Free Finger Prints by Barbara Delinsky Page B

We’re too low. It’s on the other side of the State House.” He took a breath between strides. “If you’d care to run a little farther—”
    Her sharp sidelong glance shut him up. The sight of an office building was obviously less enticing than Locke-Ober’s. But then, he didn’t really blame her. Though relatively new and elegantly decorated, it was…an office. Wasn’t one law office the same as the next? It was, after all, what went on within its walls that set it apart. And Miss Carly Quinn certainly had no call to see that.
    Miss? Or Mrs.? Ryan cast a fleeting glance toward her left hand, waiting for it to come forward in alternate rhythm with its mate. No. There was no band. But there…on the right…that wide gold band he’d seen last night. She’d obviously been married. A European arrangement? But she lived alone. Separated? Divorced? He found it hard to believe she’d failed at marriage. She seemed quiet and agreeable, far different from so many of the strident women with whom he worked each day. Could it have been her marriage that had instilled such wariness in her? It didn’t seem possible. What man in his right mind would harm, even threaten, as gentle a creature as she? Unless her husband had not been all there. Lord only knew he’d seen enough of them!
    On reflex, he raised a hand to rub his bearded jaw. Oh, he knew firsthand about crazy husbands. One had nearly put an end to his career, not to mention his life. As if he’d ever have considered bedding a client…and that woman? Never!
    “Hello? Hello? Are you there?”
    The breathy voice by his side brought him back to reality. He looked down and smiled in relief. “Sure, I’m here.”
    “Could’ve fooled me for a minute there.” She crinkled up her nose. Again it made him melt. “Can we turn yet?”
    He looked around in surprise to find that they’d just about reached the spot he’d had in mind. “Uh, sure. This is far enough.”
    “Getting tired?” she teased in an effort to erase what had appeared to be anger from his face. It disconcerted her. She liked it better when he smiled, which he proceeded to do with devastating appeal.
    “Tired? Me?” Taking her elbow, he propelled her around, dropping his hold when she matched his gait, heading home. “I’ll have you know that you’re running with none other than the star of varsity track and field.”
    “Harvard?” she asked as her eyes spanned his chest. Faint rivulets of sweat marked a charcoal path down its center.
    Looking down, he ran his palm across the faded letters. “This thing has seen better days.” He chuckled. “So have I, for that matter. There was a time when I used to marathon. No more.”
    “Are you sorry?”
    He pondered the question for a minute, thinking how much more pleasant it was to run like this, totally relaxed, than to run with one eye on the clock. “Sorry? Not really. Anything like that involves a kind of obsession. It can be all-consuming if you do it right. But I had other interests that made their demands. I couldn’t do it all.”
    She assumed he spoke of the law, an obsession in itself. Almost against her will, she felt herself stiffen. It seemed impossible that this man, as surprisingly companionable as he was, should be grouped with those others she’d had the displeasure of meeting during the trial. But of course he might be different. John Meade had been different. As the prosecutor assigned to the Culbert-Barber case, he’d been kind and fair to her. His assistant, Brozniak, was something else. He’d wanted nothing more than to get her into his bed. Some obsession!
    “Hello, hello?”
    At his miming call to attention, she dashed a glance up at Ryan, whose grin brought her quickly from her trance. “Oops, I left you for a minute there, didn’t I?”
    “Just so long as it’s not me you’re angry at.”
    “I may be furious at you later. I’m not used to running this far. I’m apt to be crippled when my calves stiffen