Mac's Angels

by Sandra Chastain

  Longings she tried to ignore. That’s the past, Erica, she told herself. And the past was gone. Berlin. Falling in love. Hot, passionate sex and laughter. Conner had loved her unconditionally, something she’d never had before. He’d offered her joy, made her feel cherished.

  She’d worked all her life to make her parents notice her. They never did. Then Conner came along and changed her life forever. He never knew about the lonely, frightened woman she’d been. All he saw, accepted, and loved was the person she became with him. But that was over. The only important thing now was the present, she assured herself as she fought off the memories.

  She didn’t even want to think about her flight to Paris, wondering if Conner had lived or died. She’d told Conner’s commander where she would be. Then the long wait for him to come to her began. When she found out about the baby, and became very ill, she wrote to Conner, in care of the base. For the first time her faith in her ability to survive had been tested.

  Time passed, Conner never came. Then she’d lost their baby and been thrown into a state of darkness. For a long time she stopped caring whether she lived or died or if he ever came back for her. The loss of her child devastated her more than even the death of her parents.

  When she’d lost her mother and father, she’d grieved. But they’d always been two steps away from being gone anyway. As a child, she’d recognized their inability to live normal lives and be normal parents. Her mother was taught that the rich would inherit the earth. And she’d expected it. When the money she inherited from her family was gone, her life became a desperate whirlwind of lost opportunities and broken dreams.

  In the end they’d ignored Erica, not from unkindness, but from ineptitude. They dealt with her only when etiquette and necessity demanded it. Erica simply blended into the luggage and the furniture. She remained quiet and studied hard, waiting for praise that never came.

  Then her parents died in a car accident, and in a perverse twist of fate the insurance policy her aunt had taken out on them when Erica was born paid off. Accidental death. Double the amount for both parents. The money had freed Erica to have the kind of life her parents had always wanted. Except she couldn’t. The memory of being without was always too close. So she invested the money and continued to live as if it weren’t there. Even after their deaths, Erica fought for their approval. Through it all she studied, eventually earning the Fulbright Scholarship and her year of schooling in Germany.

  Eventually, being a Fallon got her a job with the ambassador. Since then, hard work and a talent for foreign affairs had kept it.

  Erica rolled her shoulders and closed her eyes. She was exhausted both physically and emotionally. A shower sounded good. A shower and sleep. Wearily she made her way to the bathroom and turned on the water. Peeling off her clothes, she stepped beneath the sting of scalding hot water. Tonight she still felt cold.

  Using the expensive soap provided by the hotel, she lathered herself and washed her hair. Almost asleep on her feet now, she rinsed off and stepped from the shower, reaching for the plush robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

  Toweling as much water as she could from her hair, she pulled a brush through its strands until the tangles were gone, wrapped a dry towel around her head, and padded barefoot toward the bed.

  Moments later, when Conner entered the room, she was sound asleep on top of the covers, her robe tied loosely at the waist, pulled open in a V that revealed her bare knees and one thigh.

  She was draped across the satin comforter like a Vargas girl from some pinup calendar. The soft luminescence from the lamp by the bed painted her with innocence.

  Conner stood at the foot of her bed, watching her, wondering what secrets she was hiding behind that beautiful face. Did she know what book her assailants were looking for? Did she have it? If so, why didn’t she tell him? Was the book connected to Bart’s death?

  Then Erica moved, the tie on her robe loosening and exposing her breasts. He hadn’t often seen her sleep. Ten years ago sleeping would have been a waste of time. After their first time together, Erica had been lusty and wild in bed, willing to experiment, to follow any direction he’d led her. Even now he could still feel the promise of that heat. He cursed himself for wondering if he could bring it to life again. Only the memory of Bart had kept his passion at bay. Now Erica was soft and vulnerable in sleep, and he felt himself harden.

