The Stars of Mithra: Hidden Star. Нора Робертс
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and smooth. Self-consciously she laid a hand against her breast.
Long fingers, short trimmed nails, rather small breasts. Her arms were a little thin, she noted with a frown. Maybe she should start thinking about working out to build them up.
There didn’t seem to be any excess flab at the waist or hips, so perhaps she got some exercise. And there was some muscle tone in the thighs.
Her skin was pale, without tan lines.
What was she—about five-four? She wished she were taller. It seemed if a woman was going to begin her life at twenty-something, she ought to be able to pick her body type. Fuller breasts and longer legs would have been nice.
Amused at herself, she turned, twisted her head to study the rear view. And her mouth dropped open. There was a tattoo on her butt.
What in the world was she doing with a tattoo of a—was that a unicorn?—on her rear end? Was she crazy? Body decoration was one thing, but on that particular part of the anatomy it meant that she had exposed that particular part of the anatomy to some needle-wielding stranger.
Did she drink too much?
Faintly embarrassed, she pulled on a towel and quickly left the misty bathroom.
She spent some time adjusting the jeans and shirt Cade had left her to get the best fit. Hung up her suit neatly, smoothed the quilt. Then she heaved a sigh and tunneled her fingers through her damp hair.
Cade had asked her to stay in the house, but he hadn’t asked her to stay in her room. She was going to be jittery again, thinking about bags of money, huge blue diamonds, murder and tattoos, if she didn’t find a distraction.
She wandered out, realizing she wasn’t uncomfortable in the house alone. She supposed it was a reflection of her feelings for Cade. He didn’t make her uncomfortable. From almost the first minute, she’d felt as though she could talk to him, depend on him.
And she imagined that was because she hadn’t talked to anyone else, and had no one else to depend on.
Nonetheless, he was a kind, considerate man. A smart, logical one, she supposed, or else he wouldn’t be a private investigator. He had a wonderful smile, full of fun, and eyes that paid attention. He had strength in his arms and, she thought, in his character.
And dimples that made her fingers itch to trace along them.
His bedroom. She gnawed on her lip as she stood in the doorway. It was rude to pry. She wondered if she were rude, careless with the feelings and privacy of others. But she needed something, anything, to fill all these blank spots. And he had left his door open.
She stepped over the threshold.
It was a wonderfully large room, and full of him. Jeans tossed over a chair, socks on the floor. She caught herself before she could pick them up and look for a hamper. Loose change and a couple of shirt buttons tossed on the dresser. A gorgeous antique chest of drawers that undoubtedly held all sorts of pieces of him.
She didn’t tug at the brass handles, but she wanted to.
The bed was big, unmade, and framed by the clean lines of Federal head-and footboards. The rumpled sheets were dark blue, and she didn’t quite resist running her fingers over them. They’d probably smell of him—that faintly minty scent.
When she caught herself wondering if he slept naked, heat stung her cheeks and she turned away.
There was a neat brick fireplace and a polished pine mantle. A silly brass cow stood on the hearth and made her smile. There were books messily tucked into a recessed shelf. Bailey studied the titles soberly, wondering which she might have read. He went heavy on mysteries and true crime, but there were familiar names. That made her feel better.
Without thinking, she picked up a used coffee mug and an empty beer bottle and carried them downstairs.
She hadn’t paid much attention to the house when they came in. It had all been so foggy, so distorted, in her mind. But now she studied the simple and elegant lines, the long, lovely windows, with their classic trim, the gleaming antiques.
The contrast between the gracious home and the second-rate office struck her, made her frown. She rinsed the mug in the sink, found the recycling bin for the bottle, then took herself on a tour.
It took her less than ten minutes to come to her conclusion. The man was loaded.
The house was full of treasures—museum-quality. Of that she was undeniably sure. She might not have understood the unicorn on her own rear end, but she understood the value of a Federal inlaid cherrywood slant-front desk. She couldn’t have said why.
She recognized Waterford vases, Georgian silver. The Limoges china in the dining room display cabinet. And she doubted very much if the Turner landscape was a copy.
She peeked out a window. Well-tended lawn, majestic old trees, roses in full bloom. Why would a man who could live in such a style choose to work in a crumbling building in a stuffy, cramped office?
Then she smiled. It seemed Cade Parris was as much a puzzle as she was herself. And that was a tremendous comfort.
She went back to the kitchen, hoping to make herself useful by making some iced tea or putting something together for lunch. When the phone rang, she jumped like a scalded cat. The answering machine clicked on, and Cade’s voice flowed out, calming her again: “You’ve reached 555-2396. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you.”
“Cade, this is becoming very irritating.” The woman’s voice was tight with impatience. “I’ve left a half a dozen messages at your office this morning, the least you can do is have the courtesy to return my calls. I sincerely doubt you’re so busy with what you loosely call your clients to speak to your own mother.” There was a sigh, long-suffering and loud. “I know very well you haven’t contacted Pamela about arrangements for this evening. You’ve put me in a very awkward position. I’m leaving for Dodie’s for bridge. You can reach me there until four. Don’t embarrass me, Cade. By the way, Muffy’s very annoyed with you.”
There was a decisive click. Bailey found herself clearing her throat. She felt very much as if she’d received that cool, deliberate tongue-lashing herself. And it made her wonder if she had a mother who nagged, who expected obedience. Who was worried about her.
She filled the teakettle, set it on the boil, dug up a pitcher. She was hunting up tea bags when the phone rang again.
“Well, Cade, this is Muffy. Mother tells me she still hasn’t been able to reach you. It’s obvious you’re avoiding our calls because you don’t want to face your own poor behavior. You know very well Camilla’s piano recital was last night. The least, the very least, you could have done was put in an appearance and pretended to have some family loyalty. Not that I expected any better from you. I certainly hope you have the decency to call Camilla and apologize. I refuse to speak to you again until you do.”
Click.
Bailey blew out a breath, rolled her eyes. Families, she thought, were obviously difficult and complex possessions. Then again, perhaps she had a brother herself and was just as, well…bitchy, as the wasp-tongued Muffy.
She set the tea to steep, then opened the refrigerator. There were eggs, and plenty of them. That made her smile. There was also a deli pack of honey-baked ham, some Swiss, and when she discovered plump beefsteak tomatoes, she decided she was in business.
She worried over the choice of mustard or mayo for a time and whether the tea should be sweetened or unsweetened. Every little detail was like a brick in the rebuilding of herself. As she was carefully slicing tomatoes, she heard the front door slam, and her mood brightened.
But when she started to call out, the words stuck in her throat. What if it wasn’t Cade? What if they’d found her? Come for her? Her hand tightened on the hilt of the knife as she edged toward the rear kitchen door. Fear, deep and uncontrollable, had sweat popping out in clammy pearls on her skin. Her heart flipped into her throat.
Running, running