Stars of Mithra Box Set: Captive Star\Hidden Star\Secret Star (30 page)

“It's a satinwood library desk, George III.” She set her cup back down with a rattle. “Oh, that was clever. I never expected you to ask about the desk, so I didn't think, and it was just there.”

“Concentrate on the desk, Bailey. Describe it for me.”

“It's a beautiful piece. The top is crossbanded with rosewood that's inlaid with boxwood lines. The sides, even the kneehole, are inlaid with ovals. One side has a long drawer paneled with
false fronts. It opens to shelves. It's so clever. The handles are brass, and they're kept well polished.”

Baffled, she stared into her tea. “Now I sound like an antique dealer.”

No, he thought, just someone who loves beautiful things. And knows that desk very well.

“What's on the desk?”

“The lamp. It's brass, too, with a green glass shade and an old-fashioned chain pull. And there are papers, a neat stack of papers aligned with the corner of the desk. A leather blotter is in the center, and a
briefke
sits there.”

“A what?”

“A
briefke,
a little cup of paper for carrying loose stones. They're emeralds, grass green, of varying cuts and carats. There's a jeweler's loupe and a small brass scale. A glass, Baccarat crystal, with ice melting in the whiskey. And…and the knife…” Her breath was strangling, but she forced it free. “The knife is there, carved bone handle, curved blade. It's old, it's beautiful.”

“Is someone at the desk?”

“No, the chair's empty.” Easier to look away from the knife, to look somewhere else. “It's a dark, pewter-gray leather. Its back is to the window. There's a storm.” Her voice hitched.
“There's a storm. Lightning, lashing rain. They're shouting over the thunder.”

“Where are they?”

“In front of the desk, facing each other.”

He pushed her cup aside so that he could take her hand. “What are they saying, Bailey?”

“I don't know. Something about a deposit. Take the deposit, leave the country. It's a bad deal. Too dangerous. His mind's made up.”

She could hear the voices. The words were bouncing out of the static of sound, harsh angry phrases.

Double-crossing son of a bitch.

You want to deal with him, you go ahead. I'm out of it.

Both of us. Together. No backing out.

You take the stones, deal with him. Bailey's suspicious. Not as stupid as you think.

You're not walking out with the money and leaving me twisting in the wind.

“He shoves him back. They're fighting, pushing, shoving, punching. It frightens me how much they hate each other. I don't know how they can despise each other so much, because they're the same.”

He didn't want to take her through what had
happened next. He had the scene now, the steps. “How are they the same?”

“The same face. Same eyes, dark eyes, dark hair. Everything. Mirror images. Even their voices, the same pitch. They're the same man, Cade. How can they be the same man, unless it didn't happen that way at all—and I've lost not only my memory, but my mind?”

“You're not looking at the simple, Bailey. At the simple and the obvious.” His smile was grim, his eyes glowed. “Twins.”

“Twins? Brothers?” Everything in her, every part of her being, was repelled. She could only shake her head, and continued to shake it until the movement was frantic. “No, no, no.” She couldn't accept that. Wouldn't. “That's not it. That can't be it.”

She pushed back from the table abruptly, her chair scraping harshly on the tile. “I don't know what I saw.” Desperate now to block it out, she grabbed her cup, slopping tea on the table before she carried it to the sink and dumped it down the drain. “It was dark. I don't know what I saw.”

Didn't want to know what she'd seen, Cade concluded. Wasn't ready to know. And he wasn't willing to risk playing analyst until she'd regrouped.

“Put it away for now. It's been a rough day, you need some rest.”

“Yes.” Her mind was screaming for peace, for oblivion. But she was terrified of sleep, and the dreams that would come with it. She turned, pressed herself against him. “Make love with me. I don't want to think. I just want you to love me.”

“I do.” He met her seeking mouth with his. “I will.”

He led her out of the kitchen, stopping on the way to kiss, to touch. At the base of the stairs, he unbuttoned her blouse, skimmed his hands up her narrow rib cage, then cupped her breasts.

On a broken gasp, she clutched her hands in his hair and dragged his mouth down to hers.

