It's About Time

by Charlotte Douglas

  When he climbed to his feet, she feared for an instant he would turn away, but he bent forward, lifting her in his arms and carrying her toward the sofa. She reveled in the pressure of his embrace and twined her arms around him, clasping the back of his neck, drawing his mouth to hers.

  Her breath mingled with his, and Rand descended into a world of desire, where his codes of conduct and responsibility evaporated in primal heat. He covered the warmth of her mouth with his, teasing her lips apart, tasting, delving, devouring, cherishing her soft, pliant body.

  Her fingers kneaded the muscles of his shoulders and back through the soft cotton of his shirt, firing his blood, hardening his groin with longing. He stared into eyes of seawater green, deep springs reflecting his desire.

  “My God, Victoria,” he breathed against the satin smoothness of her throat as he placed her on the sofa and lowered his body to hers.

  “Prayer won’t help you now.” Her face lighted with humor—and something deeper that stoked the flames in his loins.

  She entwined her legs with his, drew him closer and tumbled through an abundance of sensations, the musky scent of sandalwood, the taste of salt, the pressure of his lips, the hardness of his body crushed against her hips, the pounding of her pulses. She wanted nothing more than to hold on to him for all time.

  As his hand slid beneath her blouse and brushed across her breasts, she gasped in pleasure and trembled in anticipation as he slowly unfastened buttons, thrusting the fabric aside. She arched her back while his hands fumbled with the clasp of her bra. When he beheld her half-naked form beneath him, she exulted in the worship in his eyes.

  “I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you.” His hands cupped her breasts, teasing the peaks with his thumbs, sending a tremor of delight through her. His eyes ignited like molten steel. “Does this please you?”

  In silent response, her fingers gripped his shoulders and she arched her back again, offering herself to him, while his fingers worked their magic. He dipped his head and flicked her nipples with his tongue until her body writhed with pleasure.

  With eager fingers she tugged his shirt from his slacks and pushed it over the broad muscles of his chest, pulling it over his head, baring his torso. He clasped her to him with a muffled cry, and the shock of his bare skin against her breasts sent rivers of heat cascading through her. His arms enfolded her, his mouth consumed her and she could think of nothing but her need for him.

  Suddenly he grew still, then raised himself upon his elbows, gazing at her with pain-filled eyes. “I cannot do this, Victoria.”

  She shivered as the somber expression on his face quickly drenched her desire. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted me.”

  “More than anything on earth. But because I...value you, I cannot sully your reputation by making love to you, then deserting you.”

  The agony on his face convinced her of his sincerity, but that fact didn’t ease her frustration. “I don’t want to be valued.”

  How could she make him understand that what she wanted was to be loved, to feel the length of his naked flesh against hers, to open her body to him, to feel the shuddering ecstasy of his release and her own? But the seriousness of his expression dampened her hopes and her ardor, as well.

  Suddenly cold, she wriggled beneath his weight and he lifted his body from hers and sat beside her. When she’d pulled her blouse over her shivering skin, he drew her into his arms once more.

  “I can’t change who I am.” He stroked her hair with a gentle hand. “If I had continued, loved you as I wanted, I would have dishonored you forever. I care for you too deeply to shame you so.”

  “Oh, Rand.” She snuggled against his bare chest and sighed with frustration. Damn his Victorian values. “Times have changed. Lovemaking isn’t something a man does to a woman. It’s something they both enjoy. You wouldn’t have dishonored me.” She turned her face to his. “You would have honored me greatly.”

  “I could never view it that way. We’re from two different worlds, Victoria.” He lowered his lips to hers in a tender, lingering kiss.

  When she finally caught her breath again, she laid her hand against his cheek, caressing the rough stubble that darkened the strong line of his jaw. “Men and women haven’t changed that much in a hundred years. Neither has love.”

  Love. The word thundered in her ears. She’d fallen in love with Randolph Trent. She burrowed deeper in his embrace, contemplating the future. Smallwood’s theories would prove worthless, Rand could play the part of her Money Man and then the two of them could settle down for happily ever after in her big house in Atlanta.

  “Love isn’t possible for us,” he whispered against her hair.

  She drew back and searched his face, remembering the elusive Selena and wondering if there was something he hadn’t told her. “Why not?”

  “There’s the slight matter of a century that will soon separate us,” he reminded her.

  “Oh, that.” She relaxed in his arms. She’d had a momentary lapse of reason earlier, believing in the possibility that time would open up again and take him from her. But with her common sense restored, her fears vanished. Once he realized he was in the twentieth century to stay, he’d allow himself to love her. The thought sent waves of tingling warmth through her body, and she nestled closer against him.

  His arms tightened around her. “Let’s make every minute we have left together a celebration. I’ll call room service and order the best dinner in the house—filet mignon and a magnum of champagne.”

  “And candlelight,” she murmured, “and a roaring fire in the fireplace, even if we have to run the air-conditioning on high to counteract the heat.”

  “And flowers for you, a roomful of flowers.” He brushed her eyelids, chin and tip of her nose with his lips before merging his mouth with hers.

