Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) Page 3

  If it wasn't for the uniform on the worktable, she might have believed she'd imagined the whole encounter. She crossed the room and picked up the jacket, holding it close to her chest. He'd only worn it for a few minutes but his scent, a blend of wind and rain and sea air, was everywhere.

  He was everything she didn't want in a man, yet when she saw him striding up the driveway toward the house, she'd known the same sense of reckless excitement she'd experienced the very first time.

  She'd been living in Hollywood, working for a movie studio that specialized in big-budget films grounded in historical detail--especially when it came to the authenticity of the costumes.

  Zane had been on the set visiting a stuntman pal of his who earned his salary by risking his neck. Zane, of course, was nothing like the stuntman.

  Her ex-husband had been more than happy to risk his neck for nothing.

  "Zane Grey Rutledge?" she'd said when he told her his name.

  He'd shrugged with the casual ease of someone who'd never had to struggle for anything in his life. "My parents had a sense of humor," he'd said. "They were reading Riders of the Purple Sage in the labor room the night I was born."

  Everything about him had been larger than life, from his movie-star looks to his relentless search for adventure. It had taken her awhile to realize that his endless quest for the next thrill was a mask for a loneliness that went deeper than he'd ever admit.

  He'd never been one to talk about the past, but she'd learned about his adventure-loving parents who had placed their five-year-old son in a fancy boarding school then jetted off in search of their latest thrill. When they died on a mountain in Nepal, it took six months before Zane even realized they were gone. Only his grandmother, a Philadelphia Main Line matron, had ever been there for him but by then it was a case of too little, too late.

  Emilie had longed to fill the empty parts of his soul with her love but, like a shooting star, he was impossible to catch. He'd spent too many years alone to believe in happy endings.

  They had nothing in common. She loved the past. He worshipped the future. He liked fast sports cars and trips to exotic locales, while she liked old quilts and museums. This miraculous wonder of a uniform meant less to him than a pair of sweat socks or a worn-out jockstrap.

  But when he held her in his arms, the world fell away until she could almost see forever.

  He should have stayed in Malta or Manhattan or wherever it was he called home these days. She didn't need him in her life again, making her long for the impossible.

  Lately she'd found herself pushing against the boundaries of the lazy town where she'd grown up. The kind-hearted concern of her neighbors grated against her nerves. The cry of the gulls, the smell of salt air, the familiar routines of daily life all seemed alien to her, as if they belonged to someone else.

  Just yesterday she'd raised her voice to Mrs. Willis at the market and told John Parker that no, she didn't like the way he'd wallpapered her powder room. She could still see the look of astonishment on the faces of those two nice people when she'd stormed out the door of the Stop'n'Shop with her quart of milk and half-dozen eggs.

  "Poor Emilie," she'd heard Mrs. Willis say. "A girl so pretty shouldn't be alone."

  Amazing how Mrs. Willis understood more about Emilie than Emilie did herself. She craved an adventure, a walk on the wild side of life. A jolt of electricity called excitement before she grew too old to care.

  None of which was likely to be found in sleepy Crosse Harbor, New Jersey.

  The one thing she hadn't needed, however, was for her ex-husband to come roaring back into her life, reminding her that once upon a time she'd been foolish enough to believe she could find adventure and security both in the same pair of arms.

  And maybe you could have, Emilie. Maybe it was right there but you were too blind and impatient and scared to see it.

  They said that America was a country built on second acts and she agreed. She was living her second act right now, immersed in work that fed her soul and built her future.

  But what about love? Don't you deserve a second chance there too?

  She turned, about to head for the kitchen, then stopped in her tracks. She tilted her head to the side, listening. Was that the doorbell? It was almost eight o'clock at night. She had to be hearing things. The doorbell buzzed again, louder this time and more insistent.

  She hurried through the house toward the front hall. "Who is it?" she called through the heavy wooden door.

  "Zane."

  A ridiculous burst of hope exploded inside her chest at the sound of his voice and she immediately pushed it down. He'd come back for the uniform, that was all. He'd changed his mind and wanted to sell it on eBay or barter it for beads on some South Pacific island. This had nothing to do with her.

  She swung open the door and her breath caught at the sight of him on the front porch, dark hair gleaming in the glow of the porch light.

  She sensed, rather than saw, the change in him but the effect it had on her was profound. Behind his bravado hid the loneliness she'd recognized earlier, and that realization reached inside her heart and wouldn't let go.

  "I got as far as the parkway," he said, "then I turned around."

  "You came back for your uniform," she said, feeling terrified and thrilled and hopeful.

  "No," he said, pushing past her into the dimly-lit foyer. "I came back for you."

  She was in his arms in a heartbeat. No questions. No second thoughts. No promises. That was where they always went wrong, making promises neither one could keep.

  At least not in this world.

  Tilting her chin upward with his finger, he lowered his head and claimed the sweetness of her mouth with his. The kiss was gentle at first, a sweet melding of softness and strength, then just as she found herself wanting more, he slipped his tongue into her mouth and a fierce hunger rose up from the center of her soul.

