Mac's Angels: The Last Dance: A Loveswept Classic Romance (2 page)

From the small bag she was holding, Sterling removed and donned a scarf that covered her dark brown hair. Next she pulled on the jacket she had draped across her lap, gritted her teeth, and stood.

The pain hit her instantly.

You can do this, Sterling. One step at a time
.

Opening the stall door, she peered out. Once the passageway was clear, she closed the door, leaving
the chair inside, and made her way slowly to the exit. The limo driver was her first test. She straightened her shoulders, blended into a group of women leaving the ladies’ room and walked right past him into the flow of travelers. He never even noticed her.

The pain intensified with every step. She wasn’t going to be able to walk to the exit, at least not without stopping. Best that she find a place to rest. A restaurant—no, a bar. A bar would be darker. She could hide there.

Desperately, she looked ahead. She couldn’t see a safe place nearby. She needed a better disguise. Anxiously, her gaze swept back and forth, fearing that she’d see her stalker. And then she did, just in time to turn her head. He walked past her.

She’d escaped for now, but she knew it was only for the moment. By announcing an imagined threat on the senator’s life, he could amass an army of searchers. At the next lobby she turned into a ladies’ shop. Ten minutes later she emerged, wearing a ski sweater with a fur hood that covered her hair and black-tinted glasses that hid part of her face. Even that disguise wouldn’t last long.

By the time she made her way painfully back to the concourse, it was swarming with police officers.

Just walk on, Sterling
.

But this time her body wasn’t responding. She’d reached the end of her endurance. Every step was sheer torture, and she’d begun to falter. Thank God, a bar was just a few steps away.

She stumbled inside and took a seat in the
corner. She ordered a drink and sipped it slowly. Then a second, explaining to the waiter that she was lingering at the bar because she had time to kill between flights.

“Going skiing, are you?” the waiter asked, eyeing her fur hood.

“Yes, yes, I am.” She’d made a poor choice, she decided. She was in Louisiana, not Colorado. But it was too late to change her disguise now.

Ten o’clock. She’d been in the bar nearly an hour when she looked up and saw her hunter in the doorway. He hadn’t seen her yet, but he was headed toward her.

Just before she started to panic he turned away, giving her time to stand and move past him. Slowly, but not too slowly, she made her way toward the door and into the corridor. At the ladies’ room she paused and ducked inside, where she sank down onto one of the toilet seats. By now the limo driver would have informed Conner that she was missing. Without knowing the danger of doing so, he might contact the police. And the police were working with the man who’d shot her. She was totally screwed.

It was obvious she wasn’t going to get out of the airport undiscovered. She was physically exhausted and in such pain that she couldn’t trust her legs to walk any farther. She had to find some help.

If only …

Mac. Maybe she could reach Mac. Mac could tell her what to do. That’s what Lincoln McAllister did—fix things and people. Angel Central had
helped so many people in trouble. Mac was the head angel and right how she needed an angel, desperately.

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stand. Why had she turned away all those telemarketers trying to sell her a portable phone? Because she’d never expected to be away from her regular one.

There are phones at the next gate, Sterling. You can do it
. Slowly, step by painful step, she made her way down the concourse toward the bank of phones against the wall. Change. She needed change. Quarters. She fed coins into the machine.

“Shangri-la,” the voice said. “How may we help you?”

“Yes, I need to speak with Lincoln McAllister.”

“I’m sorry, he’s away. May I take a message?”

Sterling felt a fresh wave of fear. She couldn’t see the killer, but he couldn’t be far. Mac was away. Of course he was away, he was on his way here. “I’m at the New Orleans airport. This is an emergency. Please—please tell him that Sterling needs him.”

“Sterling? Hold on a minute.”

It was less than a minute later that Mac’s familiar voice came on the line. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. But I’m in big trouble.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Yes. Someone’s … after me. They are all … searching for me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m still in the airport. Gate seven.”

