This man was hard, like steel. He would be a formidable opponent. And he was protecting her. But even as that thought came to mind, she knew that the rest of her assumptions about her Gypsy were less certain. “I don’t know you—do I?”
“You know me, Karen. You may not know my name, but you know me. We’re—connected.” He smiled.
The wickedness of that smile made her glad she was sitting down. “Your name?” she asked, focusing her scattered thoughts on a part of him that was safe.
“Nikolai Sandor,” he answered as he pulled into the parking garage beneath a building. “I’m your—a doctor at Mercy General Hospital.”
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Don’t worry, princess. This is my place. I just need to make a couple of calls and then we’re going to find a place where you’ll be safe.”
“But what about your work?”
“It’ll wait. Besides, there’s a fund-raiser I’d like to avoid. Where do you want to go?”
“Slade Island,” she whispered. “You’re taking me to Slade Island.”
She felt the strength of his arms as he lifted her. She leaned against him, letting out a long, tense breath. She was too exhausted to try to make sense of what was happening. Being with him felt right—strange, but right. Maybe she was dreaming again, but this time the dream was in the present. The moors were gone. The woman was gone. This was really happening.
“I was right. You’re no angel. You’re much too dark and dangerous.”
“You’re right, princess. You’ve made a pact with the devil.”
Friday the 13th—5:00 P.M.—Niko’s apartment
Niko made a mental list of supplies they’d need as he dialed Mac’s private number. He’d have to verify that the lodge was still there and that it was empty. Then they’d have to buy food and warm clothes for Karen.
The phone rang. A machine asked for the caller’s name. Niko complied. There was a click and then Mac was there. “Well, Niko, I understand that the mad scientist has kidnapped his patient,” he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “So where are you taking her?”
“The pipeline works fast. Who told you?”
“The same person who called me about Karen in the first place. Don’t worry. Her disappearance has been smoothed over, at least for now. Brief me.”
“I don’t think I’ll be that specific. Just think about the last family wedding I went to, and you’ll know.”
“My, my, aren’t we being mysterious. Any special reason why?”
“Yes. Someone’s tracking Karen. I don’t want him to find us, at least not until I know what he wants.”
“What can I do?”
“See what you can find out about a newspaper reporter from Minnesota. I talked to Sam Wade with the Daily World. According to his sources, our runaway librarian is a schoolteacher in hiding.”
“Do we know what she’s hiding from?”
“Not exactly. Seems there was an arsonist, a man who liked to burn down buildings with people in them. Karen identified him. She was the only witness. He was about to be prosecuted when she disappeared. What I don’t know is why she ran or who might want to find her.”
“I see. I’ll look into it. You stay in touch.”
The connection was broken. Niko hung up the phone and started back to the living room, where he’d left Karen. She’d covered herself with her blanket and was asleep on his couch.
Good. She didn’t have the strength yet for what he was putting her through. He looked at her, lying like a crumpled doll across his couch, and felt his loins stir. She was too beautiful, too appealing, and the connection that had formed between them tightened every time he breathed in the essence of her.
Now that he’d stolen her away from the hospital, what in hell was he going to do with her? He hadn’t thought it out. Taking her to Slade Island had been part of the fantasy he’d created, but now he had to slow down and remember that he was a doctor and she was a patient.
A patient who’d not yet eaten on her own, nor walked across the room. He didn’t even know if she could. He’d sensed her terror and he’d allowed himself to be drawn into her need to flee. Now he had to be careful.
Bringing her back to consciousness was one thing, but charging away with her on a white horse like some knight in shining armor at the expense of her health was another.
He paced back and forth as he considered his options. Mac had put a lid on what he’d done as best he could with the administration, but there was no way he’d keep everybody involved quiet. Still, it would take the reporter a little time to verify that the Karen in intensive care was the woman he’d been looking for. Then there’d be a delay in figuring out what had happened to her.
But the trail would lead eventually to Niko Sandor.
There was no other way. He had to get her out of there, but she needed a night of rest to test her recuperative powers first.
Food, movement, and normalcy, then flight.
Niko went into his guest bedroom and turned back the covers. He stood looking around. He’d never had a guest spend the night before. His princess with the faulty memories would be his first.
Back in the living room, he leaned down and whispered, “Princess? I’m going to move you to a bed.”
“Aren’t we going to the island?”
“In the morning. We’ll need light to get safely across the river.”
“Safe. Yes.” As he lifted her, she encircled his neck with her arms and laid her cheek against his chest. “You aren’t lying to me, are you?”
“Lying to you?” He knew that his voice was racked with incredulity that she would question what he’d done.
“Gypsies always say what a woman wants to hear, don’t they?”
“This Gypsy doesn’t.”
“Good. I like what you’ve said so far. I’d hate to think none of it was true.”
For the next few hours Niko studied maps, made lists, and finally, reluctantly, placed a call to the one family member he thought he could trust.
“Mishe, this is Niko, I need some information. Do we still have the lodge?”