He'd wanted to be gentle, tender. But her lips were wild and desperate. He understood that it was the wild and desperate she needed. And let himself go.

He tore the bra aside, watched the shock and arousal flare in her eyes. When his hands possessed this time, they were greedy and rough.

“There's a lot I haven't shown you.” He sought the delicate curve between neck and shoulder. Bit. A lot no one had shown her, he thought with a wild spurt of sheer lust. “You may not be ready.”

“Show me.” Her head fell back, and her pulse scrambled like frightened birds. And fear was suddenly liberating. “I want you to.”

He dragged her slacks down her hips, and plunged his fingers inside her. Her nails bit into his shoulders as she rocked on that swift, stunning peak. The whimper in her throat became a cry that was both fear and joy.

His breath hissed out as he watched her fly up, fly over. The dazed shock in her eyes brought him a dark thrill. She was helpless now, if he wanted her helpless.

And he did.

He peeled away layers of clothes, his hands quick and sure. When she was naked and quivering, his lips curved. He traced his thumbs over her nipples until her eyes fluttered closed.

“You belong to me.” His voice was thick, rough, compelling. “I need to hear you say it. For now, you belong to me.”

“Yes.” She would have told him anything. Promised her soul, if that was what he asked of her. This was no lazy river now, but a flood of heaving sensations. She wanted to drown in them. “More.”

He gave more. His mouth raced down her body, then fixed greedily on the core of heat.

She swayed, quaked, exploded. Colors burst in her head—carnival lights and jewels, stars and rainbows. Her back pressed into the railing, and her hands gripped at it for balance while her world spun like a carousel gone mad.

Then pleasure, the sharp edge of it tipped toward pain. At that point, between glory and devastation, her body simply shattered.

He pulled her into his arms, darkly pleased that she was limp. Leaving her clothes where they lay, cradling her, he mounted the steps. His bed this time, he thought with a restless, lustful need to claim her there.

He fell to the bed with her, let the fire inside him rage.

It was unbearable. Glorious. His hands, his mouth, destroyed her, rebuilt her. Sweat dewed her skin, slickening it. And, when he'd dragged his clothes away, slickening his. Her body arched and bucked, straining for more, moving eagerly against each new demand.

When he yanked her to her knees, she wrapped herself around him eagerly, bowing back when his head lowered once more to suckle her breast. And when her head touched the mattress, her body bridged, he buried himself deep inside her.

Her moan was low and throaty, a mindless
sound as he gripped her hips, braced them. With his own heart screaming in his chest, he drove them both hard and fast. No thoughts, no doubts, nothing but the hot, frenzied joining.

There was moonlight on her face, glinting in her hair, glowing on her damp skin. Even as his vision grayed, he fixed the picture of her in his mind. Locked it there, as the dark pleasure peaked and he emptied himself into her.

 

He waited until he was sure she slept. For a time, he simply watched her, bewitched by her and what they'd brought to each other. No woman he'd touched, no woman who had touched him, had ever reached so deep inside him, held his heart so close and fast.

He'd demanded that she tell him she belonged to him. It was no less true that he belonged to her. The miracle of it humbled him.

He touched his lips to her temple. When he left her, she was sprawled on her stomach, one arm flung out where he had lain beside her. He hoped exhaustion would tranquilize her dreams. He left the door open so that he could hear if she cried out in sleep, or called for him.

He took time to brew a pot of coffee and carried it with him into the library. He gave his com
puter one grim sneer before booting it up. The clock in the corner chimed midnight, then bonged the half hour before he found his rhythm.

In hardly twice the time it would have taken a ten-year-old hacker, the information he was searching for flashed up on the screen.

Gem experts. The greater metropolitan area.

He scrolled through, keeping his senses alert with caffeine, fumbled for a moment in engaging the printer for hard copy.

Boone and Son.

Kleigmore Diamond Consultants.

Landis Jewelry Creations.

His computer provided him with more detailed information than the phone book. For once he blessed technology. He scanned the data, names, dates, then continued to scroll.

Salvini.

Salvini. His eyes narrowed as he skimmed the data. Appraisers and gemologists. Estate jewelry and antiquities a specialty. Established in 1952 by Charles Salvini, now deceased.

