by Nora Roberts
She missed a step, rapped back solidly into what she first took for a steel beam. When she glanced back, she saw what appeared to be one massive muscle with a glossy bald head, a silver nose ring and a gleaming smile.
“I beg your pardon,” she began, but found she had breath for nothing else as the muscle whirled her to the right.
She found herself jammed in the middle of a pack of dancers with enthusiastically jabbing elbows and bumping hips. They hooted at her in such a friendly manner, she tried to pick up the beat. She was giggling when she was bumped back into Cade’s arms.
“It is fun.” Elemental, liberating, nearly pagan. “I’m dancing.”
The way her face glowed, her voice rang with delighted laughter, had a grin flashing on his face. “Looks that way.”
She waved a hand in front of her face in a useless attempt to fan away the heat. “I like it.”
“Then we’ll do it again.” The volume eased down, the beat smoothed into a hum. “Here comes a slow one. Now all you have to do is plaster yourself all over me.”
“I think I already am.”
“Closer.” His leg slid intimately between hers, his hands cruised low on her hips.
“Oh, God.” Her stomach filled with frantic butterflies. “That has to be another Commandment.”
“One of my personal favorites.”
The music was seductive, sexy and sad. Her mood changed with it, from giddiness to longing. “Cade, I don’t think this is smart.” But she’d risen to her toes, so their faces were close.
“Let’s be reckless. Just for one dance.”
“It can’t last,” she murmured as her cheek pressed against his.
“Shh. For as long as we want.”
Forever, she thought, and held tight. “I’m not an empty slate. I’ve just been erased for a while. Neither of us might like what’s written there when we find it.”
He could smell her, feel her, taste her. “I know everything I need to know.”
She shook her head. “But I don’t.” She drew back, looked into his eyes. “I don’t,” she repeated. And when she broke away and moved quickly through the crowd, he let her go.
She hurried into the rest room. She needed privacy, she needed to get her breath back. She needed to remember that, however much she might want it, her life had not begun when she walked into a cramped little office and saw Cade Parris for the first time.
The room was nearly as packed as the dance floor, with women primping at the mirrors, talking about men, complaining about other women. The room smelled thickly of hairspray, perfume and sweat.
In one of the three narrow sinks, Bailey ran the water cold, splashed it on her overheated face. She’d danced in a noisy nightclub and screamed with laughter. She’d let the man she wanted touch her intimately, without a care for who saw it.
And she knew as she lifted her face and studied the reflection in the spotty mirror that none of those things were usual for her.
This was new. Just as Cade Parris was new. And she didn’t know how any of it would fit into the life that was hers.
It was happening so quickly, she thought, and dug into her purse for a brush. The purse he’d bought her, the brush he’d bought her, she thought, while emotion swamped her. Everything she had right now, she owed to him.
Was that what she felt for him? A debt, gratitude? Lust?
Not one of the women crowded into the room with her was worried about things like that, she thought. Not one of them was asking herself that kind of question about the man she’d just danced with. The man she wanted, or who wanted her.
They would all go back out and dance again. Or go home. They would make love tonight, if the mood was right. And tomorrow their lives would simply move on.
But she had to ask. And how could she know the answer when she didn’t know herself? And how could she take him, or give herself to him, until she did know?
Get yourself in order, she told herself, and methodically ran the brush through her tumbled hair. Time to be sensible, practical. Calm. Satisfied her hair was tidy again, she slipped the brush back into her bag.
A redhead walked in, all legs and attitude, with short-cropped hair and wraparound shades. “Son of a bitch grabbed my butt,” she said to no one in particular, and strode into a stall, slammed the door.
Bailey’s vision grayed. Clammy waves of dizziness had her clutching the lip of the sink. But her knees went so weak she had to lean over the bowl and gulp for air.
“Hey, hey, you okay?”
