Stars of Mithra Box Set: Captive Star\Hidden Star\Secret Star (26 page)

“No, not her, precisely, though I thought… No, it was the type, I suppose you'd say. Arrogant, cocky, striking. A tall redhead in tight denim, with a chip on her shoulder.” She closed her eyes a moment, let out a long breath, opened them again. “M.J.”

“That was the name on the note in your pocket.”

“It's there,” Bailey murmured, massaging her temples. “It's there somewhere in my head. And
it's important. It's vital, but I can't focus on it. But there's a woman, and she's part of my life. And, Cade, something's wrong.”

“Do you think she's in trouble?”

“I don't know. When I start to get a picture—when I can almost see her—it's just this image of utter confidence and ability. As if nothing could possibly be wrong. But I know there is something wrong. And it's my fault. It has to be my fault.”

He shook his head. Blame wouldn't help. It wasn't the angle they needed to pursue. “Tell me what you see when you start to get that picture. Just try to relax, and tell me.”

“Short, dark red hair, sharp features. Green eyes. But maybe those are yours. But I think hers are green, darker than yours. I could almost draw her face. If I knew how to draw.”

“Maybe you do.” He took a pen and pad out of his pocket. “Give it a try.”

With her lip caught between her teeth, she tried to capture a sharp, triangular face. With a sigh, she set the pen down as their coffee was served. “I think we can safely assume I'm not an artist.”

“So we'll get one.” He took the pad back, smiled at the pathetic sketch. “Even I could do better than this, and I scraped by with a C my one
dismal semester of art. Do you think you can describe her, the features?”

“I can try. I don't see it all clearly. It's like trying to focus a camera that's not working quite right.”

“Police artists are good at putting things together.”

She slopped coffee over the rim of her cup. “The police? Do we have to go to the police?”

“Unofficial, don't worry. Trust me.”

“I do.” But the word
police
rang in her head like alarm bells. “I will.”

“We've got something to go on. We know M.J.'s a woman, a tall redhead with a chip on her shoulder. Mary Jane, Martha June, Melissa Jo. You were with her in the desert.”

“She was in the dream.” Sun and sky and rock. Contentment. Then fear. “Three of us in the dream, but it won't come clear.”

“Well, we'll see if we can put a likeness together, then we'll have somewhere to start.”

She stared down into her foamy coffee, thinking her life was just that, a cloud concealing the center. “You make it sound easy.”

“It's just steps, Bailey. You take the next step, and see where that goes.”

She nodded, stared hard into her coffee. “Why did you marry someone you didn't love?”

Surprised, he leaned back, blew out a breath. “Well, that's quite a change in topic.”

“I'm sorry. I don't know why I asked that. It's none of my business.”

“I don't know. Under the circumstances, it seems a fair enough question.” He drummed his fingers restlessly on the table. “You could say I got tired, worn down by family pressure, but that's a cop-out. Nobody held a gun to my head, and I was over twenty-one.”

It annoyed him to admit that, he realized. To be honest with Bailey was to face the truth without excuses. “We liked each other well enough, or at least we did until we got married. A couple of months of marriage fixed that friendship.”

“I'm sorry, Cade.” It was easy to see the discomfort on his face, his unhappiness with the memory. And though she envied him even that unhappiness, she hated knowing she'd helped put it there. “There's no need to go into it.”

“We were good in bed,” he went on, ignoring her. And kept his eyes on hers when she shrank back, drew in and away from him. “Right up until the end, the sex was good. The trouble was, toward the end, which was a little under two years
from the beginning, it was all heat and no heart. We just didn't give a damn.”

Couldn't have cared less, he remembered. Just two bored people stuck in the same house. “That's what it came down to. There wasn't another man, or another woman. No passionate fights over money, careers, children, dirty dishes. We just didn't care. And when we stopped caring altogether, we got nasty. Then the lawyers came in, and it got nastier. Then it was done.”

“Did she love you?”

