Finger Prints (13 page)

Amid his pride, Carly heard a total lack of jealousy in his tone. “You wouldn’t be happy doing that.”

“No.” He met her gaze. “Like I said, I’m more conventional. I don’t mind the hours I work. I love my job.”

They ran together Friday morning, again silently most of the way. It was comfortable and, as Ryan had suggested, invigorating to start the workday this way. Carly felt fresher when she got to school than she had before, though whether the extra energy she felt was due to running or the company she kept she couldn’t say.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she observed when their building came into sight once more.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Work. I’ve got a sticky trial coming up. A libel case.”

“Interesting?”

“Very. My client is one of yours. Actually a college professor. He’s being denied tenure because of personal differences between himself and one of the most powerful members of the board of trustees.”

“Have you got a case?”

“You bet. The trustee was stupid enough to put it all in writing, then pass it around.”

“Sounds pat. What’s the problem?”

Ryan frowned. “My man isn’t the most diplomatic, which is probably what got him in trouble to start with. I’d give anything to keep him off the stand. He’s apt to blow it under cross-examination.”

“Can you keep him off?”

“I’m gonna try. But the guy insists he wants to speak for himself.” He eyed her askance as they ran up the steps. “You know these professorial types. They like to lecture.”

Carly nudged him in the ribs and ran ahead to the door, only to be caught in the foyer in a playful embrace.

“What was that for?” Ryan asked. His grin was only half concealed.

“
That
was for taking a swipe at my profession.”

She had time to say no more, for Ryan dipped his head and captured her open lips. His kisses were playful at first, warm jabs in deference to the panting bequeathed by their run. As their bodies quieted, though, the kisses grew slower, deeper, stimulating other senses, causing a breathlessness of their own.

When he finally released her lips, he pressed her ear to his heart. Carly’s own was thudding at the pleasure of his touch.

“Dinner tomorrow night?” he murmured softly.

Eyes closed, she reveled in his scent, sweaty but all male and terribly arousing. “Umm.”

“Eight o’clock?”

“Mmm.”

“Great.” He set her back, took her hand and led her into the atrium just as she was realizing what she’d done. When she would have drawn back, he only held her hand tighter. She had to scramble to keep up. Passing his own floor, he continued straight up to hers. At her door, he turned to her, placed a fast peck on her cheek and was off.

“Ryan!” she called, leaning over the railing.

He put one long finger against his lips. “Shh. It’s a godawful hour. Everyone’s sleeping.”

“That wasn’t fair!” she whispered loudly. “You took advantage of me!”

Directly beneath her, he craned backward against his own railing, grinning broadly. “I warned you.”

“You’re impossible!”

He shrugged, then disappeared. She leaned farther forward, saw nothing, heard his door open, then close, and knew she was trapped.

As Saturday evening approached, Carly grew nervous. She hadn’t wanted to be involved with a man, at least not on a romantic level, not yet. With Dennis Sharpe or Roger Hailey or any of the other men who’d asked her out, a date might have been a simple evening spent together. Intuitively she knew it would be more than that with Ryan. Ryan turned her on, emotionally and, yes, physically. Just thinking about him sent tremors of excitement through her body, leaving her with a knot of desire deep down low. When she was in his arms she seemed to forget everything. Therein lay the danger.

Bucking the tide of reason that told her to call him or leave a note, to plead a sudden rush of work or even illness, she indulged in a long bath, took special care with her makeup and hair, then spent forever choosing a dress. By seven-thirty she was ready. Ignoring sweaty palms, she sat down at the kitchen table with a pile of half-corrected exams and tried in vain to apply herself. At seven-forty she returned to the bedroom to comb her hair again. At seven-fifty she ran to the living room to make sure she’d laid out the right bag and coat. Back at the kitchen table she cursed herself for having left so much time. When the doorbell rang at seven fifty-five, though, she took it back.

He looked breathtakingly handsome in a suit and tie, his dark hair neatly combed, his brown eyes sparkling. “Hi,” he said, his own breath taken by the vision of beauty he beheld. “You look fantastic.”

Hand on the doorknob for support, she smiled shyly. “A change from running gear and six-in-the-morning muzzies, eh?”

