“Would you have told me about Cassain if I hadn’t?”
“Probably.”
“Probably” wasn’t good enough, but she was too unsteady and shaken for him to press the point. He made her drink a cup of coffee and eat a piece of toast, and when she protested about him driving her to work, he ignored her and coaxed her into his car. The rush-hour traffic into Boston reminded him why he’d retreated to an uninhabited island to recuperate. Lots of stimuli out here on the city streets. Cars, lights, horns, traffic helicopters, blaring radios, construction.
Riley sat beside him, hugging her overstuffed leather tote on her lap so hard her knuckles turned white.
“Remember to breathe,” he said.
“I am breathing.”
“Not from here.” He poked her breastbone. “From here.” He poked her low on her diaphragm. He could feel smooth, cool skin under her creamy blouse. More stimuli. “Slow, deep breaths. How well did you know Sam Cassain?”
“He was the Encounter’s captain for seven years. He was tough, no-nonsense and not one to suffer fools gladly.”
“Who hired him?”
“Emile did. His last captain had died of cancer. He was a scientist, too, and when he died, Emile wanted someone new who’d tend the ship and leave the science to him. The Encounter was old.” She swallowed, her gaze locked straight ahead, as if she couldn’t turn her head. “The center had already commissioned a new research ship. It’s costing a fortune, but it’ll have all the latest ecological and technological advances. We’re calling it the Encounter II.”
“Who’s in charge of it now that Emile’s out of the picture?”
“My father.”
Straker took Storrow Drive along the Charles River, then cut over to the waterfront. More construction. No room for the five million other cars on the road. The center was located in a renovated nineteenth-century warehouse on its own wharf. A huge, whimsical stone fountain out front featured various marine mammals.
“You can just drop me off on the curb,” Riley said.
He hated the idea of dumping her and retreating. Cassain’s body had been found in Maine, and Emile had exiled himself to Maine. But the two men’s relationship had begun here, in Boston.
“I think you should hire me to feed the penguins or something,” he told her.
She blanched. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not in a position to hire you, and I don’t want you underfoot.” Now that he’d seen her in her boxers, underfoot probably sounded less threatening to her than in her hip pocket. “And you wouldn’t fit in.”
“I’d fit in. I grew up on the ocean. I probably have more practical knowledge about the ocean than most people who work here.”
She managed to peel one hand off her tote and place it on the door handle. “For God’s sake, Straker, you haven’t been around people in six months. Even on a good day you’re not volunteer material. Please. Just let me go to work and put this all into perspective.”
While she talked, he formed a plan. She didn’t need to know it. It would just upset her, and she was upset enough. He said, “Okay. See you around.”
Her brows drew together. She’d put on a little bit of makeup, but not enough to hide how pale she was. Her lips were plum. They were also well shaped. He had a feeling she didn’t have a man in her life. She made a face, obviously having no idea what he was thinking. “I don’t know if I like the idea of you running around out here by yourself.”
He grinned. “I’m a big boy.”
“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about me.”
“Think I’d do something to embarrass you?”
She didn’t answer. “You aren’t on this thing officially, are you?”
“Nope. Sleeping on a futon in your apartment isn’t part of my job description.”
“What if I promise to call you if I hear from Emile?”
“Okay.”
“Do you have a cell phone in this car?”
He gave her the number.
“Thank you.” He assumed she meant for not pressing his case about the penguins, which was a misreading of the situation on her part. “This’ll work out. I know it will. Emile’s probably just checking out puffin nests.”
Straker gave her an hour to get settled. He parked in her spot in the garage, bought a cup of coffee from a sidewalk vendor and sat by the stone fountain. The coffee was hot and strong, and he sipped it slowly as he avoided pigeons and tried not to let his thoughts run full speed ahead of him. One thought came to him crystal clear, impossible to ignore.
Riley St. Joe was trouble. She always had been. He had the scar on his forehead to prove it.
Four
R iley holed up in her small, cluttered office and worked all morning. After her long weekend, she had plenty to do. She tried not to think about Emile or Straker. Emile worried her. Straker simply annoyed her. He always had. He took pleasure in it. The shock of having him roll off her couch that morning had nearly done her in. The dark stubble on his jaw, the unbuttoned shirt. He was earthy, masculine and relentless.
Forewarned, she told herself, is forearmed. She needed to remember that nothing ever penetrated John Straker’s hard shell enough to reach his soul, not two bullets, not a dead body on the rocks.
It was Sam Cassain’s body she’d found.
She shut her eyes, the faint beginnings of a headache pressing against her temples. Sam was dead, Emile was missing—and Straker? She didn’t know what Straker was up to. It might have made more sense to keep him where she could see him, but she had nowhere to tuck an FBI agent.
Her father poked his head into her office. “Busy?”
She smiled. “Just pretending.”
If anyone fit the stereotype of the hyperfocused scientist, Riley thought, it was Richard St. Joe. He was tall and thin like Sig, but with none of her sense of style. He was oblivious to his typically ragged appearance. Today he had on jeans, a navy thermal shirt and water sandals with thick socks. His scruffy beard was grayer than she remembered. He hadn’t been aboard the Encounter when it caught fire and sank last year. Instead he’d been aboard a university research ship, conducting a seminar on right whales, when the first distress calls came in. He’d had to wait hours before he learned that his daughter and father-in-law had survived.
“Your mother called—she told me about Sam.” He looked as if he’d been fighting off panic, irritation, trying to figure out how to confront an adult daughter and colleague. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to see Emile?”
“I didn’t think of it.”
“You didn’t have to sneak off. I know he’s your grandfather. It’s not as if I’d forbid you to see him.”
“But you can caution me against it,” she said, knowing that was exactly what he’d have done.
Richard pushed his bony hands through his salt-and-pepper hair as if he’d like to pull out every strand. “Only because I think he’s become insanely reckless and selfish. Sam—you can’t think there’s no connection between his death and Emile. There must be.” He almost trembled with exasperation. “My God!”
“I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions.”
“I’m not talking about conclusions, I’m talking about logic.” But he checked his raging emotions and softened, giving her a quick hug.