Times Change

by Nora Roberts

“What you said.”

  He settled her awkwardly in his lap, making sure her bottom came in direct contact with his wet knees, “Which time?”

  Her breath came out in a huff, but she curled her arms around his neck. “You said you loved me. Did you mean it?”

  “I might have.” He worked his hands up under her coat but had to be content with the flannel of her shirt. “Or I might have been trying to start a conversation.”

  She bit his lip. “Last chance, Hornblower. Did you mean it?”

  “Yes.” God help them both. “Want to fight about it again?”

  “No.” She rested her cheek against his. “No, I don’t want to fight. Not right now.” He felt her sigh move through her body. “It scared me.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  After pressing a kiss to his throat, she drew back. “It gets even scarier. I love you, too.”

  He’d known it, and yet— And yet, hearing her say it, seeing her eyes as she spoke, watching her lips form the words, nothing could have prepared him for the force of feeling that poured into him. A waterfall of emotion. Tumbling through it, he pulled her mouth to his.

  He couldn’t bring her close enough. It didn’t seem odd that they were huddled inside a car in a parking lot beside a busy street in broad daylight. Much odder was the fact that he was here at all, that he had found her, despite the centuries.

  When he lived, she couldn’t go. When she lived, he couldn’t stay. And yet, in this small space of time, they were together.

  Time was passing.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do about this,” he murmured. There had to be a way, some equation, some theory. But what computer could analyze data that was so purely emotional?

  “One day at a time, remember?” She drew back, smiling. “We’ve got plenty of time.” She hugged him close, and she didn’t see the trouble come into his eyes. “Speaking of which, we’ve got almost two hours before Portland.”

  “Too long.”

  She chuckled, then squirmed back into her seat. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  She zoomed out of the lot, keeping her eyes peeled. With a grin of satisfaction, she pulled into the first motel she spotted. “I think we can use a break.” After snatching up her bag, she strolled into the office to register.

  This time she used a plastic card—something much less foreign to him. With little trouble and less conversation, she secured a key from the clerk.

  “How long have we got?” Jacob asked as he swung an arm over her shoulder.

  She shot him a look. “It may be a motel,” she said, steering them toward a door marked ‘9’, “but I don’t think this particular chain rents rooms by the hour. So . . .” She turned the key in the lock. “We’ve got the rest of the day—and all night—if we want.”

  “We want.” He caught her the moment she stepped inside. Then, wheeling her around, he used their joined bodies to slam the door closed. Because his hands were already occupied, Sunny reached behind her to secure the chain.

  “J.T., wait.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d really prefer it if we drew the drapes first.”

  He ran the palm of one hand over the wall, searching for a button while he tugged at her coat with the other.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for the switch.”

  She chuckled into his throat. “At thirty-five a night you have to close the curtains by hand.” She wiggled away to deal with it. “I’d love to see the kind of motels you’re used to.”

  The light became dim and soft, with a thin, bright slit in the center, where the drapes met. She was standing just there, with the light like a spear behind her. And she enchanted him.

  “There’s this place on an island off Maine.” He shrugged out of the borrowed coat, then sat down to pry off his boots. “The rooms are built on a promontory so that they hang over the sea. Waves crash up beneath, beside, in front. The windows are . . .” How to explain it? “They’re made out of a special material so that you can see out as far as the horizon but no one can see in—so that beyond one entire wall there’s nothing but rock and ocean. The tubs are huge and sunken, and the water steams with perfume.”

  He rose slowly, picturing it. Picturing her there, with him. “You can have music, just by wishing for it. If you want moonlight, or the sound of rain, you’ve only to touch a switch. The beds are big and soft, so that when a man reaches for his woman she all but floats to him over it. While you’re there, time stops for as long as you believe it.”

  Aroused, she let out a shaky breath. “You’re making this up.”

  He shook his head. “I’d take you there, if I could.”

