Hidden Star

Stars of Mithra

Book One

Nora Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

She couldn't remember a thing, not even who she was. But it was clear Bailey James was in trouble. Big trouble! And she desperately needed Cade Parris to help her live long enough to find out just what kind.

The moment the coolheaded private eye laid eyes on the fragile beauty, she almost had him forgetting who he was. If Bailey was a criminal, Cade would eat his P.I. license. But what was she doing with a satchel full of cash and a diamond as big as a baby's fist? And how could he unravel this mystery if he kept tripping over his heart?

To white knights and their damsels

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Cade Parris wasn’t having the best of days when the woman of his dreams walked into his office. His secretary had quit the day before—not that she’d been much of a prize anyway, being more vigilant about her manicure than maintaining the phone logs. But he needed someone to keep track of things and shuffle papers into files. Even the raise he offered out of sheer desperation hadn’t swayed her to give up her sudden determination to become a country-and-western singing sensation.

So his secretary was heading off to Nashville in a second-hand pickup, and his office looked like the ten miles of bad road he sincerely hoped she traveled.

She hadn’t exactly had her mind on her work the past month or two. That impression had been more than confirmed when he fished a bologna sandwich out of the file drawer. At least he thought the blob in the plastic bag was bologna. And it had been filed under L—for Lunch?

He didn’t bother to swear, nor did he bother to answer the phone that rang incessantly on the empty desk in his reception area. He had reports to type up, and as typing wasn’t one of his finer skills, he just wanted to get on with it.

Parris Investigations wasn’t what some would call a thriving enterprise. But it suited him, just as the cluttered two-room office squeezed into the top floor of a narrow brick building with bad plumbing in North West D.C. suited him.

He didn’t need plush carpets or polished edges. He’d grown up with all that, with the pomp and pretenses, and had had his fill of it all by the time he reached the age of twenty. Now, at thirty, with one bad marriage behind him and a family who continued to be baffled by his pursuits, he was, by and large, a contented man.

He had his investigator’s license, a decent reputation as a man who got the job done, and enough income to keep his agency well above water.

Though actual business income was a bit of a problem just then. He was in what he liked to call a lull. Most of his caseload consisted of insurance and domestic work—a few steps down from the thrills he’d imagined when he set out to become a private investigator. He’d just cleaned up two cases, both of them minor insurance frauds that hadn’t taken much effort or innovation to close.

He had nothing else coming in, his greedy bloodsucker of a landlord was bumping up his rent, the engine in his car had been making unsettling noises lately, his air conditioner was on the fritz. And the roof was leaking again.

He took the spindly yellow-leafed philodendron his double-crossing secretary had left behind and set it on the uncarpeted floor under the steady drip, hoping it might drown.

He could hear a voice droning into his answering machine. It was his mother’s voice. Lord, he thought, did a man ever really escape his mother?

“Cade, dear, I hope you haven’t forgotten the Embassy Ball. You know you’re to escort Pamela Lovett. I had lunch with her aunt today, and she tells me that Pamela just looks marvelous after her little sojourn to Monaco.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered, and narrowed his eyes at the computer. He and machines had poor and untrusting relationships.

He sat down and faced the screen as his mother continued to chatter: “Have you had your tux cleaned? Do make time to get a haircut, you looked so scraggly the last time I saw you.”

And don’t forget to wash behind the ears, he thought sourly, and tuned her out. She was never going to accept that the Parris life-style wasn’t his life-style, that he just didn’t want to lunch at the club or squire bored former debutantes around Washington and that his opinion wasn’t going to change by dint of her persuasion.

He’d wanted adventure, and though struggling to type up a report on some poor slob’s fake whiplash wasn’t exactly Sam Spade territory, he was doing the job.

Mostly he didn’t feel useless or bored or out of place. He liked the sound of traffic outside his window, even though the window was only open because the building and its scum-sucking landlord didn’t go in for central air-conditioning and his unit was broken. The heat was intense, and the rain was coming in, but with the window closed, the offices would have been as airless and stifling as a tomb.

Sweat rolled down his back, making him itchy and irritable. He was stripped down to a T-shirt and jeans, his long fingers fumbling a bit on the computer keys. He had to shovel his hair out of his face several times, which ticked him off. His mother was right. He needed a haircut.

So when it got in the way again, he ignored it, as he ignored the sweat, the heat, the buzz of traffic, the steady drip from the ceiling. He sat, methodically punching a key at a time, a remarkably handsome man with a scowl on his face.

He’d inherited the Parris looks—the clever green eyes that could go broken-bottle sharp or as soft as sea mist, depending on his mood. The hair that needed a trim was dark mink brown and tended to wave. Just now, it curled at his neck, over his ears, and was beginning to annoy him. His nose was straight, aristocratic and a little long, his mouth firm and quick to smile when he was amused. And to sneer when he wasn’t.

Though his face had become more honed since the embarrassing cherubic period of his youth and early adolescence, it still sported dimples. He was looking forward to middle age, when, with luck, they’d become manly creases.

He’d wanted to be rugged, and instead was stuck with the slick, dreamy good looks of a GQ cover—for one of which he’d posed in his middle twenties, under protest and great family pressure.

The phone rang again. This time he heard his sister’s voice, haranguing him about missing some lame cocktail party in honor of some bigbellied senator she was endorsing.

He thought about just ripping the damn answering machine out of the wall and heaving it, and his sister’s nagging voice, out the window into the traffic on Wisconsin Avenue.

Then the rain that was only adding to the miserably thick heat began to drip on the top of his head. The computer blinked off, for no reason he could see other than sheer nastiness, and the coffee he’d forgotten he was heating boiled over with a spiteful hiss.

He leaped up, burned his hand on the pot. He swore viciously as the pot smashed, shattering glass, and spewing hot coffee in all directions. He ripped open a drawer, grabbed for a stack of napkins and sliced his thumb with the lethal edge of his former—and now thoroughly damned to perdition—secretary’s nail file.

When the woman walked in, he was still cursing and bleeding and had just tripped over the philodendron set in the middle of the floor and didn’t even look up.

It was hardly a wonder she simply stood there, damp from the rain, her face pale as death and her eyes wide with shock.

“Excuse me.” Her voice sounded rusty, as if she hadn’t used it in days. “I must have the wrong office.” She inched backward, and those big, wide brown eyes shifted to the name printed on the door. She hesitated, then looked back at him. “Are you Mr. Parris?”

There was a moment, one blinding moment, when he couldn’t seem to speak. He knew he was staring at her, couldn’t help himself. His heart simply stood still. His knees went weak. And the only thought that came to his mind was There you are, finally. What the hell took you so long?

And because that was so ridiculous, he struggled to put a bland, even cynical, investigator’s expression on his face.

“Yeah.” He remembered the handkerchief in his pocket, and wrapped it over his busily bleeding thumb. “Just had a little accident here.”

“I see.” Though she didn’t appear to, the way she continued to stare at his face. “I’ve come at a bad time. I don’t have an appointment. I thought maybe…”

“Looks like my calendar’s clear.”

He wanted her to come in, all the way in. Whatever that first absurd, unprecedented reaction of his, she was still a potential client. And surely no dame who ever walked through Sam Spade’s hallowed door had ever been more perfect.

She was blond and beautiful and bewildered. Her hair was wet, sleek down to her shoulders and straight as the rain. Her eyes were bourbon brown, in a face that—though it could have used some color—was delicate as a fairy’s. It was heart-shaped, the cheeks a gentle curve and the mouth was full, unpainted and solemn.

She’d ruined her suit and shoes in the rain. He recognized both as top-quality, that quietly exclusive look found only in designer salons. Against the wet blue silk of her suit, the canvas bag she clutched with both hands looked intriguingly out of place.

Damsel in distress, he mused, and his lips curved. Just what the doctor ordered.

