"We could stay here," he said, "and make love for the next six months."

She smiled.

"Tempting, isn't it?"

"Place isn't winterized. Pipes'd freeze."

"Oh, who cares," she whispered, snuggling against him; she was warm and almost liquid, nothing shivering or trembling or tensed.

She slept. They were still on the floor, arms and legs intertwined.

He pulled an old blanket up over her shoulders. Her clothes were probably still out on the rocks. He'd fetch them later. Right now, he'd let her sleep against him and imagine the rest of the world falling away until it was just the two of them on their tiny windswept island.

Sig staggered into her studio. She was shaky and queasy and burning with fatigue. She couldn't imagine painting. The urge was gone. She tried to remember what it felt like to want to paint. Dipping her mop brush into water, squirting out dots of vibrant colors, pastels, earth tones. Spattering, washing; blending, playing. Being absorbed in what she was doing. Loving it.

She dropped onto her high work stool and stared at her large, empty board. For a second she pretended she was signing her name in the corner of one of her paintings. Sig St. Joe. Who was that? Wife of Matthew Granger. Expectant mother. Riley's sister. Mara's daughter.

Richard's daughter. She wasn't sure she knew anymore.

Her mother was making her tea and toast. Her cure- alls. Whether it was the body, mind or spirit in pain, Mara would make tea and toast.

Sig smiled, glad for her mother's company, her constancy.

"Matt," she whispered, choking back tears.

"You asshole."

But she'd felt his agony when he'd come to her in the hospital, heard it in his voice, sensed it in his touch as he'd placed his palm on her swollen abdomen. He was consumed by demons. In that moment in the hospital, with her pit fighter of a sister protecting her, Sig had known he was convinced they were his demons alone to confront. Not hers. This wasn't something they could do together.

Perhaps that was what he'd tried to explain to her months ago, however inadequately and superficially. She didn't want to understand.

Couldn't. He was her husband, her soul mate, her partner in life, her lover.

She wanted to be at his side no matter the dragons that needed slaying.

Her eyes burned with exhaustion. She could still taste the smoke. The doctors had urged her to rest and drink lots and lots of water. She needed to rebuild her strength and slowly ease the shock of the fire out of her system. The doctors had assured her that if she took care of herself, her pregnancy should proceed without incident. She was healthy. Her babies were healthy.

Mara came out onto the porch with a tray. "I made green tea, and I found a lovely oatmeal muffin in the freezer. I heated it up and put a little pumpkin butter on your plate."

"Thanks."

"Oh, this was easy. Seeing you and Riley last night--that was hard."

She set the tray on the gate leg table; she looked tired herself, and guilty, as if she'd done something wrong. She manufactured a cheerful smile.

"I can feel fall in the air, can't you?"

Sig smiled back.

"I love fall."

"I'll leave the tray" -- "No, Mom. Sit down with me. You've had a hell of a scare, too. It's not--you know it's not your fault Riley and I were up at Emile's. You couldn't have predicted..."

"Yes. I could have predicted. Riley went to sea with Emile and was almost killed. On Tuesday, she goes kayaking at Emile's and finds a dead body." Mara gave Sig a hard look.

"I should have stopped you both."

"We're adults" -- "You'd have listened if I'd told you to stay put."

"I might have," Sig said with a small smile.

"I'm not so sure about Riley."

Her mother inhaled, said nothing.

"Do you want to fetch a cup? We can share the tea and muffin."

Mara shook her head.

"I'm fine, thanks."

But she sat on Sig's studio bed, staying on the edge, too tight and nervous to lean back and relax.

"It's been a rough week for all of us.

I didn't want to acknowledge how it's affected me. Seeing Sam again, then having Riley of all people find him dead"-She broke off quickly, gave herself a shake.

"The last thing you need is to have me whining and moaning to you.

We'll all be fine. You, Riley, me. We're strong women."

"That's one positive result of Emile's hardheadedness. It must be a dominant gene."

Mara nodded, biting back tears.

"God, it would be so much easier if I could hate him."

"I know what you mean," Sig said quietly, thinking not of Emile but her husband.

She poured the tea. She wasn't that fond of green tea. The muffin looked and smelled wonderful, but she had no appetite. She sipped the tea, aware of Mara's eyes on her.

Her mother sighed. Her dark eyes shone with unshed tears.

"You're going back to Boston, aren't you?"

"I have to." Now that her mother had articulated it, the thought was taking concrete shape.

"How did you know?"

"Because I know you, Sig, just as I know your sister. She won't stop until she finds her grandfather and proves his innocence." Mara made a visible effort to control her feelings about her two daughters, her lack of control over their decisions.

"You'll need tonight to rest up.

If you're not feeling up to the drive in the morning"-- " I won't leave unless I feel strong enough. Mom"-- " I know," her mother said, smiling bravely.

"You need to go home."

