The Stars Of Mithra. Nora Roberts

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 holiday sale hunters, and find out if anyone remembers selling a green suit.”

      “It doesn’t seem like we’re doing enough.”

      “Sweetheart, we’ve come a long way in a short time.”

      “You’re right.” She rose, walked to the window. There was a wood thrush in the maple tree, singing its heart out. “I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.”

      “I’ll bill you for the professional services,” he said shortly. “And I don’t want gratitude for the rest of it.”

      “I have to give it, whether or not you take it. You made this bearable, more than that. I don’t know how many times you made me smile or laugh or just forget it all for little spaces of time. I think I’d have gone crazy without you, Cade.”

      “I’m going to be there for you, Bailey. You’re not going to be able to shake me loose.”

      “You’re used to getting what you want,” she murmured. “I wonder if I am. It doesn’t feel as if that’s true.”

      “That’s something you can change.”

      He was right. That was a matter of patience, perseverance, control. And perhaps wanting the right things. She wanted him, wanted to think that one day she could stand here, listening to the wood thrush sing of summer while Cade drowsed in the hammock. It could be their house instead of his. Their life. Their family.

      If it was the right thing, and she could persevere.

      “I’m going to make you a promise.” She followed the impulse and turned, letting her heart be reckless. He was so much what she needed, sitting there with his jeans torn at the knee, his hair too long, his feet bare. “If, when this is over, when all the steps have been taken, all the pieces are in place to make the whole…if I can and you still want me, I’ll marry you.”

      His heart stuttered in his chest. Emotion rose up to fill his throat. Very carefully, he set the bottle aside, rose. “Tell me you love me.”

      It was there, in her heart, begging to be said. But she shook her head. “When it’s all over, and you know everything. If you still want me.”

      “That’s not the kind of promise that suits me. No qualifications, Bailey. No whens, no ifs. Just you.” “It’s all I can give you. It’s all I have.”

      “We can go into Maryland on Tuesday, get a license. Be married in