Out of Time Series Omnibus (Out of Time: A Paranormal Romance & When the Walls Fell)

by Martin, Monique

  Elizabeth giggled. “Hello.”

  Simon grunted and moved between the men and her, taking her arm and hurrying her past.

  “Isn’t this great?” she asked.

  Simon let go of her arm. “Charming.”

  He could be a spoilsport all he wanted to. She’d wanted to come to Mulberry Street since she was a little girl. A friend of her father’s, Tony Funnico, used to tell her stories about growing up there. Fun Tony, that’s what the other men called him, was always ready with a story. She’d spent many nights sitting with him, after he’d lost all he had to lose. As she looked at the young boys running down the street in their caps and knickers, she wondered if he might be one of them.

  They had a quick dinner, eaten standing on the sidewalk, of sausages and onions wrapped in flat bread. She really wanted a canoli for desert. Fun Tony said Mulberry Street had the best in the world. However, with their money so tight, a canoli was a luxury item they couldn’t afford. Later, when they had money, she’d come back and eat one of every kind.

  After dinner, on their way home, they zigged when they should have zagged and found themselves off the beaten path. The street was deserted and eerily quiet. Elizabeth hummed a Cole Porter tune she’d heard playing in a music store. It was a nervous habit she’d picked up from her father. She glanced over at Simon and could tell from the way his back was ramrod straight and his eyes were narrowed that he was tense.

  “We’ll find work soon,” she said. “I can feel it my bones.”

  “Your bones are very optimistic.”

  “Better happy bones than sulky bones.”

  “I prefer to think of them as realistic.”

  “All right, if it—” she started, and then stopped walking. She grabbed Simon’s arm. “Do you hear that?”

  The soft scrape of shoes being dragged along uneven pavement, a cry of pain muffled by pride, a sharp crack of something hard against something broken—the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. She’d heard them from behind closed doors before and knew the images that filled the keyhole. The sounds filtered down the street, seeming to come from an alley barely twenty feet ahead.

  Elizabeth started toward the sound. She heard more thumps and sobs of pain as she neared the darkened alley. She rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks.

  Chapter Seven

  Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. A man was on his knees holding a shaking, bloodied hand out before him. He was flanked by two large men. One casually toyed with a small blackjack, while the other leaned against the high fender of a large, expensive car. There must have been someone inside the car, because the leaning man stepped forward and lit a match, extending it inside the back seat window. Elizabeth saw a black, gloved hand steady the flame. The suffering man continued to moan, and Elizabeth was about to call out when she was yanked back around the corner.

  Simon’s eyes blazed down at her in the moonlight. She tried to struggle out of his grip, but he only held her more tightly. He pulled her away until they were pressed up against the brick of the corner building.

  “Let go,” she said.

  “Quiet,” Simon hissed. Once he seemed sure she wasn’t going to do anything rash, he peered around the corner. After only a few seconds, he pulled his head back.

  “He needs our help,” Elizabeth whispered.

  Simon gripped her arm again and pulled her back the way they’d come.

  “What are you doing?” she said as she tried to slip out of his iron grip.

  “Getting the hell out of here.” Once they were more than a block away, Simon let go of her arm and stared down at her angrily. “What in God’s name do you think you were doing?”

  “That man was being beaten,” she said. “We should have done something.”

  “Of all the idiotic—They had guns. What do you propose we should have done? Getting yourself killed wouldn’t have been much help now, would it?”

  Elizabeth quietly seethed. “I still think we could have done something.”

  Simon took her arm again and his eyes bore into her. “You must promise me you will never do that again.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” she said bitterly. She hated being a helpless bystander. One thing she’d learned in her life was that you took help when it was offered and gave it when it was needed.

  “Miss West...Elizabeth, please?”

  She was about to argue when she saw the look in his eyes. He was frightened. Not for himself, but for her. “I’m sorry. I...I just wanted to help.”

  “And we will. We’ll find a policeman and report it. It’s the best we can do.”

  Elizabeth didn’t say it wouldn’t be enough, Simon knew that as well as she did. They made their way back toward Mulberry Street, and told the first policeman they found what they’d seen.

  If his ruddy complexion and red hair weren’t enough, his accent pegged him as one of the many Irish immigrants who found their niche in the NYPD. She’d always thought it was a bad movie cliché, and yet, here he was.

  Officer O’Malley diligently scrawled the details in his small notebook, but his face paled when Elizabeth told him about the car.

  “A black and tan, ya say?”

  “Yeah, maybe a limousine. There were three rows of windows and a man sitting in the back. He was wearing black gloves. That’s all I could see.”

  The policeman’s face was a blank slate as he nodded and tucked his notebook back into his breast pocket. He absently brushed his cuff over his badge to polish it.

  “Aren’t you going to do something?” she asked. He didn’t seem in a hurry to do a damned thing.

  “Don’t worry, Miss. You folks go on home now.”

  “But—”

  Simon intervened. “Thank you officer. Good night,” he said and led her down the street.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The policeman recognized the description of the man in the car and judging from his reaction, it’s someone even the police won’t become involved with. We should follow his lead and stay out of it.”