  She sighed with contentment. The idea of remaining sequestered with him in the hotel room for the next ten days grew very appealing. Ten days was too long a time for any man to resist temptation. Besides, events were unfolding in a most satisfactory sequence. As she realized he hadn’t mentioned money once since their return to the Bellevue, a low laugh bubbled in her throat and she returned his kiss with enthusiasm.

  A faint rustle penetrated her haze of happiness, the room suddenly chilled, and without looking, she knew Angelina had returned.

  When she raised her head from Rand’s embrace, the ghostly young woman stood in front of the bay window, wringing pale, slender hands and crying softly. This time she didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge their presence in any way, but paced back and forth before the windows while silver tears streaked her cheeks and splotched the bodice of her blue silk gown.

  Tory stood, buttoning her blouse, straightening her jeans, and Rand rose behind her, placing a protective arm around her shoulders.

  “Angelina.” Compared to her own happiness, the young woman’s plight seemed even more poignant than before. “You can’t go on like this.”

  Startled, Angelina ceased pacing and stared across the room in surprise. “I thought I was alone.”

  “You are alone.” Tory kept her voice gentle but firm, hoping she could save the young woman’s spirit from an eternity of desperate searching. “And you will always be alone until you accept that you’re dead.”

  Tory traced through the fragments of her memory, attempting to recall what she’d learned about ghosts and haunted houses. She remembered a phrase she’d heard a psychic use in an exorcism she’d seen on television. “Go into the light, Angelina. Someone will meet you there, maybe even Jason Phiswick, and you’ll no longer be alone.”

  Angelina clenched her silk skirts in both fists as if struggling to cling to the world she knew. “I can’t go. I won’t go without Jason.”

  Rand released Tory and stepped toward the ghost. “We’ve told you. Phiswick is dead, too.”

  “How can you say such horrible things? I won’t listen any longer.” Angelina turned her back to them and gazed out the window. In
seconds, she disappeared.

  Rand returned to Tory and pulled her into his arms. “I hate the thought of leaving you here alone with Angelina.”

  Angelina’s misery tempered her earlier happiness, and Tory rested her head against his chest. “I don’t think she’d ever harm me. But it’s difficult to witness her pain night after night.”

  “If I return to 1897 in time,” he said, “perhaps I can prevent her death and stop her torment.”

  She raised her face and smiled at him. His kindness touched her. “Did anyone ever tell you what a lovely man you are?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “Hungry is the more appropriate word.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen evidence of your appetite.”

  “Have you forgotten our celebration?” He released her, crossed the room to the phone and placed the order for dinner, flowers and a fire. Then he returned and tugged her down onto the sofa next to him. “Now, where were we?”

  She came into his arms as naturally as breathing. He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her against him. Twilight deepened outside the windows, and shadows in the room lengthened.

  The devil take his luck. Why did he find such a woman only to lose her?

  “Shall I turn on a light?” he asked.

  “No, let’s wait for the candles.” She traced a finger up and down the muscle of his forearm, distracting him from thoughts of food.

  “I like the music,” he muttered against her hair.

  “What music?”

  “Can’t you hear it? I believe it’s a waltz.”

  She pulled away from him, listening to the lilting strains of a Strauss melody echoing through the room. “Where’s it coming from?”

  He picked up the remote control. “Maybe it’s the television.”

  “No, the TV’s off, or you’d see a glow from the screen.”

  “The radio?”

  She crossed the room and checked the radio by the bed. “It’s off, too.”

  “Perhaps it’s coming from the ballroom.” He opened the door and stepped into the hallway, but when he left the room, the music faded, only to swell when he entered it again.

  “Maybe it’s Angelina,” she said, “playing tricks on us.”

  He cocked his head, trying to locate the origin of the sound. “It seems to be coming from the closet. Do you have another radio in there?”

  “It could be coming through the wall from next door.”

  He flung open the closet doors and blinked in surprise. The racks of clothing and shoes had disappeared. Facing him was an image of the room in which he now stood, identical except for the missing television, minibar and telephone.

  “It’s happened!” His voice vibrated with excitement. “Time has bent back on itself. This closet has become a portal back to my time.”

  “What?” She stood at his elbow, her shoulders stiff, her face drawn. “I don’t believe it.”

  Remorse, regret, excitement, fear, love and loss flooded him. Loss. He pulled her into his arms. Now that this chance to return had come, his deals with Phiswick seemed less important. More important than anything was the woman in his arms.

  But he’d known her only a few days. Selena he’d known for years and yet he’d never seen her betrayal coming. Could he give up everything he owned, everything familiar for Victoria Caswell? Would he live to regret an impetuous moment if he rejected his only chance to return to his own time?

  “I must go back. I dare not stay.” He pressed her close, savoring the warmth of her against him one last time.

  She drew back, staring at him speechlessly with stunned disappointment clouding her eyes.

  He had to go—and quickly. Not only might the time portal disappear, but if he hesitated, his resolve to leave might weaken. If he spent another hour with her, he couldn’t leave. What was wrong with him that he wouldn’t allow himself to trust someone again? He bent his head and kissed her deeply.

  “I will love you for all time,” he promised in a husky voice. Then he turned and stepped into another century.