“Why don’t you come in, close the door, Miss…?”

Her heart bumped twice, hammer-hard, and she tightened her grip on the bag. “You’re a private investigator?”

“That’s what it says on the door.” Cade smiled again, ruthlessly using the dimples while he watched her gnaw that lovely lower lip. Damned if he wouldn’t like to gnaw on it himself.

And that response, he thought with a little relief, was a lot more like it. Lust was a feeling he could understand.

“Let’s go back to my office.” He surveyed the damage—broken glass, potting soil, pools of coffee. “I think I’m finished in here for now.”

“All right.” She took a deep breath, stepped in, then closed the door. She supposed she had to start somewhere.

Picking her way over the debris, she followed him into the adjoining room. It was furnished with little more than a desk and a couple of bargain-basement chairs. Well, she couldn’t be choosy about decor, she reminded herself. She waited until he’d sat behind his desk, tipped back in his chair and smiled at her again in that quick, trust-me way.

“Do you— Could I—” She squeezed her eyes tight, centered herself again. “Do you have some credentials I could see?”

More intrigued, he took out his license, handed it to her. She wore two very lovely rings, one on each hand, he noticed. One was a square-cut citrine in an antique setting, the other a trio of colored stones. Her earrings matched the second ring, he noted when she tucked her hair behind her ear and studied his license as if weighing each printed word.

“Would you like to tell me what the problem is, Miss…?”

“I think—” She handed him back his license, then gripped the bag two-handed again. “I think I’d like to hire you.” Her eyes were on his face again, as intently, as searchingly, as they had been on the license. “Do you handle missing-persons cases?”

Who did you lose, sweetheart? he wondered. He hoped, for her sake and for the sake of the nice little fantasy that was building in his head, it wasn’t a husband. “Yeah, I handle missing persons.”

“Your, ah, rate?”

“Two-fifty a day, plus expenses.” When she nodded, he slid over a legal pad, picked up a pencil. “Who do you want me to find?”

She took a long, shuddering breath. “Me. I need you to find me.”

Watching her, he tapped the pencil against the pad. “Looks like I already have. You want me to bill you, or do you want to pay now?”

“No.” She could feel it cracking. She’d held on so long—or at least it seemed so long—but now she could feel that branch she’d gripped when the world dropped out from under her begin to crack. “I don’t remember. Anything. I don’t—” Her voice began to hitch. She took her hands off the bag in her lap to press them to her face. “I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who I am.” And then she was weeping the words into her hands. “I don’t know who I am.”

Cade had a lot of experience with hysterical women. He’d grown up with females who used flowing tears and gulping sobs as the answer to anything from a broken nail to a broken marriage. So he rose from his desk, armed himself with a box of tissues and crouched in front of her.

“Here now, sweetheart. Don’t worry. It’s going to be just fine.” With gentle expertise, he mopped at her face as he spoke. He patted her hand, stroked her hair, studied her swimming eyes.

“I’m sorry. I can’t—”

“Just cry it out,” he told her. “You’ll feel better for it.” Rising, he went into the closet-size bathroom and poured her a paper cup of water.

When she had a lapful of damp tissues and three crushed paper cups, she let out a little jerky sigh. “I’m sorry. Thank you. I do feel better.” Her cheeks pinkened a bit with embarrassment as she gathered up the tissues and mangled cups. Cade took them from her, dumped them in the wastebasket, then rested a hip on the corner of his desk.

“You want to tell me about it now?”

She nodded, then linked her fingers and began to twist them together. “I— There isn’t that much to tell. I just don’t remember anything. Who I am, what I do, where I’m from. Friends, family. Nothing.” Her breath caught again, and she released it slowly. “Nothing,” she repeated.

It was a dream come true, he thought, the beautiful woman without a past coming out of the rain and into his office. He flicked a glance at the bag she still held in her lap. They’d get to that in a minute. “Why don’t you tell me the first thing you do remember?”

“I woke up in a room—a little hotel on Sixteenth Street.” Letting her head rest back against the chair, she closed her eyes and tried to bring things into focus. “Even that’s unclear. I was curled up on the bed, and there was a chair propped under the doorknob. It was raining. I could hear the rain. I was groggy and disoriented, but my heart was pounding so hard, as if I’d wakened from a nightmare. I still had my shoes on. I remember wondering why I’d gone to bed with my shoes on. The room was dim and stuffy. All the windows were closed. I was so tired, logy, so I went into the bathroom to splash water on my face.”

Now she opened her eyes, looked into his. “I saw my face in the mirror. This ugly little mirror with black splotches where it needed to be resilvered. And it meant nothing to me. The face.” She lifted a hand, ran it over her cheek, her jaw. “My face meant nothing to me. I couldn’t remember the name that went with the face, or the thoughts or the plans or the past. I didn’t know how I’d gotten to that horrid room. I looked through the drawers and the closet, but there was nothing. No clothes. I was afraid to stay there, but I didn’t know where to go.”

“The bag? Was that all you had with you?”

“Yes.” Her hand clutched at the straps again. “No purse, no wallet, no keys. This was in my pocket.” She reached into the pocket of her jacket and took out a small scrap of notepaper.

Cade took it from her, skimmed the quick scrawling writing.

Bailey, Sat at 7, right? MJ

“I don’t know what it means. I saw a newspaper. Today’s Friday.”

“Mmm. Write it down,” Cade said, handing her a pad and pen.

“What?”

“Write down what it says on the note.”

“Oh.” Gnawing her lip again, she complied.

Though he didn’t have to compare the two to come to his conclusions, he took the pad from her, set it and the note side by side. “Well, you’re not M.J., so I’d say you’re Bailey.”

She blinked, swallowed. “What?”

“From the look of M.J.’s writing, he or she’s a lefty. You’re right-handed. You’ve got neat, simple penmanship, M.J.’s got an impatient scrawl. The note was in your pocket. Odds are you’re Bailey.”

“Bailey.” She tried to absorb the name, the hope of it, the feel and taste of identity. But it was dry and unfamiliar. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means we have something to call you, and someplace to start. Tell me what you did next.”

Distracted she blinked at him. “Oh, I… There was a phone book in the room. I looked up detective agencies.”

“Why’d you pick mine?”

“The name. It sounded strong.” She managed her first smile, and though it was weak, it was there. “I started to call, but then I thought I might get put off, and if I just showed up… So I waited in the room until it was office hours, then I walked for a little while, then I got a cab. And here I am.”

“Why didn’t you go to a hospital? Call a doctor?”

“I thought about it.” She looked down at her hands. “I just didn’t.”

She was leaving out big chunks, he mused. Going around his desk, he opened a drawer, pulled out a candy bar. “You didn’t say anything about stopping for breakfast.” He watched her study the candy he offered with puzzlement and what appeared to be amusement. “This’ll hold you until we can do better.”

“Thank you.” With neat, precise movements, she unwrapped the chocolate bar. Maybe part of the fluttering in her stomach was hunger. “Mr. Parris, I may have people worried about me. Family, friends. I may have a child. I don’t know.” Her eyes deepened, fixed on a point over his shoulder. “I don’t think I do. I can’t believe anyone could forget her own child. But people may be worried, wondering what happened to me. Why I didn’t come home last night.”

“You could have gone to the police.”

“I didn’t want to go to the police.” This time, her voice was clipped, definite. “Not until… No, I don’t want to involve the police.” She wiped her fingers on a fresh tissue, then began to tear it into strips. “Someone may be looking for me who isn’t a friend, who isn’t family. Who isn’t concerned with my well-being. I don’t know why I feel that way, I only know I’m afraid. It’s more than just not remembering. But I can’t understand anything, any of it, until I know who I am.”

Maybe it was those big, soft, moist eyes staring up at him, or the damsel-in-distress nerves of her restless hands. Either way, he couldn’t resist showing off, just a little.

