by Nora Roberts
Now she opened her eyes, looked into his. “I saw my face in the mirror. This ugly little mirror with black splotches where it needed to be resilvered. And it meant nothing to me. The face.” She lifted a hand, ran it over her cheek, her jaw. “My face meant nothing to me. I couldn’t remember the name that went with the face, or the thoughts or the plans or the past. I didn’t know how I’d gotten to that horrid room. I looked through the drawers and the closet, but there was nothing. No clothes. I was afraid to stay there, but I didn’t know where to go.”
“The bag? Was that all you had with you?”
“Yes.” Her hand clutched at the straps again. “No purse, no wallet, no keys. This was in my pocket.” She reached into the pocket of her jacket and took out a small scrap of notepaper.
Cade took it from her, skimmed the quick scrawling writing.
Bailey, Sat at 7, right? MJ
“I don’t know what it means. I saw a newspaper. Today’s Friday.”
“Mmm. Write it down,” Cade said, handing her a pad and pen.
“What?”
“Write down what it says on the note.”
“Oh.” Gnawing her lip again, she complied.
Though he didn’t have to compare the two to come to his conclusions, he took the pad from her, set it and the note side by side. “Well, you’re not M.J., so I’d say you’re Bailey.”
She blinked, swallowed. “What?”
“From the look of M.J.’s writing, he or she’s a lefty. You’re right-handed. You’ve got neat, simple penmanship, M.J.’s got an impatient scrawl. The note was in your pocket. Odds are you’re Bailey.”
“Bailey.” She tried to absorb the name, the hope of it, the feel and taste of identity. But it was dry and unfamiliar. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means we have something to call you, and someplace to start. Tell me what you did next.”
Distracted she blinked at him. “Oh, I… There was a phone book in the room. I looked up detective agencies.”
“Why’d you pick mine?”
“The name. It sounded strong.” She managed her first smile, and though it was weak, it was there. “I started to call, but then I thought I might get put off, and if I just showed up… So I waited in the room until it was office hours, then I walked for a little while, then I got a cab. And here I am.”
“Why didn’t you go to a hospital? Call a doctor?”
“I thought about it.” She looked down at her hands. “I just didn’t.”
She was leaving out big chunks, he mused. Going around his desk, he opened a drawer, pulled out a candy bar. “You didn’t say anything about stopping for breakfast.” He watched her study the candy he offered with puzzlement and what appeared to be amusement. “This’ll hold you until we can do better.”
“Thank you.” With neat, precise movements, she unwrapped the chocolate bar. Maybe part of the fluttering in her stomach was hunger. “Mr. Parris, I may have people worried about me. Family, friends. I may have a child. I don’t know.” Her eyes deepened, fixed on a point over his shoulder. “I don’t think I do. I can’t believe anyone could forget her own child. But people may be worried, wondering what happened to me. Why I didn’t come home last night.”
“You could have gone to the police.”
“I didn’t want to go to the police.” This time, her voice was clipped, definite. “Not until… No, I don’t want to involve the police.” She wiped her fingers on a fresh tissue, then began to tear it into strips. “Someone may be looking for me who isn’t a friend, who isn’t family. Who isn’t concerned with my well-being. I don’t know why I feel that way, I only know I’m afraid. It’s more than just not remembering. But I can’t understand anything, any of it, until I know who I am.”
Maybe it was those big, soft, moist eyes staring up at him, or the damsel-in-distress nerves of her restless hands. Either way, he couldn’t resist showing off, just a little.
“I can tell you a few things already. You’re an intelligent woman, early-to-mid-twenties. You have a good eye for color and style, and enough of a bankroll to indulge it with Italian shoes and silk suits. You’re neat, probably organized. You prefer the understated to the obvious. Since you don’t evade well, I’d say you’re an equally poor liar. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, you think things through. You don’t panic easily. And you like chocolate.”
She balled the empty candy wrapper in her hand. “Why do you assume all that?”
“You speak well, even when you’re frightened. You thought about how you were going to handle this and went through all the steps, logically. You dress well—quality over flair. You have a good manicure, but no flashy polish. Your jewelry is unique, interesting, but not ornate. And you’ve been holding back information since you walked through the door because you haven’t decided yet how much you’re going to trust me.”
