Better not to fuck with your own past at all. Your past is someone else’s future.
Only you will, despite my warning, because you are reading this manual, and because you will not resist the lure of sentimentality.
Time And A Wiggle Dress
Whitewitch Falls Vacation Resort, Adirondack Mountains, Upper New York. August 1958.
Ma’am? Mrs. Gallagher?”
Taylor wanted to shake her head, to help orient herself. Caution kept her still. She had to presume Mrs. Gallagher was her. She must behave as if she hadn’t dropped into the middle of this situation from another time only two seconds ago.
She turned her head, instead of shaking it, to glance where the question had come from. A clean-cut man in his twenties, with screamingly short and slicked back hair, stood beside her with a martini glass on a tray. “Your Manhattan, Mrs. Gallagher,” he said, lifting the glass from the tray. He wore a white jacket and black cummerbund.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Taylor said.
A merry laugh sounded beside her. “She’s too busy watching the hunters to notice!”
More feminine laughter joined the first.
Taylor took a sip of the Manhattan, giving herself a precious five seconds to sort out where she was and why.
It was a huge room. That was the first impression. The roof was a long way up, supported by massive dark logs wider than her hips. The walls were smoothed and finished properly. Louvered windows lined two walls and all the louvers were open. It was warm in the room, despite the high roof. And it was noisy.
Dozens of round tables spread with white tablecloths hugged the two windowless walls of the big room. Taylor sat at a table with four other women. The four were all smoking a cigarette, with a drink in their other hand. Between each woman was an empty chair.
In front of each place were gleaming white china plates bearing the remains of a meal. Also, coffee cups and drinks in various types of glasses, including saucer bowl champagne glasses, martini glasses and more.
And there were ashtrays.
One of the women held her cigarette in a long ivory cigarette holder. Her hair was curled and piled on her head. Her raw silk dress’ wide collar stretched from one shoulder to the other, revealing the flesh of her shoulders.
A band played music in the corner—and it wasn’t a rock band. There were no guitars and the drum kit had a single snare drum, a bass, cymbals and that was all. There were four trumpet players and the rhythm of the quiet tune was steady and moderate.
Foxtrot, Taylor identified, although she didn’t know why she was so sure.
Now she remembered where she was and why she was here. This was Whitewitch Falls, somewhere in the 50s. Veris and she had jumped here to speak to Peter Tremaine, a member of the Blood. It was their project to document and track vampires across history because…
Because Brody had left them. Yes, she remembered now.
Sadness touched her. Brody was gone and she and Veris had found a way to move on. It was an artificial prop, but it was working. They were keeping busy and they were doing it together.
There were many couples on the open and large dance floor, between the tables and the walls with the open windows. They moved sedately to the music and Taylor studied them, fascinated by the clothes—especially the women’s’ clothes. They were nearly all full dresses with nipped-in waists and skirts which came down to just past the knee. Stiff petticoats held the skirts out. Only one or two of the women wore sheath dresses and no petticoats, and they were younger women.
The men wore full suits or tuxedos with generous shoulders, ties or bow ties, and the waistband of their trousers sat up high on their waists. Some of them wore cummerbunds similar to the waiters scurrying around the tables.
Dinner and dance night at the Whitewitch Falls Resort.
Veris had come here in 1958 to… Taylor frowned and sipped her drink once more. Veris had hedged around the reason why he had come here originally, when he had proposed they jump back to speak to Peter. “It’s a time when Brody wasn’t with me and the first time I saw Peter since the Reformation. We could go back to merry old England, only there’s no plague in the 1950s, so I vote we go there, instead.” Veris had shaken his head. “Although even 1958 wasn’t without its drama.”
They had jumped here, instead of eighteenth-century England. Clearly, they had arrived safely and for some bizarre reason, Taylor was Mrs. Gallagher here. One of Time’s little cosmic jokes.
“Oh, look. There’s that Shiraz woman!” a woman at the table said. “She’s going over to speak to them.”
