by Sakwa, Kim
“I’ll call you later, Katie,” Gregor said, trying to turn around and look at her.
“You don’t even have her number,” Alexander reminded him.
“Not yet, Alex,” Gregor said, shaking his head. “But it’s just a matter of time, my friend.”
“Of course it is.” Alexander rolled his eyes, then watched Gregor do a ridiculous He-Man impression—or the Hulk, he couldn’t keep them straight—when he saw the new flat-screens set up. He held up his hand however when Gregor tried to go in for a chest bump. Not Alexander’s style. The TVs weren’t for business. Gregor loved sports. And not just the big leagues. He had a penchant for anything fast and competitive. And some not so fast. He’d already switched the TVs on to sixteen different events when Alexander left him. All on silent, of course, since Gregor actually had a real job. They had all decided it wasn’t enough to sit around and collect interest on what they’d brought with them, that they had to earn money as well. Besides, they were all former military men, so what better than this? As his wife would say—Seriously! Bloody hell, he missed her and he wanted her—them—home. Now. He checked the face of his Breitling again; thirty-three hours, twelve minutes—yes, he was counting.
Day by day, Alexander was beginning to understand just what it was that his company did. Between Art explaining the mechanics of the overall operations and Trevor and Michael helping him with specifics, he was catching on. He had the personality, the cunning, and the command down, but in order to learn even more of the fundamentals of today’s business practices, he’d sat in on the training of some of their most recent administrative hires. All of them wounded warriors. Just because someone was disabled or disfigured didn’t disqualify them from performing a job. Comrades beget comrades. And what better than something within the realm of the security and surveillance business? He wasn’t learning code or anything of the sort but understanding which buttons to push and when had helped.
After a few more perfunctory hellos, he entered his office, a large space filled with a massive desk and a sitting area. Large couches and chairs, a sixty-inch plasma TV, and a table for smaller meetings. He had his own bathroom, which was outfitted with a shower, two sinks, a comfortable chaise and table, and a private toilet room as well. Stephen’s and Gregor’s suites were the same.
Settling behind his desk, he looked at the stack of paperwork in front him. Mostly contracts that needed his signature. He was just about to call Chris, who was in New York waiting for them, when Stan checked in again. It was his hourly perfunctory text: Amanda and the kids are well. At least he was giving him that—bare minimum though it was.
They left for the private airport after his call with Chris. They had a six-hour flight, a two-hour dinner meeting, and then six hours back, including travel to and from airports. They’d be exhausted and back in California around midnight.
“Well?” Alexander asked Trevor. He hadn’t seen him since they’d arrived at the offices earlier and now in the truck, he wanted to know what he’d been able to find.
Trevor held up his laptop and shook his head. “Stan’s disabled his tracker, and must have done the same to Mrs. Montgomery's and Callie’s as well.”
While Alexander knew Amanda and the children were safe—Stan would make sure of that—he preferred to know exactly where they were at all times. Bloody hell, was that too much to ask? He’d feared the unfathomable for so long and thought the trackers he’d put on their phones would have been enough, but now he wished he could have them all chipped like he’d heard people did with pets. Leave it to Stan to give her the modicum of privacy she needed. Still, Trevor pointed out excitedly, Stan hadn’t disabled the systems on her Range Rover or that of the penthouse in Chicago. The team knew when she arrived safely at her residence and when they were buttoned up snugly for the night.
When their caravan arrived at their Manhattan operations, they were filmed by a few news crews entering what was now Montgomery Enterprises Inc. headquarters, which had been happening with increasing frequency lately, now that the acquisition had made headlines. The meeting was over by ten and then they headed back home. Jesus, it was a long day, but at least as they settled on the plane, countdown was at twenty-three hours, six minutes.
Back in Cali, Alexander walked through his foyer, passing the long hallway to the left that led to the kitchen. He continued beyond an enormous powder room, then entered the living room. It was a beautiful house, but what he wanted was a home, with his wife and children. He poured a scotch and then stood in the terrace doorway that faced Amanda’s property. He hated seeing it so darkened. Devoid of his family.
Early the next morning he hit the lights in the gym, taped his hands as he’d been taught, and instructed Siri to play “Dream On” on repeat. Then spent the next hour beating the hell out the bags that hung from the ceiling in a line. He lay spent on the floor afterward, wondering how life could change so very drastically in what was a relatively such a short period of time.
The remainder of the morning involved pacing the courtyard, foyer, and terrace on Amanda’s property. Lunch came and went. An hour later, Alexander, his men, and Samantha boarded the Calder Defense jet, intent on bringing Amanda home.
I am so coming to get you, sweetheart.
Amanda stood before the window in Rebecca’s room. The sea churned as did her thoughts and emotions. On the heels of her declaration to Alexander, he’d grabbed her arms and pulled her in close, scrutinizing every inch of her face, which had been as terrifying as it had been exhilarating, then he’d abruptly let go and turned away. But really, what had she expected him to say? She’d told him she’d never seen him before in her life—and while that was one-hundred-percent true, to him, she looked just like his wife.