“No.” He answered immediately, then frowned, looked hard at nothing and again tried to be honest. And the answer was sad and bruising. “No, she didn't, any more than I loved her. And neither one of us worried about working too hard on that part of it.”

He took money from his wallet, dropped it on the table and rose. “Let's go home.”

“Cade.” She touched his arm. “You deserved better.”

“Yeah.” He looked at the hand on his arm, the delicate fingers, the pretty rings. “So did she. But it's a little late for that.” He lifted her hand so that the ring gleamed between them. “You can forget a lot of things, Bailey, but can you forget love?”

“Don't.”

He'd be damned if he'd back off. Suddenly his entire miserable failure of a marriage was slapped into his face. He'd be damned. “If a man put this on your finger, a man you loved, would you forget? Could you?”

“I don't know.” She wrenched away, rushed down the sidewalk toward his car. When he whirled her around, her eyes were bright with anger and fears. “I don't
know.
”

“You wouldn't forget. You couldn't, if it mattered. This matters.”

He crushed his mouth to hers, pressing her back against the car and battering them both with his frustration and needs. Gone was the patience, the clever heat of seduction. What was left was all the raw demand that had bubbled beneath it. And he wanted her weak and clinging and as desperate as he. For just that moment.

For just the now.

The panic came first, a choke hold that snagged the air from her throat. She couldn't answer this vivid, violent need. Simply wasn't prepared or equipped to meet it and survive.

So she surrended, abruptly, completely, thoughtlessly, part of her trusting that he wouldn't hurt her. Another praying that he couldn't. She
yielded to the flash of staggering heat, the stunning power of untethered lust, rode high on it for one quivering moment.

And knew she might not survive even surrender.

She trembled, infuriating him. Shaming him. He was hurting her. He almost wanted to, for wouldn't she remember if he did? Wasn't pain easier to remember than kindness?

He knew if she forgot him it would kill him.

And if he hurt her, he would have killed everything worthwhile inside him.

He let her go, stepped back. Instantly she hugged her arms over her chest in a defensive move that slashed at him. Music and voices lifted in excitement and laughter flowed down the sidewalk behind him as he stared at her, spotlighted like a deer caught in headlights.

“I'm sorry.”

“Cade—”

He lifted his hands, palms out. His temper rarely flashed, but he knew better than to reach for reason until it had settled again. “I'm sorry,” he repeated. “It's my problem. I'll take you home.”

 

And when he had, when she was in her room and the lights were off, he lay out in the ham
mock, where he could watch her window.

It wasn't so much examining his own life, he realized, that had set him off. He knew the highs and lows of it, the missteps and foolish mistakes. It was the rings on her fingers, and finally facing that a man might have put one of them on her. A man who might be waiting for her to remember.

And it wasn't about sex. Sex was easy. She would have given herself to him that evening. He'd seen it when he walked into the kitchen while she was buried in a book. He'd known she was thinking of him. Wanting him.

Now he thought he'd been a fool for not taking what was there for him. But he hadn't taken it because he wanted more. A lot more.

He wanted love, and it wasn't reasonable to want it. She was adrift, afraid, in trouble neither of them could identify. Yet he wanted her to tumble into love with him, as quickly and completely as he'd tumbled into love with her.

It wasn't reasonable.

But he didn't give a damn about reason.

He'd slay her dragon, whatever the cost. And once he had, he'd fight whoever stood in his way to keep her. Even if it was Bailey herself who stood there.

When he slept, he dreamed. When he dreamed, he dreamed of dragons and black nights and a damsel with golden hair who was locked in a high tower and spun straw into rich blue diamonds.

 

And when she slept, she dreamed. When she dreamed, she dreamed of lightning and terror and of running through the dark with the power of gods clutched in her hands.

D
espite the fact that she'd slept poorly, Bailey was awake and out of bed by seven. She concluded that she had some internal clock that started her day at an assigned time, and couldn't decide if that made her boring or responsible. In either case, she dressed, resisted the urge to go down the hall and peek into Cade's room and went down to make coffee.

