Time Enough for Love

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “We have no choice,” he said quietly.

  “I’m not going to do it.” Her lip was trembling, so she lifted her chin defiantly, hoping the one would cancel out the other and she would look as determined as he did.

  He took a step toward her. “Maggie, he’s me. It’s not as if I’m asking you to be with some other man.”

  “He’s not you. He’s only a part of you. He doesn’t even know me!”

  He drew his hand through his hair in a gesture of pure frustration. “He is me. The same way you’re still the same Maggie I’ve cared so much about for the past seven years.”

  That stopped her. Was she? Was she truly the same? Chuck had mentioned that the Maggie he had known had changed—that time and a lousy relationship had made her quieter, less sarcastic, perhaps more compassionate and understanding. When Chuck looked at her, did he see a mere shadow of the woman she was to become? Did he miss the maturity and growth that seven extra years of life had surely brought?

  Was she nothing more than a poor substitute for the Maggie he truly cared about?

  She sank down onto the bed. “Chuck, please. I don’t want to be with Charles. I want to be with you. Why can’t we simply let events play themselves out?”

  Chuck didn’t reach for her, didn’t try to comfort her. Instead he slowly sat on the other bed. “We can’t.”

  Maggie wiped at her face, trying to push away the flood of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. “Why not?”

  He gazed at her. “Because in approximately fifty-one hours, Wizard-9 will be able to reactivate the Runabout. They’ll make another jump—to just a few days into the past this time. And this time they’ll get here before me. They’ll be waiting to kill me. And then you won’t find a naked man in your backyard. You’ll find a naked dead man.”

  “Oh, my God! Only fifty-one hours …?” Maggie fought a wave of panic.

  “The clock’s ticking, Maggie. We’ve got to get moving.”

  “But …” She stared at him, her mind whirling. “Maybe we’re going about this all wrong. Maybe instead of trying to keep Charles from developing the Wells Project, we should be trying to find where Wizard-9 has the Runabout. If we could destroy it—”

  “That wouldn’t be enough. If I’m allowed to continue with my work—” Chuck broke off, shaking his head.

  She waited for him to explain, but he didn’t say anything more.

  She moved toward him then, taking his hands and kneeling on the floor at his feet, prepared to beg if she had to.

  “Please. Why wouldn’t it work? Tell me what you’re thinking! Talk to me, Chuck! Tell me what you’re feeling! I want to know.”

  His eyes were a blaze of intensity. “I can’t. There are things you shouldn’t know about the future.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the future. It’s all going to be different now anyway,” she said, gesturing toward the bed where they’d shared such incredible love just a few short hours before. “I don’t know about you, but I’m never going to be the same!”

  The sadness in his eyes only deepened, and his words seemed to catch in his throat. If Maggie hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was going to cry. “It’s not going to be different enough.”

  Her towel fell off her as she moved up and onto his lap. She held on to him, needing to be closer to him, her arms locked around his neck. “I don’t care!”

  “Maybe you should.” His voice was ragged as he clung to her, holding her as tightly as she held him. “Maggie, you should. God knows I care!”

  He kissed her fiercely, taking her mouth, stealing her breath, touching her very soul. There were tears on his face. Chuck Della Croce was actually crying.

  He seemed to draw strength from her as his hands skimmed the warmth of her body, as he cradled her close to his heart. He kissed her again, softly now, sweetly.

  “The day I left my time,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper in the quiet of the room, “only an hour before I appeared in your yard … Maggie, I held you while you died.”

  Maggie couldn’t say a word. She had died. She would die. Seven years in the future, she was going to die.

  “I went to Data Tech,” he continued. “You were there. Ken Goodwin didn’t know it, but one of the lab cameras was on and you saw the Wizard-9 agents kill Boyd Rogers, my security chief, on the monitor in another lab. You knew I was next, and you tried to warn me.