“How much should I trust you?”
“You came to me.”
She acknowledged that, rose and walked to his window. The rain drummed, underscoring the vague headache that hovered just behind her eyes. “I don’t recognize the city,” she murmured. “Yet I feel I should. I know where I am, because I saw a newspaper, the Washington Post. I know what the White House and the Capitol look like. I know the monuments—but I could have seen them on television, or in a book.”
Though it was wet from incoming rain, she rested her hands on the sill, appreciated the coolness there. “I feel as though I dropped out of nowhere into that ugly hotel room. Still, I know how to read and write and walk and talk. The cabdriver had the radio on, and I recognized music. I recognized trees. I wasn’t surprised that rain was wet. I smelled burned coffee when I came in, and it wasn’t an unfamiliar odor. I know your eyes are green. And when the rain clears, I know the sky will be blue.”
She sighed once. “So I didn’t drop out of nowhere. There are things I know, things I’m sure of. But my own face means nothing to me, and what’s behind the face is blank. I may have hurt someone, done something. I may be selfish and calculating, even cruel. I may have a husband I cheat on or neighbors I’ve alienated.”
She turned back then, and her face was tight and set, a tough contrast to the fragility of lashes still wet from tears. “I don’t know if I’m going to like who you find when you find me, Mr. Parris, but I need to know.” She set the bag on his desk, hesitated briefly, then opened it. “I think I have enough to meet your fee.”
He came from money, the kind that aged and increased and propagated over generations. But even with his background, he’d never seen so much in one place at one time. The canvas bag was filled with wrapped stacks of hundred-dollar bills—all crisp and clean. Fascinated, Cade took out a stack, flipped through. Yes, indeed, he mused, every one of the bills had Ben Franklin’s homely and dignified face.
“I’d have to guess about a million,” he murmured.
“One million, two hundred thousand.” Bailey shuddered as she looked into the bag. “I counted the stacks. I don’t know where I got it or why I had it with me. I may have stolen it.”
Tears began to swim again as she turned away. “It could be ransom money. I could be involved in a kidnapping. There could be a child somewhere, being held, and I’ve taken the ransom money. I just—”
“Let’s add a vivid imagination to those other qualities.”
It was the cool and casual tone of his voice that had her turning back. “There’s a fortune in there.”
“A million two isn’t much of a fortune these days.” He dropped the money back in the bag. “And I’m sorry, Bailey, you just don’t fit the cold, calculating kidnapper type.”
“But you can check. You can find out, discreetly, if there’s been an abduction.”
“Sure. If the cops are involved, I can get something.”
“And if there’s been a murder?” Struggling to stay calm, she reached into the bag again. This time she took out a .38.
A cautious man, Cade nudged the barrel aside, took it from her.
It was a Smith and Wesson, and at his quick check, he discovered it was fully loaded. “How’d this feel in your hand?”
“I don’t understand.”
“How’d it feel when you picked it up? The weight, the shape?”
Though she was baffled by the question, she did her best to answer thoroughly. “Not as heavy as I thought it should. It seemed that something that had that kind of power would have more weight, more substance. I suppose it felt awkward.”
“The pen didn’t.”
This time she simply dragged her hands through her hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve just shown you over a million dollars and a gun. You’re talking about pens.”
“When I handed you a pen to write, it didn’t feel awkward. You didn’t have to think about it. You just took it and used it.” He smiled a little and slipped the gun into his pocket, instead of the bag. “I think you’re a lot more accustomed to holding a pen than a .38 special.”
There was some relief in that, the simple logic of it. But it didn’t chase away all the clouds. “Maybe you’re right. It doesn’t mean I didn’t use it.”
“No, it doesn’t. And since you’ve obviously put your hands all over it, we can’t prove you didn’t. I can check and see if it’s registered and to whom.”
Her eyes lit with hope. “It could be mine.” She reached out, took his hand, squeezed it in a gesture that was thoughtless and natural. “We’d have a name then. I’d know my name then. I didn’t realize it could be so simple.”
