by JoAnn Ross
"And now you believe a strong man might try to control you the same way in marriage."
"That seems to be how it works," Jessica muttered, wishing they'd stop straying back to the M word.
She was wrong, of course. But Rory's head had begun to ache again and he didn't feel up to arguing the point.
"I'd be interested in visiting this Road to Ruin gallery," he said, reverting to the earlier topic. "Do you think we could go tomorrow?"
She'd planned to spend the weekend catching up on the work she'd missed. But it occurred to her that if he actually saw photographs from the 1890s he might be more willing to accept that his belief he was from that time was merely a trick of an injured mind.
"I think that's a lovely idea," she said.
They exchanged a smile. And then, as she watched a shadow move over his eyes, she realized that the pain had returned.
She reached out and covered his hand with hers. "Let me get you another pill."
"No." He linked their fingers together. "I don't want any more drugs."
"But you're in pain."
"I've been shot before," he surprised her by revealing. "I've also fallen off my horse before. I can stand the pain. I won't risk becoming an addict, wasting my life in opium dens."
"Besides, I need a clear head to think through what I must do."
"About what?"
"Many things." He lifted their joined hands to his lips. "Such as how to convince you that we're man and wife. And that it's only natural—and legal—to satisfy these feelings we're having."
"Dammit, Rory—"
"Don't worry, Jess," he soothed, smiling against her knuckles. "Unlike Clayton, I would never take a woman against her will. You have no need to be afraid of me."
Although his touch, and that dark, sultry, dangerously sexy look was making her blood hum, Jessica knew he was telling the truth.
"I'm not," she said in a soft voice that was little more than a whisper.
His thumb stroked the sensitive flesh at the inside of her wrist. "Yet your pulse is racing like a rabbit's heart."
"I know." She managed a wry smile. "And to tell you the absolute truth, I am afraid. But not of you."
"Then, of what?"
"Of the way you make me feel." She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Of the way I want you."
"Ah, Jess. You've no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that." When his tongue touched a thin blue vein, her pulse leaped in instant, automatic response. "You'll see, my love," he murmured. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Indeed, you always found our tumbles more than enjoyable."
"Dammit, Rory, I'm trying to be understanding here, but you have to stop talking about me as if I were your wife."
"But you are. Or, more to the point, were," he insisted. "I recall one time, when you were taking photographs of a family not far from here, on the Prescott ranch—"
"You know the Prescott ranch?"
"Of course. It was owned by Ezra Prescott during my time."
"Trace lives there now."
"Trace?" Rory stared at her. "He is a Prescott?"
"Actually, he's married to one—Mariah Swann. Her grandmother was Ida Prescott, who left the ranch to Laura Swann, who in turn left it to her sister, Mariah, who recently married Trace."
"Your sheriff is a fortunate man to have married a woman who possesses such good land."
"I believe he considers himself fortunate to have married Mariah for her own sake."
Her tone, which was as dry as a legal brief, flew right over Rory's head. "I can understand that," he agreed easily. "It's how I always felt about you, which brings me back to that day at the ranch. Three days after we were married, a circus came to town, and set up on the property."
"We met there unexpectedly. I'd come to make sure the town rowdies didn't get into drunken brawls with the circus workers and you were there to photograph the events."
"You were intrigued by the sideshow, I remember— the two-headed calf, the Siamese twins, the fat woman who was married to the man whose body was covered with tattoos."
"And then, you discovered the sword swallower. He was dressed in a short beaded vest and flowing wide eastern trousers. His chest was bare and deeply tanned from the sun. I watched you watching him, transfixed by the movement of that jeweled piece of steel going deeper and deeper into his mouth, his throat. Your face was flushed, your eyes wide, and when you looked over at me, I knew exactly what you were thinking."
"Without a word, I took you by the hand, and you didn't offer a word of protest, not even when we left your precious camera right there unguarded in the tent. We were nearly overcome with lust and ran to the barn, climbed the ladder into the loft, where the buttery summer sun had warmed the hay and you practically ripped open my trousers, and—"
"I get the picture." Jessica's voice was soft and ragged.
"Afterward, you swore that you'd never forget that day. And I, for one, haven't."
His roughened voice stirred her in ways Jessica didn't want to be stirred. Enticed in ways she was finding impossible to resist.
"It wasn't me," she insisted.
"Of course it was."
He'd planted the seed, Rory thought with satisfaction. Now all he had to do was let it take root in her fertile mind.
"I'm suddenly very tired." He released her hand, pushed back his chair and stood up. "And as much as I'd love to continue this little stroll down memory lane, I believe it's time I went back upstairs to bed."
"That's a good idea." One more story like that and she'd forget all her good intentions about avoiding any sexual entanglements with this man.
Jessica watched him walk out of the kitchen, listened to the sound of his boots on the stairs. And then, when she was certain she was truly alone, she folded her arms on the table and lowered her head to them.
She reminded herself that he was not her type. He was too strong, too masculine. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted, whatever the cost. The kind of man she'd studiously avoided all of her life.
Every logical atom in her body reminded her sternly that she shouldn't want him.
But want him she did. Madly. Truly.