“You look great then too. This is just different.” His eyes glowed their appreciation. In the mornings she’d been fresh and unadorned, sexy in the way women are when they’ve just rolled out of bed. Now she was sexy in another way. Her makeup was perfect, accenting her high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Spilling around her shoulders, her hair looked rich and thick, gloriously tempting. Her dress, a subtle plaid of hunter green and plum with a high neck, long cuffs, wide belt and an array of tiny covered buttons from throat to waist, gave an air of regality. The sheerest of stockings, high-heeled pumps…He caught his breath. She stood straight, almost awkwardly, before him and was dressed as conservatively as possible, yet she couldn’t have been more alluring if she’d been preening in a slinky off-the-shoulder gown of red silk with a slit up the thigh.

He began to speak, then cleared his throat when his voice emerged hoarse. “Do you have a coat?” His own, a double-breasted navy topcoat, was slung over his arm. He shifted it when she returned to the sofa for her things, helped her on with her coat, let his hands linger on her shoulders for an instant. “You smell good too.” His fingers tightened. “What are you trying to do to me, Carly?”

She cast him a half-fearful glance, then was relieved to see his broad white smile. “You were the one who hoodwinked me into this. You can still get out—”

“No, no.” He released her shoulders and held up a hand. “I’ll gladly suffer.” Shrugging into his coat, he found some solace in the admiring nature of her gaze. He offered her an elbow. “Shall we?”

Sliding her arm through his, she wondered just who would be doing the suffering.

As he had promised that first morning, Ryan took her to Locke-Ober’s. Standing at the door of the downstairs grill, the men’s only room that had been one of the last bastions in Boston to yield to women’s liberation, he cast a despairing eye at the crowd. “I made reservations for us here. The atmosphere is more interesting. But it looks as though every politician in town had the same idea. Locke-Ober’s is infamous for its gatherings.”

The maître d’ approached with a broad smile and an outstretched hand. “Mr. Cornell! Good to see you!”

Ryan warmly met his clasp. “Same here, John. But things are pretty busy down here.” Even as he spoke, he raised his free hand to acknowledge several acquaintances who sought his eye. “I was hoping for something a little quieter.”

“Shall I give a call upstairs?”

“It’s more touristy there.”

“There may be something in the back room. It’s smaller and quieter.”

At Ryan’s nod of interest, John picked up the phone on his desk. Within minutes they’d climbed the stairs to the upper enclave and were seated at an intimate table for two in a room that was indeed smaller and quieter. Even then they’d had to pass through a larger dining area. Twice Ryan had nodded to familiar faces.

It occurred then to Carly that she was with a person well-known in Boston circles. Previously she’d been with Ryan only in isolation—her apartment, the foyer and atrium, the paths along the river, at bizarre hours, no less. While on the one hand it was flattering to be with a handsome man who obviously had so many friends, on the other it was downright intimidating. Since she’d come to Boston she’d maintained the lowest possible profile. She didn’t want that to change.

Eyes downcast, she took a seat as the upstairs maître d’ held her chair. Tucking her purse on her lap, she focused on the single rose in its bud vase in the middle of the table. Ryan settled on her right.

“Enjoy your meal, Mr. Cornell, ma’am.”

Ryan smiled. “Thank you, Henry.” The maître d’ moved off, and Ryan turned his gaze to Carly. “Is this okay?” he asked, puzzled by her sudden unease.

Stifling her qualms, she turned to him with a gentle smile. “This is lovely, Ryan.” Her eye skimmed the room. “It’s a beautiful place.”

He nodded, following her gaze. “Old Boston at its best. Locke-Ober’s has been a favorite of mine since my parents brought me here when I was sixteen.”

“You must come a lot. They all know you.” Even then, the wine steward was approaching, wearing a smile of recognition.

“Good evening, Mr. Cornell. How are you tonight, sir?”

“Fine, Gray. Just fine.”

“Would you like anything from the bar?”

Ryan sent Carly an assessing glance, “I think we’ll order a bottle of wine. A Montrachet will be fine.”

Carly noted that he refrained from pronouncing either of the
t
’s in his extravagant choice of wines.

