Blackwell 2 - Timeswept Rogue
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' 'Is that why you opted for the on-screen interview instead of a printed article?"
Green eyes, sharp as glass, assessed him. "What do you think?"
"That you want to be certain your fans heard it from you."
"Very astute, Justin," she said, placing the cup on the low table and feeling as if she were leading him through this by that fashion statement of a tie. "Next question."
"Anthony Wainright."
Her rare smile warmed as she pulled a rose couch pillow close, staring briefly where she toyed with the pleated corner. "Anthony is Anthony. Welsh, austere, but a gentleman. We met while I was auditioning for summer stock." Or rather getting dumped from it, she recalled.' 'He appointed himself my acting coach and all around guardian angel." That comparison paled to what Tony meant to her now. "I was very young, untutored, and in dire need of a bit of polish as he would say. I suppose he saw me as a—"
"Diamond in the rough?" Justin interrupted.
"More like an unwaxed fruit, I think."
Justin laughed. Well, well, a sense of humor, finally. He glanced at his notes. "You've won three libel suits already, Miss Hamilton, and have one pending—"
"Not any more."
His Brows shot up. "Really?"
She nodded slightly, razor straight hair shifting across her lap like a river of red wine.
' 'Will your settlement go to charity as the others have?''
"The homeless, yes."
"Why them? Why not AIDS research or cancer or—"
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"This money doesn't go through channels until there is nothing left for the people who really need it now," she said with more anger than she should. "/ see that it gets to the people standing outside soup kitchens. And before you ask, it's spent on better food, more of it, cots, blankets, and a grant if you want to call it, to get families on their feet again, somewhere else. Retraining or an apartment,'' She shrugged slim shoulders. "They decide with the help of counselors."
"Some say you're easing your guilt because you have so much."
Penelope leaned forward slightly, eye to eye, ignoring the knot twisting in her stomach.' 'No one chooses to live in shelters or paper cartons, Mister Baylor."
God, what a predatory stare, he thought, feeling like raw meat before a tigress. "And the single people? You help them, too?"
Her expression was tolerant. ' 'Of course. The funding simply obliterates a couple of obstacles when surviving is a daily struggle; people trying to stay alive while surrounded by criminals ready to take advantage of the circumstance and tear apart the last of their world." Good God, get off the soap box, Hamilton, you've said too much.
And he noticed it. "You sound like you talk from experience?"
Penelope bristled, retucking her hair. "Be serious, Justin," she said, looking at him beneath half-lidded eyes.
"You're to be admired for your conviction, Miss Hamilton," he said, genuine.
"I don't do it to be admired." Great, after all these years did everyone think she was just some shallow bimbet?
"That leads me to ask why you don't live with the jet set in Hollywood?"
"Florida is my home. Hollywood is where I work." She stole a covert glance at her watch.' 'The separation keeps me— even."
"Yet you could certainly add considerably to your homeless charity with a celebrity fund raiser."
Her gaze thinned, her tone matter-of-fact. "Flaunting dia-
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monds and laying out two thousand dollars for a gown so one can eat a thousand dollar-a-plate dinner on camera isn't giving because you want to help."
He tapped his lips with his pen, then asked, "Then what is it?"
"More like 'Look at me up here, aren't I the saint? Now let's see a little bowing and scraping for my efforts.'" She swallowed, her tone softening. "Why do the fortunate have to get something before they can contribute to our own needy?"
The lady hides those claws well, Justin thought, seeing her differently and hoping it showed through the lens. "Why won't you allow cameras in your Victorian home?''
Penelope recalled her unmade bed, the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of her bedroom, and almost laughed at the idea of showing the viewing audience her lousy habits. "I'm like anyone else in this business. I enjoy my privacy. When I clock out, I leave my job and public, at the studio."
Justin sighed at her evasiveness, yet maintained his smile. Sounded damn lonely to him. "You won an Academy Award and didn't show to accept it. Everyone thinks it's the grand insult.'
"Neither did Katharine Hepburn or Marion Brando, Justin."
