Mac's Angels : Sinner and Saint. a Loveswept Classic Romance (9780345541659)

by Chastain, Sandra

  About what?

  God! She felt a lurch in her stomach, a jolt of pain that for just a moment cut into her like a knife. She sat up straighter and pressed her hand against her chest.

  “What’s wrong, princess?” He moved his table away and grabbed her as if he thought she was about to run away.

  “Nothing. I mean, it’s just that I can’t remember. I know something is wrong, but I don’t know what,” she said frantically. “I’ve got to—” Then she forced herself to silence. She didn’t know what she had to do. Her life seemed to have begun when Niko helped her escape from the hospital.

  Hospital? That stopped her. That and the sudden rush of new memories assaulting her mind. She felt the pain and heard the thud of cold asphalt smashing against her skull. There was a squeal of brakes and a car horn. Then—nothing.

  Until the man from the moors came to life and began to talk to her. She knew him. He was her lover. No, he was the lover of the woman in the book, the man and woman she’d dreamed about. What was happening to her? Had she lost her mind?

  She slumped back against the white leather chair and swallowed hard.

  “Karen, what’s wrong?”

  Niko took one look at her face and went after his medical bag, where he retrieved his stethoscope. He rubbed its head between his hands until it was warm, then threaded it under the robe until he reached her chest.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Checking your vital signs. I’m a doctor, remember?”

  Her pulse was erratic. Hell, his own pulse was erratic. Just touching her with a piece of metal sent him into orbit. He took a deep breath and waited. Finally, her heartbeat began to slow. He withdrew his hand and let the scope fall. With his fingertips he closed her eyes, then opened them, studying the reaction of her pupils. Then came her pulse. Everything seemed in order.

  “Don’t do that again, princess. I’m trying to help you. You wanted to go to Slade Island. Remember?”

  “Slade Island? Yes. But I wanted sunshine and white sand.”

  “Sorry. What you’re going to get is granite and snow. It’s the middle of the winter. If you’d rather go someplace warm, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “No, I want to go to Slade Island, even if it is a fantasy. I know you aren’t a Gypsy wearing a red satin shirt and riding a white horse with red ribbons in his mane. This isn’t a dream and the island isn’t real, but I want to go there anyway.”

  “No, I don’t have a white horse and I don’t have a red satin shirt either. I did have an earring once, but I don’t wear it anymore.”

  She looked at him curiously, her eyes drawn to the hole in his ear, as if she wasn’t sure she should believe him. “Don’t be afraid, Karen. I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise.”

  Karen hesitated, then nodded. For the time being she had to trust him. She had no alternative.

  She was relieved when he shifted the conversation to more innocuous topics. The deep steadiness of his voice was soothing, and she felt herself beginning to relax.

  “I don’t have time to watch much television, but I’m a big sports fan,” he said. “I like the Bulls. I’ve always been a real Michael Jordan fan.

  “So,” he continued, “from your lack of response I’ll assume you probably aren’t interested in professional sports. I guess we could talk about books, but the only ones I read are medical thrillers.”

  “I’m not really a librarian,” she said automatically, then stopped short. How did she know? What had she been before? She shuddered internally. Her mind seemed determined to hold on to the black void she’d been in for the past five days. “I’m sorry. I guess you know more about me than I do. That knock on the head seems to have erased a few pertinent facts.”

  “That’s not unusual, princess. Temporary memory loss is common with a head injury.”

  “Will it come back?”

  “Probably. Maybe not all at once, but when you’re ready, you’ll remember.”

  “Until then,” she said, studying him hesitantly, “I’ll just have to rely on you.”

  Damn! Rely on me? Not only did he have to supply a fantasy, he had to create a reality.

  Karen yawned.

  He snapped his medical case and stood. “You need to rest. Tomorrow’s going to be tough. We’d better get to bed.”

  “We?” Her eyes widened.

