The Stars Of Mithra. Nora Roberts

was out of the shop, he was stuck with the streamlined, eye-catching Jaguar.

      But she said nothing, not even when he drove into a lovely old neighborhood with graceful shade trees and tidy flower-trimmed lawns and into the driveway of a dignified Federal-style brick house.

      He’d been prepared to explain that he’d inherited it from a great-aunt who had a soft spot for him—which was true enough. And that he lived there because he liked the quiet and convenience of the established neighborhood in the heart of Washington.

      But she didn’t ask.

      It seemed to Cade that she’d simply run down. Whatever energy had pushed her into going out in the rain, seeking his office and telling her story had drained out, leaving her listless.

      And fragile again. He had to check the urge to simply gather her up and carry her inside. He could imagine it clearly—the stalwart knight, my lady’s champion, carrying her into the safety of the castle and away from any and all dragons that plagued her.

      He really had to stop thinking things like that.

      Instead, he hefted the canvas bag, took her unresisting hand and led her through the graceful foyer, down the hall and directly into the kitchen.

      “Scrambled eggs,” he said, pulling out a chair for her and nudging her down to sit at the pedestal table.

      “All right. Yes. Thank you.”

      She felt limp, unfocused, and terribly grateful to him. He wasn’t peppering her with questions, nor had he looked particularly shocked or appalled by her story. Perhaps it was the nature of his business that made him take it all in stride, but whatever the reason, she was thankful for the time he was giving her to recoup.

      Now he was moving around the kitchen in a casual, competent manner. Breaking brown eggs in a white bowl, popping bread in a toaster that sat on a granite-colored counter. She should offer to help, she thought. It seemed the right thing to do. But she was so dreadfully tired, and it was so pleasant to just sit in the big kitchen with rain drumming musically on the roof and watch him handle the simple task of making breakfast.

      He was taking care of her. And she was letting him. Bailey closed her eyes and wondered if she was the kind of woman who needed to be tended to by a man, who enjoyed the role of the helpless female.

      She hoped not, almost fiercely hoped not. Then wondered why such a minor, insignificant personality trait should matter so much, when she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t a thief or murderer.

      She caught herself studying her hands, wondering about them. Short, neat, rounded nails coated in clear polish. Did that mean she was practical? The hands were soft, uncallused. It was doubtful she worked with them, pursued manual labor of any kind.

      The rings… Very pretty, not bold so much as unique. At least it seemed they were. She knew the stones that winked back at her. Garnet, citrine, amethyst. How could she know the names of colored stones and not know the name of her closest friend?

      Did she have any friends?

      Was she a kind person or a catty one, generous or a faultfinder? Did she laugh easily and cry at sad movies? Was there a man she loved who loved her?

      Had she stolen more than a million dollars and used that ugly little gun?

      She jolted when Cade set her plate in front of her, then settled when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

      “You need to eat.” He went back to the stove, brought the cup he’d left there. “And I think tea’s a better bet than coffee.”

      “Yes. Thank you.” She picked up her fork, scooped up some eggs, tasted. “I like them.” She managed a smile again, a hesitant, shy smile that touched his heart. “That’s something.”

      He sat across from her with his mug of coffee. “I’m known throughout the civilized world for my scrambled eggs.”

      Her smile steadied, bloomed. “I can see why. The little dashes of dill and paprika are inspired.”

      “Wait till you taste my Spanish omelets.”

      “Master of the egg.” She continued to eat, comforted by the easy warmth she felt between them. “Do you cook a lot?”

      She glanced around the kitchen. Stone-colored cabinets and warm, light wood. An uncurtained window over a double sink of white porcelain. Coffeemaker, toaster, jumbled sections of the morning paper.

      The room was neat, she observed, but not obsessively so. And it was a marked contrast to the clutter and mess of his office. “I never asked if you were married.”

      “Divorced, and I cook when I’m tired of eating out.”

      “I wonder what I do—eat out or cook.”

      “You recognized paprika and dill when you tasted them.” Leaning back, he sipped his coffee and studied her. “You’re beautiful.” Her gaze flicked up, startled and, he noted, instantly wary. “Just an observation, Bailey. We have to work with what we know. You are beautiful—it’s quiet, understated, nothing that seems particularly contrived or enhanced. You don’t go for the flashy, and you don’t take a compliment on your looks casually. In fact, I’ve just made you very nervous.”

      She picked up her cup, held it in both hands. “Are you trying to?”

      “No, but it’s interesting and sweet—the way you blush and eye me suspiciously at the same time. You can relax, I’m not hitting on you.” But it was a thought, he admitted, a fascinating and arousing thought. “I don’t think you’re a pushover, either,” he continued. “I doubt a man would get very far with you just by telling you that you have eyes like warm brandy, and that the contrast between them and that cool, cultured voice packs a hell of a sexual impact.”

      She lifted her cup and, though it took an effort, kept her gaze level with his. “It sounds very much like you’re hitting on me.”

      His dimples flashed with charm when he grinned. “See, not a pushover. But polite, very polite and well mannered. There’s New England in your voice, Bailey.”

      Staring, she lowered the cup again. “New England?”

      “Connecticut, Massachusetts—I’m not sure. But there’s a whiff of Yankee society upbringing in your voice, especially when it turns cold.”

      “New England.” She strained for a connection, some small link. “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

      “It gives me another piece to work with. You’ve got class written all over you. You were born with it, or you developed it, either way it’s there.” He rose, took her plate. “And so’s the exhaustion. You need to sleep.”

      “Yes.” The thought of going back to that hotel room had her forcing back a shudder. “Should I call your office, set up another appointment? I wrote down the number of the hotel and room where I’m staying. You could call me if you find anything.”

      “You’re not going back there.” He had her hand again, drew her to her feet and began to lead her out of the kitchen. “You can stay here. There’s plenty of room.”

      “Here?”

      “I think it’s best if you’re where I can keep an eye on you, at least for the time being.” Back in the foyer, he led her up the stairs. “It’s a safe, quiet neighborhood, and until we figure out how you got your hands on a million two and a diamond as big as your fist, I don’t want you wandering the streets.”

      “You don’t know me.”

      “Neither do you. That’s something else we’re going to work on.”

      He opened the door to a room where the dim light flickered quietly through lace curtains onto a polished oak floor. A little seating area of button-back chairs and a piecrust table was arranged in front of a fireplace where a fern thrived in the hearth. A wedding-ring quilt was spread over a graceful four poster, plumped invitingly with pillows.