Parker And The Gypsy

by Susan Carroll

  “Not that I cared that much about my old man,” Mike added quickly. “I just didn’t want to go back to any foster home.”

  No, Michael, Sara thought sadly. You cared. You cared too terribly much. But she kept this perception to herself, allowing him to continue.

  He moved restlessly away from the dragon figure. “About that time, my dad got involved with a real rotten crowd. I’m talking some hard-core criminals here. And my old man started bragging to me about how we were finally going to end up on easy street.

  “I got scared stiff. I knew something major bad was coming down and somehow I had to find out what it was and keep my father out of it. So that’s what I was doing the night I almost got myself killed. Playing detective.”

  Sara gripped her hands together, able to envision too clearly the sort of boy Mike must have been, street tough beyond his years, but still a child underneath it all, frightened, vulnerable. Stealing into the night in a desperate attempt to save his father, braving dangers grown men would have flinched from. Her heart ached for that twelve-year-old boy, for the man that now stood before her, his face turned toward the shadows as he relived his darkest memory.

  “I broke into the law offices of one of these shady crooks I knew my dad was dealing with. But clumsy kid that I was, I got caught before I could find out anything. By one of Dad’s charming new friends. A creep known as Sully ‘the Switchblade’ Voltano.

  “I tried to fight him off, but he dragged me out into the alley behind the office. Then he....” Though Mike’s features remained steely, impassive, his hand crept involuntarily toward his shoulder. “He came at me with his knife. But he had the misfortune to stick it to me near this back room where some of the local cops had joined in a game of craps. Sully the Switch got busted. And I got saved. End of the story. Or it should have been.”

  Mike raked his hand back through his hair, his words coming faster like he wanted to get it all out and be done with it. “The Switch sang for the D.A. like the fat lady at the opera. He said my old man had sent him to follow me that night, put a permanent end to my nosing around.”

  “By—by having you killed?” Sara whispered, still unable to fully grasp the horror of it.

  Mike nodded jerkily. “I guess nobody was going to be allowed to get in the way of Robert Parker’s big score. Not even me.”

  “Oh, Michael,” Sara breathed. It all seemed almost too incredible, like the plot of one of those old movies Mike had talked about. But the scar, the dull pain in Mike’s eyes were far too real.

  After a long silence, Sara asked, “And—and what did your father say to these accusations?”

  “Oh, he denied it to the hilt, complete with tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Oh, Mikey, I know I’ve been a lousy father, but you’re all I’ve got. I love you. I’d never dream of hurting you.’”

  Mike gave a bitter laugh at his own mimicry. “Well, the old man had tried to pull off one con too many. No one bought his little performance this time.”

  “Including you?”

  Mike frowned. “That was the pure hell of it, angel. After all his damned lies and cheats, part of me still wanted to believe him. Guess that made me the prize chump of all time.”

  “No,” Sara said gently. “Only a child who wanted to have faith in something every child should have. His father’s love.”

  “Yeah, well, I got over that real fast.” Mike squared his shoulders in a brusque gesture. “Besides the little escapade with me, my father also got caught in an extortion deal, pulling off a phony bond racket on some very wealthy people. You can try to engineer the death of your own son, but you better not go messing around with a rich-and-powerful man’s money. My dad got sent away to do some very hard time up at Trenton State.”

  “Trenton State?” Sara echoed. “Then, the letter that day on the floor of your car...”

  “Was from him. He still writes me from time to time even after all these years. I never read them.”

  But something in the way Mike averted his head gave her the uneasy feeling that he wasn’t being entirely truthful about this. She was picking up something. Some dark and disturbing vibes coming from ... the envelope that lay damp and crushed in his trench coat pocket.

  No! Stop it. She couldn’t do this to him anymore. He’d already shared enough of his most intimate secrets with her. Clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white, Sara fought to shut down her psychic perceptions. With great effort, she succeeded.

  “And so you’ve never seen your father again?” she asked. “Not once in all this time?”

