Kitabı oku: «A Sexy Time of It», sayfa 3

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May 15, 2008

Manhattan

WHO WAS SHE? And what had she been doing in Mitre Square at midnight on September 30, 1888? Those were the questions that had been battering at the edge of his mind since he’d finished what he’d needed to do and left London. As he looked out the window of his hotel suite at the gleam of moonlight on the Hudson River, he let the questions resurface.

She’d called out the name of the woman he’d just murdered. She’d interrupted him. For one instant, as he’d withdrawn his knife from the body of Catherine Eddowes, he’d experienced a raw and primitive fear. He hadn’t been sure what to do. He always knew what to do. Then fury had pushed through the terror and galvanized him into action. But he’d had to leave Catherine to chase after her. And he hadn’t been finished.

The woman had no right to be there. She’d interfered with his pleasure.

Fury erupted again, burning through his veins, and the glass in his hand shattered. As blood oozed from his finger, his throat tightened and his mind emptied. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Dread sank rusty claws into his stomach.

No! No! He was frightened of no one. Unfisting his hand, he let the shards of glass drop to the carpet. Then he grabbed his handkerchief and pressed it to the small cut. Breathing deeply, he reached for control. How could the woman have known that Catherine Eddowes was in the square? His research had been meticulous. Catherine had no friends, no one to come looking for her.

Unless the woman had come from the future. Was that why she’d disappeared so completely? He’d been reaching out, his fingers inches from her shoulder, but they’d closed on nothing but air. Had she shot forward into her own time?

Possibly.

Calmer now, he poured cognac into a new glass and sipped. Too bad he hadn’t gotten a better look at her. The mist had been too thick. It always was in London, which was why he’d chosen that city for some of his best work. One way or another, he would solve the mystery. And when his path crossed hers again he would eliminate her. Problem solved.

THE MOMENT NEELY saw the man sitting on the stoop across the street, her knees went weak. It was him—the stranger who’d been in her bookstore that afternoon. She’d been trying for some time to drift into sleep, but she’d been too keyed up. She’d come to the window to close the drapes. And there he was.

He sat partially in shadow on the front steps of the brownstone directly across from Bookends. He rested the upper part of his body against the iron railing, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. But it was definitely him. She felt it in every pore of her body. A flood of emotions moved through her—anticipation, excitement and a primitive desire—the same ones she’d experienced when he’d almost kissed her.

As if suddenly sensing her, he leaned forward, and when he glanced up at her, she felt the impact of his eyes clear down to her toes. For a moment, she froze. She couldn’t even think because he was in her mind. In that instant, it was as if they were one. And an image filled her mind of the two of them locked together, their bodies moving as one. She could feel him inside her, filling her. Pleasure speared through Neely, so acute that she had to grab the drapes to remain upright.

How could this be happening? Who was he? And why was he there on that stoop looking up at her window? The need to find out was so strong, so urgent that without another thought, she whirled from the window, ran toward the door and down the stairs. Disengaging the alarm delayed her a precious minute, but finally she was on her stoop.

He was gone.

She ran to the sidewalk and peered up and down the street, but there was no sign of the man who’d been sitting across from her building only moments before.

A chill prickled her skin as reality surfaced. She was standing alone on the sidewalk, her front door wide open, and there was a killer who preyed on women loose in her city. She patted her pocket, reassuring herself that she had her pepper spray with her. But there was no reason to tempt fate. Turning on her heel, she raced back up the steps. Then she paused and glanced once more down the block in the direction of the small gated park.

That’s where he was. She could feel him—almost the same way she’d felt that man in Mitre Square last night. This time the sensation was more intense, and this was a different man.

How did she know that?

Rattled now, she ran into the house, slammed the door and reset the alarm.

MAX STOOD, invisible now, just inside the gate of the small park. He’d cursed himself the moment that Neely turned away from the window. She was coming. He’d read the intention in her mind as clearly as he’d felt for one instant her body beneath his, arching up to meet his thrusts. He’d felt her gripping him in a hot, wet sheath, and the pleasure had been so intense, his need so acute that for a moment he hadn’t been able to move.