  “I have a good imagination,” she said as he pushed the coat from her shoulders. She shuddered when he ran his hands down her. “We’ll pretend we’re there. But I don’t think there’s moonlight.”

  Smiling, he eased her down and pulled off her boots one by one. “What then?”

  “Thunder.” Her breath shivered out when he trailed his fingers up her calf. “And lightning. That’s what I feel when you touch me.”

  There was a storm in him. He saw the power of it reflected in her eyes. She rose so that her body skimmed up his, inch by tormenting inch. Before he could take her lips, she was pressing them, already hot, to his throat. The pulse that hammered there excited her, the taste inflamed her. Wanting more freedom, she pushed his sweater up and up, then let it fall to the floor in a heap.

  With a lingering sound of pleasure, she traced her lips over his chest, absorbing the texture, the intimate flavor, of his skin. It was soft, dreamily soft, over the hard ridges of muscles. His scent, earthy and male, delighted her.

  There was thunder. She could feel it when she let her mouth loiter over his heart. It beat for her. There was lightning. She saw the flash of power when she looked into his eyes.

  He was surprised he could still stand. What she was doing was making him dizzy and desperate. Those long, lovely fingers already knew his body well. But every time they explored they found new secrets.

  And her mouth . . . He gripped her shoulders as she took her lips on a lazy journey down his chest, over the quivering muscles of his stomach. Her tongue left a moist trail. Her throaty laugh echoed in his head.

  He felt her fingers on the snap of his jeans, and the denim as it slid from waist to hipbone. Pleasure arrowed into him, its point jagged.

  Time didn’t stand still. It reeled backward until he was as primitive as the men who had forged weapons from stone. With an oath, he dragged her up into his arms, his mouth branding hers, all fire and force.

  Then she was under him on the bed, her body as taut as wire. Her breath heaved, seemed to tear out of her lungs, as his hands raced over her. Possessed. She could hear him speak, but the roaring in her head masked the words. Driven, he ripped her shirt down the front, sending buttons flying. Wild to touch her, he hooked his fingers in the collar of the thin cotton beneath it and tore it aside.

  She called out his name, stunned, elated, terrified by the violence she had brought out in him. Then she could only gasp, fighting for air, for sanity, as the first climax rocketed through her. But there was no weakness this time.

  Energized, she reared up, enfolding him so that they were half sprawled, half kneeling, on the bed. Torso to torso, hip to hip. With her head thrown back, she let him take his mouth over her, pleasuring, receiving pleasure.

  Like a madman, he tore, pulled, dragged at her jeans, until her body was as naked as his. Her hands slid off his slick skin as she tried to draw him to her. It was then that she realized that he was shuddering, his body vibrating with a need even she hadn’t guessed at.

  She started to speak his name, but he was inside her, filling her, firing her. His muscles were taut as he braced her against him, letting her frenzy drive them both.

  Faster, deeper, as she soared over wave after wave. Passion became abandonment as her body bowed back, tempting his eager mouth to feast o
n her. Sensation layered over sensation until they were all one torrid maze of light and color and sound. As he pulled her back, his body thrust inside hers, she no longer knew where she began and he stopped. She forgot to care.

  Chapter 9

  Sunny unlocked the door to her apartment, ignoring the faint creak behind her that meant Mrs. Morgenstern had cracked her own door to watch the comings and goings on the third floor.

  She had chosen the third floor, despite the vagaries of the elevator and the nosiness of the neighbors, because the tiny apartment boasted what passed for a balcony. On it there was just room enough for a chair, if she angled it so that she sat with her ankles resting on the rail. It overlooked the parking lot.

  It was good enough for her.

  “This is it,” she announced, a bit surprised by the surge of nostalgia that filled her at the sight of her own things.

  Jacob stepped in behind her. Sunlight poured through the skinny terrace doors to his right. Pictures marched along the walls—photographs, sketches, oil paintings and posters. Even in her own rooms, Sunny preferred company.