Thirteen ^ ^ JKiley slipped out of the cottage at dawn to watch the sunrise from a rock ledge. Cormorants dove for fish, gulls called in the distance, lobster buoys in a variety of bright colors bobbed in the outgoing tide. The horizon had turned lavender and purple, the sun a glowing sliver of gold where water met sky.

She had to go back to Boston. She needed clothes. Her one outfit, even after it had been washed in Straker's sink and hung to dry on his porch, still stank of smoke. Her other clothes were totaled in the fire.

But more than that, she needed space. She needed time alone to think, to process the past few days and figure out where she went from here.

"Yep." She wrapped his chamois shirt more tightly around her.

"A few hours alone in your car will fix you right up."

At least, she thought, it would be a start.

She heard the cottage door creak open. A few minutes later, Straker climbed up onto her huge granite boulder and stood beside her. He wore his charcoal sweater, which fit snugly across his big shoulders. His gray eyes blended into the environment, made him seem almost a part of the island.

She quickly explained her rationale about going back to Boston. He nodded without hesitation. "Good idea. I'll drop you off at Emile's as soon as you're ready to roll."

His instantaneous reaction put her on alert. She couldn't help it.

Even on a good day, he wasn't cooperative or accommodating--unless he had ulterior motives. That's why he could do the work he did.

"I thought Emile wanted you to keep an eye on me. "

He shrugged.

"So you want me to go back to Boston with you?"

"That's a slippery answer, Straker. I think you're up to something."

"Like what?"

"Like something you want to do without my help."

His mouth twitched.

"St. Joe, there are about a million things I'd like to do without your help. Where do you want to start?"

"Let's start with what you're planning to do after you drop me off at my car."

"I think jumping out of a burning building has made you paranoid."

She held her ground.

"It's a fair question."

"I'm not asking you what you're going to do when you get to Boston."

"That's just a tactical decision on your part to avoid telling me what you're up to." On the horizon, the sun was a half circle of fiery orange. He was as maddening now, after years in the FBI, after six months recuperating from bullet wounds, after dealing with terrorists and fugitives, as he'd been at six teen, frustrated with his life.

"And I'm not paranoid."

He was silent for a beat.

"Okay. You're not paranoid You didn't get enough sleep. You're cranky."

"Straker."

He smiled.

"I'll go put on coffee. Or would you rather I toss you into the ocean?

That would wake you up, maybe bring you to your senses."

"Coffee will do. And I'm in full possession of my senses." She thumped his chest with one finger.

"You are up to something."

"I'm not going to argue with you. Watch your sun rise. Maybe sunlight and caffeine will fire up your synapses and get you thinking straight."

But she was thinking straight, and he damned well knew it. She watched him retreat, acknowledged the parts of her that were still warm from the last time they'd made love, only a few hours ago. She'd half expected him to kick her out yesterday after they'd first made love.

Okay, months of celibacy finished, out you go. There'd been an urgency, a potency, to that first encounter that left her reeling even now. When it was over, he didn't suddenly wince and say, "Oh, God, Riley St. Joe. I must be out of my mind."

Instead they'd walked around on the island. She didn't remember what all they'd talked about. Some about the past week, but not much. It was comfortable talk, about his work, her work, families, friends, Maine, nothing overly intimate or soul searing. If anyone had told her a month ago she'd be chatting with John Straker about ways to reduce the fat in a good beef stew, she would have laughed herself silly.

She wondered if she'd have laughed herself silly at the idea of her and Straker making love. Probably. That or gagged. Now, with the morning sun spilling out over the eastern sky, it had seemed inevitable.

Destined.

Late in the evening, after dinner, when the cottage was dark and the bay quiet, empty of boats, they'd made love again. Slowly, tenderly, but with no less urgency. Straker had always been a supremely physical man. The feel of his scars, long healed but still recent, reminded her he was physical on more levels than those she'd personally experienced.

When he'd touched her in the pitch blackness before dawn, when it was so dark she couldn't even make out his silhouette, she'd felt a connection to him that went beyond physical, went beyond two people who'd known each other forever and now had found themselves in bed.

Falling in love with him, she warned herself, was not smart. It wasn't good for her. It was, in fact, insane.

Yet she could stay on the island and make love to him all day, have her fill of that thick, strong, amazing body. Pure sex with him was tough enough for her to digest. Liking him was tough enough. But this overwhelming emotional connection--it had to be smoke inhalation.

She turned away from the sunrise, watched him trot up the steps into the cottage. He was holding back on her. No question about it. She charged down off her boulder and pounded up the porch steps. He was used to doing things his own way, flashing that FBI badge, not answering to anyone. His own mother had given up trying to tell him what to do when he was eleven and nearly flunked out of sixth grade.

Riley let the door slam shut behind her. "You think Sam brought Emile the Encounter's engine, don't you? You think he's stashed it somewhere."

Straker shoved a log into the woodstove without answering.