Hidden Star

by Nora Roberts

  “My father used to have an English setter who’d hide under his bed every Fourth.” Cade toyed with her fingers as he watched the show. “Trembled for hours once the fireworks got going.”

  “It’s so loud, scary if you don’t know what it is.” A brilliant flash of gold and sparkling diamonds erupted as they topped the wheel in a rush. Her heart began to race, her head to throb. It was the noise, that was all. The noise, and the sickening way the car rocked as the Ferris wheel jerked to a halt to unload passengers.

  “Bailey?” He drew her closer, watching her face. She was trembling now, her cheeks white, her eyes dark.

  “I’m all right. Just a little queasy.”

  “We’ll be off soon. Just a couple more cars.”

  “I’m all right.” But the lights flashed again, shattering the sky. And the image rolled into her head like thunder.

  “He threw up his hands.” She managed a whisper. She couldn’t see the lights now, the colored diamonds scattered across the sky. The memory blinded her to everything else. “Threw them up to try to grab the knife. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. There was only the desk light. Just that one beam of light. They’re like shadows, and they’re screaming, but I can’t. Then the lightning flashed. It’s so bright, just that one instant, so bright the room’s alight with it. And he… Oh, God, his throat. He slashed his throat.”

  She turned her face into Cade’s shoulder. “I don’t want to see that. I can’t bear to see that.”

  “Let it go. Just hold on to me and let it go. We’re getting off now.” He lifted her out of the car, all but carried her across the grass. She was shuddering as if the air had turned icy, and he could hear sobs choking her. “It can’t hurt you now, Bailey. You’re not alone now.”

  He wound his way through the field where cars were parked, swore each time a boom of gunpowder made her jerk. She curled up in the seat, rocking herself for comfort while he skirted the hood and got quickly behind the wheel.

  “Cry it out,” he told her, and turned the key. “Scream if you want to. Just don’t let it eat at you like this.”

  Because he didn’t make her feel ashamed, she wept a little, then rested her throbbing head against the seat as he drove down the winding road and back toward the city.

  “I keep seeing jewels,” she said at length. Her voice was raw, but steady. “Beautiful gemstones. Floods of them. Lapis and opals, malachite and topaz. All different shapes, cut and uncut. I can pick out each one. I know what they are, how they feel in my hand. There’s a long piece of chalcedony, smooth to the touch and sword-shaped. It sits on a desk like a paperweight. And this lovely rutilated quartz with silvery threads running through it like shooting stars. I can see them. They’re so familiar.”

  “They make you happy, comfortable.”

  “Yes, I think they do. When I think of them, when they drift back into my head, it’s pleasant. Soothing. There’s an elephant. Not this one.” She hugged the plush toy against her for comfort. “Soapstone, carved with a jeweled blanket over its back and bright blue eyes. He’s so regal and foolish.”

  She paused a moment, tried to think past the headache pounding in her temples. “There are other stones, all manner of others, but they don’t belong to me. Still, they soothe. It doesn’t frighten me at all to think of them. Even the blue diamond. It’s such a beautiful thing. Such a miracle of nature. It’s amazing, really, that just the right elements, the right minerals, the right pressure and the right amount of time can join together to create something so special.

  “They’re arguing about them. About it,” she continued, squeezing her eyes shut to try to bring it back. “I can hear them, and I’m angry and feeling righteous. I can almost see myself marching toward that room where they’re arguing, and I’m furious and satisfied. It’s such an odd combination of feelings. And I’m afraid, a little. I’ve done something… I don’t know.”

  She strained toward it, fisting her hands. “Something rash or impulsive, or even foolish. I go to the door. It’s open, and their voices echo outside. I go to the door, and I’m trembling inside. It’s not all fear, I don’t think it’s just fear. Some of it’s temper. I close my hand over the stone. It’s in my pocket, and I feel better with my hand on it. The canvas bag’s there, on the table by the door. It’s open, too, and I can see the money inside. I pick it up while they shout at each other.”

  The lights as they slipped from suburb to city made her eyes water. She closed them again. “They don’t know I’m there. They’re so intent on each other, they don’t notice me. Then I see the knife in his hand, the curved blade gleaming. And the other one throws up his hands to grab it. They struggle over it, and they’re out of the light now, struggling. But I see blood, and one of the shadows staggers. The other moves in. He doesn’t stop. Just doesn’t stop. I’m frozen there, clutching the bag, watching. The lights go off, all at once, and it’s totally dark. Then the lightning flashes, fills the sky. It’s suddenly so bright. When he slices the knife again, over his throat, he sees me. He sees me, and I run.”