“Look around. How far are you from the nearest restaurant?”

She turned casually to look. “I can’t see one, except for a food court and that’s too open. There’s a bar. I was just there.”

“Can you get back to the bar? Stay in a public place until I get there?”

“I can make it. How long will that take?”

“I’m approaching the airport now.”

“How?”

“My plane landed a half hour ago and I rented a car for the drive to Carithers’s Chance. I can be back there in fifteen minutes.”

“Hurry, Mac. And don’t tell anyone—not even Conner.”

He didn’t ask questions, nor did he argue. Conner already knew. Mac had his office alert Conner the minute they told him that Sterling was calling. Just as he was hanging up, he added, “Ah, Sterling, it just occurred to me. I feel like I know you. We’ve talked on the phone for years, but how will I recognize you?”

She felt a smile curl her lips. “I’m the only fool wearing a fur-lined hood and tinted glasses in New Orleans.”

He laughed. “Lose the glasses, Sterling, and wait for me. And Sterling, if anyone threatens you, start screaming and don’t stop.”

Sterling sat in the other corner of the bar, hiding behind the server’s stand, slowly sipping lukewarm coffee. Her eyes were tightly focused on the doorway. She’d identified herself to Mac, but he’d failed to give her a description of himself.

How would she know him?

Would he arrive before the police returned? Sterling wouldn’t think about what might happen if he didn’t. For more than a year after she’d been shot, she’d relived that horrible morning when a lone gunman had entered the office of Commonwealth Securities, killed her boss, a senior partner, and then shot her in the back.

She’d been in the copy room, printing and collating brochures about a new stock offering. Arms full of brochures, she’d backed into his office, straight into the robber. Mr. Eldon was lying on the floor, bleeding to death, and his killer was emptying the safe. He turned a gun on her. And then she saw those cold eyes, the eyes of a murderer. When she screamed and whirled to run for help, he swore and pulled the trigger. As she’d lost consciousness the imprint of those hard, blue-gray eyes had etched themselves forever in her brain and eventually her nightmares.

They never caught him. The bearer bonds he’d stolen were unmarked and never recovered. And Sterling was left unconscious with a bullet lodged dangerously near her spine.

Now, ten years later, the fear and pain had returned. The man who’d shot her had become a senator’s
aide, possibly in a position to influence national policy. A murderer was the assistant to a man headed for the presidency? He’d killed a man ten years ago. What would he do to protect the life he’d built? She didn’t want to consider the possibilities.

A glance at her watch told her that fifteen minutes had passed.

What if Mac didn’t come?

But he did. Striding into the bar, a man wearing a baseball cap and a leather bomber’s jacket stopped in the center and looked around, and then he saw Sterling. With a quick nod, he slid into the booth beside her. “I’m Mac.”

“Yes.” You certainly are, she wanted to say, but didn’t. “I’m Sterling.”

Compact, with a nose that might have been broken once, Lincoln McAllister was nothing like Sterling expected.

He was much more.

His deep, calm voice was deceptive, designating only the persona he created for the public. She would have recognized that voice anywhere. It didn’t match the man.

But neither did the lifestyle she knew he lived; His clothes were casual, yet expensive. His hair, a dark blond, was showing hints of silver at the edges. It was thick and long, curling to the collar of his blue denim shirt. Everything about him spoke of power. He was like some old-world warrior ready to do battle in an arena.

“Sterling,” he was saying. “Listen to me. We
have to move quickly. I saw the suits searching the airport for you. They’re not even trying to hide their efforts.”

It was obvious that he didn’t know. She wanted to explain her problem to him, but all she could do was stare. She must look like an animal, frozen in the headlights of an oncoming car. “Mac, I …”

“Don’t try to explain. Right now I don’t care why they’re looking for you. We have to get you out of here without giving them a chance to take you into ‘protective’ custody.”

She nodded approvingly, grateful and relieved that Mac was by her side.

