Finger Prints by Barbara Delinsky

up.”
    “Then we can share my Ben-Gay,” he returned, undaunted. “Just stamp on the floor three times and I’ll bring it up.”
    “Is that a promise?”
    “You bet.”
    With a soft chuckle, he looked forward again. They were back in familiar territory now; it wouldn’t be long before they reached the apartment and went their separate ways. It might be his last chance for a while to find out more about her. Then he looked to his side and saw the serenity of her expression and he didn’t have the heart to disturb it. It beckoned to him, that light and billowy cloud of contentment that hovered above them, between them, large enough to envelop them both. Unable to resist, he yielded. For now, it was enough.
    He didn’t talk further, nor did she. Rather, they ran in time with each other, comfortably and easily, finding strength in silent partnership. Ryan touched her elbow once to guide her across the street, then dropped his hand as they entered the courtyard and slowed to a breathless walk.
    “Good show!” he panted through a grin, leaning down to brace his hands on his knees. His hair hung wet on his brow, giving him an eminently masculine look.
    Carly flexed her legs, walking in small, idle circles. “Not bad yourself,” she gasped, then splayed her fingers over the muscles of her lower back in support. “Why is it…that it’s easier to…talk when you’re…running, than when you stop?”
    Straightening, he mopped his forehead with a long, muscled arm. “I’m not sure…but you’re right. I think it must be a…kind of illusion. You know, we assume…that the words will be broken when we run, so the mind and body make…their own connections. We can talk even though our breathing is choppy. But when we stop, our breathing by…comparison seems that much rougher.”
    Carly nodded. She stood taking deep, long drags of air in an effort to ease her laboring lungs. After a minute, when she seemed even shorter of breath, it occurred to her that something else was at work deep within. Apprehension…anticipation…she had no intention of sticking around to find out.
    “Well,” she breathed, with feigned nonchalance. Her voice seemed unusually high; she was grateful to be able to blame it on the run. “I’ll be going.”
    Ryan reached out, pausing just short of touching her. “Look, Carly—”
    Her sharp stare cut him short. “You know my name,” she whispered, appalled. She hadn’t told him; she was sure of that.
    Unable to comprehend her sudden shift from calm to coiled, Ryan eyed her in puzzlement. He kept his voice gentle. “Of course, I know your name. It’s on your mailbox.”
    “Not my first name.”
    “Ted Arbuckle filled me in on that. Listen, it’s no big thing. You would have told me your name, wouldn’t you have? I mean, I hope you weren’t going to have me call you Ms. Quinn,” he drawled in soft mockery, “through an evening at Locke-Ober’s.” His lips twitched coaxingly at the corners.
    He was right, of course. She was being oversensitive and suspicious. Always suspicious. She hated herself for it. Suitably chastised by Ryan’s teasing, she looked away in self-reproach. “Of course not,” she murmured. “It’s just that I didn’t expect you’d ask around.”
    “It was really only a fluke,” he explained. “Arbuckle came up the walk yesterday right after we collided. I pointed after you, wanting to make sure you were all right. As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t even admit that you lived here until I’d introduced myself. It was then that he called you by name.
    It was all so perfectly logical. She grinned sheepishly. “If I didn’t know better, I might suspect you’d hit him with a few of those leading questions you lawyers are known for.”
    “We lawyers?” As the tables turned, Ryan looked at her skeptically. “And how did you know I was a lawyer?”
    Too late, Carly realized her error. She looked up at him, swallowing hard. “My, uh, my friend last night