  Drawing on every ounce of his control, Conner forced the memory of Bart and his own wounded body back to his mind. But this time it was slow to come and a different kind of anger flared inside him. He dropped the nightclothes he’d brought her at the foot of the bed and backed out of the room.

  Special Forces training had served Conner well through the years, but no amount of training could prepare his body to resist her. He could detach himself from almost anything. He had. But Erica Fallon was his weakness and guilt over that weakness assaulted whatever anger he’d drawn about him as his shield.

  It was time to check in with Mac again.

  This time the phone rang longer and the voice that answered seemed tired.

  “Mac? You okay?”

  “Yes. You?”

  Never a man to waste words, Mac waited for Conner’s confirmation and launched into his report. “The base commander in Berlin was killed in a boating accident five years ago. All military records of the incident at the church have disappeared, or were never recorded. So far I haven’t been able to find anyone else who was involved. I’ve talked to the minister of the church, but I’m afraid all he knows is what you know. The two men who came to the church were very nervous. They tied him up—I didn’t know that before—and tore up the church, but they didn’t even rob the poor box. He had the opinion that they knew who was coming and were following specific orders, but that’s all he knew. Incidentally, he’s sending you a wedding gift. It’s being forwarded to Erica’s home in Tennessee.”

  “Erica mentioned a gift. I can’t believe he still had it,” Conner said.

  “He didn’t know what to do with it.”

  Conner didn’t know how he felt about that. It was a connection to the past he’d rather forget.

  “And you’re sure nobody ever got a letter from Erica?”

  “Not that I’ve been able to learn. None were ever forwarded to Shangrila.”

  “What about Brighton Kilgore? How’d he get on the committee?”

  “Money. Conner, the man made a fortune by turning a small chemical business into a very big company. He fancies himself a philanthropist. Funding the operation of the committee buys him prestige in the art world.”

  “And the statue? Where’d he get it?”

  “Officially, he bought the statue from a dealer who has black market connections but who seems to have acquired it legitimately. Unofficially, who knows?”

  Conner groaned. “And by providing the money for the committee, Kilgore puts himself in a position to get first crack at whatever they find. Can he do that? Own stolen property?”

  “Not legally. Though there are loopholes. The French government is less likely to make a claim if he is responsible for finding other lost treasures.”

  “And anything he conceals from the public is his. Mac, what about Karl Ernst?”

  “Ah—Mr. Ernst is a bit more interesting. He was, of course, on the teaching staff of the university both Erica and Bart attended and, as you know, Bart’s adviser. If the relationship was anything more than a normal student-teacher one, I haven’t been able to prove it.”

  Conner rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And since?”

  “He’s advanced steadily in the academic community, and continues to work with the reconstruction and preservation of historic buildings. Once the Berlin Wall came down, he was appointed as director of antiquities for the new German government. He lost his entire family during World War Two and his wife a few years ago. Likes power. Very ambitious.”

  Conner hadn’t really expected Mac to learn much. Secretly, he’d alrea
dy conducted his own unsatisfactory investigation without learning anything more. “Well, that puts us right back where we started, Mac. What about the gunman who took a shot at Ambassador Collins?”

  “No trace. The bullet came from a Beretta. And every street crook has that kind of weapon now. The only way we could identify the bullet is by finding the weapon.”

  In his pocket, Conner felt the spent bullet he’d retrieved from the wall in Erica’s house on Lookout Mountain. He’d dug it out while she was collecting the coffee and food and moving it into the office. He didn’t need to have it analyzed to know it came from the same gun.

  “Someone shoved Erica on the street today, Mac. He could have pushed her into traffic, but he didn’t.”

  “Was she hurt?”

  “No. He was just letting us know that he’s around. What I’m more worried about is that our suite was searched—not for show. It’s pretty obvious that they mean business about finding this book.”

  “And Erica doesn’t have it?”

  “That’s the one thing I’m reasonably sure of,” Conner admitted.

  “And neither does the ambassador,” Mac added.