Certified and bonded. Consultants to museums and private collectors. Personalized designs, repairs and remounting. All work done on premises.

A Chevy Chase address, he mused. The location was close enough. The firm was respected,
had earned a triple-A rating. Owners Thomas and Timothy Salvini.

T.S., he thought on a quick spurt of excitement. Brothers.

Bingo.

“J
ust take your time.”

Bailey took a deep breath and struggled to be as calm and precise as Cade wanted. “Her nose is sharper than that. I think.”

The police artist's name was Sara, and she was young and patient. Skilled, Bailey had no doubt, or Cade wouldn't have called on her. She sat at the kitchen table with her sketch pad and pencils, a cup of steaming coffee at her elbow.

“More like this?” With a few quick strokes, Sara honed down the nose.

“Yes, I think so. Her eyes are bigger, sort of tilted up.”

“Almond-shaped?” Sara whisked the gum eraser over the pencil strokes, adjusted for size and shape.

“I suppose. It's hard to see it all in my head.”

“Just give me impressions.” Sara's smile was easy and relaxed. “We'll go from there.”

“It seems the mouth is wide, softer than the rest of the face. Everything else is angles.”

“Quite a face,” Cade commented as Sara sketched. “Interesting. Sexy.”

As Bailey continued to instruct, he studied the image. Angular face, carelessly short hair with long, spiky bangs, with dark, dramatically arched eyebrows peeking through. Exotic and tough, he decided, and tried to hook a personality with the features.

“That's very close to what I remember.” Bailey took the sketch Sara offered. She knew this face, she thought, and looking at it brought competing urges to smile and to weep.

M.J. Who was M.J., and what had they shared?

“You want to take a break?” Cade asked and lowered his hands to Bailey's shoulders to rub away the tension.

“No, I'd like to keep at it. If you don't mind,” she said to Sara.

“Hey, I can do this all day. Long as you keep
the coffee coming.” She held her empty mug up to Cade, with a quick smile that told Bailey they knew each other well.

“You— Ah, it's interesting work,” Bailey began.

Sara tossed a long ginger-colored braid behind her back. Her outfit was both cool and casual, denim cutoffs and a plain white tank, the combination straight-up sexy.

“It's a living,” she told Bailey. “Computers are slowly putting me out of business. It's amazing what they can do with imaging. But a lot of cops and P.I.'s still prefer sketches.” She took her refilled mug back from Cade. “Parris here, he'll do most anything to avoid a computer.”

“Hey, I'm getting the hang of it.”

Sara snickered. “When you do, I'll be making my living doing caricatures in bars.” She shrugged, sipped, then picked up a fresh pencil. “Want to try for the other?”

“Yes, all right.” Telling herself not to focus on just how well Cade and Sara knew each other, Bailey closed her eyes and concentrated.

Grace.
She let the name cruise through her mind, bring up the image.

“Soft,” she began. “There's a softness to her face. It's very beautiful, almost unbelievably so.
It's an oval face, very classic. Her hair's ink black, very long. It sort of spills down her back in loose waves. No bangs, just a flow of dark, thick silk. Her eyes are wide, heavy-lidded and thickly lashed. Laser-blue eyes. The nose is short and straight. Think perfect.”

“I'm starting to hate her,” Sara said lightly, and made Bailey smile.

“It must be hard to be wildly beautiful, don't you think? People only look at the surface.”

“I think I could live with it. How about the mouth?”

“Lush. Full.”

“Natch.”

“Yes, that's good.” Excitement began to drum. The sketch was coming together quickly. “The eyebrows are a little fuller, and there's a mole beside the left one. Just here,” Bailey said, pointing to her own face.

“Now I really hate her,” Sara muttered. “I don't want to know if she's got the body to match this face. Tell me she's got Dumbo ears.”

“No, I'm afraid not.” Bailey smiled at the sketch and felt warm and weepy again. “She's just beautiful. It startles the eye.”

“She looks familiar.”

At Sara's careless comment, Bailey tensed. “Does she? Really?”

