by Nora Roberts
beat rabbit-quick at her throat. “That’s not what I want to do.”
It was her decision, she knew. Her choice. Her moment. “That’s not what I want, either.” When he cupped her face in his hands, she closed her eyes. “Cade, I may have done something horrible.”
His lips paused an inch from hers. “I don’t care.”
“I may have— I may be—” Determined to face it, she opened her eyes again. “There may be someone else.”
His fingers tightened. “I don’t give a damn.”
She let out a long breath, and took her moment. “Neither do I,” she said, and pulled him to her.
Chapter 8
This was what it felt like to be pressed under a man’s body. A man’s hard, needy body. A man who wanted you above all else.
For that moment.
It was breathless and stunning, exciting and fresh. The way he combed his fingers through her hair as his lips covered hers thrilled her. The fit of mouth against mouth, as if the only thing lips and tongues were made for were to taste a lover. And it was the taste of him that filled her—strong and male and real.
Whatever had come before, whatever came after, this mattered now.
She stroked her hands over him, and it was glorious. The shape of his body, the breadth of shoulders, the length of back, the narrowing of waist, the muscles beneath so firm, so tight. And when her hands skimmed under his shirt, the smooth, warm flesh beneath fascinated.
“Oh, I’ve wanted to touch you.” Her lips raced over his face. “I was afraid I never would.”
“I’ve wanted you from the first moment you walked in the door.” He drew back only enough to see her eyes, the deep, melting brown of them. “Before you walked in the door. Forever.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. We don’t—”
“It doesn’t matter. Only this.” His lips closed over hers again, took the kiss deeper, tangling their flavors together.
He wanted to go slowly, draw out every moment. It seemed he’d waited for her all his life, so now he could take all the time in the world to touch, to taste, to explore and exploit. Each shift of her body beneath his was a gift. Each sigh a treasure.
To have her like this, with the sun streaming through the window, with her hair flowing gold over the old quilt and her body both yielding and eager, was sweeter than any dream.
They belonged. It was all he had to know.
To see her, to unfasten the simple shirt he’d picked for her, to open it inch by inch to pale, smooth flesh was everything he wanted. He skimmed his fingertips over the curve of her breast, felt her skin quiver in response, watched her eyes flicker dark, then focus on his.
“You’re perfect.” He cupped her, and she was small and firm and made for his palm.
He bent his head, rubbed his lips where the lace of her bra met flesh, then moved them up, lazily up her throat, over her jaw, and back to nip at her mouth.
No one had kissed her like this before. She knew it was impossible for anyone else to have taken such care. With a soft sigh, she poured herself into the kiss, murmuring when he shifted her to slip the shirt away, trembling when he slid the lace aside and bared her breasts to his hands.
And his mouth.
She moaned, lost, gloriously lost, in a dark maze of sensations. Soft here, then rough, cool, then searing, each feeling bumped gently into the next, then merged into simple pleasure. Whichever way she turned, there was something new and thrilling. When she tugged his shirt away, there was the lovely slippery slide of his flesh against hers, the intimacy of it, heart to heart.
And her heart danced to the play of his lips, the teasing nip of teeth, the slow torture of tongue.
The air was like syrup, thick and sweet, as he slid her slacks over her hips. She struggled to gulp it in, but each breath was shallow and short. He was touching her everywhere, his hands slick and slow, but relentlessly pushing her higher and stronger until the heat was immense. It kindled inside her like a brush fire.
She moaned out his name, clutching the quilt and dragging it into tangles as her body strained to reach for something just beyond her grasp. As she arched desperately against him, he watched her. Slid up her body again until his lips were close to hers, and watched her. Watched her as, with quick, clever fingers, he tore her free.
It was his name she called when the heat reached flash point, and his body she clung to as her own shuddered.
That was what he’d wanted.
His name was still vibrating on her lips when he crushed them with his, when he rolled with her over the bed in a greedy quest to take and possess. Blind with need, he tugged at his jeans, trembling himself when she buried her mouth against his throat, strained against him in quivering invitation.
She was more generous than any fantasy. More generous than any wish. More his than any dream.
