“Of course not,” she continued. “Come on, tell me why it’s not still there, and make it a really good one.”
“I had to program the return jump in my lab, before I left, and since I knew this was going to be a one-way trip, I set it up to self-destruct,” Chuck told her. “See, there’s a long recharging delay between jumps. If the mechanism is engaged too soon, the device malfunctions, and the Runabout is destroyed.”
“Of course,” she said. “I should have known.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It sounds like anything but. I mean, really, Chuck. You’ve traveled back in time because some evil government agents from some ridiculous-sounding organization—”
“Wizard-9,” he supplied.
“Yeah. Right. These guys from Wizard-whatever got their nefarious hands on your time machine and managed to plant some kind of bomb in the White House that killed the president and his entire staff, including the Speaker of the House, in order to trigger a political coup.” When she said it that way, it sounded like the bad plot of a comic book.
“The coup is just my theory. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out if I was right.”
“So you’ve come back in time to stop yourself from developing time travel, in order to prevent this assassination. Have I left anything out?”
“That’s about it in a nutshell,” he told her.
“Why not just go back in time and warn the people at the White House about the bomb? Why stop the entire project before it even starts?”
He answered her gravely, as if her question were serious. “I figured if I did only that, the door through time would still be left open. This way, the problem of unauthorized time tampering is solved once and for all.”
Chuck had actually considered going back to his childhood, back before the time when the idea of time travel first flashed into his head. But he couldn’t be sure that a change made that far in his past would be enough to alter his entire future. He knew he had only one shot, and he had to be damn well certain it would work.
Maggie sat back in her chair. “Meanwhile, while all this was happening in Metropolis, Superman couldn’t do anything to stop the evil Wizard-9 agents, because he had been struck down by a bullet made of kryptonite.”
Chuck had to laugh. “I’d almost forgotten how sarcastically funny you used to be.”
“What, I’m not as funny seven years from now?”
He couldn’t quite meet her gaze, unwilling to tell her the truth. He realized he was nervously drumming his fingers on the table and he forced himself to stop, to sit calmly, without moving.
She leaned forward. “Come on, Futureman. What am I like seven years from now? Does my freelance-writing business finally earn enough to pay my mortgage? Do I move into one of those big houses on Camelback Mountain? Do I have any kids? A rich, handsome husband? No, wait a sec. Don’t tell me. You’re my husband, right?”
“Wrong.” He looked across the table at her. She was incredibly pretty, but she didn’t know it. She’d probably never know it.
Her hair was brown and from a distance it seemed to be nothing special. It was only up close that one could see that it hung in shining waves around her face, long and thick and glistening. Her eyes, too, were an average shade of brown, but they sparkled and danced when she smiled and laughed. Her face was long, with a delicate cleft in her chin, her jaw strong and almost square. Her nose turned up very slightly at the end.
She was gorgeous in a girl-next-door kind of way, with a brilliant smile that could light up the darkest night.
She was funny and smart and sweet. And incredibly sexy.
He’d been wildly attracted to her from the very moment he’d first set eyes on her—seven years ago, his time. And she’d been attracted to him. It had happened this time around, too, despite the fact that she doubted his sanity. He could feel the familiar sexual pull, even now, each time she looked into his eyes.
If history was going to repeat itself, she would learn to hide that attraction from him, letting him see only friendly warmth in her eyes. But he was here to make sure that history didn’t repeat itself.
“Two years from now you’ll marry a man named Albert Ford,” he finally told her. “An accountant. It won’t work out. One of the last times we spoke, you told me you were waiting for the divorce papers to arrive. I think the whole thing was pretty nasty. So, yeah, it’s been a while since you’ve made very many jokes.”
Maggie stood up. “Well, this was more fun than I’ve had since the last time I played with my Magic Eight Ball.”
He stood up, too, and Maggie felt a flare of panic. Shoot, she’d forgotten how big this guy was. When she’d come into the bar, he was already sitting down. But now he towered over her.
He sat down quickly, as if he could read the sudden fear in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I have to go,” she told him. It was the truth. She’d already lost more than an hour of her workday thanks to him, and she had a deadline to make, writing copy for an upscale landscaper’s brochure. She should be thinking of ways to describe mulching and privacy shrubbery instead of wasting her time with incredible tales of presidential assassination and Wizard-9 agents told by a too-handsome escapee from a mental hospital.
She was a fool for coming in the first place. It was her attraction to this man that made her meet him here—and that made her an even bigger fool. What did she honestly think? That he was potential boyfriend material? A lunatic who walked around naked and thought he came from the future?
She’d never considered herself a particularly good judge of character when it came to men, but this situation was a no-brainer.
He was trying to hide his desperation the same way he’d tried to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. He was good at hiding things. When he spoke, his voice was calm, and when he looked up at her again, his manner was cool, almost distant. He’d even managed to lose some of the heat in his liquid brown eyes. “Maggie, what can I say to make you believe me? To make you stay?”