  He swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant it the way she obviously took it. A wary look suddenly veiled her eyes, and she leaned back in her chair. Obviously she wasn’t as ready to become lovers as she’d thought.

  “I’ll get an extra blanket for you,” he said. “Do you need some help getting up?”

  “No—no. I’ll manage.” She tried to stand, but the bottom of her robe got caught beneath her foot and she stumbled forward.

  He reached out to catch her, tangling his fingertips in the long strands of her hair. Then he noticed the front of her robe had fallen open. He’d touched her earlier, when he’d listened to her heartbeat. He just hadn’t allowed himself to form a visual picture of what he was touching.

  Now he could only stare at the most perfect breasts ever created, small yet full, with hard, rosy nipples that begged to be kissed.

  He groaned.

  “Oh!” She leaned back, jerked her robe closed, and pulled away from his grip. “I guess I’m not as strong as I thought.”

  “I guess you aren’t.” Before she could argue, he picked her up.

  She gasped. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m putting you to bed—in your bed.”

  “You don’t have to do this. I can walk.”

  Good, she was fighting back. He’d known there was spirit beneath all that uncertainty. “Stop squirming around,” he snapped. “I’ll carry you!”

  Niko winced at his tone. His words had become sharp, a vocal attempt to hide his growing attraction for her. He hadn’t allowed himself to consider lying next to Karen Miller. Until she questioned him. Now, with her sweet woman scent in his nostrils, it was all he could think about.

  Quickly he made his way down the hallway to the guest room, pushed open the door with his elbow, and laid her on the bed.

  “Sleep well. We’ll leave early in the morning. Unless you’ve changed your mind about hiding.”

  “No,” she said with determination. “I haven’t changed my mind. I have to go. I want you to know how much I appreciate your help, doctor … Nikolai … what should I call you?”

  “Don’t you know what you call your lover?” he teased.

  “No. Please, tell me.”

  “Niko. You call me Niko.”

  She smiled as she lay back on the pillow. The pretense was easier. “Of course, Niko. I believed you, you know.”

  “Believed what? That we’ve been lovers? Would that be so bad?”

  The tension of awareness between them returned, so tight that he could feel it thrumming in the air.

  “No, that you were a Gypsy,” she whispered. “Gypsies kidnap women, don’t they?”

  “They’ve been known to.”

  “What do they do with them?”

  “Good night, Karen Miller.”

  She smiled again. “You didn’t answer.”

  “I don’t think you want to know.”

  Miller. Her name was Karen Miller. That name meant nothing to her. Why?

  Karen curled up, arranging her body within the folds of his robe and leaned her cheek against its softness. By the light of a streetlamp through the window by her bed she could see the snow falling in big lacy flakes.

  It brushed against the glass when the wind blew, then settled back down to a steady fall. By morning they might not be able to go anywhere. She wasn’t sure she wanted to leave. Slade Island was only a dream, but it had become her secret place, a place that promised safety.

  Yet when she closed her eyes she saw a sunny beach, water, green trees, and flowers. And heather. There was the smell of heather. But then came another impression of wide, weepy moors. And fear.<
br />
  She was confused.

  What had happened to her?

  She forced herself to remember. She’d been at work when the call came. Where? She squinched her eyes, trying to will the images to form. The library. He’d said she was a librarian. Yes, she’d been in a library, reading a book called Gypsy Lover about a woman on the moors.

  No, the woman and her lover had been a dream. Or had it been her? Was Niko the man in the book, the man she dreamed about? Or had the dream been about Niko?

  The Gypsy in her dream was different. Instead of a sweater, he wore a red silk shirt, unbuttoned to his waist. But his hair was dark and his eyes snapped with danger and desire. Just like Niko, his eyes gleamed with desire like the sinner he was.

  She discovered that her eyes didn’t have to be open to see her real-life lover. His image was burned into the back of her lids. She could see the vivid red of his sweater nestled beneath his chin, the knitted cuffs shoved up his muscular arms, exposing big hands with long, thin fingers that gripped his coffee cup. His unruly dark hair parted in waves where his fingers had plowed through it repeatedly.