The women at Taylor’s table openly stared at another table on the other side of the bandstand. She turned to spot the woman and squeezed the stem of her glass when she saw the table which was the object of everyone’s attention was Veris’.
Only one other man sat at the table with Veris, although the other places held finished meals, which waiters were busy clearing. The other man’s head was at the same level as Veris’. The man had dirty blonde hair and a square jaw. His high brow made him appear intelligent. He scanned the dancers with sharp interest.
Peter Tremaine, Taylor presumed.
As Peter scanned, Veris spoke in a low voice. Peter nodded. Veris was easing him into a conversation about times past and other vampires he had known—the point of their jump back here.
Then Taylor saw “that Shiraz woman”. She approached the table with a luscious, heated smile on her perfect lips.
The Shiraz woman was an Eastern goddess in appearance. Black hair, honeyed skin, black sultry eyes and a voluptuous figure which would send most men into a tailspin. She wore a sheath dress which glowed like silk, with beads shimmering over it as she sashayed to Veris’ table. Her necklace and earrings and bracelet all matched—glittering jewels which were most likely the real thing, and worth a small fortune.
She wore a fur stole around her shoulders—sort-of around her shoulders, at least. She had let it fall so it hung from both elbows, allowing the backless and wide shoulders of her dress to show off her gleaming flesh. Her hips wriggled as she walked…and she watched Veris steadily as she stalked to the table.
Veris watched the woman approach with a small smile of his own.
Taylor’s heart slammed and bruised itself against her chest. She was human here. She was vulnerable to the physical impact of her emotions. Awareness did not diminish the sickness which spread through her as the Shiraz woman cocked her hip, put her hand on it. The woman stood before Veris and Peter with one foot perfectly turned out to show off her knees.
“Bitch…” a woman at Taylor’s table whispered. “She will ruin it for any of us.”
“Not that Barbara cares.”
Taylor dragged her attention back to her own table, to fathom what the women meant. Barbara, Taylor presumed, sat with a cat-who-got-the-cream expression on her carefully made-up and powdered face. She inspected her long, lacquered fingernails, with a small smile.
Taylor guessed Barbara had enjoyed a liaison with Peter. Veris had been frank about Peter’s enjoyment of sex and his voracious appetites. Peter had the good looks and arresting presence which would make many women pause. Just as the Shiraz woman was.
And apparently, just as Barbara had done.
Taylor’s smile evaporated when she remembered the women had said “hunters”.
Plural.
Her heart gave a sickening jolt. Horror spilled through her. “Was Peter pleasant company?” Taylor made herself say to Barbara, with a light, unconcerned and mildly interested tone.
“Vaughn, you mean,” Barbara said, with a sniff.
Vaughn.
Taylor squeezed a ball of the linen tablecloth in her hand, beneath the top, where no one could see it.
“Dr. Gardener is very pleasant company,” Barbara added.
Dr. Vaughn Gardener. Veris’ Americanized identity, for times when anyone not white, Western and Christian were treated with suspicion.
Taylor fought to breathe evenly, to
not show any hint of the tumultuous pain tearing through her, as the Shiraz woman sat on the chair which Veris pulled out for her and leaned forward while Veris lit her cigarette.
The woman sitting on the second chair to Taylor’s right touched her wrist. “Taylor, dear. Here comes your husband.” She nodded her head and shifted her gaze to the other side of the dance floor.
Confusion gripped Taylor. Hope flared, too. If she was Mrs. Gallagher…
Taylor swiveled to face where the other woman had pointed with her chin and her eyes. There were many people threading their way around the edge of the dance floor, heading for the big doors on the other side. Beyond them, Taylor could see night sky and the soft glow of paper lanterns.
Taylor scanned them all, looking for Brody.
It was Rafe heading for their table.
Rafael.
Taylor just barely hid her gasp of shock. She sat motionless as Rafe walked right up to her side and held out his hand. “A dance, my dear. I’ve left you alone for too long.”