When he’d broken free from the hold she seemed to have on his mind, he’d leaped off the stoop and run toward the park three houses down. And finally—too late—he’d made himself invisible. Clairvoyance was not one of his stronger psychic gifts, but there were some things he just knew, and that talent had saved his life on more than one occasion. In this case, what he knew was that he and Neely were going to make love in spite of likely repercussions.

She shouldn’t have seen him. He’d been so focused on her presence in the room above the bookstore that he’d neglected to make himself invisible. Shakespeare’s Romeo had the excuse of adolescence and rampant hormones. Max Gale could lay claim to neither of those. It was his fault that she’d run so recklessly into the street.

Worried, Max moved to the wrought-iron gate and stepped through it. He froze when she glanced in his direction. She couldn’t see him now, but he still felt her eyes on him. They had some kind of mental connection—an intimate one. For an instant, she had been in his mind and he’d been in hers. And he’d been inside of her. The sensations in his body had been very real.

No one in this time period was supposed to be that open to mind links. Sure, there were recorded cases of individuals with advanced psychic powers. But Neely Rafferty wasn’t one of those cases. He’d checked. Nor was there any documentation that anyone in her family possessed psychic abilities.

Confident that she couldn’t see him even if she looked out the window, he moved back to the stoop across from Bookends. Of course, anomalies occurred, but they were extremely rare. Still, he knew what he’d experienced. Even now, he felt a connection with her. The adrenaline rush she’d experienced when she’d dashed into the street was taking its toll. She was drifting into sleep. And he needed some himself. Climbing the stoop, he stretched out his legs, leaned his shoulders against the railing and closed his eyes.

Max was halfway between waking and sleeping when he felt the sudden pull. He had no time to react, no time to block the power of it. Without conscious volition, his body went weightless, his sight grayed, and he was sucked into a whirlpool of inky blackness.

WHEN NEELY OPENED her eyes, she was totally surrounded by fog so thick that she could barely make out the street lamp. She moved closer until she could read the street sign. Buck’s Row. A thrill moved through her. She was just where she wanted to be. The body of Mary Ann Nichols had been discovered right down this street. Then she heard the footsteps. Pressing a hand against her heart, she peered down the fog-shrouded street. Nothing. The footsteps grew louder, then paused. She backed against a hedge and waited. He was standing beneath the street lamp. She knew it even though she couldn’t see him.

The footsteps sounded again and halted just a few feet away from her.

“Who are you?”

At the sound of his deep voice, dread blocked her throat. He was so close now that she could hear his breath heaving. The murky haze cleared a little—she saw no one. But he was there. She felt his eyes on her, and she knew suddenly that this was the same man who’d chased her in Mitre Square. Was it Jack the Ripper?

Terror spiked through her. She should run, scream, imagine herself back in her bedroom. Something. Then she remembered the pepper spray. Slipping her hand into her pocket, she closed her fingers around it. Something brushed along her cheek—cold metal. She sensed the white-hot, blinding violence in him.

The muscles in her stomach clenched. Fear iced her veins, but she yanked out the pepper spray and shot it straight ahead in an upward direction. There was a sharp, guttural cry and footsteps stumbling away from her. Then silence.

He was gone.

Relief struck her like a sharp blow. The first thing she did was breathe. The oxygen burned her lungs. But she didn’t move, and she focused on the spot in front of her where he’d been only moments before. He could come back.

As seconds ticked by and he didn’t return, she straightened her shoulders and stepped away from the hedge. For a moment, she thought of going back home. But she’d come here to see if she could save one of the Ripper’s victims. She had a sickening feeling that she might be too late. He had come from Buck’s Row. Keeping a firm grip on the can of pepper spray, she started down the street. Mary Ann Nichols’s body had been found in front of a stable gate. Neely could picture it in her mind. Fifty feet ahead, she made out the soft light of another street lamp. The fog was so thick now that when she stretched her hands out in front of her she could barely see her fingers. She sensed when she’d reached the gate because she smelled horses…and something else. The same scent that she’d noticed in Mitre Square. Blood. Neely’s heart stuttered, then raced.

When the fog shifted, she saw him.

He was bending over the body of a woman. She lay spread-eagled on her back in front of the gate that Neely had burned into her memory. There was a wide gash at the woman’s throat. Blood covered her face and matted her hair. Neely bit her bottom lip and held back a scream. She was too late to save Mary Ann Nichols, and she had to run before the Ripper saw her.

