by Nora Roberts
“Libby—” He was up and standing behind her, his hands hovering over her shoulders.
“I’ve studied the past,” she said quickly, turning and gripping his forearms. “If you let me come with you, it would give me the chance to study the future.”
He framed her face with his hands. There was a glint of tears in her eyes. “And your family?”
“They’d understand. I’d leave them a letter, try to explain.”
“They’d never believe you,” he said quietly. “They’d spend years looking for you, wondering if you were still alive. Libby, can’t you see that’s what’s tearing me apart about my own? They don’t know where I am or what’s happened to me. I know by now they’re waiting to hear if I’m dead or alive.”
“I’ll make them understand.” She heard the desperation in her own voice and fought to steady it. “If they know I’m happy, that I’m doing what I want to do, they’ll be satisfied with that.”
“Maybe. Yes, if they were sure. But I can’t take you, Libby.”
She made her hands drop away and stepped back. “No, of course not. I don’t know what I was thinking of. I got caught up—”
“Damn it, don’t.” Grabbing her arms, he hauled her against him. “Don’t think I don’t want you, because I do. It’s not a choice of right or wrong, Libby. If I could be sure, if there were no risks involved, I might toss you on the damn ship whether you wanted to go with me or not.”
“Risks?” She’d stiffened at the word, and now she drew back. “What risks?”
“Nothing’s foolproof.”
“Don’t treat me like a fool. What risks?”
He let out a long breath. There was a calculation he hadn’t given her the night before. “The probability factor for a successful time warp is 76.4.”
“76.4,” she repeated. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that leaves 23.6 as the factor for failure. What happens if you fail?”
“I don’t know.” But he could make a good guess. Frying in the sun’s gravitational pull was one of the less painful possibilities. “And I won’t take chances with you, no matter how much I want you with me.”
She wasn’t going to panic, because panic wouldn’t help. Taking three deep breaths, she felt some balance return. “Caleb, if you gave yourself a little more time, do you think you could narrow the odds?”
“Maybe. Probably,” he conceded. “Libby, I’m running out of time. The ship’s already been in the open for two weeks. It was blind luck that we headed off the Rankins yesterday. What do you think would happen to me, to us, if it were found? If I were found?”
“The real season doesn’t start for weeks. We hardly get more than a dozen hikers in a year.”
“It only takes one.”
He was right, and she knew it. They’d been living on borrowed time right from the start. “I’ll never know, will I?” She traced a finger under the fading wound on his brow. “Whether you made it.”
“I’m a good pilot. Trust me.” He kissed her fingers. “And it’ll be easier for me to concentrate if I’m not worried about you.”
“It’s hard to argue with common sense.” She worked up a smile. “I know you said you had a few last details to see to at the ship. I’m just going to walk back to the cabin.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Take your time.” She needed some of her own. “I’ll fix a bon voyage supper.” She started off at an easy gait, then called over her shoulder, “Oh, Hornblower, pick me some flowers.”
***
He picked an armful. It wasn’t easy balancing them as he flew the cycle. The path beneath him was strewn with white and pink and pale blue blossoms. He thought they smelled like her—fresh, earthy, exotic.
In the hours he’d worked aboard ship one thought had run continually through his mind. She’d been willing to go with him. To leave her home. Not just her home, he corrected. Her life.
Perhaps it had been impulse, something that had been born of the moment.
Reasons didn’t matter. He needed to hold on to that one sweet thought. She’d been willing to go with him.
He saw only the faintest light through the kitchen window. That had him frowning as he stored his bike and retrieved a few of the fallen flowers. Perhaps she’d decided to take a nap or was waiting for him in the front of the cabin by the fire.
He liked the idea of seeing her there, curled up on the couch under one of her mother’s exquisite throws. She’d be reading, her eyes a little sleepy behind her glasses.
Pleased with the image, he opened the door and found a completely different, and even more alluring, one.
She was waiting for him. But it was candlelight. She was still lighting them, dozens of them, all pure white. The table was set for two, and a bottle of champagne sat nestled in a clear bucket. The room smelled of candles, of the spices she’d used for cooking, and of her.
She turned to smile at him, and he felt the breath quite simply leave his body.
Her hair was swept up off her neck so that he could see the long, delicate curve. She wore a dress the color of moonlight that glittered at the bodice as she moved. It left her shoulders bare, then slipped like a lover down her hips and thighs.
“You remembered.” She crossed to him, holding out her arms for the flowers. He didn’t move a muscle. “Are they for me?”
“What? Yes.” Like a man in a trance, he offered them to her. “There were more when I started out.”
“This is more than enough.” She had a vase waiting, and she filled it. “Dinner’s almost ready. I hope you like it.”
“You dazzle me, Liberty.”
She turned back, electrified by what she saw in his eyes. “I wanted to, just once.” When he just continued to stare, her shyness rose up and had her twisting her fingers. “I bought the champagne and the dress while I was in town yesterday. I thought it would be nice to do something a little special tonight.”
