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

by Chastain, Sandra

  She laughed again. “And then you took me home. I used your shower.” She peeled back the blanket and looked at the sweatshirt. “These clothes are yours, aren’t they?”

  “They are, but you have new clothes if you’d like to change.” He inclined his head toward the white plastic bags on the couch nearby.

  “No, I like these,” she said, and he seemed pleased.

  For a moment they only looked at each other. “What do we do now, Dr. Sandor?”

  “Damned if I know. You wanted to come here. I brought you.”

  “Somehow I don’t think you’re normally so cooperative. Are you?”

  “Almost never.”

  “Why this time?”

  “Because you were about to rip out your IVs and go screaming into the street. I didn’t think you were dressed for a nude marathon. Do you remember why you wanted to run away?”

  She frowned. She knew the answer to his question was there, hiding behind the gray veil that fluttered now and then as it let the past creep into the present. But she wasn’t ready yet to rip away the barrier and face her demons.

  “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “I just know I had to go. What about your patients?”

  “I don’t have any patients. I’m in research, remember?”

  “That’s right. You told me. So, what am I, some kind of living case study?”

  He walked to the fireplace and leaned against the cedar beam that made the mantel. “You’re the final payment on a debt I owe. You’re the end of my past.”

  “And what are you to me?”

  He turned to face her, his dark eyes stormy with some emotion she couldn’t name. His fists were clenched, his lips drawn.

  “So long as we’re here on the island, Karen Miller, I’m whatever you need me to be. The bathroom is through there. I’ll fix us something to eat.”

  “Wait. You said, ‘I’ll buy, you cook.’ I can do it.”

  “Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, you rest.”

  He made big, messy cheese omelets. And he opened a bottle of wine. They were sitting before the fire on the afghan, their backs against the chairs, their knees almost touching.

  “Red wine with omelets?” She smiled and took a sip.

  “Of course. I’m a Gypsy, remember? Gypsies are big on wine, women, and song.”

  “Do you sing?”

  “No. And I don’t dance either, but I can tell your past and your future.”

  She looked startled. “You can?” She held out her palm. “Do it.”

  He took her hand and held it for a moment without looking at it.

  “You’re a beautiful woman who came to New York from a small town in Minnesota. You were so afraid that you tried to kill yourself.”

  “No! It was an accident. I wouldn’t have left—”

  But her mind went blank. She wouldn’t have left what? Minnesota? Apparently she had. “Is that in my palm?”

  “No, I learned that from a friend with a computer and a curious mind. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy, Karen, I was just trying to find a way to reach you.”

  She suspected he’d learned more, but a cold blanket of fear seemed to close over her and she didn’t want to know any more. She didn’t want facts.

  “So, tell me, what do you see in my future?”

  He dropped his gaze. “Ah, but you must cross my palm with silver.”

  “Darn. I seem to be fresh out of funds.”

  He leaned closer. “Gypsies have been known to barter for what they want.”

  “And what do you want?”

  He turned her hand and pressed it against his chest. Then he leaned forward and kissed her unexpectedly.

  Just for a moment she melted into him, parting her lips, allowing herself to taste his essence. Beneath her palm she felt the thunderous beat of his heart. Inside her chest her own heart matched its pace.

  Then, without deepening the kiss, he pulled back. As if he’d forgotten that he still held her hand, he squeezed it.

  “Don’t let me do this, princess,” he said quietly. “This isn’t just a fantasy. This is real.”

  “But you promised you’d be whatever I wanted, so long as we were on the island.”

  “I shouldn’t have. You’re vulnerable now. You can’t know what you want if you don’t remember the past. Why did you try to kill yourself? Tell me, Karen.”

  “I can’t. I don’t even know that I did try to kill myself. I remember answering the phone, and the next thing I remember was hearing your voice.”

  He squeezed her hand harder.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  He loosened his grip and rubbed the indentations his fingers had made. “I’m sorry. I would never intentionally hurt you. I’m trying very hard to save you.”

  She had no reason in the world to believe him, but she did. From the first, he’d tormented her, reassured her, and forced her to acknowledge some kind of mythical connection between them. He’d played on her dreams, incorporating himself into them and bringing them to life.

  So long as she understood that what was happening between was real, and not a fantasy, she’d embrace it.

  “Tell me what you remember.”

  “Nothing. I mean nothing concrete. There are little wisps of memory—so illusive that I’m not sure what is real and what isn’t.”

  “Like what? Tell me.”

  “I vaguely remember my mother. At least I think I remember her. She didn’t seem very happy when I was a child. She was always going someplace. She didn’t like living—” She stopped speaking and frowned. “I don’t even know where she lives. I don’t even know where I live.”

  “You live in a boardinghouse now, but I don’t know where you lived before. Maybe I should have checked out the boardinghouse before we left, but with someone trying to see you in the hospital, I didn’t think we had time.”

  “He said he was a reporter.”

  “A reporter, huh? Do you recall talking to him?”

  “No. Yes.” For a second there was a picture of a tall, thin man. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. She couldn’t make the face come into focus, but her breath suddenly came fast and tight. “I don’t know.”

