"That wouldn't slow me down. That would slow you down. You're the one who's been sitting out on a deserted island the past six months. Not me."

"You're saying you wouldn't be distracted by the sight of me in running shorts?"

"You don't even own a pair of running shorts."

He was tweaking her and she knew it.

"How do you know?"

"I know."

"I own shorts. I just don't have any of those hightech, flimsy things." He leaned back, enjoying himself.

"They don't look as if they'd hold in everything they were supposed to hold in."

She jumped up. She had good muscle definition in her slim legs; probably elsewhere, too.

"I don't like where this conversation is going. You're complicating things."

"There's no man in your life, Riley. I'm not complicating anything."

"You've always complicated things, Straker. That's why you ended up in the FBI." She shot him a look.

"And how do you know I don't have a man in my life?"

"A woman's bathroom tells all."

"Bastard," she muttered, and headed for the door.

"Did you stretch?"

"I'm fine."

No stretches. She wasn't going to plop down in front of him and do toe touches. He liked that. It meant she knew she was getting under his skin and wasn't too sure what to do about it. A run on the river was a start.

After she left, he put on a pot of coffee and settled in at her cluttered kitchen table. Beyond the occasional urge to pelt each other with rocks, there'd never been anything physical between him and Riley, nothing even remotely sexual. If he could beam himself back in time and tell his sixteen-year-old self that eighteen years from now he'd want Riley St. Joe so bad it hurt, he'd probably fling himself off Schoodic Point.

Of course, Riley wasn't twelve anymore.

He poured a cup of coffee and debated whether this new development--or this new twist in a very old development--would get in the way of finding Emile. Nah. Would it get in the way of getting his head sorted out after two bullets and six months alone on an island? Not if he didn't turn stupid.

"Well, ace, stupid is as stupid does."

Riley was the first woman he'd touched--virtually the first woman he'd had any contact with--since his self-imposed isolation. Of course he'd think about her in her red bra, covered in rose water soapsuds in her shower, doing toe touches in her little shorts. It was natural. Like ducks and imprinting or something.

He raked both hands through his hair in frustration. Why the devil did it have to be Riley St. Joe who'd paddled out to his island? She was all wrong. She'd never be anything but all wrong. She liked doing things like donning big rubber boots and wading into ice-cold water to help stranded whales. She lived in Cambridge. She had a lot of science degrees. She was maybe a notch above Emile when it came to social skills. Her family was weird.

And he, John Straker, wounded FBI agent, someone she'd known and disliked pretty much all her life, was the last man on the planet she'd want fantasizing about going to bed with her.

He swallowed the last of his coffee and shot to his feet. No, she wouldn't--and that was half the problem. She was out there trying to run off the same fantasies he was having.

He wanted to find out how Sam Cassain's body had ended up on Labreque Island. He wanted to find out where Emile had taken himself off to.

If shadowing Riley would help him get answers, Straker needed to maintain a high degree of self-control.

She burst in after her run, and he knew he was doomed. Even with sweat glistening on her arms and legs and dampening the ends of her hair, he found her sexy. He wanted to take her into the shower, peel off her running clothes slowly and completely, and go from there.

"I've got a dinner tonight," she said.

"I need to get dressed. Can you check the local news and see if they've picked up the story about Sam yet? I'd like to know what I'm in for."

"Sure."

She frowned.

"Are you okay? Maybe you should go for a run. It energized me."

That wasn't what he needed to hear. Something about his expression must have told her so because she took a step backward, gulped and quickly retreated into her bedroom.

Another night on the futon just wasn't going to work. He'd rather strap on an IV and jump back in his hospital bed than torture himself trying to spend another night under the same roof with her. Swearing softly, he nipped on the tiny television in the front room.

One of the local stations had the story: "Mystery and tragedy once again swirl around world-famous oceanographer Emile Labreque." The report didn't have all the details. It said the death of the former captain of the ill-fated Encounter was under investigation and police were as yet unable to locate Emile, who had a habit of vanishing for days at a time without notice.

The report didn't mention who had found Cassain, and it called the island where his body was discovered "uninhabited."

The news shifted to a traffic report. Straker shut off the television and considered the ramifications of reporters on Riley's doorstep. It was bound to happen. Right now they'd just want a quote from her as the granddaughter of the famous, tragic Emile La's breque. When they found out she was the one who'd spotted Cassain's body on the rocks, they'd swarm.

Toss a recuperating FBI agent into the mix, Straker thought, and there'd be no peace. He wanted to maintain some level of maneuverability and anonymity. Riley was already cramping his style.

Reporters would do him in.

The doorbell rang. Reporters already? He looked out the window and saw two cops on the doorstep of Riley's building. Maine CID. Hell, he'd rather have reporters. He debated hiding in a closet, but his car was parked two down from theirs. Beat-up Subaru, Maine plates. He couldn't pretend he'd gone back to his island.

Riley emerged from her bedroom in a simple black dinner dress that was perfect for her trim little body. She hadn't put on her stockings or shoes, and she had a towel wound around her wet hair. The intimacy and normalcy of the moment struck him, reminded him of the barren life he led, not just since Labreque Island, but before. For a long time work and the occasional affair had been enough. He'd thought after his months alone on a five-acre island he'd go back to that life. Now he wasn't so sure.

Of course, he reminded himself, it wasn't exactly normal to have two state cops at the door.

She adjusted a small earring.

"Someone's here?" "It looks like a couple of Maine State Police detectives."

