The Stars of Mithra: Hidden Star. Нора Робертс
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in the public spaces tucked around statues and along the streets?
Had she shopped in any of these stores, eaten in any of these restaurants?
The trees took over again, tall and stately, lining both sides of the road, so that it seemed they were driving through a park, rather than the middle of a crowded city.
“It’s like seeing everything for the first time,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. Something will either click or it won’t.”
They passed gracious old homes, brick and granite, then another strip of shops, smart and trendy. She made a small sound, and though she was hardly aware of it herself, Cade slowed. “Something click?”
“That boutique. Marguerite’s. I don’t know.”
“Let’s take a look.” He circled around, backtracked, then pulled into a narrow lot that fronted several upscale shops. “Everything’s closed, but that doesn’t mean we can’t window shop.” Leaning over, he opened her door, then climbed out his own.
“Maybe I just liked the dress in the window,” she murmured.
It was very lovely, just a sweep of rose-petal silk with thin straps of glittery rhinestones that continued down to cross under the bodice.
The display was completed by a tiny silver evening bag and impossibly high heels in matching silver.
The way it made her smile, Cade wished the shop was open, so that he could buy it for her. “It’s your style.”
“I don’t know.” She cupped her hands to the glass, peered through them for the simple delight of looking at pretty things. “That’s a wonderful cocktail suit in navy linen. Oh, and that red dress is just fabulous. Bound to make you feel powerful and accomplished. I really should start wearing bolder colors, but I always wimp out with pastels.”
Try this green, Bailey. It’s got punch. There’s nothing more tiring than a clothes coward.
How long do I have to stand around while you two play with clothes? I’m starving.
Oh, stop bitching. You’re not happy unless you’re feeding your face or buying new jeans. Bailey, not that tedious beige. The green. Trust me.
“She talked me into it,” Bailey murmured. “I bought the green suit. She was right. She always is.”
“Who’s right, Bailey?” He didn’t touch her, afraid that even an encouraging hand on her shoulder would jar her. “Is it M.J.?”
“No, no, not M.J. She’s annoyed, impatient, hates to waste time. Shopping’s such a waste of time.”
Oh, her head hurt. It was going to explode any moment, simply burst off her shoulders. But the need was greater, the need to latch on to this one thing. This one answer. Her stomach rolled, threatened to heave, and her skin went clammy with the effort of holding off nausea.
“Grace.” Her voice broke on the name. “Grace,” she said again as her knees buckled. “Her name’s Grace. Grace and M.J.” Tears sprang to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks as she threw her arms around Cade’s neck. “I’ve been here. I’ve been to this shop. I bought a green suit. I remember.”
“Good. Good job, Bailey.” He gave her a quick swing.
“No, but that’s all.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. The pain was screaming now. “That’s all I remember. Just being in there with them, buying a suit. It’s so foolish. Why should I remember buying a suit?”
“You remember the people.” He smoothed his thumbs over her temples. He could all but feel the headache raging inside. “They’re important to you. It was a moment, something shared, a happy time.”
“But I can’t remember them. Not really. Just feelings.”
“You’re breaking through.” He pressed his lips to her brow, drew her back toward the car. “And it’s happening quickly now.” He eased her down on the seat, hooked her safety belt himself. “And it hurts you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I need to know.”
“It matters to me. We’ll get you something for that headache, and some food. Then we’ll start again.”
Arguments wouldn’t sway him. Bailey had to admit that fighting Cade and a blinding headache was a battle she was doomed to lose. She let him prop her up in bed, dutifully swallowed the aspirin he gave her. Obediently she closed her eyes as he instructed, then opened them again when he brought up a bowl of chicken soup.
“It’s out of a can,” he told her, fussing with the pillows behind her back. “But it should do the job.”
“I could eat in the kitchen, Cade. It was a headache, not a tumor. And it’s almost gone.”
“I’m going to work you hard later. Take the pampering while you can get it.”
“All right, I will.” She spooned up soup. “It’s wonderful. You added thyme.”
“For that little hint of France.”
Her smile faded. “Paris,” she murmured. “Something about Paris.” The headache snuck back as she tried to concentrate.
“Let it go for now.” He sat beside her. “I’d say your subconscious is letting you know you’re not all the way ready yet to remember. A piece at a time will do.”
“I suppose it’ll have to.” She smiled again. “Want some soup?”
“Now that you mention it.” He leaned forward, let her feed him, and didn’t take his eyes from hers. “Not too shabby.”
She took another spoonful herself, tasted him. Marvelous. “As handy as you are in the kitchen, I’m surprised your wife let you get away.”
“Ex-wife, and we had a cook.”
“Oh.” She fed him again, slowly taking turns. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask without seeming rude.”
He slipped her hair behind her ear. “Just ask.”
“Well, this lovely house, the antiques, the fancy sports car… Then there’s your office.”
His mouth twitched. “Something wrong with my office?”
“No. Well, nothing a bulldozer and a construction crew couldn’t cure. It just doesn’t compute with the rest.”
“I’ve got a thing about my business paying for itself, and that office is about all it can afford so far. My investigative work pays the bills and just a little more. On a personal level, I’m rolling in it.” His eyes laughed into hers. “Money, that is. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“I guess it was. You’re rich, then.”
“Depends on your definition, or if you mean me personally or the entire family. It’s shopping centers, real estate, that sort of thing. A lot of doctors and lawyers and bankers down through the ages. And me, I’m—”
“The black sheep,” she finished for him, thrilled that he was just that. “You didn’t want to go into the family business. You didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer or a banker.”
“Nope. I wanted to be Sam Spade.”
Delighted, she chuckled. “The Maltese Falcon. I’m glad you didn’t want to be a banker.”
“Me, too.” He took the hand she’d laid on his cheek, pressed his lips to it and felt her quiver of response.
“I’m glad I found your name in the phone book.” Her voice thickened. “I’m glad I found you.”
“So am I.” He took the tray from between them, set it aside. Even if he’d been blind, he thought, he would have understood what was in her eyes just then. And his