“If at all,” Smallwood said, “probably within a matter of days, at most a week or two. After that, the temporal cross section might reflect a different slice of space-time.”
“Or it might not recur at all?” she asked.
“But for the purpose of your screenplay,” Smallwood insisted with a grin, “it must.”
Rand rose to his feet. “Thank you, Dr. Smallwood. You’ve given us the solution to our dilemma. We won’t take any more of your time.”
Smallwood ran a hand over his short hair, looking more boyish than ever. “You’ll let me know when the movie’s released?”
“You’ll be the first one we notify,” Tory called over her shoulder as Rand propelled her out the door.
She trotted to keep up with his long strides as he hurried from the building. Crossing the campus, he never slackened his pace. In frustration, she stopped short, grabbing his sleeve to act as a brake.
“Slow down,” she gasped. “We’re not running a marathon.” She collapsed on a nearby bench.
“Catch your breath, then we must return to the hotel as quickly as possible.” His voice vibrated with excitement as he sat beside her.
“What’s the rush?”
“You heard what he said. The temporal cross section is most likely to occur within the next two weeks. If I miss it, I’ll remain here forever.”
She wanted to shake him. “If is the operative word here. If there is such a thing, if it will occur again. Don’t you see that you’re grasping at straws?”
Her heart ached for him and the life he’d lost, but the sooner he accepted he was stuck here, the better off he’d be.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I have to take the chance. I’ve been ripped away from everything that’s familiar to me. Backward and primitive as my time might seem to you, it’s where I’m comfortable, where I belong.”
Desperation etched his face. She realized he’d never be satisfied until he’d exhausted every effort to return.
“If we return to the Bellevue for two weeks,” he said, “and nothing happens, then I promise I’ll fill my part of our bargain.”
“But—”
“Besides,” he added with an engaging grin, “you haven’t finished your vacation.”
She groaned inwardly. His insistence on returning to Florida not only delayed the Money Man campaign but it also placed her in close quarters with the man’s undeniable charms for almost two more weeks.
But what choice did she have? She’d made a bargain and she’d stick to it, even though their return to the hotel would be a colossal waste of time, not to mention a terrible disappointment when he found himself still stuck in the 1990s in two weeks.
“Okay, you win.” She rose and started down the walk toward the administration parking lot. “But we’ll have to stop in Atlanta overnight. I’ll be too tired to drive straight through.”
Not to mention the meeting with her staff, but she’d tell him about that later.
Walking beside her, he frowned, looking ready to disagree. Then he threw his hands wide in a gesture of acceptance. “Back to Atlanta, then. But could we stop somewhere first for lunch? I could eat a horse.”
* * *
RAND STUDIED Victoria’s profile, illuminated by the headlights of eastbound traffic. He’d never met a woman like her. Beneath her soft, appealing exterior lay a determined and independent core. Like Selena, she knew what she wanted in life. Unlike Selena, Victoria wouldn’t hurt others to get it.
Regret stabbed him as he considered saying farewell to the woman who’d given so freely of her time to assist him. Had he arrived in someone else’s hotel room, he would probably have been jailed for breaking and entering or locked away in an asylum as a madman.
But not by Victoria. Good-hearted and generous, she’d volunteered to assist him from the start. No, she was nothing like Selena.
“Rand?” Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. “There’s something I need to tell you before we reach the house.”
The hesitancy in her tone alarmed him. “You haven’t changed your mind about returning me to Florida?”
“No.”
Her negative reply ended with an upward inflection, warning him of more to come, something he wasn’t going to like. “Then what is it?”
Her hands tensed on the steering wheel. “There’ll be some people waiting for us when we get to my house.”
“People?” A sudden fear of exploitation gripped him. Had he been wrong about her? “Reporters?”
She glanced at him with horror. “Good grief, no. You must never speak to the press about your experience. They’ll serve you up to the public to enjoy at the breakfast table with their morning paper.”
He settled into his seat with a wry smile. “Not a pretty image for your Money Man, is it?”
“Not a pleasant experience for anyone to suffer.”
The compassion in her voice made him regret his hasty condemnation of her motives. “Then who are these people I’m to meet at your home?”
She squirmed in her seat, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. “They’re from my office. My executive assistant, the art director and a copywriter. I want to give them a head start on the Benson, Jurgen and Ives account.”
He should have known her profitable campaign would be foremost in her mind. Then another thought struck him. He placed his hand on her arm, feeling the warmth of her through the sleeve of her jacket. “You don’t believe I’m going back, do you?”
This time she gave no rising inflection to her word. Her flat, toneless no rang with finality and defeat.
“What if you’re wrong?” he asked.
“I can live with it.” She dropped one hand from the wheel and covered his hand on her arm. “But if you’re wrong, can you?”
She squeezed his hand gently before replacing hers on the wheel, but his racing thoughts barely registered the contact. If he could close that stock agreement with Jason Phiswick, it would be the biggest deal he’d ever negotiated, setting him up with enough capital to build his fortune for the rest of his days. The challenge of it stirred his blood.
And if he didn’t go back? He’d be lost forever in the future, homeless, practically penniless, forced to hawk the success of others in order to earn a meager living.