“I’m afraid if I move you’ll vanish.”
“No.” She offered her hand and gripped hard when he took it. “I’ll stay right here. Why don’t you open the bottle?”
“I want to kiss you first.”
Her heart went into her smile as she wound her arms around his neck. “All right. Just once.”
They ate. But the trouble she had gone to over the meal was wasted. They didn’t know what they were tasting. Champagne was superfluous. They were already drunk on each other. The candles burned down low while they lingered.
They carried some up to the bedroom, filling the room with the soft, flickering light so that they could watch each other as they loved.
There was sweetness, slow, savoring sweetness. There was urgency, fevered, racing urgency. There was power and tenderness, demand and generosity.
Hour melted into hour, but they never drew apart. Each tremble, each sigh, each heartbeat would be remembered. The candles guttered out, but they were still wrapped together.
Then, though the words were never spoken, they knew it was the last time. His hands seemed that much more gentle, her lips that much softer.
When it was over, the beauty left her weak and weepy. In defense, she curled against him and prayed for sleep. She couldn’t bear to watch him go.
He lay still, wakeful until the first faint hints of light crept into the room. He was grateful she slept; he would never have been able to say goodbye. When he rose it hurt, a sharp, sweet ache that rocked him. Moving quickly, struggling to keep his mind blank, he pulled on the jumpsuit she’d set out for him.
Afraid of waking her, he touched only her hair, then moved quietly out of the room. Libby opened her eyes only when she heard the soft click of the cabin door. Turning her face into the pillow, she let the tears come.
***
The ship was secured, and the calculat
ions were plotted. Cal sat on the bridge and watched night fade. It was important that he take off before sunrise. He had the timing down to a millisecond. There was little room for error. His life depended on it.
But his thoughts kept drifting back to Libby. Why hadn’t he known it would hurt this badly to leave? Yet he had to leave. His life, his time, weren’t here with hers. There was no use going over again what he had already agonized over a dozen times.
Still, he sat while precious moments clicked away.
Prepare for standard orbital flight.
“Yes,” he told the computer absently. Instruments began to hum. In a way that was second nature to him, Cal prepared for take off. He paused again, staring at the viewscreen.
All systems ready. Ignition at your discretion.
“Right. Commence countdown.”
Commencing. Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .
***
From the kitchen doorway, Libby heard the rumble. Impatient, she rubbed tears from her eyes and strained to see. There was a flash. She thought she caught a quick glint of metal streaking across the lightening sky. Then it was gone. The woods were quiet again.
She shivered. She wished she could convince herself it was because the air was chill and she was wearing only her short blue robe.
“Be safe,” she murmured. Then gave in and allowed herself the luxury of a few more tears.
Life went on, she lectured herself. The birds were beginning to sing. The sun was nearly up.
She wanted to die.
That was nonsense. Shaking herself, she set the kettle on to boil. She was going to have a cup of tea, wash the dishes they’d been too careless to notice the night before. Then she was going back to work.
She would work until she couldn’t keep her eyes open, and then she would sleep. She would get up again and work again until her dissertation was complete. It would be the best damn paper her colleagues had ever read. And then she’d travel.
And she would miss him until the day she died.
When the kettle boiled, she poured her tea, then sat with it at the kitchen table. After a moment, she shoved it aside, laid her head on her folded hands and wept again.
“Libby.”
She knocked the chair over as she rose. He was there, standing in the doorway, fatigue all over his face and something, something much more powerful, in his eyes. She rubbed hers. He couldn’t be there.
“Caleb?”
“Why are you crying?”
She heard him. Dazed, she pressed a hand against her ear. “Caleb.” She repeated. “But how—I heard, I saw— You’re gone.”
“Have you been crying since I left?” He stepped toward her but only touched a fingertip to her damp cheek.
His touch was real. If she was mad, she accepted it. “I don’t understand. How can you be here?”
“I have a question to ask you first.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “Just one question. Are you in love with me?”
“I—I need to sit down.”
“No.” He caught her arm and held her still. “I want an answer. Are you in love with me?”
“Yes. Only an idiot would have to ask.”
He smiled, but his grip held firm. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want—I knew you had to go.” Dizzy, she put a hand to her head. “Let me sit.”
He released her, then watched her sink unsteadily into a chair.
“I haven’t slept,” she murmured, as if to herself. “I suppose I could be hallucinating.”
He tilted her head back, then planted a hard, bruising kiss on her mouth. Before he could stop himself, he dragged her halfway out of the chair. “Is that real enough for you?”
“Yes,” she said weakly. “Yes. But I don’t understand. How can you be here?”
He let her go again. “I rode the cycle.”
“No, I mean . . .” What did she mean? “I was standing at the door. I heard you take off. I even saw, just a glimpse, but I saw the ship in the sky.”
“I sent it back. The computer’s at the helm.”
“You sent it back,” she repeated slowly. “Oh, my God, Caleb, why?”
“Only an idiot would have to ask.”
