Time Was

by Nora Roberts

  Delighted, delirious, she yanked his sweater over his head. It amazed her that the need could have sharpened and grown, outracing what she had felt for him the first time. Now she knew where he would take her and had already traveled some of the routes he navigated so expertly.

  His skin was soft, smooth. It pleased her to run her hands up and over his back to feel it and the hard muscle beneath. The contrast, the peculiarly masculine contrast, made her knees weak. She heard his breath quicken as she stroked her hands from shoulder to waist.

  To be wanted this . . . desperately. She could feel it in the way he touched her, in the way his mouth came back to hers again and again for longer, deeper, hungrier kisses. His tongue tangled with hers, enticing, erotic, and she felt as well as heard him suck in his breath as her knuckles grazed his stomach.

  She had learned, Cal thought dizzily. And she had learned quickly. Her hands, and the gentle movements of her body against his, were driving him beyond reason. He wanted to tell her to give him a moment, to give him the time he needed to gain a firm, lasting grip on control. But it was already too late. Much too late.

  He dragged her to the bed. Her gasp of surprise ended in a dark moan of pleasure. She reached for him, only to find herself gripping the bedclothes as he whipped her over the first raw edge.

  She’d thought she knew what loving was. Even a night steeped in it hadn’t prepared her for this. He was crazed, and in a moment her madness matched his.

  No gentle touch, no easy persuasion. It was all hot, ripe need and a desperate race for satisfaction. Like two lost souls, they rolled over the sheets and drowned in each other.

  A desperate demand. A fervent answer. Murmured requests were for the sane. Tonight there were only breathless moans and shuddering sighs. Her skin was so slick with the heat passion pumped into her that it slid sleekly over his. Each time his mouth found hers she tasted the rich, musky flavor of desire.

  There were no velvet clouds now, but a storm breaking. Exciting. Electric. She could almost hear the air singing with it. Drums seemed to pound inside her head, inside her heart, beating in an ever-increasing rhythm. Gulping in air, she rolled over him to press her open mouth to his throat, his chest, knowing only that his flavor was dark, rich and wonderful.

  He couldn’t get enough. No matter how much she gave, he needed more and still more. He was unaware that his fingers were digging hard into her skin, bruising, even as his lips followed the trail. He could see her in the dim lamplight, the way her damp skin glowed, the way her head fell back each time pleasure overtook her. Her eyes were gold, like some dark, ancient coin. Tribute for a goddess. He thought of her as one now, as she rose over him, her body curved back like a bow, the light casting an aura around her hair.

  He thought he would die for her, thought he would die without her. Then she was taking him into her, deeply, fully. He reached blindly, as she did, and their hands linked.

  Then there was no thought at all.

  ***

  He held her close long after the tremors had subsided in both of them. He tried to remember what he had done, what she had done, but it was all a blur of torrential sensations and emotions that had bordered on the violent. He was afraid he had hurt her, that now that her mind and body had cooled she would pull away from him and what was inside him.

  “Libby?”

  Her only answer was a slight shifting of her head against his chest. One of her greatest pleasures was feeling his heart race under her cheek.

  “I’m sorry.” He stroked her hair, wondering if it was too late for tenderness.

  Her eyes opened. Even that effort was almost more than she could manage. There was a flicker of doubt she struggled to ignore. “You are?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what happened. I’ve never treated another woman like that.”

  “You haven’t?” He couldn’t see the smile that curved her lips.

  “No.” Cautious, ready to release her if she jerked away, he lifted her head. “I’d like to make it up to you,” he began. Then saw that the glint in her eyes was not tears but laughter. “You’re smiling.”

  “How,” she said, kissing the bandage on his forehead, “would you like to make it up to me?”

  “I thought I’d hurt you.” He rolled her over on her back, then took a good long look. She was still smiling, and her eyes were dark with centuries of secrets only women fully understood. “I guess not.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.” She stretched, not because she meant to entice, but because she felt as contented as a cat in a sunbeam. “How are you going to make it up to me?”

  “Well . . .” He glanced around the rumpled bed, then shimmied up to look down at the floor. Reaching down, he plucked up her fallen glasses. He twirled them once by the sidepiece, then grinned. “Why don’t you put these on, and I’ll show you?”

  Chapter 9

  Libby was lingering over a second cup of coffee, wondering if being in love was directly connected to the difficulty she was having facing a day cooped up with her computer. She recognized the signs of procrastination in Cal, as well. He sat across from her, poking at the remains of her breakfast. He’d already eaten his own.

  More than procrastination, she mused. He looked troubled again, as he had when he’d come back the night before. As he had seemed, she thought, when they’d fallen asleep. More than once during the night, and the morning, she’d been certain he was about to tell her something. Something she was afraid she would hate to hear.

  She wanted to find a way to encourage him, to smooth the way to his leaving her. Love, she thought with a sigh, had made her crazy.

  The rain had come, in a long, quiet shower that had lasted almost until morning. Now, with the sun, the light was soft, ethereal, and there were pockets of mist hugging the ground.

