Nora Roberts - The Stars Of Mithra

For just the now.

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

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

And knew she might not survive even surrender.

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

He knew if she forgot him it would kill him.

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

“Cade—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t reasonable.

But he didn’t give a damn about reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn it.

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

She would not be a doormat.

She would not be a fool.

She would not be a victim.

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

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

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

She gave the hammock one hard shove.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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