Where she felt awkward, though, the wine steward did not. “An excellent choice, sir,” he said with a broad smile, and left.

Ryan’s eyes were on Carly. Strangely though, he seemed content just to look. Or maybe it was that for the life of him he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to say.

Carly was no better. She returned his gaze, then looked down, then across the room at the other diners. They were a well-dressed lot, exhibiting proper decorum to match their attire. Conversation was kept at a low hum.

“So you’ve never—”

“So you often—”

They looked at each other and laughed. “You first,” Ryan said.

Carly blushed. “It wasn’t important. What were you going to say?”

“I was going to say that I’m pleased to be the first one to bring you here. Have you been around much since you arrived in Boston?”

“I’ve seen more of Cambridge—the restaurants, that is. Closer to school and all.”

He wondered whom she’d been with but refrained from asking. Instead he just nodded.

She fingered the edge of the thick linen tablecloth. “You came into Boston often as a boy?”

“My parents believed in culture. They took us all over, wanted us to know everything about the city, even though we were always very happy to go home again.”

“Yet you decided to settle in the city.”

“The opportunities for a law practice were better here than they would have been in the Berkshires. And then when I married…well, it all made sense.”

She wondered about his marriage, but refrained from asking. “Have you ever regretted it—settling in the city?”

“No. I like the city. And Boston is more manageable than some. Not too big, not too small, lots going on.” When she chuckled, he tipped his head in an endearing gesture of uncertainty. “No?”

“Oh, yes. I was just thinking that those were some of the same reasons I chose Boston.” Instantly she regretted her choice of words. To her relief Ryan took them at surface value.

“Why did you? I mean, why did you decide to leave San Diego?” He’d wondered about it more than once. She’d said that her husband—Matthew, or was it Malcolm, he frowned, confused—had died four years before. And her family was from the mid-West—Des Moines, she’d told him in a breezy reference during one of their morning runs. “Was it because of Peter?”

It took Carly a minute to get her bearings. It was so hard vacillating between Carly and Robyn. When she was with Ryan, she wished Robyn had never existed.

“No.” She met his gaze as levelly as she could. “I just wanted a change. When the opening at Rand came up, it seemed perfect.”

“But you’d looked into various areas?”

“To settle? Yes.”

“I’m glad you chose Boston.”

“So am I,” she conceded softly.

The effect of their eyes locking was warm—too warm—yet Carly couldn’t look away. The steward’s arrival with their wine was some diversion, as was the subsequent arrival of their waiter with menus. It was only after they’d ordered that the silence set in again.

Ryan sipped his wine. Carly did the same. She felt his presence through every fiber of her being. Even as she cursed herself for being conned into this dinner, she knew that she hadn’t put up much of a fight. What she
really
wanted was to be even closer to Ryan.

As though attuned to her thoughts, Ryan took her hand from the fork she was nervously fingering and held it in his. He ran his thumb over her knuckles, caressing her fingers, polishing the gold of her wedding band in a way that should have been sacrilegious but seemed all the more intimate.

“You’re not sorry you’ve come, are you? You seem uncomfortable.”

She could feel her heart thudding. “No. I’m…” But she didn’t know what to say. Uncomfortable seemed wrong, yet awkward or confused or excited or frightened seemed no better.

He brought her hand to his mouth. The soft bristle of his beard was as stimulating as the light brush of his lips. “Don’t be, Carly. Please. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“I am.”

“You’re shaking.”

She gave a half smile. “You’re kissing me.” That said it all.

Ryan laughed softly, a deep, rolling sound from his throat. “Not the way I’d like to,” he said, then lowered her hand to the table, keeping it tucked in his. He took a deep breath. “Tell me about your childhood,” he began, determined to put her at ease. “I can picture a little girl with curls all over her head, wearing pink tights and ruffles up to her chin.”

It was Carly’s turn to laugh, indeed more easily. “Not quite. I was a tomboy.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I had three older brothers. It was a matter of survival.”

“Were they close to you in age?”

“Pretty much so. We were each two years apart. I was the last.” She smiled. “After me, I think my parents gave up on sweet little quiet things.”