Stars of Mithra Box Set: Captive Star\Hidden Star\Secret Star (33 page)

Then Thomas had gotten cold feet. He'd waited until the eleventh hour, when everything was falling into place, and he'd been planning to double-cross his own flesh and blood.

Oh, he'd been furious to see that Thomas had planned on taking the million-plus deposit and leaving the country, leaving all the risk and the responsibility of pulling everything off on him.

Because he was afraid, Salvini thought now. Because he was worried about Bailey, and what she knew. Grasping little bitch had always been in the way. But he'd have handled her, he'd have taken care of everything, if only Thomas hadn't threatened to ruin everything.

The argument had simply gotten out of control, he thought, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Everything had gotten out of control. The shouting, the rage, the flashing storm.

And somehow the knife had just been there, in his hand. Gripped in his hand, and already slicked with blood before he realized it.

He hadn't been able to stop himself. Simply hadn't been able to stop. He'd gone a little mad for a moment, he admitted. But it had been all the stress, the sense of betrayal, the fury at being duped by his own brother.

And she'd been there. Staring at him with those huge eyes. Staring at him out of the dark.

If not for the storm, if not for the dark, he'd have found her, taken care of her. She'd been
lucky, that was all, just lucky. He was the one with the brains.

It wasn't his fault. None of it was his fault.

But he was taking the blame for all of it. His life was on the line because of his brother's cowardice and the schemes of a woman he'd resented for years.

He was certain she'd shipped off at least one of the stones. He'd found the receipt for the courier in the purse she'd left in her office when she fled from him. Thought she was clever, he mused.

She'd always thought she was the clever one. Little Miss Perfect, ingratiating herself with his father, coming back from her fancy college years with honors and awards. Honors and awards meant nothing in business. Shrewdness did. Guts did. Canniness did.

And Timothy Salvini had all three.

He would have had five million dollars, too, if his brother hadn't bumbled and alerted Bailey then lost his nerve and tried to double-cross their client.

Client, he thought, gingerly touching his bandaged cheek. It was more like master now, but that would change, too.

He would get the money, and the stone, find the others. And then he would run far, and he
would run fast. Because Timothy Salvini had looked the devil in the eye. And was smart enough to know that once the stones were in the devil's hand, his minion would be of no more use.

So he was a dead man.

Unless he was smart.

He'd been smart enough to wait. To spend hours waiting outside that apartment building for Bailey to come home. He'd known she would. She was a creature of habit, predictable as the sunrise. And she hadn't disappointed him.

Who would have thought that someone so…ordinary could have ruined all his plans? Separating the stones, shipping them off in different directions. Oh, that had been unexpectedly clever of her. And extremely inconvenient for him.

But his job now was to concentrate on Bailey. Others were concentrating on the other women. He would deal with that in time, but for now his patience had paid off.

It had been so easy, really. The fancy car had pulled up, Bailey had leaped out. And the man had followed, in too much of a hurry to lock the car door. Salvini had located the registration in the glove box, noted the address.

Now he was breaking the window on the rear
door of the empty house, and letting himself inside.

The knife he'd used to kill his brother was tucked securely in his belt. Much quieter than a gun, and just as effective, he knew.

“M
ick's a good cop,” Cade told Bailey as he pulled into the drive. “He'll listen, and he'll clear away the red tape to get to the answers.”

“If I'd gone straight to them—”

“You wouldn't be any farther along than you are now,” Cade said, interrupting her. “Maybe not as far. You needed time. What you'd been through, Bailey.” It sickened him to think about it. “Give yourself a break.” He hissed through his teeth as he remembered how ruthlessly he'd pulled her through the building where it had all happened. “I'm sorry I was so hard on you.”

“If you hadn't pushed me, I might have kept backing away from it. Avoiding everything. I wanted to.”

“It was catching up with you. It was hurting you.” He turned, cupped her face. “But if you hadn't blocked it out, you might have gone straight back to your apartment. Like a homing pigeon, calling in your friends. He would have found you. All of you.”

“He'd have killed me. I didn't want to face that. Couldn't, I suppose. I've thought of him as my brother for over ten years, even defended him and Thomas to M.J. and Grace. But he would have killed me. And them.”

When she shuddered, he nodded. “The best thing you did for all three of you was to get lost for a while. No one would look for you here. Why would they?”

“I hope you're right.”

“I am right. Now the next step is to bring in the cops, get them to put out an APB on Salvini. He's scared, he's hurting and he's desperate. It won't take them long.”

“He'll tell them who hired him.” Bailey relaxed a little. “He isn't strong enough to do otherwise. If he thinks he can make some sort of deal
with the authorities, he'll do it. And Grace and M.J.—”

“Will be fine. I'm looking forward to meeting them.” He leaned over, opened her door. Thunder rumbled, making her look up anxiously, and he squeezed her hand. “We'll all go to the pub, toss back a few.”

“It's a date.” Brightening by the image, she got out, reached for his hand. “When this is over, maybe you can get to know me.”

“Sweetheart, how many times do I have to tell you? I knew you the minute you walked in my door.” He jingled his keys, stuck one in the lock.