  “And neither do I. That leaves Kilgore and Ernst. We’re going to a party at Kilgore’s house tomorrow night. I think maybe Shadow will have to do a little private looking.”

  “I don’t like the way this is going. Be careful, Conner.”

  “One final thing, Mac. What do you think about the ambassador?”

  “I think he’s scared.”

  Scared. That was interesting. Even Erica didn’t appear to be scared. Neither had Bart. He could still see him holding out one hand toward the men wearing the ski masks. That picture would be burned forever in Conner’s mind.

  Bart had been at the church, standing by the door, when Conner arrived. He’d already been antsy about the wedding. Erica’s delay had only aggravated Conner’s nerves.

  How like a woman, he thought, to be late for her own wedding. He’d followed Bart into the church, right into the path of two men with drawn guns. They said something in German, which Conner couldn’t understand.

  In front, Bart knelt down and held up one hand while he reached inside his jacket. “Don’t! Stop!”

  The shot came unexpectedly, almost as if the man with the gun hadn’t intended to fire. Before Conner realized what was happening, Bart crumpled to the ground, a look of surprise on his face, his life draining from the bullet hole in his neck.

  “No!” Conner screamed, drawing his weapon. But before he could get off a shot, the sharp sting of a bullet tore into his right thigh. Then another, in his left leg, brought him down.

  From somewhere outside, the church bell started ringing.

  The men yelled at each other, then took off out the back door, and Conner dragged himself toward Bart.

  But it was too late.

  In the doorway of the church, as his blood dripped into Bart’s, Conner railed out at God. How could this have happened? What good was Conner and all his special training if he couldn’t have saved his brother’s life? Now the only way he could get to the truth was to protect the woman he’d spent ten years blaming for his brother’s death.

  Conner checked the door to the suite. The hotel security guard was sitting outside. But Conner didn’t fool himself. If somebody wanted to get in, the guard would prove only a small deterrent. Wearily he walked back to the parlor. He removed his pistol from beneath his sweater and laid it on the floor beside the couch where he intended to sleep. Cornier punched up one of the pillows and stretched out. At least from this spot he’d be able to see anybody who came in. But it was going to be a long night.

  It was morning. Erica’s eyes felt dry, scratchy from the residue of salty tears that had never fallen. She listened quietly as she struggled to wakefulness.

  Silence. Dragging herself to a sitting position, she looked down at the robe hanging open over her bare body. She hardly remembered leaving the bathroom.

  She stood up, running her fingers through her snarled mass of hair. At the foot of her bed she saw a silky splash of color. Her nightgown and underwear. Left by Conner at some time during the night. He’d come into the room while she was sleeping.

  A flush of heat burned her face. He’d seen her partially nude.

  When she opened the door, Conner came instantly awake and lay watching her from the sofa. His hand had automatically curled around his pistol, but he didn’t speak.

  “Why didn’t you sleep in your bed?” Her voice almost hoarse with tightness.

  “What land of bodyguard would I be behind a closed door?”

  “Dangerous.” Sexy, she thought as she took in his bare chest and unbuttoned jeans riding low on his hips.

  “You’d be right.”

  They stared at each other for a minute. She, aware of the plush fabric of her robe brushing against her breasts as she breathed. He, making no attempt to cover himself.

  He didn’t trust her, but he was protecting her. And she was standing there, staring at his body and thinking about what might have happened at midnight.

  If she hadn’t fallen asleep.

  Quickly she whirled and padded to her open suitcase, her clothing spilling over the edge into the chair on which it had been placed. She gathered up an armful of clothing and dashed back into her room, pausing at the door. “Thank you, Conner.” She slid inside, closed the door behind her, and took a long, ragged breath.

  She showered again, taking her time, more to put out the heat of her desire than from need. Wetting her hair once more, she finger-combed it, then spent long, empty minutes drying it before she pulled on a ruby-red cotton turtleneck shirt, a pair of jeans, and a matching patchwork vest. She was forced to don the socks and running shoes she’d worn the night before. Finally, she’d used up as much time as she could. Without makeup, she was as ready to face Conner as she’d ever be. Drawing in a deep breath, she opened the door.

