by Nora Roberts
It was all very interesting, but he didn’t think any of this information was going to help. He had to concentrate on taking his mind back to what had happened on board his ship.
But he wanted to think about Libby, about what it had felt like to hold her against him. He wanted to remember how she had heated, about the way her lips had softened when his had met them.
When her arms had come around him, he had trembled. That had never happened to him before. He had what he considered a normal, healthy track record with women. He enjoyed them, both for company and for mutual physical pleasure. Since he believed in giving as much as he took, most of his lovers had remained his friends. But none of them had ever made his system churn as it had during one kiss with Libby.
All at once she’d taken him beyond what he knew and into some wild, gut-wrenching spin. Even now he could remember what it had felt like when her lips had gone hot and urgent against his. His balance had tilted. He’d almost believed he saw lights whirling behind his eyes. It had been like being pulled toward something of enormous, limitless force.
His legs turned to water under him. Slowly he lifted a hand to brace himself against the wall. The dizziness passed, leaving a hollow throbbing at the base of his skull. And suddenly he remembered. He remembered the lights. The flashing, blinking lights in the cockpit. Navigational system failed. Shields inoperative. Automatic distress signal engaged.
The void. He could see it, and even now the sweat pearled cold on his brow. A black hole, wide and dark and thirsty. It hadn’t been on the charts. He would never have wandered so close if it had been on the charts. It had just been there, and his ship had been dragged toward it.
He hadn’t gone in. The fact that he was alive and undoubtedly on Earth made him certain of that. It was possible that he had somehow skimmed the edge of it, then shot like a rubber band through space and time. The scientists of his era would question that idea. Time travel was only a theory, and one that was usually laughed at.
But he’d done it.
Shaken, he sat on the edge of the bed. He’d survived what no one in recorded history had survived. Lifting his hands, he turned the palms upward and stared at them. He was whole, and relatively undamaged. And he was lost. He fought back a fresh wave of panic, balling his hands into fists. No, not lost—he wouldn’t accept that. If he had been shot one way, it was only logical that he could be shot another. Back home.
He had his mind, and his skill. He glanced at his wrist unit. He could work some basic computations on it. It wouldn’t be enough, it wouldn’t be nearly enough, but when he got back to his ship . . . If there was anything left of his ship.
Refusing to consider the fact that it might be completely destroyed, he began to pace. It was possible that he could interface his mini with Libby’s machine. He had to try.
He could hear her downstairs. It sounded as though she were in the kitchen again, but he doubted she would fix him another meal. The regret came, too quickly to block, and the image of her sitting across the table from him flashed through his mind. He couldn’t afford regrets, Cal reminded himself. And, if there was any choice, he wouldn’t hurt her.
He’d apologize again, he decided. In fact, if he was successful with her computer, he would get out of her life as smoothly and painlessly as possible.
He moved quickly, quietly, into her room. He could only hope she would stay occupied until he made a few preliminary calculations. He’d have to be satisfied with those until he could find his ship and employ his own computer. Though impatience pushed at him, he hesitated for another moment, listening at the doorway. She was definitely in the kitchen, and, judging by the banging going on, she was still in a temper.
The computer, with its awkward box screen and its quaint keyboard, sat on the desk, surrounded by books and papers. Cal sat in Libby’s chair and grinned at it.
“Engage.”
The screen remained blank.
“Computer, engage.” Impatient with himself, Cal remembered the keyboard. He tapped in a command and waited. Nothing.
Sitting back, he drummed his fingers on the desk and considered. Libby, for reasons Cal couldn’t fathom, had shut the machine down. That was easily remedied. He pushed through a few papers and picked up a letter opener. He turned the keyboard over, preparing to pry off the face. Then he saw the switch.
Idiot, he said to himself. They had switches for everything here. Calling on his remaining patience, he turned on the keyboard, then searched for more switches on the unit. When it began to hum, he had to muffle a cry of triumph.
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Computer—” He caught himself with a shake of the head and began to type.
Computer, evaluate and conclude time warp factor—
He stopped himself again, swore, then pried off the plastic cover to reveal the memory board. His impatience was making him sloppy. And—worse—stupid. You couldn’t get anything out of a machine that hadn’t been put in. It was delicate, time-consuming work, but he forced himself not to rush. When he was finished, it was jury-rigged at best, but his wrist unit was interfaced with Libby’s computer.
He took a deep breath and crossed the fingers on both hands. “Hello, computer.”
Hello, Cal. The tinny words beeped from his wrist unit as the letters flashed across Libby’s screen.
“Oh, baby, it’s good to hear from you.”
Affirmative.
“Computer, relay known data on theory of time travel through force of gravity and acceleration.”
Untested theory, first proposed by Dr. Linward Bowers, 2110. Bowers hypothesized—
“No.” Cal dragged a hand through his hair. In his hurry, he was getting ahead of himself. “I don’t have time for all of that now. Evaluate and conclude. Time travel and survival probability on encounter with black hole.”