He took the hint and glanced at his notes. "In your last film, Habits of Nature, you portrayed a young woman who'd been raised in a secular convent struggling with the real world." Penelope nodded. "Is it true you actually lived in a convent prior to doing the film?'' God, she looked ready to bolt.
"You've done your homework, Justin- And yes, I couldn't very well portray a novice if I hadn't any idea of the lifestyle. Can you imagine her turmoil, never to have seen a man that wasn't wearing a collar and surrounded by females devoted to one narrowed view of life, then suddenly," Penny snapped her fingers, "violence, men, sex, drugs." She glanced down at her watch, then leaned forward and shook his hand. "Time's up, Justin, thank you." Pulling free, she stood and turned away.
"Did you have Randell's child?" he asked quickly, managing to get to his feet.
Penny froze, slowly looking back over her shoulder. Green
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eyes bit into him like the jab of a knife. "No. Did you?" she said, then immediately strode from the artificial living room.
The director yelled cut and Justin Bayior tossed his notes on the table, admiring her graceful walk as she vanished beyond the studio wings. The woman was still a damn mystery.
A cameraman came up behind him, pulling off his headset as he laid a hand on Justin's shoulder.
"Christ, Justin, you're going to be goddamn famous after this airs."
Penelope smiled benignly at the stagehand, then slipped into her dressing room and shut the door. She gripped the knob, fighting the emotions clamoring for escape. But the tears came, hot and quick, and she buried her face in a terry cloth robe hanging on the back of the door. Low, tight sobs jerked her shoulders, pulling like water hoisted from a well and she bit the cloth until her teeth ached, squeezing her eyes shut. Her body flexed. The urge to throw something, smash—anything— twisted inside her, struggling to pass unblemished as she sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around her middle. Penelope wept, out of terror and anger and tremendous guilt that had nothing to do with her first interview in ten years. And the horrible grinding ache held the same haunting pain of her childhood.
Oh God, Tess, what have I done?
Exhausted, she slumped against a chair, then pulled herself onto the seat, brushing at the dampness flowing down her cheeks. She sniffled, searching the vanity. No messages. Damn. Resting her eibows on the surface, her hands covering her face, she battled for control, then, shielding her eyes from the bright cosmetic lights, she reached sluggishly for the phone. Penny dialed, spoke briefly, then cleared the line and dialed again. She dried her eyes and blew her nose while she waited for the pick up.
"Tony? This is Penelope."
"After all these years, my dear, I do recognize your voice. How went the interview?"
"Remind me to fire you for pushing me into it."
He chuckled shortly. "I'll make a note." A pause and then
softly, "Any word on Tess?"
' 'No, damn it, and I can't stand another moment. Have Daniel
ready the Lear, would you? I'm going down there. Today."
Crooked Island, Bahamas 1989
Ducking low, Lieutenant Bindar of the Bahama Air Sea Rescue Association rushed forward as the helicopter's blades slowed to a heavy whirl. The door popped open and
a pair of stockinged legs appeared first, then their owner. The woman held tight to her broad brimmed hat, head bowed as the couple moved quickly away from the chopper. It lifted off after a wave from the pilot.
In silence she walked beside him, her heeled shoes tapping on the wood pier. Stepping onto the gangplank, he offered his hand, helping her onto the B.A.S.R.A. cutter, then relayed orders to cast off. The motor roared, the boat slipping easily into the current as he glanced at her, his heart thumping like a schoolboy's. Penelope Hamilton. He couldn't believe it. No matter how much she tried to hide her face beneath the white hat, he knew it was her.
Any man would.
' 'When will we be near the area where—where—'' Penelope looked away, blinking. She couldn't even say it. Oh, Tess, what's happened to you?
"Just a short while, ma'am, two hours at the most."
She nodded mutely and Bindar resisted the urge to comfort the famed American actress.
"Can I get you anything, ma'am?"
"No, thank you. Is it all right if I stand at the bow?"
"Certainly. May I help you over the equipment?"
"That won't be necessary. I'd prefer to be alone, if you don't mind.
