Timeless (A Time Travel Romance)

by Jasmine Cresswell

  She turned away from him, shivering under the lash of his tongue. “No more, William. We’re both tired, so you’d better leave before you say something unforgivable.”

  “ ‘Tis surely years too late for such worthy advice. We have said everything that is unforgivable many times before.” He grasped her shoulders and twisted her around, crooking his forefinger under her chin so that he could tilt her face up to his inspection. “Such amazing beauty,” he murmured, smoothing her hair away from her forehead. “My God, it startles me still when I see such amazing, lying beauty.”

  She grabbed his hand, shoving it aside. “William, get away. Get out of my room. This is sick behavior—”

  He laughed, but she heard the harsh note of self-recrimination lurking behind the derision. “Sickness, madness, desire. Who cares what name we give to the passion since we both know that we feel it?”

  “It matters a lot. We can either exploit each other—”

  “Another odd but apt turn of phrase,” he murmured, lowering his mouth toward hers. “Kiss me, my lady. Let us exploit each other to the full so that we may find out if we still despise each other as acutely as we remember.”

  His mouth came down on hers, rich with passion, hot and fierce with self-loathing. Robyn turned her head away, knowing that she moved an instant too late for the evasion to be convincing. She was surprised—but surely not disappointed?—when he drew in a shuddering breath and ended the kiss.

  “Ah no,” he murmured against her mouth, his body tantalizingly close yet not touching her at any point. “You will not pretend that I force myself upon you against your will, my lady. Rapist is the one role I am not willing to perform for you. If you want me to kiss you, I fear that you must ask me nicely to oblige. Come now, surely you can manage one of your usual pretty speeches so that we may both indulge our needs?”

  Robyn averted her eyes, frightened by the intensity of her longing to close the tiny gap between them and move into his arms. Despite William’s simmering anger, she wanted the comfort of intimate contact with another human being. She wasn’t truly William’s wife, but she was trapped here in this impossible situation. Why shouldn’t she refresh her memories of Zach and the joy of their lovemaking? William looked like Zach, at least a little bit. On one or two occasions, she had heard William’s voice take on the same mellow, laughing timbre as Zach’s voice. What harm would it do if she pretended, just for a while, that he really was Zach? If she made love to him generously, with thought for his needs and feelings, wouldn’t she be doing him a favor as well as herself? Arabella had probably never made love with generosity of spirit in her entire life. William would enjoy the change.

  She swayed toward him. “Hold me,” she whispered, stumbling over the words, cutting herself off before she made the mistake of calling him by Zach’s name. “Oh, God, I’m so scared. I want you to hold me.”

  For a moment he went utterly still. Then she heard the quick, stifled intake of his breath and felt the explosion of his desire as he took her mouth in a kiss that seemed to speak of years of silent longing.

  Her body responded with mindless, primitive urgency. Her breasts, heavy with milk, tingled with arousal and she instinctively moved closer when she felt the thrust of his erection against her. Yes. This was what she had needed for days, for weeks, ever since the accident. She had needed Zach, holding her close. Zach stroking his hands over her hips, ravaging her mouth with kisses. She twined her hands in his hair, pulling at the velvet ribbon that tied it in place, relishing the silkiness of the long, thick strands curling around her fingers.

  “Arabella, dear God, what has happened to you? You feel so warm and responsive.”

  He said her name with soft, husky urgency. The syllables fell against her ears with the icy chill of a spring shower in the Arctic.

  Arabella.

  Good lord, she was not Arabella, and he was not Zach, and she had damn near committed the outrage of making love to one man while pretending he was another.

  Trembling, her body still reluctant to admit the deception, she pulled herself out of William’s arms. “William, we must stop,” she said. “We cannot... make love. It was a mistake. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... lead you on.”

  His face shuttered, all passion and warmth draining away in an instant. “It was a mistake, and you are sorry,” he murmured. He stepped away, turning his back to her, and she saw the muscles strain beneath the serge of his riding jacket as he struggled for control. After a moment or two, he swung around to face her again, bowing in ironic salute.

