by Nora Roberts
“You don’t trust me to finish this?”
“That’s not the issue—”
“Damn right it’s not,” he told her. “This isn’t about going to the cops. It’s about you and me. You think you can walk out of here and away from what’s between us.” His hands shot out of his pockets, grabbed her arms. “Think again.”
“Someone’s dead. I’m involved.” Her teeth threatened to chatter as she fought to keep her eyes level with his. “And I shouldn’t have involved you.”
“It’s too late for that now. It was too late the minute you walked into my office. You’re not shaking me off.” When his mouth crushed down on hers, the kiss tasted of frustration and fury. He held her close, blocking any choice, ravaging her mouth until her hands went limp on his shoulders.
“Don’t,” she managed when he lifted her off her feet. But that, too, was too late. She was pressed beneath him on the bed, every sense scrambling and screaming as his hands streaked over her.
“I don’t give a damn what you forget.” Eyes dark and reckless, he dragged at her clothes. “You’ll remember this.”
He spun her out of control, out of time, out of place. There was a wildness and willfulness here that she’d never experienced and couldn’t resist. His mouth closed over her breast, stabbing pleasure through her. Even as she sucked in air to moan, his fingers pierced her and drove her ruthlessly to peak.
She cried out, not in alarm, not in protest, but with the staggered thrill of being plunged beyond reason. Her nails bit into his back, her body moved like lightning under his. She opened herself to him recklessly. The only thought in her head was, Now, now, now.
He drove himself into her hard and deep, felt her clutch convulsively around him as she flew over the new crest. It was mindless, desperate. It was wrong. It was irresistible.
He gripped her hands in his, watched pleasure chase shock across her face. The animal inside him had broken free, and it clawed at both of them. So his mouth was rough as it savaged hers. And he pistoned himself inside her until she wept out his name and what was left of his mind shattered.
Empty, hollowed out, he collapsed on her. Her body shuddered under his as a catchy whimper sounded in her throat. Her hands lay, palm out and limp, on the rumpled spread. His mind began to clear enough for shame.
He’d never taken a woman so roughly. Never given a woman so little choice. He rolled away from her, stared at the ceiling, appalled by what he’d found inside himself.
“I’m sorry.” It was pathetic, that phrase. The uselessness of it scraped at him as he sat up, rubbed his hands over his face. “I hurt you. I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for it.” And, finding none, he rose and left her alone.
She managed to sit up, one hand pressed to her speeding heart. Her body felt weak, tingly and still pulsingly hot. Her mind remained fuzzy around the edges, even as she patiently waited for it to clear. The only thing she was certain of was that she had just been savaged. Overwhelmed by sensation, by emotion, by him.
It had been wonderful.
Cade gave her time to compose herself. And used the time to formulate his next steps. It was so difficult to think around fury. He’d been angry before. Hurt before. Ashamed before. But when she came down the stairs, looking tidy and nervous, those three emotions threatened to swamp him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Cade, I—”
“You’ll do what you want.” He interrupted her in a voice that was both cool and clipped. “And so will I. I apologize again for treating you that way.”
She felt her stomach sink to her knees. “You’re angry with me.”
“With both of us. I can deal with myself, but first I have to deal with you. You want to walk out.”
“It’s not what I want.” There was a plea for understanding in her voice. “It’s what’s right. I’ve made you an accessory to God knows what.”
“You hired me.”
She let out an impatient breath. How could he be so blind and stubborn? “It hasn’t been a professional relationship, Cade. It barely started as one.”
“That’s right. It’s personal, and you’re not walking out on me out of some misguided sense of guilt. You want to walk for other reasons, we’ll get into them after this is done. I love you.” There was chilly fury over the words that only deepened the emotion behind them. “If you don’t, can’t or won’t love me, I’ll have to live with it. But walking out at this point’s just not an option.”
“I only want—”
“You want to go to the cops.” He paused a moment, hooked his thumbs in his front pockets to keep his hands from reaching for her. “That’s fine, it’s your choice. But meanwhile, you hired me to do a job, and I’m not finished. Whatever your personal feelings, or mine, I intend to finish. Get your purse.”
She wasn’t sure how to handle him now. Then again, she realized, had she ever known? Still, this cold, angry man standing in front of her was much more of a stranger than the one she had first seen in a cluttered, messy office only days before.
“The appointment at the Smithsonian,” she began.
“I’ve postponed it. We have somewhere else to go first.”
“Where?”
“Get your purse,” he repeated. “We’re taking this next step my way.”
He didn’t speak on the drive. She recognized some of the buildings. They’d ridden past them before. But when he drove out of D.C. and into Maryland, her nerves began to jump.
“I wish you’d tell me where we’re going.” The trees were too close to the road, she thought, panicky. Too green, too big.
“Back,” he said. “Sometimes you’ve just got to open the door and look at what’s on the other side.”
“We need to talk to the curator at the museum.” Her throat was closing. She’d have bartered her soul for a glass of water. “We should turn around and go back to the city.”
“You know where we’re going?”