  “We tried to get away, but they started shooting. You stepped in front of me, Maggie, and you took a bullet meant for me.” His voice shook. “I locked us both in one of the computer labs, and I held you while you died. Your heart stopped beating, and your eyes glazed over and you were gone. You were gone!” He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice rang with a hard certainty. “I will not let that happen again.”

  “We can run away,” she whispered. “We can destroy the Runabout and then we can hide. You’re good at hiding—no one will ever find us.”

  “We’d have to kill the Wizard-9 agents as well as destroy the Runabout,” Chuck said quietly. “If we didn’t, they’d simply wait seven years, and then warn themselves about me. They’d let their own selves know about the prototype in my basement, about their failed attempt to kill me. They’d get me before I even left my house that morning.” He shook his head. “As long as Charles is out there, they can get to me. And once I’m gone, they’ll kill you, too, just to be safe.”

  Maggie was silent.

  “I’ve got to stop this before it starts.” He kissed her gently. “I’ve opened a terrible Pandora’s box,” he told her. “Please, Mags, you’ve got to help me nail it shut.”

  EIGHT

  CHECKING TO MAKE sure his car keys were in his pants pocket, Dr. Charles Della Croce stepped out of the front door of his townhouse condominium, locking it behind him.

  The Thanksgiving party at Data Tech didn’t start until seven. He was more than an hour and a half early. He was planning to go over now, spend some time in the lab, put in an appearance at the cocktail hour, then leave before the tedium of the actual dinner began.

  Unless Maggie Winthrop showed up.

  If she showed, without a date, he’d stay for dinner.

  He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since she’d appeared at his table in Papa John’s Eatery. He’d done a little investigation, and found out that she was, indeed, a freelance writer, hired by the corporation for several short-term projects. He’d dug a little further and found an address for her, and a phone number.

  He’d even found out that she’d been issued an invitation to tonight’s shindig. But whether or not she was going to attend was still a mystery.

  He’d gone as far as calling her to find out if perhaps she’d want to go with him. But he’d only reached her answering machine, and she’d never called him back.

  Maybe she was out of town.

  Or maybe she wasn’t as interested as she’d led him to believe at Papa John’s.

  Maybe that kiss they’d shared hadn’t made her head spin the way his had. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss.

  His car was parked on the street, and as he started toward it a wave of fatigue hit him. He turned, heading for the Circle K on the corner and the self-serve coffee inside.

  He’d been up well until dawn the night before, working on his time-travel theories. He was close. He was so damned close, but it was still out of his grasp. He’d stayed awake until five-thirty, working the equations, again and again.

  He’d slept only two hours before he had to get up and go in to work. He’d told no one at Data Tech about his work with time-travel. His theories weren’t ready yet for public scrutiny. But maybe soon …

  He went toward the back of the convenience store, where the brewed pots of coffee simmered on burners. He poured himself a large cup and then turned, searching for the correct-size lid.

  “Hello, Charles.”

  Charles nearly spilled the entire cup of coffee down the front of his tuxed
o.

  It was Maggie Winthrop. But instead of looking the way he remembered her, like a sparklingly pretty girl-next-door, the woman who stood before him was pure sensual elegance.

  “Remember me? I’m Maggie—”

  “Winthrop,” he finished for her, setting his cup back on the counter and quickly taking the hand she extended. “Of course I remember you.”

  Her hair was up off her shoulders—delicately smooth shoulders exposed by the strapless neckline of her dress. And what a dress! It was the richest shade of brown and made of silky material that clung to her breasts. It swept down all the way to the floor, emphasizing her slender waist and the soft curve of her hips.

  “I left a message on your home answering machine,” he told her with a smile, fighting to keep his gaze properly above her neck. God, she was a knockout! She was wearing makeup—more, at least, than she had on the other time they’d met. It accentuated her soft lips and her gorgeous eyes and the delicate bone structure of her face.

  “You did?” Her eyes lit up with genuine happiness.