  “Congratulations, my lady. It seems you have proven once more that I am still the fool I had persuaded myself I was not. A month ago, I would have sworn you had entirely lost the power to make me desire you.”

  He picked up his greatcoat from the chair where he had thrown it, and slung it around his shoulders. “Practice your new role of distraught innocent, my lady. In faith, ‘tis vastly more appealing that most of your earlier roles.” His voice sounded patrician, faintly bored, as it so often did. But she knew him better now, and she saw the tiny leap of the muscle in his throat, the almost imperceptible tension in the line of his jaw. William had been deeply aroused, and control was not coming easy to him.

  She reached out her hand and touched him lightly on the arm. Beneath her fingers she felt his muscles bunch and then deliberately relax. His face remained impassive, so that only the closest of observers would have realized his tension.

  “William,” she said wistfully. “Do you think it is too late for us to learn to be friends?”

  William stared at her, then laughed. “Friends? My dear Arabella, the possibility of friendship between us is so breathtakingly absurd that I cannot believe you pose the question expecting a serious answer.”

  “I am extremely serious. Think about it,” she said coaxingly. “Our relationship causes us nothing but pain at the moment, and yet we are forced to live in the same house and share our lives, at least to a certain extent. Isn’t it worth trying to make things better? We have so much to gain and so little to lose.”

  “True, but alas, I see no method whereby we could achieve such a desirable end. The wounds between us are old and deep.”

  “All the more reason for both of us to forget our past relationship. Why couldn’t we pretend we’ve just met and are anxious to get acquainted? Couldn’t we try that, William? Instead of assuming all sorts of hidden meanings and motives every time I say something to you, take my words at face value, as if everything between us is fresh and new. For my part, I would certainly be willing to try.”

  “A clean slate?” he asked. “Alas, my lady, past reality is not erased as easily as chalk marks on a schoolroom board.”

  “Then how else are we to move forward?” she asked. “If our past is an intolerable burden, we must either forget it, or be slaves to it forever.”

  He looked at her for a long, silent moment. “In losing your wits, my lady, it seems that you have become a philosopher.”

  She risked a smile. “Perhaps with all the frippery wiped out, there’s finally space in my brain to accommodate a few great thoughts.”

  He seemed unable to look away from her smile. In the end, he shrugged and walked toward the door. “We could try a new start, I suppose. As you point out, what have we to lose? Indeed, the more time I spend with you recently, the more I feel that I truly do not know the woman you have become. To that extent, at least, there would be no pretense.”

  “Then let’s do it,” Robyn said, elated by his semi-agreement. “Let’s discover all that we need to know about each other in order to become friends. Maybe you could come and have tea in the nursery with the children and me tomorrow afternoon? Clemmie would love to play hostess, and the boys would enjoy an excuse to stuff themselves with cake. We can have a good time, all of us, if we just keep our thoughts concentrated on the tea party and not on the past.”

  “Tea in the nursery?” William’s expression became quizzical. “If I had not heard you ext
end the invitation with your own lips, my lady, I would refuse to believe you had made it.” He shook his head, looking somewhat surprised at his own acquiescence. “Very well, my lady. We shall meet each other over tea and cakes in the nursery tomorrow. Does five of the clock sound a suitable hour?”

  Robyn laughed, lighter of spirit than she had been since the accident. “It sounds great. I’m already looking forward to it. Five of the clock it shall be!”

  Chapter 12

  Zach ate dinner alone, at a restaurant right around the comer from the Gallery. He ordered lamb chops, most of which he left, and a bottle of California pinot noir, most of which he drank. He took a cab home, and walked unsteadily into his apartment building, wondering how much cognac he would need to swallow before he would be drunk enough to fall asleep without thinking about Robyn. One thing he knew for sure—a bottle of wine hadn’t been enough.

  Will.

