Mac's Angels : Sinner and Saint. a Loveswept Classic Romance (9780345541659) (9 page)

Hot and cold, that was how he felt.

He walked around the foot of the bed. She was lying on her side, her hair sprawled over the pillow, her knees drawn up against her chest. She looked relaxed, like a woman who'd just made love and expected to be waked with a kiss.

He wasn't about to do that, but he thought about it. He thought, too, about pulling back the sheet and slipping in beside her. The idea of feeling her skin next to his was so strong that he had to take a step back.

Desire? Loneliness? He had no explanation for
what he was doing. He'd become a victim of the fantasy he'd created. He'd spent so many hours by her bed that it seemed natural to pull up a chair and sit down beside her.

The moonlight caught the silver of her hair and it glimmered. He remembered his first reaction to her icy beauty. He'd seen her as a Russian princess, riding in a horse-drawn sleigh across a field of white.

And she'd seen him as a Gypsy, riding a white horse with scarlet ribbons woven into his mane.

For so long his world had been sterile, empty. Now this woman had intruded, pushing away his self-imposed solitude. What would he do with her when she no longer needed him? She had become a part of his present, a moment he wanted to freeze in time. A moment he was fighting to keep.

He wanted Karen Miller to be the princess. And he wanted to be her Gypsy on the white horse.

Friday the 13th—plus seven hours—the fantasy

Niko rose early. He made coffee and drank a cup as he looked through the window at the white landscape beyond. Did he dare leave her here while he went for supplies?

No. By now whoever was tracking her might be too close. They'd stop along the way. Quickly he piled clothing and personal necessities into a duffel bag, pulled on a jacket, and carried his things to the Bronco. He cranked the engine to warm the car while he readied the vehicle for his patient.

He couldn't take her out into the weather wearing
only a T-shirt and a terry-cloth robe. Back in his bedroom he dug out a pair of cotton warm-up pants that had shrunk and a sweatshirt. For her feet—a pair of athletic socks and the purloined house shoes, until they could get boots.

He knocked on her door. When she didn't answer he opened it and looked inside. Her bed was empty. She was in the bathroom. Quickly he dropped the clothes on the foot of the bed and backed out.

“Coffee's ready,” he called out.

“I'll be right there.”

At the sound of her voice, he let out a sigh of relief.

Moments later she was in the kitchen. She'd donned the clothes, looking more like a bag lady than a Russian princess. The pants weren't too bad, but she'd had to roll up the sleeves of the sweatshirt into lumpy circles around her elbows while the bottom hung almost to her knees.

“I've been thinking about your helping me,” she said. “I feel bad about taking you away from the hospital. So, if you'll just take me to the island, I can manage by myself.”

“I don't think so, princess. There is no power, no heat, no food, and no way to get there.”

“But how—I don't understand.”

“Drink your coffee. We need to leave here.”

She looked down at herself. He could tell she wanted to argue, but realistically she had no choice but to accept his help. Without questioning him, she
swallowed her coffee and rinsed out the cup. “Do I have any other clothes?”

“Not here.”

“Did I have a purse, any money?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then how did you know my name and where I worked?”

“One of the homeless people who hangs out at the library identified you when you were hit.”

“So what I see is what I've got?”

There was frustration in her voice and he knew that she must feel truly helpless. “Temporarily. But don't worry. I've got you covered. You'll have to make do with what you're wearing until we get out of the city. Then we'll stop at a Kmart for boots and warm clothing, a supermarket for groceries, and we're on our way.”

Traffic out of the city wasn't bad, except for the snow. There was heavy silence inside the four-wheel-drive vehicle, while outside a myriad of car horns blared rudely. They crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge and headed north. The slap of the windshield wipers made a steady rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat, like the monitors in the hospital.

Karen took a deep breath and tried to relax. She couldn't separate reality from her imagination. For now she'd focus on what she knew. She'd had a telephone call six days before that had traumatized her completely.

Then she'd been injured. “How?”

“I'm sorry. How what?”

“How was I injured?”

“You stepped in front of a cab. It slammed your head into the concrete. You were unconscious for five days.”

“You were there?”

“Not in the beginning. Only since early yesterday morning. What do you remember about the accident?”

“Nothing. I remember only your voice. You told me that we are—that you and I know each other. Do we?”

“What do you think?”

“I'm not sure. It's all a muddle in my mind. I seem to have some memory of you in the past. You make me feel things I …” She couldn't put what she felt into words. If she said that she'd known him in a dream, he'd think she was crazy. She wasn't entirely certain she could argue that point.

The one thing she could be sure of was that she had been in a hospital. When he'd taken her away she wore a blue hospital-issued cotton gown. And until she washed her hair, there'd been an unmistakable crisp, medicinal smell about her.

She'd breathed it often enough.

But why was she familiar with the smell of antiseptics and the sight of bandages? No, not bandages, Band-Aids.

“Tell me about Slade Island,” she said, reaching for something that wouldn't force her to remember what had happened.

“It really is an island. The only way to get there is
by boat. That's why we have to stop for clothes. You'd turn into an icicle dressed the way you are now.”

She didn't feel cold. The Bronco heater churned out warm air that fogged the windshield and blurred the lights of the traffic beyond. She felt as if she were in the middle of some muted watercolor. “Where is it?”

“In the middle of the Hudson River, about two hours driving time, north of the city.”

“Tell me about, about when—we were there,” she said, her voice softer.