“As far as I know. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a gathering, but it’s still there.”
“And Giles, is he still operating the marina?”
“No, but his son is. You aren’t planning to go out there in this weather, are you?”
“No,” Niko added quickly. “I’m just going to take a few days off in the spring and thought I might like to spend them on the island.”
“Good idea. Give me a call, and maybe I’ll join you. I haven’t been up north in a while.”
Niko thanked his cousin and hoped he’d convinced him that his plans were for later, much later. Even so, it wouldn’t matter. It was unlikely that a reporter would ever find out about the island. Gypsies were closemouthed about their own.
By midnight he was hungry enough to eat. And it was time to find out about his guest. No, not guest—patient. That’s how he’d think of her, as a patient he was treating, not a silver-haired siren who started his juices going with just the thought.
Tumbling through his bureau, he found a short black satin robe, a gift from a woman in his past—a woman whose face he couldn’t even remember. Next, a pair of red cotton socks, a T-shirt that declared SOMEBODY IN GEORGIA LOVES YOU, and a pair of boxer shorts with hearts.
Not the kind of wardrobe the princess would have chosen, he guessed, but it would have to do until they could get to a store.
Carrying his selections, Niko pushed on the door to Karen’s room. He debated about whether to let her sleep or wake her. The sound of her voice settled his dilemma. “I’m awake.”
“I brought you some clothes. I thought you might want to get out of that hospital gown and have something to eat.”
“What I’d really like is a shower.”
“The bathroom is in here,” he said, opening the door. “Feel free to use anything you need. I’ll close the door into my bedroom.”<
br />
“Thank you.”
“Do you need help getting up?”
“I’ll manage.”
Suddenly they were strangers, awkward strangers, trying to bridge a gap that neither could explain.
“While you’re showering, I’ll make some coffee and heat up some soup. Do you think you can eat something?”
“I think I could eat almost anything.”
“Good.” He closed the door and backed away, wondering if she really could manage. He waited for a few minutes, until he heard the creak of the hardwood floor and the sound of the shower running.
Releasing a deep breath of relief, Niko turned and made his way down the hall to the kitchen. He hoped to hell he had some soup. He hoped to hell he had anything.
The cabinet was practically bare, but he found one can of clam chowder. In the bread box there was a half loaf of wheat bread with only one molded corner. The refrigerator was in much better shape. There was juice, butter, and milk.
Oops, too optimistic there. He poured the milk down the drain. He did have coffee, artificial creamer, and sugar. The one thing Niko always had was sugar. His sweet tooth was the second most well-known fact about his personality, following his insistence on privacy.
Soon the chowder was bubbling. He cut the molded corners off the bread and toasted it. The coffee was spitting its last drip into the glass pot when she appeared in the doorway, wearing, not the satin robe, but his comfortable old terry-cloth one. She was drying her hair with a red towel.
He’d been in the process of taking cups from the cupboard when he looked up and saw her and felt the air whoosh out of his lungs in a wild surge. Fire and ice was his first thought. She’d rolled up the sleeves and cinched the waistline with the sash. She could barely walk with the folds of material wrapping around her feet.
But it was the beautiful simplicity of her face that stopped him. She hadn’t worn makeup in the hospital and she’d been as pale as death. Now her skin seemed to glow. It was flushed with a soft blush of peach color. Or maybe it was from fever. For a moment he panicked.
“Are you okay?”
“I feel very weak, but fine,” she answered, and swung her hair around to the other side so that she could towel it dry. “Something smells good.”
“Clam chowder. I hope you like it, princess.”
“I do. At least I think I do. Why do you always call me princess?”
“Because I—” Because Karen was my sister’s name. Because that name brings back memories of a time I’ve buried away, a time that still makes me ache. He forced air into his lungs, past the tight spot in his throat, then changed the direction of her thoughts. “I … you always liked my special name for you.”
She stopped her motion and looked up at him wistfully. “I did? Tell me what else I used to like.”
The moment stretched out between them like a strand of taut wire. He, standing frozen with a cup in each hand. She, her hair sandwiched between the ends of the towel, waiting.
“You liked old movies,” he improvised, “the ones that made you cry, books, and window-shopping.”
“Books? And children?” she asked. “Do I like children?”
“You never mentioned children. I don’t know.”
He waited, hoping some sliver of memory would kick in and she’d answer. When she didn’t, he finally said, “I’m sorry.” He forced himself to say her name. “Karen, there are many things I don’t know about you.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to think that I was the only one with that problem.” She returned to her drying and moved into the kitchen to sit at the table.
“Why didn’t you wear the short robe?” He turned his attention away from the disquieting knowledge that she was wearing his robe, smelling his smells, pulling it close to her body. Now, every time he put it on, he would see her in it. If the vision of her in the present didn’t screw up his mind, the memory would.
“My hair was wet. I didn’t want to spoil it. Besides, this one looked soft and warm. It looked like you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No.” He didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all. He liked the idea of his robe absorbing the water from her skin. He’d never wear it again without knowing it had touched her in places he longed to touch. “Let me do that.”