Working . . . Insufficient data.
“Damn it, it happened. Analyze necessary acceleration and trajectory. Stop.” He heard Libby coming up the stairs and had time only to shut down the unit before she stepped inside.
“What are you doing?”
Trying for a look of innocence, Cal smiled and swung out of the chair. “I was looking for you.”
“If you’ve messed with my machine . . .”
“I couldn’t help glancing at your papers. Fascinating stuff.”
“I think so.” She frowned at her desk. Everything seemed in order. “I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone.”
“No one here but you and me.” He smiled again. If he could distract her for a few minutes, he could disengage his unit and wait for a safer time. “I was probably mumbling to myself. Libby . . .” He took a step toward her, but she thrust a tray at him.
“I made you a sandwich.”
He took the tray and set it on the bed. Her simple kindness left him feeling as guilty as sin. “You’re a very nice woman.”
“Just because you annoy me doesn’t mean I’d starve you.”
“I don’t want to annoy you.” He stepped over quickly when she wandered toward the computer. “I don’t seem to be able to avoid it. I’m sorry you didn’t like what happened before.”
She cast him a quick, uneasy glance. “That’s better forgotten.”
“No, it’s not.” Needing the contact, he closed a hand over hers. “Whatever happens, it’s something I won’t forget. You touched something in me, Libby, something that hasn’t been touched before.”
She knew what he meant, exactly, precisely. And it frightened her. “I have to get back to work.”
“Do all women find it difficult to be honest?”
“I’m not used to this,” she blurted out. “I don’t know how to deal with it. I’m not comfortable around men. I’m just not passionate.”
When he laughed, she spun away, furious and embarrassed.
She felt something shift inside her, strain for freedom. “For my work,” she said, spacing her words carefully. “For my family. But not in the way you mean.”
She believed it, Cal decided as he studied her. Or she had made herself believe it. In the past two days he’d learned what it was like to doubt yourself. If he could repay her in no other way, perhaps he could show her what kind of woman she held trapped inside.
“Would you like to take a walk?”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“A walk.”
“Why?”
He tried not to smile. She was a woman who would require reasons. “It’s a nice day, and I’d like to see a little of where I am. You could show me.”
She untangled the fingers she’d twisted together. Hadn’t she promised herself she would take time to enjoy herself? He was right. It was a nice day, and her work could certainly wait.
“You’ll need your shoes,” she told him.
***
There was a scent to the cool, slightly moist air. Pine, he realized after several moments’ mental debate. The scent was pine, like Christmas. But it came from the genuine article, not a scent disk or a simulator. The ground was thick with trees, and the breeze, though it was light, sounded through them like a sea. The clear pale-blue sky was marred only by the gray-edged clouds due north. There was birdsong.
But for the cabin behind them and a dilapidated shed, there were no man-made structures—just mountain, sky and forest.
“This is incredible.”
“Yes, I know.” She smiled, wishing it didn’t please her quite so much that he appreciated and understood. “Whenever I come here, I’m tempted to stay.”
He walked beside her, matching her pace, as they entered the sun-dappled forest. It didn’t feel odd being alone with her now. It felt right. “Why don’t you?”
“My work, primarily. The university wouldn’t pay me to walk in the woods.”
“What do they pay you for?”
“To research.”
“When you don’t research, how do you live?”
“How?” She tilted her head. “Quietly, I suppose. I have an apartment in Portland. I study, lecture, read.”
The path was steeper now. “For entertainment?”
“Movies.” She shrugged. “Music.”
“Television?”
“Yes.” She had to laugh. “Sometimes too often. What about you? Do you remember what you like to do?”
“Fly.” His grin was quick and charming. She hardly noticed when he took her hand. “There’s nothing else like it, not for me. I’d like to take you up and show you.”
Her expression was bland as she glanced at the bandage on his head. “I’ll pass.”
“I’m a good pilot.”
Amused, she reached down to pick a wildflower. “Possibly.”
“Absolutely.” In a move that was both smooth and natural, he took the flower from her and slipped it into her hair. “I had some trouble with my instruments, or I wouldn’t be here.”
Because the gesture threw her off, she stared at him for a moment before she began to walk again. “Where were you going?” She slowed her pace as Cal dallied, picking wildflowers along the trail.
“Los Angeles.”
“You had a long way to go.”
He opened his mouth, fooled for a moment into thinking she was making a joke. “Yes,” he finally managed. “Longer than I anticipated.”
Hesitantly she touched the blossom in her hair. “Will someone be looking for you?”
“Not for a while.” He turned his face to the sky. “If we find my . . . plane tomorrow, I can assess the damage and go on from there.”
“We should be able to drive into town in another day or two.” She wanted to smooth away the worry line that had formed between his brows. “You can see a doctor, make some phone calls.”
“Phone calls?”
His baffled look had her worrying about his head injury again. “To your family or friends, or your employer.”