  “But that’s crazy.”

  “The twenty-first century doesn’t have a monopoly on corruption,” he said. “Remember where we are. When we are. Prohibition, gangsters. This isn’t a romantic period; it’s a dangerous one.”

  She started to argue, but stopped. He was right. It was frustrating as hell, but he was right. Suddenly, she felt very tired.

  “It’s been a long day,” he said, his expression softening. “Let’s go back to the flat.”

  She nodded and they started back to the apartment.

  * * *

  Their room was stifling even at nearly midnight. Clouds hung over the city keeping the air thick and still. Without a breeze, their little apartment housed the heat like an unwanted relative who comes to visit and simply won’t leave.

  Simon took his place in the chair by the window while Elizabeth brushed her teeth and had a bath. He was happy for the respite. Not that she was bad company. Far from it, she was managing their predicament better than he was. He’d never considered having to provide for someone, and it seemed his first foray was a titanic failure. Where she’d met the day with unflagging enthusiasm, insisting the answer lay just around the next corner, he’d been dour and judgmental.

  The people were coarse and uneducated. The streets were crowded and dirty. The only thing that lay around the next corner was another problem. He shifted in his chair and tried to relax. He hadn’t slept well the night before, but at least the nightmares hadn’t come. Perhaps the danger to Elizabeth existed in the future and not here in the past. As tempting as that notion was, he refused to accept it. Their little night adventure was proof enough of that. He felt certain she was threatened. Not knowing how or when was the rub.

  They agreed to try their best to put the incident out of their minds. Their best wasn’t good enough, not for Simon. What took place in the alley was a reminder of what he’d feared since they first set foot here. He�
��d been a fool to let his guard down, even for a moment. And her reaction. Good Lord. She’d practically run headfirst into the mess. Where angels fear to tread indeed.

  Even though the day had been exhausting, he found he couldn’t quite sit still. He stood and looked out the window at the dark street below. The lamps glowed, but left only faded pools of light on the pavement. The fire escape was less than comforting. It was spindly thin and looked ready to give way under the slightest weight.

  “Oh, that felt good,” Elizabeth said as she emerged from the bath.

  She was wearing the pajama top. The shirt was long enough to fall mid-thigh. With the sleeves rolled up, she looked like she was wearing one of his oxford shirts. An image lifted from his dreams. Thick, damp tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks and curled about her shoulders. Her skin, pink from the heat of the bath, still glistened with droplets of water.

  The situation was difficult enough without her walking around the apartment looking like sex personified. She clearly had no idea of the effect she had on him. Her unassuming sensuality only drove him that much closer to madness.

  “A nice warm soak. Can’t recommend it enough,” she said.

  Or a cold one, he thought grimly.

  “Good idea,” Simon said and hurried into the bath. He closed the door and let out a long breath. The room smelled of the shampoo she’d used. He knew that scent would drift over to him in the night and carry him off to dream of things that shouldn’t be. He twisted the taps and concentrated on the rush of cold water. At least that would solve his body’s reaction; if there were only something for his heart.

  He really had to stop thinking like this. He wasn’t the sort of man to ogle a woman. He’d never been one to daydream. Now, his mind was in a constant state of drift; thoughts of Elizabeth always under the surface.

  Bath finished, he pulled on the pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, took a deep breath, and stepped back into the bedroom. It was empty. “Elizabeth?”

  His heart began to race as he searched the room. “Elizabeth!”

  “Out here,” she said and poked her head in through the window.

  Simon closed his eyes for a brief moment and collected himself. “What in God’s name are you doing out there?”

  “It’s much cooler. Come on out, there’s room.”

  “Come back inside,” he said.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “It’s not safe. Elizabeth...”

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I am actually,” she said, leaning one elbow on the windowsill. “Afraid of heights. Not really in the ‘oh, I’m gonna fall’ kind of way. More in the ‘oh, I sort of want to jump’ kind of way. Nutty, huh?”

  “Yes, now come inside.”

  “All right, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she said, putting a leg inside. Simon held her forearm and tried not to look at the smooth skin of her thigh as she clambered back into the room. “I’m in. Happy?”

  “Thank you,” he said. They stood awkwardly for a moment. Simon realized he was still holding onto her and quickly let go. Needing something, anything to purge himself of the image of her very shapely leg, he gave the fire escape a cursory inspection. “Rusted, shoddy construction. I should speak to the management about it.”

  He stayed looking out the window for a long moment, before summoning the courage to turn and face her again. The pause did him little good. She looked as charming as ever.

  “Perhaps we should go to sleep,” he suggested. “It has been a trying day.”

  “Not really tired anymore. Bath gave me a second wind.”

  “Did it?” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as anxious as he felt. He looked around the room, desperate for a distraction.

  “How about a game of cards?” she asked.

  “Since you insisted on wasting our money on them,” he said with a wry smile. “I suppose we should put them to use.” He gestured toward the table.