“I can tell you a few things already. You’re an intelligent woman, early-to-mid-twenties. You have a good eye for color and style, and enough of a bankroll to indulge it with Italian shoes and silk suits. You’re neat, probably organized. You prefer the understated to the obvious. Since you don’t evade well, I’d say you’re an equally poor liar. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, you think things through. You don’t panic easily. And you like chocolate.”

She balled the empty candy wrapper in her hand. “Why do you assume all that?”

“You speak well, even when you’re frightened. You thought about how you were going to handle this and went through all the steps, logically. You dress well—quality over flair. You have a good manicure, but no flashy polish. Your jewelry is unique, interesting, but not ornate. And you’ve been holding back information since you walked through the door because you haven’t decided yet how much you’re going to trust me.”

“How much should I trust you?”

“You came to me.”

She acknowledged that, rose and walked to his window. The rain drummed, underscoring the vague headache that hovered just behind her eyes. “I don’t recognize the city,” she murmured. “Yet I feel I should. I know where I am, because I saw a newspaper, the Washington Post. I know what the White House and the Capitol look like. I know the monuments—but I could have seen them on television, or in a book.”

Though it was wet from incoming rain, she rested her hands on the sill, appreciated the coolness there. “I feel as though I dropped out of nowhere into that ugly hotel room. Still, I know how to read and write and walk and talk. The cabdriver had the radio on, and I recognized music. I recognized trees. I wasn’t surprised that rain was wet. I smelled burned coffee when I came in, and it wasn’t an unfamiliar odor. I know your eyes are green. And when the rain clears, I know the sky will be blue.”

She sighed once. “So I didn’t drop out of nowhere. There are things I know, things I’m sure of. But my own face means nothing to me, and what’s behind the face is blank. I may have hurt someone, done something. I may be selfish and calculating, even cruel. I may have a husband I cheat on or neighbors I’ve alienated.”

She turned back then, and her face was tight and set, a tough contrast to the fragility of lashes still wet from tears. “I don’t know if I’m going to like who you find when you find me, Mr. Parris, but I need to know.” She set the bag on his desk, hesitated briefly, then opened it. “I think I have enough to meet your fee.”

He came from money, the kind that aged and increased and propagated over generations. But even with his background, he’d never seen so much in one place at one time. The canvas bag was filled with wrapped stacks of hundred-dollar bills—all crisp and clean. Fascinated, Cade took out a stack, flipped through. Yes, indeed, he mused, every one of the bills had Ben Franklin’s homely and dignified face.

“I’d have to guess about a million,” he murmured.

“One million, two hundred thousand.” Bailey shuddered as she looked into the bag. “I counted the stacks. I don’t know where I got it or why I had it with me. I may have stolen it.”

Tears began to swim again as she turned away. “It could be ransom money. I could be involved in a kidnapping. There could be a child somewhere, being held, and I’ve taken the ransom money. I just—”

“Let’s add a vivid imagination to those other qualities.”

It was the cool and casual tone of his voice that had her turning back. “There’s a fortune in there.”

“A million two isn’t much of a fortune these days.” He dropped the money back in the bag. “And I’m sorry, Bailey, you just don’t fit the cold, calculating kidnapper type.”

“But you can check. You can find out, discreetly, if there’s been an abduction.”

“Sure. If the cops are involved, I can get something.”

“And if there’s been a murder?” Struggling to stay calm, she reached into the bag again. This time she took out a .38.

A cautious man, Cade nudged the barrel aside, took it from her. It was a Smith and Wesson, and at his quick check, he discovered it was fully loaded. “How’d this feel in your hand?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How’d it feel when you picked it up? The weight, the shape?”

Though she was baffled by the question, she did her best to answer thoroughly. “Not as heavy as I thought it should. It seemed that something that had that kind of power would have more weight, more substance. I suppose it felt awkward.”

“The pen didn’t.”

This time she simply dragged her hands through her hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve just shown you over a million dollars and a gun. You’re talking about pens.”

“When I handed you a pen to write, it didn’t feel awkward. You didn’t have to think about it. You just took it and used it.” He smiled a little and slipped the gun into his pocket, instead of the bag. “I think you’re a lot more accustomed to holding a pen than a .38 special.”

There was some relief in that, the simple logic of it. But it didn’t chase away all the clouds. “Maybe you’re right. It doesn’t mean I didn’t use it.”

“No, it doesn’t. And since you’ve obviously put your hands all over it, we can’t prove you didn’t. I can check and see if it’s registered and to whom.”

Her eyes lit with hope. “It could be mine.” She reached out, took his hand, squeezed it in a gesture that was thoughtless and natural. “We’d have a name then. I’d know my name then. I didn’t realize it could be so simple.”

“It may be simple.”

“You’re right.” She released his hand, began to pace. Her movements were smooth, controlled. “I’m getting ahead of myself. But it helps so much you see, so much more than I imagined, just to tell someone. Someone who knows how to figure things out. I don’t know if I’m very good at puzzles. Mr. Parris—”

“Cade,” he said, intrigued that he could find her economical movements so sexy. “Let’s keep it simple.”

“Cade.” She drew in a breath, let it out. “It’s nice to call someone by name. You’re the only person I know, the only person I remember having a conversation with. I can’t tell you how odd that is, and, right now, how comforting.”

“Why don’t we make me the first person you remember having a meal with? One candy bar isn’t much of a breakfast. You look worn out, Bailey.”

It was so odd to hear him use that name when he looked at her. Because it was all she had, she struggled to respond to it. “I’m tired,” she admitted. “It doesn’t feel as if I’ve slept very much. I don’t know when I’ve eaten last.”

“How do you feel about scrambled eggs?”

The smile wisped around her mouth again. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Well, let’s find out.” He started to pick up the canvas bag, but she laid a hand over his on the straps.

“There’s something else.” She didn’t speak for a moment, but kept her eyes on his, as she had when she first walked in. Searching, measuring, deciding. But there was, she knew, really no choice. He was all she had. “Before I show you, I need to ask for a promise.”

“You hire me, Bailey, I work for you.”

“I don’t know if what I’m going to ask is completely ethical, but I still need your word. If during the course of your investigation you discover that I’ve committed a crime, I need your word that you’ll find out everything you can, all the circumstances, all the facts, before you turn me over to the police.”

He angled his head. “You assume I’ll turn you in.”

“If I’ve broken the law, I’ll expect you to turn me over to the police. But I need all the reasons before you do. I need to understand all the whys, the hows, the who. Will you give me your word on that?”

“Sure.” He took the hand she held out. It was delicate as porcelain, steady as a rock. And she, he thought, whoever she was, was a fascinating combination of the fragile and the steely. “No cops until we know all of it. You can trust me, Bailey.”

“You’re trying to make me comfortable with the name.” Again, without thinking, in a move that was as innate as the color of her eyes, she kissed his cheek. “You’re very kind.”

Kind enough, she thought, that he would hold her now if she asked. And she so desperately wanted to be held, soothed, to be promised that her world would snap back into focus again at any moment. But she needed to stand on her own. She could only hope she was the kind of woman who stood on her own feet and faced her own problems.

“There’s one more thing.” She turned to the canvas bag again, slid her hand deep inside, felt for the thick velvet pouch, the weight of what was snugged inside it. “I think it’s probably the most important thing.”

She drew it out and very carefully, with what he thought of as reverence, untied the pouch and slid its contents into the cup of her palm.

The money had surprised him, the gun had concerned him. But this awed him. The gleam of it, the regal glint, even in the rain-darkened room, held a stunning and sumptuous power.

The gem filled the palm of her hand, its facets clean and sharp enough to catch even the faintest flicker of light and shoot it into the air in bright, burning lances. It belonged, he thought, on the crown of a mythical queen, or lying heavily between the breasts of some ancient goddess.

