Finger Prints (11 page)

Curious, Carly stepped to the railing and followed her gaze. A tall, blond-haired man with the broadest of shoulders and a cocksure gait had approached the second landing as Sheila reached it. Even from where she stood Carly could see the smile he cast toward Sheila as he made his way down the hall. Eyebrows raised suggestively, Sheila looked up at Carly, tossed her head toward the bold figure as a quiet knock echoed through the atrium, shook one hand in mime of something hot, beamed at Carly again and was on her way.

Shaking her head with a helpless smile, Carly returned to her apartment to shower, then dressed in jeans and a sweater and headed for the kitchen. It was nearly noon and she hadn’t eaten a thing. Making a cheese omelet and toast, she let her mind wander to the events of the morning. Sheila. Sam. Ryan.

Ryan. Her gaze fell once more to the cup he’d used. Lifting it, she held it to her, wondering what it was about the man that affected her so. Then, with a burst of determination she thrust the cup under the faucet, rinsed it and upended it in the dishwasher.

For four hours she worked without a break, finding solace in the intense concentration demanded by the papers before her. It was only a faint stiffness in her legs that brought her from her place on the living-room floor. Papers were strewn atop both of the low tables. The Sunday
Globe
lay unread at the end of the sofa.

Walking idly through the apartment, she paused in front of the window and gazed out at the Charles. It looked cold. Strange, when the air had been so warm that morning. But it was nearly dusk now, and morning was long gone. Then she’d been with Ryan. Now she was alone.

She was in very much the same circumstance the following evening, reading through a new batch of papers, when the phone rang. She had been expecting a call from Bryna Moore, an art teacher at Rand and a friend with whom she’d spent an hour that afternoon discussing a possible collaboration in an art-and-writing course. It wasn’t Bryna, though. She instantly recognized the deep male voice by the involuntary flutter it sent through her.

“Carly? It’s Ryan. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she answered softly, fearing she was better than that now that he’d called. She’d thought of him that morning when she’d left for school, and again when she’d paused in the downstairs foyer to get her mail on her way home. “Are you home?”

“Yup. My phone’s in.” He chuckled in self-derision. “Obviously.” He paused for a minute. “I thought I’d test it out. You’re the first person I’ve called.”

She smiled, feeling suddenly warm. “Thank you. I’m honored. But how, uh, how did you know my number?” It was unlisted.

“It was printed on your phone. I have a good memory.” He’d made a point to have, where Carly was concerned. He remembered every detail of the precious short time they’d spent together since Friday night, had relived those minutes repeatedly. And repeatedly he’d asked himself what it was about her that had instantly struck such a chord. He’d known his share of women over the years, both before and after his wife, yet none had seemed to have the need, or the reluctance, that Carly Quinn did. Among the many feelings she inspired, curiosity remained high on his list.

Aware now of the silence on her end, he cleared his throat. “I thought you might want to know that we got the autopsy done.”

“What did they find?”

“I won’t know for sure until the final report comes through in another couple of days. At least it was done. It’s a start.”

“Were you able to learn
anything
?”

“Just that he did have some signs of recent injury. How recent remains to be seen.”

“Is the warden doing any checking on his end? You know, questioning guards and other inmates.”

Ryan sighed. “He says he is. But he’ll hear what he wants to hear, if you know what I mean.”

Indeed she did. “He’ll be hesitant to admit that any wrongdoing took place in his facility.”

“Which was why the autopsy was so critical. All we can do is wait now for that report.”

She nodded, but was silent. When Ryan spoke again, his tone held that something that tugged at her heart.

“I missed you this morning.”

“This morning?”

“When I ran. I thought you might be out.”

“My God, you must have been up early.”

“I was out at six-thirty.”

At six-thirty that morning she’d been in the shower, wishing she could have run even as she nursed tired hamstrings. “It’s pretty dark then.”

“All the more reason why it might have been nice to have you with me. Did you run after school?”

“Actually, no. The traffic was so heavy and it was pretty cold and I was tired.” And it was dark then too. “I usually stick to the weekends.”

“The mornings are nice. Other than being lonely, that is. But if you came with me it wouldn’t be lonely. How about it?”