“Right.” He took her hand again, absently sniffing at the clutch of flowers he held. “Can you give me the bearing and distance from here to where you found me?”
“Bearing and distance?” Laughing, she sat on the bank of a narrow, fast-running creek. “How about if I tell you it was that way?” She pointed toward the southeast. “Ten miles as the crow flies, double that by the road.”
He dropped down beside her. Her scent was as fresh as the wildflowers, and more alluring. “I thought you were a scientist.”
“That doesn’t mean I can give you longitude and latitude or whatever. Ask me about the mudmen of New Guinea and I’ll be brilliant.”
“Ten miles.” Eyes narrowed, he scanned the fringe of fir. Where it thinned, he could see a towering, rough-edged mountain, blue in the sunlight. “And there’s nothing between here and there? No city? No settlement?”
“No. This area is still remote. We get a few hikers now and again.”
Then it was unlikely that anyone had come across his ship. That was one concern he could push to the back of his mind. His main problem now was how to locate his ship without Libby. The easiest way, he supposed, would be to leave at first light, in her vehicle.
But that was tomorrow. He was coming to understand that time was too precious, and too capricious, to waste.
“I like it here.” It was true. He enjoyed sitting on the cool grass, listening to the water. It made him wonder what it would be like to come back to this same spot two centuries later. What would he find?
The mountain would be there, and possibly part of the forest that closed in around them. This same creek might still rush over these same stones. But there would be no Libby. The ache came again, dull and gnawing.
“When I’m home again,” he said very slowly, “I’ll think of you here.”
Would he? She stared at the water, at the play of sunlight over it, and wished it didn’t matter. “Maybe you’ll come back sometime.”
“Sometime.” He toyed with her fingers. She would be a ghost to him then, a woman who had existed only in a flash of time, a woman who had made him wish for the impossible. “Will you miss me?”
“I don’t know.” But she didn’t draw her hand away, because she realized she would miss him, more than was reasonable.
“I think you will.” He forgot his ship, his questions, his future, and concentrated on her. He began to weave the flowers he’d picked through her hair. “They name stars and moons and galaxies for goddesses,” he murmured. “Because they were strong and beautiful and mysterious. Man, mortal man, could never quite conquer them.”
“Most cultures have some historical belief in mythology.” She cleared her throat and began to pleat the baggy material of her slacks. “Ancient astronomers . . .” He turned her face to his with a fingertip.
“I wasn’t talking about myths. Though you look like one with flowers in your hair.” Gently he touched a petal near her cheek. “‘There be none of Beauty’s daughters/ With a magic like thee/ And like music on the waters/ Is thy sweet voice to me.’”
It was a dangerous man, she knew instinctively, who could smile like the devil and quote poetry in a voice like silk. His eyes were the color of the sky just before dusk, a deep, dreamy blue. She’d never thought she was the kind of woman who could go weak just looking into a man’s eyes. She didn’t want to be.
“I should go back. I have a lot of work to do.”
“You work too much.” His brow rose when she turned her head aside and frowned. “What button did I push?”
Restless, more annoyed with herself than with him, she shrugged. “Someone always seems to be saying that to
me. Sometimes I even say it to myself.”
“It isn’t a crime, is it?”
She laughed because his question seemed so sincere. “Not yet, anyway.”
“It’s not a crime to take a day off?”
“No, but—”
“No’s enough. Why don’t we say ‘It’s Miller Time?’” At her baffled look, he spread his hands. “You know, like on the commercials.”
“Yes, I know.” Hooking an arm around one upraised knee, she studied him. Poetry one moment, beer commercials the next. “Every now and again, Hornblower, I wonder if you’re for real.”
“Oh, I’m real.” He stretched out to watch the sky. The grass was cool and soft beneath him, and the wind played lazily through the trees. “What do you see? Up there?”
She tilted her head back. “The sky. A blue one, thank goodness, with a few clouds that should clear by evening.”
“Don’t you ever wonder what’s beyond it?”
“Beyond what?”
“The blue.” With his eyes half-closed, he imagined . . . the endless sweep of stars, the pure black of space, the beautiful symmetry of orbiting moons and planets. “Don’t you ever think about the worlds up there, just out of reach?”
“No.” She saw only the arc of blue, speared through by mountains. “I suppose it’s because I think more about worlds that were. My work usually keeps my feet, and my eyes, on the ground.”
“If there’s going to be a world tomorrow, you have to look to the stars.” He caught himself. It seemed foolish to pine for something that might be lost. How odd it was that he was thinking so much of the future, and Libby so much of the past, when they had the here and now.
“What movies and music?” he asked abruptly. Libby shook her head. There seemed to be no order to his thought patterns. “Before, you said you liked movies and music for fun. Which ones?”
“All sorts. Good or bad. I’m easily entertained.”
“Tell me your favorite movie.”
“That’s difficult.” But his eyes were so intense, so earnest, that she picked one at random from her list of favorites. “Casablanca.”