With sunlight pouring over the tangled sheets, she arched to him, opened as if she’d been waiting all her life for him. His heart pounded in his head as he slipped inside her, moved to fill her.
Shock froze him for a dazed instant, and every muscle tensed. But she shook her head, wrapped herself around him and took him in.
“You” was all she said. “Only you.”
He lay still, listening to her heart thudding, absorbing the quakes of her body with his. Only him, he thought, and closed his eyes. She’d been innocent. Untouched. A miracle. And his heart was tugged in opposing directions of guilt and pure selfish pleasure.
She’d been innocent, and he’d taken her.
She’d been untouched, until he touched.
He wanted to beg her to forgive him.
He wanted to climb out on the roof and crow.
Not certain either would suit the situation, he gently tested the waters.
“Bailey?”
“Hmm?”
“Ah, in my professional opinion as a licensed investigator, I conclude it’s extremely unlikely you’re married.” He felt the rumble of her laughter, and lifted his head to grin down at her. “I’ll put it in my report.”
“You do that.”
He brushed the hair from her cheek. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry. I never considered—”
“No.” She pressed her hand over his. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m happy, giddy. Relieved.” Her lips curved on a sigh. “I never considered, either. I’d say we were both surprised.” Abruptly her stomach fluttered with nerves. “You’re not…disappointed? If you—”
“I’m devastated. I really hoped you’d be married, with six kids. I really only enjoy making love with married women.”
“No, I meant… Was it—was I—was everything all right?”
“Bailey.” On a half laugh, he rolled over so that she could settle on his chest. “You’re perfect. Absolutely, completely perfect. I love you.” She went very still, and her cheek stayed pressed to his heart. “You know I do,” he said quietly. “From the moment I saw you.”
Now she wanted to weep, because it was everything she wanted to hear, and nothing she could accept. “You don’t know me.”
“Neither do you.”
She lifted her head, shook it fiercely. “That’s exactly the point. Joking about it doesn’t change the truth.”
“Here’s the truth, then.” He sat up, took her firmly by the shoulders. “I’m in love with you. In love with the woman I’m holding right now. You’re exactly what I want, what I need, and sweetheart—” he kissed her lightly “—I’m keeping you.”
“You know it’s not that simple.”
“I’m not asking for simple.” He slid his hands down, gripped hers. “I’m asking you to marry me.”
“That’s impossible.” Panicked, she tugged on her hands, but he gripped them calmly and held her in place. “You know that’s impossible. I don’t know where I come from, what I’ve done. I met you three days ago.”
“That all makes sense, or would, except for one thing.” He drew her against him and shot reason to hell with a kiss.
“D
on’t do this.” Torn to pieces, she wrapped her arms around his neck, held tight. “Don’t do this, Cade. Whatever my life was, right now it’s a mess. I need to find the answers.”
“We’ll find the answers. I promise you that. But there’s one I want from you now.” He drew her head back. He’d expected the tears, knew they’d be shimmering in her eyes and turning them deep gold. “Tell me you love me, Bailey, or tell me you don’t.”
“I can’t—”
“Just one question,” he murmured. “You don’t need a yesterday to answer it.”
No, she needed nothing but her own heart. “I can’t tell you I don’t love you, because I can’t lie to you.” She shook her head, pressed her fingers to his lips before he could speak. “I won’t tell you I do, because it wouldn’t be fair. It’s an answer that has to wait until I know all the others. Until I know who the woman is who’ll tell you. Give me time.”
He’d give her time, he thought when her head was nestled on his shoulder again. Because nothing and no one was taking her from him, whatever they found on the other side of her past.
Cade liked to say that getting to a solution was just a matter of taking steps. Bailey wondered how many more there were left to climb. She felt she’d rushed up a very long staircase that day, and when reaching the landing been just as lost as ever.
Not entirely true, she told herself as she settled down at the kitchen table with a notepad and pencil. Even the urge to make a list of what she knew indicated that she was an organized person, and one who liked to review things in black and white.
Who is Bailey?