“I’ve never seen a sapphire that big.”

“It isn’t a sapphire.” And when she passed it to his hand, she would have sworn she felt the exchange of heat. “It’s a blue diamond, somewhere around a hundred carats. Brilliant-cut, most likely from Asia Minor. There are no inclusions visible to the naked eye, and it is rare in both color and size. I’d have to guess its market worth at easily three times the amount of money in the bag.”

He wasn’t looking at the gem any longer, but at her. When she lifted her eyes to his, she shook her head. “I don’t know how I know. But I do. Just as I know it’s not all…it’s not…complete.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wish I knew. But it’s too strong a feeling, an almost-recognition. I know the stone is only part of the whole. Just as I know it can’t possibly belong to me. It doesn’t really belong to anyone. Any one,” she repeated, separating the word into two. “I must have stolen it.”

She pressed her lips together, lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. “I might have killed for it.”

Chapter 2

Cade took her home. It was the best option he could think of, tucking her away. And he wanted that canvas bag and its contents in his safe as quickly as possible. She hadn’t argued when he led her out of the building, had made no comment about the sleek little Jag parked in the narrow spot on the cracked asphalt lot.

He preferred using his nondescript and well-dented sedan for his work, but until it was out of the shop, he was stuck with the streamlined, eye-catching Jaguar.

But she said nothing, not even when he drove into a lovely old neighborhood with graceful shade trees and tidy flower-trimmed lawns and into the driveway of a dignified Federal-style brick house.

He’d been prepared to explain that he’d inherited it from a great-aunt who had a soft spot for him—which was true enough. And that he lived there because he liked the quiet and convenience of the established neighborhood in the heart of Washington.

But she didn’t ask.

It seemed to Cade that she’d simply run down. Whatever energy had pushed her into going out in the rain, seeking his office and telling her story had drained out, leaving her listless.

And fragile again. He had to check the urge to simply gather her up and carry her inside. He could imagine it clearly—the stalwart knight, my lady’s champion, carrying her into the safety of the castle and away from any and all dragons that plagued her.

He really had to stop thinking things like that.

Instead, he hefted the canvas bag, took her unresisting hand and led her through the graceful foyer, down the hall and directly into the kitchen.

“Scrambled eggs,” he said, pulling out a chair for her and nudging her down to sit at the pedestal table.

“All right. Yes. Thank you.”

She felt limp, unfocused, and terribly grateful to him. He wasn’t peppering her with questions, nor had he looked particularly shocked or appalled by her story. Perhaps it was the nature of his business that made him take it all in stride, but whatever the reason, she was thankful for the time he was giving her to recoup.

Now he was moving around the kitchen in a casual, competent manner. Breaking brown eggs in a white bowl, popping bread in a toaster that sat on a granite-colored counter. She should offer to help, she thought. It seemed the right thing to do. But she was so dreadfully tired, and it was so pleasant to just sit in the big kitchen with rain drumming musically on the roof and watch him handle the simple task of making breakfast.

He was taking care of her. And she was letting him. Bailey closed her eyes and wondered if she was the kind of woman who needed to be tended to by a man, who enjoyed the role of the helpless female.

She hoped not, almost fiercely hoped not. Then wondered why such a minor, insignificant personality trait should matter so much, when she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t a thief or murderer.

She caught herself studying her hands, wondering about them. Short, neat, rounded nails coated in clear polish. Did that mean she was practical? The hands were soft, uncallused. It was doubtful she worked with them, pursued manual labor of any kind.

The rings… Very pretty, not bold so much as unique. At least it seemed they were. She knew the stones that winked back at her. Garnet, citrine, amethyst. How could she know the names of colored stones and not know the name of her closest friend?

Did she have any friends?

Was she a kind person or a catty one, generous or a faultfinder? Did she laugh easily and cry at sad movies? Was there a man she loved who loved her?

Had she stolen more than a million dollars and used that ugly little gun?

She jolted when Cade set her plate in front of her, then settled when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

“You need to eat.” He went back to the stove, brought the cup he’d left there. “And I think tea’s a better bet than coffee.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She picked up her fork, scooped up some eggs, tasted. “I like them.” She managed a smile again, a hesitant, shy smile that touched his heart. “That’s something.”

He sat across from her with his mug of coffee. “I’m known throughout the civilized world for my scrambled eggs.”

Her smile steadied, bloomed. “I can see why. The little dashes of dill and paprika are inspired.”

“Wait till you taste my Spanish omelets.”

“Master of the egg.” She continued to eat, comforted by the easy warmth she felt between them. “Do you cook a lot?”

She glanced around the kitchen. Stone-colored cabinets and warm, light wood. An uncurtained window over a double sink of white porcelain. Coffeemaker, toaster, jumbled sections of the morning paper.

The room was neat, she observed, but not obsessively so. And it was a marked contrast to the clutter and mess of his office. “I never asked if you were married.”

“Divorced, and I cook when I’m tired of eating out.”

“I wonder what I do—eat out or cook.”

“You recognized paprika and dill when you tasted them.” Leaning back, he sipped his coffee and studied her. “You’re beautiful.” Her gaze flicked up, startled and, he noted, instantly wary. “Just an observation, Bailey. We have to work with what we know. You are beautiful—it’s quiet, understated, nothing that seems particularly contrived or enhanced. You don’t go for the flashy, and you don’t take a compliment on your looks casually. In fact, I’ve just made you very nervous.”

She picked up her cup, held it in both hands. “Are you trying to?”

“No, but it’s interesting and sweet—the way you blush and eye me suspiciously at the same time. You can relax, I’m not hitting on you.” But it was a thought, he admitted, a fascinating and arousing thought. “I don’t think you’re a pushover, either,” he continued. “I doubt a man would get very far with you just by telling you that you have eyes like warm brandy, and that the contrast between them and that cool, cultured voice packs a hell of a sexual impact.”

She lifted her cup and, though it took an effort, kept her gaze level with his. “It sounds very much like you’re hitting on me.”

His dimples flashed with charm when he grinned. “See, not a pushover. But polite, very polite and well mannered. There’s New England in your voice, Bailey.”

Staring, she lowered the cup again. “New England?”

“Connecticut, Massachusetts—I’m not sure. But there’s a whiff of Yankee society upbringing in your voice, especially when it turns cold.”

“New England.” She strained for a connection, some small link. “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“It gives me another piece to work with. You’ve got class written all over you. You were born with it, or you developed it, either way it’s there.” He rose, took her plate. “And so’s the exhaustion. You need to sleep.”

“Yes.” The thought of going back to that hotel room had her forcing back a shudder. “Should I call your office, set up another appointment? I wrote down the number of the hotel and room where I’m staying. You could call me if you find anything.”

“You’re not going back there.” He had her hand again, drew her to her feet and began to lead her out of the kitchen. “You can stay here. There’s plenty of room.”

“Here?”

“I think it’s best if you’re where I can keep an eye on you, at least for the time being.” Back in the foyer, he led her up the stairs. “It’s a safe, quiet neighborhood, and until we figure out how you got your hands on a million two and a diamond as big as your fist, I don’t want you wandering the streets.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Neither do you. That’s something else we’re going to work on.”

He opened the door to a room where the dim light flickered quietly through lace curtains onto a polished oak floor. A little seating area of button-back chairs and a piecrust table was arranged in front of a fireplace where a fern thrived in the hearth. A wedding-ring quilt was spread over a graceful four poster, plumped invitingly with pillows.

“Take a nap,” he advised. “There’s a bath through there, and I’ll dig up something for you to change into after you’ve rested.”

She felt the tears backing up again, scoring her throat with a mixture of fear and gratitude and outrageous fatigue. “Do you invite all your clients into your home as houseguests?”

“No.” He touched her cheek and, because he wanted to gather her close, feel how her head would settle on his shoulder, dropped his hand again. “Just the ones who need it. I’m going to be downstairs. I’ve got some things to do.”

