MacKenzie's Promise

by Catherine Spencer

  Why hadn’t she mentioned that Mac Sullivan was no ordinary man, that he had the face of a fallen angel and the body of a god? Why hadn’t she seen fit to point out that his voice flowed over a woman like molasses, dark and rich and bittersweet?

  Disgusted with herself, with her inappropriate susceptibility, Linda buried her face in her hands. Melissa wasn’t to blame, she herself was, for having been fool enough to pin labels on him, sight unseen.

  She’d read too many novels about hard-bitten, granite-jawed, flinty-voiced detectives, that was her trouble. Seen too many movies of officers with thick middles and double chins slurping coffee and demolishing doughnuts in between reading people their rights. Spent too many hours talking to the RCMP and local police who were hamstrung by protocol.

  She’d come here believing she was prepared—and found she was prepared for nothing: not the endless drive lasting nearly two days; not the interminable congestion of the I-5, which had her clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip all the way from north of Seattle to Olympia; not the snaking coastal road crowded with tourists in Oregon. And definitely not Mac Sullivan.

  Even her final destination was alien. She’d grown up in Vancouver, Canada’s third largest city. She’d apprenticed in New York and New Orleans, in Paris and Rome. And felt more at home in any one of those cities than she did on this empty stretch of beach bordered on one side by the wild ocean and the other by sand dunes rising twenty feet or more in places.

  For all her world travel and supposed sophistication, she was truly a stranger in a strange land. And no closer to finding June’s baby now than she had been on her native turf.

  Exhaustion swept over her, softening the edges of her disgust with the threat of tears. She’d been so sure, so determined she’d succeed where the police had failed. All during the drive south, she’d rehearsed how she’d approach Mac Sullivan, what she’d say. And been blindsided before she’d even opened her mouth. Spellbound by his commanding presence, commanding looks, commanding everything!

  An image of June staring sightlessly out of her hospital room window, and another of a newborn’s sweetly sleeping face, were shamefully eclipsed by the more recent memory of a man emerging from the rolling surf and striding up the beach. Of him shaking the saltwater from his dark hair and sending the drops flying around his head in a shimmering halo. Of a pair of magnificent shoulders and long, powerful legs. Of eyes glowing smoky blue-gray in his darkly tanned face.

  Oh, fatigue was making a fool of her! What other explanation could there be for the way her mind had emptied of everything that mattered and fastened instead on the physical attributes of a stranger? Why else was she slumped on a chunk of driftwood, with no place to stay that night and no clue as to what her next move should be?

  Already the sun was sliding down on the horizon, allowing a hint of pre-autumn chill to permeate the air. She was hungry and travel-worn and disconcerted. She needed a comfortable hotel room, a hot bath, a good dinner, and an even better night’s sleep to fortify her for the battle ahead. But she knew from her earlier exploration that she’d find none of those things in Trillium Cove. The only inn in town had displayed a discreet No Vacancy sign and from what she’d seen, there weren’t any restaurants.

  “Stop wallowing in self-pity!” she ordered herself. “It’s as unattractive as it’s unproductive. Get up off your behind and do something because you’re accomplishing nothing with this attitude!”

  But her normal resilience had hit an all-time low. The accrued worry and frustration of the last few weeks had finally caught up with her and no amount of self-reproach could chase it away. Discouraged, dejected, she rested her chin on her folded arms and stared blankly at the empty horizon.

  Damn her anyway! How long was she going to sit there like a lost mermaid waiting for the tide to sweep her back out to sea?

  Irritated as much with himself as with her, Mac leaned back in the wicker recliner, propped his feet on the deck railing and took a healthy swig of his bourbon. Usually, topping off the day with an ounce of Jack Daniel’s and a perfect sunset was all he needed to give him a sense of well-being beyond anything money could buy.

  Usually.

  Usually, though, he didn’t have a desperate woman spoiling the view. He didn’t have a woman at all, except by choice, and even then only occasionally. And he made sure whoever she was didn’t come loaded down with expectations he had no intention of meeting.