He was remarkably attractive with the restaurant’s dim mood lighting casting shadows across his rugged features. He was good-looking despite the grim set to his mouth and the clenched tightness of his jaw.
It was funny, she’d never found the Clint Eastwood type of man so attractive before. She usually preferred a Tom Hanks. Sensitivity with a healthy dose of good humor usually won out over ominous, smoldering danger any day.
And this man sitting across from her did exude danger with the start of a five o’clock shadow darkening the lower half of his face, his damp longish hair swept back from his forehead, and blood from his wounded shoulder seeping through the thin cotton of his borrowed T-shirt. Fortunately, from where she was sitting, she couldn’t see the Santa pants.
She pulled the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “Well, you might’ve tried telling me that I’m going to win the lottery next year rather than all that doom and gloom about a failed marriage.”
He shook his head. “But that wouldn’t be true.”
Maggie felt a flash of pity. Poor crazy guy. He actually believed all that he’d told her.
“I really have to go.” She looked down at her half-empty glass of beer and his barely touched coffee. “I don’t suppose you have the money to pay for this.”
He looked embarrassed. “Not at this time, no. I used an early prototype to make the leap back. It was in my basement—the Wizard-9 agents didn’t know about it. It was less sophisticated than the final version of the Runabout, and because of that I could take nothing with me—not even my clothes.”
“Well, there’s a convenient explanation for why you were walking around naked.” Maggie opened her purse, took a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet, and set it down on the table. “Keep the change, Nostradamus, all right?”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t bother.”
“I will. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”
&n
bsp; His quiet words stopped her, and she turned to look back at him. “I’d rather you just stayed away from my house. In fact, if I see you again, I’m going to have to call the police and—”
“Then maybe I better warn you. We’re going to meet for the first time in just a few days,” he told her. “At Data Tech’s Thanksgiving party.”
Maggie took a step back toward him, startled. Data Tech. She’d recently signed a contract with Data Tech to write a prospectus for a public offering. And the ink on a second contract with the software giant—this one for editing an annual report—was barely dry. And she had received an invitation to the annual Thanksgiving party at Data Tech. She’d already decided to go to the Tuesday-night affair, to schmooze with her new clients and to sniff around and see if there were any other potential projects requiring her talents.
“You won’t meet me,” Chuck told her. “At least not exactly. You’ll meet my younger self—Charles. Dr. Charles Della Croce.”
“Your younger self …” Maggie had to laugh. “Of course. If you’re from the future, then it stands to reason that there’s another you—a younger you—running around somewhere.”
He didn’t crack a smile. “Look, I know this sounds crazy to you.”
“Well, there you go,” Maggie said. “We’ve finally agreed on something.”
“I really need your help.”
“Chuck, you need help—that’s for sure, but I’m not the one who can give it to you.” Silently she cursed herself for not just turning and walking away. Instead she sat down across from him again, knowing she was going to kick herself over and over as she was forced to work late into the night to make up for this lost time. “Let me make some phone calls, call a few friends, find you a doctor who can—”
His fingers started drumming impatiently on the table again. “Nostradamus,” he said suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
Chuck realized he was doing it again. He was tapping his fingers, and he stilled them, consciously trying hard to rein in his impatience. “You called me Nostradamus,” he told Maggie, gripping the edge of the table instead. “And you’re right—I know your future. All I have to do is remember something … I don’t know, some newsworthy event that happened after November twentieth this year.”
Maggie closed her eyes as she pressed one hand against her forehead, as if she had a headache. She sighed and opened her eyes again. “I’m going to have to go,” she said again. “I can’t worry about where you’re going to spend the night or what you’re going to eat or—”
“There was a plane crash,” Chuck suddenly remembered. “I think it was November. Yes—it was about a week before Thanksgiving. It hasn’t happened yet, has it?”
Maggie threw her hands into the air. “Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe. Where was it? A private plane went down a few days ago in the Rockies.”
“No,” Chuck said. “This was major. This was a commercial flight out of New York, heading to London. A terrorist’s bomb went off when the plane came in for a landing. It was awful—hundreds of people died.”
Maggie pushed back her chair and stood up, opening her purse one more time. “God knows I can’t afford this, but …” She put another two twenties on the table. “Stay someplace warm tonight, Chuck. And think about getting some help.”
He picked up the money and held it out to her. “Maggie, I don’t need this. Honestly. I’ve got access to a bank account.”
But Maggie was backing away. “Good-bye, Chuck.”
“I’ll be here at Tia’s, every afternoon at this time.” He didn’t raise his voice to call after her, but it carried to her just the same. “If you change your mind, you can find me here in the bar.”
Maggie pushed open the door and stepped out into the late-afternoon heat, resisting the urge to turn one last time and look back.
TWO
IT WAS AFTER five o’clock on Friday when Maggie finished her meeting with the Data Tech vice-presidents. There were four of them, and each had had his own idea about how the company’s current prospectus should be written.
Working for more than one boss was a potential nightmare, but she’d learned a long time ago simply to smile, nod, take notes—and then write the darn thing the way she envisioned it. She’d give each of them an individual call to tell them how she’d incorporated their personal suggestions into her final draft. With any luck, everyone would be happy.
