Cold Comfort (14 page)

Another branch fell somewhere, nearer the house this time, reminding her the power could go at any moment. After a last, longing stare into the black night, she closed the curtains. "We need candles and matches. Do you know if he has any?" She considered them standard supplies, but with Riley, who knew?

Opening a cupboard, Ray found a box of utility candles, put a package of matches beside them on the counter. "He has a big wood box just outside. I'll bring in some more while you fix this gourmet dinner."

When the cornbread was ready, Claire turned it out onto a plate. She cleared a jar of brushes and a box of oil paints off the small pine table and put out dishes and utensils. "Should we save some for Riley?"

"Hell, no. If he doesn't have enough sense to buy food, his gene pool deserves to die out." Ray sat down and picked up a big spoon.

She saved some for him anyway, taking little herself. By diluting the coffee with hot water, she managed to drink it black. She wished she'd saved some of the cookies from the shop. No wonder Riley was always hungry.

After they ate, Claire cleaned up and went back to the paintings. She found a stack of watercolors behind a chair and began perusing them. Many in this lot were landscapes, architectural features
—
European, she guessed, probably done when he traveled. Near them sat a single oil. It smelled fresh, not fully dry. She squatted down to see better. Harsh, almost violent, strokes revealed a ruined house. Dim light shone through a low window, so faint she almost missed it. Purples and grays slashed the sky. Gothic. The painting chilled her. She held it up. "Ray, do you know what this is? It's different from the others."

He looked up from his book and frowned. "It's a house in Romania where a young girl was held prisoner. Riley would have to tell you." He closed the book and arranged himself in the chair. "I'm going to sleep now."

He clearly didn't want to talk about it. She wondered what happened there. Something terrible. She returned the painting to its place in the stack and crossed to the big stuffed chair Ray refused.

Sleet beat against the windows. Spike curled up in the chair beside her, and Ray slept in another chair, the open book on his lap. With a last wish for Riley, Claire drew her feet up and gradually nodded off.

Chapter 10

That's how Riley found them
—
Claire curled in the big chair with the cat, Ray slumped awkwardly in the smaller one. At least she was safe. He crept in, taking care not to wake them. Spike raised his head and opened one eye but didn't move.

"Traitor," Riley mouthed to the big cat.

An instant later, Ray woke. He rubbed his face, yawned, and stretched, barely catching the book on his lap before it slid to the floor. He whispered, "How'd it go?"

"Okay, just had to land at Raleigh and drive. I didn't see Claire's car. You run into anything?" Riley started for the kitchen, walking softly. Even his bones ached after driving through the storm. "We rented a car. Ice on the roads, an eighteen-wheeler jack-knifed, and traffic blocked for miles, but neither of us wanted to stop. Jocko worried about his family, and I wanted to check on Claire." He rolled his shoulders, easing the tension, and lifted the lid on a pan.

"I hope nobody has to stay here long, because you're going to save the bad guys the trouble and starve us to death," Ray grumbled. "Claire left you something."

"Bless the woman." In the refrigerator, he found a plate of stew
—
heavy on the peas, he noted
—
and a large hunk of cornbread.
Uh-oh
. This meant Claire and Ray didn't stop to eat either. "What happened?"

"Might've been watching the shop. Because of the weather, she closed a little early. We slipped out in my truck and left her car there. I didn't want to chance it." He turned the burner on under the leftover coffee and leaned on the counter.

"Thanks." Riley caught the microwave before the timer could ding and took out the stew, leaving the door open to silence it. He wanted Claire to sleep, didn't want to tell her what he'd found in Charleston, not tonight. "The storm's moving fast. The sleet's slowing, but there's a layer of ice on everything. I'll get her car tomorrow."

"Got any ideas?" Ray poured himself a cup and waved the pot.