  “Okay, try to relax.” The traffic was murder, choked and impatient. He couldn’t take her hand, draw her close, comfort her. “Don’t push it now, Bailey. We’ll deal with this at home.”

  “Cade, they’re the same person,” she murmured, and let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a laugh. “They’re the same.”

  He cursed the clogged streets, hunted for an opening and shot around a station wagon with inches to spare. “The same as what?”

  “Each other. They’re the same person. But that can’t be. I know that can’t be, because one’s dead and one isn’t. I’m afraid I’m going crazy.”

  Symbols again, he wondered, or truth? “How are they the same?”

  “They have the same face.”

  She carried the stuffed elephant into the house, clutching it to her as if it were a lifeline to reality. Her mind felt musty, caught between dreams, with a sly headache hovering at the corners waiting to pounce.

  “I want you to lie down. I’ll make you some tea.”

  “No, I’ll make it. I’ll feel better if I’m doing something. Anything. I’m sorry. It was such a wonderful evening.” In the kitchen, she set the smiling elephant on the table. “Until.”

  “It was a wonderful evening. And whatever helps jiggle more pieces in place is worth it. It hurts you.” He took her shoulders. “And I’m sorry, but you have to get through the rest of it to get where we want to be.”

  “I know.” She lifted a hand to his, squeezed briefly, then turned to put the kettle on the stove. “I’m not going to fall apart, Cade, but I’m afraid I may not be stable.” Pressing her fingers to her eyes, she laughed. “Funny statement coming from someone who can’t remember her own name.”

  “You’re remembering more all the time, Bailey. And you’re the most stable woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Then I’m worried about you, too, and your choice of women.”

  She set cups precisely on their saucers, concentrating on the simple task. Tea bags, spoons, sugar bowl.

  In the maple tree, the wood thrush had given over to a whippoorwill, and the song was like liquid silver. She thought of honeysuckle burying a chain-link fence, perfuming the evening air while the night bird called for his mate.

  And a young girl weeping under a willow tree.

  She shook herself. A childhood memory, perhaps, bittersweet. She thought those vignettes of the past would be coming more quickly now. And she was afraid.

  “You have questions.” She set the tea on the table, steadied herself and looked at him. “You’re not asking them because you’re afraid I’ll crumble. But I won’t. I wish you’d ask them, Cade. It’s easier when you do.”

  “Let’s sit down.” He pulled out a chair for her, took his time stirring sugar into his tea. “The room has gray carpet, a window, a table by the door. There’s a desk lamp. What does the desk look like?”

  “It’s a satinwood library des
k, George III.” She set her cup back down with a rattle. “Oh, that was clever. I never expected you to ask about the desk, so I didn’t think, and it was just there.”

  “Concentrate on the desk, Bailey. Describe it for me.”

  “It’s a beautiful piece. The top is crossbanded with rosewood that’s inlaid with boxwood lines. The sides, even the kneehole, are inlaid with ovals. One side has a long drawer paneled with false fronts. It opens to shelves. It’s so clever. The handles are brass, and they’re kept well polished.”

  Baffled, she stared into her tea. “Now I sound like an antique dealer.”

  No, he thought, just someone who loves beautiful things. And knows that desk very well.

  “What’s on the desk?”

  “The lamp. It’s brass, too, with a green glass shade and an old-fashioned chain pull. And there are papers, a neat stack of papers aligned with the corner of the desk. A leather blotter is in the center, and a briefke sits there.”

  “A what?”

  “A briefke, a little cup of paper for carrying loose stones. They’re emeralds, grass green, of varying cuts and carats. There’s a jeweler’s loupe and a small brass scale. A glass, Baccarat crystal, with ice melting in the whiskey. And…and the knife…” Her breath was strangling, but she forced it free. “The knife is there, carved bone handle, curved blade. It’s old, it’s beautiful.”

  “Is someone at the desk?”

  “No, the chair’s empty.” Easier to look away from the knife, to look somewhere else. “It’s a dark, pewter-gray leather. Its back is to the window. There’s a storm.” Her voice hitched. “There’s a storm. Lightning, lashing rain. They’re shouting over the thunder.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In front of the desk, facing each other.”

  He pushed her cup aside so that he could take her hand. “What are they saying, Bailey?”

  “I don’t know. Something about a deposit. Take the deposit, leave the country. It’s a bad deal. Too dangerous. His mind’s made up.”

  She could hear the voices. The words were bouncing out of the static of sound, harsh angry phrases.

