by Nora Roberts
“Yes, I’ll be fine.”
“I need you to promise you won’t leave the house, Bailey.”
She lifted her hands. “Where would I go?”
He put his hands on her shoulders, waited until her gaze lifted to his. “Promise me you won’t leave the house.”
“All right. I promise.”
“I won’t be long.” He walked to the door, paused. “And, Bailey? Think about it.”
She caught the gleam in his eyes before he turned that told her he didn’t mean the circumstances that had brought her to him. When she walked to the window, watched him get in his car and drive away, she was already thinking about it. About him.
Someone else was thinking about her. Thinking dark, vengeful thoughts. She had slipped through his fingers, and, with her, the prize and the power he most coveted.
He’d already exacted a price for incompetence, but it was hardly enough. She would be found, and when she was, she’d pay a much higher price. Her life, certainly, but that was insignificant.
There would be pain first, and great fear. That would satisfy.
The money he had lost was nothing, almost as insignificant as the life of one foolish woman. But she had what he needed, what was meant to be long to him. And he would take back his own.
There were three. Individually they were priceless, but together their value went beyond the imaginable. Already he had taken steps to recover the two she had foolishly attempted to hide from him.
It would take a little time, naturally, but he would have them back. It was important to be careful, to be cautious, to be certain of the recovery, and that whatever violence was necessary remained distant from him.
But soon two pieces of the triangle would be his, two ancient stars, with all their beauty and light and potency.
He sat in the room he’d had built for his treasures, those acquired, stolen or taken with blood. Jewels and paintings, statuary and precious pelts, gleamed and sparkled in his Aladdin’s cave of secrets.
The altarlike stand he’d designed to hold his most coveted possession was empty and waiting.
But soon…
He would have the two, and when he had the third he would be immortal.
And the woman would be dead.
Chapter 3
It was her body in the mirror, Bailey told herself, and she’d better start getting used to it. In the glass, fogged from her shower, her skin looked pale and smooth. Self-consciously she laid a hand against her breast.
Long fingers, short trimmed nails, rather small breasts. Her arms were a little thin, she noted with a frown. Maybe she should start thinking about working out to build them up.
There didn’t seem to be any excess flab at the waist or hips, so perhaps she got some exercise. And there was some muscle tone in the thighs.
Her skin was pale, without tan lines.
What was she—about five-four? She wished she were taller. It seemed if a woman was going to begin her life at twenty-something, she ought to be able to pick her body type. Fuller breasts and longer legs would have been nice.
Amused at herself, she turned, twisted her head to study the rear view. And her mouth dropped open. There was a tattoo on her butt.
What in the world was she doing with a tattoo of a—was that a unicorn?—on her rear end? Was she crazy? Body decoration was one thing, but on that particular part of the anatomy it meant that she had exposed that particular part of the anatomy to some needle-wielding stranger.
Did she drink too much?
Faintly embarrassed, she pulled on a towel and quickly left the misty bathroom.
She spent some time adjusting the jeans and shirt Cade had left her to get the best fit. Hung up her suit neatly, smoothed the quilt. Then she heaved a sigh and tunneled her fingers through her damp hair.
Cade had asked her to stay in the house, but he hadn’t asked her to stay in her room. She was going to be jittery again, thinking about bags of money, huge blue diamonds, murder and tattoos, if she didn’t find a distraction.
She wandered out, realizing she wasn’t uncomfortable in the house alone. She supposed it was a reflection of her feelings for Cade. He didn’t make her uncomfortable. From almost the first minute, she’d felt as though she could talk to him, depend on him.
And she imagined that was because she hadn’t talked to anyone else, and had no one else to depend on.
Nonetheless, he was a kind, considerate man. A smart, logical one, she supposed, or else he wouldn’t be a private investigator. He had a wonderful smile, full of fun, and eyes that paid attention. He had strength in his arms and, she thought, in his character.
And dimples that made her fingers itch to trace along them.
