Mac's Angels: The Last Dance: A Loveswept Classic Romance Read online

  “Where else? Mac’s Place.”

  Red and green candles set in a nest of holly branches sent little curls of smoke into the night sky. A table for two had been placed beside a wall created by windows.

  Sterling slipped into her seat, trying unsuccessfully to avoid any contact with Mac as he slid the chair forward. But he thwarted that by placing one hand on her shoulder. He leaned down, pointing at the night beyond the glass.

  “Look at that view, Sterling. There’s nothing like it anywhere else in the world.”

  A million glittering stars surrounded an icy white moon pinned on a black velvet sky like some elegant display in a museum. “Did you order this moon?” she asked, hearing the slight breathlessness she felt in her voice.

  “No, I managed to create a complex that offers safe haven to the needy, and houses the most up-to-date medical equipment available to man. I have a staff that can solve almost any problem and the space and means to do it. Dozens of people scattered across the world take on trouble, from a mother who can’t face the loss of a child to a patriot wishing to overthrow a cruel dictator. But creating something like this is beyond the capabilities of any of my earthbound angels.”

  “Do you really believe in angels?”

  He straightened up and moved over to an entertainment center on the adjacent wall. “Sometimes,” he said softly. “Sometimes there is no other answer.”

  A waiter appeared silently. He removed Sterling’s napkin and gave it a shake before placing it in her lap. A bottle of wine was brought, opened, and tasted by Mac, who nodded and carefully watched as their glasses were filled.

  Moments later piano music drifted into the air and added to the magic.

  “Shall we make a toast?” Mac asked, lifting his glass.

  Sterling held out her glass. “What shall we drink to?”

  “To angels,” he said, and tapped her glass, sending a lovely chiming sound that rippled around the room, as if the composer had written it into the evening’s song. “And to forever after.”

  “Forever after?” she asked with a smile.

  “Of course. This is Shangri-la, remember?”

  She remembered. She also remembered something else he’d said. He’d said he was taking her to meet Jessie, the woman he loved.

  FOUR

  Mac had rescued Sterling, but he hadn’t anticipated the effect it would have on him. Personally bringing her to Shangri-la had taken him back to a time before he’d built the complex, when he’d met another woman who had needed him. The first time he’d been the helping angel.

  Long before he’d become Mac, he’d been Lincoln McAllister, playboy extraordinaire. He’d been on his way home from a party. He didn’t remember who’d given it—life had been one party after another—only that particular night he’d had too much to drink and had insisted on driving himself home in his latest shiny black sports car.

  Her name was Alice and she’d been standing at the side of the road, waiting for a car, any car. He’d seen her in the lights cast by the truck ahead. It slowed, then kept going. At first he’d thought she was about to cross the street. Then, as he’d reached the spot where she was standing, she had leaped into the path of his car.

  Even now, late at night, he still heard the sound of screeching brakes and felt the thud as his fender caught her body and threw her into the air.

  She hadn’t died, not then. Her first attempt at suicide had failed. Six years later—after he’d married her and given her a child—the demons inside her head became more than she could handle, and she’d driven off the mountain, killing herself and critically injuring their little girl.

  Now, as he watched Sterling across the table, he thought about what he was doing. He’d built a sanctuary for desperate people and he’d staffed it with professionals who could help. Slowly, over the last fourteen years, he’d expanded the scope of his enterprise. He’d had some success and with that came a kind of fragile, manufactured peace. All of his interventions hadn’t been so dramatic. There were times when he’d simply read about someone somewhere who had a dream or needed one and he’d stepped in. But this was the first time he’d become personally involved with a woman who needed him since his wife Alice and their child. Why?

  “Mac? What happens now?” Sterling’s voice jerked him back to the present.

  “Now? We have dessert, something sinfully delicious.”

  “No, Mac. No dessert. I’m not one of those eat-all-you-want, willowy people. Too many late-night dinners like this and I’ll have to have an eighteen-wheeler to get around instead of a wheelchair.”

