Nora Roberts - The Stars of Mithra - Hidden Star

“Make sure it’s real.”

“Of course it’s real,” she said impatiently. “I know it’s real.”

He merely arched a brow. “Prove it.”

With a huffing breath, she turned and headed for a microscope. She employed the dark-field illuminator, adjusting the focus on the binocular microscope with instinctive efficiency.

“Beautiful,” she said after a moment, with a tint of reverence in her voice. “Just beautiful.”

“What do you see?”

“The interior of the stone. There’s no doubt it’s of natural origin. The inclusions are characteristic.”

“Let’s see.” He nudged her aside, bent to the microscope himself. “Could be anything.”

“No, no. There are no air bubbles. There would be if it was paste, or strass. And the inclusions.”

“Doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s blue, and blue means sapphire.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, sapphire is corundum. Do you think I can’t tell the difference between carbon and corundum?” She snatched up the stone and marched to another instrument. “This is a polariscope. It tests whether a gem is singly or doubly refracting. As I’ve already told you, sapphires are doubly refracting, diamonds singly.”

She went about her work, muttering to herself, putting her glasses on when she needed them, slipping the eyepiece into the V of her blouse when she didn’t. Every move competent, habitual, precise.

Cade tucked his hands in his back pockets, rocked back on his heels and watched.

“Here, the refractometer,” she mumbled. “Any idiot can see the refractive index of this stone says diamond, not sapphire.” She turned, holding up the stone. “This is a blue diamond, brilliant-cut, weighing 102.6 carats.”

“All you need’s a lab coat,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“You work with this stuff, Bailey. I thought it might be a hobby, but you’re too precise, too comfortable. And too easily annoyed when questioned. So my conclusions are that you work with stones, with gems. This type of equipment is as familiar to you as a coffee maker. It’s just part of your life.”

She lowered her hand and eased herself back onto a stool. “You didn’t do all this, go to all this trouble, so we could identify the diamond, did you?”

“Let’s just say that was a secondary benefit. Now we have to figure whether you’re in the gem or jewelry trade. That’s how you got your hands on this.” He took the diamond from her, studied it. “And this isn’t the kind of thing you see for sale at Westlake or any other jeweler. It’s the kind of thing you find in a private collection, or a museum. We’ve got a really fine museum right here in town. It’s called the Smithsonian.” He lowered the stone. “You may have heard of it.”

“You think…I took it out of the Smithsonian?”

“I think someone there might have heard of it.” He slipped the priceless gem casually into his pocket. “It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. They’ll be closed. No, hell, Tuesday.” He hissed between his teeth. “Tomorrow’s the Fourth, and Monday’s a holiday.”

“What should we do until Tuesday?”

“We can start with phone books. I wonder how many gemologists are in the greater metropolitan area?”

The reading glasses meant she could pore through all the books without risking a headache. And pore through them she did. It was, Bailey thought, something like rereading well-loved fairy tales. It was all familiar ground, but she enjoyed traveling over it again.

She read about the history of intaglio cutting in Mesopotamia, the gems of the Hellenistic period. Florentine engravings.

She read of famous diamonds. Of the Vargas, the Jonker, the Great Mogul, which had disappeared centuries before. Of Marie Antoinette and the diamond necklace some said had cost her her head.

She read technical explanations on gem cutting, on identification, on optical properties and formations.

They were all perfectly clear to her, and as smooth as the carnelian tumble stone she worried between her fingers.

How could it be, she wondered, that she remembered rocks and not people? She could easily identify and discuss the properties of hundreds of crystals and gems. But there was only one single person in the entire world she knew.

And even that wasn’t herself.

She only knew Cade. Cade Parris, with his quick, often confusing mind. Cade, with his gentle, patient hands and gorgeous green eyes. Eyes that looked at her as though she could be the focus of his world.

Yet his world was so huge compared to hers. His was populated by people, and memories, places he’d been, things he’d done, moments he’d shared with others.

The huge blank screen that was her past taunted her.

What people did she know, whom had she loved or hated? Had anyone ever loved her? Whom had she hurt or been hurt by? And where had she been, what had she done?

Was she scientist or thief? Lover or loner?

She wanted to be a lover. Cade’s lover. It was terrifying how much she wanted that. To sink into bed with him and let everything float away on that warm river of sensation. She wanted him to touch her, really touch her. To feel his hands on her, skimming over naked flesh, heating it, taking her to a place where the past meant nothing and the future was unimportant.

Where there was only now, the greedy, glorious now.

And she could touch him, feel the muscles bunch in his back and shoulders as he covered her. His heart would pound against hers, and she would arch up to meet him, to take him in. And then…

She jumped when the book slapped shut.

“Take a break,” Cade ordered, shifting the book across the table where she’d settled to read. “Your eyes are going to fall out of your head.”

“Oh, I…” Good God, she thought, goggling at him. She was all but trembling, brutally aroused by her own fantasy. Her pulse was skidding along like skates on bumpy ice. “I was just—”

“Look, you’re all flushed.”

He turned to get the pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator, and she rolled her eyes at his back. Flushed? She was flushed? Couldn’t the man see she was a puddle just waiting to be lapped up?

He poured her a glass over ice, popped the top on a beer for himself. “We’ve done enough for one day. I’m thinking steaks on the grill. We’ll see if you can put a salad together. Hey.” He reached out to steady the glass he’d handed her. “Your hands are shaking. You’ve been overdoing it.”

“No, I…” She could hardly tell him she’d just given serious thought to biting his neck. Carefully she removed her glasses, folded them, set them on the table. “Maybe a little. There’s so much on my mind.”

“I’ve got the perfect antidote for overthinking.” He took her hand, pulled her to the door and outside, where the air was full of heat and the heady perfume of roses. “A half hour of lazy.”

He took her glass, set it on the little wrought-iron table beside the rope hammock, put his beer beside it. “Come on, we’ll watch the sky awhile.”

He wanted her to lie down with him? Lie down cupped with him in that hammock, while her insides were screaming for release? “I don’t think I should—”

“Sure you should.” To settle the matter, he gave her a yank and tumbled into the hammock with her. It rocked wildly, making him laugh as she scrambled for balance. “Just relax. This is one of my favorite spots. There’s been a hammock here as long as I can remember. My uncle used to nap in this red-and-white striped one when he was supposed to be puttering around the garden.”

He slid his arm under her, took one of her nervous hands in his. “Nice and cozy. You can see little pieces of sky through the leaves.”

It was cool there, shaded by the maples. She could feel his heart beating steadily when he laid their joined hands on his chest.