Stars of Mithra Box Set: Captive Star\Hidden Star\Secret Star (27 page)

“But it was days ago now. Someone must have found—found a body, if there was one.”

“Not if it was a private home, or an office that shut down for the long weekend. If there'd been someone else there, other people in the building
when it happened, it would have been reported. Odds are you were alone.”

It made his stomach crawl to think of it—Bailey alone in the dark with a killer.

“The storm didn't hit until after ten.”

It was logical, and the simple movement from theory to fact calmed her. “What do we do now?”

“We'll drive around the area that lost power, starting at the hotel where you ended up.”

“I don't remember getting to the hotel, whether I walked or took a cab.”

“You either walked, took a bus or the metro. I've already checked on cabs. None of the companies dropped off a fare within three blocks of the hotel that night. We're going to move on the assumption that you were on foot, dazed, too shaken to think of hopping a bus, and since the metro only runs until midnight, that's too close to call.”

She nodded, looked down at her hands. “I'm sorry I shouted at you before. You didn't deserve it, after everything you've done for me.”

“I deserved it.” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “I refuse to accept the term
snit
but I'll allow the phrase
out of sorts.
” He enjoyed seeing
her lips curve in one of her hesitant smiles as she lifted her head.

“I suppose we both were. Did I hurt you when I knocked you down?”

“My ego's going to be carrying a bruise for a while. Otherwise, no.” He angled his head. There was a quick cockiness in the movement, and in the eyes that glinted at hers. “And I didn't try to seduce you on the dance floor, Bailey. I did seduce you on the dance floor.”

Her pulse stuttered a bit. He was so outrageously gorgeous, standing there in the bright morning sun, rumpled, his dark hair thick and untidy, the dimples denting his cheeks and his mouth arrogantly curved. No woman alive, Bailey thought, could have stopped her mouth from watering.

And she was certain he knew it.

“Your ego seems to function well enough, bruised or not.”

“We can always stage a reenactment.”

Her stomach fluttered at the thought, but she worked up a smile. “I'm glad you're not angry with me anymore. I don't think I handle confrontations very well.”

He rubbed his elbow, where he'd lost several layers of skin on impact. “You seemed to do well
enough. I'm going to clean up, then we'll take ourselves a Sunday drive.”

 

There were so many kinds of buildings, Bailey thought as Cade tooled around the city. Old ones, new ones, crumbling row houses and refurbished homes. Tall office buildings and squat storefronts.

Had she ever really noticed the city before? she wondered. The sloping stone walls, the trees rising up from the sidewalks. Belching buses with whining air brakes.

Was it always so humid in July? Was the summer sky always the color of paper? And were the flowers always so luscious in the public spaces tucked around statues and along the streets?

Had she shopped in any of these stores, eaten in any of these restaurants?

The trees took over again, tall and stately, lining both sides of the road, so that it seemed they were driving through a park, rather than the middle of a crowded city.

“It's like seeing everything for the first time,” she murmured. “I'm sorry.”

“Doesn't matter. Something will either click or it won't.”

They passed gracious old homes, brick and granite, then another strip of shops, smart and
trendy. She made a small sound, and though she was hardly aware of it herself, Cade slowed. “Something click?”

“That boutique. Marguerite's. I don't know.”

“Let's take a look.” He circled around, backtracked, then pulled into a narrow lot that fronted several upscale shops. “Everything's closed, but that doesn't mean we can't window shop.” Leaning over, he opened her door, then climbed out his own.

“Maybe I just liked the dress in the window,” she murmured.

It was very lovely, just a sweep of rose-petal silk with thin straps of glittery rhinestones that continued down to cross under the bodice.

The display was completed by a tiny silver evening bag and impossibly high heels in matching silver.

The way it made her smile, Cade wished the shop was open, so that he could buy it for her. “It's your style.”

“I don't know.” She cupped her hands to the glass, peered through them for the simple delight of looking at pretty things. “That's a wonderful cocktail suit in navy linen. Oh, and that red dress is just fabulous. Bound to make you feel powerful and accomplished. I really should start wearing
bolder colors, but I always wimp out with pastels.”

Try this green, Bailey. It's got punch. There's nothing more tiring than a clothes coward.

How long do I have to stand around while you two play with clothes? I'm starving.