Taylor couldn’t form words, neither in her mind, nor with her lips. Nothing came.
Rafe bent a little and picked up her hand from her lap and tugged her to her feet.
Taylor let him pull her out onto the dance floor. For the first time she became conscious of what she was wearing. It was a sheath dress, rather than one of the pretty, full-skirted dresses the other women wore. It was white with big black polka dots. Corsetry or a girdle held everything in place and pulled in her waist, too. The hem flared for the last two inches, just enough so it flipped and flared around her knees as she walked.
Her hair wasn’t piled on her head, nor was it hanging down her back. Taylor pushed her hand up against her temple and felt short, cropped waves and curls.
Rafe pulled her into his arms and led her in simple steps around the floor. His eyes met hers. “I’m not wearing a red shirt.”
Taylor drew in a breath which shook. “Then you’ll live long and prosper…god, Rafe, what are you doing here?”
“Apparently, being your husband in this time and place. You don’t remember—you can’t remember, not until you jump back to your subjective time and place, but this is the second time you’ve been here.”
Taylor tripped, her surprise making her clumsy. Rafe kept her on her feet and turned her in a neat spin which made them both appear elegant and graceful.
Taylor gripped his jacket. “Second time, Rafe? Are you…are you trying to change something?”
He shook his head. “No details. Not now. Except to say I am from your future.”
Taylor pressed her lips together. “You know what will happen. That is why you are here.”
“In a way. I am also here to warn you. You must keep your head, Taylor. This time and place…it is far more complicated than you or Veris thought it would be. You are both responding to forces you don’t understand, which will doom you. I am here to put you back on the right path.”
Taylor sighed. “I don’t understand, of course. What must I do?”
“Behave as naturally and properly as a married woman of this day and age would. You must forget that Veris is known to you. He is just one of the Romeos who prey on lonely wives at these types of resorts, while their husbands drink and play cards and fish.”
Taylor breathed hard. They were facing the wrong way and were on the wrong side of the room for her to see Veris’ table. Yet she knew the Shiraz woman would still be there, flirting with an outrageously heavy hand.
Rafe touched her chin, bringing her attention back to him. His eyes were grave. “Veris didn’t know you, in this time. You weren’t even born. You would judge him by your personal time standards, anyway?”
Taylor shook her head miserably. “I know he wasn’t a saint, Rafe. It’s just…”
“It’s hard to watch,” Rafe said gently, in agreement. “It’s your Veris in the older Veris’ body, and he must play the part just as you must.”
“Yes.” She sighed again.
The music ended and the band immediately began another, something Latin and shimmery.
Rafe smiled. “Although…there’s no harm in reminding Veris he’s only supposed to pretend.”
Taylor’s heart pattered. “What does that mean?”
Rafe pushed at her hip, spinning her around, then guiding her back into his arms. “Let me show you.”
Most of the dance floor emptied, leaving younger couples. Some of the older people settling back at the table wore disapproving expressions.
“What is this dance, anyway?” Taylor asked.
Rafe settled his hand on her hip and walked her backward in a slow, sensual way which made her think of the way the Shiraz woman had stalked Veris’ table. “Rhumba,” he breathed. “A shocking dance, which the older folk think outrageous.”
“Wait until they see a mosh pit,” Taylor said, recalling the topless women and jumping, stoned drinkers who had stomped and writhed at Brody’s concerts.
“Shh. Concentrate. Watch me.”
“When did you learn to—” She swallowed the rest of her question as Rafe turned her in a tight spin which sent her out three steps, then pulled on her hand and brought her up against him.
Hard.
Taylor caught her breath. Held this way, all she could see was Rafe’s eyes. Heat flickered there. Promise.
She shivered as they separated and danced again. Taylor followed Rafe, falling into the beat and pulse of the dance with a sensation similar to being drunk. All thoughts fell away, as she responded to the outrageous sensuality of the dance…and the heat emanating from Rafe.
