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

by Chastain, Sandra

When it happened he didn’t believe it. When she screamed he gave her more. When his own release joined hers he was stunned. Never in his life had he experienced such a climax.

  The reverberations continued to ripple, like the aftershocks of an earthquake, finally leaving him slumped over her unable to move.

  “Oh, my,” she finally whispered. “I don’t think the author of the book described it very well. It was much better for me than for the woman in the story. I understand now why she’d risk everything.”

  Niko came slowly back to the present, his mind still reeling from the emotion he’d unleashed, the release she’d triggered. She was talking about her dream, or the book that fed the dream.

  “The power of sex,” he said. “Kingdoms have been lost, lives have been changed because of it. There’s nothing like it when it’s good and nothing worse when it isn’t.”

  She cut her eyes toward him, confusion erasing the afterglow reflected there. He knew his words were too harsh, and he regretted it. But he was grasping for a measure of control at a time when he, too, was reeling.

  She sighed and closed her eyes. “I refuse to let you make me feel guilty, and I can only speak for now. But I don’t think making love will ever again be the same for me. Fantasy or reality, it doesn’t matter. It was spectacular, and for that I thank you.”

  He swore. “Don’t thank me, princess. Do you realize that I just made love to you without protection? I didn’t bring anything with me. I never even thought about it.”

  “Then there’s no point in closing the barn door after the horse has escaped, is there?” She tightened her muscles on the part of him still inside her.

  “That’s a convenient cliché,” he snapped, and tried to draw himself away. When her body came with him, he reached back to unwrap her legs from his back. That movement pushed him forward inside her and she held him close. “This isn’t the same thing. I’m not a horse.”

  “I don’t know. It seems to me there is a certain similarity.”

  Then he was filling her again, thrusting against her, setting off fresh waves of heat.

  This time he was not creating a fantasy, he was living it. He was no longer a doctor trying to bring a patient to consciousness, he was a man making love to a woman, and God help him, he couldn’t stop himself.

  Afterward, as they lay tangled in the covers, the scent of their lovemaking permeating the air, Niko faced the reality of what he’d done. He was no dream lover; he was falling in love with this woman who was a stranger.

  A woman named Karen.

  When Karen opened her eyes, she was alone and sunlight was streaming through the windows beside the front door at the end of the room.

  She’d never felt so good in her life. A smile curled her lips and she stretched like a cat in the sunshine. Why hadn’t she known what it felt like to make love? There was a deep satisfied ache inside her, satisfied, yet the promise of need was still there.

  Surely she’d had lovers before, but a nudging of her memory didn’t produce any recollection. She sat up, trying to remember, to compare. Not a single face would come forward, but she felt sure that Niko hadn’t been the first man she’d slept with. And she sensed that she could be in big trouble. But this morning she felt so good, she didn’t care.

  There were no men in her past. Except one.

  Niko.

  So, she still didn’t remember everything. There’d been an accident, but she hadn’t tried to kill herself. She was no coward. She couldn’t leave her mother alone.

  That thought stopped her cold. Her mother. She remembered her mother, remembered her being someplace away from their farm, some distant, safe place. More than that she couldn’t recall.

  But thinking of the farm brought back another face, a laughing, lined face that always smiled and lips that said, “I love you, kid.”

  “Daddy,” she whispered, and waited for the pain that always followed. Daddy was gone. They’d told her at school that day when someone came to bring her home. “You’ve got to be strong for your mama,” that voice had told her. “You know she isn’t well.”

  Then, as quickly as it had come, the memory was gone.

  As she lay, she looked around the room where they’d slept. It was very large, the ceiling reaching to the second-story level. She could see the stair banister, covered with brightly colored blankets.

  Any thought she might have had about her past was taken away by the place she’d come to escape it. For now, the past gave way to the smell of bacon frying in the present. Food. Niko. She was starving.

  Quickly, she came to her feet, picked up the Kmart bag of clothes, and started up the stairs. Somewhere up there—please, God, let it be warm enough—was a bathroom with a shower.

  And soap that smelled of sandalwood.

  She found the shower, and though the air wasn’t warm, she quickly stripped off her clothes and stepped under the hot water.

  For now she didn’t want to think about the past. All she wanted to do was remember the night she’d spent in Niko’s arms. He was right, her memory would come back when she was ready. Right now all she needed was a dark-eyed Gypsy’s wicked smile.

  Ten minutes later she was clean all over and felt like a new person. Ripping the tags from the clothing they’d bought, she donned underwear and socks. Then she pulled on jeans, a cotton shirt, and a sky-blue cable-knit sweater. In the smaller plastic bag she found toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, and a brush. The last item at the bottom of the bag was a tube of hot-pink lipstick, courtesy of Niko, for she hadn’t seen that before.

  With a smile she applied the color to her lips, gave her wet hair a final pat, and followed her nose back down the stairs and into a kitchen that was meant for a complete staff, not the one man filling two cups with coffee.

  “Good morning,” she said shyly, hanging back as his piercing black eyes focused on her.