Relieved at least that for now they wouldn’t be sharing a bedroom, she’d entered what was to be her chamber and kicked off her shoes. As she fought with the buttons of her dress, Alice returned to help her out of it and then into a long nightgown; a sheer, white confection with ties in the back. Amanda’s gratitude must have been a bit over the top since her servant stammered and blushed throughout the whole thing. She’d finally left after pulling a brick from the fireplace, unwrapping it from its sooty cloth, and placing it at the foot of her bed.
Tired as she was, Amanda wasn’t ready for bed. She couldn’t do anything. Left alone with her thoughts for the first time in hours she was struck by how insane this all was. What the hell had happened? How had she come to be here, here in this castle that was no longer hers but apparently Alexander Montgomery’s? Alexander Montgomery of the eighteenth-century Montgomerys. It didn’t sound any less nuts the more she thought about it. And on top of it all, he was hot.
The longer this hallucination went on, the more Amanda was starting to feel that it wasn’t a hallucination at all, that she somehow had fallen back in time. Everything was so real. The castle, the estate grounds, the weight of her dress, the feel of Alexander’s hand on her—no. She wouldn’t think about it, about what had happened, or at least, almost happened. Actually, she reasoned, if this were a hallucination, if this were something she was making up in her own comatose brain, Alexander wouldn’t have pulled away the way he had only minutes before. No, she’d have let things progress much further, she was sure of it.
Alone, Amanda felt even more sure this wasn’t a dream. She’d pinched herself so many times her arms were covered with red marks. She’d even pulled her hair. It didn’t work. She actually wanted to laugh; my God, this was a fantasy come true: a mysterious time, a handsome husband who reeked of authority, and an adorable daughter. Strangely, she felt safe being here, safe being far away from Robert, and comforted in the most bizarre way to be a part of Alexander’s and Callesandra’s lives. She’d read so much about them already it was like she did know them, on some level.
Seriously, though, it was a dream, it had to be. She pinched herself again. “Ouch.”
“Do your han
ds pain you?”
She turned, startled by Alexander’s voice, soft-spoken as it was. Her heart started beating faster again. How could she reconcile, justify, rationalize her reaction to him? She didn’t belong here, wherever here was, no matter how oddly safe and comforted she felt playing as Alexander’s wife and Callesandra’s mother. Would he want to sleep with her? Would he notice the difference? He was leaning against the door frame dressed in just trousers, his hair free of the leather tie that had held it back earlier. His broad chest, even in repose, was impressively sculpted. His powerful arms showed a marking across his left bicep she couldn’t quite make out. A tattoo? She wanted to be wrapped in those arms, to lose herself in his strength. To lose herself in him. She’d never felt anything close to the attraction she felt for this man, and it had come on so quickly, so strongly. And this man couldn’t even stand her. Or the woman he thought she was.
“My hands are the least of my worries,” she answered, turning to look out the window again and avoiding his stare.
“Rebecca?”
She wanted to tell him that wasn’t her name but couldn’t. Not yet. “Yes, Alexander?”
“When did you learn to play the piano?”
“When I was five,” she said. She’d tell as much of the truth as she could. Would telling the truth bring more harm? Did he know something was different? He must; it would account for his odd, he likes me, he likes me not behavior. Amanda heard him move closer, felt his heat when he stopped just behind her. “Should I be scared, Alexander?” she asked, knowing she was putting her trust in him. He was all she had after all, for whatever reason, and she was comforted by that, by him.
“You’ve never been scared before, Rebecca. What scares you now?”
“Everything,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to the glass of the window.
“I don’t have the heart for more games, Rebecca,” he said, his voice turning to a sneer.
“I don’t play games, Alexander.” And truthfully, she wouldn’t know how.
She felt his hands then as they brushed through her hair, pushing it over her shoulder. He had large hands, gentle hands. But the man’s actions were so confounding—he ran hot and cold and she could never predict which it would be. There was this pull, connection, attraction, or whatever it was that was between them, and she liked being touched by him. He traced his fingers over her neck and she shivered from the soft caress. Oh God, what should she do? She wasn’t his wife, wasn’t the mother of his child. She had to tell him, try to make him understand. She turned slowly and lifted her head and froze. He was looking at her so closely she couldn’t move. His hands cupped her face as he looked down and then he moved closer, just as he had before.
She met him halfway. The hell with talking.
She searched his eyes as he tilted her face up toward his, trying to read the swirling mix of emotions she saw there. Lust, definitely, but confusion, tenderness, and yet still a flash of anger. Then, all thought stopped as he touched his lips to hers. A soft sigh escaped Amanda’s mouth. Somehow, nothing had ever felt so wonderful, so right.
She wanted to close her eyes, but Alexander was staring at her so intently that she couldn’t. They watched each other, taking turns with their lips, first his capturing hers then hers doing the same, stopping after each gentle pull to gauge the other’s reaction. A test. Of them both. Her head was cupped in his hands, her own splayed wide across his chest.
Then, suddenly, he pulled away and turned without saying another word.
Reeling, Amanda sunk down onto the bed, absentmindedly fingering the spot on her neck where his hands had been only moments before. It was then she realized she hadn’t returned the necklace and ribbon to Callesandra. She’d promised she would, and she wouldn’t have the little girl mistrust her.
