It's About Time

by Charlotte Douglas

  Disappointment flooded him. Selena had loved him for his money, had left him when it wasn’t enough. Now Victoria wanted to use him to make money for herself. He walled off the tenderness he’d begun to feel toward her. Everything in life, after all, was only business.

  He shook her hand to seal the agreement, wondering why, if it was only business, he found himself so reluctant to release her.

  He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get started.”

  She stared at him, openmouthed for a second, then clamped her jaw shut and walked toward the spa exit. He followed on her heels. She was in a hurry to prove him wrong, but her haste would work to his advantage. Jason Phiswick had promised him an answer on his stock proposal by the weekend, and Rand intended to be there to hear it.

  * * *

  WHILE VICTORIA SHOWERED and dressed, Rand reread Smallwood’s article. The scientific jargon made comprehension difficult, but if the scientist proposed what Rand thought, he could soon kiss the twentieth century goodbye.

  Absently, he picked up her black cashmere shawl lying across the desk chair and held its softness against his face. The scent of magnolias enveloped him and a spasm of loss twisted his heart. He tossed the shawl across the chair, raked his fingers through his damp hair and tried to force Tory from his mind. Selena’s cruelty, only a few weeks old, still festered, reminding him to stick to business, which he understood, and avoid the perplexities of the female sex.

  * * *

  OVER A BREAKFAST of fresh fruit, yogurt and English muffins delivered by room service, Tory reiterated her reservations about Dr. Smallwood. “To keep their tenure, university professors have to publish in professional journals on a regular basis. Often what they write isn’t as important as the fact that it’s been published. Maybe the article was meant as an inside joke among physicists.”

  Rand polished off his third muffin, heaped with strawberry jam. “I don’t think so. It’s a complex theory, but if I understand it correctly, Smallwood contends that time folds back onto itself and occasionally two separate points on the time continuum intersect—”

  “Sounds good for Star Trek, but I don’t buy it.”

  “Star trek?”

  “A television show about the exploration of the universe. One of my favorites, actually.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “Star travel?” She poured herself more coffee and stirred it absently. “No, manned flights have only gone as far as the moon.”

  Frustration gleamed in his eyes. “You can believe men travel to the moon, but you can’t accept Smallwood’s theory?”

  “I saw the moon flight films. Nobody’s ever seen time travelers.” She leaned back in her chair, pleased to have made her point.

  “Except you,” he said with a knowing grin.

  Morning sun illuminated his face, accentuating a profile so handsome it was dangerous. The smile he threw her turned her stomach into a hyperactive gymnast.

  “How do you know,” he asked, “that there aren’t hundreds, even thousands of others like me, who appear perfectly normal, but have adopted the manners and dress of your time in order to blend in?”

  She opened her mouth, hoping to rebut him, but her brain went blank.

  He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “Time must have folded back on itself here in this room the night I appeared in your bed. That’s why I have to see Smallwood, to see if there’s a chance it will happen again.”

  She caught the glitter of excitement in his eyes. He had placed his hopes in Smallwood, but she feared he was setting himself up for disappointment.

  After wiping his lips with his napkin, he tossed it onto his empty plate. “When do we start?”

  “We don’t even know if Smallwood will see us.”

  He squeezed her hand. “When we tell him what happened to me—”

  “He’ll dismiss you as a certifiable nut case and refuse further calls.” She pulled her hands away from the deliciously comfortable feel of his flesh against her own.

  “Maybe not.”

  And if Smallwood did believe that Rand had traveled through time? She pictured a media circus with intrusive microphones, rolling cameras, popping flashbulbs and glaring tabloid headlines, all portraying Rand as some kind of freak. With his image and credibility in shreds, she could forget her Money Man campaign.

  “We can’t take the chance of his refusing to believe you,” she insisted. “We won’t tell him you’re from the past.”

  He stood and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans in frustration. “How can I ask what I need to know without telling him what’s happened?”

