was the kind of woman who stood on her own feet and faced her own problems.
“There’s one more thing.” She turned to the canvas bag again, slid her hand deep inside, felt for the thick velvet pouch, the weight of what was snugged inside it. “I think it’s probably the most important thing.”
She drew it out and very carefully, with what he thought of as reverence, untied the pouch and slid its contents into the cup of her palm.
The money had surprised him, the gun had concerned him. But this awed him. The gleam of it, the regal glint, even in the rain-darkened room, held a stunning and sumptuous power.
The gem filled the palm of her hand, its facets clean and sharp enough to catch even the faintest flicker of light and shoot it into the air in bright, burning lances. It belonged, he thought, on the crown of a mythical queen, or lying heavily between the breasts of some ancient goddess.
“I’ve never seen a sapphire that big.”
“It isn’t a sapphire.” And when she passed it to his hand, she would have sworn she felt the exchange of heat. “It’s a blue diamond, somewhere around a hundred carats. Brilliant-cut, most likely from Asia Minor. There are no inclusions visible to the naked eye, and it is rare in both color and size. I’d have to guess its market worth at easily three times the amount of money in the bag.”
He wasn’t looking at the gem any longer, but at her. When she lifted her eyes to his, she shook her head. “I don’t know how I know. But I do. Just as I know it’s not all…it’s not…complete.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wish I knew. But it’s too strong a feeling, an almost-recognition. I know the stone is only part of the whole. Just as I know it can’t possibly belong to me. It doesn’t really belong to anyone. Any one,” she repeated, separating the word into two. “I must have stolen it.”
She pressed her lips together, lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. “I might have killed for it.”
Chapter 2
Cade took her home. It was the best option he could think of, tucking her away. And he wanted that canvas bag and its contents in his safe as quickly as possible. She hadn’t argued when he led her out of the building, had made no comment about the sleek little Jag parked in the narrow spot on the cracked asphalt lot.
He preferred using his nondescript and well-dented sedan for his work, but until it 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