He glanced up, and recognition streamed through her. It was him—the man from the stoop. Her breath trembled when he rose. She should run, but she couldn’t seem to move. The pepper spray was still clenched in her hand but she couldn’t raise her arm. As he moved toward her, his shoulders blocked her view of the woman.

What was he doing here? He wasn’t the Ripper—she was almost sure of it. He held none of that blinding violence she’d sensed in the man she’d shot with the pepper spray. But what was this stranger doing standing over the body?

Stop asking questions, her brain shouted. Run. But she couldn’t seem to pull herself loose from his eyes. They were so dark. So intense. And all the while, he moved toward her, slowly, purposefully, the way a man might approach a skittish horse. Or a woman he intended to kill.

“Easy, girl.”

She could have sworn she heard the words. But his lips hadn’t moved. Still frozen, she was acutely aware of the way her pulse hammered at her throat, her wrists, her breast. He was inches away from her, and she was still paralyzed.

His fingers closed around her upper arm like steel bands, “C’mon, we have to get out of here.” His voice was deep, unaccented, and there was no trace of emotion as he drew her with him down the street in the direction she’d come from.

Finally, she found her voice. “We can’t just leave her there.”

“She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.”

Neely dug in her heels, but she didn’t slow him down a bit. “Did you kill her?”

He sent her a quick glance. “No. From the looks of her she’s one of the Ripper’s victims.”

“How do I know you’re not the Ripper?”

He stopped and turned to her. “Here’s a clue. If I were the Ripper, you’d be dead.”

Her throat went dry. There was something—a trace of annoyance—in his tone now. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she could feel his gaze on her, and she was very much aware of the hand that gripped her arm so tightly. She felt the press of each one of his fingers like a brand. “Who are you then? Why were you in my bookstore this afternoon? Why were you on the stoop across from my store? And how did you get here?”

“You brought me here, sweetheart. And you’re going to tell me how.”

“First, I want to know who you are.”

Max glared down at her as temper and something more dangerous burned through his system. He surprised them both by jerking her close. Then he did what he’d wanted to do earlier in the bookstore. What he’d known he was going to do. He clamped his mouth down on hers. It was a mistake—one he regretted the moment he tasted her.

Why did she have to taste so sweet? Her flavor reminded him of some wild, rare honey that he’d sampled in an ancient time. He had to have more. When she parted her lips, he dived in. The low sound of approval that vibrated in her throat had his blood racing like a river pouring over rapids. He dragged her closer until they formed one figure on the cobblestone street.

She should pull away. It was the only coherent thought that tumbled into Neely’s mind. But she couldn’t seem to gather the will. He was angry. She could taste the tartness of it on his tongue, feel it in the roughness of his palm as it lay on the side of her face and in the fingers that burned at the back of her neck. And still she wanted more.

As if he’d read her mind, he urged her back a few steps until a brick wall pressed against her shoulders. She molded herself against that strong, hard body, nearly cried out from pleasure when that bold hand stroked down her, claiming, possessing. When he gripped the back of her knee, drawing her thigh up, she wrapped her legs and arms around him, scooting up until they were together, center to center. Heat shot through her, melting muscles and bone. Still she had to have more.

He nipped at her bottom lip and deepened the kiss. It was no longer anger that she tasted, but a dark, desperate hunger. His? Hers? In another moment, he was going to take her against that brick wall. They would take each other. She could picture it so vividly in her mind, wanted it so desperately. His fingers had already slipped beneath the waistband of her jeans. The image of what they would do filled her mind so completely that the sound of the whistles barely registered. What she was aware of was that the stranger’s hands had suddenly stilled.

This time she heard the whistles. Three of them. Footsteps pounded on the cobblestones.

Neely cried out softly when he broke off the kiss and set her away from him. She leaned against the brick wall for support as he looked back in the direction they’d come from.

“Sounds like someone’s discovered the body.” Gripping her arm, he pulled her forward. “We’d better get out of here.”

We? Even with her mind still spinning, Neely didn’t think so. She had to get away from him. This was a man she didn’t even know, and they’d nearly had sex against a wall in an alley.