  “We make something up.”

  “You mean lie to Smallwood?” His face darkened with outraged integrity.

  “No, we won’t lie—at least, not exactly.” She fidgeted under the intensity of his gaze. “We have to find a way of telling him without telling him.”

  He slumped onto the couch, propped his running shoes on the coffee table and clasped his hands behind his head. His laser stare never left her face. “A lie of omission is still a lie.”

  She grinned as an idea flashed into her head. “Not a lie. Fiction.”

  “Like Mark Twain’s Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court?” His handsome features relaxed into a grin. “I could pretend to be a writer, working on a story about a man who wakes up in another century. I’ll ask Smallwood how to return my character to his own time in a way as close to reality as possible.”

  Thoughts flitted through her mind like a squadron of hummingbirds. Nothing must tarnish the image or reputation of her future Money Man. She considered their visit to Smallwood a waste of time but necessary for the deal she’d made—and for Rand’s sake. The only positive result she expected was his ultimate acceptance of being stuck in the twentieth century for the duration.

  “We’ll need credentials,” she said, “to convince him to give us an appointment.”

  “What kind of credentials?”

  “Something he can check if he wants proof that we’re legitimate.” She tapped a finger against her lips, thinking.

  He shrugged and smiled. “That leaves me out. Officially, I’m dead, remember?”

  She snapped her fingers as an idea struck her. “We’ll say you’re a screenwriter—”

  “Screenwriter?”

  “Someone who writes the stories for moving pictures. We’ll tell Smallwood that Caswell & Associates are willing to underwrite the production costs of your movie. I’ll give Smallwood my office number if he wants to verify my identity. Then we’ll tell him you need his help in working the bugs out of the plot.”

  His dark brows pulled together in a frown. “Bugs?”

  “Problems. We’ll tell him you have to make the plot seem real—believable.”

  “I don’t know that I believe any of this. How will I convince Smallwood?”

  Her gaze traveled over his tall frame, from the clean-cut lines of his handsome face to the wide expanse of his chest, to narrow hips and down long, powerful legs. He had honesty and integrity stamped on every inch of him. The same virtues that made him perfect for her ad campaign, the same virtues that drew her to him in a way that thrilled and frightened her, would serve him well with Smallwood. “You’ll do fine.”

  She picked up the phone, requested Smallwood’s number from information, then placed the call.

  Rand studied her as she spoke with the professor, impressed by her polished demeanor. The fiction fell smoothly from her lips, reminding him again of Selena. Were all women the schemers his former fiancé had been? But Selena’s schemes had hurt him; Victoria was only trying to help.

  Dressed in a short-sleeved blouse and brief, divided skirt the color of peaches, she perched on the edge of the desk, swinging one sandaled foot. The sight of her trim, tanned ankles captivated him. He tore his gaze away, reminding himself that if he got his wish, in a few more days Victoria Caswell wouldn’t have been born yet.

  She
hung up the phone. “It’s all set. He’ll see us tomorrow morning at eleven.”

  He experienced a curious mixture of excitement at the prospect of returning home and regret for the opportunity he’d miss of knowing her better. “How do we get there?”

  “We’ll take my car. I’m checking out anyway, so we can return to Atlanta from Raleigh, and I’ll have—”

  “No.”

  “No?” She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What do you mean, no? I thought you wanted to go to Raleigh.”

  “I do, but we must keep this room. This is where time changed. If I’m going to return to my own time and place, I have a feeling I’ll have to do it from here.”

  She shook her head sadly. “You can’t count on Smallwood’s abilities to send you back.”

  “I have to try. He’s the only hope I have.”

  A knock sounded at the door and Emma appeared to retrieve their breakfast dishes.

  “Lovely day,” she chirped. “The kitchen will pack you a picnic basket if you’d like to spend it on the beach.”

  The little maid reminded Tory of the ghost’s reappearance the previous night. “Emma, tell me what you know about Angelina Fairchild.”