His bedroom. She gnawed on her lip as she stood in the doorway. It was rude to pry. She wondered if she were rude, careless with the feelings and privacy of others. But she needed something, anything, to fill all these blank spots. And he had left his door open.
She stepped over the threshold.
It was a wonderfully large room, and full of him. Jeans tossed over a chair, socks on the floor. She caught herself before she could pick them up and look for a hamper. Loose change and a couple of shirt buttons tossed on the dresser. A gorgeous antique chest of drawers that undoubtedly held all sorts of pieces of him.
She didn’t tug at the brass handles, but she wanted to.
The bed was big, unmade, and framed by the clean lines of Federal head-and footboards. The rumpled sheets were dark blue, and she didn’t quite resist running her fingers over them. They’d probably smell of him—that faintly minty scent.
When she caught herself wondering if he slept naked, heat stung her cheeks and she turned away.
There was a neat brick fireplace and a polished pine mantle. A silly brass cow stood on the hearth and made her smile. There were books messily tucked into a recessed shelf. Bailey studied the titles soberly, wondering which she might have read. He went heavy on mysteries and true crime, but there were familiar names. That made her feel better.
Without thinking, she picked up a used coffee mug and an empty beer bottle and carried them downstairs.
She hadn’t paid much attention to the house when they came in. It had all been so foggy, so distorted, in her mind. But now she studied the simple and elegant lines, the long, lovely windows, with their classic trim, the gleaming antiques.
The contrast between the gracious home and the second-rate office struck her, made her frown. She rinsed the mug in the sink, found the recycling bin for the bottle, then took herself on a tour.
It took her less than ten minutes to come to her conclusion. The man was loaded.
The house was full of treasures—museum-quality. Of that she was undeniably sure. She might not have understood the unicorn on her own rear end, but she understood the value of a Federal inlaid cherrywood slant-front desk. She couldn’t have said why.
She recognized Waterford vases, Georgian silver. The Limoges china in the dining room display cabinet. And she doubted very much if the Turner landscape was a copy.
She peeked out a window. Well-tended lawn, majestic old trees, roses in full bloom. Why would a man who could live in such a style choose to work in a crumbling building in a stuffy, cramped office?
Then she smiled. It seemed Cade Parris was as much a puzzle as she was herself. And that was a tremendous comfort.
She went back to the kitchen, hoping to make herself useful by making some iced tea or putting something together for lunch. When the phone rang, she jumped like a scalded cat. The answering machine clicked on, and Cade’s voice flowed out, calming her again: “You’ve reached 555-2396. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you.”
“Cade, this is becoming very irritating.” The woman’s voice was tight with impatience. “I’ve left a half a dozen messages at your office this morning, the least you can do is have the courtesy to return my calls. I sincerely doubt you’re so busy with what you loosely call your clients to speak to your own mother.” Th
ere was a sigh, long-suffering and loud. “I know very well you haven’t contacted Pamela about arrangements for this evening. You’ve put me in a very awkward position. I’m leaving for Dodie’s for bridge. You can reach me there until four. Don’t embarrass me, Cade. By the way, Muffy’s very annoyed with you.”
There was a decisive click. Bailey found herself clearing her throat. She felt very much as if she’d received that cool, deliberate tongue-lashing herself. And it made her wonder if she had a mother who nagged, who expected obedience. Who was worried about her.
She filled the teakettle, set it on the boil, dug up a pitcher. She was hunting up tea bags when the phone rang again.
“Well, Cade, this is Muffy. Mother tells me she still hasn’t been able to reach you. It’s obvious you’re avoiding our calls because you don’t want to face your own poor behavior. You know very well Camilla’s piano recital was last night. The least, the very least, you could have done was put in an appearance and pretended to have some family loyalty. Not that I expected any better from you. I certainly hope you have the decency to call Camilla and apologize. I refuse to speak to you again until you do.”
Click.
