Cold Ridge

Eight

When they reached her apartment, Carine climbed out of the truck, thanked Ty for the ride and told him to have a safe trip home. She gave him a parting smile, shut the door and mounted her porch steps at a half run, not so much, he thought, because she wanted to get there fast but because she wanted to prove to him she could do it. Maybe to herself, too. She'd had a shock, and she was back on her feet, up and running.

He wondered how long before she figured out he wasn't going anywhere.

Hauling her back to Cold Ridge against her will was out, but Manny had his reasons-however closemouthed he was being about them-for asking Ty to keep an eye on her. She'd found Louis Sanborn dead. She'd worked with him. A murderer was on the loose. Something was up.

And Ty couldn't abandon her again. Gus would pitch him off the ridge for sure. When he wasn't looking, just when he let his guard down-off a ledge he'd go.

But it was more than Gus, more than Manny, more than murder that was keeping him in Boston-it was Carine, seeing her again after all these months. He had todorightbyher,somehowmakeupforwhathe'ddone.

She seemed to be having trouble with the front door.

That wasn't it. Her keys were in her hand. She hadn't touched the door. She glanced back at him, her eyes wide, her mouth partly open, and Ty was out of his truck in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Nothing, probably." She took a breath, pushed back more hair that had escaped from her ponytail. "The door sticks. I'm sure that's all it is. People leave it open all the time."

"Let's take a look."

Ty took the sagging steps onto the porch. The door to her building had dirty glass and peeling white paint that had grayed with neglect and the onslaught of city soot and grime. It was open slightly, about six inches.

"I don't want to overreact," Carine said.

"It's okay, Carine. Anyone would be on edge after what happened to you yesterday. Why don't I check your apartment, make sure everything's okay?"

She hesitated, long enough for him to push the door open the rest of the way and enter the outer hall. It was poorly lit and smelled like cat litter. Dirty steps led up to the second floor. Carine fell in behind him, then gasped and lunged forward, but Ty grabbed her wrist, keeping her from shooting past him. He saw what she obviously had already seen-the door to her apartment was also open.

There was no sign of forced entry-no ripped wood, no broken locks.

"I locked up this morning," she whispered. "I know I did."

Ty released her. "It was a rough morning for you. You were off your routines. Anything's possible."

"Anything's not possible. I locked my door. It's not something I even think about anymore. It's routine-"

"All right. You locked your door. Do you want to call 911 and let the police check it out?"

She grimaced, then sighed heavily. "Not yet. I'd feel ridiculous if they're just going to tell me I forgot to lock up. I'll have a look first." She glanced at him. "It's my apartment, so it's my responsibility."

"Suppose someone's in there?"

"I'll yell."

Ty rolled his eyes. "Right."

"Don't argue with me. It's not like you came down here with an M16 strapped to your back." She lowered her camera bag. "Hang on. I'll get out my cell phone-"

"If someone hits me over the head, you'll call 911?"

"I might," she said, but her smile didn't quite make it.

While she dug out her cell phone, North slipped inside her apartment, moving quickly down a short hallway into the kitchen. The other rooms all connected to it. Bathroom, living room, bedroom. The doors were open, the apartment was quiet, still and, he thought, very bright. Yellow, citrus green, lavender blue, dashes of raspberry. Some white, but not much. Not enough.

He snatched a paring knife out of the dish drainer, Carine behind him, her cell phone in hand. She got her own knife and followed him as he entered each room and looked around, seeing no sign of a rigorous search or any obvious missing valuables. Television, laptop and stereo were all intact. What else there was to take, he didn't know. Carine had never been into jewelry. He remembered she'd wanted a simple engagement ring. When he pulled the plug on their wedding, she'd offered to feed it to him.

She led the way back into the kitchen and sank against the sink and its citrus-green cabinets, her arms crossed, the last of her ponytail gone. She chewed on the inside corner of her mouth. "Maybe you had a point and I did forget to lock up."