She twisted the telephone cord around her finger. “I don’t know, Ryan—”

“Come on,” he coaxed, and the thought of running tempted her nearly as much as the softness of his tone. “It’d be good for you. Fresh air. Exhilaration. It’s a great way to start the day, particularly when you have to be cooped up in school.”

“But I’m not cooped up,” she argued. “I’m forever walking from one classroom to the other. Even outside.” She hesitated. “Have you ever seen the school?”

“No.”

“It’s really beautiful, on the grounds of an estate with four separate buildings. My office is in one, the classrooms in another, the cafeteria in a third. So I do get exercise. Besides, I have to leave here every morning by seven-thirty. And if I’ve got to shower and dress and dry my hair and put makeup on….” She realized she was babbling and caught herself. “Well, I’d really have to run at six. That’d be pretty early.”

“Not for me. I’d be game.”

“Thanks, Ryan,” she murmured softly, reluctantly. “But I think I’ll pass.”

“For now. I’ll give you that. But I’ll keep after you, Carly. You won’t know what you’re missing until you’ve tried.”

Oh, she knew what she was missing, all right. More than anything she’d like to run each morning with Ryan. But it wasn’t wise. It just wasn’t wise.

At least, that was what she told herself all week. By the time Saturday morning rolled around, however, she was up early and eager to go. Unfortunately, it was raining. More disappointed than she might have wished, she returned to bed, wondering whether Ryan was in bed just below her, imagining him all warm and mussed from sleep, deciding that he’d most probably taken one look at the swelling puddles, turned over and gone back to sleep.

In fact, he was up at seven, staring gloomily at the rainsodden street. Wearing a pair of blue briefs and a look of disgust, he cursed his luck. He wandered to the living room, as though that window might reveal a ray of sun, then, thwarted there too, returned to the bedroom and thrust a hand through his hair in frustration. Pivoting on his heel, he backtracked to the kitchen, poured a tall glass of orange juice from the carton that looked as lonely in the otherwise empty refrigerator as he felt in his strangely empty life, and faced the window as he drank.

He hadn’t planned to run until eight. That was the time he’d met Carly last Sunday. There was always the chance it would clear up. Leaning forward, he looked at the sky. It was dark gray and ominous, heavy, thick. Still, there was always that hope….

Dragging the newspaper in from the hall with one arm and mental thanks that his home delivery had finally begun, he returned to bed to read. But he was restless. Headlines were about all he took in before he put the paper down atop the scattered sheets with an impatient rustle. Lying back on the pillow, he eyed the ceiling. He wondered what she was doing, whether she was awake, whether she’d planned on running, whether she was as frustrated as he. Most likely, he decided, she was sound asleep.

Bounding up, he looked outside again. It was pouring harder than ever. “Hell,” he muttered, looked at his watch and sank back down on the edge of the bed. Pulling the paper closer, he extracted the editorial page, spread it with an agitated crackle of newsprint, and focused in on a column written by a colleague of his. Creative sentencing in the courts. An idealistic practice at best, at worst a mandate for discrimination. The piece was well conceived, if written with the verbosity that plagued so much of legal writing. When it was his turn to write an editorial, he’d make certain he consulted an English teacher.

Closing the paper impatiently, he went into the bathroom, quickly showered and put on his running suit, then returned to the window. He could try. Hell, he could always position himself downstairs on the pretense of debating whether to run or not, and wait for her. If she didn’t show by eight-fifteen or so, he’d know.

Just then, a blur of yellow caught his eye and, squinting, he leaned forward. Some madman was actually running, if that was what could be called the dodging act he was doing round and about the obstacle course of puddles on the river path. Man, it was teeming! But maybe, just maybe, she’d be as crazy. After all, she hadn’t run since last weekend.

He was about to head downstairs when a car approached, speeding eastward along Memorial Drive. Standing at the window in anticipation, he watched the car whisk by the runner, splattering him mercilessly, causing him to lose his stride. With that, Ryan Cornell unzipped his jacket and threw it onto the bed.

