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.
Nine
The lead homicide detective had Sterling take him through the entire house after lunch, describe each room and explain its status in terms of renovation. Sterling tried not to let his impatience show, but he could see no relevance in having the detective inspect the fifth-floor maid's quarters. But the man insisted, and Sterling cooperated. Afterward, the detective thanked him, and Sterling returned to his office in a deceptively plain building that his company owned in Copley Square.
He was exhausted and uneasy, and try as he did, he couldn't summon much sympathy for Louis Sanborn. Why the hell hadn't he taken more care not to get himself killed? Or at least, if it had to happen, why not somewhere else? Why on Rancourt property?
Sterling stood in front of the tall, spotless windows in his office and looked across Boylston at Trinity Church and the mirrored tower of the Hancock building. He could see a corner of the original wing of the Boston Public Library, the oldest public library in the country. So much history all around him. It was something he loved about Boston. He thought of it as his city. He and Jodie had such great plans for the house on Commonwealth Avenue. They wanted to entertain there, open it up to charitable events, allow for people outside their immediate circle of family and friends to enjoy it.
Now it was tainted by murder.
If not Louis, why hadn't Gary Turner done something to prevent this nightmare? Sterling would give anything for yesterday never to have happened. At this point, the best he could hope for was a quick arrest, preferably of someone who had no connection to him. A drug dealer or a drifter who'd followed Louis into the house and shot him in an attempted robbery, or just for the hell of it.
But that didn't look likely. The detectives had refused to tip their hand, but Sterling knew Manny Carrera was in their sites. A consultant he'd hired. A man he'd trusted.
He had to be patient and let the investigation play itself out.
His wife, however, didn't have a drop of patience in her character. She didn't last long at their home on the South Shore and stormed into his office, dropping onto a butter-soft leather couch she'd picked out herself. She was his partner, always at his side. Whenever he felt his energy and drive flag, Jodie would be there, reinvigorating him, urging him on. She was forty-eight, trim, independent-and a little remote. Even after fifteen years of marriage, Sterling couldn't help but feel an important part of her lay beyond his reach. He wondered if it would have been different if they'd had children, but that had never been in their stars.
She was ash-blond, elegant in every way, yet buying their place in Cold Ridge had been her idea. Venturing ontotheridgelastNovember-again,heridea.Shecontinued to insist they'd have survived, even if they'd had to spend the night on the ridge. Sterling knew better. They'd have been lucky if they'd managed to setup their tent in the high wind, and if they'd succeeded, there was a real possibility they'd have suffocated inside it with the amount of snow that fell by first light. Simply put, they were out of their element. But the situation was made less galling, at least to her, because it was Tyler North, Manny Carrera and Hank Callahan who got to them first. If Jodie had to be rescued, better by a hero-pilot-turned-senate candidate and a pair of air force pararescuemen.
It came as a surprise to people that she enjoyed their home in Cold Ridge as much as her husband did. Sterling liked that. He liked having people not quite able to figure them out.
"I can't stand the tension, Sterling." She jumped back to her feet, her restlessness palpable. "I really can't."
He went around his desk and sat in his tall-backed leather chair, giving her room to pace. "I know. It's getting to all of us. I think today will be the worst day. Once we know what we're dealing with, we can adjust. It'll get better, Jodie. You know that."
She didn't seem to hear him. "I thought Louis was this smart security type. How did he manage to get himself killed? He should have been able to save himself-" She stopped, waving a hand at him as if to forestall the criticism she knew was coming. "I'm sorry. That's a terrible thing to say."
Sterling made no comment. Sometimes his wife's lack of compassion, her inability-or her unwillingness-to connect with other people, startled him. But usually it was momentary, and he never gave up hope that there wasn't a window into her soul.
She seemed slightly calmer. " Gary wants me to go uptoColdRidgeatleastuntilthepolicemakeanarrest. I don't know what I'd do up there all alone. Go crazy, probably. And I don't want to leave you down here-"
" Gary 's already told me he thinks I should go with you. I don't feel I can right now, but perhaps it's a good idea for you-"
"Why can't you? The police haven't said you can't leave town. If they need anything, they can call you in New Hampshire." She flounced onto the couch once more, stubborn more than upset. "We've done nothing wrong. I can't believe our lives are so turned upside down just because a murder was committed on our property."
"Jodie," Sterling said quietly, hearing the admonishment in his tone, "a man who worked for us is dead."
"I know. Oh, God, I know!" She groaned, shaking her head in frustration, fighting tears. "My reactions are all over the place. I can't believe-" She swallowed, looking down at he feet, her voice lowering to almost a whisper. "Who'd have thought something as small as a bullet could kill Louis Sanborn? He was so alive, wasn't he?"