“What?”
“Dry your hair.”
He moved in front of her and took the towel, his legs stradding her thighs. For a minute she simply looked up at him. He could see uncertainty, trust, and something more in her eyes, a kind of acceptance, as if she knew this was not real, but for now she’d believe. Then, as he began to pull the damp strands of hair between the folds of the towel, she let out a deep breath and closed her eyes.
The quiet intimacy of the moment wrapped around them, closing out intruding questions. It had been a long time since he’d dried a woman’s hair, not since his sister was a child. The irony didn’t escape him. History repeated itself. But sometimes it replayed events in a different way.
He pushed her hair away from her face, blotting the water droplets from her forehead, feeling the softness of her skin. Behind him the soup simmered on the stove. The stereo was playing a wistful tune that wound itself into the room as if he’d planned the scene.
His pulse seemed sluggish, his blood thick and heavy. Everything moved in slow motion, intensifying the sensation of touch.
“This is nice,” she whispered. “Nobody ever dried my hair before.”
That idea formed a knot in his throat and threatened to close off what little breath he was drawing into his lungs. His thumb traced the edge of her ear as he fought the urge to bend down and kiss her. He was totally unprepared for the fire she kindled inside him.
Unprepared and amazed. She should have been anxious, yet she wasn’t. When he caught her chin, lifting her face, she opened her eyes, their blue now the darker color of the sky before a storm. “What are you doing to me?” she whispered.
“I’m not sure.” His own voice was tight with tension. “What do you want me to do?”
“You said you wanted me to wake up so that you could lie down beside me.”
“That was a fantasy, princess. This is real.”
She took his hand away from her chin and clasped it between her own. “So we aren’t really lovers?”
He was so surprised at her question that he couldn’t answer for a moment. “Would you want us to be?”
“I don’t know what I want, but I think I wouldn’t refuse you. What do you want?”
It took every ounce of control Niko had to pull his hand away and formulate an answer. He, couldn’t back down without losing what he’d gained. “I want you. I want to tear that robe from your body and take you, now, here on the kitchen floor. I want you as I’ve never wanted a woman before. But I don’t know that you could call that being lovers.”
“But suppose I’m willing?”
“No! Not until you remember.”
“I remember, not everything yet, but some.”
He forced himself to move behind her.
“What do you remember? Tell me about your past.” He knew he was frightening her, that his voice was angry and harsh. “Tell me why nobody ever dried your hair before. What about your mother?”
“My mother was never the motherly type. She isn’t—wasn’t always well.” He saw her wince and regretted his outburst.
“But I dried hers,” Karen went on. “She had lovely red hair. I used to braid it so it wouldn’t get all mussed when she was sick.”
“Don’t you want to let her know you’re all right?”
She sat up straight and took back the towel. “No. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t. I’d only upset her. You know what Thomas Wolfe said, ‘You can’t go home again.’ ”
“I know,” he agreed, finally beginning to get a handle on his emotions. “I learned that long ago. Looks like we’re both orphans by choice.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “You’re alone too?”
“Not anymore. I�
�ve got you.”
She turned her chair so that she was facing the table, ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it behind her ears, and smiled. “I’m glad.”
Niko made his way to the stove to fill their bowls. He was reasonably sure that neither of them was alone in the world. He still had a father, though he hadn’t seen him since his sister’s funeral. And he was reasonably certain that Karen Miller-Middleton’s mother was still alive. He didn’t know what the story was there, but that part of her past seemed to be a memory she wished she could forget.
Still caught up in the gut-wrenching tension of the moment, he couldn’t explain his lack of honesty logically. Instead, he reverted to the very past he tried to deny by telling himself that Gypsies don’t always lie. Sometimes they just don’t tell the whole truth.
FOUR
After midnight—Niko’s apartment
They ate at small tables in front of a fire he’d built in his white ceramic fireplace with a chrome mantelpiece crowned by a silver-framed mirror.
Karen ate the soup and drank the coffee as much to cover the turmoil inside as to satisfy her hunger. She was still weak, but she felt a vibrancy, a growing awakening that she couldn’t explain. She’d surmised already that she and Dr. Sandor had never been lovers. She knew, too, that he was an honorable man, or he would never have refused what she’d just offered.
For some reason that made her happy.
She risked a glance at the man sitting opposite her.
Sometime while she’d slept, he’d changed clothes. Now he wore a red turtleneck sweater, the color vivid against the black of his hair and the stubble on his chin. Television’s Adrian Paul, the Highlander, she decided, or perhaps a young Marlon Brando.
She laughed silently at her choice.
She wasn’t old enough to have lusted after a young Marlon Brando. Or maybe she was. Her age was one of those things that seemed hazy. The only thing she really remembered was a telephone call, and a man’s voice saying he was a reporter who wanted to come and have a word with her about—
Mac's Angels : Sinner and Saint. a Loveswept Classic Romance (9780345541659) Page 5