Riley nodded and swallowed the last mouthful of stew. "Nothing definite," he said, setting aside the empty plate. He reached for the cornbread but then decided to save it for morning. He knew there wasn't anything else, and the ice on the trees worried him. They might have trouble getting out. "I want Claire away from the shop for a few days. The attacks are escalating. Soon they'll be taking potshots at her on a crowded street. I can't let them get to her."

"You're thinking about Nadia."

Ray knew him too well. Pictures of the girl's battered body forced their way into his mind.

"You didn't have a chance with her
—
they waited too long to call you. Let it go, man." In a rare gesture, Ray touched his arm.

"I'll never forget her, what he did to her." Riley pushed the curtain aside and stared out at the freezing rain. "Logically I know I couldn't have saved her, but I still see her sometimes
—
the bright, happy kid...and then the way we found her."

"At least you stopped Zukaroff. The sadistic bastard would have done it again to someone else." Grim-faced, Ray poured the coffee and handed him a cup.

Riley swirled the hot liquid and lifted it to his mouth, shutting out the visions of Nadia and picturing Claire's face, her eyes. Nothing would happen to her. "If Claire's out of the way, Mary will be safe. Meanwhile, I know Claire'll want to be at the shop tomorrow. I plan to be there all day, but it's closing time I'm worried about. Can you come in about five?"

"Sure." Ray drained his cup. "I'll tell Mary you want to get Claire away. They've got someone who helps out sometimes, and Damien can come after school. They can handle it, hire someone else if they need to. If Claire thinks she's putting Mary in danger, she'll agree."

"Yeah." Riley was counting it. "She might resent having to leave, but she won't risk Mary. I think we can unravel this fairly soon. We just have to dig for the answers."

Ray shifted on his chair. "I'm surprised you had me bring her here. You know, Claire's not like the women you see. She's
—
"

"Don't you think I know?" Riley knew. That's why he wanted to wrap this up and get away. Women like her wanted stability, marriage, a family—a husband with a safe, nine-to-five job. But for now, she needed him. He
would
keep her safe. Nothing more, he told himself. "I thought she'd be safer here. Strictly business."

"Right. She's more comfortable here, too. No food, no extra bed
—
"

"I wouldn't take advantage of her." Not, he admitted, that the idea hadn't crossed his mind. Hell, it was only natural when he'd been around her so much. "Or anyone else."

Ray's mouth stretched in a wide grin. "Too funny, man. You falling for Claire. I didn't think it would ever happen."

"Shut up, Ray. You don't know what you're talking about." This would be over soon and he'd never see her again. And it couldn't be soon enough. An empty feeling settled in his stomach. He attributed it to hunger, glared at the empty stew pan.

Laughing softly, Ray went to the door and peered out. "I think I can get out of here. I don't have anything against your chair, man
—
I just like my own bed. But I do feel bad, leaving Claire here to starve." Ray shoved his arms into his coat and went out into the night, still laughing. "Be careful, Spike. Next he'll be stealing your dinner."

The cat raised his head and stared at Riley.

"Traitor," Riley whispered again, closing the door behind his friend. He crossed the room and propped his foot on the hearth. Leaning against the mantel, he studied Claire. In the wine-colored dress, resting peacefully in the warm glow of the fire, she reminded him of dawn off the Bahamas. And that he could paint. He stared for a moment, memorizing the colors, the mood, her.

She couldn't be comfortable, he realized. He really ought to move her to his bed. He bent down beside her. "Claire? Claire, it's me, Riley."

She opened her eyes and gave him a sleepy smile. "I'm glad you're back." Covering her mouth, she yawned and rolled her head. She peered around the room from under heavy eyelids. "Where's Ray?"

"He left. He doesn't live far from here and said he could make it. Sleeping in chairs doesn't appeal to him, and I've only got one bed." He gestured toward the bedroom. "Go get in it. You look like a pretzel. I'll sleep here." He wouldn't let himself touch her, wondered what to do with himself. Ray was right
—
he was in trouble.

"You can't sleep in a chair. Besides," she said, yawning again, "you've spent the last two nights on a sofa. It's your turn to have the bed."