  Charles realized he was still holding her hand. She hadn’t tugged it free from his grasp. He held on even tighter, lacing their fingers together, feeling a surge of pleasure. God knows their attraction was mutual. The connection that flowed between them was hot enough to make his coffee seem tepid. But in addition to that attraction, she honestly seemed to like him. As much as he liked her. And he did, he realized. He liked the sparkle in her smile and the amusement that danced in her eyes.

  But tonight there was something else in her eyes as well. He could see a quiet sadness that seemed to linger.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you didn’t get my message.”

  “No, I haven’t … been home for a while.” As he watched she surreptitiously checked her watch. It was a sign that he was either boring her, or she needed to be somewhere. He couldn’t believe the first.

  “I called to see if you were going to the Data Tech party.” He released her hand. “But obviously, you’re heading someplace else tonight.”

  “No, I was planning to go to Data Tech, but not till a little later.” She leaned back against the coffee counter, as if she intended to stay for a while. So much for his second theory. “So, what are you doing here? Do you live nearby?”

  “Just down the street,” he told her. “Are you meeting someone at the party?”

  “Actually, I’m supposed to meet you there.”

  Now, what the hell did she mean by that?

  “I mean, I was hoping to see you there,” she added. She held his gaze, smiling slightly, and he felt his pulse accelerate. Had she come to this particular Circle K hoping to bump into him? He knew her address, and while it wasn’t far, this convenience store was anything but convenient to her. In fact, it was well out of her way.

  “Do you have plans for dinner?” He picked up his coffee and started toward the front of the store, hoping he sounded casual.

  “Charles, would you mind pouring me a cup of coffee too?”

  He looked at her, startled. For just a moment her voice had sounded slightly strained. But her smile was wide and relaxed. “The decaf’s up a little too high,” she explained. She leaned forward, closer to him, and lowered her voice. “And I have limited movement in this dress.”

  The movement she had just made gave him a breathtaking view of the tantalizing fullness of the tops of her breasts. Charles forced his gaze toward the coffeepots. Decaf. She wanted decaf. “Of course,” he said, quickly pouring a cup. He put a lid on it as he cleared his throat. “About dinner …”

  She looked at her watch again. “I’ve already ordered room service for tonight. I’d love for you to join me.”

  He picked up both coffees. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted to see Maggie Winthrop in the warm pink light of the lingering sunset. He wanted to offer her his arm and escort her to some four-star restaurant and … “Did you say room service?”

  Charles turned back to her. She took both cups of coffee from him, setting them back on the counter. God, he didn’t even think to ask if she wanted cream and sugar.

  But cream and sugar wasn’t exactly what she wanted. It wasn’t even close. She stepped nearer to him, close enough for an embrace, close enough for a kiss, and rested one hand on the front of his jacket, just over his heart. Her other hand went up to the nape of his neck. She gently pulled his head down while rising on tiptoes to meet him and …

  Her kiss was sheer perfection. Her lips were so soft, her mouth so sweet. He hesitated in surprise for only the briefest of moments before he opened his mouth to her, deepening the kiss. He put his arms around her, pulling her even closer. His hands encountered the cool smoothness of her dress and the perfect softness of her body underneath.

  His arousal was instant. He kissed her again, harder this time, pressing her back against the counter. There was no way she could have missed his physical response to her, yet she didn’t push him away. On the contrary, she held him even closer, kissing him just as passionately, just as hungrily.

  Dear God, he’d died and gone to heaven.

  Except when he pulled back to look at her, he couldn’t help but see that her eyes were filled with unshed tears. She turned her head, trying her best to blink them away without him noticing.

  So he pretended not to notice. “Don’t tell me,” he said, trying to keep his voice sounding light. It wasn’t hard to do because he was breathless. “Someone’s following you again.”

  Maggie gazed up at him. “Actually, someone’s following you. Agents from a covert government organization called Wizard-9.”