“Cade.” She reached for his hand, held it a moment. “Thank you. It looks like I picked the right name out of the phone book.”

“Get some sleep. Let me do the worrying for a while.”

“I will. Don’t close the door,” she said quickly when he stepped out into the hall.

He pushed it open again, studied her standing there in the patterned light, looking so delicate, so lost. “I’ll be right downstairs.”

She listened to his footsteps recede before sinking down on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. It might be foolish to trust him, to put her life in his hands as completely as she had. But she did trust him. Not only because her world consisted only of him and what she’d told him, but because every instinct inside her told her this was a man she could depend on.

Perhaps it was just blind faith and desperate hope, but at the moment she didn’t think she could survive another hour without both. So her future depended on Cade Parris, on his ability to handle her present and his skill in unearthing her past.

She slipped off her shoes, took off her jacket and folded it on the bench. Almost dizzy with fatigue, she climbed into bed and lay atop the quilt, and was asleep the moment her cheek met the pillow.

Downstairs, Cade lifted Bailey’s prints from her teacup. He had the connections to have them run quickly and discreetly. If she had a record or had ever worked for the government, he’d have her IDed easily.

He’d check with missing persons, see if anyone matching her description had been reported. That, too, was easy.

The money and the diamond offered another route. The theft of a gem of that size was bound to make news. He needed to verify the facts Bailey had given him on the stone, then do some research.

He needed to check the registration on the gun, too—and check his sources on recent homicides or shootings with a .38.

All those steps would be more effective if done in person. But he didn’t want to leave her on her own just yet. She might panic and take off, and he wasn’t going to risk losing her.

It was just as possible that she would wake up from her nap, remember who she was and go back to her own life before he had a chance to save her.

He very much wanted to save her.

While he locked the bag in his library safe, booted up his computer, scribbled his notes, he reminded himself that she might have a husband, six kids, twenty jealous lovers, or a criminal record as long as Pennsylvania Avenue. But he just didn’t care.

She was his damsel in distress, and damn it, he was keeping her.

He made his calls, arranged to have the prints messengered over to his contact at the police station. The little favor was going to cost him a bottle of unblended Scotch, but Cade accepted that nothing was free.

“By the way, Mick, you got anything on a jewelry heist? A big one?”

Cade could clearly imagine Detective Mick Marshall pushing through his paperwork, phone cocked at his ear to block out the noise of the bullpen, his tie askew, his wiry red hair sticking up in spikes from a face set in a permanent scowl.

“You got something, Parris?”

“Just a rumor,” Cade said easily. “If something big went down, I could use a link to the insurance company. Got to pay the rent, Mick.”

“Hell, I don’t know why you don’t buy the building in the first place, then tear the rattrap down, rich boy.”

“I’m eccentric—that’s what they call rich boys who pal around with people like you. So, what do you know?”

“Haven’t heard a thing.”

“Okay. I’ve got a Smith and Wesson .38 special.” Cade rattled off the serial number as he turned the gun in his hand. “Run it for me, will you?”

“Two bottles of Scotch, Parris.”

“What are friends for? How’s Doreen?”

“Sassy as ever. Ever since you brought her over those damn tulips, I haven’t heard the end of it. Like I got time to pluck posies before I go home every night. I ought to make it three bottles of Scotch.”

“You find out anything about an important gem going missing, Mick, I’ll buy you a case. I’ll be talking to you.”

Cade hung up the phone and stared malevolently at his computer. Man and machine were simply going to have to come to terms for this next bit of research.

It took him what he estimated was three times as long as it would the average twelve-year-old to insert the CD-ROM, search, and find what he was after.

Amnesia.

Cade drank another cup of coffee and learned more about the human brain than he’d ever wanted to know. For a short, uncomfortable time, he feared Bailey had a tumor. That he might have one, as well. He experienced a deep personal concern for his brain stem, then reconfirmed why he hadn’t gone into medicine as his mother hoped.

The human body, with all its tricks and ticking time bombs, was just too scary. He’d much rather face a loaded gun than the capriciousness of his own internal organs.

He finally concluded, with some relief, that it was unlikely Bailey had a tumor. All signs pointed to hysterical amnesia, which could resolve itself within hours of the trauma, or take weeks. Months. Even years.

Which put them, he thought, solidly back at square one. The handy medical CD that had come with his computer indicated that amnesia was a symptom, rather than a disease, and that treatment involved finding and removing the cause.

That was where he came in. It seemed to Cade that a detective was every bit as qualified as a doctor to deal with Bailey’s problem.

Turning back to his computer, he laboriously typed up his notes, questions and conclusions to date. Satisfied, he went back upstairs to find her some clothes.

She didn’t know if it was a dream or reality—or even if it was her own dream or someone else’s reality. But it was familiar, so oddly familiar….

The dark room, the hard slant of the beam of light from the desk lamp. The elephant. How strange—the elephant seemed to be grinning at her, its trunk lifted high for luck, its glinting blue eyes gleaming with secret amusement.

Female laughter—again familiar, and so comforting. Friendly, intimate laughter.

It’s got to be Paris, Bailey. We’re not going to spend two weeks with you digging in the dirt again. What you need is romance, passion, sex. What you need is Paris.

A triangle, gold and gleaming. And a room filled with light, bright, blinding light. A man who’s not a man, with a face so kind, so wise, so generous, it thrills the soul. And the golden triangle held in his open hands, the offering of it, the power of it stunning, the impact of the rich blue of the stones nestled in each angle almost palpable. And the stones shining and pulsing like heartbeats and seeming to leap into the air like stars, shooting stars that scatter light.

The beauty of them sears the eyes.

And she’s holding them in her hands, and her hands are shaking. Anger, such anger swirling in side her, and fear and panic and fury. The stones shoot out from her hands, first one, then two, winging away like jeweled birds. And the third is clutched to her heart by her open, protective hand.

Silver flashing, bolts of silver flashing. And the pounding of booming drums that shake the ground. Blood. Blood everywhere, like a hideous river spilling.

My God, it’s wet, so red and wet and demon-dark.

Running, stumbling, heart thudding. It’s dark again. The light’s gone, the stars are gone. There’s a corridor, and her heels echo like the thunder that follows lightning. It’s coming after her, hunting her in the dark while the walls close in tighter and tighter.

She can hear the elephant trumpeting, and the lightning flashes closer. She crawls into the cave and hides like an animal, shivering and whimpering like an animal as the lightning streaks by her….

“Come on, sweetheart. Come on, honey. It’s just a bad dream.”

She clawed her way out of the dark toward the calm, steady voice, burrowed her clammy face into the broad, solid shoulder.

“Blood. So much blood. Hit by lightning. It’s coming. It’s close.”

“No, it’s gone now.” Cade pressed his lips to her hair, rocked her. When he slipped in to leave her a robe, she’d been crying in her sleep. Now she was clinging to him, trembling, so he shifted her into his lap as if she were a child. “You’re safe now. I promise.”

“The stars. Three stars.” Balanced between dream and reality, she shifted restlessly in his arms. “I’ve got to go to Paris.”

“You did. I’m right here.” He tipped her head back to touch his lips to her temple. “Right here,” he repeated, waiting for her eyes to clear and focus. “Relax now. I’m right here.”

“Don’t go.” With a quick shudder, she rested her head on his shoulder, just as he’d imagined. The pull on his heart was immediate, and devastating.

He supposed love at first sight was meant to be.

“I won’t. I’ll take care of you.”

That alone was enough to ease her trembling. She relaxed against him, let her eyes close again. “It was just a dream, but it was so confusing, so frightening. I don’t understand any of it.”

“Tell me.”

He listened as she struggled to remember the details, put them in order. “There was so much emotion, huge waves of emotions. Anger, shock, a sense of betrayal and fear. Then terror. Just sheer mindless terror.”