A woman who habitually rose at the same hour daily. Did that make her tedious and predictable, or responsible? She liked coffee black and strong, scrambled eggs, and her steaks medium rare. Fairly ordinary tastes. Her body was trim, not particularly muscular, and without tan lines. So, she wasn’t a fitness fanatic or a sun-worshiper. Perhaps she had a job that kept her indoors.
Which meant, she thought with some humor, she wasn’t a lumberjack or a lifeguard.
She was a right-handed, brown-eyed blonde, and was reasonably sure her hair color was natural or close to what she’d been born with.
She knew a great deal about gemstones, which could mean they were a hobby, a career, or just something she liked to wear. She had possession of a diamond worth a fortune that she’d either stolen, bought—highly unlikely, she thought—or gained through an accident of some sort.
She’d witnessed a violent attack, possibly a murder, and run away.
Because that fact made her temple start to throb again, she skipped over it.
She hummed classical music in the shower and liked to watch classic film noir on television. And she couldn’t figure out what that said about her personality or her background.
She liked attractive clothes, good materials, and shied away from strong colors unless pushed.
It worried her that she might be vain and frivolous.
But she had at least two female friends who shared part of her life. Grace and M.J., M.J. and Grace. Bailey wrote the names on the pad, over and over, hoping that the simple repetition would strike a fresh spark.
They mattered to her, she could feel that. She was frightened for them and didn’t know why. Her mind might be blank, but her heart told her that they were special to her, closer to her than anyone else in the world.
But she was afraid to trust her heart.
There was something else she knew that Bailey didn’t want to write down, didn’t want to review in black and white.
She’d had no lover. There’d been no one she cared for enough, or who cared for her enough, for intimacy. Perhaps in the life she led she’d been too judgmental, too intolerant, too self-absorbed, to accept a man into her bed.
Or perhaps she’d been too ordinary, too boring, too undesirable, for a man to accept her into his.
In any case, she had a lover now.
Why hadn’t the act of lovemaking seemed foreign to her, or frightening, as it seemed it would to the uninitiated? Instead, with Cade, it had been as natural as breathing.
Natural, exciting and perfect.
He said he loved her, but how could she believe it? He knew only one small piece of her, a fraction of the whole. When her memory surfaced, he might find her to be the very type of woman he disliked.
No, she wouldn’t hold him to what he’d said to this Bailey, until she knew the whole woman.
And her feelings? With a half laugh, she set the pencil aside. She’d been drawn to him instantly, trusted him completely the moment he took her hand. And fallen in love with him while she watched him stand in this kitchen, breaking brown eggs into a white bowl.
But her heart couldn’t be trusted in this case, either. The closer they came to finding the truth, the closer they came to the time when they might turn from each other and walk away.
However much she wished it, they couldn’t leave the canvas bag and its contents in his safe, forget they existed and just be.
“You forgot some things.”
She jolted, turned her head quickly and looked into his face. How long, she wondered, had he been standing behind her, reading her notes over her shoulder, while she was thinking of him?
“I thought it might help me to write down what I know.”
“Always a good plan.” He walked to the fridge, took out a beer, poured her a glass of iced tea.
She sat feeling foolish and awkward, her hands clutched in her lap. Had they really rolled naked on a sun-washed bed an hour before? How was such intimacy handled in a tidy kitchen over cold drinks and puzzles?
He didn’t seem to have a problem with it. Cade sat across from her, propped his feet on an empty chair and scooted her pad over. “You’re a worrier.”
“I am?”
“Sure.” He flipped a page, started a new list. “You’re worrying right now. What should you say to this guy, now that you’re lovers? Now that you know he’s wildly in love with you, wants to spend the rest of his life with you?”
“Cade—”
“Just stating the facts.” And if he stated them often enough, he figured she’d eventually accept them. “The sex was great, and it was easy. So you worry about that, too. Why did you let this man you’ve known for a weekend take you to bed, when you’ve never let another man get that close?” His eyes flicked up, held hers. “The answer’s elementary. You’re just as wildly in love with me, but you’re afraid to face it.”
She picked up her glass, cooled her throat. “I’m a coward?”
“No, Bailey, you’re not a coward, but you’re constantly worried that you are. You’re a champion worrier. And a woman, I think, who gives herself very little credit for her strengths, and has very little tolerance for her weaknesses. Self-judgmental.”