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't know that I can think. I'm a damn wreck. I keep expecting any minute I'll just put it all out of my head and be fine-" She broke off with another sigh. "It doesn't look as if anyone got at the door with a crowbar-I suppose it could have popped open on its own. This place is old, and the landlord doesn't fix anything until it's absolutely necessary. But why would it pop open today?"

"Who else has a key?"

"Antonia. When she started spending more time in D.C. I gave one to the Rancourts in case I ever lose mine. And Gus. He has one."

Ty returned the knife to the dish drainer and stood back from her, taking in her pale skin, her tensed muscles, her shallow breathing. A thick covered rubber band clung to the ends of a small clump of hair. He pulled it out and handed it to her. She'd had enough. She'd reached her saturation point. Time for him to break through. "Ten minutes," he said.

"What do you mean, ten minutes?"

"You've got ten minutes to pack up. We're leaving."

She straightened. "Says who? What about the police?"

"You're not even sure there's been a break-in."

"You don't want to explain why you're here to them, do you? You'd have to tell them about Manny-"

"You're under nine minutes. Keep talking." He settled back against the sink next to her, noticed the photograph of a red-tailed hawk above her table. It was one she'd taken-he remembered she'd had to lie on her stomach and hang off a ledge to get the angle she wanted. "If you don't have time to pack, I can always run into Wal-Mart with you for new undies."

She didn't budge. "What if I tell you to go to hell?"

He smiled, leaning in close to her. "Eight minutes."

Her arms dropped down to her sides, and she scowled at him. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. You need to get out of here and clear your head. Anyone in your position would, so don't take it as a knock on you. You just can't see it. I can." He glanced at his sports watch. "I'm counting."

She disappeared into her bedroom without further argument. His head was pounding. Maybe it was all the cheerful, bright colors, so different from the warm, dark colors of her log cabin in Cold Ridge. It wasn't the same, not having her across the meadow, waking up to the smell of smoke from her woodstove on cold mornings. She was down here, finding dead people and painting things lavender.

A wave of nostalgia and regret washed over him, and he wondered if they could ever go back to the easy friendship they'd had before he'd decided he was in love with her, or recognized that he was, had been for a long time. Whatever it was.

He walked over to her bedroom doorway and watched her load things into a soft, worn tapestry bag opened on her bed. "Need some help?"

"No, thanks."

Cool. A hint of irritation. She womped a pair of jeans into her bag. North smiled. "Give it up, Carine. If you didn't want to go with me, you'd make me hit you over the head and carry you out of here."

She fixed her blue eyes on him. "Being an experienced combat medic, you'd know just where to hit me so it wouldn't inflict permanent damage, wouldn't you?"

"Actually, I would. But you want to go home. Admit it. You don't want to stay here by yourself-"

"Fine. You're right. So let's do it. Let's go home."

She zipped up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and marched across the shaggy blue rug to him, but when she started past him, he caught one arm around her waist. "Are you going to be mad the whole trip?"

"I knew I'd have to face you again one of these days," she said. "I just didn't think it'd be under these circumstances. No. I won't be mad the whole trip. I can't stay here. I know that."

She let her bag fall to the floor, didn't move away from him. He didn't know why, unless she was remembering, as he was, what it was like when they'd made love. "Ty-" She broke off, a warmth in her tone that hadn't been there before. "I don't know anyone else who'd do what you've done, come down here, follow me around, let me come close to shoving you into oncoming traffic."

"It wasn't that close."

But she was serious, sincere, and didn't respond to his stab at humor. "Here you are, trying to look after me, whether I want you or need you to or not, even wheny ou know-well, never mind what you know. Thank you."

"You were going to say even when I know what I did to you."

"I guess what I should say is even when we know what we did to each other."

"Damn it, Carine." He could hear the pain in his own voice, wished it had stayed buried. "I can't undo what I did. If I could…"

"It's okay."