More than one of the VPs had hinted that if this project went well, she’d be offered a salaried position with the company. After three years of self-employment, the thought of a steady paycheck, employer-paid benefits, and scheduled vacations was tempting.
The Data Tech headquarters was an easy commute from her house. The company was a fairly affluent one, and it showed in the design of the building. Tasteful Southwestern decor graced the spacious three-story lobby, allowing office workers, clients, and guests three different views of the magnificent metal sculpture of a flock of birds taking flight that seemed to lift off from the lobby floor.
As Maggie joined the small crowd of people waiting for the elevator going down, she turned to look back at the sculpture. The people she’d met here were friendly and happy. She’d been told about a workout room in the basement, and that the food in the cafeteria was near gourmet quality. And salary raises were regular and generous. No, she wouldn’t mind working here at all.
The elevator door slid open, and she turned to see that it was already crowded. Only a few people got on—there was no room for her.
The crowd shifted slightly, and then she saw him.
Chuck Della Croce. The gorgeous madman.
He was standing in the elevator, fully dressed in a respectable-looking business suit. His hair was shorter, his mouth less tight and grim, but it was him, wasn’t it? He was facing her, and as she stared at him he briefly met her gaze.
There was nothing there. No flicker of awareness, no sign of recognition. Nothing.
Because it wasn’t Chuck Della Croce. It was his “younger self,” Charles. And this younger man hadn’t met her yet.
The door closed, and he disappeared from view.
Of all the ridiculous, silly thoughts! Of course it wasn’t Chuck Della Croce or even Charles Della Croce. It was simply someone who looked a lot like him.
She was losing it, big time. As if time travel really existed. As if she actually believed Chuck’s delusional ravings.
Still, Maggie moved quickly to the railing and looked down into the lobby. As she watched, the tall dark-haired man who may or may not have been Charles Della Croce came out of the elevator and walked across the tile floor, past the flying birds, talking to another man.
Both men were pulling off their ties, and Chuck … Charles—whoever he was—shrugged out of his jacket in preparation for heading out into the late-afternoon sunshine.
From this angle, this height, the top of his head sure looked familiar. Too bad he wasn’t naked—that would have clinched it. If he hadn’t been wearing his clothes, she would have known without a doubt whether or not this was the same man who’d pounded on her door the afternoon before.
And then he laughed at something the other man said. Maggie caught only the briefest profile of his face, but it was enough to make her heart nearly stop beating. Whoever he was, when he smiled like that, he was impossibly handsome.
As she watched, the man pushed open the heavy glass doors and headed toward the parking lot.
By the time Maggie reached the lobby herself, he was long gone, and she’d nearly succeeded in convincing herself that seeing this man was a mere coincidence. So this guy looked like her gorgeous madman. A lot of men did. The phrase tall, dark, and handsome hadn’t become a cliché without reason.
Still, she couldn’t keep herself from stopping at the main reception area. “Excuse me, is there a Charles Della Croce working here?”
The woman behind the reception desk keyed the name into her computer. “Yes,” she said. “Dr. Della Croce. He’s upstairs in research and
development. Oops, I’m sorry—I see he’s just left the building. Would you like to leave a message for him?”
But Maggie was already backing away. “No. No, thank you.”
Okay. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this. Such as, the madman knew he looked like this scientist and had borrowed his persona. She knew nearly all there was to know about Data Tech, after all. Most of the work done in their R&D labs dealt with computer software, not time travel. In fact, there was no mention of time travel in any of the information Maggie had been given about the corporation.
She headed quickly out to the parking lot and unlocked her little car.
It had been sitting in the sun for hours, and the temperature inside was ovenlike. Maggie pulled down all the windows and turned the AC on full power as she headed onto the main road.
What if he were telling the truth?
The thought was a tiny one, but it niggled at the back of her mind obstinately.
He wasn’t telling the truth, she told herself firmly. He was insane. And she would be, too, if she started believing him.
The air coming out of the vents was starting to feel cooler, so she closed the windows. She turned on the radio, too, determined not to think about anything at all until she got home. Then she’d think only about dinner. And after dinner, she’d finish up the copy for that landscaping brochure and—
“… reports now say that the airliner carrying over three hundred passengers went down around two A.M., London time, over the Atlantic.” The normally ebullient country-station DJ sounded sober and solemn. “I repeat, World Airlines flight 450 from New York to London exploded in midair over the Atlantic Ocean around two o’clock this morning. There are believed to be no survivors.”
She was only a block away from her house, but Maggie had to pull over to the side of the road. She could barely breathe despite the fact that the air conditioner had fully kicked in.
How could Chuck have known? Somehow he’d known.…
“The investigating agencies have issued a short statement saying that the explosion was the result of a terrorist act. Apparently attempts were made to negotiate with the terrorists onboard. A tape of those conversations will be released at a later date.”
Time Enough for Love Page 2
