Stars of Mithra Box Set: Captive StarHidden StarSecret Star

by Nora Roberts

“Probably not.” But M.J.’s smile was weak as they came back around to the front. “I want to go in, Jack. I have to go in.”

  “Let’s take a look.” He climbed the porch steps, found the front door locked. “She got a hidey-hole for a key?”

  “No.” Despite the miserable heat, she rubbed her hands over her chilled arms. Too quiet, was all she could think. It was much too quiet. “She used to keep an extra for the Potomac house, in this flowerpot outside the door, but her cousin Melissa found it and made herself at home while Grace was in Milan. Really ticked her off.”

  He crouched, examined the locks. “She’s got good ones. Simpler to break a window.”

  “You’re not breaking one of her windows.”

  He sighed, rose. “I was afraid you’d say that. Okay, we do it the hard way.”

  While she frowned, he went back to his car, popped the trunk. Inside, it was loaded with tools, clothes, books, water jugs and paperwork. He pushed around, selected what he needed.

  “Does she have an alarm system?”

  “No. Not that I know of, anyway.” M.J. studied the leather pouch. “What are you going to do?”

  “Pop the locks. It may take a while, I’m rusty.” But he rubbed his hands together, anticipating the challenge. “You could go around, check the other doors and windows, just in case she left something unlocked.”

  “If she locked one, she locked them all. But okay.”

  She circled around again, pausing at each window, tugging, then peering in. By the time she’d made a complete circuit, Jack was on the second lock.

  Intrigued, she watched him finesse it. It was cooler here than in the city, but the heat was still nasty. Sweat dampened his shirt, gleamed on his throat.

  “Can you teach me to do that?” she asked him.

  “Ssh!” He wiped his hands on his jeans, took a firmer hold on his pick. “Got it.” He stood, swiped an arm over his brow. “Cold shower,” he murmured. “Cold beer. I’ll kiss your pal’s feet if she’s got both.”

  “Grace doesn’t drink beer.” But M.J. was pushing in the door ahead of him.

  The living area was homey, tidy but still lived-in, with its wide striped sofa, the deep chairs that picked up the rich blue tones. In the brick fire-place, a lush green fern rose out of a brass spittoon.

  M.J. moved quickly through the rooms, over wide-planked chestnut floors and Berber rugs, into the sunny kitchen, with its forest green counters and white tiles, through to the cozy parlor Grace had turned into a library.

  The house seemed to echo around her, as she raced upstairs, looked in the bedrooms, the baths.

  Grace’s gleaming brass bed was tidily made, the handmade lace spread she’d purchased in Ireland accented with rich dots of colorful pillows. A book on gardening lay on the nightstand.

  The bathroom was empty, the ivory shell of the sink scrubbed clean and shining in its powder blue counter. Towels were neatly folded on the shelves on a tall wicker stand.

  Knowing it was useless, she looked in the bedroom closet. It was ridiculously full and ruthlessly organized.

  “They’re not here, M.J.” Jack touched her shoulder, but she jerked away.

  “I can see that, can’t I?” Her voice snapped out, broke like a rigid twig. “But Grace was here. She was just here. I can still smell her.” She closed her eyes, drew in the air. “Her perfume. It hasn’t faded yet. That’s her scent. Some fragrance tycoon who fell for her had it designed for her. I can smell her in here.”

  “Okay.” He caught the scent himself, classy sex with wild undertones. “Maybe she ran into town for supplies, or took a drive.”

  “No.” She walked away from him, toward the window as she spoke. “She wouldn’t have locked the house up for that. She always says how lovely it is not to worry about locking up out here. She only does when she closes the place up and heads somewhere else. Bailey isn’t here. Grace isn’t here, and she’s not planning on coming back for a while. We’ve missed her.”

  “Back to Potomac?”

  She shook her head. The tightness in her chest was unbearable, as if greedy hands were squeezing her heart and lungs. “Not likely. She’d avoid the city on the Fourth. Too much traffic, too many tourists. That’s why I was sure she’d stay through until tomorrow at least. She could be anywhere.”