She picked up a small oil lamp and peeked through the doorway to make sure no one was around. Thankfully the large hallway that wrapped around the second floor was empty. She stared at the line of doors running down the walls on both sides of the landing. It was such an odd sensation. She was at once so at home here, and yet it wasn’t her home, not anymore. Or, she corrected herself, not yet. Amanda knew what was behind each door in her present day estate, but now she wasn’t sure by whom they were occupied. She knew Alexander’s room was just beyond her own suite. She’d heard the door close each time he’d left her. In fact, Alexander’s current room was actually her suite in her own time, but obviously not now.
All thoughts of Callesandra swept from her mind, Amanda knocked softly on his door. It opened a moment later. She felt Alexander’s eyes on her but found she couldn’t meet them. What was she doing here? Staring down at his bare feet, she realized even they were beautiful. Large, wide, perfectly proportioned. Was there anything about him that wasn’t perfect?
Alexander looked down, surprised to see his wife in the threshold, though if there was ever a night to expect it, it was this one. There was something strange about her tonight—it was almost as if she wasn’t truly his wife, but was some beautiful, lovely imposter. He’d left her chamber with the intention of putting as much space between them as possible for this woman had him thinking he was bloody mad. Torn between grabbing her and kissing her again or slamming the door in her face, he reached for the oil lamp instead. She was shaking so badly she’d start a fire.
He’d been stunned to hear the knock upon his door at all, soft and tentative as it had been. Callesandra never knocked, always just entered, which was the reason he always slept in his breeches. His daughter knew she was welcome to join him anytime she wished. She obviously wished it often for most nights she crawled in beside him, whether or not she started the evening in her own bed. His men, when they wanted his attention, sounded two clear raps before they were bid entrance, so his wife’s knock had been unusual, unexpected.
He lifted her chin. “You’ve never knocked upon my door, Rebecca. Never.”
She met his gaze finally before speaking. “No, Alexander. I never have.”
His gut clenched at her statement. Bloody hell she rattled him, it was as if she knew just what to say to infuriate him—and even worse her confounding replies were said guilelessly and in a damn near challenge.
“What is it?” he asked impatiently through his teeth, his wife’s behavior confounding him yet again, not to mention how rattled he already was by his reaction—and attraction—to her.
“I don’t know where Callesandra’s room is.”
Bloody Christ, how much of this could he take? Another admission that cut him to the quick. He could see tears in her eyes, too, but she refused to shed them. This woman was brave. And he knew to his very marrow that somehow, she was honest as well. Still, he had too many questions he wasn’t ready to seek answers to just yet so instead he lashed out again. “Why would you?” he asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “You’ve never had time for her.”
“If I had a daughter,” she said evenly, “I would always find the time for her, Alexander.” If she had a daughter? What did Rebecca mean by that? Before he could respond, she held out her hand, Callesandra’s necklace and ribbon upon her gauze-covered palm. “Please return them to her.”
Not knowing what else to do, Alexander took them from her. Then she whispered good night, and turned to go back to her room. He watched from the hallway as she felt her way. She’d not taken the lamp that he held in his hand.
Amanda awoke to sounds in her chamber. She opened her eyes slowly before sitting up and looking around. She was actually relieved to find herself still in the eighteenth century, if that’s really where she was. Her dreams last night had been like none she’d ever had before, filled with images of Alexander and Callesandra. They were the best dreams she’d ever had.
Alice was in the room, too, opening the drapes, sunshine blazing through the windows as each was pulled aside. It was a beautiful room, but it wasn’t hers. And none of the th
ings inside of it were hers either, which was somehow creepier than being here.
Alice helped her into a burgundy dress with delicate gold braiding and ties. This one was much more comfortable than the one she’d worn the night before. No bell hoops in the skirt and it fit loosely, as did the shoes. Each just a little too big. Alice said nothing of her ill-fitting clothing, so when she turned around, Amanda removed the shoes. The hem of the dress covered her feet; hopefully no one would notice they were bare.
When Alice started making the bed, Amanda stood before the mirror staring at her reflection, which was apparently identical to Rebecca’s. Were they so similar? As she pulled back her hair, she turned toward Alice and asked to see Callesandra, her voice muffled from the hair pin in her mouth.
When Alice made no indication that she’d heard, Amanda repeated a little louder, ending with, “Would you bring her to me, please?” She finished securing her hair and was playing with the strands when she saw Alice still hadn’t moved. “My daughter, Alice,” Amanda reminded her as if she’d been doing it all her life. Seriously, this part of the charade was easier than she thought.
Alice nodded, rather curtly Amanda noted, and returned minutes later holding Callesandra’s hand. Just seeing the little girl, imagining she was actually hers, boosted her spirits immensely. Amanda smiled and motioned for Callesandra to come closer. Callesandra was only a little hesitant as she moved forward to the bench where Amanda sat before an ornately crafted vanity. As soon as she was close enough, Amanda picked her up and hugged her tightly.
“Good morning, sweet baby girl. I missed you,” she said, even more surprised to find she really had. She felt safe with Callesandra, as safe as she’d felt with Alexander, regardless of his moods.