  The sight of his younger brother seated on an upholstered bench in the lobby sobered him up a bit, but not as much as he would have liked. Damn! He sure hoped he didn’t look as wasted as he felt. He’d spent the past fifteen years lecturing his kid brother about how drugs and alcohol never solved a single problem in anyone’s life. It was a great lecture. He should have listened to it himself.

  His brother stood up, his arms stiff at his side. “Hello, Zach.”

  “Hello, Will.” On the brink of giving his brother a bear hug, Zach hesitated and held out his hand instead. He was relieved when Will took it, even more relieved when Will thumped him hard on the shoulder. Maybe there was hope yet for their tattered relationship.

  Zach stood back. “Hey, it’s great to see you, kid. Have you been waiting long?”

  Will leaned against the wall. “Not too long. You look like hell.”

  Zach grinned. “Gee, thanks. You’re looking terrific, all California tan and muscles.”

  “Yeah. Claire makes me work out. I run a lot. Taking after you, big brother.”

  Claire’s name fell between them like a weapon. Zach avoided the challenge. “Well, like I said, it’s good to see you. What brings you into Manhattan at this time of year?”

  “You. The Gallery. Claire.” Will shoved his hands in his pockets. “You gonna invite me up to your apartment or do we have to stand around in this god-awful lobby freezing our asses off? This place is about as cheerful as a dentist’s waiting room in Moscow.”

  Zach chuckled. “Go easy with the sweet talk, or I’ll think you want to borrow money.”

  He knew the instant the words were out of his mouth that he’d said the wrong thing. Will scowled at him, then ran his hands through his hair in a swift, angry gesture, tousling the arrow-straight, light brown strand that fell over his forehead. “Goddammit, Zach, you never let up, do you? One of these years, you may get it through your thick skull that I don’t want your fucking money.”

  Zach wasn’t sober enough to think smart and he lost his temper. “Hell, no, you don’t want my money. You just want my ex-wife. Couldn’t you find any other way to screw me over?”

  Will gave a short, hard laugh, and started walking toward the door. “We never change, do we? Two minutes. That’s how long it took for us to start fighting. Good-bye, Zach, see you around sometime. Claire warned me you’d never agree to talk.”

  Zach lunged forward and grabbed his brother’s arm. “Don’t go, Will. You’re right, we need to talk, to straighten things out between us.”

  “That’s a great idea in theory, but when we get together, we don’t talk. We fight.”

  “Not always. We used to be good friends.”

  “Yeah. Until I dropped out of high school and started running with the wrong crowd. According to Dad and Grandfather, you were the family saint and I was the asshole who couldn’t keep away from the booze.”

  “Let’s not argue about who’s to blame for the past. We both screwed up plenty.” Zach drew in a deep breath, aware of the doorman busily pretending not to listen. “Look, could we start this conversation over? Come up to the apartment where it’s warm, and I’ll make us a pot of coffee.”

  “Still playing the good guy,” Will sneered. “Always ready to forgive the prodigal son one more time?”

  “I don’t have to forgive you,” Zach said. “You need to forgive yourself.”

  “Jesus, now we get the pop psychology.”

  “Nope, that was wisdom of the ancient Orient. Confucius said it a few thousand years before the psychologists.”

  A smile gleamed for a moment in Will’s eyes. He shrugged and walked slowly toward the elevator. “You still make the same lousy coffee you always made?”

  Zach felt relief surge through him as he pressed the button to open the elevator. “Yep, it’s still the same lousy brew. I can defeat every coffee-making machine known to man. You coming up?”

  “I guess.” Will gave an ironic salute to the doorman and followed Zach into the elevator. “Same dreary lobby, same hard bench. Same nagging brother. Same rotten coffee. Now it really feels like I’ve come home.”

  “Does it? I’m glad. It’s good to have you back, Will.”

  “Yeah, it’s great, terrific. I hope you think that way half an hour from now.”

  “Any special reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “Not one reason. Maybe a dozen or so.” The elevator clanged to a halt and they stepped out into the penthouse lobby.