Bailey blew out a breath, rolled her eyes. Families, she thought, were obviously difficult and complex possessions. Then again, perhaps she had a brother herself and was just as, well…bitchy, as the wasp-tongued Muffy.
She set the tea to steep, then opened the refrigerator. There were eggs, and plenty of them. That made her smile. There was also a deli pack of honey-baked ham, some Swiss, and when she discovered plump beefsteak tomatoes, she decided she was in business.
She worried over the choice of mustard or mayo for a time and whether the tea should be sweetened or unsweetened. Every little detail was like a brick in the rebuilding of herself. As she was carefully slicing tomatoes, she heard the front door slam, and her mood brightened.
But when she started to call out, the words stuck in her throat. What if it wasn’t Cade? What if they’d found her? Come for her? Her hand tightened on the hilt of the knife as she edged toward the rear kitchen door. Fear, deep and uncontrollable, had sweat popping out in clammy pearls on her skin. Her heart flipped into her throat.
Running, running away from that sharp, hacking lightning. In the dark, with her own breath screaming in her head. Blood everywhere.
Her fingers tensed on the knob, turned it, as she prepared for flight or fight.
When Cade stepped in, a sob of relief burst out of her. The knife clattered on the floor as she launched herself into his arms. “It’s you. It is you.”
“Sure it is.” He knew he should feel guilty that fear had catapulted her against him, but he was only human. She smelled fabulous. “I told you you’re safe here, Bailey.”
“I know. I felt safe. But when I heard the door, I panicked for a minute.” She clung, wildly grateful to have him with her. Drawing her head back, she stared up at him. “I wanted to run, just run, when I heard the door and thought it could be someone else. I hate being such a coward, and not knowing what I should do. I can’t seem…to think.”
She trailed off, mesmerized. He was stroking her cheek as she babbled, his eyes intent on hers. Her arms were banded around his waist, all but fused there. The hand that had smoothed through her hair was cupped at the base of her neck now, fingers gently kneading.
He waited, saw the change in her eyes. His lips curved, just enough to have her heart quiver before he lowered his head and gently touched them to hers.
Oh, lovely… That was her first thought. It was lovely to be held so firmly, to be tasted so tenderly. This was a kiss, this sweet meeting of lips that made the blood hum lazily and the soul sigh. With a quiet murmur, she slid her hands up his back, rose on her toes to meet that patient demand.
When his tongue traced her lips, slipped between them, she shuddered with pleasure. And opened to him as naturally as a rose opens to the sun.
He’d known she would. Somehow he’d known she would be both shy and generous, that the taste of her would be fresh, the scent of her airy. It was impossible that he’d only met her hours before. It seemed the woman he held in his arms had been his forever.
And it was thrilling, hotly arousing, to know his was the first kiss she would remember. That he was the only man in her mind and heart to hold her this way, touch her this way. He was the first to make her tremble, his was the first name she murmured when needs swirled through her.
And when she murmured his name, every other woman he’d ever held vanished. She was the first for him.
He deepened the kiss gradually, aware of how easily he could bruise or frighten. But she came so suddenly alive in his arms, was so wildly responsive, her mouth hungry and hot, her body straining and pulsing against his.
She felt alive, brilliantly alive, aware of every frantic beat of her own heart. Her hands had streaked into his hair and were fisted there now, as if she could pull him inside her. He was filling all those empty places, all those frightening blanks. This was life. This was real. This mattered.
“Easy.” He could barely get the word out, wished fervently he didn’t feel obliged to. He was trembling as much as she, and he knew that if he didn’t pull back, gain some control, he was going to take her exactly where they stood. “Easy,” he said again, and pressed her head to his shoulder so that he wouldn’t be tempted to devour that ripe, willing mouth.
She vibrated against him, nerves and needs tangling, the echoes of sensations thumping through her system. “I don’t know if it’s ever been like that. I just don’t know.”