  Double-crossing son of a bitch.

  You want to deal with him, you go ahead. I’m out of it.

  Both of us. Together. No backing out.

  You take the stones, deal with him. Bailey’s suspicious. Not as stupid as you think.

  You’re not walking out with the money and leaving me twisting in the wind.

  “He shoves him back. They’re fighting, pushing, shoving, punching. It frightens me how much they hate each other. I don’t know how they can despise each other so much, because they’re the same.”

  He didn’t want to take her through what had happened next. He had the scene now, the steps. “How are they the same?”

  “The same face. Same eyes, dark eyes, dark hair. Everything. Mirror images. Even their voices, the same pitch. They’re the same man, Cade. How can they be the same man, unless it didn’t happen that way at all—and I’ve lost not only my memory, but my mind?”

  “You’re not looking at the simple, Bailey. At the simple and the obvious.” His smile was grim, his eyes glowed. “Twins.”

  “Twins? Brothers?” Everything in her, every part of her being, was repelled. She could only shake her head, and continued to shake it until the movement was frantic. “No, no, no.” She couldn’t accept that. Wouldn’t. “That’s not it. That can’t be it.”

  She pushed back from the table abruptly, her chair scraping harshly on the tile. “I don’t know what I saw.” Desperate now to block it out, she grabbed her cup, slopping tea on the table before she carried it to the sink and dumped it down the drain. “It was dark. I don’t know what I saw.”

  Didn’t want to know what she’d seen, Cade concluded. Wasn’t ready to know. And he wasn’t willing to risk playing analyst until she’d regrouped.

  “Put it away for now. It’s been a rough day, you need some rest.”

  “Yes.” Her mind was screaming for peace, for oblivion. But she was terrified of sleep, and the dreams that would come with it. She turned, pressed herself against him. “Make love with me. I don’t want to think. I just want you to love me.”

  “I do.” He met her seeking mouth with his. “I will.”

  He led her out of the kitchen, stopping on the way to kiss, to touch. At the base of the stairs, he unbuttoned her blouse, skimmed his hands up her narrow rib cage, then cupped her breasts.

  On a broken gasp, she clutched her hands in his hair and dragged his mouth down to hers.

  He’d wanted to be gentle, tender. But her lips were wild and desperate. He understood that it was the wild and desperate she needed. And let himself go.

  He tore the bra aside, watched the shock and arousal flare in her eyes. When his hands possessed this time, they were greedy and rough.

  “There’s a lot I haven’t shown you.” He sought the delicate curve between neck and shoulder. Bit. A lot no one had shown her, he thought with a wild spurt of sheer lust. “You may not be ready.”

  “Show me.” Her head fell back, and her pulse scrambled like frightened birds. And fear was suddenly liberating. “I want you to.”

  He dragged her slacks down her hips, and plunged his fingers inside her. Her nails bit into his shoulders as she rocked on that swift, stunning peak. The whimper in her throat became a cry that was both fear and joy.

  His breath hissed out as he watched her fly up, fly over. The dazed shock in her eyes brought him a dark thrill. She was helpless now, if he wanted her helpless.

  And he did.

  He peeled away layers of clothes, his hands quick and sure. When she was naked and quivering, his lips curved. He traced his thumbs over her nipples until her eyes fluttered closed.

  “You belong to me.” His voice was thick, rough, compelling. “I need to hear you say it. For now, you belong to me.”

  “Yes.” She would have told him anything. Promised her soul, if that was what he asked of her. This was no lazy river now, but a flood of heaving sensations. She wanted to drown in them. “More.”

  He gave more. His mouth raced down her body, then fixed greedily on the core of heat.

  She swayed, quaked, exploded. Colors burst in her head—carnival lights and jewels, stars and rainbows. Her back pressed into the railing, and her hands gripped at it for balance while her world spun like a carousel gone mad.

  Then pleasure, the sharp edge of it tipped toward pain. At that point, between glory and devastation, her body simply shattered.

  He pulled her into his arms, darkly pleased that she was limp. Leaving her clothes where they lay, cradling her, he mounted the steps. His bed this time, he thought with a restless, lustful need to claim her there.

  He fell to the bed with her, let the fire inside him rage.

  It was unbearable. Glorious. His hands, his mouth, destroyed her, rebuilt her. Sweat dewed her skin, slickening it. And, when he’d dragged his clothes away, slickening his. Her body arched and bucked, straining for more, moving eagerly against each new demand.