But Victoria would be there, a rebellious voice whispered in his mind. And you’d have the challenge of building your fortune in a new world.
“Could you live with never going back?” she repeated.
He closed his mind to the seductive inner voice. “I refuse to consider that possibility until I have no other choice.”
* * *
WHEN VICTORIA’S staff had finally departed and Rand collapsed in a chair in her family room, he prayed fervently that Smallwood’s theories would prove valid. Remembering the hours of posing for instant photographs from something called a Polaroid, of having his voice and moving image recorded on a video camera, of being poked and measured for costumes, he shuddered at the thought of earning his living in such a manner.
“I found some Scotch in Dad’s study.” Victoria entered the room with a bottle and a glass. “You look as if you could use a drink. I’m sorry my crew took so long. You must be exhausted.”
“Join me?” He pulled himself upright to accept the offered glass.
She shook her head. “Alcohol doesn’t agree with me lately.”
He took a generous swallow, grateful for the heat that burned down his throat. “What now?”
She sat on the opposite end of the sofa and drew her knees to her chest. “To bed. We’ll get an early start—”
A gust of wind blew open the French doors, banging them against the wall and filling the room with frigid air. He leapt to his feet to secure the doors. When he turned toward the sofa, the ghost of Angelina Fairchild stood in the center of the room between him and Victoria. Except for the unusual pallor of her complexion, the specter appeared as real and solid as he did.
“Help me,” Angelina whimpe
red, “you must help me.”
Victoria straightened where she sat and glanced toward him. He nodded encouragement. “Now’s your chance.”
“I want to help you, Angelina,” she said in a soothing tone. “What is it you want?”
He admired the steadiness in Victoria’s voice, the calmness of her demeanor. He eased into the armchair, hoping not to call attention to himself.
Angelina paced before the sofa, wringing her pale, slender hands. The folds of her turquoise dress swished, whispering as she walked, and strands of her dark hair lifted and flowed, although there was no breeze in the room. “Help me find him. I must find him.”
“Who is he, this man you’re seeking?” Victoria asked.
“The man I love,” Angelina said, “Jason Phiswick.”
“Phiswick!” The name exploded on his lips.
Angelina whirled at the sound and focused her attention on him. “You! You’re his friend. You must know where he is.”
He spread his hands and shrugged. “Jason died decades ago.” He attempted to be gentle. “You’re in the 1990s now, Angelina. You’ve been dead almost a hundred years.”
“I can’t be dead.” The gaze of her watery blue eyes raked him. “You’re not dead. Except for your strange clothes, you look exactly as you did when I last saw you, just a few days ago.”
“He’s right, Angelina.” At the consoling sound of Victoria’s voice, the specter turned to her. “You must let this life go. You drowned in a boating accident a long time ago—after your quarrel with Jason.”
Angelina clasped her pale throat with a slender hand. “But I can’t be dead.” She lowered her hands, pressing them against her abdomen where the fabric of her dress pulled taut in fashionable tucks and pleats. “My baby—Jason’s child—I have to tell him.”
“Was that why you quarreled?” Rand asked.
Midnight black curls trembled as she shook her head. “He doesn’t know. I’d planned a special picnic for Saturday on the island. I wanted a romantic setting when I gave him the happy news.”
Puzzlement creased Victoria’s forehead. “Then why did you quarrel?”
Angelina pointed a thin finger at him. “Because of you.”
He registered the words with a sense of shock. “Me?”
Angelina’s eyes blazed. “Jason rejected my plans for a picnic. He insisted he had an important meeting with you, a meeting that was crucial to his future—our future.”
He sank into his chair. “But we haven’t had that meeting yet.” He glanced toward Victoria. “That’s the meeting I must return for.”
Angelina paced before the fireplace, creating eddies of freezing air as she passed. “He loved me. He was going to ask my father for permission for us to marry. Jason would have been pleased about the baby, I know he would.”
“Angelina.” Victoria rose from the sofa and approached the unhappy young woman. “It’s too late. Don’t you remember sailing for the island and the freak wind that overturned your boat?”
Angelina stopped her pacing and pressed her fists against her temples. “I don’t want to remember.”
“You must,” Victoria insisted gently. “You drowned when the boat capsized. And even if Jason Phiswick were alive today, he’d be over one hundred and twenty years old. You must let this life go.”
“No!”
Angelina’s mournful cry made the hair on the back of Rand’s neck stand on end. He watched Angelina approach Victoria with outstretched hands.
“You must help me find him. I’ll make you help me!” Angelina reached for Victoria’s throat.
Levering himself from his chair, he threw himself across the room between the two, knocking Victoria onto the sofa and falling across her protectively. If Angelina intended to attack Victoria, the ghost would have to go through him first.
Victoria stared at him with startled eyes and her breath warmed his cheek. Beneath him the soft curves of her body strained against his, and he raised himself on his elbows to prevent crushing her with his weight.
She glanced over his shoulder to survey the room. “Angelina’s gone.”
“Is she?” The threat of Angelina faded as his awareness of the woman beneath him increased.
