Nora Roberts - The Stars Of Mithra

Or perhaps she’d been too ordinary, too boring, too undesirable, for a man to accept her into his.

In any case, she had a lover now.

Why hadn’t the act of lovemaking seemed foreign to her, or frightening, as it seemed it would to the uninitiated? Instead, with Cade, it had been as natural as breathing.

Natural, exciting and perfect.

He said he loved her, but how could she believe it? He knew only one small piece of her, a fraction of the whole. When her memory surfaced, he might find her to be the very type of woman he disliked.

No, she wouldn’t hold him to what he’d said to this Bailey, until she knew the whole woman.

And her feelings? With a half laugh, she set the pencil aside. She’d been drawn to him instantly, trusted him completely the moment he took her hand. And fallen in love with him while she watched him stand in this kitchen, breaking brown eggs into a white bowl.

But her heart couldn’t be trusted in this case, either. The closer they came to finding the truth, the closer they came to the time when they might turn from each other and walk away.

However much she wished it, they couldn’t leave the canvas bag and its contents in his safe, forget they existed and just be.

“You forgot some things.”

She jolted, turned her head quickly and looked into his face. How long, she wondered, had he been standing behind her, reading her notes over her shoulder, while she was thinking of him?

“I thought it might help me to write down what I know.”

“Always a good plan.” He walked to the fridge, took out a beer, poured her a glass of iced tea.

She sat feeling foolish and awkward, her hands clutched in her lap. Had they really rolled naked on a sun-washed bed an hour before? How was such intimacy handled in a tidy kitchen over cold drinks and puzzles?

He didn’t seem to have a problem with it. Cade sat across from her, propped his feet on an empty chair and scooted her pad over. “You’re a worrier.”

“I am?”

“Sure.” He flipped a page, started a new list. “You’re worrying right now. What should you say to this guy, now that you’re lovers? Now that you know he’s wildly in love with you, wants to spend the rest of his life with you?”

“Cade—”

“Just stating the facts.” And if he stated them often enough, he figured she’d eventually accept them. “The sex was great, and it was easy. So you worry about that, too. Why did you let this man you’ve known for a weekend take you to bed, when you’ve never let another man get that close?” His eyes flicked up, held hers. “The answer’s elementary. You’re just as wildly in love with me, but you’re afraid to face it.”

She picked up her glass, cooled her throat. “I’m a coward?”

“No, Bailey, you’re not a coward, but you’re constantly worried that you are. You’re a champion worrier. And a woman, I think, who gives herself very little credit for her strengths, and has very little tolerance for her weaknesses. Self-judgmental.”

He wrote that down, as well, while she frowned at the words on the page. “It seems to me someone in my situation has to try to judge herself.”

“Practical, logical.” He continued the column. “Now, leave the judging to me a moment. You’re compassionate, responsible, organized. And a creature of habit. I’d say you hold some sort of position that requires those traits, as well as a good intellect. Your work habits are disciplined and precise. You also have a fine aesthetic sense.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Bailey, forgetting who you are doesn’t change who you are. That’s your big flaw in reasoning here. If you hated brussels sprouts before, it’s likely you’re still going to hate them. If you were allergic to cats, you’re still going to sneeze if you pet a kitten. And if you had a strong, moral and caring heart, it’s still beating inside you. Now let me finish up here.”

She twisted her head, struggling to read upside down. “What are you putting down?”

“You’re a lousy drinker. Probably a metabolism thing. And I think at this point, we could have some wine later, so I can take full advantage of that.” He grinned over at her. “And you blush. It’s a sweet, old-fashioned physical reaction. You’re tidy. You hang up your towels after you shower, you rinse off your dishes, you make your bed every morning.”

There were other details, he thought. She wiggled her foot when she was nervous, her eyes went gold when she was aroused, her voice turned chilly when she was annoyed.

“You’ve had a good education, probably up north, from your speech pattern and accent. I’d say you concentrated on your studies like a good girl and didn’t date much. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been a virgin up to a couple hours ago. There, you blushed again. I really love when you do that.”

“I don’t see the point in this.”

“There’s that cool, polite tone. Indulge me,” he added, then sipped his beer. “You’ve got a slim body, smooth skin. You either take care of both or you were lucky genetically. By the way, I like your unicorn.”

She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he said, and chuckled. “Anyway, you have or make enough money to afford good clothes. Those classic Italian pumps you were wearing go for about two hundred and fifty at department-store prices. And you had silk underwear. I’d say the silk undies and the unicorn follow the same pattern. You like to be a little daring under the traditional front.”

She was just managing to close her gaping mouth. “You went through my clothes? My underwear?”

“What there was of them, and all in the name of investigation. Great underwear,” he told her. “Very sexy, simple, and pricey. I’d say peach silk ought to look terrific on you.”

She made a strangled sound, fell back on silence. There was really nothing to say.

“I don’t know the annual income of your average gemologist or jewelry designer—but I’ll lay odds you’re one or the other. I’m leaning toward the scientist as vocation, and the designer as avocation.”

“That’s a big leap, Cade.”

“No, it’s not. Just another step. The pieces are there. Wouldn’t you think a diamond like the one in the safe would require the services of a gemologist? Its authenticity would have to be verified, its value assessed. Just the way you verified and assessed it yesterday.”

Her hands trembled, so she put them back in her lap. “If that’s true, then it ups the likelihood that I stole it.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Impatient with her, he tapped the pencil sharply against the pad. “Look at the other facts. Why can’t you see yourself? You wouldn’t steal a stick of gum. Doesn’t the fact that you’re riddled with guilt over the very thought you might have done something illegal give you a clue?”

“The fact is, Cade, I have the stone.”

“Yeah, and hasn’t it occurred to you, in that logical, responsible, ordered mind of yours, that you might have been protecting it?”

“Protecting it? From—”

“From whoever killed to get their hands on it. From whoever would have killed you if he had found you. That’s what plays, Bailey, that’s what fits. And if there are three stones, then you might very well know where the others are, as well. You may be protecting all of them.”

“How?”

He had some ideas on that, as well, but didn’t think she was ready to hear them. “We’ll work on that. Meanwhile, I’ve made a few calls. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us tomorrow. The police artist will come over in the morning, see if she can help you put images together. And I managed to snag one of the undercurators, or whatever they’re called, at the Smithsonian. We have a one o’clock appointment tomorrow.”