  * * *

  WHEN RAND STEPPED through the closet doorway, he vanished, and the racks of clothes reappeared. Tory stared at the space where he had disappeared, numb with shock.

  A rapping at the door brought her out of her trance and into pain, a ripping, searing sense of devastation.

  “Go away,” she called.

  The knock sounded again. “Room service.”

  She choked on tears. Room service had brought dinner and flowers for a celebration that would never happen. Bitterness rose in her throat as she opened the door. Instead of the uniformed waiter she expected, she found Emma, looking like a cat who’d polished off the best cream. She barged into the room without being asked.

  “Having a problem with your closet, are you?” the little woman asked.

  Tory, still reeling with bewilderment and loss, nodded.

  Emma proceeded to the closet doors and peered in. “There’s the answer.”

  Tory followed and stared at the rows of clothing and shoes. She turned to the maid. “What do you know about all this?”

  Emma stepped behind her. “Look.”

  When Tory viewed the closet once more, the clothing had disappeared again, and Rand stood opposite her in his hotel room, staring out the window with the look of a man who’d lost his soul.

  “You’ve got to give him a hand, m’dear,” Emma’s voice rumbled in her ear. “He can’t save Angelina by himself.”

  She wheeled and confronted Emma. “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s going to need your help,” the little woman insisted.

  “Oh, no—”

  But before she could protest again, Emma’s strong arms shoved her into the closet. As she stumbled into his room, Rand caught her. The time portal closed behind her.

  She was trapped forever in the past.

  Chapter Nine

  Disoriented and angry, Tory grasped the bedpost as her knees buckled beneath her. Her brief journey through the portal had sapped her strength.

  “You changed your mind?” Rand stared at her, raking his fingers through his hair and grinning like a man who’d won the lottery.

  “I had some help,” she muttered. “Emma.”

  “The maid?”

  “She shoved me through after you. I’ve been suspicious of her from the first time we met. Every time our paths cross, disaster follows.”

  She tottered on unsteady legs to the sofa and sank gratefully into its cushioned depths. Her head ached from grappling with her dilemma. Although she’d fallen in love with Rand, it had been on her turf, her terms. She’d never really believed he’d leave her, that time would shift again. She hadn’t considered in her wildest dreams returning to the nineteenth century to live out her life.

  Her life. She fell onto her side and pulled a sofa cushion over her head. What kind of life would she have now? Caswell & Associates didn’t exist, so she had no job. Her parents hadn’t been born yet, so she had no family. Grief weighed like a boulder on her chest as she stifled a sob. She’d never see Jillie again.

  And she had no money. Bitter laughter gurgled in her throat. She’d always worn her independence like a banner, but now she had no way to provide for herself, not even the basics of food, shelter and clothing.

  Clothing. She sat up and considered her clothes. Snug, faded jeans, bikini panties and a white silk blouse—her entire wardrobe, all eminently unsuitable for 1897. She wiggled her bare toes. She hadn’t even been wearing shoes when Emma shoved her through the closet.

  “What’s happening now?” Rand pointed to the wall where the time disturbance had occurred.

  An area the size of a window faded and disappeared, just long enough for a pink bundle to come flying through and land at her feet.

  She leapt from the sofa and flung herself at the wall. “Emma!”

  He restrained her before she crashed into the wallpaper. “Have you lost your mind?”

  She struggled until she r
ealized the wall had coalesced into a solid structure once more, then collapsed against the reassuring warmth of his chest.

  “Emma,” she grumbled through gritted teeth. “She’s the one behind all this. She could return me to the 1990s if she wanted.”

  He gripped her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her face toward his. “Is that what you want? To go back?”

  She stared into his eyes, swirls of gray smoke almost black with tenderness. Remembering how she’d felt in the few minutes she thought she’d lost him forever, she hesitated. She loved him. She didn’t doubt it. What worried her was the inequality of their life together in his time. Women were second-class citizens there. She resented that fact, and her resentment would slowly erode her love for him, eating away at it like acid on metal.

  “Yes. I must go back,” she said. But I want you to come with me.

  The elation Rand had experienced when Victoria appeared evaporated like mist beneath the morning sun. “So you didn’t come of your own free will?”

  Her eyes sparked with anger. “I told you, Emma pushed me!”

  “And you don’t love me enough to stay?” He tried to keep the pain from his voice.

  She broke from his embrace and paced the room. “It isn’t a question of love.”

  “If not love, what?” He shoved his hands into his back pockets, resisting the urge to grab her, crush her to him and never let go.

  Her voice sounded frail, as if her courage failed her. “What am I supposed to do? I have no job, no income. How can I support myself?”

  Fear replaced the anger in her expression, and tenderness welled up inside him. “You don’t have to support yourself. I have wealth enough to give you every necessity and any luxury you desire.”

  Caring for her, giving her a home, dressing her in the finest clothes, fulfilling her every whim would satisfy him, providing him a delightful outlet for the millions he earned.

  But his offer didn’t seem to please her. She lifted her chin and stared at him with fierce pride. “I don’t want to be dependent on you, on anyone. Besides, I need to work. It defines who I am.”