  Piles of vibrantly colored pillows were heaped on a sagging, sun-faded sofa. In front of it was a table piled with magazines, books and mail—opened and unopened. In the corner, a waist-high urn held dusty peacock feathers.

  Across the room was another table that Jacob recognized as a product of expert workmanship from an even earlier century. There was a fine film of dust on it, along with a pair of ballet shoes, a scattering of blue ribbons and a broken teapot. A collection of record albums were stuffed into a wooden crate, and on a high wicker stool stood a shiny china parrot.

  “Interesting.”

  “Well, it’s home. Most of the time.” She shoved the paper bag she was carrying into his arms. It contained the fresh supply of cookies and soft drinks they’d picked up along the way. “Put these in the kitchen, will you? I want to check my machine.”

  “Right. Where?”

  “Through there.” She gestured, then disappeared through another door.

  He had another moment’s pause in the kitchen. It wasn’t just the appliances this time. He was growing used to them. It was the teapots.

  They were everywhere, covering every available surface, lining a trio of shelves on the walls, sitting cheek by jowl on top of the refrigerator. Every color, every shape, from the tacky to the elegant, was represented.

  It had never occurred to him that she was a collector, of anything. She’d always seemed too restless and unrooted to take the time to clutter her life with things. Strangely, he found it endearing to realize that she had pockets of sentimentality.

  Curious, he studied one of her teapots, a particularly florid example of late twentieth-century— He couldn’t bring himself to call it art. It was squat, fashioned out of inferior china, with a bird of some kind on the lid and huge, ugly daisies painted all over the bowl. As a collector’s item, he decided, it had a long way to go.

  He set it aside and went to explore.

  The blue ribbons were prizes, he discovered. For swimming, fencing, riding. It seemed Sunny had spent a lifetime scattering her talents. Her name was signed—scrawled, really—on some of the pictures on the walls. Sketches of cities, paintings of crowded beaches. He imagined many of the photographs were hers, as well.

  There was more talent there, showing a clear eye and a sharp wit. If she ever settled on any one thing, she was bound to shoot right to the top. Oddly enough, he preferred her just as she was, scattering those talents, experimenting, digging for new knowledge. He didn’t want her to change.

  But she had changed him. It wasn’t easy to accept it, but being with her, caring for her, had altered some of his basic beliefs. He could be content with one person. Compromises didn’t always mean surrender. Love didn’t mean losing part of yourself, it meant gaining that much more.

  And she had made him wonder how he was going to face the rest of his life without her.

  Turning toward the bedroom, he went to find her.

  She was standing in what he first took for a closet. Then when he saw the bed, he realized it was the entire room. Though it was no more than eight by eight, she had crammed something into every nook and cranny. More books, a stuffed bear in a virulent orange, ice skates. A set of skis hung on the wall like sabers.

  The dresser was crowded with bottles, at least twenty different brands of scent and lotion. There was also a photograph of her family.

  He found it difficult to concentrate on it, as she was standing by the bed, stripped to the waist She had taken off his sweater. He’d been forced to loan it to her for the remainder of the trip, as he’d destroyed her shirt. With one ear cocked toward the unit by her bed that served as radio, alarm clock and message machine, she rooted through her closet for another top.

  “Hey, babe.” The voice on the machine was cajoling and very male. The moment he heard it, Jacob despised it. “It’s Pete. You’re not still steamed, are you, doll? Come on, Sunny, forgive and forget, right? Give me a call and we’ll go dancing. I miss that pretty face of yours.”

  Sunny gave a quick snort and dragged out a sweatshirt.

  “Who’s Pete?”

  “Whoa.” She put a hand between her breasts. “You scared me.”

  “Who’s Pete?” he repeated.

  “Just a guy.” She tugged the sweatshirt on, “I was hoping you’d bring in one of those sodas.” She sat on the bed to pull off her boots.

  “Sunny.” This time the voice on the phone was smooth and feminine. “We got a postcard from Libby and Cal. Let us know when you get back in town.”