  Her hands rested against the hard wall of his chest and she felt the violent thudding of his heart against her palm. How could she have forgotten the feel of him and the smell, this explosion of pure sensation.

  He swept her off her feet with one swift and unexpected motion. Instinctively she looped her arms around his neck, dizzy with longing. The amazing planes of his face...the high, almost cruel cheekbones, the proud nose of a warrior-prince. Those deep blue eyes shadowed by lashes as dark as the night. She could get lost in those eyes--

  "The door," she whispered against his shoulder.

  He kicked the door closed, shutting out the world and enclosing them in their own private universe.

  "Where?" he asked, his voice a husky, sensual growl.

  "Through the hallway."

  #

  Her bedroom was the last door on the right.

  He would have known it in the dark. The smell of her perfume, faint and evocative, was everywhere. For years he'd told himself he'd imagined that scent but he hadn't. It was as real, as exciting, as the woman in his arms.

  He remembered it all. The texture of her mouth. The silky flow of her hair against his cheek. The coiled female strength.

  The thick feather bed cradled them as they fell together into its softness.

  "I can't believe this is happening," she said, touching his face with her fingertips.

  "I couldn't leave," he said, running his hand along the proud curve of her hip. "I did my damnedest but I couldn't leave you behind."

  "I know," she whispered. "When I saw your car backing out of the driveway--" She shook her head. "I wanted you to come back." More than anything. More than air or sun or safety.

  Did he have any idea how overwhelming he was? How beautiful?

  He drew his hand across her flat belly, easing his fingertips under the soft fabric of her shirt, across her ribcage, to the lacy band of her bra. In an instant he undid the front hook, parting the wisps of lace then cupping her breasts in the palms of his hands.

  She felt his touch everywhere. Slowly he drew the pads of his thumbs acr
oss her nipples until they grew hard and taut. She wanted his mouth on her, that hungry and sensual mouth, his lips hot and wet as he sucked on her nipples, drawing them into his mouth.

  "That's it," he said, stripping her of her bra and shirt. "Let me hear you. Scream if you want to, Emilie. I want it all...everything you have to give."

  A groan of pleasure, pagan and unbridled, broke free. The sound terrified her with its urgency even as it destroyed the last of her inhibitions with its pure, female power. It was all so strange yet so familiar, as if she'd been waiting for his touch to bring her back to life.

  He lowered his mouth to her breasts, then slipped inside her heart and absorbed her fantasies. His mouth was hotter than flame against her skin. He captured one nipple between his teeth and she cried out again, not from pain but from a feeling so primitive and fierce that she wondered if she would survive another onslaught of sensation.

  She was weightless, floating in the clouds, suspended in the throbbing darkness of an erotic dream. A rhythm, insistent and old as time, began to move inside her as her back arched, offering herself up to him on the altar of sensuality.

  She'd waited forever for this moment. Dreamed about it. Longed for the only man who could take her on this journey.

  And now she wanted more.

  She wanted him to brand every part of her body with his mouth. She reached for the waistband on her white pants but he pushed her hands away and accomplished the task with a caress that brought her even closer to the edge of madness.

  She was more beautiful than he'd remembered. Long slender legs, rounded hips, the narrow strip of dark red curls, wet with desire that begged the touch of his tongue. The sounds she made as he worshipped her inflamed his soul.

  She wanted to touch him, to reach out and place her hand against him and know that his power and heat belonged to her and her alone, if only for the night.

  Again he seemed to understand what she wanted before she could translate desire into words. Rising from the bed, he stripped off his clothing. He didn't need the trappings of style to impress. His body was lean, powerfully muscled. A thick mat of dark hair furred his chest, narrowing down over his flat belly to--

  He didn't disappoint. He'd never disappointed.

  He was everything she'd remembered and more.

  Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked and looked away so he wouldn't notice.

  But he did.

  He dropped down onto the bed next to her and curled her body against his. "I want you," he said bluntly, "but as much as I want to make love to you, I've never taken an unwilling woman." He moved away so their bodies were no longer touching. "It's your choice, Emilie. Your decision."

  This was a moment out of time. Her chance to taste life at its sweetest with no regrets to shadow her memories later on. She could be whoever she wanted to be tonight, captive or conqueror or both.

  What she felt, what she wanted, went beyond words. She nodded, meeting his eyes, letting him touch her soul the way he'd touched her body.

  He gathered her into his arms. They lay together on the bed, bodies pressed together, savoring the primitive feel of skin against skin. The pure, animal pleasure of it tumbled the last of her defenses.

  She began to move against him, small, silken movements designed to tempt and tease. She felt as if she was spinning out of control and he was her anchor, the one real thing in a world she no longer recognized.

  #

  She was ready. He knew it by the sounds she made deep in her throat, by the moist heat of her when he cupped her with his hand, by the wild and hungry look in her green eyes when he parted her thighs and knelt between them.

  He stroked her slowly at first, letting the need build between them to a fever pitch, then he deepened the motion until she cried out and he knew he could wait no longer.

  "Now," she whispered against his mouth. "Now...now... now...."

  Her words were all he needed.