“No.” The denial was sharp, desperate. “No, I don’t.”
He only flicked a glance at her out of sharp green eyes. “The pieces are there, Bailey.”
He turned left, off the main drag, listening to her breathing coming short and labored. Ruthlessly he repressed his instinct to soothe. She was stronger than he’d pretended she was. He could admit that. And she would get through this. He’d help her get through it.
If the place was being watched, he was bringing her out in the open. He had to weigh the possibility of that against doing his job. She’d hired him to solve the puzzle, he reminded himself. And this, he was sure, was the last piece.
She couldn’t continue to live in the safe little world he’d provided for her. It was time, for both of them, to move forward.
Setting his jaw, he pulled into the lot at Salvini.
“You know where we are.”
Her skin was clammy. In long, restless strokes, she rubbed her damp palms over the knees of her slacks. “No, I don’t.”
The building was brick, two stories. Old, rather lovely, with tall display windows flanked by well established azaleas that would bloom beautifully in the spring. There was an elegance to the place that shouldn’t have made her shudder.
There was a single car in the lot. A BMW sedan, dark blue. Its finish gleamed in the sunlight.
The building stood alone, taking up the corner, while behind it, across a vast parking lot, a trendy strip mall seemed to be doing a brisk holiday business.
“I don’t want to be here.” Bailey turned her head, refusing to look at the sign that topped the building in large, clear letters.
SALVINI
“They’re closed,” she continued. “There’s no one here. We should go.”
“There’s a car in the lot,” Cade pointed out. “It won’t hurt to see.”
“No.” She snatched her hand away from his, tried to bury herself in the corner of the seat. “I’m not going in there. I’m not.”
“What’s in there, Bailey?”
“I don’t kn
ow.” Terror. Just terror. “I’m not going in.”
He would rather have cut out his heart than force her to do what he intended. But, thinking of her, he got out of the car, came around to her side, opened the door. “I’ll be with you. Let’s go.”
“I said I’m not going in there.”
“Coward.” He said it with a sneer in his voice. “Do you want to hide the rest of your life?”
Fury sparkled off the tears in her eyes as she ripped the seat belt free. “I hate you for this.”
“I know,” he murmured, but took her arm firmly and led her to the building’s front entrance.
It was dark inside. Through the window he could see little but thick carpet and glass displays where gold and stones gleamed dully. It was a small showroom, again elegant, with a few upholstered stools and countertop mirrors where customers might sit and admire their choices.
Beside him, Bailey was shaking like a leaf.
“Let’s try the back.”
The rear faced the strip mall, and boasted delivery and employee entrances. Cade studied the lock on the employee door and decided he could handle it. From his pocket he took out a leather roll of tools.
“What are you doing?” Bailey stepped back as he chose a pick and bent to his work. “Are you breaking in? You can’t do that.”
“I think I can manage it. I practice picking locks at least four hours a week. Quiet a minute.”
It took concentration, a good touch, and several sweaty minutes. If the alarm was set, he figured, it would go off when he disengaged the first lock. It didn’t, and he changed tools and started on the second.
A silent alarm wasn’t out of the question, he mused as he jiggled tumblers. If the cops came, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
“This is insane.” Bailey took another step in retreat. “You’re breaking into a store in broad daylight. You can’t do this, Cade.”
“Did it,” he said with some satisfaction as the last tumbler fell. Fastidiously he replaced his tools in the roll, pocketed them. “An outfit like this ought to have a motion alarm in place, as well.”
He stepped through the door. In the dim light, he saw the alarm box beside the doorway. Disengaged.
He could almost hear another piece fall into place.
“Careless of them,” he murmured. “With the way crime pays.”
He took Bailey’s hand and pulled her inside. “Nobody’s going to hurt you while I’m around. Not even me.”
“I can’t do this.”
“You’re doing it.” Keeping her hand firm in his, he hit the lights.
It was a narrow room, more of an entranceway with a worn wooden floor and plain white walls. Against the left wall were a watercooler and a brass coatrack. A woman’s gray raincoat hung on one of the hooks.
It had called for thunderstorms the previous Thursday, he thought. A practical woman such as Bailey wouldn’t have gone to work without her raincoat. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Coat’s your style. Quality, expensive, subtle.” He checked the pockets, found a roll of breath mints, a short grocery list, a pack of tissues. “It’s your handwriting,” he said, offering her the list.
“I don’t know.” She refused to look at it. “I don’t remember.”
He pocketed the list himself, and led her into the next room.
It was a workroom, a smaller version of the one at Westlake. He recognized the equipment now, and deduced that if he took the time to pick the locks on the drawers of a tall wooden cabinet, he would find loose stones. The flood of gems Bailey had described from her dreams. Stones that made her happy, challenged her creativity, soothed her soul.
The worktable was wiped spotlessly clean. Nothing, not the thinnest chain of gold links, was out of place.
It was, he thought, just like her.
“Someone keeps their area clean,” he said mildly. Her hand was icy in his as he turned. There were stairs leading up. “Let’s see what’s behind door number two.”