Taylor had never noticed this smoldering quality in him before. Of course, he was Iberian, the origins of the Latin race, and had the same passionate temperament. Until this moment, though, she had forgotten that about him.
Nor had she realized how much taller than her Rafe really was. He was the shortest man in the family—even Aran had grown taller than Rafe, now. Only, Rafe was not short at all.
He had all of a vampire’s speed and strength and agility, yet his grace was his own.
The dance ended with them mashed together once more. Taylor couldn’t catch her breath. Nor could she tear her gaze away from Rafe’s eyes. He seemed to be looking into her mind and seeing possibilities even she wasn’t aware of.
“Rafe…” she breathed.
He put her back on her feet. Gently. “I think that got his attention,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. He put her hand on his elbow and walked her back to the table. The other four woman were all watching them, with the same open, hungry expressions they had been wearing while watching Veris’ table.
“I don’t think it was just Veris’ attention you got,” Taylor murmured.
“Good thing I’m married,” Rafe said, his tone light. “They look ravenous.”
Taylor smothered her laugh, as her heart settled down into a slower pace.
Rafe handed her into her chair, as other men were doing around the table. “I left a high stakes game with fifty dollars on the table. I promised I would go back and finish it.” He nodded to Taylor, in a way which was almost a bow of the head and walked away.
Someone at the table—Barbara, Taylor suspected, although she didn’t check to confirm—gave a soft sigh.
Taylor reached for her unfinished Manhattan and sipped, as a slow waltz began and the dance floor filled with dancers. She lost sight of the tables on the other side of the room. Her heart did another little jump when she saw Veris walking around the edges of the dance floor.
He was heading in her direction, his gaze steady, his blue eyes glittering with suppressed emotion.
Taylor took in his height and the width of his shoulders. Under the exaggerated padded shoulders of the black tuxedo, they seemed massive. She was not the only woman watching his progress around the dance floor with an appreciative expression.
For a heated moment which made her breath come more quickly, Taylor allowed herself the indulgence of pride. Veris was hers.
/> Then she remembered that Rafael was her husband in this time and place.
Veris stood over her chair. “Mrs. Gallagher, I believe?” His voice was tight with control. He was angry. It explained the intense light in his eyes.
“Dr. Gardener,” she replied, keeping her tone cool and reserved.
Veris’ smile was small. “You know who I am, then. Good.”
“Do you know my husband, Dr. Gardener?”
“My friend, Peter, does.” Veris held out his hand. “I’d much rather know you. Shall we?”
Taylor considered refusing him, although in this here and now, dancing with men who had not been formerly introduced was not an impropriety, the way it had been a hundred years before. She put her hand in his.
Heat. Strength.
The impact from his touch sent a jolt up her arm and spiked her heart. Taylor hid her reaction, reminding herself that Dr. Vaughn Gardener was a stranger to her.
Veris helped her rise to her feet with a small tug on her hand. He pulled her out into the middle of the dance floor, skirting around whirling couples with ease. He settled his hand on her waist, and she could feel the heat through the silk and the supporting layers beneath.
“I’m not wearing a red shirt,” she murmured, as Veris turned her into the first large circle of the dance.
“Of course you bloody aren’t,” he said, his voice just as quiet. “You weren’t here the first time around.”
Oh, the anger in his voice!
Taylor looked into his eyes. “Are you human, now, Veris? Your body is human hot.”
The emotion in his eyes grew more intense. “Yes, I’m heated! The dress you’re wearing…” He swallowed. “And what the fuck is Rafael doing here? Peter warned me your husband was a Latin American with a temper and then you put on that…that…display.” His voice was tight and hard, the fury deeply hidden. More than fury glowed there. Now she understood why Veris was hot to her touch. His human autonomic responses had overridden the control he usually kept over his heart beat. His heart was working at human levels.
More Time Kissed Moments Page 8