Her eyes filled and spilled over. “No, not for me. I can’t bear it. Your family—”
“I left a disk for them. I told them everything, a great deal more than what’s in the report I left on board. Where I was, why I had to stay. If the ship makes it back, and it has as good a chance without me as it did with me, they’ll understand.”
“I can’t ask you to do this.”
“You didn’t.” He took her hand before she could turn away again. “You would have gone with me, wouldn’t you, Libby?”
“Yes.”
“I might have taken you up on that if I’d been sure we would have lived through it. Listen to me.” He drew her to her feet. “I’d started countdown. I’d convinced myself that my life was back there where I’d left it. There were a dozen logical reasons why I had to go. And there was one, only one, reason I had to stay. I love you. My life is here.” He tightened his grip, brought her close. “I came through time for you, Libby. Don’t ever, ever think I made a mistake.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll think so.”
“‘Time is . . . Time was . . . Time is past,’” he murmured. “My time is in the past, Libby. With you.”
Her eyes filmed over again. “I love you so much, Caleb. I’ll make you happy.”
“I’m counting on it.” He picked her up, pausing to capture her mouth in a long, long kiss. “You need sleep,” he told her. “Real sleep.”
“No, I don’t.”
He laughed, and the last vestige of tension fled. He was exactly where he belonged. “We’ll see. Later we’ll talk about how we’re going to handle the rest of this.”
“Rest?”
“The marriage-and-family part I can handle.”
“You haven’t asked me yet.”
“I’ll get around to it. Anyway, I’m going to need new ID. Then I’ve got to get a job. Something with a—an annual salary, right?”
“Something you enjoy,” she corrected. “That’s more important than salary and group hospitalization.”
“Group what?”
“Don’t worry about it.” She nuzzled into his neck. “I suppose Dad could give you some kind of position until you figure it all out.”
“I don’t think I want to make tea.” Suddenly inspired, he stopped by the side of the bed. “Tell me, how do you go about getting a pilot’s license around here?”
Keep reading for a special excerpt from the newest novel by J.D. Robb
CALCULATED IN DEATH
Available February 2013 in hardcover from G.P. Putnam’s Sons
A killer wind hurled bitter November air, toothy little knives to gnaw at the bones. She’d forgotten her gloves, but that was just as well as she’d have ruined yet another overpriced pair once she’d sealed up.
For now, Lieutenant Eve Dallas stuck her frozen hands in the warm pockets of her coat and looked down at death.
The woman lay at the bottom of the short stairway leading down to what appeared to be a lower-level apartment. From the angle of the head, Eve didn’t need the medical examiner to tell her the neck was broken.
Eve judged her as middle forties. Not wearing a coat, Eve mused, though the vicious wind wouldn’t trouble her now. Dressed for business—suit jacket, turtleneck, pants, good boots with low heels. Probably fashionable, but Eve would leave that call to her partner when Detective Peabody arrived on scene.
No jewelry, at least not visible. Not even a wrist unit.
No handbag, no briefcase or file bag.
No litter, no graffiti
in the stairwell. Nothing but the body, slumped against the wall.
At length she turned to the uniformed officer who’d responded to the 911. “What’s the story?”
“The call came in at two-twelve. My partner and I were only two blocks away, hitting a twenty-four/seven. We arrived at two-fourteen. The owner of the unit, Bradley Whitestone, and an Alva Moonie were on the sidewalk. Whitestone stated they hadn’t entered the unit, which is being rehabbed—and is unoccupied. They found the body when he brought Moonie to see the apartment.”
“At two in the morning.”
“Yes, sir. They stated they’d been out this evening, dinner, then a bar. They’d had a few, Lieutenant.”
“Okay.”
“My partner has them in the car.”
“I’ll talk to them later.”
“We determined the victim was deceased. No ID on her. No bag, no jewelry, no coat. Pretty clear her neck’s broken. Visually, there’s some other marks on her—bruised cheek, split lip. Looks like a mugging gone south. But . . .” The uniform flushed slightly. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
Interested, Eve gave a go-ahead nod. “Because?”
“It sure wasn’t a snatch and run, figuring the coat. That takes a little time. And if she fell or got pushed down the stairs, why is she over against the side there instead of at the bottom of the steps? Out of sight from the sidewalk. It feels more like a dump, sir.”
“Are you angling for a slot in Homicide, Officer Turney?”
“No disrespect intended, Lieutenant.”
“None taken. She could’ve taken a bad fall down the steps, landed wrong, broke her neck. Mugger goes down after her, hauls her over out of sight, takes the coat, and the rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. But we need more than how it feels. Stand by, Officer. Detective Peabody’s on route.” As she spoke, Eve opened her field kit, took out her Seal-It.
She coated her hands, her boots as she surveyed the area.
This sector of New York’s East Side held quiet—at least at this hour. Most apartment windows and storefronts were dark, businesses closed, even the bars. There would be some after-hours establishments still rolling, but not close enough for witnesses.
