Mac's Angels : Sinner and Saint. a Loveswept Classic Romance (9780345541659) (8 page)

“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—

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.

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.