  “Only in my dreams, sugar. Weird, isn’t it? I can’t even remember what the Switch looked like. When I have the nightmares, it’s always my father lurking there in the shadows waiting with the knife.” .

  Not so weird, Sara thought. One didn’t have to be an expert at analyzing dreams to figure it out. The betrayal of Mike’s father had scarred him far worse than any weapon could have done.

  “Then you have these bad dreams often?”

  “Yeah. A load of laughs, aren’t they?”

  But when Sara shivered, Mike’s sardonic expression faded. “I forgot you shared the last one. Do you think that will happen again?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  He closed the distance between them, brushing his fingers lightly across her brow. “I’m damned if I’m going to have my shadow man creeping from my dreams into yours. If I really thought that was possible, I’d stay awake every night for the rest of my life.”

  He tried to make it sound like a joke, but Sara could tell he meant it. The tough guy who swore he was no Sir Galahad would sit up until he dropped from exhaustion, all just to protect her from his nightmare.

  She wished there was something she could do to protect him in return. Maybe there was. Acting on impulse, she said, “There has to be an easier way to keep the nightmares at bay. Maybe what you need is a dream catcher.”

  “A what?”

  Sara answered by unhooking the dream catcher from the wire hook that suspended it from her shop ceiling. She presented the woven rope circle with its decoration of black and turquoise beads and feathers to Mike. “Hang this in your bedroom and it will catch all your bad dreams.”

  “Honey, I’d need one the size of Philadelphia,” Mike drawled.

  “No, really, Michael. According to the old Indian legend, the nightmares are trapped here.” She pointed to the webbing in the center of the circle.

  Mike took the dream catcher in his hands and examined it as suspiciously as some jungle explorer studying a witch doctor’s rattle.

  “The bad dreams turn into dew and evaporate in the morning sunshine,” Sara continued. “Only the good dreams get through.”

  “And what if you don’t want any dreams at all?”

  “Everyone has to have some kind of dreams. Otherwise there’s nothing left but the dark.”

  “I don’t mind the dark, only what’s lurking in it.” He ran one of the dream catcher’s feathers between his long fingers. “So why didn’t this gizmo work for you tonight?”

  “I don’t have one hanging in my bedroom.”

  “Ah, I see. This is only something you foist off on unsuspecting customers.”

  “No, it’s just I’ve never needed one before. I never really had any horrible nightmares until...until—”

  Mike flinched. “Until you met me,” he filled in softly.

  “Oh, no, of course not. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” But Sara trailed off, seeing it was useless. How could you reassure a man who wouldn’t even admit that he could be hurt?

  He handed the weaving back to her. “Thanks, but no thanks, sugar. If I need a good night’s sleep, I’d rather rely on a few stiff belts of Jack Daniel’s than on what some crazy medicine man did with a leftover ball of string.”

  “It couldn’t possibly hurt anything to try it,” Sara coaxed.

  “What’s the point?” Mike’s jaw jutted to a stubborn angle. “What’s the point in believing i
n any of this stuff?” He picked up a box from the counter and smacked it back down. “Fairy dust and dream catchers, rune stones and—and mystic crystals. Why would anybody need any of this junk?” he demanded. “Why, Sara?”

  “Why not, Michael?” Sara asked gently. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the things I sell are a lot of junk. But maybe they aren’t. Where’s the harm in leaving your mind open to a little bit of magic?”

  “Because, what happens when you find out the magic’s all gone? That there never really was any. You wake up in the morning and there’s just four bare walls and you. All alone.”

  His voice was flippant, but he couldn’t disguise the bleakness that crept into his eyes. Appearing discomfited as though afraid he’d revealed too much, Mike turned away from her.

  Sara clutched the rejected dream catcher in her hands and ached for him. If there’d ever been a man who needed a little magic, a touch of whimsy in his life, it was Michael Parker. But obviously she wasn’t the woman who could give it to him.

  They were worlds apart—the little girl who’d harbored fairies and unicorns in her dollhouse and the kid who’d grown up in dark streets and alleys, cutting school and fighting off the hit man sent by his own father.