  At some point Conner had ordered room service. A waiter was uncovering dishes of fruit, tggs, and muffins.

  “Just in time,” Conner observed, running his fingers through still-damp hair as he pulled out a chair.

  He wore faded jeans and a sapphire-blue sweater that matched his eyes. He was suddenly the golden boy Erica had loved so deeply before the memory had been ripped from her heart. But that was a boy and this was a man. Erica shivered.

  “Well? Aren’t you hungry?”

  She was still staring. Even the waiter noticed and smothered a grin. “Yes. Yes, I’m hungry.”

  Erica allowed herself to be seated, so chagrined at being caught looking at Conner that she missed Conner’s head tilting down. When he brushed her lips with his, Erica couldn’t hold back a gasp.

  “Stop it, Conner.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, darling.” He glanced at the waiter. “He won’t tell anyone that we’re in love, will you?”

  Damn him. He was deliberately doing this, and she couldn’t refuse.

  “Did you have a good night?” he whispered as his lips trailed away from her mouth and behind her ear and back to her lips again.

  Erica leaned toward him until she realized what she was doing and stopped herself. She had to go along with their pretense as lovers, but she didn’t like Conner having the upper hand. And most of all, she didn’t like an audience. But she could give as good as she got.

  “Of course, darling,” she said sweetly, returning his kiss with as much passion as she dared give. “When I’m with you I always have a good night. What about you?”

  Conner looked at her for a moment. Her playacting was all the invitation he needed. Knowing she couldn’t back away, he lowered his face again, taking her lips with heart-stopping thoroughness.

  Forgetting the hotel employee for a moment, she felt a familiar dreamy pleasure wash over her. Her body went weak as a hot flush of desire ignited and raced through her.

  Then the waiter coughed, drawing them back to the present. Conner gave a reluctant sigh and pulled away. He too
k the bill and signed it, then sat down at the table, watching the door close behind the waiter.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Erica demanded furiously.

  “Kissing you. And rather thoroughly. Only,” he said wickedly, “in answer to your invitation.”

  “Don’t do that again.”

  “As I recall, it was a mutual endeavor. Don’t worry, Erica. I won’t take your invitation seriously. We both know we had an audience.”

  She tried to cover her still-racing pulse with a calm demeanor. “Did I play my part all right?”

  “Oh, you know how to play, darling. You always did. What would you like, Erica?”

  “Am I allowed to say?”

  “To eat, darling. What may I serve you?”

  Satisfied that her kiss had rattled him as much as it had her, she backed off and admitted to herself that what she’d like was to retreat into her room and slam the door. His show-and-tell had turned into more of a game of hit and run and she suspected she was the most wounded. She swallowed hard and forced her attention to the dishes. Strawberries. Melon. Fluffy yellow eggs. Crispy bacon and—“chocolate-chip muffins?”

  “I told you yesterday, I have a weakness for chocolate.”

  “Yes. I remember. After midnight.”

  “Exactly. I could tell you didn’t share my cravings.”

  “Really? What gave you that impression?”

  “At the witching hour you were sound asleep.”

  “You had no business being in my room.” Erica couldn’t imagine what kind of picture she must have presented, sprawled across the covers, half nude. She blushed.

  “I knocked but you never answered. Considering what’s happened so far, I decided I’d better make sure you were all right.”

  “Was I?”

  “Oh, yes, Dragon Lady. You were incredible. I was tempted to kiss you awake to share my treat.”

  “What treat?”

  “Chocolate, of course. But that’s all right. I’m always prepared. Have a muffin.”

  SEVEN

  By mid-morning Erica was going crazy from inactivity. Conner spent the morning in his own room on the phone with Sterling. He told her it was Paradox, Inc. Business, but Erica had her doubts.