"Okay. We'll both sleep in the bed." His resolve melted. It wasn't exactly an invitation, but he'd take what he could get. He scooped her up in his arms.

Startled, she clung to him, then snuggled into his warmth. Recovering herself, she managed a half-hearted protest. "I can walk."

"The floor's cold." He carried her to the bedroom, where the chill air of the unheated room enveloped them. Not a good idea he knew, but he wanted her beside him. He hoped he could settle for that.

Claire remained silent, but her eyes were open.

Not scared, he thought, but alert, waiting. Was that a good sign?
Jesus, Riley. Good for what? You're not seventeen.
He held her for a minute, then lowered her to the bed. Pulling back the quilts, he said, "Get under
—
no, wait. You can't be comfortable in your dress." He recalled the silky underwear he'd seen in her drawers and pushed the image out of his mind. She needed something to cover her. "Why don't you sleep in one of my shirts." He reached into the closet and pulled out a flannel shirt soft with age.

"Thank you." She took it and disappeared into the frigid bathroom.

He stripped down to his shorts, arranged the blankets, and slid in. He heard her pause at the door. She came back into the room shaking, whether from cold or nerves he didn't know. Did it even matter?
Get it through your thick skull. The woman is off limits
.

"Come on. You'll be frozen." He lifted the covers on the other side for her.

She ran across the cold floor and dived in, curling into a tight ball.

Riley shook his head. "Women! I don't know how you can lose all your body heat in less than thirty seconds. Here," he said, rolling over and pulling her against his body. "Put your feet against my legs. I know they're cold."

He'd kept one of the blankets between them. In the faint light he saw her smile when her feet touched it.

"Thanks," she said.

Thanks for the blanket or the heat? She lay very still, but he knew she wasn't asleep. Holding her, he listened for a long time. He enjoyed the warm softness of her body tucked up against him. For a moment, he wished things could be different, that he could be Joe Blow with a steady job, be the right man. He wasn't. But he
would
keep her safe.

Finally her breathing slowed to a shallow, even rhythm. Dead tired, with Claire safely beside him, Riley let go of his nightmares and slept.

* * *

When morning light touched the room, Claire wakened in the unfamiliar room. For an instant she froze, sensing the warm body beside her. Then it came back to her. Riley. Sound asleep, he sprawled across a large section of the bed. For a minute, she indulged herself and reveled in his warmth. Reluctantly she slid out from under the covers in the small section left to her and padded silently toward the living area.

"Does this mean you're making the coffee?"

His deep voice startled her, stopping her in the doorway. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." She rubbed a foot against her other leg, trying to keep warm. "Yes, I'll make it."

"Here," he said, sitting up and reaching out to the small pine chest of drawers beside the bed.

She tried not to stare at his broad shoulders and chest, heavy arms. Didn't he wear pajamas? Or at least a T-shirt? She concentrated on the freezing floor, refusing to speculate further.

He fished inside a drawer and retrieved a pair of wool socks, tossing them to her. "Wear these."

She caught them and sat down on the end of the bed with her back to him, grateful. The thick gray socks came to her knees. "Thank you," she turned to say, when a red woolen robe enveloped her.

"I'm going back to sleep." He turned on his side and pulled the blankets over his bare shoulder. "Wake me when the coffee's ready."

The robe appeared new. She wondered where it came from. She couldn't imagine Riley buying it for himself. For the first time, it occurred to her he might have someone, be involved. He obviously lived alone, but she knew nothing of his life. The possibility depressed her. She should have asked Ray last night. She hoped there was no one, though why it should matter she couldn't say. This rough, self-contained, talented man was so different from everyone she knew, so far outside her experience
—
she couldn't let herself think of him in any way outside this problem. He could be overbearing, authoritarian, just not her kind of man. Sly images of Walt and Lloyd crept into her head—they were the
right
kind? Oh, crap. Maybe she'd be a nun. She was already well on her way.