Oh, stop bitching. You're not happy unless you're feeding your face or buying new jeans. Bailey,
not
that tedious beige. The green. Trust me.

“She talked me into it,” Bailey murmured. “I bought the green suit. She was right. She always is.”

“Who's right, Bailey?” He didn't touch her, afraid that even an encouraging hand on her shoulder would jar her. “Is it M.J.?”

“No, no, not M.J. She's annoyed, impatient, hates to waste time. Shopping's such a waste of time.”

Oh, her head hurt. It was going to explode any moment, simply burst off her shoulders. But the need was greater, the need to latch on to this one thing. This one answer. Her stomach rolled, threatened to heave, and her skin went clammy with the effort of holding off nausea.

“Grace.” Her voice broke on the name. “Grace,” she said again as her knees buckled.
“Her name's Grace. Grace and M.J.” Tears sprang to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks as she threw her arms around Cade's neck. “I've been here. I've been to this shop. I bought a green suit. I remember.”

“Good. Good job, Bailey.” He gave her a quick swing.

“No, but that's all.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. The pain was screaming now. “That's all I remember. Just being in there with them, buying a suit. It's so foolish. Why should I remember buying a suit?”

“You remember the people.” He smoothed his thumbs over her temples. He could all but feel the headache raging inside. “They're important to you. It was a moment, something shared, a happy time.”

“But I can't remember them. Not really. Just feelings.”

“You're breaking through.” He pressed his lips to her brow, drew her back toward the car. “And it's happening quickly now.” He eased her down on the seat, hooked her safety belt himself. “And it hurts you.”

“It doesn't matter. I need to know.”

“It matters to me. We'll get you something for
that headache, and some food. Then we'll start again.”

 

Arguments wouldn't sway him. Bailey had to admit that fighting Cade and a blinding headache was a battle she was doomed to lose. She let him prop her up in bed, dutifully swallowed the aspirin he gave her. Obediently she closed her eyes as he instructed, then opened them again when he brought up a bowl of chicken soup.

“It's out of a can,” he told her, fussing with the pillows behind her back. “But it should do the job.”

“I could eat in the kitchen, Cade. It was a headache, not a tumor. And it's almost gone.”

“I'm going to work you hard later. Take the pampering while you can get it.”

“All right, I will.” She spooned up soup. “It's wonderful. You added thyme.”

“For that little hint of France.”

Her smile faded. “Paris,” she murmured. “Something about Paris.” The headache snuck back as she tried to concentrate.

“Let it go for now.” He sat beside her. “I'd say your subconscious is letting you know you're not all the way ready yet to remember. A piece at a time will do.”

“I suppose it'll have to.” She smiled again. “Want some soup?”

“Now that you mention it.” He leaned forward, let her feed him, and didn't take his eyes from hers. “Not too shabby.”

She took another spoonful herself, tasted him. Marvelous. “As handy as you are in the kitchen, I'm surprised your wife let you get away.”

“Ex-wife, and we had a cook.”

“Oh.” She fed him again, slowly taking turns. “I've been trying to figure out how to ask without seeming rude.”

He slipped her hair behind her ear. “Just ask.”

“Well, this lovely house, the antiques, the fancy sports car… Then there's your office.”

His mouth twitched. “Something wrong with my office?”

“No. Well, nothing a bulldozer and a construction crew couldn't cure. It just doesn't compute with the rest.”

“I've got a thing about my business paying for itself, and that office is about all it can afford so far. My investigative work pays the bills and just a little more. On a personal level, I'm rolling in it.” His eyes laughed into hers. “Money, that is. If that's what you're asking.”

“I guess it was. You're rich, then.”

“Depends on your definition, or if you mean me personally or the entire family. It's shopping centers, real estate, that sort of thing. A lot of doctors and lawyers and bankers down through the ages. And me, I'm—”

“The black sheep,” she finished for him, thrilled that he was just that. “You didn't want to go into the family business. You didn't want to be a doctor or a lawyer or a banker.”

“Nope. I wanted to be Sam Spade.”

Delighted, she chuckled. “
The Maltese Falcon.
I'm glad you didn't want to be a banker.”

“Me, too.” He took the hand she'd laid on his cheek, pressed his lips to it and felt her quiver of response.

