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

know.”
    â€œBelieved 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.
    â€œNo, that you were a Gypsy,” she whispered. “Gypsies kidnap women, don’t they?”
    â€œThey’ve been known to.”
    â€œWhat do they do with them?”
    â€œGood night, Karen Miller.”
    She smiled again. “You didn’t answer.”
    â€œI 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 nosaint. 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.
    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 forwhat he was doing. He’d become a victim of the fantasy he’d created. He’d spent so many hours by