  She didn’t want to resist, but her head began to ache and she couldn’t seem to think about anything except the man beside her. “I’m sorry. It must be my injury. I just can’t bring back anything before I heard your voice. You are the only thing I’m sure of. Please, don’t make me try.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “All right.” He released her wrist. “We have some time. I’m not going to desert you now. Besides, your palm says you’re a good cook, and I like to eat.”

  She let her hand fall into her lap. She didn’t have the energy to rub it. Shoving away the half-eaten omelet, she leaned back against her chair.

  “Did someone hurt you back there, princess?”

  “No,” she answered automatically, “not me.”

  She didn’t know where that came from. But she knew it to be true. “I don’t know, Niko,” she said wearily, “but we have to consider the possibility that if someone is after me, they’re now after you too. I don’t think I’m the kind of person to hide, so if I ran away, there must have been a reason.”

  In the silence, the wind slammed against the house, causing the walls to shudder ominously.

  He’d seen too many signs of her strength to argue with her. A woman who insisted on walking when she could barely stand wouldn’t have given in to fear. “I think we can hold off one reporter when we have to.” He came to his feet and moved toward the window. “But not tonight. The only two people on Slade Island until the storm ends are you and me.”

  “I think I’d like to go to sleep now,” Karen said.

  “I’m going to unfold these cot mattresses on the floor. Tomorrow the house will be warm enough to find bedrooms.”

  “Bedrooms? Plural?” Karen cut her eyes toward him. “But in my dream we were lovers.”

  She was flirting with him, giving h
im back the same kind of sensual fantasies that he’d created for her. “This isn’t a dream, Karen.” Niko’s voice was so hoarse, he could barely speak.

  “No. Too bad.” She crossed her arms across her chest and squeezed her elbows. “I guess what I really want tonight is someone to hold me. Do you think you could do that?”

  She’d taken advantage of him. What else could she expect him to say but, “I’ll try.”

  SEVEN

  Friday the 13th—plus one day—Slade Island

  Niko pulled the two mattresses together and covered them with a thick quilt. Another trip up the stairs produced pillows and more blankets.

  While he was gone, Karen took off her boots, and with a smothered yawn slipped beneath the covers and laid her head on the pillow. “I wanted there to be a sandy beach,” she said softly. “But snow is romantic too.”

  “Nothing is ever quite what we want, is it?” Niko replied tersely as he entered the room.

  Niko blew out the remaining candle and threw one last log on the fire. The view through the window looked like a black and white photograph, a cold moon hanging low over bare tree limbs etched white with snow. Contrasting shades of gray fog hovered near the ground. He turned back to survey the dark room, watching as the new log caught fire in a series of sputters. After he’d delayed as long as he could, he made his way to their adjoining beds.

  “If it will make you uncomfortable to hold me, I’ll understand.” Karen turned on her side away from him. “After all, it’s been twenty years since anybody sang me to sleep.”

  Niko dropped to his knees, removed his shoes, and arranged his long frame on the mattress. “What did your mother sing?”

  “Not my mother. It was my dad. He sang Irish lullabies.”

  “Where’s your dad now?”

  There was a long pause before she answered. “He died when I was eight. A combine turned over on him.”

  “So he was a farmer?”

  There was a catch in her voice when she answered. “I—I don’t know. I think so.”

  He didn’t know if it was her muffled sniff or his own throat tightening, but he lay on his back and reached out, pulling her back to his side. “Come here, princess. I need someone to hold me too. Besides, it’s too cold for us to sleep apart.”

  She didn’t fight him. But he was kidding himself. Sure, it was cold. It was also dark and Niko’s mind was filled with other Irish lullabies and the woman who sang them to a thin, dark boy hiding from the angry father who refused to accept his son’s fear of his heritage.

  Niko didn’t want to think about his father. It was this place. It brought it all back.

  Karen tensed for a moment as she felt Niko’s arms pull her close. Then she nestled her cheek against his forearm and let herself breathe in the smell of him, of sandalwood. Like the elusive melody of the lullaby, the male scent of her imaginary lover draped around her like a long-forgotten memory.

  When he started to hum she smiled in the darkness. “I thought you didn’t sing.”

  “I don’t,” he growled. “Go to sleep.”

  Warm and safe, awash in a past that came back for just a moment, Karen Miller closed her eyes.

  Holding her was all he’d been afraid it would be, sheer hell. Chinese water torture would have been a welcome exchange. From the moment she laid her head on his arm and pressed her bottom against his thigh, he knew he would get little rest.

  There was no way he could curl his body around hers without her knowing that he wanted her. And if he didn’t figure out a way to hold her still, she was likely to find out how much and then he’d be faced with temptation. Finally he turned on his side, pulling her against his chest while angling the lower part of his body away from her.

  He could feel every breath she took, her breasts grazing his arm, her hand holding him tight. For a long time she lay stiffly, then slowly she began to relax her grip and he knew she’d fallen asleep.

  To his surprise, so did he.

  Karen’s dream returned.