  Sorrowfully, she turned to put the dream catcher back on its hook when Mike growled, “Wait.”

  When she glanced back at him, he shrugged and said, “Ah, what the hell. I’ll take the damned thing. I’ve got some bare spots on my wall and I guess that Indian doodad would be better than a black velvet painting of Elvis.”

  Sara stood frozen in astonishment while Mike moved forward with a belligerent swagger and plucked the dream catcher from her hands.

  “How much?” he asked, groping inside his trench coat as though seeking his wallet.

  “N-nothing.” Sara recovered her wits enough to stammer. “It’s a gift, Michael.”

  “You’re going to have a hard time staying in business, gypsy lady, giving things away.” He indicated the candles. “And burning up all your stock.”

  “No harder than a detective who only charges his clients ten dollars a day, plus expenses.”

  Mike gave her a fierce stare, which she matched, chin up. He caved first, his eyes melting to a warm cocoa, his lips quirking into the familiar grin. She didn’t know what had made him change his mind about the dream catcher. Maybe he’d thought she needed the business. Maybe he was just humoring her again. But maybe, just maybe she’d finally reached some part of Mike Parker he’d kept sealed off for years.

  No, Sara hardly dared think it. She’d learned at a young age that there was nothing that chased magic away quicker than questioning it too closely.

  And there was definitely magic in the way Mike was looking at her now, candlelight reflected in his eyes. Or maybe the flames she saw there came from some deeper source. She felt that strong pull she always felt when Mike stood so close to her, tension humming between them like an old and familiar song. Like in a half-remembered dream. Or maybe even in another lifetime.

  Staring into his eyes, she found herself drifting closer, scarcely realizing what she did. The dream catcher tumbled to the floor as Mike reached for her, drawing her into his arms.

  Time seemed to stop, the whole world going still as his mouth descended to meet hers. His lips covered hers, gently at first and then with greater insistence, the hot play of his tongue teasing hers. It was the kind of kiss for making magic, stoking desires, stirring dreams.

  Mike strained her close, closer to his heart than he ever let anyone come before. Burying his face in her hair, he breathed a long sigh, wondering what insanity was stealing over him.

  In the brief time he’d known her, his gypsy lady had involved him in some of the damnedest situations. Ghost hunting, mind reading, dream sharing. And now this. Midnight confessions, revealing to her vulnerabilities he’d never shown anyone before. Dark sweet embraces stolen by candlelight, making him hunger after her so badly, his hands were shaking.

  As he locked his arms about her even tighter, whispering kisses upon her upturned face, her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose, her chin, all this craziness was starting to feel so right.

  Like maybe it was the rest of his whole rotten world that was insane. The endless cases of cheating spouses, insurance frauds and accounting scams. The murky memories being stirred up by his hunt for the Patrick kid. His petty quest to get back at Xavier Storm for messing with his ex-wife. The letter crushed in his pocket, the one he’d been a fool to ever open...

  “Mikey, I’ll be getting out soon....”

  The shadow man of his nightmares was threatening to spill back into his days, and instead of planning how he was going to handle it, he’d driven aimlessly around for hours with only one thought in his head.

  Sara... He needed to see Sara. To feel the comfort of her warmth, her smile, her touch. Mike Parker, the tough guy, who’d spent most of his life running away from everyone—never to anyone.

  Now here he was crushing her in his arms, kissing her like he couldn’t bear to ever let her go. But it was wrong. All wrong. Somehow he had to find a way to stop before he blazed them both down the trail to disaster.

  It took every ounce of his will, but he managed to ease her gently out of his arms.

  “It’s late,” he said huskily. “I—I should be going.”

  “No!” Sara’s cry seemed almost involuntary. She clutched at the front of his coat. “I—I mean you don’t have to. You could...stay.”

  There was no mistaking her meaning. When she gazed at him, her face was suffused with the delicate flush of passion, the glow of a woman waiting, willing to be loved. He’d never realized that desire could be such a pure and simple thing, almost holy when shining from a pair of deep blue, earnest eyes.