She didn’t protest this time. She was too locked in terror to form the words. She winced as he flooded the stairway with light and drew her up with him.
On the second level, the floors were carpeted in pewter gray. Nausea swam in her stomach. The hallway was wide enough for them to walk abreast, and there were gleaming antique tables set at well-arranged spots. Red roses were fading in a silver vase. And the scent of their dying sickened her.
He opened a door, nudged it wider. And knew at first glance that it was her office.
Nothing was out of place. The desk, a pretty, feminine Queen Anne gleamed with polish and care under the light coating of weekend dust. On it was a long, milky crystal, jagged at one end, like a broken blade of a sword. She’d called it chalcedony, he remembered. And the smooth multiangled rock nearby must be the rutilated quartz.
On the walls were dreamy watercolors in thin wooden frames. There was a small table beside a love seat that was thickly upholstered in rose-toned fabric and set off with pale green pillows. On the table stood a small glass vase with drooping violets and pictures framed in polished silver.
He picked up the first. She was about ten, he judged, a little gangly and unformed, but there was no mistaking those eyes. And she’d grown to closely resemble the woman who sat beside her in a porch glider, smiling into the camera.
“It’s your past, Bailey.” He picked up another photo. Three woman, arms linked, laughing. “You, M.J. and Grace. Your present.” He set the picture down, picked up another. The man was golden, handsome, his smile assured and warm.
Her future? he wondered.
“He’s dead.” The words choked out of her, slicing her heart on the journey. “My father. He’s dead. The plane went down in Dorset. He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Cade set the photo down.
“He never came home.” She was leaning against the desk, her legs trembling, her heart reeling as too many images crowded their way inside. “He left on a buying trip and never came back. We used to eat ice cream on the porch. He’d show me all the treasures. I wanted to learn. Lovely old things. He smelled of pine soap and beeswax. He liked to polish the pieces himself sometimes.”
“He had antiques,” Cade said quietly.
“It was a legacy. His father to him, my father to me. Time and Again. The shop. Time and Again. It was so full of beautiful things. He died, he died in England, thousands of miles away. My mother had to sell the business. She had to sell it when…”
“Take it slow, and easy. Just let it come.”
“She got married again. I was fourteen. She was still young, she was lonely. She didn’t know how to run a business. That’s what he said. She didn’t know how. He’d take care of things. Not to worry.”
She staggered, caught herself. Then her gaze landed on the soapstone elephant with the jeweled blanket on her desk. “M.J. She gave it to me for my birthday. I like foolish things. I collect elephants. Isn’t that odd? You picked an elephant for me at the carnival, and I collect them.”
She passed a hand over her eyes, tried to hang on. “We laughed when I opened it. Just the three of us. M.J. and Grace and I, just a few weeks ago. My birthday’s in June. June nineteenth. I’m twenty-five.”
Her head spun as she struggled to focus on Cade. “I’m twenty-five. I’m Bailey James. My name’s Bailey Anne James.”
Gently Cade eased her into a chair, laid his hand on hers. “Nice to meet you.”
Chapter 11
“It’s mixed up in my head.” Bailey pressed her fingers to her eyes. Visions were rocketing in, zooming through, overlapping and fading before she could gain a firm hold.
“Tell me about your father.”
“My father. He’s dead.”
“I know, sweetheart. Tell me about him.”
“He—he bought and sold antiques. It was a family business. Family was everything. We lived in Connecticut. The business started there. Our house was there. He—he expanded.
Another branch in New York, one in D.C. His father had established the first one, then my father had expanded. His name was Matthew.”
Now she pressed her hand to her heart as it swelled and broke. “It’s like losing him all over again. He was the center of the world to me, he and my mother. She couldn’t have any more children. I suppose they spoiled me. I loved them so much. We had a willow tree in the backyard. That’s where I went when my mother told me about the crash. I went out and sat under the willow tree and tried to make him come back.”
“Your mother came and found you?” He was guessing now, prompting her gently through her grief.
“Yes, she came out, and we sat there together for a long time. The sun went down, and we just sat there together. We were lost without him, Cade. She tried, she tried so hard to hold the business together, to take care of me, the house. It was just too much. She didn’t know how. She met—she met Charles Salvini.”
“This is his building.”
“It was.” She rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. “He was a jeweler, specialized in estate and antique pieces. She consulted with him on some of our stock. That’s how it started. She was lonely, and he treated her very well. He treated me very well. I admired him. I think he loved her very much, I really do. I don’t know if she loved him, but she needed him. I suppose I did, too. She sold what was left of the antique business and married him.”
“Was he good to you?”
“Yes, he was. He was a kind man. And like my father, he was scrupulously honest. Honesty in business, in personal matters, was vital. It was my mother he wanted, but I came with the package, and he was always good to me.”
“You loved him.”
“Yes, it was easy to love him, to be grateful for what he did for me and my mother. He was very proud of the business he’d built up. When I developed an interest in gems, he encouraged it. I apprenticed here, in the summers, and after school. He sent me to college to study. My mother died while I was away in college. I wasn’t here. I was away when she died.”