“I'd swear I've seen this face before.” Pursing her lips, Sara tapped her pencil against the sketch. “In a magazine, maybe. She looks like someone who'd model—pricey perfume or face cream. You got a million-dollar face, you'd be crazy not to use it.”

“A model.” Bailey bit her lip, fought to remember. “I just don't know.”

Sara tore off the sheet, handed it to Cade. “What do you think?”

“A heart-stopper,” he said after a moment. “The gene fairy was in one hell of a good mood when she was born. I can't place it, though, and that's a face no man with a pulse would forget.”

Her name is Grace, Bailey told herself. And she's more than beautiful. She's not just a face.

“Good work, Sara.” Cade laid the two sketches together on the counter. “Got time for one more?”

Sara took a quick look at her watch. “I've got about a half hour to spare.”

“The man, Bailey.” Cade crouched down until they were eye to eye. “You know what he looks like now.”

“I don't—”

“You do.” He said it firmly, though his hands were gentle on her arms. “It's important. Just tell Sara how you see him.”

It would hurt, Bailey realized. Her stomach muscles were already clenched at the thought of letting that face back into her head. “I don't want to see him again.”

“You want the answers. You want it over. This is a step. You've got to take the steps.”

She closed her eyes, shifted. Her head began to throb as she put herself back in that room with the gray carpet and the storm-lashed window.

“He's dark,” she said quietly. “His face is long, narrow. It's tight with anger. His mouth is grim with temper. It's thin and strong and stubborn. His nose is slightly hooked. Not unattractive, but strong again. It's a very strong face. His eyes are deep-set. Dark. Dark eyes.”

Flashing with fury. There was murder in them. She shuddered, hugged her elbows and fought to concentrate.

“Hollowed cheeks and high forehead. His eye brows are dark and straight. So's his hair. It's well cut, full at the top, very precisely trimmed around the ears. It's a very handsome face. The jaw spoils it a little, it's soft, slightly weak.”

“Is that him, Bailey?” Cade put a hand on her shoulder again, squeezed lightly in support.

Braced, she opened her eyes and looked at the sketch. It wasn't precise. It wasn't perfect. The eyes should be a bit farther apart, the mouth slightly fuller. But it was enough to have her trembling.

“Yes, it's very like him.” Mustering all her control, she rose slowly. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and walked out of the room.

“The lady's terrified,” Sara commented, sliding her pencils back in their case.

“I know.”

“Are you going to tell me what kind of trouble she's in?”

“I'm not sure.” Cade dipped his hands in his pockets. “But I'm close to finding out. You did good work, Sara. I owe you.”

“I'll bill you.” She gathered her tools and rose. She kissed him lightly, studied his face. “I don't think you're going to be calling me up for a night on the town anymore.”

“I'm in love with her,” he said simply.

“Yeah, I got that.” She shouldered her bag, then touched his cheek. “I'm going to miss you.”

“I'll be around.”

“You'll be around,” she agreed. “But those
wild and wacky days are over for you, Parris. I like her. Hope you work it out.” With a last wistful smile, she turned. “I know the way out.”

He walked her out anyway, and closing the door, realized he was indeed shutting off a part of his life. The freedom of coming and going as he pleased, with whom he pleased. Late nights in a club, with the prospect of friendly, unfettered sex to follow. Responsible to no one but himself.

He glanced up the stairs. She was up there. Responsibility, stability, commitment. One woman from now throughout the rest of his life—a troubled woman, one who had yet to say the words he needed to hear, to make the promises he needed made.

He could still walk away, and she wouldn't blame him. In fact, he was sure that was exactly what she'd expected. It made him wonder who had left her before.

With a shake of his head, he climbed the stairs to her without the slightest regret.

She was standing in the bedroom, looking out the window. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her back was to the door.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, I was rude to your friend. I didn't even thank her.”

“Sara understands.”

“You've known her a long time.”

“A few years, yeah.”

Bailey swallowed. “You've been together.”

Cade lifted a brow, decided against moving to her. “Yeah, we've been together. I've been with other women, Bailey. Women I've liked, cared for.”

“Knew.” She turned on the word, and her eyes were fierce.

“Knew,” he agreed with a nod.

