The Stars Of Mithra. Nora Roberts

      In one of the three narrow sinks, Bailey ran the water cold, splashed it on her overheated face. She’d danced in a noisy nightclub and screamed with laughter. She’d let the man she wanted touch her intimately, without a care for who saw it.

      And she knew as she lifted her face and studied the reflection in the spotty mirror that none of those things were usual for her.

      This was new. Just as Cade Parris was new. And she didn’t know how any of it would fit into the life that was hers.

      It was happening so quickly, she thought, and dug into her purse for a brush. The purse he’d bought her, the brush he’d bought her, she thought, while emotion swamped her. Everything she had right now, she owed to him.

      Was that what she felt for him? A debt, gratitude? Lust?

      Not one of the women crowded into the room with her was worried about things like that, she thought. Not one of them was asking herself that kind of question about the man she’d just danced with. The man she wanted, or who wanted her.

      They would all go back out and dance again. Or go home. They would make love tonight, if the mood was right. And tomorrow their lives would simply move on.

      But she had to ask. And how could she know the answer when she didn’t know herself? And how could she take him, or give herself to him, until she did know?

      Get yourself in order, she told herself, and methodically ran the brush through her tumbled hair. Time to be sensible, practical. Calm. Satisfied her hair was tidy again, she slipped the brush back into her bag.

      A redhead walked in, all legs and attitude, with short-cropped hair and wraparound shades. “Son of a bitch grabbed my butt,” she said to no one in particular, and strode into a stall, slammed the door.

      Bailey’s vision grayed. Clammy waves of dizziness had her clutching the lip of the sink. But her knees went so weak she had to lean over the bowl and gulp for air.

      “Hey, hey, you okay?”

      Someone patted her on the back, and the voice was like bees buzzing in her head. “Yes, just a little dizzy. I’m all right. I’m fine.” Using both hands, she cupped cold water, splashed it again and again on her face.

      When she thought her legs would hold her, she snatched paper towels and dried her dripping cheeks. As wobbly as a drunk, she staggered out of the rest room and back into the screaming cave that was the club.

      She was bumped and jostled and never noticed. Someone offered to buy her a drink. Some bright soul offered boozily to buy her. She passed through without seeing anything but blinding lights and faceless bodies. When Cade reached her, she was sheet white. Asking no questions, he simply picked her up, to the cheering approval of nearby patrons, and carried her outside.

      “I’m sorry. I got dizzy.”

      “It was a bad idea.” He was cursing himself viciously for taking her to a second-rate nightclub with rowdy regulars. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

      “No, it was a wonderful idea. I’m glad you brought me. I just needed some air.” For the first time, she realized he was carrying her, and wavered between embarrassment and gratitude. “Put me down, Cade. I’m all right.”

      “I’ll take you home.”

      “No, is there somewhere we can just sit? Just sit and get some air?”

      “Sure.” He set her on her feet, but watched her carefully. “There’s a café just down the street. We can sit outside. Get some coffee.”

      “Good.” She held tightly on to his hand, letting him lead the way. The bass from the band inside the club all but shook the sidewalk. The café a few doors down was nearly as crowded as the club had been, with waiters scurrying to deliver espressos and lattes and iced fruit drinks.

      “I came on pretty strong,” he began as he pulled out a chair for her.

      “Yes, you did. I’m flattered.”

      Head cocked, he sat across from her. “You’re flattered?”

      “Yes. I may not remember anything, but I don’t think I’m stupid.” The air, however close and warm, felt glorious. “You’re an incredibly attractive man. And I look around, right here….” Steadying herself, she did just that, scanning the little tables crammed together under a dark green awning. “Beautiful women everywhere. All over the city where we walked today, inside that club, right here in this café. But you came on to me, so I’m flattered.”

      “That’s not exactly the reaction I was looking for, or that I expected. But I guess it’ll do for now.” He glanced up at the waiter who hustled to their table. “Cappuccino?” he asked Bailey.

      “That would be perfect.”

      “Decaf or regular?” the waiter chirped.

      “Real coffee,” Cade told him, and leaned closer to Bailey. “Your color’s coming back.”

      “I feel better. A woman came in the ladies’ room.”

      “Did she hassle you?”

      “No, no.” Touched by his immediate instinct to defend, she laid a hand over his. “I was feeling a little shaky, and then she walked in. Sort of swaggered in.” It made her lips curve. “And for a minute, I thought I knew her.”

      He turned his hand over, gripped hers. “You recognized her?”

      “No, not her, precisely, though I thought… No, it was the type, I suppose you’d say. Arrogant, cocky, striking. A tall redhead in tight denim, with a chip on her shoulder.” She closed her eyes a moment, let out a long breath, opened them again. “M.J.”

      “That was the name on the note in your pocket.”

      “It’s there,” Bailey murmured, massaging her temples. “It’s there somewhere in my head. And it’s important. It’s vital, but I can’t focus on it. But there’s a woman, and she’s part of my life. And, Cade, something’s wrong.”

      “Do you think she’s in trouble?”

      “I don’t know. When I start to get a picture—when I can almost see her—it’s just this image of utter confidence and ability. As if nothing could possibly be wrong. But I know there is something wrong. And it’s my fault. It has to be my fault.”

      He shook his head. Blame wouldn’t help. It wasn’t the angle they needed to pursue. “Tell me what you see when you start to get that picture. Just try to relax, and tell me.”

      “Short, dark red hair, sharp features. Green eyes. But maybe those are yours. But I think hers are green, darker than yours. I could almost draw her face. If I knew how to draw.”

      “Maybe you do.” He took a pen and pad out of his pocket. “Give it a try.”

      With her lip caught between her teeth, she tried to capture a sharp, triangular face. With a sigh, she set the pen down as their coffee was served. “I think we can safely assume I’m not an artist.”

      “So we’ll get one.” He took the pad back, smiled at the pathetic sketch. “Even I could do better than this, and I scraped by with a C my one dismal semester of art. Do you think you can describe her, the features?”

      “I can try. I don’t see it all clearly. It’s like trying to focus a camera that’s not working quite right.”

      “Police artists are good at putting things together.”

      She slopped coffee over the rim of her cup. “The police? Do we have to go to the police?”

      “Unofficial, don’t worry. Trust me.”

      “I do.” But the word police rang in her head like alarm bells. “I will.”

      “We’ve got something to go on. We know M.J.’s a woman, a tall redhead with a chip on her shoulder. Mary