Dear Readers,
What would you do if you could travel back in time?
In Chuck Della Croce’s case, as the man who developed the theories and created the means for time travel, the answer was clear—go back just a few years in time and convince his earlier self not to develop time travel!
After a rogue organization uses his discovery as a weapon to change the past and control the government, and after Maggie Stanton, a former girlfriend of Chuck’s, is killed in the cover-up, Chuck attempts to do just that.
But he slightly overshoots his target date, and ends up knocking on Maggie’s door before they originally first met. He knows this woman extremely well, but to Maggie, he’s a complete stranger.
Time Enough for Love was a fun story to write. It allowed me (a card-carrying trekkie!) to blend romance with science fiction, and show how love can transcend the boundaries of space and time.
It was also tremendously fun to write a book with a love triangle between Maggie and two different versions of Chuck—one from the present day and one from the future!
I’m delighted that Bantam has reissued Time Enough for Love, one of my favorites of all of my earlier books.
Happy Reading,
Suz
BY SUZANNE BROCKMANN
THE TROUBLESHOOTERS SERIES
The Unsung Hero
The Defiant Hero
Over the Edge
Out of Control
Into the Night
Gone Too Far
Flashpoint
Hot Target
Breaking Point
Into the Storm
Force of Nature
All Through the Night
Into the Fire
Dark of Night
Hot Pursuit
SUNRISE KEY SERIES
Kiss and Tell
The Kissing Game
Otherwise Engaged
AND DON’T MISS …
Heartthrob
Bodyguard
Forbidden
Freedom’s Price
Body Language
Stand-in Groom
Time Enough for Love
Infamous
For my Gram & Gramps,
Fred and Tilly Brockmann,
on their 68th wedding anniversary,
with all my love
Contents
Cover
Letter to Readers
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from Infamous
Copyright
ONE
THERE WAS A naked man pounding on Maggie Winthrop’s back door.
She did a double take as she looked out her kitchen window and realized that he was covered with dirt, as if he’d been crawling around in her garden. Dirt and … could that possibly be blood? Streaks of something that looked like blood were on his shoulder and arm. He was wild-eyed, with dark, shaggy hair that exploded around his face, looking as if he’d just been ejected from a wind tunnel.
And yes, he was definitely, undeniably naked.
Somehow he knew her name. “Maggie!” he shouted, hammering on the door. “Mags, let me in!”
It was locked, thank God, and Maggie ran to be sure the front door was locked as well.
She had her cordless phone in her hand, ready to call the police when he called out again.
“Maggie! God, please be home!” There was such anguish in the man’s voice. Anguish and something that stopped her from dialing the phone. Something oddly familiar.
Maggie took the stairs to the second floor of her house two at a time. She set the phone down on the vanity of the sink as she used both hands to open the bathroom window and push up the screen.
The man heard the noise, and he stopped pounding on the door. He looked up at her expectantly as she peered down at him.
“Maggie.” There was such relief in the way he said her name. But despite the strange flash of familiarity that she felt once again, she didn’t recognize him. The naked man was a total stranger.
Maggie definitely would have remembered meeting a man like this one before—even with his clothes on.
He was tall and almost sinfully well built, all hard muscles and not an extra ounce of fat on him anywhere. And in his current state of undress, she had an extremely accurate view of all of his anywheres. He had extremely broad shoulders and powerful-looking arms. He had one of those sexy washboard stomachs leading down into narrow hips, a perfect butt, and lean, long legs.
He had thick dark brown hair that he now ran his fingers through, taming it somewhat as he pushed it back from his face. He had dark hair on his chest and other places as well.
Maggie hurriedly brought her gaze back up to his face. His nose was gracefully shaped with almost elegant nostrils. His cheekbones were prominent, too, as was the firm set of his jaw and chin. He had a scar on his cheekbone, underneath his left eye, making him look faintly dangerous. But it was his dark brown eyes that held her attention. They seemed to burn her with their intensity and fire.
Without question, he was the most gorgeous naked madman she’d ever come face-to-face with. Not that she’d come face-to-face with many madmen, clothed or otherwise, in her life.
“It’s me,” he told her, holding out his arms as if that would make her recognize him. “Chuck.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But … I don’t know you.”
He stared at her, confusion in his eyes. “You don’t?”
“Maybe you have the wrong house,” she suggested hopefully.
The man shook his head. “No. Maybe I have the wrong—” He interrupted himself. “What’s the date?”
“Thursday, November twentieth.”
“No, the year. What’s the year?”
She told him.
He swore sharply, clearly upset, and Maggie reached behind her for the telephone, ready to dial 911 at the least little eruption of violence.
“The damned prototype overshot my mark by three years,” he muttered, talking more to himself than to her as he paced back and forth on her patio. His words didn’t make sense, but he was insane. His words weren’t supposed to make sense. “Okay. Okay. So here I am. Better early than late.”