He wrote that down, as well, while she frowned at the words on the page. “It seems to me someone in my situation has to try to judge herself.”
“Practical, logical.” He continued the column. “Now, leave the judging to me a moment. You’re compassionate, responsible, organized. And a creature of habit. I’d say you hold some sort of position that requires those traits, as well as a good intellect. Your work habits are disciplined and precise. You also have a fine aesthetic sense.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Bailey, forgetting who you are doesn’t change who you are. That’s your big flaw in reasoning here. If you hated brussels sprouts before, it’s likely you’re still going to hate them. If you were allergic to cats, you’re still going to sneeze if you pet a kitten. And if you had a strong, moral and caring heart, it’s still beating inside you. Now let me finish up here.”
She twisted her head, struggling to read upside down. “What are you putting down?”
“You’re a lousy drinker. Probably a metabolism thing. And I think at this point, we could have some wine later, so I can take full advantage of that.” He grinned over at her. “And you blush. It’s a sweet, old-fashioned physical reaction. You�
��re tidy. You hang up your towels after you shower, you rinse off your dishes, you make your bed every morning.”
There were other details, he thought. She wiggled her foot when she was nervous, her eyes went gold when she was aroused, her voice turned chilly when she was annoyed.
“You’ve had a good education, probably up north, from your speech pattern and accent. I’d say you concentrated on your studies like a good girl and didn’t date much. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been a virgin up to a couple hours ago. There, you blushed again. I really love when you do that.”
“I don’t see the point in this.”
“There’s that cool, polite tone. Indulge me,” he added, then sipped his beer. “You’ve got a slim body, smooth skin. You either take care of both or you were lucky genetically. By the way, I like your unicorn.”
She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” he said, and chuckled. “Anyway, you have or make enough money to afford good clothes. Those classic Italian pumps you were wearing go for about two hundred and fifty at department-store prices. And you had silk underwear. I’d say the silk undies and the unicorn follow the same pattern. You like to be a little daring under the traditional front.”
She was just managing to close her gaping mouth. “You went through my clothes? My underwear?”
“What there was of them, and all in the name of investigation. Great underwear,” he told her. “Very sexy, simple, and pricey. I’d say peach silk ought to look terrific on you.”
She made a strangled sound, fell back on silence. There was really nothing to say.
“I don’t know the annual income of your average gemologist or jewelry designer—but I’ll lay odds you’re one or the other. I’m leaning toward the scientist as vocation, and the designer as avocation.”
“That’s a big leap, Cade.”
“No, it’s not. Just another step. The pieces are there. Wouldn’t you think a diamond like the one in the safe would require the services of a gemologist? Its authenticity would have to be verified, its value assessed. Just the way you verified and assessed it yesterday.”
Her hands trembled, so she put them back in her lap. “If that’s true, then it ups the likelihood that I stole it.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Impatient with her, he tapped the pencil sharply against the pad. “Look at the other facts. Why can’t you see yourself? You wouldn’t steal a stick of gum. Doesn’t the fact that you’re riddled with guilt over the very thought you might have done something illegal give you a clue?”
“The fact is, Cade, I have the stone.”
“Yeah, and hasn’t it occurred to you, in that logical, responsible, ordered mind of yours, that you might have been protecting it?”
“Protecting it? From—”
“From whoever killed to get their hands on it. From whoever would have killed you if he had found you. That’s what plays, Bailey, that’s what fits. And if there are three stones, then you might very well know where the others are, as well. You may be protecting all of them.”
“How?”
He had some ideas on that, as well, but didn’t think she was ready to hear them. “We’ll work on that. Meanwhile, I’ve made a few calls. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us tomorrow. The police artist will come over in the morning, see if she can help you put images together. And I managed to snag one of the undercurators, or whatever they’re called, at the Smithsonian. We have a one o’clock appointment tomorrow.”
“You got an appointment on a holiday?”
“That’s where the Parris name and fortune come in handy. Hint at funding, and it opens a lot of musty old doors. And we’ll see if that boutique opens for the
