Mac's Angels : Sinner and Saint. a Loveswept Classic Romance (9780345541659) (12 page)

The bastard Romano Sandor was the king. Everybody was expected to follow his orders. But this time he'd gone too far. This time Niko wanted to kill the man who'd given him life. As a boy, he'd tried to love his father, tried to accept what was expected of him. He could even understand the marriage his father had
arranged for his daughter. He'd guessed the future groom was Romano's heir apparent. Until he heard about the money.

He should have known about that too. The old fox was going to keep control of the tribe and make a profit at the same time. He was going to sell his own daughter to do it, either that or force Niko to become the next leader.

But in the end he hadn't been able to stop her. Katrina Karen Sandor, his little sister, had married the man her father had chosen.

It hadn't been his sister who called him the next time, it had been Mac. Karen had taken an overdose of drugs and was in a coma. She was at his sanitarium at Shangrila. Niko hadn't hesitated. He'd gone to her. He hadn't saved her the first time she'd needed him, and he failed the second time as well. Karen died in his arms, still unconscious.

Now the shadows became phantoms that danced down the hall and hid in the corners, calling out to him, mocking him. His father was dead now, but he still heard his voice. His sister was gone too, but sometimes, late at night, he could still hear her crying. Twice he'd had a chance to rescue her. Twice he'd failed. The last time he'd walked away, he'd renounced his Gypsy heritage forever.

But being in this cold, dark place brought it all back, the tight reins of tradition and his fierce determination to turn his back on a way of life where, in the twentieth century, a woman was sold for gold.

The fire in the great hall was blazing, warming the
air, if not yet heating the room. Karen was still sleeping, her face pale, yet tinged with a blush of color. He hesitated to touch her for fear that she'd wake. While he'd spent most of the previous day trying to rouse her, he knew that now she needed rest.

The second floor wouldn't be comfortable until the next day. For that night, he'd make pallets before the fire. There was a bathroom off the kitchen, and the cook stove would offer some additional heat to the room. First he'd heat some water to clean himself up, then see about some food.

This time Karen's dream was not of a Gypsy lover on a white horse with flowers and red ribbons woven into its mane. This time there was wind and ice and snow. It swirled around her, closing off her sight, her very breath.

And there was fear.

A loud snap startled her awake. For a moment she didn't know where she was. Then it all came filtering back—the hospital, the Gypsy who'd come to her first in her dream and later in the flesh. Then came the reality of another flight.

She glanced around at the overstuffed couches and chairs that formed little conversation areas throughout the massive high-ceilinged room. There were unlit lamps, windows with drawn blinds, and a silence that was anything but welcoming.

“Slade Island,” she whispered, and wondered at her unease. Somehow she couldn't connect what
she'd seen on her climb up from the boat with the picture Niko had created. There was certainly no sandy beach, warm, clear water, or golden lover. There was only granite and snow and the man who'd brought her there.

Gypsy Lover
.

No, she corrected herself. She couldn't think about him that way. Where was the brooding doctor who'd helped her flee the hospital, who'd kissed her, then pulled back as if he were sorry?

And then she felt his presence. She didn't have to see him to know that he was there, behind her.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

“Yes.” She stretched her feet out before her, beyond the edge of the afghan, caught sight of her combat boots, and laughed at the incongruity.

“If I'd known combat boots would make you smile, I'd have brought some to the hospital,” he said.

“Where did I get these?” she asked, moving her ankles stiffly, “an army surplus store?”

“Nope. Kmart blue-light special,” he answered. “Don't you remember?”

She wrinkled her brow, bringing into focus the picture of her leaving the medical facility in a blue hospital gown, covered with a white lab coat. Threading her fingertips curiously through the folds of the blanket, she found the gown had been replaced by a sweatsuit.

Yes, she remembered.

“You swiped somebody's house shoes, didn't you?”

“I did not. Those house shoes cost me fifty bucks.”

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 him 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.