Her earring flew out of her hand.

"Can you let them in? I'll slip on some shoes and comb my hair."

She squatted down, running a palm over the floor in search of her earring. Straker could feel her nervousness. No one liked having the police at their door.

"I suppose they want to talk to me about Sam."

She scooped up the earring, a tiny bit of gold, and got to her feet.

Her towel had come loose. He watched her swallow.

"And Emile. Damn.

Straker, I don't know anything. "

"Tell them that."

"You think it'll be that easy?"

"No."

The doorbell rang again.

She nodded at him.

"Go ahead."

He trotted down the stairs and opened up for the two detectives.

"John Straker," the older of the pair said, shaking his head. Teddy Palladino. Straker knew him to say hello. He was a stringy, smart detective on the verge of retirement. "You go to an island to recuperate and a stiff lands practically on your doorstep?"

"Lucky me."

"Yeah. Well, I'm not surprised Sheriff Don-man thought it might be someone out to kill you." He grinned at his own sick humor, then frowned, beady eyes narrowed.

"What're you doing here?"

"I was just watching TV."

The detective snorted. "Dorrman warned me about you, Straker. I take it you're not here in any official capacity?"

"No."

"You a friend of the family or just Emile?"

"I've known Riley St. Joe all my life."

Palladino let the sideways answer go.

"She in?"

"She's powdering her nose just for you." Straker motioned up the dark, narrow staircase.

"After you, gentlemen."

Riley was waiting on the futon couch. She'd finger- styled her damp hair, slipped into stockings and low- heeled shoes and rosied her cheeks and lips with a bit of makeup. She looked poised, if a little pale. Straker saw the detectives take in the clutter, the nautical charts, the flamingo Beanie Baby. They didn't know what to make of her, either. If he had his island, Straker thought, she had her kooky egghead apartment. A narrow escape from death, a grandfather's reputation shattered, five people dead. The Encounter disaster had left her with her own demons to fight. This was a good place to keep them at bay.

Palladino introduced himself and his partner, Chris Donelson.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions, Miss St. Joe."

"Sure."

He turned to Straker. "You mind taking a walk for a half hour?"

"I'll go put my feet up in the bedroom."

"What, you don't trust us?"

"Nah. I just could use forty winks."

He was wide-awake. He had no intention of sleeping, but if he left the building, he wasn't sure that, in her current frame of mind, Riley would let him back in. She'd never admit it, but she was close to snapping. Sam Cassain dead on Labreque Island, Emile gone and now two Maine CID detectives in her living room--it was enough.

On his way back to her bedroom, he heard Palladino say, "You know the body you found on Sunday has been identified?"

"Yes, it was Sam Cassain." She said it as if she were in science class.

"He was captain of the Encounter until it sank last year."

"And you didn't recognize him?"

"No."

Straker shut the bedroom door behind him. He'd let Palladino and Donelson do their job. Riley would hold up, and she had nothing to hide. She had no more idea of what was going on than any of them did.

The bedroom was softly lit, the colors warm and soothing. Straker took in things he'd missed that morning when he'd barged in after Sig's call. She had a fluffy down comforter and lace-trimmed sheets, the bed stand piled with a mix of popular novels, magazines and work-related documents and texts.

He noticed a watercolor on the wall, recognized the surf and rocks of Schoodic Point. It was signed in the lower right corner by Sig St.

Joe. Straker stared at the painting. It captured both the resilience and fragility of the Maine coast, as well as its beauty--everything he missed most during his years away at college, law school, Quantico, his various assignments with the FBI, first in the Boston field office, more recently with a counter-terrorism unit based in Washington. Where to next--he didn't know.

Looking at Sig's painting, he could understand, if not articulate, why her little sister worked so hard rescuing and rehabilitating marine animals--why the world's oceans so consumed her family. It was different from the forces that had driven Strakers to sea for generations, although his lobster man father always seemed to understand Emile's passion and dedication to oceanographic research and conservation.

Straker pulled his gaze away. He hadn't chosen a life on the water.

He couldn't predict what would happen to the North Atlantic in fifty years--but he could predict what questions the detectives were asking Riley St. Joe. They would ask her what she knew about the animosity between her grandfather and Sam Cas- sain, details about their working relationship over the years, her take on the Encounter tragedy. They'd ask her how she'd come to be on Labreque Island to find Sam's body.

Why she was visiting Emile, why she hadn't told anyone, why she was kayaking alone, how she'd come to be caught in the fog. They might get to Emile's relationship with the center he'd founded, the Granger family, his own family. But they might wait on that, too.

They'd ask her if she had any idea where her grandfather was. Straker was convinced she didn't, not because she wasn't above hiding that information from him. If it suited her, she'd lie to him--but she didn't know because otherwise she wouldn't be here, dressed for dinner.

She'd be out pestering Emile. She'd never let him just sneak off on her. That wasn't her style. She thought she had the right to know everything. It was the same natural curiosity that had led her to learn the Latin names of seaweed and mussels and all the other little creatures in a Maine tide pool.

Straker sat on the edge of her bed. Dangerous territory. He felt a little as if he were trespassing. He concentrated on the questions at hand. He was operating under the assumption that Emile had taken off on his own because he'd guessed the identity of the body Riley had stumbled on. But what if he'd run into trouble? What if he'd been hurt, kidnapped, killed?

Straker jumped up from the bed. Time to quit dithering. He needed to get out of here. He needed to go after Emile without Riley breathing down his neck. Or him breathing down hers.