Someone patted her on the back, and the voice was like bees buzzing in her head. “Yes, just a little dizzy. I’m all right. I’m fine.” Using both hands, she cupped cold water, splashed it again and again on her face.
When she thought her legs would hold her, she snatched paper towels and dried her dripping cheeks. As wobbly as a drunk, she staggered out of the rest room and back into the screaming cave that was the club.
She was bumped and jostled and never noticed. Someone offered to buy her a drink. Some bright soul offered boozily to buy her. She passed through without seeing anything but blinding lights and faceless bodies. When Cade reached her, she was sheet white. Asking no questions, he simply picked her up, to the cheering approval of nearby patrons, and carried her outside.
“I’m sorry. I got dizzy.”
“It was a bad idea.” He was cursing himself viciously for taking her to a second-rate nightclub with rowdy regulars. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
“No, it was a wonderful idea. I’m glad you brought me. I just needed some air.” For the first time, she realized he was carrying her, and wavered between embarrassment and gratitude. “Put me down, Cade. I’m all right.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“No, is there somewhere we can just sit? Just sit and get some air?”
“Sure.” He set her on her feet, but watched her carefully. “There’s a café just down the street. We can sit outside. Get some coffee.”
“Good.” She held tightly on to his hand, letting him lead the way. The bass from the band inside the club all but shook the sidewalk. The café a few doors down was nearly as crowded as the club had been, with waiters scurrying to deliver espressos and lattes and iced fruit drinks.
“I came on pretty strong,” he began as he pulled out a chair for her.
“Yes, you did. I’m flattered.”
Head cocked, he sat across from her. “You’re flattered?”
“Yes. I may not remember anything, but I don’t think I’m stupid.” The air, however close and warm, felt glorious. “You’re an incredibly attractive man. And I look around, right here….” Steadying herself, she did just that, scanning the little tables crammed together under a dark green awning. “Beautiful women everywhere. All over the city where we walked today, inside that club, right here in this café. But you came on to me, so I’m flattered.”
“That’s not exactly the reaction I was looking for, or that I expected. But I guess it’ll do for now.” He glanced up at the waiter who hustled to their table. “Cappuccino?” he asked Bailey.
“That would be perfect.”
“Decaf or regular?” the waiter chirped.
“Real coffee,” Cade told him, and leaned closer to Bailey. “Your color’s coming back.”
“I feel better. A woman came in the ladies’ room.”
“Did she hassle you?”
“No, no.” Touched by his immediate instinct to defend, she laid a hand over his. “I was feeling a little shaky, and then she walked in. Sort of swaggered in.” It made her lips curve. “And for a minute, I thought I knew her.”
He turned his hand over, gripped hers. “You recognized her?”
“No, not her, precisely, though I thought… No, it was the type, I suppose you’d say. Arrogant, cocky, striking. A tall redhead in tight denim, with a chip on her shoulder.” She closed her eyes a moment, let out a long breath, opened them again. “M.J.”
“That was the name on the note
in your pocket.”
“It’s there,” Bailey murmured, massaging her temples. “It’s there somewhere in my head. And it’s important. It’s vital, but I can’t focus on it. But there’s a woman, and she’s part of my life. And, Cade, something’s wrong.”
“Do you think she’s in trouble?”
“I don’t know. When I start to get a picture—when I can almost see her—it’s just this image of utter confidence and ability. As if nothing could possibly be wrong. But I know there is something wrong. And it’s my fault. It has to be my fault.”
He shook his head. Blame wouldn’t help. It wasn’t the angle they needed to pursue. “Tell me what you see when you start to get that picture. Just try to relax, and tell me.”
“Short, dark red hair, sharp features. Green eyes. But maybe those are yours. But I think hers are green, darker than yours. I could almost draw her face. If I knew how to draw.”
“Maybe you do.” He took a pen and pad out of his pocket. “Give it a try.”
With her lip caught between her teeth, she tried to capture a sharp, triangular face. With a sigh, she set the pen down as their coffee was served. “I think we can safely assume I’m not an artist.”