“That could explain the amnesia. You’re not ready to cope with it, so you shut it off. It’s a kind of conversion hysteria.”

“Hysteria?” The term made her chin lift. “I’m hysterical?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He rubbed his knuckles absently over that lifted chin. “It looks good on you.”

In a firm, deliberate movement that made his brow quirk, she pushed his hand from her face. “I don’t care for the term.”

“I’m using it in a strictly medical sense. You didn’t get bopped on the head, right?”

Her eyes were narrowed now. “Not that I recall, but then, I’m hysterical, after all.”

“Cute. What I mean is, amnesia can result from a concussion.” He twirled her hair around his finger as he spoke, just to feel the texture. “I always thought that was bull or Hollywood stuff, but it says so right in the medical book. One of the other causes is a functional nervous disorder, such as—you’ll excuse the term—hysteria.”

Her teeth were gritted now. “I am not hysterical, though I’m sure I could be, if you’d care for a demonstration.”

“I’ve had plenty of those. I have sisters. Bailey.” He cupped her face in his hands in such a disarming gesture, her narrowed eyes widened. “You’re in trouble, that’s the bottom line. And we’re going to fix it.”

“By holding me in your lap?”

“That’s just a side benefit.” When her smile fluttered again and she started to shift away, he tightened his grip. “I like it. A lot.”

She could see more than amusement in his eyes, something that had her pulse jumping. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to flirt with a woman who doesn’t know who she is.”

“Maybe not, but it’s fun. And it’ll give you something else to think about.”

She found herself charmed, utterly, by the way his dimples flickered, the way his mouth quirked at the corner just enough to make the smile crooked. It would be a good mouth for a lover, quick, clever, full of energy. She could imagine too well just how it would fit against hers.

Perhaps because she couldn’t imagine any other, couldn’t remember another taste, another texture. And because that would make him, somehow, the first to kiss her, the thrill of anticipation sprinted up her spine.

He dipped her head back, slowly, his gaze sliding from her eyes to her lips, then back again. He could imagine it perfectly, and was all but sure there would be a swell of music to accompany that first meeting of lips.

“Want to try it?”

Need, rich and full and shocking, poured through her, jittering nerves, weakening limbs. She was alone with him, this stranger she’d trusted her life to. This man she knew more of than she knew of herself.

“I can’t.” She put a hand on his chest, surprised that however calm his voice his heart was pounding as rapidly as hers. Because it was, she could be honest. “I’m afraid to.”

“In my experience, kissing isn’t a scary business, unless we’re talking about kissing Grandmother Parris, and that’s just plain terrifying.”

It made her smile again, and this time, when she shifted, he let her go. “Better not to complicate things any more than they are.” With restless hands, she scooped her hair back, looked away from him. “I’d like to take a shower, if that’s all right. Clean up a little.”

“Sure. I brought you a robe, and some jeans you can roll up. The best I could come up with for a belt that would fit you was some clothesline. It’ll hold them up and make a unique fashion statement.”

“You’re very sweet, Cade.”

“That’s what they all say.” He closed off the little pocket of lust within and rose. “Can you handle being alone for an hour? There’re a couple of things I should see to.”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”

“I need you to promise you won’t leave the house, Bailey.”

She lifted her hands. “Where would I go?”

He put his hands on her shoulders, waited until her gaze lifted to his. “Promise me you won’t leave the house.”

“All right. I promise.”

“I won’t be long.” He walked to the door, paused. “And, Bailey? Think about it.”

She caught the gleam in his eyes before he turned that told her he didn’t mean the circumstances that had brought her to him. When she walked to the window, watched him get in his car and drive away, she was already thinking about it. About him.

Someone else was thinking about her. Thinking dark, vengeful thoughts. She had slipped through his fingers, and, with her, the prize and the power he most coveted.

He’d already exacted a price for incompetence, but it was hardly enough. She would be found, and when she was, she’d pay a much higher price. Her life, certainly, but that was insignificant.

There would be pain first, and great fear. That would satisfy.

The money he had lost was nothing, almost as insignificant as the life of one foolish woman. But she had what he needed, what was meant to be long to him. And he would take back his own.

There were three. Individually they were priceless, but together their value went beyond the imaginable. Already he had taken steps to recover the two she had foolishly attempted to hide from him.

It would take a little time, naturally, but he would have them back. It was important to be careful, to be cautious, to be certain of the recovery, and that whatever violence was necessary remained distant from him.

But soon two pieces of the triangle would be his, two ancient stars, with all their beauty and light and potency.

He sat in the room he’d had built for his treasures, those acquired, stolen or taken with blood. Jewels and paintings, statuary and precious pelts, gleamed and sparkled in his Aladdin’s cave of secrets.

The altarlike stand he’d designed to hold his most coveted possession was empty and waiting.

But soon…

He would have the two, and when he had the third he would be immortal.

And the woman would be dead.

Chapter 3

It was her body in the mirror, Bailey told herself, and she’d better start getting used to it. In the glass, fogged from her shower, her skin looked pale and smooth. Self-consciously she laid a hand against her breast.

Long fingers, short trimmed nails, rather small breasts. Her arms were a little thin, she noted with a frown. Maybe she should start thinking about working out to build them up.

There didn’t seem to be any excess flab at the waist or hips, so perhaps she got some exercise. And there was some muscle tone in the thighs.

Her skin was pale, without tan lines.

What was she—about five-four? She wished she were taller. It seemed if a woman was going to begin her life at twenty-something, she ought to be able to pick her body type. Fuller breasts and longer legs would have been nice.

Amused at herself, she turned, twisted her head to study the rear view. And her mouth dropped open. There was a tattoo on her butt.

What in the world was she doing with a tattoo of a—was that a unicorn?—on her rear end? Was she crazy? Body decoration was one thing, but on that particular part of the anatomy it meant that she had exposed that particular part of the anatomy to some needle-wielding stranger.

Did she drink too much?

Faintly embarrassed, she pulled on a towel and quickly left the misty bathroom.

She spent some time adjusting the jeans and shirt Cade had left her to get the best fit. Hung up her suit neatly, smoothed the quilt. Then she heaved a sigh and tunneled her fingers through her damp hair.

Cade had asked her to stay in the house, but he hadn’t asked her to stay in her room. She was going to be jittery again, thinking about bags of money, huge blue diamonds, murder and tattoos, if she didn’t find a distraction.

She wandered out, realizing she wasn’t uncomfortable in the house alone. She supposed it was a reflection of her feelings for Cade. He didn’t make her uncomfortable. From almost the first minute, she’d felt as though she could talk to him, depend on him.

And she imagined that was because she hadn’t talked to anyone else, and had no one else to depend on.

Nonetheless, he was a kind, considerate man. A smart, logical one, she supposed, or else he wouldn’t be a private investigator. He had a wonderful smile, full of fun, and eyes that paid attention. He had strength in his arms and, she thought, in his character.

And dimples that made her fingers itch to trace along them.

His bedroom. She gnawed on her lip as she stood in the doorway. It was rude to pry. She wondered if she were rude, careless with the feelings and privacy of others. But she needed something, anything, to fill all these blank spots. And he had left his door open.

She stepped over the threshold.

It was a wonderfully large room, and full of him. Jeans tossed over a chair, socks on the floor. She caught herself before she could pick them up and look for a hamper. Loose change and a couple of shirt buttons tossed on the dresser. A gorgeous antique chest of drawers that undoubtedly held all sorts of pieces of him.

She didn’t tug at the brass handles, but she wanted to.

The bed was big, unmade, and framed by the clean lines of Federal head-and footboards. The rumpled sheets were dark blue, and she didn’t quite resist running her fingers over them. They’d probably smell of him—that faintly minty scent.

