Finger Prints (8 page)

“Well,” he breathed softly, “I’d better be going.”

“On your way out?”

“Actually, in. I’ve been working all day.”

She looked up then and caught a glimpse of fatigue in the depth of his gaze. “Do you always work on Saturdays?” she heard herself ask, knowing she should let him go, yet reluctant.

“It’s a good time to get things done. The courts aren’t open. The office is quiet. Clients are too busy doing other things to keep me on the phone for hours. I rely on my weekends to clean up the mess of the week.”

“I know the feeling. You work Sundays too?”

“At home. I’ve got a pile of papers that I’ve got to get to tomorrow. But first I’ve got to make some headway unpacking the boxes of clothes and other things I moved in yesterday.” He rubbed the taut muscles at the back of his neck. “Your place looks a damned sight better than mine at this point.”

She grinned. “I have this terrific vacuum cleaner with a self-drive feature. You turn it on, sit back on the sofa with your feet up—” she added a lower aside “—it tends to munch on toes—” then returned her tone to its normal pitch “—and watch it do all the work.”

“Does it pick up clothes from the floor?”

“None you’d want to wear again.”

He waved his arm in disinterest. “Then you can keep it. I need something that will
really
clean.”

“It sounds like you need a personal maid. Used to the fine life, are you?”

He saw the teasing in her eyes, heard the warmth in her tone and found infinite pleasure in having been able to make her relax. “The fine life?” he asked, his lips twitching. “The fine life makes for idle minds, double chins and very boring dinner conversation. As far as I’m concerned, you can take the fine life and shove it. And with that bit of opinionated drivel, I’ll take my leave.” He paused. “Will you be running tomorrow morning?”

“Yes.” It slipped out before she realized what she’d done.

His brows rose in question. “Would you like to…?” He cocked his head toward the door, his invitation obvious.

“Uh, I’m not sure. I don’t know just when I’ll be going.”

Reluctant to push his luck, Ryan nodded. Then he opened the door. “I’m planning to head out at eight, then pick up the newspaper on my way back. I know it’s kind of early for a Sunday morning, but if you feel like the company….” His voice trailed off. The invitation could stand by itself. With a wave and a prayer, he shut the door behind him.

Carly gave it much thought. Ryan appealed to her. He intrigued her. He amused her. He also frightened her. Since Matthew’s death, she had never been as naturally drawn to any person. Her relationship with Peter had been different—deep and meaningful, if devoid of heat. But heat was an early sign of fire. At the thought, she shuddered.

With the struggle she was waging to adapt to her new life, involvement with Ryan was the last thing she needed. She’d had Matthew and the all-abiding love they’d shared. She’d had Peter and the warmth of an affection based on similarity of interest. She’d had more in the past ten years than many a woman had in a lifetime. More love. More grief. It always seemed to end badly. She couldn’t let Ryan in for that.

What the mind resolved, however, the heart could overturn in no time. It was actually several minutes after eight the next morning when Carly found herself on the front walk approaching Ryan, who was very diligently occupied tying the laces of his sneakers for the third time.

He looked up, straightened and offered her a self-conscious smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Neither was I.” Having spent half the night debating the wisdom of joining him, of fostering
any
kind of relationship with him, she looked mildly tired.

“Late night?” he asked cautiously. Her light had been on when he’d returned at one. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been alone.

“Uh-huh.” It wasn’t wholly a lie.

He glanced toward the river, shaking off that glimmer of jealousy, then returned a more placid gaze. “Shall we?” When she nodded, they took off slowly, reaching pace only when they turned onto the river path. They went for several minutes in silence, before Carly felt herself begin to relax. There seemed no point in rehashing the pros and cons of her decision. She knew that she was far too susceptible to Ryan’s charm. She also knew the danger entailed. But damn it, she
wanted
to run with him. She felt safe and happy. She deserved a splurge now and then. After all, they were only running.

With several successive deep breaths, she shifted her awareness from the tall, lithe man by her side to the fresh, clear world all about. “Another beautiful one, isn’t it?”

“Yup. Won’t be too many more.”

“I wonder whether this path will be cleared in the winter.”

“You’ve never run in the winter?”

“I’ve never run
here
in the winter.”

“You mean along the river?”

“I mean in Boston.”

“Then you’re new to the area?”

“Uh-huh.”

“From…?”

For the briefest minute she felt a pang of guilt. But she’d been given a past, an authenticated one at that, and it behooved her to use it. “San Diego.”

“You grew up there?”

“No. I worked there.”

“Doing what?”

“Teaching.” It came out more easily than she’d expected, the staccato exchange facilitated by the rhythm of the run. Had they been sitting over coffee, looking at each other, she might have had more trouble.

“Is that what you do now?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where?”

“Rand Academy.”

“Rand?” He shot her a sidelong glance underscored with a grin. “No kidding? Several of my partners’ kids go there. It’s supposed to be top ranking.”

“We do well in college admissions.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Since September.”

“And in Cambridge?”