  When he yanked her to her knees, she wrapped herself around him eagerly, bowing back when his head lowered once more to suckle her breast. And when her head touched the mattress, her body bridged, he buried himself deep inside her.

  Her moan was low and throaty, a mindless sound as he gripped her hips, braced them. With his own heart screaming in his chest, he drove them both hard and fast. No thoughts, no doubts, nothing but the hot, frenzied joining.

  There was moonlight on her face, glinting in her hair, glowing on her damp skin. Even as his vision grayed, he fixed the picture of her in his mind. Locked it there, as the dark pleasure peaked and he emptied himself into her.

  He waited until he was sure she slept. For a time, he simply watched her, bewitched by her and what they’d brought to each other. No woman he’d touched, no woman who had touched him, had ever reached so deep inside him, held his heart so close and fast.

  He’d demanded that sh
e tell him she belonged to him. It was no less true that he belonged to her. The miracle of it humbled him.

  He touched his lips to her temple. When he left her, she was sprawled on her stomach, one arm flung out where he had lain beside her. He hoped exhaustion would tranquilize her dreams. He left the door open so that he could hear if she cried out in sleep, or called for him.

  He took time to brew a pot of coffee and carried it with him into the library. He gave his computer one grim sneer before booting it up. The clock in the corner chimed midnight, then bonged the half hour before he found his rhythm.

  In hardly twice the time it would have taken a ten-year-old hacker, the information he was searching for flashed up on the screen.

  Gem experts. The greater metropolitan area.

  He scrolled through, keeping his senses alert with caffeine, fumbled for a moment in engaging the printer for hard copy.

  Boone and Son.

  Kleigmore Diamond Consultants.

  Landis Jewelry Creations.

  His computer provided him with more detailed information than the phone book. For once he blessed technology. He scanned the data, names, dates, then continued to scroll.

  Salvini.

  Salvini. His eyes narrowed as he skimmed the data. Appraisers and gemologists. Estate jewelry and antiquities a specialty. Established in 1952 by Charles Salvini, now deceased.

  Certified and bonded. Consultants to museums and private collectors. Personalized designs, repairs and remounting. All work done on premises.

  A Chevy Chase address, he mused. The location was close enough. The firm was respected, had earned a triple-A rating. Owners Thomas and Timothy Salvini.

  T.S., he thought on a quick spurt of excitement. Brothers.

  Bingo.

  Chapter 10

  “Just take your time.”

  Bailey took a deep breath and struggled to be as calm and precise as Cade wanted. “Her nose is sharper than that. I think.”

  The police artist’s name was Sara, and she was young and patient. Skilled, Bailey had no doubt, or Cade wouldn’t have called on her. She sat at the kitchen table with her sketch pad and pencils, a cup of steaming coffee at her elbow.

  “More like this?” With a few quick strokes, Sara honed down the nose.

  “Yes, I think so. Her eyes are bigger, sort of tilted up.”

  “Almond-shaped?” Sara whisked the gum eraser over the pencil strokes, adjusted for size and shape.

  “I suppose. It’s hard to see it all in my head.”

  “Just give me impressions.” Sara’s smile was easy and relaxed. “We’ll go from there.”

  “It seems the mouth is wide, softer than the rest of the face. Everything else is angles.”

  “Quite a face,” Cade commented as Sara sketched. “Interesting. Sexy.”

  As Bailey continued to instruct, he studied the image. Angular face, carelessly short hair with long, spiky bangs, with dark, dramatically arched eyebrows peeking through. Exotic and tough, he decided, and tried to hook a personality with the features.

  “That’s very close to what I remember.” Bailey took the sketch Sara offered. She knew this face, she thought, and looking at it brought competing urges to smile and to weep.

  M.J. Who was M.J., and what had they shared?

  “You want to take a break?” Cade asked and lowered his hands to Bailey’s shoulders to rub away the tension.

  “No, I’d like to keep at it. If you don’t mind,” she said to Sara.

  “Hey, I can do this all day. Long as you keep the coffee coming.” She held her empty mug up to Cade, with a quick smile that told Bailey they knew each other well.

  “You— Ah, it’s interesting work,” Bailey began.

  Sara tossed a long ginger-colored braid behind her back. Her outfit was both cool and casual, denim cutoffs and a plain white tank, the combination straight-up sexy.

  “It’s a living,” she told Bailey. “Computers are slowly putting me out of business. It’s amazing what they can do with imaging. But a lot of cops and P.I.’s still prefer sketches.” She took her refilled mug back from Cade. “Parris here, he’ll do most anything to avoid a computer.”

  “Hey, I’m getting the hang of it.”