She knew he was angry with her. An icy, simmering anger that she hadn't a clue how to melt or diffuse. He hadn't said a word on the drive back from Georgetown, and the silence had been
charged with temper and, she was certain, sexual frustration.

She wondered if she had ever caused sexual frustration in a man before, and wished she didn't feel this inner, wholly female, pleasure at causing it in a man like Cade.

But beyond that, his rapid shift of moods left her baffled and upset. She wondered if she knew any more about human nature than she did of her own past.

She wondered if she knew anything at all about the male of the species.

Did men behave in this inexplicable manner all the time? And if they did, how did a smart woman handle it? Should she be cool and remote until he'd explained himself? Or would it be better if she was friendly and casual, as if nothing had happened?

As if he hadn't kissed her as if he could swallow her whole. As if he hadn't touched her, moved his hands over her, as though he had a right to, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to turn her body into a quivering mass of needs.

Now her own mood shifted from timid to annoyed as she wrenched open the refrigerator for milk. How the hell was she supposed to know
how to behave? She had no idea if she'd ever been kissed that way before, ever felt this way, wanted this way. Just because she was lost, was she supposed to meekly go in whichever direction Cade Parris pointed her?

And if he pointed her toward the bed, was she supposed to hop in?

Oh, no, she didn't think so. She was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions. She wasn't stupid and she wasn't helpless. She'd managed to hire herself a detective, hadn't she?

Damn it.

Just because she had no precedents for her own behavior, that didn't mean she couldn't start setting some here and now.

She would not be a doormat.

She would not be a fool.

She would not be a victim.

She slapped the milk carton down on the counter, scowled out the window. It was Cade's bad luck that she happened to spot him sleeping in the hammock just as her temper peaked.

He wouldn't have dozed so peacefully if he could have seen the way her eyes kindled, the way her lips peeled back in a snarl.

Fueled for battle, Bailey slammed out of the house and marched across the lawn.

She gave the hammock one hard shove.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“What?” He shot rudely awake, gripping the sides of the hammock for balance, his brain musty with sleep. “What? Don't you remember?”

“Don't get smart with me.” She gave the hammock another shove as he struggled to sit up. “I make my own decisions, I run my own life—such as it is. I hired you to help me find out who I am and what happened to me. I'm not paying you to sulk because I won't hop into bed with you when you have an itch.”

“Okay.” He rubbed his eyes, finally managed to focus on the stunning and furious face bent over him. “What the hell are you talking about? I'm not sulking, I—”

“Don't tell me you're not sulking,” she shot back. “Sleeping out in the backyard like a hobo.”

“It's my yard.” It irritated him to have to point it out. It irritated him more to be dragged out of sleep into an argument before his mind could engage.

“Taking me dancing,” she continued, stalking away and back. “Trying to seduce me on the dance floor, then having a snit because—”

“A snit.” That stung. “Listen, sweetheart, I've never had a snit in my life.”

“I say you did, and don't call me sweetheart in that tone of voice.”

“Now you don't like my tone.” His eyes narrowed dangerously, to sharp green slits that threatened retaliation. “Well, let's try a brand-new tone and see how you—” He ended with an oath when she jerked the hammock and flipped him out on his face.

Her first reaction was shock, then an immediate urge to apologize. But as the air turned blue around her, she snapped herself back, jerked her chin up in the air and marched off.

He'd hit the ground with a thud, and he was sure he'd heard his own bones rattle. But he was on his feet again quickly enough, limping a little, but fast enough to snag her before she reached the door.

He yanked her around to face him. “What bug got up your—”

“You deserved it.” The blood was roaring in her head, her heart was pounding, but she wasn't going to back down.

“What the hell for?”

“For…whatever.”

“Well, that sure covers it.”

“Just get out of my way. I'm going for a walk.”