  Raising his glass, he squinted at the prisms of late-afternoon sunlight spearing the amber liquid. Fine stuff, Jack Daniel’s! Drink enough of it, and a guy could sink into a hazy stupor which nothing could penetrate. Trouble was, he’d learned long ago that when the effects of too much booze wore off, all he had left was a thundering headache and the same old problem he’d tried to elude to begin with. Which brought him back full circle to the woman on the—on his—beach.

  Thoroughly ticked off, he slapped the glass down on the table at his side, lunged to his feet, and glared at her. She hadn’t moved a muscle in the last half hour. Head bent, shoulders bowed, she sat sunk in palpable misery. But what irked him beyond measure was that despite there being no law which said he had to make her problems his, the sight of her remained superimposed on the forefront of his mind regardless, and his thoughts kept turning to the problem she was trying to resolve.

  If it had been an errant husband she was chasing after, or someone who’d taken her for a whack of money, he’d have been able to dismiss her without a second thought. But a child…a helpless baby gone missing? A man had to have traveled a long way down the road of indifference to turn his back on that.

  He had the wherewithal to help her: contacts in high places, should he need them; knowledge and experience by the bushel right at his fingertips. But he’d laid down a set of rules by which he’d sworn to live. Rules which spared him having to call on any such resources.

  It was fear, not rules, which held him back now, though. Fear that all he could do at this stage was discover she’d left it too late. Fear that, at the end of it all, the only thing she’d be taking back to her sister was a miniature white casket holding a baby’s remains.

  He couldn’t go through that a second time.

  Restlessly he paced the length of the deck and back, then turned for one last glance down at the beach. It lay deserted, not just directly below the house, but as far as the eye could see to either side. Not a living soul marred the two-mile expanse of sand he called his backyard.

  She’d given up. Gone back to wherever she’d come from, or else in search of someone else’s help. He could eat dinner with a clear conscience. Praise the Lord!

  His kitchen faced southeast, with a patio beyond the sliding glass door which caught the morning sun. He kept his barbecue out there, a gas-powered luxury model designed for year-round use regardless of the weather, but especially suited for an evening such as this.

  He’d pulled a steak from the freezer and was in the process of searching the refrigerator for salad fixings when the bronze knocker on his front door struck the solid plank of oak. Not loudly or confidently or imperatively, the way he’d have approached it, but with a timid little pflunk!

  The sixth sense which had served him so long and so well during his years on the force clicked into gear. Muttering a few choice words not fit to be heard in decent company, he strode through the living area to the hall, already resigned to what he knew he’d find waiting outside.

  “Please,” was all she said when he opened the door, and he was lost. Lost in the bruised shade of her eyes, more blue than green in the descending twilight. And lost in that simple entreaty which spoke more poignantly than a flood of more urgent and articulate pleas.

  “I should have realized you couldn’t disappear into thin air quite that fast,” he said, gesturing her inside.

  She was shivering, pale, and just about ready to drop in her tracks. He grasped her upper arm and was shocked at how chilled her skin felt—far more than the cooling outside temper
ature merited. Shocked, too, by her air of frailty. “When did you last eat?” he inquired sharply.

  She thought about it for a second, then said, “I stopped for coffee this morning.”

  “I’m talking about a square meal.”

  “I don’t know.” She lifted her shoulders indifferently. “Last night, I guess.”

  Mac swore again, and propelled her to the leather couch in front of the fireplace. “Sit!” he ordered, and after she responded to the command like a well-trained member of the dog squad, he grabbed the knitted afghan his mother had sent him and flung it around her shoulders.

  She curved herself into its warmth and blinked. She had the longest damned eyelashes he’d ever seen. Indulging in a few more choice obscenities—old police habits died hard—he knelt to put a match to the wood and kindling already laid in the fire grate then, while the flames took hold, returned to the kitchen and heated water to make a mug of his special hot rum toddy.