“I'm glad I found your name in the phone book.” Her voice thickened. “I'm glad I found you.”

“So am I.” He took the tray from between them, set it aside. Even if he'd been blind, he thought, he would have understood what was in her eyes just then. And his heart thrilled to it. “I could walk out of here and leave you alone now.” He trailed a finger across her collarbone, then let it rest on the pulse that beat rabbit-quick at her throat. “That's not what I want to do.”

It was her decision, she knew. Her choice. Her
moment. “That's not what I want, either.” When he cupped her face in his hands, she closed her eyes. “Cade, I may have done something horrible.”

His lips paused an inch from hers. “I don't care.”

“I may have— I may be—” Determined to face it, she opened her eyes again. “There may be someone else.”

His fingers tightened. “I don't give a damn.”

She let out a long breath, and took her moment. “Neither do I,” she said, and pulled him to her.

T
his was what it felt like to be pressed under a man's body. A man's hard, needy body. A man who wanted you above all else.

For that moment.

It was breathless and stunning, exciting and fresh. The way he combed his fingers through her hair as his lips covered hers thrilled her. The fit of mouth against mouth, as if the only thing lips and tongues were made for were to taste a lover. And it was the taste of him that filled her—strong and male and real.

Whatever had come before, whatever came after, this mattered now.

She stroked her hands over him, and it was glorious. The shape of his body, the breadth of shoulders, the length of back, the narrowing of waist, the muscles beneath so firm, so tight. And when her hands skimmed under his shirt, the smooth, warm flesh beneath fascinated.

“Oh, I've wanted to touch you.” Her lips raced over his face. “I was afraid I never would.”

“I've wanted you from the first moment you walked in the door.” He drew back only enough to see her eyes, the deep, melting brown of them. “Before you walked in the door. Forever.”

“It doesn't make any sense. We don't—”

“It doesn't matter. Only this.” His lips closed over hers again, took the kiss deeper, tangling their flavors together.

He wanted to go slowly, draw out every moment. It seemed he'd waited for her all his life, so now he could take all the time in the world to touch, to taste, to explore and exploit. Each shift of her body beneath his was a gift. Each sigh a treasure.

To have her like this, with the sun streaming through the window, with her hair flowing gold over the old quilt and her body both yielding and eager, was sweeter than any dream.

They belonged. It was all he had to know.

To see her, to unfasten the simple shirt he'd picked for her, to open it inch by inch to pale, smooth flesh was everything he wanted. He skimmed his fingertips over the curve of her breast, felt her skin quiver in response, watched her eyes flicker dark, then focus on his.

“You're perfect.” He cupped her, and she was small and firm and made for his palm.

He bent his head, rubbed his lips where the lace of her bra met flesh, then moved them up, lazily up her throat, over her jaw, and back to nip at her mouth.

No one had kissed her like this before. She knew it was impossible for anyone else to have taken such care. With a soft sigh, she poured herself into the kiss, murmuring when he shifted her to slip the shirt away, trembling when he slid the lace aside and bared her breasts to his hands.

And his mouth.

She moaned, lost, gloriously lost, in a dark maze of sensations. Soft here, then rough, cool, then searing, each feeling bumped gently into the next, then merged into simple pleasure. Whichever way she turned, there was something new and thrilling. When she tugged his shirt away, there was the lovely slippery slide of his flesh against hers, the intimacy of it, heart to heart.

And her heart danced to the play of his lips, the teasing nip of teeth, the slow torture of tongue.

The air was like syrup, thick and sweet, as he slid her slacks over her hips. She struggled to gulp it in, but each breath was shallow and short. He was touching her everywhere, his hands slick and slow, but relentlessly pushing her higher and stronger until the heat was immense. It kindled inside her like a brush fire.

She moaned out his name, clutching the quilt and dragging it into tangles as her body strained to reach for something just beyond her grasp. As she arched desperately against him, he watched her. Slid up her body again until his lips were close to hers, and watched her. Watched her as, with quick, clever fingers, he tore her free.

It was his name she called when the heat reached flash point, and his body she clung to as her own shuddered.

That was what he'd wanted.