  She walked over to the bureau and picked up the pack. “A deck of cards is one of life’s necessities.”

  He wasn’t sure about that, but at least they were a safe diversion.

  She sat down opposite him and opened the deck. “So, blackjack or strip poker?”

  Simon nearly choked as libidinous images flashed through his mind. With the little she had on, it would only take a hand or two. He massaged his temple, trying to rub the thoughts away.

  Elizabeth laughed. “I’m only joking. You do know how to play cards, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I went to boarding school.”

  “Of course,” she said with a smile. Settling the cards in her hand, she shuffled them once, then again with a bit more flair. A waterfall shuffle and a skilled fan were followed by a few more difficult flourishes. He arched a questioning brow, surprised and impressed.

  She shrugged and performed another impressive flourish. “Daddy taught me well.”

  She cut the cards one-handed, but the top stack slipped. Her forehead wrinkled in a thoroughly endearing scowl. “Damn hands,” she muttered. She held them out, palms up and frowned at them. “Too small.”

  Simon had always secretly admired her hands. They were small, even for a woman her size, but he thought they suited her well. They were delicate, almost fragile, but there was strength there too. In his weaker moments, he’d wondered what it would be like to hold them.

  “Daddy said I could have been one hell of a gambler if it weren’t for them,” she said with a wistful smile. “But there’s one thing a card player never has. A small hand.”

  “Your father was a gambler?” Simon asked. She’d never offered much about her family.

  “Yup. Just not a very good one.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She smiled, but there was sadness behind her eyes.

  “Don’t be,” she said. “He was good at the important things.” She set the deck down on the table. “How about a little gin rummy?”

  Simon wanted to know more, but it was clear she’d put an end to the subject. “Gin it is.”

  A comfortable ease in companionship and gentle sparring made the hours slip by without notice, until, in the end, Elizabeth and fatigue finally won out.

  They removed their rings and set them on the nightstands. Smitty had warned them that the fake gold would turn their fingers green if they didn’t. The tension from earlier in the night returned, as they slid under the covers, each too aware of the other.

  Once Elizabeth was asleep, Simon rolled onto his side and saw the moonlight reflect off the fake gold of his wedding band. It was eerily familiar somehow. A ring caught in the moonlight. He closed his eyes and tried to place the memory, but each time he almost grasped it, it slipped away. The uneasy feeling lingered and carried him to a night of fitful sleep and taunting dreams.

  * * *

  The next day was spent much as the first, in a vain search for employment. Block after block they walked, hoping to see a help wanted sign in a window. They asked for leads at various stores, but very little was forthcoming. One job was going to be hard enough to find, but two was looking downright impossible. The late afternoon sun started to fall behind the taller buildings and sent long shadows stretching down the street.

  A man at the haberdashery had suggested they try closer to the Bowery, so they decided to take a short cut over to Canal Street and try their luck there. A group of children huddled in the middle of the street arguing. Barely visible among them was a small priest. His face was shiny with sweat, and he mopped his brow as he tried to settle the boys down.

  “Now, Jimmy,” he said with a delightful Irish lilt. “If your toe’s not touchin’ the base there’s not much chance you’re safe, now is there?”

  A pimple-faced boy scuffed his shoes on the pavement and pointed toward a dirty shirt on the ground. “But he yanked the bag away!”

  “Who’s the umpire here?”

  “You are,” the boys
chorused in what was obviously a trained response.

  “That’s right, I am. And what I say goes. And I say you should get back to playin’ ball before this old priest melts in the sun.”

  The boys reluctantly agreed and went back to their positions in the street.

  “And you were out by a mile, Jimmy,” the priest added with a wink.

  Elizabeth and Simon stood on the sidewalk with the priest as the stickball game resumed. It was nice to watch something so normal, so human regardless of the time. She caught the priest’s eye and he bowed his head in greeting. He looked like he’d fallen off a charm bracelet. No more than five foot two and with hair that swooped back from his forehead in gray waves, he was Barry Fitzgerald incarnate.

  “They’re a lively bunch, but they keep me young. Name’s Father Cavanaugh,” he said extending his hand for a shake. “I don’t think I’ve seen you two around before. New in town?”

  Elizabeth grinned. “Does it show?”

  His bright, pale blue eyes crinkled at the edges. “A little.”

  “My name’s Elizabeth and this is Simon, my husband,” she added quickly.

  “Father,” Simon said and took the priest’s hand.

  “I don’t suppose you know of any jobs available in the neighborhood?” Elizabeth asked.

  The father tugged on his ear in thought. “Not off the bat, no. But I’ll be sure to ask around. I’m over at St. Patrick’s,” he said. “If you need a little hand.”

  “Thank you, Father. That’s very kind of you.”

  “You’re very welcome,” he said, before his attention was pulled back to the game. “Now, Vincent, none of that! We play a clean game or we don’t play at all.” He walked out into the street and was once again lost in the crowd of children.

  “We still have time for a few more blocks before it gets dark,” Simon said.

  “Right. Once more unto the breach.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth wiped a bead of perspiration from her forehead and sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”