  And his eyes, God, those eyes, dark and hot. She kept focusing on them, on the way he seemed to see things that she couldn’t see. As if he knew she was no saint. As if he shared her secrets, yet still had secrets of his own. Secrets she would never know.

  Her last conscious thought was of a Gypsy caravan, gaily painted wagons around a campfire. A violin playing a plaintive song.

  And Niko.

  She said the name out loud. “Nikolai Sandor.” Then she whispered, “Where is your white horse with the silver bells and scarlet ribbons, my Gypsy lover?”

  It was very late when Niko opened the door to her room—just to check on her, he told himself.

  The snow had abated temporarily and a cold silver moon hung like a pendant between the buildings beyond his window. Inside the room, a tiny pink lamp was burning on the table beside the door. It cast a warm glow across the floor.

  Hot and cold, that was how he felt.

  He walked around the foot of the bed. She was lying on her side, her hair sprawled over the pillow, her knees drawn up against her chest. She looked relaxed, like a woman who’d just made love and expected to be waked with a kiss.

  He wasn’t about to do that, but he thought about it. He thought, too, about pulling back the sheet and slipping in beside her. The idea of feeling her skin next to his was so strong that he had to take a step back.

  Desire? Loneliness? He had no explanation for what he was doing. He’d become a victim of the fantasy he’d created. He’d spent so many hours by her bed that it seemed natural to pull up a chair and sit down beside her.

  The moonlight caught the silver of her hair and it glimmered. He remembered his first reaction to her icy beauty. He’d seen her as a Russian princess, riding in a horse-drawn sleigh across a field of white.

  And she’d seen him as a Gypsy, riding a white horse with scarlet ribbons woven into his mane.

  For so long his world had been sterile, empty. Now this woman had intruded, pushing away his self-imposed solitude. What would he do with her when she no longer needed him? She had become a part of his present, a moment he wanted to freeze in time. A moment he was fighting to keep.

  He wanted Karen Miller to be the princess. And he wanted to be her Gypsy on the white horse.

  Friday the 13th—plus seven hours—the fantasy

  Niko rose early. He made coffee and drank a cup as he looked through the window at the white landscape beyond. Did he dare leave her here while he went for supplies?

  No. By now whoever was tracking her might be too close. They’d stop along the way. Quickly he piled clothing and personal necessities into a duffel bag, pulled on a jacket, and carried his things to the Bronco. He cranked the engine to warm the car while he readied the vehicle for his patient.

  He couldn’t take her out into the weather wearing only a T-shirt and a terry-cloth robe. Back in his bedroom he dug out a pair of cotton warm-up pants that had shrunk and a sweatshirt. For her feet—a pair of athletic socks and the purloined house shoes, until they could get boots.

  He knocked on her door. When she didn’t answer he opened it and looked inside. Her bed was empty. She was in the bathroom. Quickly he dropped the clothes on the foot of the bed and backed out.

  “Coffee’s ready,” he called out.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  At the sound of her voice, he let out a sigh of relief.

  Moments later she was in the kitchen. She’d donned the clothes, looking more like a bag lady than a Russian princess. The pants weren’t too bad, but she’d had to roll up the sleeves of the sweatshirt into lumpy circles around her elbows while the bottom hung almost to her knees.

  “I’ve been thinking about your helping me,” she said. “I feel bad about taking you away from the hospital. So, if you’ll just take me to the island, I can manage by myself.”

  “I don’t think so, princess. There is no power, no heat, no food, and no way to get there.”

  “But how—I don’t understand.”

  “Drink your coffee. We need to leave here.”

  She looked down at herself. He could tell she wanted to argue, but realistically she had no choice but to accept his help. Without questioning him, she swallowed her coffee and rinsed out the cup. “Do I have any other clothes?”

  “Not here.”

  “Did I have a purse, any money?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then how did you know my name and where I worked?”

