Nora Roberts - The Stars Of Mithra

She moaned out his name, clutching the quilt and dragging it into tangles as her body strained to reach for something just beyond her grasp. As she arched desperately against him, he watched her. Slid up her body again until his lips were close to hers, and watched her. Watched her as, with quick, clever fingers, he tore her free.

It was his name she called when the heat reached flash point, and his body she clung to as her own shuddered.

That was what he’d wanted.

His name was still vibrating on her lips when he crushed them with his, when he rolled with her over the bed in a greedy quest to take and possess. Blind with need, he tugged at his jeans, trembling himself when she buried her mouth against his throat, strained against him in quivering invitation.

She was more generous than any fantasy. More generous than any wish. More his than any dream.

With sunlight pouring over the tangled sheets, she arched to him, opened as if she’d been waiting all her life for him. His heart pounded in his head as he slipped inside her, moved to fill her.

Shock froze him for a dazed instant, and every muscle tensed. But she shook her head, wrapped herself around him and took him in.

“You” was all she said. “Only you.”

He lay still, listening to her heart thudding, absorbing the quakes of her body with his. Only him, he thought, and closed his eyes. She’d been innocent. Untouched. A miracle. And his heart was tugged in opposing directions of guilt and pure selfish pleasure.

She’d been innocent, and he’d taken her.

She’d been untouched, until he touched.

He wanted to beg her to forgive him.

He wanted to climb out on the roof and crow.

Not certain either would suit the situation, he gently tested the waters.

“Bailey?”

“Hmm?”

“Ah, in my professional opinion as a licensed investigator, I conclude it’s extremely unlikely you’re married.” He felt the rumble of her laughter, and lifted his head to grin down at her. “I’ll put it in my report.”

“You do that.”

He brushed the hair from her cheek. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry. I never considered—”

“No.” She pressed her hand over his. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m happy, giddy. Relieved.” Her lips curved on a sigh. “I never considered, either. I’d say we were both surprised.” Abruptly her stomach fluttered with nerves. “You’re not…disappointed? If you—”

“I’m devastated. I really hoped you’d be married, with six kids. I really only enjoy making love with married women.”

“No, I meant… Was it—was I—was everything all right?”

“Bailey.” On a half laugh, he rolled over so that she could settle on his chest. “You’re perfect. Absolutely, completely perfect. I love you.” She went very still, and her cheek stayed pressed to his heart. “You know I do,” he said quietly. “From the moment I saw you.”

Now she wanted to weep, because it was everything she wanted to hear, and nothing she could accept. “You don’t know me.”

“Neither do you.”

She lifted her head, shook it fiercely. “That’s exactly the point. Joking about it doesn’t change the truth.”

“Here’s the truth, then.” He sat up, took her firmly by the shoulders. “I’m in love with you. In love with the woman I’m holding right now. You’re exactly what I want, what I need, and sweetheart—” he kissed her lightly “—I’m keeping you.”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“I’m not asking for simple.” He slid his hands down, gripped hers. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

“That’s impossible.” Panicked, she tugged on her hands, but he gripped them calmly and held her in place. “You know that’s impossible. I don’t know where I come from, what I’ve done. I met you three days ago.”

“That all makes sense, or would, except for one thing.” He drew her against him and shot reason to hell with a kiss.

“Don’t do this.” Torn to pieces, she wrapped her arms around his neck, held tight. “Don’t do this, Cade. Whatever my life was, right now it’s a mess. I need to find the answers.”

“We’ll find the answers. I promise you that. But there’s one I want from you now.” He drew her head back. He’d expected the tears, knew they’d be shimmering in her eyes and turning them deep gold. “Tell me you love me, Bailey, or tell me you don’t.”

“I can’t—”

“Just one question,” he murmured. “You don’t need a yesterday to answer it.”

No, she needed nothing but her own heart. “I can’t tell you I don’t love you, because I can’t lie to you.” She shook her head, pressed her fingers to his lips before he could speak. “I won’t tell you I do, because it wouldn’t be fair. It’s an answer that has to wait until I know all the others. Until I know who the woman is who’ll tell you. Give me time.”

He’d give her time, he thought when her head was nestled on his shoulder again. Because nothing and no one was taking her from him, whatever they found on the other side of her past.

Cade liked to say that getting to a solution was just a matter of taking steps. Bailey wondered how many more there were left to climb. She felt she’d rushed up a very long staircase that day, and when reaching the landing been just as lost as ever.

Not entirely true, she told herself as she settled down at the kitchen table with a notepad and pencil. Even the urge to make a list of what she knew indicated that she was an organized person, and one who liked to review things in black and white.

Who is Bailey?

A woman who habitually rose at the same hour daily. Did that make her tedious and predictable, or responsible? She liked coffee black and strong, scrambled eggs, and her steaks medium rare. Fairly ordinary tastes. Her body was trim, not particularly muscular, and without tan lines. So, she wasn’t a fitness fanatic or a sun-worshiper. Perhaps she had a job that kept her indoors.

Which meant, she thought with some humor, she wasn’t a lumberjack or a lifeguard.

She was a right-handed, brown-eyed blonde, and was reasonably sure her hair color was natural or close to what she’d been born with.

She knew a great deal about gemstones, which could mean they were a hobby, a career, or just something she liked to wear. She had possession of a diamond worth a fortune that she’d either stolen, bought—highly unlikely, she thought—or gained through an accident of some sort.

She’d witnessed a violent attack, possibly a murder, and run away.

Because that fact made her temple start to throb again, she skipped over it.

She hummed classical music in the shower and liked to watch classic film noir on television. And she couldn’t figure out what that said about her personality or her background.

She liked attractive clothes, good materials, and shied away from strong colors unless pushed.

It worried her that she might be vain and frivolous.

But she had at least two female friends who shared part of her life. Grace and M.J., M.J. and Grace. Bailey wrote the names on the pad, over and over, hoping that the simple repetition would strike a fresh spark.

They mattered to her, she could feel that. She was frightened for them and didn’t know why. Her mind might be blank, but her heart told her that they were special to her, closer to her than anyone else in the world.

But she was afraid to trust her heart.

There was something else she knew that Bailey didn’t want to write down, didn’t want to review in black and white.

She’d had no lover. There’d been no one she cared for enough, or who cared for her enough, for intimacy. Perhaps in the life she led she’d been too judgmental, too intolerant, too self-absorbed, to accept a man into her bed.