“So we’ll get one.” He took the pad back, smiled at the pathetic sketch. “Even I could do better than this, and I scraped by with a C my one dismal semester of art. Do you think you can describe her, the features?”
“I can try. I don’t see it all clearly. It’s like trying to focus a camera that’s not working quite right.”
“Police artists are good at putting things together.”
She slopped coffee over the rim of her cup. “The police? Do we have to go to the police?”
“Unofficial, don’t worry. Trust me.”
“I do.” But the word police rang in her head like alarm bells. “I will.”
“We’ve got something to go on. We know M.J.’s a woman, a tall redhead with a chip on her shoulder. Mary Jane, Martha June, Melissa Jo. You were with her in the desert.”
“She was in the dream.” Sun and sky and rock. Contentment. Then fear. “Three of us in the dream, but it won’t come clear.”
“Well, we’ll see if we can put a likeness together, then we’ll have somewhere to start.”
She stared down into her foamy coffee, thinking her life was just that, a cloud concealing the center. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s just steps, Bailey. You take the next step, and see where that goes.”
She nodded, stared hard into her coffee. “Why did you marry someone you didn’t love?”
Surprised, he leaned back, blew out a breath. “Well, that’s quite a change in topic.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked that. It’s none of my business.”
“I don’t know. Under the circumstances, it seems a fair enough question.” He drummed his fingers restlessly on the table. “You could say I got tired, worn down by family pressure, but that’s a cop-out. Nobody held a gun to my head, and I was over twenty-one.”
It annoyed him to admit that, he realized. To be honest with Bailey was to face the truth without excuses. “We liked each other well enough, or at least we did until we got married. A couple of months of marriage fixed that friendship.”
“I’m sorry, Cade.” It was easy to see the discomfort on his face, his unhappiness with the memory. And though she envied him even that unhappiness, she hated knowing she’d helped put it there. “There’s no need to go into it.”
“We were good in bed,” he went on, ignoring her. And kept his eyes on hers when she shrank back, drew in and away from him. “Right up until the end, the sex was good. The trouble was, toward the end, which was a little under two years from the beginning, it was all heat and no heart. We just didn’t give a damn.”
Couldn’t have cared less, he remembered. Just two bored people stuck in the same house. “That’s what it came down to. There wasn’t another man, or another woman. No passionate fights over money, careers, children, dirty dishes. We just didn’t care. And when we stopped caring altogether, we got nasty. Then the lawyers came in, and it got nastier. Then it was done.”
“Did she love you?”
“No.” He answered immediately, then frowned, looked hard at nothing and again tried to be honest. And the answer was sad and bruising. “No, she didn’t, any more than I loved her. And neither one of us worried about working too hard on that part of it.”
He took money from his wallet, dropped it on the table and rose. “Let’s go home.”
“Cade.” She touched his arm. “You deserved better.”
“Yeah.” He looked at the hand on his arm, the delicate fingers, the pretty rings. “So did she. But it’s a little late for that.” He lifted her hand so that the ring gleamed between them. “You can forget a lot of things, Bailey, but can you forget love?”
“Don’t.”
He’d be damned if he’d back off. Suddenly his entire miserable failure of a marriage was slapped into his face. He’d be damned. “If a man put this on your finger, a man you loved, would you forget? Could you?”
“I don’t know.” She wrenched away, rushed down the sidewalk toward his car. When he whirled her around, her eyes were bright with anger and fears. “I don’t know.”
“You wouldn’t forget. You couldn’t, if it mattered. This matters.”
He crushed his mouth to hers, pressing her back against the car and battering them both with his frustration and needs. Gone was the patience, the clever heat of seduction. What was left was all the raw demand that had bubbled beneath it. And he wanted her weak and clinging and as desperate as he. For just that moment.
For just the now.