A floor above, Carly did the same. It was insane. She didn’t know why she’d even bothered to dress. The rain hadn’t let up for a minute since she’d awoken. No one in his right mind would be running. The muddy yellow jogger she’d seen could have the path to himself. Much as she wanted the exercise, she wasn’t
that
mad. Perhaps there was a message somewhere here. She looked heavenward. The weather was only another of the reasons she shouldn’t see Ryan.

With a sigh of defeat, she returned to the bathroom to dress properly. Rain or no rain, she would have to go out later. Her refrigerator was nearly empty. There were clothes to be left and retrieved at the dry cleaners’. She had to pick up a few last skeins of silk thread to finish the needlepoint for her father. Not to mention a luncheon date with Sheila and a hair appointment at three. It was a lousy day for all that, but she would manage.

When Ryan knocked on her door, it was late afternoon. He’d spent the day working. Strike that.
Trying
to work. Something had to give. Patience was one thing, masochism another.

Hearing a faint sound from within, he stood straight, knowing that Carly would be looking out to see who was there. When the door slowly opened, he relaxed.

“Hi,” he said with a smile, the simple sight of Carly Quinn melting his heart.

“Hello,” she answered shyly. Her own heart beat double time.

“Just wanted to return this.” He held out the towel she’d tossed him after they’d run on Sunday. “I finally did my laundry. It’s clean.”

She put a hesitant hand out to take the towel. “I’d forgotten all about it.” Not quite the truth. In the back of her mind there had been the subtle awareness that Ryan had something of hers. It had been reassuring. “Thanks.”

“My thanks.” Not knowing what else to do with them, he stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Crummy day.”

Hugging the towel to her chest, she chuckled. “Tell me. I’ve been dodging the raindrops all day, what with a million things to do. I feel a little like a drowned rat.” Her newly trimmed hair was damp. Her stocking feet hadn’t quite dried out.

“You don’t look it,” Ryan said softly. She was the image of femininity, wearing a pale pink sweater and a plaid skirt of a matching pink and gray. She seemed small and fragile. Once again he felt a surge of protectiveness. And more. With her hair spilling in damp curls to her shoulders and her expression shy, verging on the self-conscious, she was as desirable as she’d ever been. “You look pretty,” he whispered.

He didn’t look bad himself in his jeans and dark sweater, she decided, before she looked away in sheer self-defense. “Anything inside and reasonably dry looks pretty on a day like this,” she murmured. Then, helpless to resist, she looked back up at him. His hair, too, was damp, looking all the more vibrant. “You were out?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Working?”

“This morning.”

She nodded and swallowed hard. Her insides were astir with something she begrudged but couldn’t shake. Ryan was too intense a man to take lightly, too quietly sensual to ignore. Against her will she responded to the heat of his gaze, the headiness of his presence. She swallowed again.

“Ah, hell,” he murmured, stepping quickly into her apartment, closing the door behind him and reaching for her before she could think to flee. He whispered her name as his lips opened on hers. Drawing her body against his, he kissed her deeply.

Carly reeled. Given the caution with which he’d approached her in the past, she hadn’t expected this suddenness. Yet it was phenomenally exciting, for the need was there in them both. Minutes, hours, days of denial couldn’t alter the fact of the raw biological attraction existing between them. And where more rational thoughts might have intervened had there been time, Ryan’s aggression took the choice from her hands.

His lips were warm and moist, his tongue a welcome interloper. He was as thirsty as she, drinking of everything she gave, and she gave mindlessly. Her mouth opened to him, her tongue mated eagerly with his. She’d never known such gentle fire, and it seared her with startling force.

“Ah, Carly,” Ryan moaned against her cheek when he finally released her to allow for the air both badly needed. “This is what I’ve wanted all week.” His voice was hoarse, the arms strong that circled her and held her, trembling within bounds of steel. He buried his face in her hair and ran splayed hands up and down her back as though to reassure himself that she was there. “I’ve wanted to talk with you and hold you and kiss you. I’ve thought about you so much.”

Carly’s own arms were around his neck, her face tucked against the warmth of his throat, her brow cushioned by the thickness of his beard. She felt light and secure, at home for the first time in years. But she couldn’t find the words to echo his. With the ending of his kiss, the choice was hers once more. And she knew for a fact that sensasions of happiness, of security, of homecoming, were cruel and taunting luxuries.