Desperately, she pushed the image out of her mind and concentrated on her options. He was bigger, stronger, and even if she could pull free, he could probably run faster. So…

Suddenly, she knew just how to do it. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? Closing her eyes, she conjured up the items in her bedroom—the four-poster bed, the intricately patterned quilt, the Tiffany lamp with its rosy glow. Her body went suddenly light and she let herself be pulled into the whirling darkness.

4

May 16, 2008

Manhattan

WHEN HE SURFACED, Max found himself lying in a bed with Neely Rafferty. Correction. He was lying on top of Neely Rafferty. They were positioned in a way that mirrored the image that had filled his mind when he’d been on the stoop. The major difference being that they were fully clothed. Thank God for small favors. And it was a very small one, considering he couldn’t seem to find the will to move. And he very much wanted to kiss her again. He badly wanted to finish what they’d started in that alley.

But first, he needed answers. A lot of them. Still, he couldn’t seem to make his body follow the orders his brain was sending out. Okay. For the time being, he’d stay where he was and use his position as an intimidation factor. Her eyes were open and on his. She looked a bit stunned, as if she was still trying to orient herself. He could understand that. He was badly in need of a little orientation, too. Who in hell was she? Obviously not the simple bookseller his research had revealed. Among other things, Neely Rafferty was a psychic time traveler.

And that wasn’t the only psychic power she possessed. Not only had she transported herself, but she’d dragged him with her as if he were a marionette and she held the strings. No one had ever done that to him before, and he was going to find out just how she’d accomplished it.

When she began to wiggle beneath him and arousal shot through him, Max dispensed with his intimidation plan and scraped up the will to shift off of her.

“Who the hell are you?” They spoke the question in unison. Nearly. Max noted that she’d left off the “hell.”

“Get out of my bed,” she added. As an extra incentive, she pulled something out of her pocket. Max grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the pillow above her head. Then he placed one leg over both of hers to keep her still. The good news was she hadn’t shot him with whatever was in that small metal container. The bad news was their faces were close now—so close that their lips were almost brushing.

Time spun out. There was no other sound in the room but their steady breathing. Max knew he should move. He had to move. Once more his brain gave the command to his body, but sensations battered him so fiercely that he was trapped. There was the fast, hard beat of her pulse against his fingers. And there were her eyes. His gaze lingered on them and once again it wasn’t surrender he saw, but a raw desire that matched his own. He shifted his attention to her mouth. Her lips were moist, parted. Needs thundered through him, and it took every bit of self-restraint he possessed not to close the small distance and devour. It was what he wanted, what he’d wanted from the first time he’d seen her.

Questions whirled through his mind. He wasn’t sure whose they were—his, hers? Who are you? Where are you from? But the words they both spoke aloud were, “I want you.”

He felt the shudder move through her, then him. Then came the heat and he felt the last thin grasp he had on reason slip away. This time when their mouths joined, jolts of pleasure sparked through his system with the jagged, pulsing impact of an electric current. Later, he’d try to figure out who made that final move, but as her mouth heated beneath his and he once more sampled her honey-sweet flavor, he didn’t much care. Wasn’t this what he was sure they were headed for? Wasn’t this what he’d known he’d take from the first time he’d seen her picture?

More.

NEELY FELT as if she were drowning in sensations. She couldn’t think. She could only feel. His mouth was hard and hot, just as it had been before. As he used teeth and tongue to deepen the kiss, his taste, dark and male, pumped into her like a drug and only intensified the aching greed that threatened to consume her.

More.

As if sensing her wish, his body covered hers again. Heat arrowed through her, and her body arched. Though they were both fully clothed, she felt the sensation of skin rubbing against skin. And she felt the calluses on his palm as he pressed it against her breast. Then he ran that wonderfully rough hand down her body from breast to thigh. Once more she absorbed the contact as if she were naked, and she felt the heat of his wide hand on her leg like a brand. When he slipped two fingers between her legs and pressed them against her center, a jolt of pleasure shot through her. More.

He began to stroke her.

Gently. Too gently.

He increased both the pressure and the pace.