  It was a good day for making excuses, for taking aimless walks in the woods, for making lazy love under a quilt. But thinking like that, Libby reminded herself, wouldn’t help Cal find his way home.

  “You’d better get started.” It was a gentle nudge, offered without enthusiasm.

  “Yeah.” He would rather have sat where he was, ignoring reality. Instead, he stood and, giving her a quick kiss, walked to the back door. When he opened it, the kitchen filled with birdsong. “I was thinking I’d take a break during the afternoon. Maybe come back for lunch. I’m getting so I can’t stomach the stores on the ship.” It was more that he couldn’t stand being away from her, but she smiled, taking him at his word.

  “Okay.” Already the day seemed brighter. “If I’m not slaving over a hot stove, I’ll be upstairs working.”

  It seemed so normal, Libby thought when he closed the door behind him, to part in the morning with an easy kiss and plans to meet for lunch. That was probably best, she decided after she topped off her cup and took it upstairs with her. There was certainly little else about their relationship that anyone would have called normal.

  She worked well into the afternoon, blaming her edginess on the caffeine. She didn’t want to dwell on the fact that Cal had seemed too quiet, too thoughtful, that morning. They both had a lot on their minds. And, she reminded herself, he would be back soon. Since it would be a habit soon broken, she decided to cut her own work short to go down and fix him something special for lunch. When she reached the base of the stairs, she heard the sound of a car.

  Visitors weren’t just rare at the cabin, they were nonexistent. Feeling equal parts surprise and annoyance, she opened the front door.

  “Oh, my God.” Now it was all surprise, with a healthy dose of trepidation. “Mom! Dad!” Then it was love, waves of it, as she rushed out to greet her parents. They stepped out from either side of a small, battered pickup.

  “Liberty.” Caroline Stone welcomed her daughter with a throaty laugh and a theatrical spread of her arms. She was dressed almost iden
tically to Libby, in faded jeans and a chunky, hip-grazing sweater. But, unlike Libby’s plain red wool, Caroline’s was a symphony of hues and tones she had woven herself. She wore two jet-black drop earrings—in the same ear—and a necklace of tourmaline that glittered in the light.

  Libby kissed Caroline’s smooth, unpowdered cheek. “Mom! What are you doing here?”

  “I used to live here,” she reminded Libby, then kissed her again while William stood back and grinned. They were two of the three most important women in his life. Though they were a generation apart, he noted with pride that his wife looked hardly older than his daughter. Their coloring and build was so similar that more often than not they were mistaken for sisters.

  “What am I?” he demanded. “Part of the scenery?” He spun Libby around for one of his hard, swaying hugs. “My baby,” he said, and gave her a loud, smacking kiss. “The scientist.”

  “My daddy,” she responded in kind, “the executive.”

  He winced just a little. “Don’t let it get around. So, let me get a look at you.”

  Grinning, Libby took her own survey. He still wore his hair too long to be conservative, though there was a sprinkle of silver in the dark blond waves, and a bit more dashed through his beard. Both were trimmed now by a barber with a French accent, but little else about William Stone had changed. He was still the man she remembered, the man who had carried her papoose-style through the forest.

  He was tall, and at best he would be considered stringy. Long legs and arms gave him a gangly look. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones sunken. His eyes were a deep, pure gray that promised honesty.

  “So?” Libby turned in a saucy circle. “What do you think?”

  “Not too bad.” He slipped an arm around Caroline’s shoulders. Together they looked as they always had. United. “We did a pretty good job on the first two, Caro.”

  “You did an excellent job,” Libby corrected. Then she stopped. “First two?”

  “You and Sunbeam, love.” With an easy smile, Caroline reached in the back of the pickup. “Why don’t we get the groceries inside?”

  “But I—Groceries.” Biting her lip, Libby watched her parents pull out bags. Several bags. She had to tell them . . . something. “I’m so happy to see both of you.” She grunted a bit when her father set two heavy brown sacks in her arms. “And I’d like to . . . that is, I should tell you that I’m not . . . alone.”

  “That’s nice.” Absently William pulled out another sack. He wondered if his wife had noticed the bag of barbecued potato chips he’d stashed inside. Of course she had, he thought. She never missed anything. “We always like to meet your friends, baby.”

  “Yes, I know, but this one—”

  “Caro, take that one along inside. One’s enough for you to carry.”

  “Dad.” Seeing no other way, Libby blocked her father’s progress. She snagged her lip again when she heard the door swing open and shut behind her mother. “I really should explain.” Explain what, she wondered? And how?

  “I’m listening, Libby, but these bags are getting heavy.” He shifted them. “Must be all the tofu.”

  “It’s about Caleb.”

  That caught his attention. “Caleb who?”

  “Hornblower. Caleb Hornblower. He’s . . . here,” she managed weakly. “With me.”

  William cocked one gently arched brow. “Oh, really?”

  ***

  The man in question parked his cycle behind the shed and, lecturing himself, strode toward the house. There was nothing wrong in taking an afternoon break. In any case, the computer was hard at work even in his absence. He’d completed most of the major repairs to the ship, and in another day, two at the most, it would be ready for flight.