“Since July.”

They ran on, reaching the bridge, crossing over to hook onto the river path by Storrow Drive. The traffic was even lighter than it had been the day before. It was as though they had the world to themselves.

“How about you?” she asked between breaths.

“Yeeeeesssss?” he drawled.

“Where did you live before yesterday?”

“In Winchester. About half an hour thataway.” He flicked his head northward.

“An apartment?”

“A house.”

“All by yourself? I mean,” she hastened to add, “You’re not married or anything, are you?” She’d just assumed him to be single. Now, posing the question, she wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or mortified.

The punishing glance he gave her precluded both. “If I were married,” he stated firmly, “I’d never have come on to you the way I did yesterday. As for ‘or anything,’ the answer is no.”

“Strange,” she mused, thinking aloud as, side by side, they followed the curve of the path.

“What is?”

“That you’re not attached. I would have thought—”

“—that a dynamic, witty, handsome devil like me would certainly have been caught by now?”

She saw the dark brow he arched in self-mockery and couldn’t help but smile. “Not exactly the way I would have put it, but the end result is the same.”

“The end result. Ahh. I have to confess that I have had my experience with that end result.”

“You’ve
been
married?”

“That’s right. Like you.”

At first she said nothing in response to his bait. Then, feeling particularly bold, she took it. “I’m not divorced.”

He frowned. “But you live alone. Separated?” When she shook her head, he felt something freeze up inside. The European connection. A right-hand wedding band. “Then your husband is away?”

Carly looked out across the water. Its surface mirrored the few, still clouds, peaceful until the silent rush of a lone racing shell cut an even slash through its plane. “He’s dead.”

Ryan’s pace faltered. A
widow
? At her age? Of all the possibilities, it hadn’t entered his mind. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, readjusting his stride. “Was it recent?”

Her eyes were distant. “Four years ago.”

“Four years?” From mind to tongue, the words spilled out. “You were so young.”

“I was twenty-five.”

“What happened? Uh—” he shook his head, appalled at himself “—strike that. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s all right.” For some reason that she didn’t stop to analyze, she wanted him to know. It was the one part of the fabrication that wasn’t fabrication at all. “He was in a hotel.” Her phrases were clipped by her bobbing pace and that something else that seemed to grip her each time she allowed a return of those thoughts. “There was a fire. He was on the fortieth floor. He couldn’t get out.”

She was barely aware of the hand on her arm until it tightened to slow her up. Startled back from images of hell, she came to a stunned stop facing Ryan.

“I’m sorry, Carly. That must have been very painful for you.” It certainly accounted for the anguish he’d seen in her eyes. Even now, they bore a tortured look.

“Painful for me?” she gasped in a whisper. “Painful for him! The smoke…and flame. He tried to reach the stairs, they said. He nearly made it….”

Ryan wasn’t sure whether she was on the verge of tears or whether the raggedness of her breathing was due to exertion. But he knew that over the past four years she must have tortured herself many times. It was the torment of the survivor to imagine the terror of life’s last moments. He’d been eyewitness to that torment once before, in the grief of a mother whose young daughter had drowned in an improperly attended municipal pool. Then his case had been for negligence. Now, beyond the law and the courtroom, he had no case save compassion.

Bidden by the overwhelming need to comfort, he put his hands on either side of her neck and gently massaged the tight muscles. She seemed far away still. It frightened him. “It’s all right, Carly,” he began softly. “Things like that just happen sometimes.”

“But to Matthew?” Her husband’s name was supposed to be Malcolm. Lost in the world of memory, she was oblivious to the slip. “He was so kind and good.”

“Tragedy doesn’t discriminate. Kind, unkind, good, bad, we don’t have any control over it.”

Her eyes grew misty, yet there were no tears. “I know. But there are still all those What ifs. What if he’d been out drinking with the rest of the guys? What if he’d been on the third floor? What if the department had never authorized the trip in the first place?”

“But it did,” he countered gently, able only to guess that her husband had been on a business trip, perhaps at a convention. “He wasn’t on the third floor. And he wasn’t out drinking. Don’t you see, you can’t agonize over what might have been. What’s done can’t be changed. You can only go on living. You can only look ahead.”

Above and beyond his words, it was the glimmer of hope in his eye that captured Carly’s senses. Very slowly, she returned from that charred hotel room to the present, to the comfort of this man, to the long fingers that moved gently on her neck. With the sound of approaching footsteps, another runner passed them with a salute. Occasional cars sped by on Storrow Drive. A flock of geese winged southward. Ryan’s head shaded her from the rising sun, whose vibrant rays shimmered around the richness of his hair.

“I know you’re right,” she whispered, lost in his gaze. “And I do try.” It was hard to look ahead at times, when so much of the past was a consuming flame. Reason dictated she look ahead, echoing not only Ryan’s, Sam’s and her father’s advice but her own common sense. And though her heart didn’t always cooperate, she tried. She did.

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.

w
HEN 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 the 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.