  “Which means she’ll surface somewhere.” He started toward her, caught the gleam on her cheek and stopped dead, like a man who’d run facefirst into a glass wall. “What are you doing? Are you crying?” It was an accusation, delivered in a voice edged with abject terror.

  M.J. merely wrapped her arms over her chest and hugged her elbows. All the excitement, the tension, the frustration, of the search fell away into sheer despair.

  The house was empty.

  “I want you to stop that. Right now. I mean it. Sniveling isn’t going to do you any good.” And it certainly wasn’t going to do him any good. It terrified him, left him feeling stupid, clumsy and annoyed.

  “Just leave me alone,” she said, and her voice broke on a muffled sob. “Just go away.”

  “That’s just what I’m going to do. You keep that up, and I’m walking. I mean it. I’m not standing around and watching you blubber. Get a grip on yourself. Haven’t you got any pride?”

  At the moment, pride was low on her list. Giving up, she pressed her brow to the window glass and let the tears fall.

  “I’m walking, M.J.” He snarled at her and turned for the door. “I’m getting a drink and a shower. So when you’ve got yourself in order, we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  “Then go. Just go.”

  He made it as far as the threshold, then, swearing ripely, whirled back. “I don’t need this,” he muttered.

  He hadn’t a clue how to handle a woman’s tears, particularly those from a strong woman who was obviously at the end of her endurance. He cursed her again as he turned her into his arms, folded her into them. He continued to swear at her as he picked her up, sat with her in a wide-backed chair.

  He rocked and cursed and stroked.

  “Get it over with, then.” Kissed her temple. “Please. You’re killing me.”

  “I’m afraid.” Her breath hitched as she turned her face into his shoulder. His strong, broad shoulder. “I’m so tired and afraid.”

  “I know.” He kissed her hair, held her closer. “I know.”

  “I couldn’t stand for anything to happen to them. I just can’t bear it.”

  “Don’t.” He tightened his grip, as if he could strangle off those hot, terrifying tears. But his mouth skimmed up her cheek, found hers, and was tender. “It’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be all right.” He brushed at her tears clumsily with his thumbs. “I promise.”

  Eyes brimming, she stared into his. “I was just so sure they’d be here.”

  “I know.” He brushed the hair back from her face. “You’ve got a right to break down. I don’t know anyone else who’d have made it this far without a blowout. But don’t cry anymore, M.J. It rips me up.”

  “I hate to cry.” She sniffled, knuckled tears away. “I’m glad to hear it.” He took her hands, kissed them both this time, without that moment of surprise. “Think about this. She was here to day, maybe as little as an hour ago. She’s tidied up, locked up. Which means she was just fine when she left.”

  She let out an unsteady breath, drew in another. “You’re right. I’m not thinking straight.”

  “That’s because you need a break. A decent meal, a little rest.”

  “Yeah.” But she laid her head against his shoulder again. “Can we just sit here for a little while. Just sit like this?”

  “Sure.” It was easy to wrap his arms around her, hold her close. And just sit.

  Chapter 10

  He told her it didn’t make sense to drive back to the city, fight the traffic generated by fireworks fans. Not when they had a perfectly good place to stay the night.

  The fact was, he thought, if she’d broken down once, she co
uld easily do so again. And a decent meal, along with a decent night’s sleep, might shore up some holes in her composure.

  In any case, they’d been in the car for more than five hours that day already, after little more than an hour’s sleep. Driving straight back was bound to make them both feel as though the effort to find Grace’s house had been wasted.

  And he wanted time to work on a plan that was beginning to form in his mind.

  “Take a shower,” he told her. “Borrow a shirt or something from your pal. You’ll feel better.”

  “It couldn’t hurt.” She managed a smile. “I thought you wanted a shower? Don’t you want to conserve water?”

  “Well…” It was tempting. He could envision himself getting under a cool spray with her, lathering up—lathering her up—and letting nature take its very interesting course.

  And it also occurred to him that she hadn’t had five full minutes of privacy in hours. It was about all he had the power to give her at the moment.