In some part of her brain, Neely sensed that he could read her mind. No, more than that, he was in her mind, registering each of her desires, and giving her just what she craved. She knew she was still fully clothed, and so was he, but she felt the moist heat of his tongue circling her nipple. And his thumb as it stroked down her fold, separating her. Then he slipped two fingers into her.

She felt the shock of the penetration and need slammed into her like a fist. She arched upward, straining for release, crying out when he withdrew his fingers. “Don’t stop.”

“This time I won’t.” He slipped between her legs. She felt his thighs spread hers apart. He thrust into her in one smooth stroke. She surrounded him, gripped him, absorbed him. The pressure was huge, and the pleasure teetered on the edge of pain. For one timeless moment neither of them moved.

Look at me.

In the warm light of the Tiffany lamp, she studied him through slitted eyes. His were dark and hot and totally focused on her. They were fused together. One. Neely tried not to move, wishing she could hang there on that delicious and dangerous edge forever. But her greed built outrageously. When they finally moved, it was in unison. Her first orgasm was violent, and she held on to him, digging her nails into his skin. The second one built slowly. She kept her eyes on his, knew some of what he was feeling, even as he stoked her own desire a little at a time. She held on, gripping him tightly to her—mind and body.

Come. She wasn’t sure which of them had said the word, or thought it, but he increased the speed of his thrusts. Harder. Faster. This time she took him with her into the madness.

MAX WASN’T SURE how long he’d lain there on top of her before some measure of sanity returned. When his mind cleared enough to hold on to a thought, it was a simple question. What in hell had he been thinking?

The answer was easy. Good thing, considering the state of his mind. He hadn’t been thinking. At least not about consequences. He’d stayed on the bed with her, knowing full well that he shouldn’t. Then he’d compounded the problem by kissing her. Not satisfied with that, he’d had some kind of mental intercourse with her. Those were the facts as he saw them. What he wasn’t sure of—and what annoyed the hell out of him—was whose idea the sex had been.

Oh, he’d been a more than willing partner, but it was clear to Max that Neely Rafferty had some kind of power over him. Not only couldn’t he control his body’s response to her, he couldn’t seem to keep her out of his mind. Raising his head, he glanced down at her and found her blinking up at him, her eyes as innocent as a newborn babe’s. Was it real or just an act?

“What exactly just happened?” she asked. “We both still have our clothes on, but I was sure we…”

“Had sex?”

She swallowed. “Did we?”

“Mentally, yes. Physically, no.” But he couldn’t help wondering if their physical union would be able to compete with the pleasure he’d just felt. He now had a very vivid idea of what it was like to be inside of her—to have that tight, wet sheath surrounding him, pulling at him. And he wanted to experience it again.

Good going, Max. He rolled off of her and sat up on the edge of the bed. It was huge, with four posts, covered with a quilt they hadn’t even mussed. Time to remember that he was a TGS security agent with a job to do.

“Do you do that often?” She sat up, too, and edged a little away from him.

He turned, met her eyes, trying to read her. “No. Never. You?”

“Have mental sex? I’ve never even heard of it. You were in my mind.” Her tone was growing accusatory.

“You were in my mind, too, sweetheart.”

She shook her head as if to clear it of him, and another little ripple of annoyance moved through him.

“You walked into my bookstore earlier today and you nearly kissed me then. In fact, I felt your mouth move on mine. I suppose you call that a mental kiss?” Pausing, she pointed a finger at him. “Don’t deny it.”

“You wanted me to really kiss you. And if I had, you wouldn’t have resisted.”

She lifted her chin. “Well, I didn’t make the move in that London alley.”

“You certainly cooperated. Fully.”

Heat flooded her cheeks, but she kept her eyes steady on his. “The point I’m trying to make is that I think my questions should be answered first. You know my name. You came into my bookstore. You’re the stranger. You were on my stoop, then in London with me.” She glanced down at the quilt. “And now this. I want to know who you are.”

He grabbed her hand, drew her up and urged her into a chair. “I think this conversation might go better if we’re not both in your bed.” He backed up and sat on a leather footstool.

Heat flared in her cheeks again. She was either as innocent as she appeared or she was a very accomplished actress.

“Don’t come into my mind again.”

“Same goes, sweetheart.”