  The woman’s lover came riding back on his white horse. She saw him coming across the moors, his hair blown behind him by the storm, his red shirt plastered to his chest.

  As he reached the spot where she stood, he swung down and swept her into his arms, devouring her with his mouth, pressing her against him with undisguised ardor that bordered on desperation.

  “I thought you’d left me,” she whispered, sliding her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through hair damp from the rain.

  “No. I could never do that. But I do have to go away for a while. I came to tell you good-bye, to tell you I’ll come back for you and to kiss you one last time.”

  “No,” she cried out, holding fast to his strong neck. “I won’t let you leave me. I won’t.”

  The tears coursed down her cheeks, and even as she cried she knew that she was dreaming. Still, the strong, hard body holding her didn’t move away.

  “Please?” she whispered, reaching for his mouth, tangling her fingers in his hair.

  “You’re dreaming, princess,” Niko said. “Wake up now. Karen, do you hear me? You have to wake up.”

  She became still, then brushed away the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  He couldn’t hold back the question, “Who?”

  “My—her Gypsy lover. I never used to dream. But since I read the story, I’ve dreamed about him a lot.” Her heart was pounding.

  “The Gypsy riding the white horse with the red ribbons in its mane?”

  “Yes.”

  Niko swore silently. She’d talked about her dream before. His aunt Lola, the one who’d taught him how to read palms and tea leaves, would have said that the die was cast. A woman’s dream of her lover came before she met the man she would love. Karen Miller had conjured him up, the man about whom she was dreaming. If it was meant to be, he would come. There was no point in fighting fate.

  “Niko, are you … have you ever been married?”

  He laughed. “Me? Not in this lifetime.”

  “Do you have a—a girlfriend?”

  “Only you, princess.”

  She moved her hand across his chest and rimmed the outline of his jaw. “But you’re not really my lover, we both know that. Do you want to be?”

  He sucked in a breath and held it, afraid to answer her.

  Her fingertips trailed down his face and followed the cord in his neck past the band on his T-shirt to his waist, where, shyly, she nudged beneath the shirt and touched his bare skin.

  “Don’t do that, Karen.” He took her hand and held it against his lips. “I’ll have to take another cold shower.”

  She wondered how long his shower water remained cold. It must certainly sizzle when it touched his body. Even his lips were hot. He turned toward her, capturing her hand between them. She closed her eyes and shuddered, then opened them to look up into the rugged face only inches from her own.

  “You know that I want you,” he said. “I told you that from the beginning when you woke up. I wanted your body against mine, beneath mine. I wanted to hold you.”

  “But that was the fantasy you created for me.”

  “But a fantasy is created in the mind, my mind. So I shared it with you.”

  For Niko it had come down to this night, this reality, this place. He’d tried to tell himself that he was helping Karen to repay Mac as some kind of tribute to his sister. But he’d been lying, almost from the beginning.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be real.”

  “It isn’t,” she argued. “You told me there is only the now, the reality we’ve created. There is no past, no tomorrow—only the dream.” She tugged her hand from between them and touched his face, sliding her fingers in his hair and pulling him down.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he rasped. “You know they call me the devil of the ninth floor.”

  “No, I’m not sure. But I want you to kiss me anyway.

 
He kissed her then, hot and wet, holding her tight with the arm beneath her head and his other hand knotted in her shirt.

  Karen answered his kiss in kind, her emotions buffeted with such feelings that she felt as if she were about to explode. She wanted this man, wanted to feel him inside her, arched herself against the hard, throbbing part of him that pushed against the apex of her legs.

  Niko moaned, and then she felt his hand beneath her shirt, seeking and finding her breast. Then the shirt was gone and Niko turned to his back, dragging her over him so that he could take that same breast into his mouth with sweet roughness. Then he returned to her lips.

  Eagerly she pressed herself against him, moving her tongue in and out of his mouth as her body slid up and down the rough seam of his jeans in tormenting rhythm.

  Driven by need beyond her comprehension, she pulled away, reached between them, and unbuttoned his jeans, sliding the zipper open and freeing the hardness beneath.

  As Niko continued to bite and kiss her nipples, he caught her bottom and lifted her so that he could tug her sweatpants down her legs and flung them into the shadows.

  There was a moan of anguish as he held her up again, then brought her down, impaling her body with his own. He groaned and started to turn over, making an obvious attempt to separate himself from her. She tightened her legs around him, forcing him even deeper.

  Suddenly he stopped and opened his eyes. The light of the fire exposed the raw emotion and need on his face. Need and a kind of wonder.

  And then the rhythm changed, slowing as he murmured her name over and over, like some kind of mantra. He was adoring her with each touch and caress.

  She responded greedily, unable to stay so controlled. She wanted to be absorbed by him totally. “Oh, Niko.” Her voice echoed through the cavernous room. “Oh, Niko, I want—”

  “No, we want this. You’d better hang on, love, we’re heading for a ride through the stars and we don’t have a white horse.”

  “We don’t need one,” she murmured as firebursts, increasing in heat and intensity, exploded into a million fragments of flames. Then she lost all touch with reality, disappearing into the fantasy completely.