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"Certainly ma'am. I understand." He turned away, leaving her to weave a path around ropes and gear to the bow.
Oblivious to the seamen working around her, Penelope stared at the rushing water, her heart clenching painfully. It should have been me. Me! She'd no idea their little identity exchange would have resulted in Jess's death. No, not dead; she wouldn't believe it. Not yet. The reports insisting she'd jumped off Nassau Queen were sketchy at best. And for God's sake, why did she do it? Penelope prayed someone had picked her up; a passing fishing boat, honeymooners out for a secluded celebration ... but so far out at sea? Keep hope, she reminded again, though the more time passed, the slimmer their chances of finding a body.
From the pilot house Lieutenant Bindar watched her. Miss Penelope Hamilton was every man's fantasy; leggy, redheaded, and sensually reserve. Her navy blue dress was slim fitting and nautically piped in white, the broad white hat shielding deep green eyes he knew were rimmed in the thickest lashes. The stiff breeze whipped her long braid against her back, and she didn't seem to care that the spray soaked her shoes. Then suddenly she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands, her shoulders quaking miserably. And Bindar turned to the control panel, ordering right full rudder. He had a job to do; return to the last place anyone saw Olympic gymnast Tess Renfrew alive. Chapter 3 West Indies 1789
Ramsey O' Keefe strolled the deck of the Sea Witch, inquiring after the captain's location and found Dane leaning against the bowsprit, his wife cuddled close, both looking nauseatingly happy.
"Duncan bade me to give you this."
The couple separated, barely. Still in each other's pockets, Ram thought, handing over the brittle missive to Tess.
At her quizzical stare. Ram said, "McPete said it fell out of your pouch when he was tidyin' the cabin."
Dane cleared his throat, his eyes on his bride.
That smile is bleedin' wicked, Ram thought enviously, aware of the telltale clothing the couple left strewn around the captain's quarters. A night of blistering loving, he imagined, turning his gaze to the sea, for he'd oftimes found himself enjoying the like with a tavern bawd or a lady. Yet recently a lusty ride alween willing thighs left him with naught but uncomfortable departures and mere physical gratification. Unfulfilled, meaningless. Almost painful. 'Twas never a concern afore, for 'twas all he sought, but the conquest for the sensual rewards atween
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the sheets had lost their challenge. And 'twas the caliber of females he'd spent company with that he'd questioned, only since meeting Tess. He wanted more.
"You okay, Ramsey?" she asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.
He drew his gaze back to hers. She was inquiring after his health, he decided. "Aye, do I not look fit?" He grinned, folding his arms over his chest, dark fabric straining against his bulk.
"Fishing for compliments, O'Keefe?"
"From you, lass?" he said in feigned astonishment.
She smiled sweetly. "Getting the pulp best out of you last week smartened you up, I see."
Ramsey chuckled. God love her, the lass is resilient. Roth-mere had held her hostage, tried to kill her, murdered innocent souls afore her eyes, and she seemed unscathed by the events. What was it about the woman he found so intriguing, Ram wondered again, his dark gaze appraising her slim body encased in men's clothes. Her odd clipped speech? Her keen intelligence? Or did her allure lie beneath the fierce independence she wore like her skin, even though he knew she loved Dane to distraction? From where did she hail and how had she fallen into the sea in the first place? Dane had never said and Ram felt 'twas a well-guarded secret.
She was an extraordinary woman, different than any he'd met afore. 'Twas why he captured her in oils, to hold the image of this enchanting creature forever. And although he'd not so much as kissed the lass on her wedding day, Ramsey knew he*d lost more than a fine lady to his best friend. As if you'd had a pickpocket's chance with the lass, he reminded, stepping away to allow her privacy to read. He saw his affections for her doled into the chambers of her heart meant for a brother, for Tess instantly recognized him for the rogue he was, setting him in his place with her honest assessment, and for the first time since he was five and ten, made him consider what his future held. Or rather, lacked.
He supposed he'd her to blame for this blasted turmoil running amuck in his chest, then.