That brought him back to earth a little too abruptly. She didn’t know, he reminded himself. He did. It had never been like that for him. “Don’t worry.” He pulled away, then rubbed his hands over her shoulders, because they were tense again. “You know that wasn’t ordinary, Bailey. That ought to be enough for now.”
“But—” She bit her lip when he turned and wrenched open the fridge. “I made—I’m making iced tea.”
“I want a beer.”
She winced at the brusque tone. “You’re angry.”
“No.” He twisted off the cap, downed three long swallows. “Yes. With myself, a little. I pushed the buttons, after all.” He lowered the bottle, studied her. She was standing with her arms crossed tight at her waist. His jeans bagged at her hips, his shirt drooped at her shoulders. Her feet were bare, her hair was tangled around her shoulders.
She looked absolutely defenseless.
“Let’s just get this out, okay?” He leaned back against the counter to keep his distance. “I felt the click the minute you walked into the office. Never happened to me before, just click, there she is. I figured it was because you were a looker, you were in trouble and you’d come looking for me. I’ve got a thing about people in trouble, especially beautiful women.”
He drank again, slower this time, while she watched him soberly, with great attention. “But that’s not it, Bailey, or at least not all of it. I want to help you. I want to find out everything about you as much as you do. But I also want to make love with you, slow, really slow, so that every second’s like an hour. And when we’ve finished making love, and you’re naked and limp under me, I want to start all over again.”
She had her hands crossed over her breasts now, to keep her bucking heart in place. “Oh” was all she could manage.
“And that’s what I’m going to do. When you’re a little steadier on your feet.”
“Oh,” she said again. “Well.” She cleared her throat. “Cade, I may be a criminal.”
“Uh-huh.” Calm again, he inspected the sandwich makings on the counter. “So is this lunch?”
Her eyes narrowed. What sort of response was that from a man who’d just told her he wanted to make love with her until she was limp? “I may have stolen a great deal of money, killed people, kidnapped an innocent child.”
“Right.” He piled some ham on bread. “Yeah, you’re a real desperado, sweetheart. Anybody can see that. You’ve go
t that calculating killer gleam in the eye.” Then, chuckling, he turned to her. “Bailey, for God’s sake, look at yourself. You’re a polite, tidy woman with a conscience as wide as Kansas. I sincerely doubt you have so much as a parking ticket to your name, or that you’ve done anything wilder than sing in the shower.”
It stung. She couldn’t have said why, but the bland and goody-goody description put her back up. “I’ve got a tattoo on my butt.”
He set the rather sloppy sandwich he’d put together down. “Excuse me?”
“I have a tattoo on my butt,” she repeated, with a combative gleam in her eye.
“Is that so?” He couldn’t wait to see it. “Well, then, I’ll have to turn you in. Now, if you tell me you’ve got something other than your ears pierced, I’ll have to get my gun.”
“I’m so pleased I could amuse you.”
“Sweetheart, you fascinate me.” He shifted to block her path before she could storm out. “Temper. That’s a good sign. Bailey’s not a wimp.” She stepped to the right. So did he. “She likes scrambled eggs with dill and paprika, knows how to make iced tea, cuts tomatoes in very precise slices and knows how to tie a shank knot.”
“What?”
“Your belt,” he said with a careless gesture. “She was probably a Girl Scout, or she likes to sail. Her voice gets icy when she’s annoyed, she has excellent taste in clothes, bites her bottom lip when she’s nervous—which I should warn you instills wild lust in me for no sensible reason.”
His dimples winked when she immediately stopped nibbling her lip and cleared her throat. “She keeps her nails at a practical length,” he continued. “And she can kiss a man blind. An interesting woman, our Bailey.”
He gave her hair a friendly tug. “Now, why don’t we sit down, eat lunch, and I’ll tell you what else I found out. Do you want mustard or mayo?”
“I don’t know.” Still sulking, she plopped down in a chair.
“I go for mustard myself.” He brought it to the table, along with the fixings for her sandwich. “So what is it?”