  “Here,” he said, marching back to the living room some five minutes later. But she was already zonked out. Head cushioned against the arm of the couch, feet tucked under her, she slept like a baby.

  Parking the rum toddy on the edge of the hearth, he piled a couple more logs on the fire, then leaned against the mantel shelf and rolled his eyes in disgust. He’d grown accustomed to his comfort zone, in which he was responsible only for himself; accountable only to himself. Still, he retained just enough humanity to be touched by her troubles.

  A child had gone missing, for God’s sake, and even he—especially he!—knew the burden that cast on a person’s shoulders. And he was afraid. Afraid of his response to a woman so full of need that someone had to step in on her behalf, because she couldn’t do it alone. Afraid because, of all the people she could have turned to, she’d chosen him.

  He’d looked into her eyes and remembered them not for their clarity of color or symmetry of shape, but for the faith he’d seen in them, and for the grief. And he was afraid of failing again.

  “Jeez!” he growled. “Why me? Of all the people living along this stretch of coastline, why the hell did I have to open my door to this particular stray?”

  She stirred. Puffed a little breath between her lips. Sighed. And settled more comfortably into the corner of the couch.

  Sighing himself, he stalked back to the kitchen and yanked open the freezer in search of another steak. No point in deluding himself. She was there for the duration, whether or not he liked it.

  But lest there be any doubt, he liked it not one bit and intended driving the message home to her as soon as she was alert enough to comprehend it—which, given her present comatose state, was unlikely to be anytime soon.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE eerie sense that she was being watched—scrutinized with unblinking intent, in fact—penetrated the mists of sleep and lent an even greater edge of danger to the fitful dreams chasing her.

  Jarring awake, she sat up too suddenly and took a moment to get her bearings. Leather warm and smooth as satin against her bare skin, a soft wool shawl caressing her shoulders, a tingling numbness creeping down her right leg. Her face touched by the heat from a fire whose flames danced in reflection on the wall of windows to her left. A framed painting above the mantelpiece, of majestic evergreens marching up a mountainside. Massive beams supporting a high ceiling. Music—a Chopin nocturne, she guessed—flowing from a sound system housed in an open cabinet made of some dark wood inlaid with ivory.

  And in a tanned face of incomparable male beauty, cool watchful eyes the color of storm clouds, dissecting her, feature by feature.

  He lounged in a chair on the opposite side of the granite hearth, an old-fashioned glass one-third full held negligently in one hand. He’d showered and changed since he admitted her to the house. His hair gleamed thick and black against his skull, and she detected a faint and pleasant whiff of aftershave. He wore a long-sleeved shirt almost the exact shade of his eyes, and black cargo pants.

  Relaxed and casual, one might have been fooled into believing. Except there was nothing relaxed or casual in his unswerving observation, and she knew without a shadow of doubt that, had the need arisen, he’d have uncoiled out of that chair in a stunning blur of speed and power. He was part man, part machine; frighteningly intelligent, and terrifyingly detached.

  “How long have I been asleep?” she asked him, her voice croaking from a throat grown dry and gritty.

  “Close to an hour.”

  “You should have woken me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” she said, then, unable to come up with a reason that didn’t sound either affected or downright silly, drifted into silence.

  “I already told you once, ‘because’ isn’t a reason.”

  She wished he’d divert that unnerving stare to some place other than her face. She felt like a butterfly pinned under a microscope. Helpless. At his complete mercy. “I guess I was tired.”

  “I guess you were.” He shifted in the chair, glanced briefly at his glass, took a mouthful of whatever he was drinking, and resumed his inspection of her. “You’d like to tidy up,” he said, not in question but in command. “There’s a washroom to the right of the front door.”

  Normally she’d have resented his tone but it had been hours since she’d been to the toilet and nature was calling with growing insistence. Wincing, she unfolded herself from the couch and slid to her feet, the pins and needles shooting up her right leg rendering it excruciatingly sensitive to the pressure.