As Maggie watched he took a deep breath and seemed to pull himself together then looked up at her again.
“I’m Chuck Della Croce,” he introduced himself. “And you don’t know me, and … I’m naked.” There was a flash of chagrin in his eyes, as well as something that might have been amusement. “God, talk about making a good first impression.”
“Is there someone you want me to call to come and get you?” Maggie asked, trying to remember what she knew about insanity. Was she supposed to back slowly away, speak softly, and keep from looking directly into his eyes? Or was that what she was supposed to do if she encountered a wild animal? Something about this man was wild, that much was for sure.
The man shook his head, again trying to tame his hair, combing it back with his fingers. “No, I’m right where I want to be.” He snorted. “Give or take three years.” He took another deep breath. “I could sure use a pair of pants, though.” He seemed to notice the gash on his shoulder for the first time, along with the dirt that covered him, and he swore again, softly this time. “And maybe the use of your g
arden hose to wash up?”
Maggie hesitated.
“Please?” he added, gazing up at her.
What was it about him …?
“I don’t think I have any pants that will fit you,” she told him. “But I’ll look. And yes. Use the hose. It’s in the—”
“I know where the hose is, Mags.” Sure enough, he seemed to know that the hose and the spigot it was attached to was inside the little garden shed built onto the side of her house.
Maggie felt a chill run up her spine. How did he know that the hose was there instead of outside, the way it was for most houses? And how did he know her name?
Mail. He could have checked her mail. Or looked in the phone book. There were a zillion ways he could have learned her name. And she’d used the hose to water her fig tree just the night before, after the searing southwestern sun had set. He could have been watching. He might well have been watching for days.
The thought was a creepy one, and she shivered again as she shut and locked the window. Why was she doing this? She should just call the police and have this man removed from her yard. There was surely some Phoenix city ordinance that prohibited people from walking around naked in other people’s yards.
She carried the phone with her as she went into the guest bedroom and opened the closet door. The small space was jammed with boxes of Christmas ornaments and Halloween decorations and a rack of clothing that she couldn’t bring herself to throw out. But there was nothing inside that would fit a tall, solidly built man.
Maggie had a muscle or two herself from taking long bike rides around the city, but at five feet two, she was seriously height-challenged. She bought her clothes from the petite rack at the store. No, nothing she owned would even begin to cover the handsome, naked, extremely tall madman in her backyard.
Her bathrobe. That might at least cover him. Of course, it was pink with little flowers on the lapels. A friend had bought it for her, as a kind of a joke. Maggie was not and never had been the pink-with-little-flowers type. She would be embarrassed even to show it to him.
Still, it was the only thing she had that would fit him.
And hey. He was crazy. Maybe he’d like it.
Unless …
Maggie quickly pulled one of the boxes down from the shelf. It was the wrong box, but there were only two others marked CHRISTMAS, so she knew she didn’t have far to search.
She found what she was looking for in the second box she took from the closet.
A Santa Claus suit. Huge red pants with a drawstring waist and a red jacket with fluffy white trim and a black plastic belt sewn directly onto it.
It was big enough, that was for sure.
She carried it back to the bathroom window. Out in the yard, Chuck What’s-his-name had somehow hooked the hose to the old clothesline. He’d also managed to make the water come out in a spray. He stood underneath it, as if it were a shower, water streaming onto his head and down his face. The water made his muscles glisten and shine.
Maggie felt like some kind of voyeur, watching him like that. She was grateful her yard was enclosed by solid wooden fencing and that none of her immediate neighbors in this little Phoenix development had more than a single-story house. No one could see the naked man taking a shower in her backyard.
Except for her.
He opened his eyes and looked directly up at her—catching her staring at him.
Quickly, she turned away from the window, rummaging through her linen closet for one of her older towels. She found one that was worn and tossed it down, directly onto the center of the sun-blistered picnic table on her patio. She tossed the Santa suit down too.
“Thanks.” He grabbed the towel as he moved to shut off the water.
Maggie tried not to watch him as he dried himself, but it proved impossible. She had to move away from the window and gaze up at the bathroom ceiling to keep herself from staring.
What was it about this guy? she found herself wondering again. The man was matter-of-factly casual about his nakedness, but so would she be, if she were as physically fit as he was.
“Hey, Maggie?”
She peeked out the window, relieved to see that he had pulled on the bright red pants and tied the drawstring around his waist. They were baggy and much too short, but at least they covered him.
He was holding the Santa jacket up, looking at it with barely concealed horror.
“Don’t you have a T-shirt I can borrow?” he asked her. “I’m going to roast if I have to put this on.”