“It may be simple.”
“You’re right.” She released his hand, began to pace. Her movements were smooth, controlled. “I’m getting ahead of myself. But it helps so much you see, so much more than I imagined, just to tell someone. Someone who knows how to figure things out. I don’t know if I’m very good at puzzles. Mr. Parris—”
“Cade,” he said, intrigued that he could find her economical movements so sexy. “Let’s keep it simple.”
“Cade.” She drew in a breath, let it out. “It’s nice to call someone by name. You’re the only person I know, the only person I remember having a conversation with. I can’t tell you how odd that is, and, right now, how comforting.”
“Why don’t we make me the first person you remember having a meal with? One candy bar isn’t much of a breakfast. You look worn out, Bailey.”
It was so odd to hear him use that name when he looked at her. Because it was all she had, she struggled to respond to it. “I’m tired,” she admitted. “It doesn’t feel as if I’ve slept very much. I don’t know when I’ve eaten last.”
“How do you feel about scrambled eggs?”
The smile wisped around her mouth again. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Well, let’s find out.” He started to pick up the canvas bag, but she laid a hand over his on the straps.
“There’s something else.” She didn’t speak for a moment, but kept her eyes on his, as she had when she first walked in. Searching, measuring, deciding. But there was, she knew, really no choice. He was all she had. “Before I show you, I need to ask for a promise.”
“You hire me, Bailey, I work for you.”
“I don’t know if what I’m going to ask is completely ethical, but I still need your word. If during the course of your investigation you discover that I’ve committed a crime, I need your word that you’ll find out everything you can, all the circumstances, all the facts, before you turn me over to the police.”
He angled his head. “You assume I’ll turn you in.”
“If I’ve broken the law, I’ll expect you to turn me over to the police. But I need all the reasons before you do. I need to understand all the whys, the hows, the who. Will you give me your word on that?”
“Sure.” He took the hand she held out. It was delicate as porcelain, steady as a rock. And she, he thought, whoever she was, was a fascinating combination of the fragile and the steely. “No cops until we know all of it. You can trust me, Bailey.”
“You’re trying to make me comfortable with the name.” Again, without thinking, in a move that was as innate as the color of her eyes, she kissed his cheek. “You’re very kind.”
Kind enough, she thought, that he would hold her now if she asked. And she so desperately wanted to be held, soothed, to be promised that her world would snap back into focus again at any moment. But she needed to stand on her own. She could only hope she was the kind of woman who stood on her own feet and faced her own problems.
“There’s one more thing.” She turned to the canvas bag again, slid her hand deep inside, felt for the thick velvet pouch, the weight of what was snugged inside it. “I think it’s probably the most important thing.”
She drew it out and very carefully, with what he thought of as reverence, untied the pouch and slid its contents into the cup of her palm.
The money had surprised him, the gun had concerned him. But this awed him. The gleam of it, the regal glint, even in the rain-darkened room, held a stunning and sumptuous power.
The gem filled the palm of her hand, its facets clean and sharp enough to catch even the faintest flicker of light and shoot it into the air in bright, burning lances. It belonged, he thought, on the crown of a mythical queen, or lying heavily between the breasts of some ancient goddess.
“I’ve never seen a sapphire that big.”
“It isn’t a sapphire.” And when she passed it to his hand, she would have sworn she felt the exchange of heat. “It’s a blue diamond, somewhere around a hundred carats. Brilliant-cut, most likely from Asia Minor. There are no inclusions visible to the naked eye, and it is rare in both color and size. I’d have to guess its market worth at easily three times the amount of money in the bag.”
He wasn’t looking at the gem any longer, but at her. When she lifted her eyes to his, she shook her head. “I don’t know how I know. But I do. Just as I know it’s not all…it’s not…complete.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wish I knew. But it’s too strong a feeling, an almost-recognition. I know the stone is only part of the whole. Just as I know it can’t possibly belong to me. It doesn’t really belong to anyone. Any one,” she repeated, separating the word into two. “I must have stolen it.”
She pressed her lips together, lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. “I might have killed for it.”
Chapter 2
Cade 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, pull
ing 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 personality 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?