It was blind instinct, and his innate need to protect, that saved his life.

The movement was a blur at the corner of his eye. Cade twisted toward it, shoving Bailey back. The quick jerk of his body had the knife glancing down his arm, instead of plunging into his back.

The pain was immediate and fierce. Blood soaked through his shirt, dripped onto his wrist, before he managed to strike out. There was only one thought in his mind—Bailey.

“Get out!” he shouted at her as he dodged the next thrust of the knife. “Run!”

But she was frozen, shocked by the blood, numbed by the horrid replay of another attack.

It all happened so quickly. She was certain she'd no more than taken a breath. But she saw her brother's face, both cheeks bandaged with gauze, a gouge over his left brow.

Murder in his eyes, again.

He lunged at Cade. Cade pivoted, gripped Timothy's knife hand at the wrist. They strained against each other, their faces close as lovers', the smell of sweat and blood and violence fouling the air.

For a moment, they were only shadows in the dim foyer, their breath coming harsh and fast as thunder bellowed.

She saw the knife inch closer to Cade's face, until the point was nearly under his chin, while they swayed together on the bloody wood of the foyer, like obscene dancers.

Her brother would kill again, and she would stand and watch.

She lunged.

It was a mindless, animal movement. She leaped onto his back, tore at his hair, sobbing, cursing him. The sudden jolt sent Cade stumbling backward, his hand slipping, his vision graying around the edges.

With a howl of pain as she dug her fingers into his wounded face, Salvini threw her off. Her head
rapped hard on the banister, sent stars circling in her head, flashing like lightning. But then she was up and back at him like vengeance.

It was Cade who pulled her away, threw her back out of the path of the knife that whistled by her face. Then the force of Cade's leap sent both him and his quarry crashing into a table. They grappled on the floor, panting like dogs. The uppermost thought in Cade's mind was to live long enough to keep Bailey safe. But his hands were slippery with blood and wouldn't keep a firm hold.

Using all his strength, he managed to twist Timothy's knife hand, veering the blade away from his own heart, then pushed away.

When he rolled weakly upright, he knew it was over.

Bailey was crawling to him, sobbing his name. He saw her face, the bruise just blooming on her cheekbone. He managed to lift a hand to it.

“You're supposed to leave the heroics to me.” His voice sounded thready, faraway, to his own ears. “How bad are you hurt? Oh God, you're bleeding so much.” She was doing something with the fire in his arm, but it didn't seem to matter. Turn
ing his head, he looked into Salvini's face. The eyes were on him, dimming but still aware.

Cade coughed his throat clear. “Who hired you, you bastard?”

Salvini smiled slowly. It ended in a grimace. His face was bloody, the bandages torn aside, his breathing thin. “The devil” was all he said.

“Well, say hello to him in hell.” Cade struggled to focus on Bailey again. Her brows were drawn together in concentration. “You need your glasses for close work, honey.”

“Quiet. Let me stop the bleeding before I call for an ambulance.”

“I'm supposed to tell you it's just a flesh wound, but the truth is, it hurts like hell.”

“I'm sorry. So sorry.” She wanted to lay her head on his shoulder and weep, just weep. But she continued to make a thick pad out of what she'd torn from his shirt and pressed it firmly against the long, deep gash. “I'll call for an ambulance as soon as I finish bandaging this. You're going to be fine.”

“Call Detective Mick Marshall. Be sure to ask for him, use my name.”

“I will. Be quiet. I will.”

“What in the world is going on here?”

The voice made him wince. “Tell me I'm hal
lucinating,” he murmured. “Tell me, and I'm begging you, tell me that's not my mother.”

“Good God, Cade, what have you done? Is this blood?”

He closed his eyes. Dimly he heard Bailey, in a firm, no-nonsense voice, order his mother to call an ambulance. And, gratefully, he passed out.

 

He came to in the ambulance, with Bailey holding his hand, rain pattering briskly on the roof. And again in the ER, with lights shining in his eyes and people shouting. Pain was like a greedy beast biting hunks out of his arm.

“Could I have some drugs here?” he asked, as politely as possible, and went out again.

The next time he surfaced, he was in a bed. He remained still, eyes closed, until he tested the level of pain and consciousness. He gave the pain a six on a scale of ten, but he seemed to be fully awake this time.

He opened his eyes, and saw Bailey. “Hi. I was hoping you'd be the first thing I'd see.”

She got up from the chair beside the bed to take his hand. “Twenty-six stitches, no muscle damage. You lost a lot of blood, but they pumped more into you.” Then she sat on the edge of the bed and indulged in a good cry.

She hadn't shed a tear since she fought to stop the bleeding as he lay on the floor. Not during the ambulance ride, speeding through the wet streets while lightning and thunder strode across the sky.

Or during the time she spent pacing the hospital corridors, or during the headachy ordeal of dealing with his parents. Not even when she struggled to tell the police what had happened.

But now she let it all out.

“Sorry,” she said when she'd finished.

“Rough day, huh?”

“As days go, it was one of the worst.”

“Salvini?”