  “Angelina? Only what I already told you.” She scooped the dishes into her cart and beamed at Rand. “You have a fine appetite, Mr. Trent.”

  “We saw her again last night on the road by the golf course,” Tory said.

  “Who?”

  Tory prayed for patience. The woman’s brain was probably tired from the long hours she’d worked. “Angelina.”

  Emma pushed her cart toward the door. “Very unusual. Up till now, she’s only appeared to brides, never to anyone twice—” she stopped and threw a penetrating look at Rand “—and never to a man.”

  “What do you suppose she wants with me?” Tory asked.

  Emma shoved the cart out the doorway and turned to Tory with an enigmatic smile. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Emma closed the door, leaving Tory feeling foolish. Why had she thought the maid would know anything more about Angelina? She withdrew her suitcase from the closet and began packing clothes for the trip to Raleigh. At least once they’d left the Bellevue, she wouldn’t have to worry about Angelina’s ghost.

  * * *

  BY TEN O’CLOCK, they had crossed the causeway that spanned the bay, heading for Tampa and the interstate. Tory had loaned Rand a suitcase, and after a stop at one of the hotel shops to purchase him a pair of aviator sunglasses, they’d loaded their luggage into the trunk of her Toyota and headed north.

  Seeing the world through Rand’s eyes, she developed a new appreciation for jet skis on the bay waters, wide jumbo jets taking off from Tampa International Airport and complex cloverleaf interchanges on the highway. She marveled with him over the glass-faced skyscrapers of downtown Tampa and pointed out the minarets of the University of Tampa, once the Tampa Bay Hotel, built in the 1880s.

  “Intriguing,” he said. “I must visit there next winter.”

  She humored his belief that he’d return to his own time. “Don’t count on it. By 1898, that hotel will be crawling with Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, bound for war in Cuba.”

  When they left Tampa, the highway scenery became more mundane—pastures, pine forests and rolling hills blanketed with orange groves. Rand turned his attention to the digital radio, flipping from one country music station to the next.

  “Amazing.” He hummed along with the conclusion of a Reba McEntire tune. “Such pathos.”

  She snorted. Country music ranked last on her list of favorites. “There’s nothing to it. You just sing through your nose about mending your broken heart, calling your coon hound and driving off into the rainy night in your pickup truck to live miserably ever after.”

  “But that insistent rhythm gets into your blood.” Keeping time with Billy Ray Cyrus, he tapped long fingers against the skintight jeans that encased his thigh. “The lyrics hold nothing back. All the emotions are there—heartache, pain, hopes, disappointments, love. It’s unreserved and straightforward.”

  Her blood sang, but her response had nothing to do with Billy Ray’s sultry singing. The sight of Rand’s fingers rapping on his thighs made it difficult for her to pay attention to her driving. Like Rand, she wanted to reach Raleigh as soon as possible, but for different reasons. The sooner she could put this wild-goose chase behind them, the sooner they could begin the Money Man campaign. The sooner he accepted he was here to stay.

  The sooner he might view her as more than his guide to the twentieth century. She blinked, wondering where that last thought had popped up from.

  “Won’t you miss all these wonders and conveniences,” she asked, “the music, the inventions, if Smallwood figures out how to send you home?”

  He stopped drumming his fingers and laid a hand on her arm. “I’ll miss you, Victoria. I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

  She swallowed hard to dislodge the knot in her throat. She’d known him just over twenty-four hours and his presence had filled her unremarkable life with fun and excitement, something to look forward to besides the familiar routine of work. She tried to banish her fanciful thoughts—foolish thoughts for an independent woman.

  “I’d have done the same for anyone,” she lied, knowing something in his face, his manner, had drawn her to him from the beginning, preventing her from leaving him to the authorities.

  The slight pressure of his hand on her arm sent a wave of pleasure rushing through her. “Come back with me, Victoria. Let me show you your world before it was trampled by too many people and millions of machines.”