His name was still vibrating on her lips when he crushed them with his, when he rolled with her over the bed in a greedy quest to take and possess. Blind with need, he tugged at his jeans, trembling himself when she buried her mouth against his throat, strained against him in quivering invitation.

She was more generous than any fantasy. More generous than any wish. More his than any dream.

With sunlight pouring over the tangled sheets, she arched to him, opened as if she'd been waiting all her life for him. His heart pounded in his head as he slipped inside her, moved to fill her.

Shock froze him for a dazed instant, and every muscle tensed. But she shook her head, wrapped herself around him and took him in.

“You” was all she said. “Only you.”

He lay still, listening to her heart thudding, absorbing the quakes of her body with his. Only him, he thought, and closed his eyes. She'd been innocent. Untouched. A miracle. And his heart was tugged in opposing directions of guilt and pure selfish pleasure.

She'd been innocent, and he'd taken her.

She'd been untouched, until he touched.

He wanted to beg her to forgive him.

He wanted to climb out on the roof and crow.

Not certain either would suit the situation, he gently tested the waters.

“Bailey?”

“Hmm?”

“Ah, in my professional opinion as a licensed investigator, I conclude it's extremely unlikely you're married.” He felt the rumble of her laugh
ter, and lifted his head to grin down at her. “I'll put it in my report.”

“You do that.”

He brushed the hair from her cheek. “Did I hurt you? I'm sorry. I never considered—”

“No.” She pressed her hand over his. “You didn't hurt me. I'm happy, giddy. Relieved.” Her lips curved on a sigh. “I never considered, either. I'd say we were both surprised.” Abruptly her stomach fluttered with nerves. “You're not…disappointed? If you—”

“I'm devastated. I really hoped you'd be married, with six kids. I really only enjoy making love with married women.”

“No, I meant… Was it—was I—was everything all right?”

“Bailey.” On a half laugh, he rolled over so that she could settle on his chest. “You're perfect. Absolutely, completely perfect. I love you.” She went very still, and her cheek stayed pressed to his heart. “You know I do,” he said quietly. “From the moment I saw you.”

Now she wanted to weep, because it was everything she wanted to hear, and nothing she could accept. “You don't know me.”

“Neither do you.”

She lifted her head, shook it fiercely. “That's
exactly the point. Joking about it doesn't change the truth.”

“Here's the truth, then.” He sat up, took her firmly by the shoulders. “I'm in love with you. In love with the woman I'm holding right now. You're exactly what I want, what I need, and sweetheart—” he kissed her lightly “—I'm keeping you.”

“You know it's not that simple.”

“I'm not asking for simple.” He slid his hands down, gripped hers. “I'm asking you to marry me.”

“That's impossible.” Panicked, she tugged on her hands, but he gripped them calmly and held her in place. “You know that's impossible. I don't know where I come from, what I've done. I met you three days ago.”

“That all makes sense, or would, except for one thing.” He drew her against him and shot reason to hell with a kiss.

“Don't do this.” Torn to pieces, she wrapped her arms around his neck, held tight. “Don't do this, Cade. Whatever my life was, right now it's a mess. I need to find the answers.”

“We'll find the answers. I promise you that. But there's one I want from you now.” He drew her head back. He'd expected the tears, knew
they'd be shimmering in her eyes and turning them deep gold. “Tell me you love me, Bailey, or tell me you don't.”

“I can't—”

“Just one question,” he murmured. “You don't need a yesterday to answer it.”

No, she needed nothing but her own heart. “I can't tell you I don't love you, because I can't lie to you.” She shook her head, pressed her fingers to his lips before he could speak. “I won't tell you I do, because it wouldn't be fair. It's an answer that has to wait until I know all the others. Until I know who the woman is who'll tell you. Give me time.”

He'd give her time, he thought when her head was nestled on his shoulder again. Because nothing and no one was taking her from him, whatever they found on the other side of her past.

 

Cade liked to say that getting to a solution was just a matter of taking steps. Bailey wondered how many more there were left to climb. She felt she'd rushed up a very long staircase that day, and when reaching the landing been just as lost as ever.

Not entirely true, she told herself as she settled down at the kitchen table with a notepad and pen
cil. Even the urge to make a list of what she knew indicated that she was an organized person, and one who liked to review things in black and white.

Who is Bailey?