Desperately.
She went to the den and tried to work but couldn't seem to concentrate, and decided what she needed was a good night's sleep. She had finally managed to fall asleep when the phone rang. Instinctively, she reached out for the bedside table, then realized she was not in bed.
Stumbling around in the dark, she failed to make it to the desk by the fourth ring, and the answering machine clicked on. She listened to her voice instructing the caller to leave a message, then heard the beep.
"Hey, Jess, sweetheart, I see you've got your boyfriend staying with you," the all too familiar drawl invaded the midnight darkness. Hearing Eric Chapmann's voice made ice skim up her spine. "I don't know, babe, from what I saw of the guy, he didn't look like he had what it took to satisfy…"
"I mean, you always struck me as a very sexy babe. The kind that likes it a little rough. A little hard. Isn't that right, Jessie? You know, while I was sitting in jail, I had lots of time to think about you. About all the things I'd like to do to you."
"I used to look at you, strutting around that courtroom with your lacy bra showing through those silk blouses you like to wear, like some kind of high-priced call girl, and I would kill the time by imagining the sounds you'd make if I took your breasts in my mouth and used my teeth to—"
She snatched up the receiver, intending to tell him that he wasn't frightening her with his juvenile threats when Rory pushed past her and took the receiver from her icy hand.
"You finish that thought and you're a dead man," he growled. "In fact, if you call here again, or try to talk to Jess on the street, or even look at her, I will personally kill you with my bare hands."
He slammed the receiver down onto the cradle, then turned to Jessica.
She was trembling like a willow in a hurricane. The silk nightshirt she was wearing ended hig
h on her thigh and hugged her slender curves like a lover's caress. And although he wanted only to comfort her, Rory had no control over the blood that flooded into his groin at the sight of those long bare legs.
"It's going to be all right," he assured her as he drew her into his arms. She did not resist, but her body was as stiff as a rod of cold steel.
Rory's arms were strong and reassuring, and Jessica forgot that there were dangers involved with being this close.
"Eric Chapmann is the most evil man I've ever met," she murmured into Rory's chest. He wasn't wearing a shirt and his skin felt wonderfully warm and life affirming.
"I know." He gently stroked her hair. "But this time I'm going to stop him. This time he isn't going to hurt you."
"There's nothing you can do."
"That's where you're wrong."
He'd have to kill Clayton, or Chapmann, or whatever he was calling himself these days, Rory knew. Because no matter what he'd said in the pharmacy, Rory had no doubt that some part of Clayton had recognized him. And it wouldn't take long for him to put two and two together and come after Jess. Rory had already allowed the only woman he'd ever loved to die once. He had no intention of letting history repeat itself.
As if reading his mind, she lifted her head. "You won't do anything foolish."
"Of course not." There was nothing foolish about killing a murderer. It was, on the contrary, immensely serious business.
Her eyes were wide and worried in the shimmering silver moonlight streaming through the window. "Promise?"
"I promise." He gave her his most reassuring smile that earned a wobbly one in return, but did not stop her violent tremors. "You're freezing." He ran both his palms up her icy arms. "Let me start a fire in the fireplace and—"
"No!" She pushed against him and backed away. "No fires."
She wrapped her arms around herself in an unconscious gesture of self-protection that tore at his heart. She was obviously more frightened of fire than she'd been of Clayton's threatening call.
And no wonder, Rory thought.
"You're right," he said soothingly as he gathered her back into his arms and pressed a light kiss against her temple. "That's a bad idea."
"I know it's silly." She wrapped her arms around his waist and clung. He could feel her nipples beneath the ivory satin pressing against his chest, and her thighs were tight against his. "But I've always had this irrational fear of fire and…"
Her voice drifted off. Rory could literally feel the flicker of comprehension.
She tilted her head and looked up at him, her eyes wide and bewildered. "It can't be."
Her face, in the diffused glow of moonlight, looked pale and fragile. He'd been waiting for her to begin to remember. But this wasn't the time. And it definitely wasn't what he wanted her to recall.
"Shh." He bent his head and brushed his lips lightly across hers. "The middle of the night is not any time for serious discussions."
"But—"
"Later." His mouth lingered over hers, not taking, but giving, bestowing tenderness and reassurance. "Things always look better in the morning."
"I don't understand," she murmured.
"I know." Refusing to let her remain alone in this room that Clayton had defiled with his voice, he lifted her into his arms. When she didn't protest, Rory decided they were definitely making progress. "It takes some getting used to, sweetheart."
She was as light as a feather as he carried her up the stairs. As he entered the bedroom, Rory was reminded of that long-ago evening he'd carried Emilie over the threshold of her new home. He was not the only one who remembered.
"We've done this before," Jess murmured groggily as he laid her gently, almost reverently on the bed. "I remember being nervous." Her eyelids drifted shut. "I knew you were experienced. I'd heard stories about the girls at The Road to Ruin arguing over who would get to pleasure you and I was so afraid I couldn't measure up."
He hadn't known. If only she'd said something, Rory thought, he could have told her how ridiculous her concerns had been.
"You were the only woman I'd ever loved." Knowing he was playing with fire, but unable to resist, he slipped into bed beside her. "And you were perfect."
