He came in, and the years since she'd seen him fell away. He was the same John Straker she'd known since childhood, never mind the FBI and six months on Labreque Island recovering from bullet wounds. He was fit, agile, alert and just impatient and irritated enough for her to know Riley was under his skin. Good for you, Sis, she thought.

Straker was the perfect kind of man for her sister--in her face, impossible to intimidate, there. Riley would never tolerate the kind of unconventional relationship their parents had.

"I tried the front door," he said.

"You didn't hear the doorbell?"

"No, I did. I just didn't bother with it, and Mom's off to the post office."

His gaze dropped to her abdomen, and he said with typical Straker frankness, "You're pregnant?"

"Oh--shit, it's that obvious?"

"Nah. I'm a trained FBI agent."

She smiled.

"It is that obvious. Mom hasn't said a word."

"Then she's minding her own business, which isn't a dominant gene in this family. Husband doesn't know?"

She sighed and shook her head. Matt had stood right where Straker was standing, and he hadn't no's ticed. Of course, she'd had a blanket pulled up to her nose.

"Well, good luck. Shouldn't you avoid paint fumes?"

"They're watercolors, and I have good ventilation out here." She dropped her feet to the floor and stood up, feeling a mild strain in her lower back.

"You've always been one to cut to the chase, haven't you?"

He grinned.

"I thought this was small talk."

"For you, maybe."

He walked over to her worktable and eyed the painting on her board. It was inspired by her mother's yellow mums, spatter layers of yellow and white. Her best work of the summer.

"You planning to sell any of your stuff?"

"I don't know. I haven't given it much thought."

"Are you any good?"

She smiled.

"I like that particular painting. I guess it's a start."

He turned to her, his gray eyes taking in her sweep of dress, her bulging stomach, her wild hair hanging down her back.

"What're you doing up here in Maine, Sig?"

"Hiding."

"From what?"

She blinked rapidly, trying to keep back the tears. Damned hormones.

"Myself, mostly." She breathed through her nose and refused to cry.

"What about you?"

"That's simple. I'm looking for Emile." Straker took a couple of steps toward her. He radiated strength, virility, toughness. Sig wouldn't be surprised if her sister hadn't even noticed.

"I think he's out to track down whoever killed Sam Cassain."

Sig could feel the weight of the past few days, the seriousness. A man was dead. Sam was dead. "I think so, too."

"But you," Straker said.

"You're just hiding."

"I understand you were on Beacon Hill last night. I heard my husband behaved like a perfect jackass. You saw what it's like. I don't fit in. There's no place for me there."

"So? Make your place."

"Matt thinks Emile should be in jail." She wondered why she was telling this man anything, much less her deepest thoughts and feelings.

"He's obsessed with proving that my grandfather's negligence and arrogance led to the Encounter tragedy. He won't let go. His father died a terrible death, and Matt wants vengeance. Justice, he'd say."

"What about you?"

Her shoulders slumped.

"I just want the whole thing to go away."

"It won't, not until the police have Cassain's death settled. Emile thinks it's murder. Otherwise he wouldn't have taken off."

"What do you think?"

"It's murder. I'd look to the Encounter disaster for clues."

She was definitely dealing with cut-to the-chase John Straker. It was a quality that had made him few friends, even in high school. The friends he had, Sig knew, would die for him.

"Riley didn't come with you, did she?"

"I let her fry in her own fat awhile. She's a damned pain in the ass."

"She's not in any danger" -- "Only from me. I might strangle her."

Sig smiled, saw the scar her sister had put in his forehead.

"You two."

But he didn't smile back.

"I need to find Emile, Sig. He was in Boston last night. He must have a base--a friend's house, an old campsite, a pile of rocks somewhere.

Do you have any ideas?"

"No, I wish I did. I haven't had much to do with him the past year. To be honest, I'm not so sure Matt's not right about him. Emile..." She threw up her hands.

"You know what he's like."

"When you and Riley were kids," Straker persisted, "you must have had places the three of you talked about, visited. If you think of anything, even if it's unlikely, let me know."

"Where will I find you?"

"Hell if I know. I'll check back with you from time to time." He moved to the kitchen door, listened.

"I think I hear your mother coming in.

I need to talk to her. You staying out here? "

Sig nodded.

"Forever if I could."

He hesitated at the door. "Your husband might be a jackass, but unless you think he'd hurt you or the baby, you should tell him he's going to be a father."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion," she said, more as a point of information than out of anger.

"Don't worry--it's free."

"And it's babies. I'm having twins."

He grinned and gave her a wink.

"Hell. Maybe you shouldn't tell him.

Or if you want to give him a heart attack, lay the news on him without any warning. "

"You're terrible!"

"So I've been told. By the way," he added, pulling open the door, "I figure I had about a two-hour head start on your sister. She'll be here before nightfall."

"She knows you were headed here?"

"No."

"Then how" -- "Trust me. She hasn't changed since she was six years old. She'll be here."

Mara gave him about three minutes before she insisted on serving him tea and a fresh, gooey coconut macaroon in the front parlor. She wore drawstring pants and a plaid flannel over shirt and every instinct Straker had said she was holding on to the last shreds of her sanity and self-control. Her family was in crisis. Her father, her two daughters. It couldn't be easy. She was tense, preoccupied and couldn't stand still.

"I have a few calls I need to make," she said.

"Would you excuse me? I won't be long. Then we..." She swallowed, unusually nervous.

"Then we'll talk more."

"Sure."

The time out would give him a chance to consider how much was left unsaid among the Labreques and St. Joes. He set his cup and saucer on the gleaming butler's table. Mara had gotten out the good china. He felt like a nineteenth-century ship captain home for a spell with the womenfolk.

She claimed Sam Cassain had stopped by late last week merely to say hello, not to drive the wedge between her and her father deeper; not for old times' sake; not, apparently, because he knew he was about to be killed.

Straker didn't disbelieve her. He thought there was more.

The front door banged open, and Riley burst in. She'd changed from her work clothes to jeans and a high-tech hiking top that delineated the shape of her breasts probably more than she'd want him noticing. Or not. She scowled.

"I should have known I'd find you here."

"You did know. That's why you came."

That didn't sit well. She stormed around the living room. The long drive and long days had taken their toll. This was bluster.

Fatigue.

Even buried anguish. She flew at him, her jaw set hard.

"Where's my mother?"

"Back in her office. She had some calls to make. Sig's gone for a walk." He sat back on Mara's handsome couch, which wasn't particularly comfortable.

"It's been a rough few days for them, too."

She gave a tight nod.

"I know. They won't admit it, but they're worried about Emile. They don't want to see him in over his head."

"That goes for you, too."

She sank into a wing chair and kicked her feet out in front of her. He could see some of the frustration and anxiety wash out of her now that she was in a safe place, with people she cared about and who cared about her, even if he was among them.

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly, without looking at him.

Straker made no comment.

"I shouldn't have gone along with Henry's suggestion that you could be a stalker. It was... stupid." She rubbed her forehead, not because she had a headache, Straker reasoned, but because she hated admitting she was wrong.