Actually, she had a number of oversized T-shirts that she wore to bed as nightshirts. “Hang on,” she told him, and carefully closing and locking the window, she went into her bedroom. She grabbed one of her T-shirts from her drawer. On second thought, she took a comb from the top of her dresser as well.
He was sitting on the edge of the picnic table, drumming the fingers of both hands on the rough wood, waiting for her when she returned to the bathroom window. She tossed down the T-shirt and comb, and again, he thanked her politely.
He was clean now, and while the lack of dirt and blood made him look slightly less certifiable, the Santa pants took him well in the opposite direction.
But as he ran the comb through his dark hair, he looked up at her again and his eyes were clear and sharp. “Will you take a walk over to the park with me?” he asked. “I’d like to talk to you about—”
“I’m sorry,” she cut him off. “I have to get back to work.”
He saw right through her excuse. “We could go somewhere less deserted,” he suggested. “That restaurant around the corner—you know, the place you like to go for Mexican food.”
“Tia’s?”
“Is that what it’s called? The place that makes that killer black-bean soup?”
How did he know black-bean soup was her favorite? This was getting downright weird. “That’s Tia’s. But you’ll never get in without shoes on.”
“I’ll improvise.”
Still, Maggie shook her head. “I’m sorry, I really can’t—”
“Look, you don’t have to walk over there with me. I’ll go first. You can meet me there in twenty minutes. In the bar. In public. I won’t get near you. No tricks, I swear.”
“Why do you need to talk to me so badly? And how do you know my name?”
Chuck Della Croce gazed up at her silently for a moment. Then he dropped his bomb.
“I’m from the future,” he told her almost flatly, matter-of-factly. “And in the future, we’re friends. I’m a time traveler, Mags, and I need your help to save the world.”
· · ·
Chuck watched as Maggie took a fortifying sip of her beer.
“Okay,” she said. “All right.” She pressed her palms flat against the table in the bar in Tia’s restaurant, as if needing to feel the solidness of the wood beneath her hands. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. I’m supposed to believe that you’re some kind of a rocket-scientist genius type who’s invented a time machine. Despite the fact that you look like some crazy, homeless guy wearing Santa pants, a Phoenix Film Marathon T-shirt, and ugly cardboard shoes.”
Chuck glanced down at the cardboard and string sandals he’d made. He didn’t think they were that bad—considering the choice of materials he’d had to work with.
“I’m supposed to believe that you’ve zipped back here in your little Runaround time-travel pod—”
“Runabout,” he corrected her.
“—from seven years in the future, where you and I just happen to be friends.”
She didn’t believe him. Why should she believe him? Time travel. It seemed so science fiction. She was gazing at him with such cynical disbelief in her eyes, he couldn’t help but smile.
He smiled as he hid his trembling hands, as he fought to keep these waves of emotion from overpowering him.
God, three hours ago, he hadn’t thought he’d ever smile again. Three hours ago, the woman sitting across the table from him had bled to death in his arms. Three hours
ago, she’d used her own body as a shield, taking bullets meant to kill him. Three hours ago, he’d escaped through the ventilation system in the Data Tech building, running for his life.
The pungent odor of gunpowder and blood still lingered in his nostrils despite the shower he’d taken underneath Maggie’s garden hose. Boyd was dead. Maggie had seen Chuck’s best friend and security chief take a bullet in the back of the head. She’d told him about it before she, too, had died. He was still shaking from all that he’d been through, all that he’d seen. Destruction of his lab. Death on a massive, global scale in the form of a bomb taking out the White House, and with it, the President of the United States. And death on a smaller, far more personal level too.
Chuck gazed at Maggie, shifting slightly in his seat, trying to rid himself of the disturbing memories of death on an extremely personal level. He took a deep breath.
None of that had happened yet. And he was here to make damn sure it wouldn’t happen again. This time around was going to be different. He’d never tried to tamper with time before, not to this degree. He had no idea how easy or hard it was going to be. But easy or hard, it didn’t matter. He was determined to set things right and keep innocent people from dying.
But for right now, all he wanted to do was gaze into Maggie’s light brown eyes. He didn’t care that they were filled with skepticism. He didn’t care that one graceful eyebrow was lifted in disbelief. He’d expected as much from her. She was so straightforward, so honest and down-to-earth, he would have been surprised had she believed him without an argument.
Chuck was ready to argue with her all night, if she wanted. He didn’t care. He just wanted to look at her. She was just so beautifully alive.
His hand was shaking as he picked up his mug of coffee, so he set it back on the table without taking a sip. He wanted to touch her hand, or the soft smoothness of her cheek, but he didn’t dare.
She thought he was nuts.
“So if what you’re saying is true, there’s some kind of time machine—this Runabout thing—sitting in my backyard?”
Chuck shifted in his seat. “Actually, no—”
“No.”
The look in her eyes made him want to laugh, but he was afraid if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
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