“No,” he said precisely, “you're not.”

“You can't tell me what to do.”

He estimated he was close to twice her weight and had a good eight inches in height on her. His lips curved grimly. “Yes, I can. You're hysterical.”

That snapped it. “I certainly am not hysterical. If I were hysterical, I'd scratch that nasty smile off your face, and poke those smug eyes out, and—”

To simplify matters, he simply picked her up and carried her inside. She wiggled, sputtered, kicked a little, but he managed to drop her into a kitchen chair. Putting his hands on her shoulders, his face close to hers, he gave one pithy order.

“Stay.”

If he didn't have coffee, immediately, he was going to die. Or kill someone.

“You're fired.”

“Fine, great, whoopee.” He let her fume while he poured coffee and downed it like water. “God, what a way to start the day.” He grabbed a bottle of aspirin, fought with the childproof cap while the headache that was brewing insidiously burst into full-blown misery.

“I'm not going to tolerate having a woman yell at me before my eyes are open. Whatever's got
you going, sweetheart, you just hold on to it until I—” He cursed again, slamming the stubborn cap on the edge of the counter, where it held firm.

His head was throbbing, his knee wept where it had hit the ground, and he could easily have chewed through the plastic to get to the aspirin.

Swearing ripely, he grabbed a butcher knife out of the wooden block on the counter and hacked at the bottle until he'd decapitated it. His face tight with fury, he turned with the bottle in one hand, the knife in the other. His teeth were clenched.

“Now you listen…” he began.

Bailey's eyes rolled back in her head, and she slid from the chair onto the floor in a dead faint before he could move.

“Sweet God.” The knife clattered on the floor, and aspirin rolled everywhere as the mangled bottle hit the tiles. He gathered her up, and for lack of anything better, laid her on the kitchen table while he dampened a cloth. “Come on, Bailey, come around, sweetheart.”

He bathed her face, chafed her wrists and cursed himself. How could he have shouted at her that way, manhandled her like that, when she was so fragile? Maybe he'd go out and kick some puppies, stomp on some kittens, for his next act.

When she moaned and shifted, he pressed her limp hand to his lips. “That's the way. All the way back.” Her eyes fluttered open while he stroked her hair. “It's okay, Bailey. Take it easy.”

“He's going to kill me.” Her eyes were open, but blind. She clutched at Cade's shirt as terror strangled her breath. “He's going to kill me.”

“No one's going to hurt you. I'm right here.”

“He's going to kill me. He's got a knife. If he finds me, he'll kill me.”

He wanted to gather her up, soothe it all away, but she'd trusted him to help. He kept his voice very calm, uncurled her fingers from his shirt and held them. “Who's got the knife, Bailey? Who's going to kill you?”

“He…he…” She could see it, almost see it, the hand hacking down, the knife flashing again and again. “There's blood everywhere. Blood everywhere. I have to get away from the blood. The knife. The lightning. I have to run.”

He held her still, kept his voice calm. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.”

“In the dark. Lights are out. He'll kill me. I have to run.”

“Run where?”

“Anywhere.” Her breath was coming so fast,
the force of it scored her throat like nails. “Anywhere, away. Somewhere away. If he finds me—”

“He's not going to find you. I won't let him find you.” He cupped her face firmly in his hands so that her eyes met his. “Slow down now. Just slow down.” If she kept panting like that, she was going to hyperventilate and faint on him again. He didn't think he could handle it. “You're safe here. You're safe with me. Understand that?”

“Yes. Yes.” She closed her eyes, shuddered hard. “Yes. I need air. Please, I need some air.”

He picked her up again, carried her outside. He set her on the padded chaise on the patio, sat beside her. “Take it slow. Remember, you're safe here. You're safe.”

“Yes, all right.” With an effort, she evened out the air that seemed to want to clog and burst in her lungs. “I'm all right.”