  She was offering him everything he hungered for, and he didn’t know why he didn’t just reach out and take advantage of it. This hesitation was something new for him. Mike Parker, in his gentleman mode. Until tonight he’d never known he’d had one.

  Swallowing thickly, he gathered her hands and put them away from him. “That wouldn’t be a very good idea, Sara. My staying.”

  “Why?” she whispered. “Don’t you want me?”

  A sound escaped Mike, somewhere between a laugh and a moan. “Want you? Angel, I want you so bad, it scares me, but I’ve got no way of protecting you.”

  The color in her cheeks heightened. “You don’t have to worry about that. I take the Pill. For medical reasons.”

  “That wasn’t the only kind of protection that I meant.” He cradled her face in his hands. “Sara, you’re the kind of woman that has ‘forever’ written all over you. And me... I’ve never been able to make anything in my life last longer than a cheap plastic ashtray.”

  “I know that,” she said with a sad smile. “And I’m not asking for forever, Michael. Just tonight.” Catching one of his hands, she pressed a kiss into his palm, the soft, warm pressure of her lips sending a powerful rush of heat licking through his veins.

  Mike stifled a groan. She wasn’t making this any easier for him. She slipped her arms around his neck, nestling close to him, making him painfully aware of every soft curve draped beneath that sheer white nightgown.

  “Sara, Sara.” He sighed. “You’re playing with fire, girl. Look what’s already happened between us with just a few kisses. If I make love to you, you could have one helluva psychic hot flash.”

  “I’ve already seen you naked. How much further can I go?”

  “A lot further.” he said. “What if you end up with the whole works this time? All of me. Body and soul. My soul’s not a fit thing to offer any woman, let alone an angel like you.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Michael?” Sara skimmed her fingertips along the side of his face, the gesture more tender and loving than any he’d ever known.

  Easing away from him, she picked up a candle and held out her hand. “Please stay. Stay the night with me.”

  No pleading, no blatant seduction.
Just a simple request that cut straight to his heart. Sara stood before him, her winsome face and golden hair haloed by the candlelight, her lips soft and inviting. His gypsy lady. All the warmth that had always been missing from his black-and-white world. Would it be the worst thing that he’d ever done to steal a little of her sunshine for a while?

  Possibly so, but he was too new at this being-noble business to hold out any longer. He hesitated one moment more before taking the biggest risk of his life.

  Mike Parker reached out of the shadows and took Sara’s hand.

  Eight

  Candlelight shed a soft glow over the white eyelet and lace of Sara’s bedroom, daunting Mike with the sheer femininity of it. She settled the candle holder on her dresser and turned back to face him, eyes shining, expectant.

  This is the moment you’re supposed to swoop her into your arms and carry her over to the bed stupid, the more impatient part of his anatomy urged him.

  Instead, he stood as if frozen to the carpet, awkward and uncertain. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d known what to do with a woman in a bedroom since he’d been seventeen. Pounce, peel off her clothes and get down to it.

  But as usual, it was going to be different with Sara. Maybe, he was amazed to discover, because he wanted it to be. She drifted toward him, something endearingly innocent, almost childlike about the way her bare feet peeked out from beneath the hem of her nightgown. But the body draped by that sheer white cotton was definitely that of a woman, all soft enticing curves, the dusky aureolas of her breasts, intriguing shadows beneath her bodice.

  Mike’s mouth went dry. He’d only ever known the black lace teddy kind of female like his ex-wife. He’d had more pasties and fire red G-strings flaunted at him than a country hick lost in a strip joint.

  How strange then, that it was Sara, in her angel white nightie, capable of arousing such hunger in him, such an indescribable longing, it was almost enough to make a grown man cry.

  She came to a halt in front of him, running her fingers lightly up the lapel of his coat.

  “Well, Mr. Parker,” she whispered, her smile gently teasing. “Aren’t you ever going to take off your trench coat?”