“Now, here’s what we’re going to do. You and I are going to the private area of the airport. My plane is refueling and getting ready for takeoff. We’ll tell them we’re flying home to Aspen for the holidays. All we have to do is walk down the concourse into the private area and board my plane. They won’t be expecting that.”

She nodded again.

“All right, let’s go. We don’t want to look rushed, but we’d better hurry.”

Sterling swallowed hard. Hurry? “I—I can’t, Mac.”

“Why not? Are you hurt?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then we have to go. Now.” He stood.

“Mac, you don’t understand. I—I can’t walk. Not anymore. I need my wheelchair from baggage claim.”

He sat back down, a confused look on his face. “You can’t walk?”

“I can, a little, but only for short periods of time. I’ve had to walk so much in the last hour that my legs are … used up. I’ll never make it.”

He furrowed his brow in thought. “All right,” he finally said. “If you need transportation, you’ve got it.” He ripped off her fur-lined hood, removed his baseball cap, crammed it on her head, then handed her his coat. “That fur is too visible. Wear my cap and stuff this jacket under your sweater. You’re pregnant and you don’t feel well.”

Sterling followed his instructions, glad that her sweater was oversized.

Before she knew what was happening, Mac scooped her up and moved quickly through the bar, flagging down one of the motorized vehicles used to carry passengers down the concourse. “Sit here with these folks, darling,” he said, depositing her next to an elderly couple. “She’s all right,” he assured them. “She’s just a little queasy. Don’t know why her morning sickness comes in the afternoon.”

Mac sat beside her and motioned for the driver to move on. “Thanks for sharing your ride,” he said, giving the elderly couple a wide smile. “We’ve just got to get home for Christmas. The children are waiting.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” the older woman said, patting Sterling on the knee. “How many do you have now?”

“One—” Sterling said, ready to strangle Mac.

“Three—” Mac said at the same time, quickly coming up with names of people he knew. “A little girl—Erica. Erica is just a year old and she’s going to look just like her mother. And twin boys, Conner and Rhett. They’ll be three next month.”

“My—my, three children with one on the way, and you’re so young. What’s this one going to be? Or don’t you know yet?”

“Do we know yet?” she asked Mac, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“No.” He grinned, surprised at how much he was enjoying the exchange with Sterling in the midst of danger. He only hoped the elderly couple’s eyesight was poor. No pregnancy he’d ever seen had quite the contours of Sterling’s sweater. “We like to be surprised. But we’re hoping for another girl. Aren’t we, darling?”

If he’d been surprised at the lighthearted banter, he was even more surprised at himself when he slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close for a quick kiss that was intended to be a husband’s mark of assurance.

The moment his lips touched her cheek, his pulse raced.

Startled by his unexpected physical response, he pulled back, masking his confusion by looking around. Could it be the threat of danger that made a shiver ripple down his spine?

“You okay, Dad?” Sterling asked. “Don’t tell me you’re going to get sick too.” She flashed the couple
a motherly smile. “Every time I get pregnant, he throws up.”

“It’s a whole new world, isn’t it?” the man said. “In my day men didn’t get involved in having the children. It was the woman’s job; we just supported them.”

“That’s what I keep telling Barney,” Sterling said. “But he likes being a house husband. That way he can do his quilt designs without the men at the gym teasing him.”

The old man’s mouth fell open. “You make quilts?”

“Oh, sure,” Mac said, his humor fading a bit. “While preparing for my next fight. Calms my nerves and, truthfully, the quilting designs bring in as much money as my boxing matches.”

“Can’t we go any faster?” he asked the driver of the vehicle.

“And what do you do, dear?” the old woman asked Sterling.

At that moment Sterling saw the man in the gray suit and his expanded number of escorts moving through the crowd, stopping everyone. Behind them, her boss, Conner Preston, raced down the concourse, giving a great imitation of a passenger about to miss his flight. What was he doing here?