Hidden Star: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс

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      Cade hung up the phone and stared malevolently at his computer. Man and machine were simply going to have to come to terms for this next bit of research.

      It took him what he estimated was three times as long as it would the average twelve-year-old to insert the CD-ROM, search, and find what he was after.

      Amnesia.

      Cade drank another cup of coffee and learned more about the human brain than he’d ever wanted to know. For a short, uncomfortable time, he feared Bailey had a tumor. That he might have one, as well. He experienced a deep personal concern for his brain stem, then reconfirmed why he hadn’t gone into medicine as his mother hoped.

      The human body, with all its tricks and ticking time bombs, was just too scary. He’d much rather face a loaded gun than the capriciousness of his own internal organs.

      He finally concluded, with some relief, that it was unlikely Bailey had a tumor. All signs pointed to hysterical amnesia, which could resolve itself within hours of the trauma, or take weeks. Months. Even years.

      Which put them, he thought, solidly back at square one. The handy medical CD that had come with his computer indicated that amnesia was a symptom, rather than a disease, and that treatment involved finding and removing the cause.

      That was where he came in. It seemed to Cade that a detective was every bit as qualified as a doctor to deal with Bailey’s problem.

      Turning back to his computer, he laboriously typed up his notes, questions and conclusions to date. Satisfied, he went back upstairs to find her some clothes.

      She didn’t know if it was a dream or reality—or even if it was her own dream or someone else’s reality. But it was familiar, so oddly familiar….

      The dark room, the hard slant of the beam of light from the desk lamp. The elephant. How strange—the elephant seemed to be grinning at her, its trunk lifted high for luck, its glinting blue eyes gleaming with secret amusement.

      Female laughter—again familiar, and so comforting. Friendly, intimate laughter.

      It’s got to be Paris, Bailey. We’re not going to spend two weeks with you digging in the dirt again. What you need is romance, passion, sex. What you need is Paris.

      A triangle, gold and gleaming. And a room filled with light, bright, blinding light. A man who’s not a man, with a face so kind, so wise, so generous, it thrills the soul. And the golden triangle held in his open hands, the offering of it, the power of it stunning, the impact of the rich blue of the stones nestled in each angle almost palpable. And the stones shining and pulsing like heartbeats and seeming to leap into the air like stars, shooting stars that scatter light.

      The beauty of them sears the eyes.

      And she’s holding them in her hands, and her hands are shaking. Anger, such anger swirling in side her, and fear and panic and fury. The stones shoot out from her hands, first one, then two, winging away like jeweled birds. And the third is clutched to her heart by her open, protective hand.

      Silver flashing, bolts of silver flashing. And the pounding of booming drums that shake the ground. Blood. Blood everywhere, like a hideous river spilling.

      My God, it’s wet, so red and wet and demon-dark.

      Running, stumbling, heart thudding. It’s dark again. The light’s gone, the stars are gone. There’s a corridor, and her heels echo like the thunder that follows lightning. It’s coming after her, hunting her in the dark while the walls close in tighter and tighter.

      She can hear the elephant trumpeting, and the lightning flashes closer. She crawls into the cave and hides like an animal, shivering and whimpering like an animal as the lightning streaks by her….

      “Come on, sweetheart. Come on, honey. It’s just a bad dream.”

      She clawed her way out of the dark toward the calm, steady voice, burrowed her clammy face into the broad, solid shoulder.

      “Blood. So much blood. Hit by lightning. It’s coming. It’s close.”

      “No, it’s gone now.” Cade pressed his lips to her hair, rocked her. When he slipped in to leave her a robe, she’d been crying in her sleep. Now she was clinging to him, trembling, so he shifted her into his lap as if she were a child. “You’re safe now. I promise.”

      “The stars. Three stars.” Balanced between dream and reality, she shifted restlessly in his arms. “I’ve got to go to Paris.”

      “You did. I’m right here.” He tipped her head back to touch his lips to her temple. “Right here,” he repeated, waiting for her eyes to clear and focus. “Relax now. I’m right here.”

      “Don’t go.” With a quick shudder, she rested her head on his shoulder, just as he’d imagined. The pull on his heart was immediate, and devastating.

      He supposed love at first sight was meant to be.

      “I won’t. I’ll take care of you.”

      That alone was enough to ease her trembling. She relaxed against him, let her eyes close again. “It was just a dream, but it was so confusing, so frightening. I don’t understand any of it.”

      “Tell me.”

      He listened as she struggled to remember the details, put them in order. “There was so much emotion, huge waves of emotions. Anger, shock, a sense of betrayal and fear. Then terror. Just sheer mindless terror.”

      “That could explain the amnesia. You’re not ready to cope with it, so you shut it off. It’s a kind of conversion hysteria.”

      “Hysteria?” The term made her chin lift. “I’m hysterical?”

      “In a manner of speaking.” He rubbed his knuckles absently over that lifted chin. “It looks good on you.”

      In a firm, deliberate movement that made his brow quirk, she pushed his hand from her face. “I don’t care for the term.”

      “I’m using it in a strictly medical sense. You didn’t get bopped on the head, right?”

      Her eyes were narrowed now. “Not that I recall, but then, I’m hysterical, after all.”

      “Cute. What I mean is, amnesia can result from a concussion.” He twirled her hair around his finger as he spoke, just to feel the texture. “I always thought that was bull or Hollywood stuff, but it says so right in the medical book. One of the other causes is a functional nervous disorder, such as—you’ll excuse the term—hysteria.”

      Her teeth were gritted now. “I am not hysterical, though I’m sure I could be, if you’d care for a demonstration.”

      “I’ve had plenty of those. I have sisters. Bailey.” He cupped her face in his hands in such a disarming gesture, her narrowed eyes widened. “You’re in trouble, that’s the bottom line. And we’re going to fix it.”

      “By holding me in your lap?”

      “That’s just a side benefit.” When her smile fluttered again and she started to shift СКАЧАТЬ