  He’d dreaded this moment ever since he’d waked and looked over at the woman in his arms. He hadn’t slept for a long time after—after they’d made love. He’d been too wired, too disturbed by what had happened. For the first time in a long time, Niko Sandor had lost control.

  Even as she’d curled herself against him, content, trusting, he’d known that he was lost. He’d no more be able to refuse what she was asking than he’d been able to put his past behind him. Somehow she brought it all back, the caring, the need, the asking. And he’d known that he was only fooling himself. It wasn’t Karen’s need for him that drove him, it was his own hunger.

  The second time they’d made love, he’d promised himself that he’d give her her dream, make her Gypsy lover come to life, prove to her that there were happy endings. But all he’d done was set himself up. He was the one who was holding on to the edge of the table with every ounce of control.

  She was wearing her jeans and the blue sweater they’d bought. The selection had been made in a hurry, but now he saw how perfect it was. The color matched her eyes and complimented her serene look.

  “I see you found the shower. Your hair is damp,” he said in a husky voice. “Come over here by the stove, where it’s warm.”

  But she didn’t move. He didn’t have to explain what he was thinking, he could tell from her expression that she’d sensed the change. Good. He wanted her to understand that although they’d been as close as a man and woman could be the night before, this was morning and he was trying to put some distance between them.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  He saw a flicker of uncertainty pass through her eyes. Maybe she, too, had regrets. Maybe last night hadn’t meant as much to her as it did to him. He couldn’t breathe with her looking at him. He knew he was making her uncomfortable.

  Karen couldn’t figure out what had happened. She hadn’t known what to expect when she entered the kitchen, but the tension was wound so tight that it was about to send her right out the door. He was intimidating from the top of his dark hair to the depth of the inky black sweater he was wearing. She felt as if she were a
specimen under his microscope.

  She wandered to the bay window behind the small table he’d set for breakfast. There was a clear view of the river through the leafless trees—choppy, ruffled with spray in the wind. She had the feeling that they were the last people in the world. She badly needed to recapture that special closeness they’d shared, but she didn’t know how.

  “What’s wrong, Niko? Are you sorry about what happened?”

  Her voice was low and hesitant and made him want to pull her back into his arms and tell her he was sorry. But he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

  “You’re scaring me. I know this was never meant to be a long-term relationship, but I didn’t know it would be a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am and out the door in the daylight.”

  “Look, princess, last night was—well, two people pushed beyond the point of no return. You needed comforting and I was—was able to make you feel safe. Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump you every time you get close to me.”

  “Point of no return? You mean like two ships that pass in the night?” She used her schoolteacher’s voice, the tone she reserved for addressing a child who’d misbehaved.

  Schoolteacher. Of course, that’s what she’d been. Niko was right, the memory reasserted itself as needed, bringing her back to reality. Still, she couldn’t resist asking, “What happened to the fantasy?”

  He divided a skillet of scrambled eggs and set the plates on the table, followed by a saucer of toast.

  “Fantasy? This is all a fantasy, princess. Otherwise—” He paused, reaching for something, anything, to diffuse the tension, then gave her a soulful look. “Of all the kitchens in the world, why’d you have to walk into mine, doll?”

  “Humphrey Bogart? Okay, I’ll play. I didn’t pick it, stranger. And this isn’t really your kitchen, is it?”

  “Don’t you know, sweetheart?” He turned his chair around and straddled it. “This morning we’re in the breakfast car on the Orient Express, watching the sun come up over the Yangtze River.”

  “And we don’t even know each other’s names. So we can’t remember this as time goes by. Nice and anonymous, Bogie.”

  “It’s true, I don’t know your name, sweetheart, but I can always tell when a dame’s on the lam.”

  His Humphrey Bogart accent was bad, but he brought about the desired result. She smiled, flipped her hair away from her face, and leveled her gaze. “Does the Orient Express even travel along the Yangtze River?”

  “It’s my fantasy; it’ll go where I send it.”

  “And this time we really are strangers. At least in this fantasy you’re not still pretending we’re lovers,” she said.

  “Pretending?” Suddenly he was serious again. “Listen, I’m not any more certain of what we’re doing than you are. I’m a doctor, not a Gypsy. A scientist, not a white knight. But one thing I know is that last night was no pretense, lady. We made love and it—it scared the hell out of me.”

  “And what about this morning?”

  “This morning is an unknown. I didn’t expect this when we started, but I think we both know that together we’re—volatile. If we don’t set some rules of conduct here, we’ll be lovers again.”

  She turned in surprise, catching the longing in his eyes before he brought down his mask of indifference. “Rules of conduct? I think you’d better explain. I’ve never been kidnapped by a Gypsy lover who set up rules of conduct.”

  “The first rule is food. Sit down and eat and I’ll dry your hair.” He stood and held out his hand.

  She allowed herself to be led to the table and seated. He poured hot water over a tea bag and handed her the sugar. “You remembered,” she said, pleased at his small gesture of kindness.

  “I have a very good memory. It’s one of my talents.” He picked up a thick dish towel.

  “You dried my hair before. Do you have some kind of hair fetish?”

  “No, I just don’t want to save you from a head injury and lose you to pneumonia.” He heated the towel in the microwave for several seconds, then began to work the long, damp strands between the folds of terry cloth.