She touched her fingertips to the side of his face and, without any other warning than that, kissed him, lightly, gently, but not, he thought, chastely. It was like being mule-kicked, like setting a match to superdry kindling. All the clichés. There'd been no other woman since her. He kept thinking there should be, that he ought to get on with his life, but the weeks had ticked by, now the months.

He fought an urge to carry her to bed, but she pulled away from him, smiled at him, her skin less pale, less cool to the touch. "A lot's changed in a year, hasn't it?"

He smiled back at her. "Not some things."

She gave him a pointed look. "Sex isn't everything, Sergeant North. You said so yourself when you gave me my marching papers."

"Did I say that?"

"Not in as many words-"

"Yeah, no kidding." He held her more closely, suddenly not wanting to let go. "The reason I didn't marry you was because of me, not because of you."

"Semantics. You ready?"

"Not quite."

And he kissed her this time, felt her arms tighten around his middle, her shirt riding up-he touched the bare skin of her midriff, and when she inhaled, he deepened the kiss. She responded, sliding her hands around to his belt buckle, her fingertips drifting lower, outlining his obvious arousal. She took his hand and eased it over her breasts.

"Carine-"

"Just this once." Her eyes were wide, alert, nothing about her anywhere but here, right now. "It's been such an awful twenty-four hours. Ty-please, I know what I'm doing."

She touched him again, erotically, and he was lost. He swept her up and carried her to the bed, laying her on top of her down comforter. He paused, looking at her for any indication she'd changed her mind, giving her the chance to send him back to the kitchen. Ty told himself he should put a stop to this insanity, but he didn't. Neither did she. She scooted out of her clothes, and in five seconds, he was out of his, on top of her, stroking her smooth hips, her breasts-but she was in a hurry.

"Make love to me," she whispered. "Now."

She pulled him into her, shutting her eyes, no hesitation now. He kept his eyes open, watching her as he made love to her, the flush on her face, the way she bit her lower lip when she came, seconds before he did. It was then he shut his eyes, savoring his release, the feel of her body all around him.

Making love to her was natural. Perfect. And it couldn't happen again.

He kissed her forehead and rolled off the bed, grabbing his clothes. "No regrets?"

She shook her head. "Not this soon. Later, maybe."

"Carine-"

"Just turn your head when I get my clothes back on."

He did as she asked.

He had regrets. About a thousand of them. He couldn't seem to keep his head glued on straight when he was around her. He'd almost sent her an old-fashioned telegram to call off their engagement, just to make sure he got the message delivered, that she understood it-he couldn't marry her. Not that next week, not ever.

As if to prove his point, here he was. One minute, he was checking for intruders with a sharp knife, the next minute, making love to a woman who'd pretty much had him by the short hairs all her life. She deserved someone more like her, someone more attuned to her sensibilities. He wasn't as creative or perceptive or optimistic as she was. He was restless, an adrenaline junkie for as long as he could remember. He needed the kind of physical and mental challenges his work as a PJ provided. Even his mother would have had less trouble with a quieter kind of kid-he'd see her eyes glaze over many times as she became so absorbed in her work she was unaware of what was going on around her, and he'd clear out, head up the ridge. It wasn't like he'd sat there and played quietly by the fire.

Carine cleared her throat. "I'm ready. You can turn your head now."

North didn't feel self-conscious about his own absence of clothing. He supposed he should, but this wasn't the first time he and Carine had made love-the first time was almost a year ago, a few days after the shooting in the woods, less than twenty-four hours after he got rid of Hank and Manny. It was in the loft in her log cabin, with the fire crackling in her woodstove, and it hadn't seemed sudden at all. It had seemed natural, as if they should have been making love for years.

He pulled on his pants, noting that she didn't turn her head away, but when he grinned at her, she made a face, blushing slightly. "Regrets?" he asked.

She shook her head.

But that was now, he thought. Give her a couple of hours in his truck and see what she thought.

She swore under her breath and grabbed her tapestry bag and her cameras, not asking him to carry a thing as she pushed past him into the kitchen.

He had a feeling it was going to be a long drive back to New Hampshire.