  “My mother,” Sunny explained, wriggling her toes. Grinning, she passed him the sweater. “You can have this back now.”

  Not entirely sure what he was feeling, he took off his coat. Beneath it, his chest was bare. As he started to pull the sweater over his head, the machine announced the next message.

  “Hey, Sunny, it’s Marco. Where the hell are you, sweet thing? I’ve been calling for a week. Give me a buzz when you get back.” There was a sound, like a big, smacking kiss before the beep.

  “Who’s Marco?” Jacob asked, deadly calm.

  “Another guy.” Her brows rose when he took her arm and pulled her to her feet.

  “How many are there?”

  “Messages?”

  “Men.”

  “Sunny . . . Bob here. I thought you might like to—”

  Deliberately Sunny shut off the machine. “I haven’t kept track,” she said evenly. “Do you want to compare past lives, J.T.?”

  He didn’t answer, because he found he couldn’t. Releasing her, he walked away.

  Jealousy. It filled him. And how he detested it. He didn’t consider himself a reasonable man, but he was certainly an intelligent one. He knew she hadn’t begun to live the moment he had walked into her life. A woman like her, beautiful, bright, fascinating, would attract men. Many men. And if it had been possible he would have murdered each and every one of them for touching what was his.

  And not his.

  He swore and spun around to see her watching him from the doorway.

  “Are we going to fight?”

  He ached. Just looking at her, he ached, for what was, and for what could never be. “No.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t want them near you,” he blurted out.

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  He reached her in three strides. “I mean it.”

  She tugged her arms free and glared at him. “So do I. Damn it, do you think any of them could mean anything to me after you?”

  “If you don’t—” Her words sunk in and stopped him. Lifting his hands, palms out, he stepped back. She stepped forward.

  “If I don’t what? If you think you can give me orders, pal, you’ve got another thing coming. I don’t have to—”

  “No, you don’t.” He cut her off, taking her balled fist in his hand. Not his, he reminded himself. He was going to have to start getting used to that. “
I’m not handling this well. I’ve never been in love before.”

  The fighting light died from her eyes. “Neither have I. Not like this.”

  “No, not like this.” He brought her fingertips to his lips. “Just review the rest of your communications later, will you?”

  Amused by his phrasing, she grinned. “Sure. Listen, help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen. The TV’s in the bedroom, the stereo’s out here. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She picked up a pair of discarded sneakers and tugged them on. “I’m going to go see my parents. If you’re up to it later, maybe we can have a real dinner out and go dancing or something.”

  “Sunny.” He took her hand as she picked up her coat. “I’d like to go with you.”

  Solemn eyed, she studied him. “You don’t have to, Jacob. Really.”

  “I know. I’d like to.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Go get your coat.”

  ***

  William Stone stalked to the door of his elegant Tudor home in bare feet. His sweatshirt bagged on his long, skinny frame. The knees of his jeans had worn through, but he refused to give them up. In one hand he carried a portable phone, in the other a banana.

  “Look, Preston, I want the new ad campaign to be subtle. No dancing tea bags, no heavy-metal music, no talking teddy bears.” On a sound of frustration he yanked the door open. “Yes, that includes waltzing rabbits, for God’s sake. I want—” He spotted his daughter and grinned from ear to ear. “Deal with it, Preston,” he ordered, and broke the connection. “Hi, brat.” He spread his arms and caught her on a leap.

  Sunny gave him a noisy kiss, then stole his banana. “The tycoon speaks.”

  William grimaced at the portable phone. Such pretensions embarrassed him. “I was just . . .” His words trailed off when he spotted Jacob on the threshold. He searched his mind for a name. Sunny often brought men to the house—friends and companions. William refused to think of his little girl having lovers. Though this one looked familiar, he couldn’t place the name.

  “This is J.T.,” Sunny said between bites of banana. She had her arm around her father’s waist.