  She was softness and warmth, hesitant and passionate both. So small, so tight, that for a moment he feared he might hurt her with his power but she urged him on, shuddering beneath him as she finally opened for him, sheathing him inside her welcoming body as if they had been made for each other by a benevolent god.

  He had been the first man to know her body, to teach her the rites of lovemaking, and the thought that she had been with anyone else in the intervening years made him long to wipe their memory from her mind and brand her as his and his alone.

  It was a fierce and primal call of the blood. She was all that he wanted--and more than he'd dreamed. He was a physical man and he knew a moment of pleasure with the woman he'd loved that ripped him apart then made him whole again.

  She was his in ways he couldn't explain or understand. She was all the things he could never be, kind and honest, generous and loyal.

  The day she walked out on him she had taken his heart and soul with her. And tonight he had found them again in her arms.

  If this wasn't forever, it was closer than he had ever dreamed.

  And somehow he knew that nothing about his life would ever be the same.

  #

  In the dark all things were possible.

  That night she explored the wilder shores of sensuality with a man who understood her secrets before she gave them voice. As long as the moon cast its light upon them, the magic was theirs alone.

  They napped briefly, then she brought a bottle of champagne to the bed, an old and dusty bottle she'd saved for a celebration that had never materialized.

  "Cristal," he said, with an appreciative whistle. "I'm impressed."

  "You should be," she said, climbing into the feather bed with him.

  She eased the cork from the bottle and laughed as the resounding pop shattered the stillness of the bedroom. "I love that sound," she said, pouring the bubbly golden liquid into the cups. She placed the bottle down on the night table then raised her cup. "To unexpected guests."

  He met her eyes. "To you."

  She took a sip of champagne. "I suppose this is where we catch up on old times."

  "I'm more interested in what's happening right now."

  She lay back against the pillows, eyes twinkling. "Suppose I tell you all about the Patriots Day celebration the town's having tomorrow."

  He groaned and she swatted him with a pillow sham.

  "Laugh all you want," she said in mock outrage, "but that's a big deal here in Crosse Harbor. We all dress up in 18th century costumes and drink cider and pretend the British are coming. Mayor Gold is playing Andrew McVie."

  Zane stared at her blankly.

  "Andrew McVie," she repeated. "Crosse Harbor's claim to Revolutionary War fame." He was their one bona fide patriot hero. Emilie had spent much of her childhood daydreaming about his daring rescue of General Washington not long before the Battle of Princeton.

  She told Zane of the legend surrounding the mysterious hero who had been cloaked all in black. Before a group of terrified onlookers, he had vaulted onto Washington's horse and knocked the General to the ground, just as a musket ball split the air instead of the General's heart.

  Emilie's family had always laid claim to the identity of the masked hero. Who else but a Crosse, they'd said, would have the fortitude to execute such a daring rescue? Everyone else, historians included, credited Andrew McVie.

  "Unfortunately, most of the Crosses were at a wedding celebration that day so their case was pretty hard to prove," she said with a laugh. "So much for family history."

  "So this whole love affair with the past is actually in your blood."

  "I guess you could say that."

  He went quiet.

  "What?" she asked, leaning closer to him. "You look pensive."

  "Pensive?" He flashed a quick grin. "First time I've been called that."

  "Seriously," she said. "What are you thinking?"

  "I was thinking you were my wife once. I should've known this."

  "We weren't big on talk," she reminded him. "There's a lo
t I don't know about you too."

  "You're probably better off."

  She didn't argue the point.

  "So who are you going as tomorrow," he asked, "Betsy Ross seems like a natural."

  "Great idea, but historically inaccurate. However, I am the star of the show." Tomorrow morning she would arrive at the village square for the festivities in a hot-air balloon.

  He laughed out loud. "And a hot-air balloon is historically accurate?"

  She shook her head. "But it's great publicity for the Historical Society. How could I say no?"

  "I wouldn't have had trouble."

  "That's because you don't understand history and you never will."

  "There are a few other things I do understand," he said, taking her champagne and placing it on the nightstand. "Why don't I tell you about them...."

  #

  They polished off the bottle of Cristal afterward. Emilie padded back out to the kitchen, positive she had some more tucked away in the pantry.

  "It's not Cristal," she apologized, "but there's no such thing as bad champagne."

  Zane, who had followed her into the kitchen, took the bottle from her.

  Emilie disappeared back into the pantry and returned with a box of saltines, some peanut butter, and a gift-sized jar of raspberry jam. She arranged the items on an old lacquered tray she'd found at a yard sale last summer, then added two plates and a beautiful silver knife.

  Back in her bed, she made a show of spreading the peanut butter and jam on the tiny crackers then presented each one to Zane with a flourish. He watched as she arranged the crackers along the edge of the plate in a semicircle. She'd always had the gift of spinning straw into gold, he thought. Somehow she'd made peanut butter and jam taste like nectar of the gods.

  "I haven't been to the market in ages," she said, refilling their cups, "or I would have made something wonderful for you. I can cook, in case you don't remember."

  He grinned at her over his cup of champagne. "Em, I never did give a damn if you could boil water."