  If he wanted to spend an extra hour or so with a beautiful, exciting woman, he was entitled. He wasn’t dragging his heels. He wasn’t in love with her.

  And the sun revolved around the planets.

  Swearing under his breath, he walked through the open back door. Just seeing her made him smile. Even if he could only see her small, nicely rounded bottom as she rummaged in the bottom of the refrigerator. His mood lifting, he walked quietly over to grab her firmly, intimately, by the hips.

  “Babe, I can never make up my mind which side of you I like best.”

  “Caleb!”

  The astonished exclamation came not from the woman he’d only just turned into his arms but from the kitchen doorway. His head whipped around, and he stared at Libby, who was gaping, wide-eyed, from across the room, her arms full of brown bags. Beside her stood a tall, thin man who was eyeing him with obvious dislike.

  Slowly Caleb turned back to see that he was embracing an equally attractive, if somewhat older, woman than the one he’d expected.

  “Hello,” she said, and smiled quite beautifully. “You must be Libby’s friend.”

  “Yes.” He managed to clear his throat. “I must be.”

  “You might want to let go of my wife,” William told him. “So that she can close the refrigerator.”

  “I beg your pardon.” He took a long and very hasty step back. “I thought you were Libby.”

  “Are you in the habit of grabbing my daughter by the—”

  “Dad.” Libby cut him off as she dumped the bags on the table. As beginnings went, she thought, this one was hardly auspicious. “This is Caleb Hornblower. He’s . . . staying with me for a while. Cal, these are my parents, William and Caroline Stone.”

  Terrific. Since he didn’t think he could manage to have his molecules reappear in a different location, he figured he’d better face the music. “Nice to meet you.” He found that the best place for his hands was his pockets. “Libby looks a great deal like you.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Caroline beamed another smile at him. “Though never quite in that way.” Wanting to let him off the hook, she offered him a hand. “Will, why don’t you put those bags down and say hello to Libby’s friend?”

  He took his time about it. William wanted to size the man up. Good-looking enough, he supposed. Strong features, steady eyes. Time would tell. “Hornblower, is it?” William was pleased that Cal’s grip was cool and firm.

  “Yes.” It was the first time he’d been weighed and measured so thoroughly since he’d enlisted in the ISF. “Should I apologize again?”

  “Once was probably enough.” But William held his opinion on the rest in reserve.

  “I was just about to make lunch.” She had to do something, Libby thought, to keep everyone busy until she’d worked out a solution.

  “Good idea.” Caroline pulled fresh cauliflower out of a bag. She’d found the chips, and a jar of pickled hot sausages William had smuggled in. “But I’ll make it. Why don’t you give me a hand, William?”

  “But I—”

  “Brew some tea,” she suggested.

  “I’d love some tea,” Libby said, knowing it was a sure way to her father’s heart. She took Cal by the hand. “We’ll be right back.” The moment they were in the living room, she turned on him. “What are we going to do?”

  “About what?”

  With a sound of disgust, Libby paced toward the fireplace. “I’ve got to tell them something, and it can hardly be that you’ve just dropped in from the twenty-third century.”

  “No, I’d just as soon you didn’t.”

  “But I never lie to them.” Torn, Libby poked a charred log with her toe. “I can’t.”

  He walked over to cup her chin in his hand. “Leaving out a few small details isn’t lying.”

  “Small details? Like the fact that you came visiting in a spaceship?”

  “For one.”

  She closed her eyes. It should be funny. Maybe it would be in five or ten years. “Hornblower, this situation would be awkward enough without the added bonus of you
being from where—make that when—you are.”

  “What situation?”

  She tried not to grind her teeth. “They’re my parents, this is their house, and you and I are—” She made a circling gesture with her hand.

  “Lovers,” he supplied.

  “Will you keep your voice down?”

  Patient, he laid his hands on her shoulders, gently kneading. “Libby, they probably figured that out when I almost kissed your mother in the refrigerator.”

  “About that—”

  “I thought she was you.”

  “I know. Still—”

  “Libby, I realize it wasn’t the most traditional way to meet your parents, but I think that of the four of us I was the most surprised.”

  She couldn’t help chuckling. “Maybe.”

  “Absolutely. So I think we should just get on to the next step.”

  “Which is?”

  “Lunch.”

  “Hornblower.” With a sigh, she dropped her forehead on his chest. It was a pity this was one of the things she loved about him—his ability to appreciate the simple things. “I wish you’d get it through your head that this is a sensitive situation. What are we going to do about it?” She waited one beat. “If you ask me about what, I’m going to smack you.”

  “You talk tough.” Framing her face with his hands, he lifted it. “Let’s see some action.”

  Libby didn’t make even a token protest as his mouth lowered to hers. It was all some sort of a dream anyway, she told herself. Surely she could make everything come out all right in her own dream.

  There was a loud, annoyed cough from behind her. Jerking away from Cal, she looked at her father. “Ah . . .”

  “Your mother says lunch is ready.” Though he hated acting so predictably, he gave Cal one last measuring look before he went back into the kitchen.

  “I think he’s warming up to me,” Cal mused.