  She laughed nervously, alarmed at the way her spirits soared at his request. But his invitation was hypothetical. She couldn’t accompany him to the 1890s, because he wasn’t going anywhere, except to Raleigh and then back to Atlanta with her.

  She passed over his request with a chuckle. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’m a modern girl. I’d shrivel up and die without my blow dryer and microwave.”

  “Blow dryer? Microwave? I don’t know these things.”

  “Modern conveniences for drying hair and cooking quickly.”

  “And these are important to you?” He withdrew his hand, and she returned her attention to the road.

  They continued north on Interstate 75 to the accompaniment of the radio’s honky-tonk beat. At Ocala, she exited and drove into a McDonald’s parking lot.

  “Hungry?” She didn’t know why she asked. Rand’s appetite never slackened.

  “Won’t this slow us down?” He stretched as he got out of the car, molding the smooth fabric of his knit shirt to the hard muscles of his chest and upper arms, unwittingly drawing the appreciative gaze of two teenage girls in a nearby car.

  “We’ll be in and out in minutes.”

  But when they stepped in line behind a dozen long-haired, tattooed bikers in black leather and chains, she wondered if she’d spoken too soon.

  * * *

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER they sat at a corner table. Tory nibbled her chicken salad and watched Rand consume two Big Macs, fries and a chocolate shake, reminding herself no one worried about cholesterol in the 1890s.

  Watching him, she considered the Benson, Jurgen and Ives campaign. He would knock ‘em dead as the Money Man with his classic good looks, cultured voice, remarkable build and those intense gray eyes flecked with silver. Every woman would love him.

  But do you want to share him with every woman? an inner voice taunted her.

  He interrupted her reverie. “What a marvelous idea.”

  “What?” She flushed, remembering her thoughts.

  “Instantaneous food, uniform menus and prices. Quick and convenient for travelers. If I was going to be here longer, I’d invest in such a place.”

  Money again. The man was obsessed with it. “Someone else has already made his fortune off this idea.”

  “It obviously appeals to every element of society.” He nodded toward the bikers, clustered arou
nd tables on the opposite side of the restaurant. Their raucous laughter drowned out the buzz of other voices in the noisy room. “Who are they?”

  A tall man, who appeared to be the leader of the group, dropped French fries one by one into the gaping mouth of the woman next to him. His wiry black hair and beard exploded in a tortured cloud around his face, giving him the look of a victim of electric shock. His barrel chest, matted with more dark hair, was only partially covered by a leather vest, laced loosely across the front with a heavy silver chain. Tight black jeans enveloped his heavy thighs like sausage casings.

  As he held a French fry above the garish lips of his bleached-blond partner, sunlight gleamed on metal studs protruding from the knuckles of his black leather gloves and animated the dragon tattoo on his bare biceps. The others of his group dressed in variations of the same theme.

  “They’re probably Hell’s Angels,” Tory explained.

  “You mean devils?”

  She laughed. “Some law enforcement officials would say so.”

  “But what do they do?”

  “I don’t know much about them, except what I’ve seen on television and in the movies. They’re a nomadic group, traveling across the country on powerful motorcycles, sometimes finding themselves on the wrong side of the law.”

  “Like Gypsies.”

  “I suppose you could say that.” The fascination in his expression made her uneasy, and his scrutiny of the group threatened to attract their attention. She attempted to divert him by pushing her untouched packet of French fries across to him.

  He picked up a sliver of potato and munched contentedly, apparently forgetting the bikers.

  “You haven’t told me much about yourself,” she said. “You make money, you ride horses. How else do you spend your time?”

  He shrugged. “Work. What else is there?”

  “Hobbies? Recreation?”

  He looked puzzled, as if he didn’t know the meaning of the words. “Sometimes I attend dinners and parties at the homes of business associates.”

  “And what do you do there, besides eat?”

  “We talk business.”

  “Aha!”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Aha?”