardless of how frustrated he might be about whatever it was she hid from him, he would never, ever be immune to her pain.

By the time an hour had passed, Carly had mixed feelings about Ryan’s good intent. True, she was in her office, sitting, off her feet. And true, she had gotten some work done, albeit not as much as she might have wished. But she had also discovered that the rest of the school had grown very quiet. And while she doubted she had the strength to walk home, more than anything she wished she were there now, tucked in bed with a heating pad, safe and sound.

By six-twenty she’d begun to fear that he had been tied up longer than expected. The switchboard was off; he couldn’t get through if he tried. She was about to try him, when she heard footsteps in the hall. They were steady, confident. She wanted to believe they were Ryan’s, though with carpeted rooms at home, she couldn’t be sure she recognized the sound. They came quickly closer, with neither hesitancy nor stealth. Sitting very still, eyes on the door, she waited. When Ryan poked his head in, she let out her breath.

He kissed her gently and helped her gather her things. “You do look beat,” he said with concern, as he shut the door of her office and guided her down the hall.

When she was finally in the car, she put her head back and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on anything but the cramps that were painfully constant.

“Want to go out for something?”

“I think I’d just like to lie down for a while.”

He turned to study her face, which looked all the more pale in the dim streetlight. “Don’t feel well?”

“Just cramps. I got my period this morning.”

He reached out to caress her cheek with the back of his hand and felt utterly helpless. “I’m sorry, babe. Is it bad?”

She managed a noncommital reply, but nothing more. Taking his cue, Ryan started the car. Within five minutes they were home. Carly headed straight for the bedroom, kicked off her shoes and curled in a tight ball atop the quilt, coat and all. She was only vaguely aware of a shift in the mattress when Ryan sat down.

He reached for her coat, working at the buttons, finally easing it off and laying it aside. “Want to get undressed?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

He spread an extra blanket over her feet. “Can I get you anything? Aspirin? Warm milk? A hot-water bottle?”

“Don’t have a hot-water bottle,” she mumbled against the quilt. “There’s a heating pad though. Under the bed.”

Without rising, he groped for it, plugged it in and watched her unfold herself enough to place it on her thigh. “Why there? Isn’t it your stomach?”

“When I get cramps, my thigh aches.”

“Is it always like this?”

“For years it was, then it got better.” She moaned softly and shifted position. “This is the worst it’s been in months.”

“Should you call a doctor?”

“No. He warned me. I’ll be okay.”

“Warned you?” There was mild panic in Ryan’s voice. He felt very male and very out of it. “What do you mean, warned you? What did he warn you about?”

“The IUD. When I got it a few weeks ago. He said there was a chance my period would be worse.”

Ryan breathed a pithy oath. “Get rid of the damn thing. I don’t care about birth control.”

“Well, I do.” She smiled gently up at him and put a hand on the tensed muscles of his arm. “Ryan, it’s okay. Really.” She started to get up. “If it’d make you feel better, I’ll go sit with you in the living room.”

He pushed her down again, leaving a protective hand to rub her back. “It’d make me feel better to see
you
better. Isn’t there anything that helps?”

“Peace.” She eyed him in gentle chiding. “And quiet.”

“That’s a hint.”

Closing her eyes, she burrowed deeper into the quilt. “Mmm.” It was as much a groan as anything else. When she felt him begin to rise, she reached out to stop him. “No. Don’t go. Just lie with me a little.”

He leaned low and placed a kiss on her cheek. “Let me change. Then I’ll be back.”

She nodded and, trying to tune out the pain, focused on the quiet sounds of his undressing. First he slipped his suit jacket from his shoulders and let it fall to the bed. There was near silence as he tugged at his tie and worked at the buttons of his vest, then a swish as it separated from his shirt. She heard the rattle of his belt buckle, the dull click of a button, the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of his trousers. Moments later there was the clatter of wood hangers in the closet, one of which he removed and on which he began, piece by piece, to hang his suit. She pictured him standing by the bed in his shirt, his tie draped down either side of the fabric that tauntingly bared his chest.

She moaned again, louder this time, and Ryan was instantly on a knee, leaning close. “Is it worse?” he asked in alarm.

The sound she made was a poor imitation of a laugh. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered hoarsely. “I’m lying here listening to you strip and it’s totally erotic, but I hurt so much I can’t feel a thing.”

Ryan stretched out on the bed and took her ever so gently in his arms. “I wish there was
something
I could do.”

“This is fine,” she murmured against his chest. The faintly musky scent of his warm skin momentarily numbed her brain against that other, more visceral discomfort. In a gesture totally devoid of sexual intent, she ran her hand up his chest and hooked it around his neck. Her thumb fell to caress the point beneath his jaw where beard ended and skin began. After a minute, she tipped her head back and studied the spot. “It’s soft here. I never noticed before.”

“We all have our weak points.” He cleared his throat of its thickness.

“Not weak. Very nice.” Her thumb ventured into his beard, her eye following its gentle exploration. “What’s this? A scar?” She felt the faint ridge and, on closer examination, saw the slightest line where no hair grew. When he was upright it was invisible. Only now, with his head back against the pillow, could she see it.

He quickly looked down at her, obscuring the breach. “A little one. It’s nothing.”