A woman who habitually rose at the same hour daily. Did that make her tedious and predictable, or responsible? She liked coffee black and strong, scrambled eggs, and her steaks medium rare. Fairly ordinary tastes. Her body was trim, not particularly muscular, and without tan lines. So, she wasn't a fitness fanatic or a sun-worshiper. Perhaps she had a job that kept her indoors.

Which meant, she thought with some humor, she wasn't a lumberjack or a lifeguard.

She was a right-handed, brown-eyed blonde, and was reasonably sure her hair color was natural or close to what she'd been born with.

She knew a great deal about gemstones, which could mean they were a hobby, a career, or just something she liked to wear. She had possession of a diamond worth a fortune that she'd either stolen, bought—highly unlikely, she thought—or gained through an accident of some sort.

She'd witnessed a violent attack, possibly a murder, and run away.

Because that fact made her temple start to throb again, she skipped over it.

She hummed classical music in the shower and liked to watch classic film noir on television. And she couldn't figure out what that said about her personality or her background.

She liked attractive clothes, good materials, and shied away from strong colors unless pushed.

It worried her that she might be vain and frivolous.

But she had at least two female friends who shared part of her life. Grace and M.J., M.J. and Grace. Bailey wrote the names on the pad, over and over, hoping that the simple repetition would strike a fresh spark.

They mattered to her, she could feel that. She was frightened for them and didn't know why. Her mind might be blank, but her heart told her that they were special to her, closer to her than anyone else in the world.

But she was afraid to trust her heart.

There was something else she knew that Bailey didn't want to write down, didn't want to review in black and white.

She'd had no lover. There'd been no one she cared for enough, or who cared for her enough, for intimacy. Perhaps in the life she led she'd been too judgmental, too intolerant, too self-absorbed, to accept a man into her bed.

Or perhaps she'd been too ordinary, too boring, too undesirable, for a man to accept her into his.

In any case, she had a lover now.

Why hadn't the act of lovemaking seemed foreign to her, or frightening, as it seemed it would to the uninitiated? Instead, with Cade, it had been as natural as breathing.

Natural, exciting and perfect.

He said he loved her, but how could she believe it? He knew only one small piece of her, a fraction of the whole. When her memory surfaced, he might find her to be the very type of woman he disliked.

No, she wouldn't hold him to what he'd said to this Bailey, until she knew the whole woman.

And her feelings? With a half laugh, she set the pencil aside. She'd been drawn to him instantly, trusted him completely the moment he took her hand. And fallen in love with him while she watched him stand in this kitchen, breaking brown eggs into a white bowl.

But her heart couldn't be trusted in this case, either. The closer they came to finding the truth, the closer they came to the time when they might turn from each other and walk away.

However much she wished it, they couldn't
leave the canvas bag and its contents in his safe, forget they existed and just be.

“You forgot some things.”

She jolted, turned her head quickly and looked into his face. How long, she wondered, had he been standing behind her, reading her notes over her shoulder, while she was thinking of him?

“I thought it might help me to write down what I know.”

“Always a good plan.” He walked to the fridge, took out a beer, poured her a glass of iced tea.

She sat feeling foolish and awkward, her hands clutched in her lap. Had they really rolled naked on a sun-washed bed an hour before? How was such intimacy handled in a tidy kitchen over cold drinks and puzzles?

He didn't seem to have a problem with it. Cade sat across from her, propped his feet on an empty chair and scooted her pad over. “You're a worrier.”

“I am?”

“Sure.” He flipped a page, started a new list. “You're worrying right now. What should you say to this guy, now that you're lovers? Now that you know he's wildly in love with you, wants to spend the rest of his life with you?”

“Cade—”

“Just stating the facts.” And if he stated them often enough, he figured she'd eventually accept them. “The sex was great, and it was easy. So you worry about that, too. Why did you let this man you've known for a weekend take you to bed, when you've never let another man get that close?” His eyes flicked up, held hers. “The answer's elementary. You're just as wildly in love with me, but you're afraid to face it.”

She picked up her glass, cooled her throat. “I'm a coward?”

“No, Bailey, you're not a coward, but you're constantly worried that you are. You're a champion worrier. And a woman, I think, who gives herself very little credit for her strengths, and has very little tolerance for her weaknesses. Self-judgmental.”