"That's so sweet." When he would have kept his distance, she tested his resolve to its limits by snuggling up against him and pressing her smiling lips against his throat. "I remember thinking you were lying…" Her breathing was becoming deeper, her words spaced further apart.
He pressed his lips against her hair. "I'd never lie to you."
"I think—" she threw a long slender leg over his "—that you did. But it was a sweet lie… so I was prepared to forgive you...Then your hands began to move over me—" she sighed happily with the memory "—and I forgot whatever it was." Her fingers twined around his neck. "What I was forgiving you for."
She was as close as any one person could possibly get to another. Her body was soft and warm; Rory could feel the heat through the silk nightshirt that had risen almost to her waist, revealing a pair of silk underpants so skimpy he wondered why she even bothered with them.
As his body throbbed with a masculine hunger that had been denied too long, Rory decided that it was going to be a very long night.
7
Rory was awakened by the sound of music. Confused, he looked around for the source. "What the blazes?"
"It's the clock radio," Jessica murmured sleepily, reaching over to hit the Sleep button, muting the sound.
She glanced up at him. His eyes were clear from pain this morning and even with his four-day-old beard, he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.
"I think this is where I'm suppose to leap out of bed and pretend to be embarrassed," she said.
"Are you embarrassed?"
"I don't think so." Strangely, her mind seemed to be operating on two levels. One part was appalled that she was lying in bed with a strange man. Another part, the side that was winning, found the experience extremely pleasant.
He smiled at that. "That's a very good beginning."
"I am confused."
"I know that feeling. Very well."
"And now you're not?"
"I don't understand how I came to be in your time, but I know why I'm here."
He sounded so sure of himself. Jessica still found the idea of time travel incredible. However, when you stopped to think about it, so were faxes, organ transplants and the Internet. And the government was spending a fortune trying to discover life on other galaxies. Why wasn't it possible to transcend the bounds of time?
"Why?"
"That should be obvious." He cupped her cheek in his palm. "To be with you, of course." And to avenge Emilie's murder, but this comfortable, lazy morning did not seem the time to bring up that unpleasant subject.
"You can't really believe I'm Emilie."
Rory shook his head. He'd given the matter a great deal of thought during the night as she'd slept in his arms and realized that Jessica Ingersoll was not the same woman he'd married.
"I believe," he said slowly, thoughtfully, "that you and Emilie both possess the same spirit. But your unique life experiences, and the different time in which you live, have made you a distinct individual."
"There is much of Emilie in you, Jessica Ingersoll. But you're still very much your own woman." He stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "A woman I find very appealing."
His body was warm against hers. And hard. Jessica could feel his erection against her belly and realized that if she just moved a smidgen…
No! Sleeping in the same bed with the man on such short acquaintance was bad enough. Having sex with him would be a huge mistake. But dear heavens, she thought as she read the blatant desire in his darkening gaze, how she was tempted!
"The ideas of time travel and reincarnation are a bit much for me to handle before my morning coffee." She tried for a breezy, flippant tone and knew she wasn't fooling either of them for a moment. "I think I'll take a shower and—"
Her word
s were cut off in midsentence by the ringing of the phone. She stiffened instinctively.
Understanding her fear, Rory reached out and scooped up the receiver. "Who is it?" he growled.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then a muffled curse Rory recognized immediately.
"It's Trace Callahan." The sheriff's words sounded as if they were being spit through clenched teeth. "I need to speak with Jessica."
Given the fact that it was a man's duty to protect women, and since Jess seemed to have no male in her life to fill that role, Rory understood, and accepted, Callahan's less than cordial attitude.
"It's the sheriff." He handed the receiver to Jessica.
She grimaced and prepared herself for the barrage. "Hi, Trace," she said with feigned brightness. "What's up?"
"What the hell is that guy doing in your house?"
Jessica was grateful that picture phones had not come to Whiskey River. She figured if Trace could see that Rory was not only in her house, but her bed as well, he'd probably blow sky-high.
"We discussed this yesterday, Trace. He needed someplace to stay."
"What about the Silver Spur? That's what motels are for."
When she glanced toward Rory, he realized the conversation was about him. He brushed his lips against her neck, right behind her ear, and murmured, "I believe I'll take a shower."
Jessica watched as he rose from the bed, seeming unconcerned that he was magnificently naked.
"Jess?" Trace demanded. "Are you still there?"
She sighed as the bathroom door closed. "Yes. And I suppose the prudent thing to do would have been to take him to the motel. But it could have been dangerous for him to be all alone. What if he'd had a relapse?"
"You're not his doctor. Or his nurse."
"I know." Jessica wondered what Trace would say if she told him that Rory believed that she was his wife. "But this seemed right, Trace."
He cursed. A short pungent oath ripe with aggravation. "You're the most stubborn woman I've ever met."
"Actually, I believe that crown goes to your lovely wife," she said easily. "But I'd be proud to be runner-up." She heard the shower turn on, pictured Rory standing beneath the stream of warm water and tamped down a sudden, irrational desire to join him. "Did you call to lecture me about my houseguest? Because if you did—"