  “I’m going to hunt up a drink. See if your friend has some cans around here I can open.” He kissed the tip of her nose affectionately. “Go ahead and get started without me.”

  “Okay, you can hunt me up a drink while you’re at it, but you’re not going to find any beer in the fridge. And God knows what she’s got in cans around here.”

  M.J. headed for the bath, stopped, turned. “Jack? Thanks for letting me get it out.”

  He tucked his hands in his pockets. Her eyes, those exotically tilted cat’s eyes, were still swollen from weeping, and her cheeks were pale with fatigue. “I guess you needed to.”

  “I did, and you didn’t make me feel like too much of a jerk. So thanks,” she said again, and stepped into the bath.

  She stripped gratefully, all put peeling cotton and denim away from her clammy, overheated skin. The simple style Grace had chosen for the rest of the house didn’t follow through to the master bath. This was pure self-indulgence.

  The tiles were soft blue and misty green, so that it was like stepping into a cool seaside glade. The tub was an oversize lake of white, fueled with water jets and framed by a wide lip where more ferns grew lushly in biscuit-toned pots.

  The acre of counter boasted a cutout for a vanity stool and held a brass makeup mirror. Overhead was a garden of tulip-shaped lights of frosted glass. Doors holding linens and sheet-size towels were mirrored, tossing the room back and giving the illusion of enormous, luxurious space.

  Though M.J. briefly considered the tub, and the bubbling jets, she stepped instead toward the wavy glass block of the shower enclosure. Her showerheads were set in three sides at varying levels. With a need for pampering, M.J. turned them all on full, then, after one enormous sigh, helped herself to some of Grace’s pricey soap and shampoo.

  And the fragrance made her weepy again. It was so Grace.

  But she refused to cry, already regretted her earlier tears. They helped nothing. Practicalities did, she reminded herself. A shower, a meal, a respite from activity for a brief time, would all serve to clear the brain. Undoubtedly, she needed a few hours’ sleep to recharge. It wasn’t just the crying jag that made her feel woozy and weak, she imagined.

  Something had to be done, some move had to be made, and quickly. To make it, she needed to be sharp and to be ready.

  It hardly mattered that it hadn’t been much more than a day that had passed. Every hour she lived through without being able to contact either Bailey or Grace was one short, tense lifetime.

  Things had to be settled, her world had to be set right again. And then she would have to face whatever was happening, and whatever would happen, between her and Jack.

  She was in love with him, there was no doubt of that. The speed with which she’d fallen only increased the intensity of the emotion. She’d never felt for any man what she felt for him—this emotion that cut clean through the bone. And melded with the feeling of passion, which she could have dismissed, was a sense of absolute trust, an odd and deep affection, a prideful respect, and the certainty that she could pass the years of her life with him—if not in harmony, in contentment.

  She understood him, she realized as she held her face under the highest spray. She doubted he knew that, but it was absolutely true. She understood his loneliness, his scarred-over pain, and his pride in his own skills.

  He had kindness and cynicism, patience and impulse. He had a questing intellect, a touch of the poet—and more than a touch of the nonconformist. He lived his own way, making his own rules and breaking them when he chose.

  She would have wanted no less in a life partner.

  And that was what worried her. Finding herself thinking of marriage, permanence and making a family with a man who so obviously ran from all three, and had run from them most of his life.

  But perhaps, since those concepts had bloomed so recently in her, she could nip them in the bud. She had a business of her own, a life of her own. Wanting Jack to be a part of that didn’t have to change the basic order of things.

  She hoped.

  She switched off the showerheads, toweled off and, because it was there, slathered on some of Grace’s silky body cream. And felt nearly human again. Rubbing a towel over her hair, she padded naked into the bedroom to raid the closet.

  At least in the country Grace’s choice of attire ran toward the simple. M.J. slipped on a short-sleeved shirt of minute white-and-blue checks and found a pair of cotton shorts in the bureau. They bagged a little. Grace was still built like the centerfold she’d once been, and M.J. had no hips to speak of. They also ran short, as M.J. had several inches more leg than her friend.