  Charles laughed. “Wizard-9, huh? Sounds pretty scary.”

  “Oh, they’re very scary.” She glanced at her watch again, then picked up the coffee and started toward the front of the store.

  Charles followed, taking out his billfold as she set the paper hot cups on the counter near the cash register.

  “Anything else?” the clerk asked. He was about seventeen years old and had straggly facial hair that was supposed to pass for a beard. Charles couldn’t remember ever being that young.

  “No, that’s it, thanks.”

  “Two eighty-nine.” The kid glanced up at Charles, and did a double take. “You again? What happened to your last cup? Drop it or something?”

  “Excuse me?” Charles asked. Him again? He hadn’t been in here in days. And even then, this wasn’t the same clerk who had waited on him.

  “Yeah,” Maggie said. “We had a little accident.” She handed the boy three dollars.

  “A what?” Charles said. “Wait a minute, I’m paying for this.”

  “You can pay me back,” Maggie told him, taking the change, grabbing the coffee, and heading for the door. “Come on.”

  When she walked, a long slit up the side of the dress revealed flashes of gracefully shaped legs.

  Charles was almost completely distracted. Almost. “But why did you say—”

  Maggie turned to face him. “Charles, I’ve got a suite at the Century Hotel. Will you come and have dinner there with me?”

  Charles was confused about quite a number of things, but this was not one of them. “Absolutely.”

  Charles was silent as they took the elevator up to the seventh floor of the Century Hotel, where her suite was located.

  Maggie gazed at the numbers above the door, watching the three light up and then the four. She was well aware that Charles’s eyes were on her. She was also well aware that he entertained high hopes of having more than dinner here in her room.

  Maggie knew what Chuck wanted her to do. He wanted her to have dinner with Charles. He wanted her to be bright and funny. He wanted her to charm him, to be some kind of super, extra-strength, high-dosage Maggie. He wanted her to try to condense seven years of friendship into one short evening.

  And he wanted her to cement the whole thing by spending the night with Charles.

  But what was she supposed to do after this whole awful mess was over? What was she sup
posed to do after she succeeded in convincing Charles to change his entire life, his entire career—assuming one glorious night of sex could actually do that. Was she supposed to spend the rest of her life with him?

  She glanced out of the corner of her eye at the man standing next to her. He was a stranger—except he wasn’t. Not really. He looked like Chuck. He kissed like Chuck. He even smelled like Chuck—a faint but tangy whiff of some kind of aftershave mixed with fresh-smelling soap, commingling with his own very male, slightly musky, extremely delicious scent.

  But what else was Charles missing besides the scar on his left cheekbone?

  Chuck had desired her—maybe even loved her, although he hadn’t admitted as much—for seven years. Charles had met her two days ago.

  She’d fallen in love with Chuck. But every experience Charles had lived, Chuck had too. Was it possible, then, to love Chuck without loving Charles as well?

  Maggie shook her head. This was much too complicated.

  And then there was Chuck. Did he love her? She’d thought perhaps he did. Last night he’d made love to her so passionately, so emotionally. But maybe he had been simply sating his desire by having sex with someone who looked like the woman he truly cared about—a woman who had died in his arms seven years in the future.

  If so, what an incredibly complicated love triangle that would be. And if Maggie did what Chuck wanted, she would be involved with Charles, too, making their relationships even more tangled. That couldn’t possibly be the solution to anything.

  Maggie didn’t know what the solution was, but the first step seemed kind of obvious.

  She had to tell Charles the truth.

  And as the elevator doors opened onto the seventh floor and they headed down the long, elegantly carpeted corridor to the fancy suite that Chuck had used money from Charles’s own bank account to pay for, Charles gave Maggie the perfect opportunity to start telling him the truth.

  “So,” he said. “What’s with the suite at the Century Hotel? Are freelance writers making higher salaries these days than I thought?”