  “Cramps,” she offered, feeling some sort of explanation was called for as she took a lurching step forward.

  “You mean you’ve got your period?” he inquired dispassionately. “Sorry, I don’t keep supplies like that on hand.”

  She thought she’d die. Scarlet in the face and probably over every other inch of exposed skin as well, she groped her way to the end of the couch. “Cramps in my leg,” she stammered, beating as dignified a retreat as she could manage.

  The washroom bore the same stamp of masculine opulence as the living area. Pristine white marble floor tiles, dark green porcelain fixtures, brass fittings and black hand towels. Above the sink, a large oval mirror revealed a map of creases down one side of her face and her hair mashed unflatteringly against her head from where she’d lain on it.

  No wonder he’d been staring at her so fixedly. He probably hadn’t seen anything quite as unsightly since the last time he’d scraped a drunk off the sidewalk, back in the days when he cruised the streets in a patrol car.

  She did the best she could with soap and water, but she’d left her bag in her car at the top of his driveway and much though she’d have loved to get her hands on her toothbrush and a comb, she wasn’t about to leave the house and risk not being allowed back in again. He’d just have to put up with her as she was.

  “It took you long enough,” he informed her, when she reappeared. “Men can do what they have to do in half the time it takes a woman.”

  “They also stand up to do it,” she snapped without thinking, and blushed again as he let out a rumble of laughter.

  “Here,” he said, handing her a steaming mug. “Maybe this’ll warm you up and sweeten your mood.”

  She sniffed the contents suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “Hot rum and lemon with sugar. I just reheated it. Watch you don’t burn your mouth.”

  “I don’t like rum.”

  “And I don’t like strays coming down with pneumonia under my roof, so do as you’re told. You aren’t dressed for the kind of temperatures we get out here in the evening.”

  “I’m not cold.”

  He traced the tip of his finger over her bare arm. “Then why the goose bumps?”

  Because you’re touching me, she thought, unable to control a shiver. “Reaction setting in after sleeping, I suppose. It’s not uncommon.”

  “Maybe not, but I don’t want to take any chances.” He tucked the knitted shawl around her shoulders and nudged her toward the fire.
“Sit on the hearth awhile and down the rum while I fix us some food. You eat red meat?”

  “Would it make any difference if I said ‘no’?”

  “Not a bit,” he replied cheerfully. “I’m having steak and a baked potato, with salad and mushrooms on the side. You can either join me or watch me.”

  “Steak will be fine,” she told him, wondering what demon of perversity made her take issue with him when what she most wanted was to win his cooperation. “Thank you for inviting me to stay.”

  He laughed again, unkindly this time. “As if I had any choice! Medium rare okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  The hot rum and lemon tasted remarkably pleasant and slid down her throat in a rich, syrupy stream, warming her as thoroughly within as the fire did on the outside. Beyond an open archway at the far end of the room, she could hear him moving around, clattering utensils and running water. She found the sounds oddly comforting; a refreshing return to normality, after too many weeks fraught with anxiety and fear.

  The fading glow of sunset streamed across the plain white wall opposite the windows, painting it in pastel stripes of celadon and peach. Hugging the mug in both hands, she strolled to the sliding glass doors overlooking the ocean.

  The view was breathtaking, stretching as far as the eye could see over ocean and sand, cliffs and stunted, weather-bent pines. A person could gaze at the sight every day for the rest of his life, and not grow tired of the spectacle. Small wonder he’d chosen this spot as his retreat.

  The huge room behind her was scarcely less impressive. He’s filthy rich, Melissa had said, and it had been no exaggeration. In addition to the one she’d noticed above the fireplace, a number of other paintings hung on the whitewashed walls, some oils, some watercolors, and every one an original. There were other items, too, which told something of his taste: a jade carving of a woman rising from a pool, her arms upstretched; a crouching mountain lion fashioned from onyx; a wide, shallow bowl of beaten copper holding a selection of bleached seashells, and a tall brass samovar.