Stars of Mithra Box Set: Captive Star\Hidden Star\Secret Star (20 page)

C
ade took her home. It was the best option he could think of, tucking her away. And he wanted that canvas bag and its contents in his safe as quickly as possible. She hadn't argued when he led her out of the building, had made no comment about the sleek little Jag parked in the narrow spot on the cracked asphalt lot.

He preferred using his nondescript and well-dented sedan for his work, but until it was out of the shop, he was stuck with the streamlined, eye-catching Jaguar.

But she said nothing, not even when he drove
into a lovely old neighborhood with graceful shade trees and tidy flower-trimmed lawns and into the driveway of a dignified Federal-style brick house.

He'd been prepared to explain that he'd inherited it from a great-aunt who had a soft spot for him—which was true enough. And that he lived there because he liked the quiet and convenience of the established neighborhood in the heart of Washington.

But she didn't ask.

It seemed to Cade that she'd simply run down. Whatever energy had pushed her into going out in the rain, seeking his office and telling her story had drained out, leaving her listless.

And fragile again. He had to check the urge to simply gather her up and carry her inside. He could imagine it clearly—the stalwart knight, my lady's champion, carrying her into the safety of the castle and away from any and all dragons that plagued her.

He really had to stop thinking things like that.

Instead, he hefted the canvas bag, took her unresisting hand and led her through the graceful foyer, down the hall and directly into the kitchen.

“Scrambled eggs,” he said, pulling out a chair
for her and nudging her down to sit at the pedestal table.

“All right. Yes. Thank you.”

She felt limp, unfocused, and terribly grateful to him. He wasn't peppering her with questions, nor had he looked particularly shocked or appalled by her story. Perhaps it was the nature of his business that made him take it all in stride, but whatever the reason, she was thankful for the time he was giving her to recoup.

Now he was moving around the kitchen in a casual, competent manner. Breaking brown eggs in a white bowl, popping bread in a toaster that sat on a granite-colored counter. She should offer to help, she thought. It seemed the right thing to do. But she was so dreadfully tired, and it was so pleasant to just sit in the big kitchen with rain drumming musically on the roof and watch him handle the simple task of making breakfast.

He was taking care of her. And she was letting him. Bailey closed her eyes and wondered if she was the kind of woman who needed to be tended to by a man, who enjoyed the role of the helpless female.

She hoped not, almost fiercely hoped not. Then wondered why such a minor, insignificant person
ality trait should matter so much, when she couldn't be sure she wasn't a thief or murderer.

She caught herself studying her hands, wondering about them. Short, neat, rounded nails coated in clear polish. Did that mean she was practical? The hands were soft, uncallused. It was doubtful she worked with them, pursued manual labor of any kind.

The rings… Very pretty, not bold so much as unique. At least it seemed they were. She knew the stones that winked back at her. Garnet, citrine, amethyst. How could she know the names of colored stones and not know the name of her closest friend?

Did she have any friends?

Was she a kind person or a catty one, generous or a faultfinder? Did she laugh easily and cry at sad movies? Was there a man she loved who loved her?

Had she stolen more than a million dollars and used that ugly little gun?

She jolted when Cade set her plate in front of her, then settled when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

“You need to eat.” He went back to the stove, brought the cup he'd left there. “And I think tea's a better bet than coffee.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She picked up her fork, scooped up some eggs, tasted. “I like them.” She managed a smile again, a hesitant, shy smile that touched his heart. “That's something.”

He sat across from her with his mug of coffee. “I'm known throughout the civilized world for my scrambled eggs.”

Her smile steadied, bloomed. “I can see why. The little dashes of dill and paprika are inspired.”

“Wait till you taste my Spanish omelets.”

“Master of the egg.” She continued to eat, comforted by the easy warmth she felt between them. “Do you cook a lot?”

She glanced around the kitchen. Stone-colored cabinets and warm, light wood. An uncurtained window over a double sink of white porcelain. Coffeemaker, toaster, jumbled sections of the morning paper.