“I don’t think she would have hurt me, but thank you for—protecting me.” Her breath stirred his hair.
“Victoria.” He breathed her name like a prayer, then brushed his lips across her eyelids, the tip of her nose, down the delicate line of her jaw to the pulsing vein in the hollow of her throat. At her trembling response, he shifted his weight to one elbow, drawing her to him with his other arm. The heat of her body seared the length of him.
He shouldn’t love this woman. It wasn’t fair. Within two weeks he’d be gone from her life forever, never to return. He started to pull away, but her arms encircled his neck, drawing him closer, and passion silenced the voice of reason clamoring in his head.
She lifted her lips to his, and the sweet offering of her mouth blotted out all his thoughts, leaving only instincts to guide him. Consumed by a hunger that deepened to scorching demand, his mouth locked fiercely on hers. The power of her eager response jolted every cell in his body, sending his senses singing, heating his desire to fever pitch.
He outlined the lobe of her ear with his fingertips, then traced the curve of her shoulder, caressed the slender column of her neck, felt her blood pulsing there beneath his fingers. Slipping his hand into the neckline of her blouse, he stroked the silky smoothness of her skin.
Insistent fire spread through his loins—until he remembered Angelina. The young woman’s plight, searching through the years for the father of her never-to-be-born child, sobered him. He drew back, breathing raggedly, and attempted to smile.
“There is no future in this. I cannot mislead you.”
“Mislead?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “I thought you were kissing.”
He half groaned, half laughed and pressed his fingers against her lips. “You must stop smiling at me like that or I won’t be able to resist kissing you again.”
Her smile widened. “Promise?”
He pushed away from her, intending to put as much distance between him and temptation as possible, but she held his arm. When he turned to her again, he observed the puzzled look that had replaced her smile.
“Did I do or say something wrong?” she asked.
He leaned toward her and brushed a sun gold curl from her forehead. “No. I’m the one who overstepped the mark.”
“I don’t understand.” Her husky voice rekindled the desire he’d thought subdued.
“We mustn’t—” He groped for the right words but couldn’t find them. Frustrated, he abandoned the quest. “We must make an early start tomorrow. I’m off to bed.”
He felt her gaze follow him from the room. Using all his self-control to keep from turning back, he climbed the stairs to the guest room, wondering why, if he was doing the honorable thing, he felt so miserable.
Chapter Eight
Rolling hills, barren and plowed for spring planting, homemade signs hawking pecans for sale and leafless trees, creating splotches of gray among the slash pines, shimmered in the late morning sun along the roadway choked with traffic headed south. Even in the enclosed space of the car with the heater throwing out warmth, Tory shuddered at the chill of the landscape.
She also suffered the chill of Rand’s disposition. He’d been killing her with politeness ever since their predawn breakfast. She’d probably offended his Victorian standards by her enthusiastic response to his kiss the night before. He must consider her—what was the old-fashioned term?—a brazen hussy.
He’d barely spoken then or during the two hundred miles they’d traveled since. He’d even seemed to lose his prodigious appetite. She groaned as both southbound lanes of traffic slowed ahead of them on the interstate. A delay wouldn’t improve his already somber state of mind.
Beyond the crawling traffic where the road rose to an overpass, she spotted the orange and black marki
ngs of barriers across the road. “Detour ahead.”
He shifted impatiently in his seat. “Are we in for a long delay?”
“Depends. Looks like they’re routing us through Valdosta. If traffic’s not too heavy, we might lose about fifteen minutes.”
She’d been keenly aware of his restlessness since they’d left Atlanta. The slowness of their progress seemed to chafe at him, and although he seldom moved, she could gauge his restiveness by the occasional clench of his fists, the tightening of his lips and the abrupt shifting of his weight. Driving with him was like having a caged lion strapped into the passenger seat. And if he was this restless now, how agitated would he be in several days, when Smallwood’s theories had proved to be empty promises?
Following the slow line of traffic ahead of her, she eased off the highway onto a country road. As they approached Valdosta, pine forest gave way to businesses and shops until they found themselves sandwiched between heavy traffic on a multilaned road.
“Victoria.” He shifted toward her, and a quick glance confirmed that his expression matched the seriousness in his voice. “Come back with me.”
His question threw her assessment of his mood into chaos. She’d considered his silence and aloofness a reproof of her conduct. But if he disapproved of her so strongly, why would he want her to accompany him?
She purposely misinterpreted his words. “Since I’m doing the driving, it seems I have little choice.”
“Not to Florida.” His tone caressed her, coaxed her. “Back to 1897. I have my private railcar. I’d show you Chicago, New York. We could even tour Europe together.”
His invitation touched her, tempted her. “I can’t accept your offer.”
“Why?”
She shoved away last night’s memories of her body beneath his, the heat of his lips against hers. They’d already caused her to lose most of her night’s sleep. “Because what you ask isn’t possible.”
“Why not?”
She pressed the brake as the traffic light she approached flashed yellow. Caution, a good warning. She picked her words with care. “Because I don’t believe in Smallwood’s theories. In less than two weeks, you and I will be on this same road, headed in the opposite direction.”
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