  “You’re fine, Sterling. I lifted you, remember?”

  She was fine. All through dinner he’d been reminded how fine. The dress Elizabeth had provided for her was made of a loose-fitting flimsy red material shot with a metallic thread that shimmered in the candlelight. She wore no jewelry, only a single strand of silver woven into the simple twist she’d fashioned at the back of her neck.

  She was round, yes, but it was the kind of gentle softness that a man could cuddle up to and feel safe with. Simple, old-fashioned, and elegant.

  “You’re too concerned about your size,” he added with a smile.

  But she wasn’t concerned, not really, just fluttery with the knowledge that he was interested in her. They were alone, in an intimate setting and they’d shared danger. That was intoxicating. But she thought that it was the situation, not the woman, that intrigued Lincoln McAllister.

  She shook her head, consciously searching for a way to defuse the sexual tension. “Thank you, Mac, but I know what I am. The dinner was wonderful, but I think it’s time we talk about what I’m doing here.”

  In one second she shattered the illusion he’d been building subconsciously throughout dinner. He wondered why he kept straying off into some sensual fantasy. He understood that’s what it was. Fantasy, based on shared risk and loneliness. “Not yet,” he said, too abruptly. “We get the facts, analyze them, and formulate our plan. By tomorrow we’ll know more. Tonight we’re simply two people having dinner.”

  Sterling laid her napkin down and studied him. “All right. But I am sorry you missed the wedding. I know how seldom you leave your mountaintop. I know you wanted to be there, since you and Montana are close friends.”

  “We are friends, but I would have been totally out of place at a wedding. Long ago I lost any talent I ever had for making small talk. The wedding was simply an—obligation. I helped Montana once when he needed help. Then he returned the favor by being one of Mac’s Angels to help someone else.”

  “That’s pretty cut-and-dried.”

  “That’s what I am, Sterling. I joke about it, but I’m not a real angel. Don’t give me that kind of credit. What I do is use what I have, to do what I … I can’t do myself.”

  She didn’t believe he was that cold. She’d seen the playful side of him, understood he used humor to cover up real emotion. “And me? Will I be asked to help someone else?”

  “You will,” he said solemnly. “You most certainly will.”

  She sat silent for a moment. “Well, the food was delicious and I appreciate you sharing Mac’s Place with me. But I truly am very tired.”

  The strain in Sterling’s voice made him feel guilty. Having dinner with her had been pleasant. For a time she’d relaxed and forgotten the danger.

  He had enjoyed the company.

  Now she was fading. How long had he been staring at her without seeing? “I’m sorry, Sterling. Guess I’ll have to admit it. I’m not really Bogart; I’m just an ordinary man.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “How’s that? This place certainly isn’t ordinary. What you’ve created here is unbelievable. In fact, I probably ought to be calling you James.”

  “Now, there you have me. James?”

  “As in Bond. 007. You don’t look like him, but if he doesn’t have his American headquarters here, he ought to.”

  Mac grinned in spite of himself. She had a way of making him do tha
t. She wasn’t the first to make that comparison. It wasn’t a personal comparison; it was more a matter of the lengths to which he went to succeed.

  “Well, if I’m 007, who does that make you?”

  “Why Moneypenny, of course. Secretary, assistant, and general nanny. That’s a role I could probably handle.”

  “Perhaps,” he said softly, remembering Sterling’s voice on the phone. “Perhaps Moneypenny would tell me I’m falling behind in my duties.” He stood, dropped his napkin, and pushed Sterling’s wheelchair next to the chair she was sitting on. He held out his hand.

  She took it and moved stiffly to her wheelchair. “I think you’ve done fine so far, 007. What do you think you haven’t done well?”

  “Well, it has been a long day.” He pushed her wheelchair into the corridor and back toward the wing where she was staying, adding, “I expect Bond would have thought about that. He would have taken you to bed an hour ago.”

  Sterling gasped.

  “Damn! That didn’t come out quite right. Maybe you’d better go back to calling me Barney instead of Bond.”