She looked away toward the window where the rain ran wet. “He's dead. I called the police. I asked for Detective Marshall. He's outside waiting for you to wake up, and for the doctors to clear him in.” She stood, straightened the sheets. “I tried to tell him everything, to make it clear. I'm not sure how well I did, but he took notes, asked questions. He's worried about you.”

“We go back some. We'll straighten it out, Bailey,” he told her, and reached for her hand again. “Can you hold up a little longer?”

“Yes, as long as it takes.”

“Tell Mick to get me out of here.”

“That's ridiculous. You've been admitted for observation.”

“I've got stitches in my arm, not a brain tumor. I'm going home, drinking a beer and dumping this on Mick.”

She angled her chin. “Your mother said you'd start whining.”

“I'm not whining, I'm…” He trailed off, narrowed his eyes as he sat up. “What do you mean, my mother? Wasn't I hallucinating?”

“No, she came over to give you a chance to apologize, which apparently you never do.”

“Great, take her side.”

“I'm not taking her side.” Bailey caught herself, shook her head. Could they actually be having this conversation at such a time? “She was terrified, Cade, when she realized what had happened, that you were hurt. She and your father—”

“My father? I thought he was off fly-fishing in Montana.”

“He just got home this morning. They're in the waiting room right now, worried to death about you.”

“Bailey, if you have one single ounce of affection for me, make them go away.”

“I certainly will not, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I'll be ashamed later. I've got stitches.” It wasn't going to work. He could see that plainly enough. “All right, here's the deal. You can send my parents in, and I'll square things with them. Then I want to see the doctor and get sprung. We'll talk to Mick at home and square things there.”

Bailey folded her arms. “She said you always expect to have your own way.” With that, she turned and marched to the door.

 

It took a lot of charm, arguments and stubbornness, but in just over three hours, Cade was sinking onto his own sofa. It took another two, with the distraction of Bailey fussing over him, to fill Mick in on the events since Thursday night.

“You've been a busy boy, Parris.”

“Hey, private work isn't eating doughnuts and drinking coffee, pal.”

Mick grunted. “Speaking of coffee.” He glanced toward Bailey. “I don't mean to put you out, Miss James.”

“Oh.” She got to her feet. “I'll make a fresh pot.” She took his empty mug and hurried off.

“Smooth, Mick, very smooth.”

“Listen.” Mick leaned closer. “The lieuten
ant's not going to be happy with two corpses and two missing diamonds.”

“Buchanan's never happy.”

“He doesn't like play cops like you on principle, but there's a lot of bad angles on this one. Your lady friend waiting four days to report a murder's just one of them.”

“She didn't remember. She'd blocked it out.”

“Yeah, she says. And me, I believe her. But the lieutenant…”

“Buchanan has any trouble with it, you send him my way.” Incensed, Cade pushed himself up and ignored the throbbing in his arm. “Good God, Mick, she watched one of her brothers murder the other, then turn on her. You go to the scene, look at what she looked at, then tell me you'd expect a civilian to handle it.”

“Okay.” Mick held up a hand. “Shipping off the diamonds.”

“She was protecting them. They'd be gone now, if she hadn't done something. You've got her statement and mine. You know exactly how it went down. She's been trying to complete the circle since she came to me.”

“That's how I see it,” Mick said after a moment, and glanced down at the canvas bag by his chair. “She's turned everything over. There's no
question here about self-defense. He broke a pane out in the back door, walked in, waited for you.”

Mick threaded a hand through his wiry hair. He knew how easily it could have gone down another way. How easily he could have lost a friend. “Thought I told you to put in an alarm.”

Cade shrugged. “Maybe I will, now that I've got something worth protecting.”

Mick glanced toward the kitchen. “She's, ah, choice.”

“She's certainly mine. We need to find M. J. O'Leary and Grace Fontaine, Mick, and fast.”

“We?”

“I'm not going to sit on my butt.”

Mick nodded again. “All we've got on O'Leary is there was a disturbance in her apartment, what looks like a whale of a fight, and her running off with some guy wearing a pony tail. Looks like she's gone to ground.”

“Or is being held there,” Cade murmured, casting a glance over his shoulder to make certain Bailey was still out of earshot. “I told you about the message on Bailey's recorder.”

“Yeah. No way to trace a message, but we'll put a flag out on her. As for Fontaine, I've got men checking her house in Potomac, and we're
hunting down her place up in the mountains. I should know something in a couple hours.”

He rose, hefted the bag, grinned. “Meanwhile, I get to dump this on Buchanan, watch him tap dance with the brass from the Smithsonian.” He had to chuckle, knowing just how much his lieutenant hated playing diplomat with suits. “How much you figure the rocks are worth?”

“So far, at least two lives,” Bailey said as she carried in a tray of coffee.

Mick cleared his throat. “I'm sorry for your loss, Miss James.”

“So am I.” But she would live with it. “The Three Stars of Mithra don't have a price, Detective. Naturally, for insurance purposes and so forth, the Smithsonian required a professional assessment of market value. But whatever dollar value I can put on them as a gemologist is useless, really. Love, knowledge and generosity. There is no price.”