The room was neat, she observed, but not obsessively so. And it was a marked contrast to the clutter and mess of his office. “I never asked if you were married.”

“Divorced, and I cook when I'm tired of eating out.”

“I wonder what I do—eat out or cook.”

“You recognized paprika and dill when you tasted them.” Leaning back, he sipped his coffee
and studied her. “You're beautiful.” Her gaze flicked up, startled and, he noted, instantly wary. “Just an observation, Bailey. We have to work with what we know. You are beautiful—it's quiet, understated, nothing that seems particularly contrived or enhanced. You don't go for the flashy, and you don't take a compliment on your looks casually. In fact, I've just made you very nervous.”

She picked up her cup, held it in both hands. “Are you trying to?”

“No, but it's interesting and sweet—the way you blush and eye me suspiciously at the same time. You can relax, I'm not hitting on you.” But it was a thought, he admitted, a fascinating and arousing thought. “I don't think you're a pushover, either,” he continued. “I doubt a man would get very far with you just by telling you that you have eyes like warm brandy, and that the contrast between them and that cool, cultured voice packs a hell of a sexual impact.”

She lifted her cup and, though it took an effort, kept her gaze level with his. “It sounds very much like you're hitting on me.”

His dimples flashed with charm when he grinned. “See, not a pushover. But polite, very
polite and well mannered. There's New England in your voice, Bailey.”

Staring, she lowered the cup again. “New England?”

“Connecticut, Massachusetts—I'm not sure. But there's a whiff of Yankee society upbringing in your voice, especially when it turns cold.”

“New England.” She strained for a connection, some small link. “It doesn't mean anything to me.”

“It gives me another piece to work with. You've got class written all over you. You were born with it, or you developed it, either way it's there.” He rose, took her plate. “And so's the exhaustion. You need to sleep.”

“Yes.” The thought of going back to that hotel room had her forcing back a shudder. “Should I call your office, set up another appointment? I wrote down the number of the hotel and room where I'm staying. You could call me if you find anything.”

“You're not going back there.” He had her hand again, drew her to her feet and began to lead her out of the kitchen. “You can stay here. There's plenty of room.”

“Here?”

“I think it's best if you're where I can keep an
eye on you, at least for the time being.” Back in the foyer, he led her up the stairs. “It's a safe, quiet neighborhood, and until we figure out how you got your hands on a million two and a diamond as big as your fist, I don't want you wandering the streets.”

“You don't know me.”

“Neither do you. That's something else we're going to work on.”

He opened the door to a room where the dim light flickered quietly through lace curtains onto a polished oak floor. A little seating area of button-back chairs and a piecrust table was arranged in front of a fireplace where a fern thrived in the hearth. A wedding-ring quilt was spread over a graceful four poster, plumped invitingly with pillows.

“Take a nap,” he advised. “There's a bath through there, and I'll dig up something for you to change into after you've rested.”

She felt the tears backing up again, scoring her throat with a mixture of fear and gratitude and outrageous fatigue. “Do you invite all your clients into your home as houseguests?”

“No.” He touched her cheek and, because he wanted to gather her close, feel how her head would settle on his shoulder, dropped his hand
again. “Just the ones who need it. I'm going to be downstairs. I've got some things to do.”

“Cade.” She reached for his hand, held it a moment. “Thank you. It looks like I picked the right name out of the phone book.”

“Get some sleep. Let me do the worrying for a while.”

“I will. Don't close the door,” she said quickly when he stepped out into the hall.

He pushed it open again, studied her standing there in the patterned light, looking so delicate, so lost. “I'll be right downstairs.”

She listened to his footsteps recede before sinking down on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. It might be foolish to trust him, to put her life in his hands as completely as she had. But she did trust him. Not only because her world consisted only of him and what she'd told him, but because every instinct inside her told her this was a man she could depend on.