When she caught herself wondering if he slept naked, heat stung her cheeks and she turned away.

There was a neat brick fireplace and a polished pine mantle. A silly brass cow stood on the hearth and made her smile. There were books messily tucked into a recessed shelf. Bailey studied the titles soberly, wondering which she might have read. He went heavy on mysteries and true crime, but there were familiar names. That made her feel better.

Without thinking, she picked up a used coffee mug and an empty beer bottle and carried them downstairs.

She hadn’t paid much attention to the house when they came in. It had all been so foggy, so distorted, in her mind. But now she studied the simple and elegant lines, the long, lovely windows, with their classic trim, the gleaming antiques.

The contrast between the gracious home and the second-rate office struck her, made her frown. She rinsed the mug in the sink, found the recycling bin for the bottle, then took herself on a tour.

It took her less than ten minutes to come to her conclusion. The man was loaded.

The house was full of treasures—museum-quality. Of that she was undeniably sure. She might not have understood the unicorn on her own rear end, but she understood the value of a Federal inlaid cherrywood slant-front desk. She couldn’t have said why.

She recognized Waterford vases, Georgian silver. The Limoges china in the dining room display cabinet. And she doubted very much if the Turner landscape was a copy.

She peeked out a window. Well-tended lawn, majestic old trees, roses in full bloom. Why would a man who could live in such a style choose to work in a crumbling building in a stuffy, cramped office?

Then she smiled. It seemed Cade Parris was as much a puzzle as she was herself. And that was a tremendous comfort.

She went back to the kitchen, hoping to make herself useful by making some iced tea or putting something together for lunch. When the phone rang, she jumped like a scalded cat. The answering machine clicked on, and Cade’s voice flowed out, calming her again: “You’ve reached 555-2396. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you.”

“Cade, this is becoming very irritating.” The woman’s voice was tight with impatience. “I’ve left a half a dozen messages at your office this morning, the least you can do is have the courtesy to return my calls. I sincerely doubt you’re so busy with what you loosely call your clients to speak to your own mother.” There was a sigh, long-suffering and loud. “I know very well you haven’t contacted Pamela about arrangements for this evening. You’ve put me in a very awkward position. I’m leaving for Dodie’s for bridge. You can reach me there until four. Don’t embarrass me, Cade. By the way, Muffy’s very annoyed with you.”

There was a decisive click. Bailey found herself clearing her throat. She felt very much as if she’d received that cool, deliberate tongue-lashing herself. And it made her wonder if she had a mother who nagged, who expected obedience. Who was worried about her.

She filled the teakettle, set it on the boil, dug up a pitcher. She was hunting up tea bags when the phone rang again.

“Well, Cade, this is Muffy. Mother tells me she still hasn’t been able to reach you. It’s obvious you’re avoiding our calls because you don’t want to face your own poor behavior. You know very well Camilla’s piano recital was last night. The least, the very least, you could have done was put in an appearance and pretended to have some family loyalty. Not that I expected any better from you. I certainly hope you have the decency to call Camilla and apologize. I refuse to speak to you again until you do.”

Click.

Bailey blew out a breath, rolled her eyes. Families, she thought, were obviously difficult and complex possessions. Then again, perhaps she had a brother herself and was just as, well…bitchy, as the wasp-tongued Muffy.

She set the tea to steep, then opened the refrigerator. There were eggs, and plenty of them. That made her smile. There was also a deli pack of honey-baked ham, some Swiss, and when she discovered plump beefsteak tomatoes, she decided she was in business.

She worried over the choice of mustard or mayo for a time and whether the tea should be sweetened or unsweetened. Every little detail was like a brick in the rebuilding of herself. As she was carefully slicing tomatoes, she heard the front door slam, and her mood brightened.

But when she started to call out, the words stuck in her throat. What if it wasn’t Cade? What if they’d found her? Come for her? Her hand tightened on the hilt of the knife as she edged toward the rear kitchen door. Fear, deep and uncontrollable, had sweat popping out in clammy pearls on her skin. Her heart flipped into her throat.

Running, running away from that sharp, hacking lightning. In the dark, with her own breath screaming in her head. Blood everywhere.

Her fingers tensed on the knob, turned it, as she prepared for flight or fight.

When Cade stepped in, a sob of relief burst out of her. The knife clattered on the floor as she launched herself into his arms. “It’s you. It is you.”

“Sure it is.” He knew he should feel guilty that fear had catapulted her against him, but he was only human. She smelled fabulous. “I told you you’re safe here, Bailey.”

“I know. I felt safe. But when I heard the door, I panicked for a minute.” She clung, wildly grateful to have him with her. Drawing her head back, she stared up at him. “I wanted to run, just run, when I heard the door and thought it could be someone else. I hate being such a coward, and not knowing what I should do. I can’t seem…to think.”

She trailed off, mesmerized. He was stroking her cheek as she babbled, his eyes intent on hers. Her arms were banded around his waist, all but fused there. The hand that had smoothed through her hair was cupped at the base of her neck now, fingers gently kneading.

He waited, saw the change in her eyes. His lips curved, just enough to have her heart quiver before he lowered his head and gently touched them to hers.

Oh, lovely… That was her first thought. It was lovely to be held so firmly, to be tasted so tenderly. This was a kiss, this sweet meeting of lips that made the blood hum lazily and the soul sigh. With a quiet murmur, she slid her hands up his back, rose on her toes to meet that patient demand.

When his tongue traced her lips, slipped between them, she shuddered with pleasure. And opened to him as naturally as a rose opens to the sun.

He’d known she would. Somehow he’d known she would be both shy and generous, that the taste of her would be fresh, the scent of her airy. It was impossible that he’d only met her hours before. It seemed the woman he held in his arms had been his forever.

And it was thrilling, hotly arousing, to know his was the first kiss she would remember. That he was the only man in her mind and heart to hold her this way, touch her this way. He was the first to make her tremble, his was the first name she murmured when needs swirled through her.

And when she murmured his name, every other woman he’d ever held vanished. She was the first for him.

He deepened the kiss gradually, aware of how easily he could bruise or frighten. But she came so suddenly alive in his arms, was so wildly responsive, her mouth hungry and hot, her body straining and pulsing against his.

She felt alive, brilliantly alive, aware of every frantic beat of her own heart. Her hands had streaked into his hair and were fisted there now, as if she could pull him inside her. He was filling all those empty places, all those frightening blanks. This was life. This was real. This mattered.

“Easy.” He could barely get the word out, wished fervently he didn’t feel obliged to. He was trembling as much as she, and he knew that if he didn’t pull back, gain some control, he was going to take her exactly where they stood. “Easy,” he said again, and pressed her head to his shoulder so that he wouldn’t be tempted to devour that ripe, willing mouth.

She vibrated against him, nerves and needs tangling, the echoes of sensations thumping through her system. “I don’t know if it’s ever been like that. I just don’t know.”

That brought him back to earth a little too abruptly. She didn’t know, he reminded himself. He did. It had never been like that for him. “Don’t worry.” He pulled away, then rubbed his hands over her shoulders, because they were tense again. “You know that wasn’t ordinary, Bailey. That ought to be enough for now.”

“But—” She bit her lip when he turned and wrenched open the fridge. “I made—I’m making iced tea.”

“I want a beer.”

She winced at the brusque tone. “You’re angry.”

“No.” He twisted off the cap, downed three long swallows. “Yes. With myself, a little. I pushed the buttons, after all.” He lowered the bottle, studied her. She was standing with her arms crossed tight at her waist. His jeans bagged at her hips, his shirt drooped at her shoulders. Her feet were bare, her hair was tangled around her shoulders.

She looked absolutely defenseless.

“Let’s just get this out, okay?” He leaned back against the counter to keep his distance. “I felt the click the minute you walked into the office. Never happened to me before, just click, there she is. I figured it was because you were a looker, you were in trouble and you’d come looking for me. I’ve got a thing about people in trouble, especially beautiful women.”