The panic came first, a choke hold that snagged the air from her throat. She couldn’t answer this vivid, violent need. Simply wasn’t prepared or equipped to meet it and survive.
So she surrended, abruptly, completely, thoughtlessly, part of her trusting that he wouldn’t hurt her. Another praying that he couldn’t. She yielded to the flash of staggering heat, the stunning power of untethered lust, rode high on it for one quivering moment.
And knew she might not survive even surrender.
She trembled, infuriating him. Shaming him. He was hurting her. He almost wanted to, for wouldn’t she remember if he did? Wasn’t pain easier to remember than kindness?
He knew if she forgot him it would kill him.
And if he hurt her, he would have killed everything worthwhile inside him.
He let her go, stepped back. Instantly she hugged her arms over her chest in a defensive move that slashed at him. Music and voices lifted in excitement and laughter flowed down the sidewalk behind him as he stared at her, spotlighted like a deer caught in headlights.
“I’m sorry.”
“Cade—”
He lifted his hands, palms out. His temper rarely flashed, but he knew better than to reach for reason until it had settled again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It’s my problem. I’ll take you home.”
And when he had, when she was in her room and the lights were off, he lay out in the hammock, where he could watch her window.
It wasn’t so much examining his own life, he realized, that had set him off. He knew the highs and lows of it, the missteps and foolish mistakes. It was the rings on her fingers, and finally facing that a man might have put one of them on her. A man who might be waiting for her to remember.
And it wasn’t about sex. Sex was easy. She would have given herself to him that evening. He’d seen it when he walked into the kitchen while she was buried in a book. He’d known she was thinking of him. Wanting him.
Now he thought he’d been a fool for not taking what was there for him. But he hadn’t taken it because he wanted more. A lot more.
He wanted love, and it wasn’t reasonable to want it. She was adrift, afraid, in trouble neither of them could identify. Yet he wanted her to tumble into love with him, as quickly and completely as he’d tumbled into love with her
.
It wasn’t reasonable.
But he didn’t give a damn about reason.
He’d slay her dragon, whatever the cost. And once he had, he’d fight whoever stood in his way to keep her. Even if it was Bailey herself who stood there.
When he slept, he dreamed. When he dreamed, he dreamed of dragons and black nights and a damsel with golden hair who was locked in a high tower and spun straw into rich blue diamonds.
And when she slept, she dreamed. When she dreamed, she dreamed of lightning and terror and of running through the dark with the power of gods clutched in her hands.
Chapter 7
Despite the fact that she’d slept poorly, Bailey was awake and out of bed by seven. She concluded that she had some internal clock that started her day at an assigned time, and couldn’t decide if that made her boring or responsible. In either case, she dressed, resisted the urge to go down the hall and peek into Cade’s room and went down to make coffee.
She knew he was angry with her. An icy, simmering anger that she hadn’t a clue how to melt or diffuse. He hadn’t said a word on the drive back from Georgetown, and the silence had been charged with temper and, she was certain, sexual frustration.
She wondered if she had ever caused sexual frustration in a man before, and wished she didn’t feel this inner, wholly female, pleasure at causing it in a man like Cade.
But beyond that, his rapid shift of moods left her baffled and upset. She wondered if she knew any more about human nature than she did of her own past.
She wondered if she knew anything at all about the male of the species.
Did men behave in this inexplicable manner all the time? And if they did, how did a smart woman handle it? Should she be cool and remote until he’d explained himself? Or would it be better if she was friendly and casual, as if nothing had happened?
As if he hadn’t kissed her as if he could swallow her whole. As if he hadn’t touched her, moved his hands over her, as though he had a right to, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to turn her body into a quivering mass of needs.
Now her own mood shifted from timid to annoyed as she wrenched open the refrigerator for milk. How the hell was she supposed to know how to behave? She had no idea if she’d ever been kissed that way before, ever felt this way, wanted this way. Just because she was lost, was she supposed to meekly go in whichever direction Cade Parris pointed her?