  “One of the homeless people who hangs out at the library identified you when you were hit.”

  “So what I see is what I’ve got?”

  There was frustration in her voice and he knew that she must feel truly helpless. “Temporarily. But don’t worry. I’ve got you covered. You’ll have to make do with what you’re wearing until we get out of the city. Then we’ll stop at a Kmart for boots and warm clothing, a supermarket for groceries, and we’re on our way.”

  Traffic out of the city wasn’t bad, except for the snow. There was heavy silence inside the four-wheel-drive vehicle, while outside a myriad of car horns blared rudely. They crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge and headed north. The slap of the windshield wipers made a steady rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat, like the monitors in the hospital.

  Karen took a deep breath and tried to relax. She couldn’t separate reality from her imagination. For now she’d focus on what she knew. She’d had a telephone call six days before that had traumatized her completely.

  Then she’d been injured. “How?”

  “I’m sorry. How what?”

  “How was I injured?”

  “You stepped in front of a cab. It slammed your head into the concrete. You were unconscious for five days.”

  “You were there?”

  “Not in the beginning. Only since early yesterday morning. What do you remember about the accident?”

  “Nothing. I remember only your voice. You told me that we are—that you and I know each other. Do we?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s all a muddle in my mind. I seem to have some memory of you in the past. You make me feel things I …” She couldn’t put what she felt into words. If she said that she’d known him in a dream, he’d think she was crazy. She wasn’t entirely certain she could argue that point.

  The one thing she could be sure of was that she had been in a hospital. When he’d taken her away she wore a blue hospital-issued cotton gown. And until she washed her hair, there’d been an unmistakable crisp, medicinal smell about her.

  She’d breathed it often enough.

  But why was she familiar with the smell of antiseptics and the sight of bandages? No, not bandages, Band-Aids.

  “Tell me about Slade Island,” she said, reaching for something that wouldn’t force her to remember what had happened.

  “It really is an island. The only way to get there is
by boat. That’s why we have to stop for clothes. You’d turn into an icicle dressed the way you are now.”

  She didn’t feel cold. The Bronco heater churned out warm air that fogged the windshield and blurred the lights of the traffic beyond. She felt as if she were in the middle of some muted watercolor. “Where is it?”

  “In the middle of the Hudson River, about two hours driving time, north of the city.”

  “Tell me about, about when—we were there,” she said, her voice softer.

  “We were never—” he began, then broke off. Why not continue the fantasy if it made her feel better. “We were never able to go as often as we wanted. In fact”—he swerved to miss a pothole and cut in front of the driver beside him—“we’ve never been in the winter.”

  She let out a light sigh. “I didn’t think so. I couldn’t remember the winter.”

  It hadn’t been winter the last time he was there. It had been in the middle of an August heat wave, when everybody had left the city in search of a breath of cool air. Even the island had been warm.

  But perhaps it had been the reason for the gathering that had generated the heat. The official reason for the clan’s assembly was his father’s retirement as leader. A future king would be chosen and his training would begin. And his father actually had the wild idea that the title might be passed on to him—Nikolai Sandor.

  Niko had refused in no uncertain terms. He wouldn’t be king and he wouldn’t come to Slade Island.

  Niko still couldn’t believe how naive he’d been, how easily manipulated. When his fourteen-year-old sister had called later, frightened out of her mind and crying uncontrollably, he’d thought the old tyrant had finally died.

  “Come and help me, Niko,” she’d pleaded. “He’s selling me to a man I don’t even know, for ten thousand dollars. You’ve got to make him stop!”

  Niko still remembered his sister’s terror. He’d been in his second year of psychiatric residency then, and he had no choice but to leave the hospital to take care of her. He’d told his professor that it was a matter of life and death, but the man hadn’t understood. He was too angry to listen to nonsense about a Gypsy girl being sold into marriage. If Niko left, he needn’t return. He hadn’t. Later, with Mac’s help, he’d gone into research.