He drank again, slower this time, while she watched him soberly, with great attention. “But that’s not it, Bailey, or at least not all of it. I want to help you. I want to find out everything about you as much as you do. But I also want to make love with you, slow, really slow, so that every second’s like an hour. And when we’ve finished making love, and you’re naked and limp under me, I want to start all over again.”

She had her hands crossed over her breasts now, to keep her bucking heart in place. “Oh” was all she could manage.

“And that’s what I’m going to do. When you’re a little steadier on your feet.”

“Oh,” she said again. “Well.” She cleared her throat. “Cade, I may be a criminal.”

“Uh-huh.” Calm again, he inspected the sandwich makings on the counter. “So is this lunch?”

Her eyes narrowed. What sort of response was that from a man who’d just told her he wanted to make love with her until she was limp? “I may have stolen a great deal of money, killed people, kidnapped an innocent child.”

“Right.” He piled some ham on bread. “Yeah, you’re a real desperado, sweetheart. Anybody can see that. You’ve got that calculating killer gleam in the eye.” Then, chuckling, he turned to her. “Bailey, for God’s sake, look at yourself. You’re a polite, tidy woman with a conscience as wide as Kansas. I sincerely doubt you have so much as a parking ticket to your name, or that you’ve done anything wilder than sing in the shower.”

It stung. She couldn’t have said why, but the bland and goody-goody description put her back up. “I’ve got a tattoo on my butt.”

He set the rather sloppy sandwich he’d put together down. “Excuse me?”

“I have a tattoo on my butt,” she repeated, with a combative gleam in her eye.

“Is that so?” He couldn’t wait to see it. “Well, then, I’ll have to turn you in. Now, if you tell me you’ve got something other than your ears pierced, I’ll have to get my gun.”

“I’m so pleased I could amuse you.”

“Sweetheart, you fascinate me.” He shifted to block her path before she could storm out. “Temper. That’s a good sign. Bailey’s not a wimp.” She stepped to the right. So did he. “She likes scrambled eggs with dill and paprika, knows how to make iced tea, cuts tomatoes in very precise slices and knows how to tie a shank knot.”

“What?”

“Your belt,” he said with a careless gesture. “She was probably a Girl Scout, or she likes to sail. Her voice gets icy when she’s annoyed, she has excellent taste in clothes, bites her bottom lip when she’s nervous—which I should warn you instills wild lust in me for no sensible reason.”

His dimples winked when she immediately stopped nibbling her lip and cleared her throat. “She keeps her nails at a practical length,” he continued. “And she can kiss a man blind. An interesting woman, our Bailey.”

He gave her hair a friendly tug. “Now, why don’t we sit down, eat lunch, and I’ll tell you what else I found out. Do you want mustard or mayo?”

“I don’t know.” Still sulking, she plopped down in a chair.

“I go for mustard myself.” He brought it to the table, along with the fixings for her sandwich. “So what is it?”

She swiped mustard on bread. “What?”

“The tattoo? What is it?”

Embarrassed now, she slapped ham over mustard. “I hardly see that it’s an issue.”

“Come on.” He grinned, leaning over to tug on her hair again. “A butterfly? A rosebud? Or are you really a biker chick in disguise, with a skull and crossbones hiding under my jeans?”

“A unicorn,” she muttered.

He bit the tip of his tongue. “Cute.” He watched her cut her sandwich into tidy and precise triangles, but refrained from commenting.

Because she wanted to squirm, she changed the subject. “You were going to tell me what else you’ve found out.”

Since it didn’t seem to do his blood pressure any good for him to paint mental images of unicorns, he let her off the hook. “Right. The gun’s unregistered. My source hasn’t been able to trace it yet. The clip’s full.”

“The clip?”

“The gun was fully loaded, which means it either hadn’t been fired recently, or had been reloaded.”

“Hadn’t been fired.” She closed her eyes, grasped desperately at relief. “I might not have used it at all.”

“I’d say it’s unlikely you did. Using current observations, I can’t picture you owning an unregistered handgun, but if we get lucky and track it down, we may have a clearer picture.”

“You’ve learned so much already.”

He would have liked to bask in that warm admiration, but he shrugged and took a hefty bite of his sandwich. “Most of it’s negative information. There’s been no report of a robbery that involves a gem like the one you’ve been carrying, or that amount of cash. No kidnapping or hostage situations that the local police are involved in, and no open homicides involving the type of weapon we’re dealing with in the last week.”

He took another swallow of beer. “No one has reported a woman meeting your description missing in the last week, either.”

“But how can that be?” She shoved her sandwich aside. “I have the gem, I have the cash. I am missing.”

“There are possibilities.” He kept his eyes on hers. “Maybe someone doesn’t want that information out. Bailey, you said you thought the diamond was only part of a whole. And when you were coming out of the nightmare you talked about three stars. Stars. Diamonds. Could be the same thing. Do you think there are three of those rocks?”

“Stars?” She pressed her fingers to her temple as it started to ache. “Did I talk about stars? I don’t remember anything about stars.”

Because it hurt to think about it, she tried to concentrate on the reasonable. “Three gems of that size and quality would be unbelievably rare. As a set, even if the others were inferior in clarity to the one I have, they’d be beyond price. You couldn’t begin to assess—” Her breath began to hitch, to come in gasps as she fought for air. “I can’t breathe.”

“Okay.” He was up, shifting her so that he could lower her head between her knees, rub her back. “That’s enough for now. Just relax, don’t force it.”

He wondered, as he stroked her back, just what she’d seen that put that kind of blind terror in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she managed. “I want to help.”

“You are. You will.” He eased her up again, waiting as she pushed her hair back away from her pale cheeks. “Hey, it’s only day one, remember?”

“Okay.” Because he didn’t make her feel ashamed of the weakness, she took a deep, cleansing breath. “When I tried to think, really think about what you were asking, it was like a panic attack, with all this guilt and horror and fear mixed together. My head started to throb, and my heart beat too fast. I couldn’t get air.”

“Then we’ll take it slow. You don’t get that panicky when we talk about the stone you have?”

She closed her eyes a moment, cautiously brought its image into her mind. It was so beautiful, so extraordinary. There was concern, and worry, yes. A layer of fear, as well, but it was more focused and somehow less debilitating. “No, it’s not the same kind of reaction.” She shook her head, opened her eyes. “I don’t know why.”

“We’ll work on that.” He scooted her plate back in front of her. “Eat. I’m planning a long evening, and you’re going to need fuel.”

“What sort of plans?”

“I went by the library on my travels. I’ve got a stack of books on gems—technical stuff, pictures, books on rare stones, rare jewels, the history of diamonds, you name it.”

“We might find it.” The possibility cheered her enough to have her nibbling on her sandwich again. “If we could identify the stone, we could trace the owner, and then… Oh, but you can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Work tonight. You have to go somewhere with Pamela.”

“I do? Hell—” He pressed his fingers to his eyes as he remembered.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to mention it. Your mother called. I was in here, so I heard the message. She’s upset that you haven’t returned her calls, or contacted Pamela about the arrangements for tonight. She’s going to be at Dodie’s until four. You can call her there. Also, Muffy’s very annoyed with you. She called shortly after your mother and she’s very unhappy that you missed Camilla’s piano recital. She isn’t speaking to you until you apologize.”

“I should be so lucky,” he muttered, and dropped his hands. “That’s a pretty good rundown. Want a job?” When she only smiled, he shook his head and rode on inspiration. “No, I’m serious. You’re a hell of a lot more organized than my late, unlamented secretary. I could use some help around the office, and you could use the busywork.”

“I don’t even know if I can type.”

“I know I can’t, so you’re already a step ahead. You can answer a phone, can’t you?”

“Of course, but—”

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