Perhaps it was just blind faith and desperate hope, but at the moment she didn't think she could survive another hour without both. So her future depended on Cade Parris, on his ability to handle her present and his skill in unearthing her past.

She slipped off her shoes, took off her jacket
and folded it on the bench. Almost dizzy with fatigue, she climbed into bed and lay atop the quilt, and was asleep the moment her cheek met the pillow.

 

Downstairs, Cade lifted Bailey's prints from her teacup. He had the connections to have them run quickly and discreetly. If she had a record or had ever worked for the government, he'd have her IDed easily.

He'd check with missing persons, see if anyone matching her description had been reported. That, too, was easy.

The money and the diamond offered another route. The theft of a gem of that size was bound to make news. He needed to verify the facts Bailey had given him on the stone, then do some research.

He needed to check the registration on the gun, too—and check his sources on recent homicides or shootings with a .38.

All those steps would be more effective if done in person. But he didn't want to leave her on her own just yet. She might panic and take off, and he wasn't going to risk losing her.

It was just as possible that she would wake up from her nap, remember who she was and go back
to her own life before he had a chance to save her.

He very much wanted to save her.

While he locked the bag in his library safe, booted up his computer, scribbled his notes, he reminded himself that she might have a husband, six kids, twenty jealous lovers, or a criminal record as long as Pennsylvania Avenue. But he just didn't care.

She was his damsel in distress, and damn it, he was keeping her.

He made his calls, arranged to have the prints messengered over to his contact at the police station. The little favor was going to cost him a bottle of unblended Scotch, but Cade accepted that nothing was free.

“By the way, Mick, you got anything on a jewelry heist? A big one?”

Cade could clearly imagine Detective Mick Marshall pushing through his paperwork, phone cocked at his ear to block out the noise of the bullpen, his tie askew, his wiry red hair sticking up in spikes from a face set in a permanent scowl.

“You got something, Parris?”

“Just a rumor,” Cade said easily. “If something big went down, I could use a link to the insurance company. Got to pay the rent, Mick.”

“Hell, I don't know why you don't buy the building in the first place, then tear the rattrap down, rich boy.”

“I'm eccentric—that's what they call rich boys who pal around with people like you. So, what do you know?”

“Haven't heard a thing.”

“Okay. I've got a Smith and Wesson .38 special.” Cade rattled off the serial number as he turned the gun in his hand. “Run it for me, will you?”

“Two bottles of Scotch, Parris.”

“What are friends for? How's Doreen?”

“Sassy as ever. Ever since you brought her over those damn tulips, I haven't heard the end of it. Like I got time to pluck posies before I go home every night. I ought to make it three bottles of Scotch.”

“You find out anything about an important gem going missing, Mick, I'll buy you a case. I'll be talking to you.”

Cade hung up the phone and stared malevolently at his computer. Man and machine were simply going to have to come to terms for this next bit of research.

It took him what he estimated was three times as long as it would the average twelve-year-old to
insert the CD-ROM, search, and find what he was after.

Amnesia.

Cade drank another cup of coffee and learned more about the human brain than he'd ever wanted to know. For a short, uncomfortable time, he feared Bailey had a tumor. That he might have one, as well. He experienced a deep personal concern for his brain stem, then reconfirmed why he hadn't gone into medicine as his mother hoped.

The human body, with all its tricks and ticking time bombs, was just too scary. He'd much rather face a loaded gun than the capriciousness of his own internal organs.

He finally concluded, with some relief, that it was unlikely Bailey had a tumor. All signs pointed to hysterical amnesia, which could resolve itself within hours of the trauma, or take weeks. Months. Even years.

Which put them, he thought, solidly back at square one. The handy medical CD that had come with his computer indicated that amnesia was a symptom, rather than a disease, and that treatment involved finding and removing the cause.

That was where he came in. It seemed to Cade that a detective was every bit as qualified as a doctor to deal with Bailey's problem.