Women. Make a man see cross-eyed, he nashed, plowing his fingers through his hair, then resting his forearms on the rail, He stared at the ice-blue water rushing past the black hull as if 'twere a seer's crystal. Are you, in truth, finished with fencing brigands and hedonistic play, old man? And if you're believing a good woman will satisfy, are you prepared to search? You're not a young pup, so what chance have you now? Aught, he despaired, must be better than this wrenching loneliness, this ... impatience for more. 'Twas damned unfamiliar.
And blast it, he was jealous. He was! Though he'd never begrudge Dane the happiness he found with Tess, Ram knew he*d not be so fortunate as to pluck the love of a lifetime from the sea.
Bloody hell.
Was he seeking what could not be found?
Ramsey lifted his gaze to the horizon, a grinding chill working up his spine. He rolled his shoulders, yet found no ease, and Dane's exclamation of his love for Tess brought a snarl to his lips.
"Friggin' newlyweds." He glanced to his side to glare at the couple, then straightened abruptly, staring beyond. "Sweet mother of God," he whispered, awed. "What in the bleedin' creation is that?"
Tess twisted around. "Jesus H—no!"
"Capt'n! 'Tis the wall—again!" a crewman wailed, terror scraping his voice.
Again ? Ramsey stared, utterly spellbound by the black wall of mist stretching from the ocean's surface up into infinity. The dense smoke undulated, tentacles of mist reaching, following them across the sea, uncurling like a woman's delicate fingers. Ram swallowed. Curious, fearful.
"Prepare to come about!" Dane shouted, yanking Tess close to his side.
Crewmen scurried, frantic to adjust sail and spar, and Ramsey's gaze snapped to Tess, riveted by the horror on her flawless features, in her panic-stricken eyes. And Dane ... by God, the man was desperate, bellowing commands, yet refusing to release his wife.
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They've lain witness to this apparition afore, Ram realized, then climbed to the bowsprit for a clearer view. His heartbeat suddenly accelerated, a strange burning rushing with his blood, and he paused, dizzy, sweating, and gripped the rigging for balance. "God almighty!" he gasped for air, "what be this?" he demanded back over his shoulder.
> Tess looked uncertainly up at Dane, then to Ramsey, then back at her husband.
"Tell him, love," Dane urged, his ears tuned to the creak of rigging as it shifted to bring his frigate away from the wall.
Tess's silver-gray eyes locked with Ramsey's. "It's the future, Ramsey."
His brows shot up, his fingers flexing on the ropes.
"I don't know exactly to where—but that," she glared at the curtain, "is a rip in time."
Ramsey jerked a look at the black wall, the sharp motion muddying his vision. He blinked. The future?
" Tis comin' closer!" a crewman screamed.
"Port, hard to lee!" Dane commanded. "Now!"
Eagerness tightened Ram's features even as he considered she could not be jesting. A cut in time? A doorway, mayhaps? He swung around to look at Tess as she begged her husband not to let it take her back. Back where? Home? Dane would perish from the loss and—sweet God above ... 'Tis come to retrieve her. All he knew of Tess and claimed odd, rushed through his brain. She was like none he'd ever known ... but to not belong to this lifetime?
He returned his gaze to the wall, his stomach rolling violently. Was it possible? To step into another age? He licked his dry lips, a crushing sensation gripping him and a quick glance told him Tess felt it, too; a sudden piercing of flesh and sinew and muscle, sand-rough fingers clamping a vise on his bones, tugging. The wall neared, dense mist stroking the sea and the sensations intensified.
By Triton, 'tis calling me—nay, begging me to come experience what lies beyond!
"Your journey was long to find your heartmate, Tess," Ram rasped, his face bloodless with clawing nausea. ' 'Mayhaps ...
I must take the same," he forced moisture into his mouth, "to discover if such exists for me."
Her teary eyes widened with understanding as he gave her a jaunty salute.
"Ramsey! Noooo!" she screamed as he dove off the Sea Witch and into the raging water.
Ramsey burst through the surface, his powerful arms knifing through the water, drawing him nearer.