Nora Roberts - The Stars Of Mithra

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

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

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

“It doesn’t matter. I need to know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For that little hint of France.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ex-wife, and we had a cook.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess it was. You’re rich, then.”

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

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

“Nope. I wanted to be Sam Spade.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was what it felt like to be pressed under a man’s body. A man’s hard, needy body. A man who wanted you above all else.

For that moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They belonged. It was all he had to know.

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

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

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

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

And his mouth.

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

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

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