  But they were cool, and when she slid them on she stopped feeling like a woman who’d been living in her clothes for two days.

  She started to toss the towel aside, then rolled her eyes when she thought of how Grace would react to that. Fastidiously she went back to the bath and draped it over the shower. Then, in bare feet, her hair still damp and curling around her face, she went in search of Jack.

  “I not only started without you,” she said when she found him in the kitchen, “I finished without you. You’re slow, Dakota.”

  Still frowning at the small jar in his hand, he turned. “All I found was…” And trailed off, staggered.

  He’d told himself she wasn’t beautiful, and that was true. But she was striking. The impact of her slammed into him anew, those sharp, sexy looks, the long, long legs set off by tiny blue shorts. She had her thumbs tucked in the front pockets of them, a half-cocked grin on her face, and her hair was dark and damp and curling foolishly over her ears.

  His mouth simply watered.

  “You clean up good, sugar.”

  “It’s hard not to, in that fancy shower of Grace’s. Wait till you get a load of it.” She angled her head as a nice flush of heat began to work up from her toes. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that, Jack. You’ve seen me naked.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I’ve got a weakness for long women in little shorts.” He lifted a brow. “Did you borrow any of her underwear?”

  “No. Some things even close friends don’t share. Men and underwear being the top two.”

  He set the jar down. “In that case—”

  She shot a hand up, slapped in on his chest. “I don’t think so, pal. You don’t exactly smell like roses at the moment. And besides, I’m hungry.”

  “The woman gets cleaned up, she gets picky.” But he ran a hand over his chin again, reminded himself to get his shaving kit out of the trunk this time. “There’s not a hell of a lot to choose from around here. She’s got fancy French bubbly in the fridge, more fancy French wine in a rack in the closet over there. Some crackers in tins, some pasta in glass jars. I found some tomato paste, which I guess is embryonic spaghetti sauce.”

  “Does that mean one of us has to cook?”

  “I’m afraid it does.”

  They considered each other for ten full seconds.

  “Okay,” he decided. “We flip for it.�
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  “Fair enough. Heads, you cook,” she said as he dug out a quarter. “Tails, I cook. Either way, I have a feeling we’ll be looking for her antacid.”

  She hissed when the quarter turned up tails. “Isn’t there anything else? Something we can just eat out of a can or jar?”

  “You cook,” he said, but held out a jar. “And there’s fish eggs.”

  She blew out a breath as she studied the jar of beluga. “You don’t like caviar?”

  “Give me a trout, fry it up, and that’s dandy. What the hell do I want to eat eggs that some fish has laid?” But he tossed her the jar. “Help yourself. I’ll go clean up while you do something with that tomato paste.”

  “You probably won’t like it,” she said darkly, but dug out a pan as he wandered off.

  Thirty minutes later, he wandered in again. His hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven. The smells coming from the simmering pan weren’t half-bad, he decided. The kitchen door was open, and there was M.J., sitting out on the patio, cramming a caviar-loaded cracker in her mouth.

  “Not too bad,” she said over it when she saw him. “You just pretend it’s something else, then wash it down with this.” She sipped champagne, shrugged. “Grace goes for this stuff. Always did. It was the way she was raised.”

  “Environment can twist a person,” he agreed, then opened his mouth and let M.J. ram a cracker in. He grimaced, snagged her glass and downed it. “A hot dog and a nice dark beer.”

  She sighed, perfectly in tune with him. “Yeah, well, beggars can’t be choosers, pal. It’s nice out here. Cooled off some. But you know the trouble? You just can’t hear anything. No traffic, no voices, no movement. It kind of creeps me out.”

  “People that live in places like this don’t really like being around other people.” He was hungry enough to load up a cracker for himself. “You and me, M.J., we’re social animals. We’re at our best in a crowded room.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I work the pub most nights. I like the busy hours.” She brooded, looking off to where the sun was sinking fast behind the trees.

  “Tonight would be slow. Sunday, holiday. Everybody’ll be wondering where I am. I’ve got a good head waitress, though. She’ll handle it.”