Far from it, he thought. She was sheet white, clammy and shivering. But the memory was close, and he had to try to dislodge it. “No one's going to hurt you. Nothing's going to touch you here. You hang on to that and try to tell me everything you remember.”

“It comes in blips.” She struggled to breathe past the pressure in her chest. “When you had the
knife…” Fear clawed through her again with razored talons.

“I scared you. I'm sorry.” He took her hands, held them. “I wouldn't hurt you.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes again, let the sun beat hot on the lids. “There was a knife. A long blade, curved. It's beautiful. The bone handle is deeply carved. I've seen it—maybe I've used it.”

“Where did you see it?”

“I don't know. There were voices, shouting. I can't hear what they're saying. It's like the ocean, all sound, roaring, violent sound.” She pressed her hands to her ears, as if she could block it out. “Then there's blood, everywhere there's blood. All over the floor.”

“What kind of floor?”

“Carpet, gray carpet. The lightning keeps flashing, the knife keeps flashing.”

“Is there a window? Do you see lightning through the window?”

“Yes, I think…” She shivered again, and the scene fighting to form in her mind went blank. “It's dark. Everything went dark, and I have to get away. I have to hide.”

“Where do you hide?”

“It's a little place, hardly room, and if he sees,
I'll be trapped. He has the knife. I can see it, his hand on the hilt. It's so close, if he turns—”

“Tell me about the hand,” Cade said, interrupting her gently. “What does the hand look like, Bailey?”

“It's dark, very dark, but there's a light bouncing around. It almost catches me. He's holding the knife, and his knuckles are white. There's blood on them. On his ring.”

“What kind of ring, Bailey?” His eyes stayed intent on her face, but his voice remained calm and easy. “What does the ring look like?”

“It's heavy gold, thick band. Yellow gold. The center stone's a ruby cabochon. On either side there are small diamonds, brilliant-cut. Initials.
T
and
S
in a stylized sweep. The diamonds are red with blood. He's so close, so close, I can smell it. If he looks down. If he looks down and sees me. He'll kill me, slice me to pieces, if he finds me.”

“He didn't.” Unable to bear it any longer, Cade drew her up, held her. “You got away. How did you get away, Bailey?”

“I don't know.” The relief was so huge— Cade's arms around her, the sun warm at her back, his cheek pressed to her hair—she could have wept. “I don't remember.”

“It's all right. That's enough.”

“Maybe I killed him.” She drew back, looked into Cade's face. “Maybe I used the gun that was in the bag and shot him.”

“The gun was fully loaded, Bailey.”

“I could have replaced it.”

“Sweetheart, in my professional opinion, you wouldn't know how.”

“But if I—”

“And if you did—” he took her shoulders now, gave her a quick shake “—it was to protect yourself. He was armed, you were terrified, and it sounds as if he'd already killed someone. Whatever you did to survive was right.”

She shifted away, looked out over the yard, past the flowers, the leafy old trees, the tidy fence line. “What kind of person am I? There's a very real possibility I saw someone murdered. I did nothing to stop it, nothing to help.”

“Be sensible, Bailey. What could you have done?”

“Something,” she murmured. “I didn't get to a phone, call the police. I just ran.”

“And if you hadn't, you'd be dead.” He knew by the way she winced that his tone had been harsh. But it was what she needed. “Instead,
you're alive, and bit by bit, we're putting it together.”

He rose, paced away, so that he wouldn't give in to the temptation just to cuddle her. “You were in a building of some sort. In a room with gray carpet, probably a window. There was an argument, and someone had a knife. He used it. His initials could be
T.S.
He came after you, and it was dark. More than likely it was a blackout and the building had lost power. A section of North West D.C. lost power for two hours the night before you hired me, so we've got somewhere to look. You knew the building well enough to head for cover. I'd say you belonged there. You live or work there.”

He turned back, noting that she was watching him, paying close attention. Her hands were steady in her lap again. “I can check if there was a knifing reported that night, but I've been watching the papers, and there hasn't been any press on it.”