  “Not a chance. Barney could never have worn that tux.”

  Sterling’s chair wheels made a whistling sound as they rolled down the silent corridor. She had said she was very tired. That was untrue. Her senses were awake and heavily charged by the closeness of Lincoln McAllister. Beginning with her dramatic airport rescue, they’d left Barney Rubble behind. Now they were playing out events that could have come straight from a Bond movie.

  Shangri-la had to be big-screen imagination and action at its best, a secret hideaway designed to repair and protect. Then came a romantic dinner with a handsome man who’d worn a white dinner jacket and created a fantasy meant to distract and entice. Bond at his best. But that was where the comparison ended.

  Mac was no ultrasophisticated ladies’ man. The crook in his once broken nose and a scar on his cheek made Mac more real than any screen actor. There was a sense of pain about him, pain buried so deep that he wouldn’t share it easily.

  Except maybe with Jessie. She had to remember Jessie.

  To add to the swirling currents of danger and emotion, she’d been plopped down right in the middle of Christmas, a sentimental holiday.

  Christmas was the one season Sterling avoided. Christmas was for children, for the mystery of promises made and kept. If there really were angels, they wouldn’t tease her with the illusion of love and family and all that the season promised.

  But they—Mac had done just that.

  Low strains of Christmas music wafted down the corridor as if someone had just opened a door. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing …” Then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Music?”

  “No, but if you want music, or anything else, all you have to do is ask Elizabeth.”

  “Mac, I want to talk to you about Mrs. Everett. I appreciate your concern, but I insist that you release her from her duties as my companion. I can manage alone.”

  He reached her door and stopped, looking down at her. “She isn’t assigned to you, Sterling. As a matter of fact, tonight she’s attending a social function away from the family quarters.”

  “Good,” Sterling replied, lacking the energy to argue. “I wouldn’t want to take up all her time. Except for mastering all your electronic gadgets, I can look after myself.”

  Even Sterling knew how slurred her speech sounded.

  He studied her. She couldn’t hide her exhaustion even though she tried. Mentally gritting her teeth, she stood and took a step forward, intent on proving that she could manage.

  Under other conditions she might have, but tonight she stumbled, a groan escaping her lips. She’d sat for too long without moving. Now her legs were asleep and out of control and the pain sliced right through her.

  Mac was beside her instantly, sliding his arm around her waist and supporting her faltering steps as she made her way to her bedroom.

  “You may be right,” she managed to say as she reached her bed. “Just let me sit down and I’ll be fine.”

  “And you intend to sleep in your clothes? I don’t think so. That dress, it’s so clingy. It’s bound to be uncomfortable, not to mention those—stockings.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she repeated, and reached for the back zipper in her dress, thinking he would be forced to leave. The zipper caught in the fabric and refused to budge. Her hand dropped weakly back to her lap.

  “Please, Sterling, let me?” He swung her around, reached up, and, before she could protest, caught the zipper at the back of her neck and gave it a jerk. The dress slipped down and puddled at her feet.

  “Mac!”

  “Don’t panic, Sterling, I’ve seen women undressed before. I’m in the rescue business, remember?” He caught the half-slip and peeled it down, then lowered her to the bed and covered her with the robe lying at the edge of the mattress. “I’ll get your nightgown.”

  From the time Sterling had looked into the eyes of the man who’d shot her, she’d felt as if she were in a bad dream. But never had her dreams—even the good ones—taken her to a bedroom in a mountain fortress where a man like Mac took off her clothing as if he did it every day.

  She felt as if she were standing outside herself, watching, as he returned with a long-sleeved flannel garment.

  “Well,” Mac said, “I’ll have to speak with Elizabeth. Betty Rubble might sleep in something like this, but not Moneypenny. I have it on good authority that 007’s Moneypenny wears nothing at all.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course,” he said as he gently threaded the nightgown over her head. “Why do you think Bond is the perennial bachelor. He may play, but he always goes home, doesn’t he? I think I’m going to have to update your wardrobe.” Beneath the gown, he deftly unhooked her bra.