  “Let’s talk about it later,” Will said. “My therapist advises me to face my problems one at a time. Right now, I’m facing the problem of how I’m going to swallow a cup of your battery acid disguised as coffee without lighting up a cigarette in the sacred vicinity of Grandmother’s antiques.”

  “You can make the coffee yourself if you prefer.” Zach tossed his overcoat onto a chair and walked into the kitchen. “That takes care of the first problem. And you can smoke a cigarette if it’s that important to you.”

  “Good God, you’ve mellowed.”

  Zach grinned. “I guess some of the sharper edges are getting ground down a bit now that I’m heading toward middle age.”

  “You still look like the same tight-assed do-gooder to me.”

  “Lay off, Will. I’m feeling in the mood to punch somebody’s nose, and I’d hate like hell for it to be yours.”

  Surprisingly, Will laughed. “I don’t need to smoke in here,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’m trying to give up smoking.”

  “Hey, great! I wish you luck.”

  “Yeah. I figured that since I’m already on the wagon, I may as well make my life a total hell and give up smoking, too.”

  Zach sat down and stretched his legs out, his sprawling position belying the tension that curled inside him. “Gerry told me you’d been sober for a while,” he said carefully. “That’s great news, Will.”

  Will busied himself pouring water into the coffeepot. “Yeah. Nine months and counting. No booze. No coke. Not even a puff of pot. I’m not planning to backslide this time, either.”

  “Nine months, huh? You’ve never lasted that long before. That’s terrific and I sure hope you keep up the good work.”

  He sounded so damn patronizing, Zach thought. He was just sober enough to appreciate the irony of being too drunk to handle his brother’s climb onto the sobriety wagon with the sensitivity the situation demanded.

  Will, fortunately, didn’t take offense. He opened and closed a few cupboard doors, making a lot of noise and providing himself with an excuse to avoid Zach’s eyes.

  “I’m thirty-two,” he said through the clatter. “I guess I decided that was a couple of years too old to keep on playing the role of misunderstood teenager. Where the hell do you keep your coffee, anyway?”

  “In the cupboard above the sink.” Zach watched his brother grind the coffee beans, feeling a faint stirring of hope along with the familiar mixture of love and anxiety. Will looked less volatile, less edgy, than Zach had seen him in years. His brother was never going to be a placid, laid-back individual, but he did seem more at peace with h
imself and the world.

  “How’s the painting going?” he asked.

  “Okay. Better than okay.” His preparations finished, Will turned around and leaned against the counter. “Rick Bernsteen is giving me an exhibition next month. A solo.”

  Zach sat up. “Hey, congratulations! I’m impressed as hell. I didn’t know Bernsteen handled abstract oils.”

  “He doesn’t. The paintings he’s agreed to take are a series of portraits.”

  “Who did you paint?”

  Will paused for a moment. “Claire,” he said finally. “When Claire and I moved in together... well, anyway, after a few months of being around her, I decided representational art still had something left to say to the world.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, but it doesn’t matter because I know these paintings are good.” Will poured out the coffee and carried a mug over to Zach.

  “I’m sorry about Robyn Delaney,” he said, his voice a little too casual. “That shooting was a rotten deal and I heard from Mother that she isn’t recuperating too well.”

  “No, not too well.” Zach cradled his hands around the steaming mug. “Physically, the doctors can’t find much wrong with her, but mentally, she isn’t recovering like we all hoped.”

  “That’s too bad.” Will hesitated, then fell silent.

  “She doesn’t seem to recognize any of her family or her friends,” Zach said. “Not even Al and Muriel. In fact, she insists her parents have been dead for years.”

  “I guess she doesn’t recognize you, either.”

  Zach’s smile was bitter. “I don’t know whether she recognizes me or not. If she does, she sure doesn’t like what she sees. The mere sight of me seems to send her off into a screaming fit.”

  “I’m sorry, that must be real tough on you. Gerry said you were obviously in love with each other.”