“We were never—” he began, then broke off. Why not continue the fantasy if it made her feel better. “We were never able to go as often as we wanted. In fact”—he swerved to miss a pothole and cut in front of the driver beside him—“we've never been in the winter.”

She let out a light sigh. “I didn't think so. I couldn't remember the winter.”

It hadn't been winter the last time he was there. It had been in the middle of an August heat wave, when everybody had left the city in search of a breath of cool air. Even the island had been warm.

But perhaps it had been the reason for the gathering that had generated the heat. The official reason for the clan's assembly was his father's retirement as leader. A future king would be chosen and his training would begin. And his father actually had the wild idea that the title might be passed on to him—Nikolai Sandor.

Niko had refused in no uncertain terms. He
wouldn't be king and he wouldn't come to Slade Island.

Niko still couldn't believe how naive he'd been, how easily manipulated. When his fourteen-year-old sister had called later, frightened out of her mind and crying uncontrollably, he'd thought the old tyrant had finally died.

“Come and help me, Niko,” she'd pleaded. “He's selling me to a man I don't even know, for ten thousand dollars. You've got to make him stop!”

Niko still remembered his sister's terror. He'd been in his second year of psychiatric residency then, and he had no choice but to leave the hospital to take care of her. He'd told his professor that it was a matter of life and death, but the man hadn't understood. He was too angry to listen to nonsense about a Gypsy girl being sold into marriage. If Niko left, he needn't return. He hadn't. Later, with Mac's help, he'd gone into research.

At the next light Niko reached for his map. He'd take the Nyack exit, through Stony Point, and stop for clothes and food when they got there—if they got there.

He glanced at Karen. Even in the gray shadows of a sunless day he could see the pallor of her face. She needed food, more than just coffee for breakfast, and soon. Fighting the traffic, he finally managed to leave the congestion behind and let his foot down on the gas. The black Bronco jumped forward, eating up the miles. Finally he left the freeway and followed the traffic to a shopping center that housed a grocery
store with a deli and a Kmart. Under the pretense of keeping her feet dry, he carried her into the store.

Boots first so that she wouldn't be walking around in backless house slippers. Then he piled sweaters, flannel shirts, and jeans into the buggy. A stop at the lingerie section for sleepwear and undergarments, the drug section for a toothbrush, the book department for reading material, and they were ready to go.

Back at the Bronco, he helped Karen inside, then cranked the engine. “I'm going to leave the motor running so that you'll stay warm while I get our food.”

“Do you need help?”

“I buy. You cook. Is that a deal?”

Her silence signaled how weary she was. Either that, or he was sharing his secret weekend with a woman who didn't know how to cook.

He reached for the door handle, then paused, placing his hand on her wrist for a second. “I'm taking your pulse,” he explained, pleased to feel the steady beat beneath his fingertips. “Lock the door until I get back.”

She didn't answer, but as he headed for the store, he heard a click.

Inside the Bronco, Karen closed her eyes, content to linger somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. She was warm and she felt safe. Everything was still so hazy and there was comfort in that cloudy memory.

She knew that behind that cloud something fearful waited, or someone she didn't want to face, but so
long as she refused to pull back the curtain, she could drift in the present that had been created for her.

Was he real? Or was he some kind of fantasy? He liked her lips, her body. He wanted to touch her. He'd told her over and over while they'd been alone in the hospital. And she'd let herself believe in him, because she'd needed to. Then he'd taken her to his home.

She'd worn his robe, his clothes. But he hadn't touched her.

And now, they were going to Slade Island. He said they'd never been there in winter. Had they ever been anywhere in winter? She didn't think so. His condo had brought back no memories. Nothing about him had.

Yet he'd been with her in the hospital, and she sensed it wasn't just because he was a doctor. Why would a doctor who didn't know her go along with taking her out of the hospital and to some secret place? Unless he knew her. Unless he cared for her.

There was a knock on the door. Niko had returned with bags of groceries, cups of hot coffee, and a sack of doughnuts.

Once he'd unloaded the bags and closed the door, he handed Karen a cup, and rummaging in the sack of pastries, pulled out a sugar doughnut and took a big bite.

“How can you eat that?” she asked incredulously.

He grinned. “I like it. The sweeter the better.” Then he opened and studied his map. Six years was a long time ago.

“Slade Island,” he said, finding it, and wondering if he could go through with it. He'd sworn never to go back to the island.

But he'd sworn never to treat a patient again, or to care about someone.

He was very much afraid he was doing both.

FIVE

Friday the 13th—plus eight hours—the Hudson River Valley

“How long will it take to get there?” Karen asked, sipping the overly sweet coffee.

She watched him take a look at the sky. The snow had stopped, but the low-hanging clouds still threatened. “We should be there in time for a late lunch.”

“That long?”

“Well, I figure we'll have to stop for breakfast soon.”

“Breakfast? What were the doughnuts?”

“Appetizers,” he quipped with an easy grin she hadn't seen before. “Energy, to get the body up and moving. But you'll need something more substantial.”

“I've already eaten more than I normally do in the morning.”

“As a kid I'll bet your mother had to bribe you to clean your plate.”

“No, she …” Karen tried to bring up a picture of her mother standing at the stove spooning up steaming oatmeal. But the only image that came to mind was of a red-haired woman rushing out the door without even saying good-bye. “My father was the cook in the family.”

“He must not have been very successful,” Niko said. “You're far too slender.”