  She managed to slide the bra off her shoulders, but her attempt to put her arms in the sleeves was an exercise in futility. At a time like this her spinal cord failed her, pinching off the muscles and nerves that controlled her movements. Mac watched for a moment, then took one arm at a time and inserted it into the proper sleeve.

  “Shall I remove your stockings?” he asked.

  “No! No, I’ll … I’ll do it.” But when she leaned forward, her spine creaked a protest louder than her own choked-back moan.

  “What you’ll do, Sterling, is lie down.” He removed her shoes and lifted her, placing her head on the pillow and her legs on the bed. He sat down beside her and reached for the hem of her gown.

  “Please, Mac. Don’t.”

  “Close your eyes, Sterling. Just this once don’t try to be Superwoman. This is simply one individual caring for another. That’s what I’ll expect from you at some point. That’s what angels do. Will you let me?”

  She closed her eyes, trying desperately to breathe evenly so that Mac wouldn’t know the wild desire that his touch caused her to feel. Since she’d been released from the hospital, the only man who’d touched her so intimately had been her therapist and that had lasted only as long as it took for her to find a woman to replace him.

  Until she’d been shot, she’d considered her body physically desirable. That’s what her fiancé had said, and she’d believed him. She’d lain in his arms after they’d made love and planned a future of togetherness. He really had tried to feel the same after her injury, but he hadn’t. There came a time when he couldn’t touch her anymore and they’d both known that whatever they’d shared was over.

  Mac’s fingertips moved lightly up her legs, to her hips, following the seam of her panty hose. He peeled them down, lifting one hip, then the other to remove the dark filmy hose. She tightened her muscles, trying to conceal the trembling that his touch set off.

  What was happening here was wrong. Mac had deliberately not mentioned this Jessie he spoke of earlier, and she’d delayed asking about her. She couldn’t justify this deliberate oversight, nor could
she deny the strong desire to wrap her arms around this man, hold him close as he—

  She swallowed hard. “Mac?” Her voice sounded shaky. She tried again. “Mac, thank you. I know you’ve gone out of your way to make me feel safe. But I think it’s time for you to go.”

  He picked up her feet and completed his task of removing the hose, which he then rubbed between his thumb and forefinger. “These are very sheer. It must be like wearing moonlight.”

  “Moonlight?”

  He laughed. “I know. I’m hopelessly romantic about some things. Sometimes, at night, when everything is quiet, I look out at the moonlight on the mountain peaks. It’s like glass, shimmering, transparent.

  “Sorry. Don’t listen to me. I get punchy when I’ve overdosed on the company of a beautiful woman. Good night, Sterling.”

  He leaned closer, pulled up the spread, and, as if he were tucking in a child, planted his lips on her forehead. “Sweet dreams.”

  Long after he’d gone she felt the heated circle his kiss had left and the echo of his words. Moonlight. This man definitely might be compared with Bond, but he wasn’t Bond. He was a poet.

  He was a lonely man.

  A lonely man who loved a woman named Jessie.

  Sterling didn’t think she’d sleep, but she did. Deeply and restfully, without the nightmares she’d dreaded. When she woke the next morning, she was alone. But her clothes had been laid out for her, and there was a tray holding a silver coffee carafe and lovely English scones.

  Gingerly, she sat up, uncertain about the aftereffects of her flight from the senator’s aide and the trauma of her evening with Mac. She didn’t know which had been harder on her body. Both had pushed her to limits she’d avoided for ten years.

  Not too bad. She flexed her knees and felt a stab of pain radiate down her leg from her hip to her ankle. At least she could feel it. Pain was more reassuring than the numbness that sometimes made it impossible for her to walk. She nibbled at a scone, then made her way into the bathroom and turned on the water in the shower. Leaving the flannel nightgown in a heap, she stepped inside, raising her face to the stinging pellets of hot water.