  Karen picked up her fork and began to eat, drawing on the logic that she was certain had once played a large part in her life. “You’re right. We need to make plans. How long do we stay here? I must surely have a job to get back to.”

  He gave a dry laugh. “Not anymore. They couldn’t hold it. And we’ll stay until you’re ready to go.”

  “Fine, I’m ready.”

  “I don’t think so. Not until you can tell me who’s after you.”

  “A man, a man who—” But she couldn’t finish. The answer didn’t come. She didn’t know who he was or why he was so terrifying. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. I know only that he’s a devil.”

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  She wanted to tell him to stop, but she couldn’t. His hands were massaging the back of her neck. They were warm and possessive, his touch taking away her appetite and replacing it with a longing that had nothing to do with food.

  “I’ve very likely risked my future at Mercy General to help you, Karen. I want an answer. I think you owe me one.”

  “You don’t understand. I’d tell you if I could. I honestly can’t remember.”

  He swapped one towel for another and continued to rub long after her hair was dry, his hands touching her face and her neck, rebuilding the powerful arc of awareness that had existed between them from the beginning.

  “What do you remember?” he asked. “Go back as far as you can.”

  “I remember my childhood, my father, his death. And I remember my mother. I had to take care of her. She was—ill sometimes.”

  “Good, we’re making progress. Now, tell me about you. Where did you go to college?” He rested his hands on her shoulders as she lifted her cup to her lips.

  “Why, the university, of course. I had a scholarship and I worked in the library.”

  “So you trained to be a librarian?”

  “No, I was a teacher, a first-grade teacher.”

  “Then why did you come to New York and take a low-paying job in a library?”

  “Because I—” She faltered. “I don’t know. Is that what I did? Why can’t I remember?”

  “What is your name, princess?”

  Her eyes flew open wide and her mouth formed the letter A, but nothing came out. “My name is Karen … Karen …”

  “Miller?” he supplied, and waited for her answer, an answer she didn’t have.

  Niko let his hand slide down her arm, holding her hand as he circled the table to sit across from her. “That’s okay. It could be the head injury, or it could simply be a matter of selective memory loss.”

  She held on to his hand desperately. Little bits and pieces of her past had begun to filter back, but how could she not even know her real name? “Why would I have selective memory loss? Besides, doesn’t that usually center around one event? I’ve lost months. Isn’t that a long time to block out?”

  Niko nodded. Months. She was remembering without being aware of it. “The mind is a complex organ that we’re just beginning to understand. But we do know that sometimes something so traumatic happens that we simply close it of

  “Forever?”

  “Not necessarily. Usually it comes back, its return triggered by an event, a word, a smell. Tell me about the dream about the man on a white horse,” he said, taking a different tack.

  She glanced out the window for a moment, then wriggled her fingers out of his grasp and reached for her cup. Removing the tea bag, she pressed it against her spoon, then laid it in the saucer.

  “It’s silly, but it started with a book I read about a Scottish woman who was promised to a very successful man, a man she did not love. She was an older woman who knew that her chances were limited, but she couldn’t bring herself to set a wedding date. Then one day, a caravan of Gypsies came through the area.”

  Niko’s mouth narrowed, his expression took on a skeptical look.
“Gypsies, as in the man in the red satin shirt?”

  She blushed and nodded. “The townspeople turned their back on the tribe, calling them thieves and murderers. But one night, just at dusk, one of the men came riding to her small house at the edge of the moor. He came on a white horse that had red ribbons and flowers braided in its mane.”

  For a moment she could see the Gypsy as clearly as if he were riding up the pathway from the river. But this time he wasn’t the man in her dream, but the man across the table from her.

  Niko was beginning to understand why it had been so easy to reach out to her. Subconsciously she was already waiting for a Gypsy to ride into her life. “So, what happened?”

  “She fell in love. Oh, she knew that the Gypsy would move on, but it was her last chance at happiness, and boldly, she gave herself to him. For days they met on the moor, making love recklessly with no thought of the future. Then one day someone saw them.”

  “Oops! Bad scene, huh?”

  “The worst. Her fiancé disowned her and so did the townspeople.”

  “And the Gypsy rode away and left her with child.”

  “No, at least I don’t think so. He told her that he’d be back for her, that he loved her, that she’d be his love forever.”

  “And did he return?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t finish the book. I didn’t want to know. That way I could make my own ending.”

  “But your dreams wouldn’t let you, would they? That’s why you were crying last night.”

  “Yes. In my heart I knew he wouldn’t return.” Karen stood and walked toward the door leading outside. On a rack hung several coats and gloves. “I think I’ll go for a walk.” She pulled on a pair of the gloves and one of the jackets. “I need to think about what kind of rules of conduct lovers set.”

  She didn’t hear Niko’s answer, for she was remembering the woman in the book and Niko’s innocent question. “And the Gypsy rode away and left her with child?”

  Was that what he was worried about? He, too, was a Gypsy. And while the island was no moor, it was secluded from the world. There was no one here to see them, but there was someone back in the city who was looking for her.