For a moment, they sat there studying each other. Neely noted that he looked all business now. His mouth was grim, his eyes unreadable. It was the same way he’d looked when he’d walked into her shop. He reminded her a little of the cops she’d seen in TV shows.

“Why don’t you start by telling me your birth year,” he asked.

“What?”

“When were you born?”

She frowned at him. It was such an odd question. Unless…She blinked and studied him more closely. “I know that I look younger than I am, but if you’re worried about statutory rape or something like that, I’m twenty-five. I was born in 1983.”

“I’m not worried about rape charges. Technically, we didn’t do anything.”

In her opinion, they’d done a lot. She’d never experienced anything like it. Even worse, she wanted to do it again. And she didn’t even know this man. Obviously, he didn’t feel the same. The tightening around her heart had her lifting her chin.

“Who are you?” Again they spoke the question together. Then silence stretched between them.

Neely folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not going to say another thing until you tell me who you are. I’d like to see some ID.”

“Why don’t we start with what I already know about you. You’re a psychic time traveler. And I want to know your real birth year.”

Neely leaned forward in the chair. “A psychic time traveler? Then it is possible to do that? It wasn’t a dream? We were really in London in 1888?”

“We were in London, and from the condition of that woman’s body, I’d say we were in the late summer of the year 1888.”

“August 31, 1888, 11:00 p.m. That’s what I was visualizing. Wow.” She rose from the chair and began to pace. “I need a minute here.”

“Take all the time you need. Just tell me your birth year.”

“I already told you—1983.”

Max frowned. “That’s impossible.”

Neely turned to face him. “Look. I was born on May 1, 1983. The date’s on my driver’s license if you want to check it. They have my birth certificate on file down at city hall.”

His eyes narrowed. “If you’re not from the future, then how were you able to transport both of us to London and back?”

“I pictured where and when I wanted to go in my mind. I’ve always had these very vivid dreams about visiting places and events in the past, but it wasn’t until I began researching Jack the Ripper for one of my discussion groups, that I started having them more regularly. Lately, I’ve been trying to have the dreams on purpose and I’ve been working on directing them to an exact time. Like tonight. I wanted to go to the place where Jack the Ripper killed his first victim. And I did. Only I got there too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“I wanted to get there in time to warn Mary Ann Nichols. Or at least to stop the Ripper. I mean, I must have been given this power for a purpose. Maybe I’m meant to save the Ripper’s victims.”

Max simply stared at her. He’d known that Neely Rafferty was going to complicate his life and his job. He just hadn’t anticipated how much. “You can’t interfere in the past. It’s against the Prime Directive. If you disobey it, they’ll neutralize your gene.”

Now she was staring at him. Her face had been glowing when she’d been talking about her travels, but now all he could see was wariness and distrust in her eyes. He was blowing this, big-time.

“What Prime Directive? What gene?”

Max had a sinking feeling—a certainty—that everything she’d told him was the truth. “The Prime Directive strictly prohibits psychic time travelers from changing anything in the past. If you were really born in 1983, you’re an anomaly. There are no documented cases of anyone being able to travel through time in the twenty-first century.”

“Well, there must be something wrong with your documentation then. Because I’ll bet that my grandmother Cornelia Rafferty and my great-great-grandfather Angus Sheffield had the same power that I do. They both had the vivid dreams. The ability seems to run in my family, but it skips a generation. Neither of my parents was able to have the kind of dreams that my grandmother and I have had.”

Max considered. What she was describing about her ability agreed with what scientists knew in 2128. He’d ask Deirdre to look into her family background when he reported in. “Why the interest in the Ripper?”

Neely moved slowly to the back of her chair, her expression even more wary. “Don’t you read the newspapers?”

“Right,” he said. “The copycat—Jack the Second.” Shit, he thought. He had to get a handle on this. On her.

“I think it’s my turn to ask questions. What year were you born?”

For a moment there was silence in the room. Neely was trying to process everything he’d told her. He seemed to be quite familiar with psychic time travel. But she wasn’t so sure about the Prime Directive and his fixation on what year she was born. One possibility was that he was from the future. A little thrill moved through her at the thought. The only other option was that he was a homeless person—someone who’d been skipping his medications.