“This is out of sync.” She dragged her hands through her hair. “You and me, Cade, it's out of sync with the rest of it. It should never have happened.”

“It did happen.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, because they'd tensed, wanted to fist. “Are you going to stand there and tell me you're upset because you've met a woman I've slept with? Because I didn't come to you the same way you came to me?”

“Blank.” The word shot out of her like a bullet. “You didn't come to me blank. You have family, friends, lovers. A life. I have nothing but pieces that don't fit. I don't care if you've slept with a hundred women.” Her voice snapped on
that, then whispered fiercely on the rest. “It's that you remember them. Can remember them.”

“You want me to tell you they don't matter?” His temper began to inch up, nudged by panic. She was pulling back, pulling away. “Of course they mattered. I can't blank out my past for you, Bailey.”

“I wouldn't want you to.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment as she fought for even a slippery grip on control. She'd made up her mind. Now she just had to be strong enough to follow through. “I'm sorry. Your private life before I came into it isn't my business, or even the point. The point is, you had one, Cade.”

“So did you.”

“So did I.” She nodded, thinking that was precisely what frightened her. “I never would have gotten this close to finding it without you. But I realize I should have gone to the police straightaway. I've only complicated things by not doing so. But that's what I'm going to do now.”

“You don't trust me to finish this?”

“That's not the issue—”

“Damn right it's not,” he told her. “This isn't about going to the cops. It's about you and me. You think you can walk out of here and away
from what's between us.” His hands shot out of his pockets, grabbed her arms. “Think again.”

“Someone's dead. I'm involved.” Her teeth threatened to chatter as she fought to keep her eyes level with his. “And I shouldn't have involved you.”

“It's too late for that now. It was too late the minute you walked into my office. You're not shaking me off.” When his mouth crushed down on hers, the kiss tasted of frustration and fury. He held her close, blocking any choice, ravaging her mouth until her hands went limp on his shoulders.

“Don't,” she managed when he lifted her off her feet. But that, too, was too late. She was pressed beneath him on the bed, every sense scrambling and screaming as his hands streaked over her.

“I don't give a damn what you forget.” Eyes dark and reckless, he dragged at her clothes. “You'll remember this.”

He spun her out of control, out of time, out of place. There was a wildness and willfulness here that she'd never experienced and couldn't resist. His mouth closed over her breast, stabbing pleasure through her. Even as she sucked in air to moan, his fingers pierced her and drove her ruthlessly to peak.

She cried out, not in alarm, not in protest, but with the staggered thrill of being plunged beyond reason. Her nails bit into his back, her body moved like lightning under his. She opened herself to him recklessly. The only thought in her head was,
Now, now, now.

He drove himself into her hard and deep, felt her clutch convulsively around him as she flew over the new crest. It was mindless, desperate. It was wrong. It was irresistible.

He gripped her hands in his, watched pleasure chase shock across her face. The animal inside him had broken free, and it clawed at both of them. So his mouth was rough as it savaged hers. And he pistoned himself inside her until she wept out his name and what was left of his mind shattered.

Empty, hollowed out, he collapsed on her. Her body shuddered under his as a catchy whimper sounded in her throat. Her hands lay, palm out and limp, on the rumpled spread. His mind began to clear enough for shame.

He'd never taken a woman so roughly. Never given a woman so little choice. He rolled away from her, stared at the ceiling, appalled by what he'd found inside himself.

“I'm sorry.” It was pathetic, that phrase. The
uselessness of it scraped at him as he sat up, rubbed his hands over his face. “I hurt you. I'm sorry. There's no excuse for it.” And, finding none, he rose and left her alone.

She managed to sit up, one hand pressed to her speeding heart. Her body felt weak, tingly and still pulsingly hot. Her mind remained fuzzy around the edges, even as she patiently waited for it to clear. The only thing she was certain of was that she had just been savaged. Overwhelmed by sensation, by emotion, by him.

It had been wonderful.

 

Cade gave her time to compose herself. And used the time to formulate his next steps. It was so difficult to think around fury. He'd been angry before. Hurt before. Ashamed before. But when she came down the stairs, looking tidy and nervous, those three emotions threatened to swamp him. “Are you all right?”