by Jessica Lee
“That a man from six hundred years in the future warped back in time, held you hostage, stole my way home, then vanished from your lawn without a trace?”
Shayla’s mind grappled for a hold on his words. “The future…” Her gaze collided with his. No teasing hint of a smile hid in those blue depths. “You’re joking.”
“No. I rarely joke.”
She bet that was the truth. The man had dead-serious tough guy stamped all over him. He possessed the looks and attitude. The perfect alpha badass for one of her novels.
“Y-you’re saying the guy who had the knife at my throat, when he disappeared, he…”
“Traveled somewhere either forward or backward in time and has left me stranded,” he added, finishing her thought for her, his face hard, unshakable.
“That’s impossible.” She shook her head.
“I rarely lie either.” The deadpan statement and matching expression had her doubting her sanity. Because she almost believed him.
“Rarely?” She hit him with a don’t-fuck-with-me glare.
“Rarely. And this isn’t one of those times.” He retreated one step, giving Shayla room to breathe and gather her thoughts. The proximity of the man, his intense larger-than-life presence was scrambling her ability to think.
“There’s no reason to hide the truth from you, or make up some deception. The reaction you had to my admission is the same you would receive from anyone you attempted to reveal the details to from this afternoon.” He cocked his head, studying her. “But I can’t risk the chance of being arrested and detained in one of your holding cells. When a locater team comes for me, they don’t need that complication. I have to return as soon as possible to prevent any contamination in your time period.” He glanced away, then assessed the injury to his biceps, his fingertips going to the edge of the wound before continuing. “And for certain other personal reasons, my retrieval must be expedited.”
“So what year are you from?” Good Lord. She couldn’t believe the question had even come from her mouth. Was she truly believing all this?
His gaze flicked up. “The year 2625.” He dropped his hand, then straightened. “My name is Creed Donovan. I’m a Sustain drug enforcer for the Federation of Americas.”
Shayla scoffed. She couldn’t help it. The entire delivery was so perfectly rehearsed and executed. “You say that as if you believe it yourself.”
“And your name would be?”
Not one flinch. Her accusation should have ruffled his feathers.
Baffling.
This Creed Donovan was unlike anyone she’d ever met. His story said he was crazy, but the way he responded, his actions, didn’t match the insanity of his pitch.
“Shayla Murphy,” she said on a frustrated sigh. “The other guy who attacked me, do you think he’ll be back? Do I have anything to worry about?”
He shook his head. “Highly unlikely. He’s not a violent person. Thomas wanted to escape me, not injure you. Now that he’s obtained his goal, he won’t be back.”
“Well…” With a puff of air, she blew the few loose strands of hair away from her eyes. “That at least is reassuring.”
“So, as you see, there is no need for your police.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Hmm…”
“You’re not injured. Your property is not damaged, and your assailant is very long gone, not to return.”
“But you are injured.” Shayla stared at his bloodstained t-shirt.
Creed’s gaze darted between his arm and her. “There is nothing your law officials can do to help me with this. Only returning to my time will resolve the situation.”
“It’s a deep cut. I think we can help you here. You just need a few stitches.” She stepped forward and reached out. Creed jerked back. Shayla dropped her hand. Wow. Edgy much? He acted as if she were going to burn him with her touch. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.”
“Like I said. There’s nothing anyone here can do to help.”
“Okay,” she drawled and backed toward the door. Shayla gripped the knob and added, “I’m going inside now, and it’s time for you to gather your things,” she indicated his backpack with a nod of her head and a wriggle of her finger, “and leave. The main road is a couple of miles in that direction.” Shayla pointed in the vicinity of the dirt drive where her faded Grand Cherokee sat.
“No police?”
“No police. You have my word.” As long as nothing else went down, she didn’t have to call the cops.
“Thank you.”
Even through all that steely attitude, she’d detected the relief in his voice. And as much as she hated to admit it, the effect warmed her. “You’re welcome.” Without turning her back, Shayla slipped inside then locked the door. A long breath she had no idea she’d been holding escaped her lungs. “Oh my God,” she mumbled to the empty one-bedroom cabin. A post-adrenaline tremble washed over her. Shayla headed for her desk in front of the bay window that faced the front lawn and returned her laptop. From her vantage point, she watched as Creed bandaged his wound then shoved everything else back inside his pack.
But he didn’t leave.
Instead he pulled something secured in what appeared to be a clear plastic wrapper from the front pocket of his bag and began to eat. Her hands went to her hips. Just how long did he plan to camp out there?
* * * * *
Shayla rolled over and stared at the silvery streaks of moonlight bathing the wood beams of her bedroom’s ceiling. Sleep had played hide and seek with her for most of the night. It had been hours since she’d last heard or seen anything of her unexpected visitor. But the memory of the day’s earlier event made the idea of a peaceful night’s rest a real joke.
One more check outside. That’s all she needed, and maybe she could get some shuteye.
On bare feet, Shayla padded into the living room and over to the front window. She scanned the front yard for any unfamiliar shadows, movement or sounds.
Nothing.
Good. He was gone. She sighed. Yeah. That was a good thing. Absently, she rubbed her midsection. Then why did the tiniest part of her feel…disappointed?
Because he was kind of hot. Shayla groaned.
He was fascinating. Crazy, but fascinating.
And he was hot. She rolled her eyes, mocking herself. Maybe she was the one who needed a therapist. A messed-up-in-the-head man was not what she needed in her life after her last disastrous relationship. Her precious three-year-old little girl, Maddie, was the only positive and beautiful thing that came from those two years.
Shayla rotated on her heels, then froze when a dark form on the porch caught her attention. She peered through the glass, trying to make out exactly what she was seeing. What the…?
Creed.
He was curled up in a sleeping bag at the far end. But there was no mistaking that dark head of hair buzzed into a military cut.
A hot flash of anger swept through her and she stomped for the door. Then it hit her. Creed really must not have anywhere to go. She dropped her hand away from the knob and her head fell back between her shoulders. Why else would he choose to sleep on her porch when she’d ordered him to leave? He hadn’t tried to break in, touch her, or even make a sound. She really had thought he’d left. Despite her misgivings, her heart went out to him. She couldn’t stand to see anyone cold, hungry or hurt. And he probably suffered from all three. Shayla moved back to the pane and took another hard look. Unmoving, as still as the night and fast asleep. She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth, then rechecked all the windows and door locks. Everything remained secure.
She had a soft heart, but her mama hadn’t raised a fool.
Morning came around way too quickly. Shayla blinked rapidly and groaned from the bright rays of sunshine jerking her back into consciousness. Coffee. The thought of the hot brew was the only thing pulling her from her covers. That and her deadline’s fast approach. The reason she’d left Maddie at her mother’s and gone up to the family cabin for s
ome undisturbed marathon writing. Time away had been great for her muse. Well, until yesterday’s adventure. On that thought, Shayla hit the coffeepot’s on switch, then returned to the set of living room windows to check on her unexpected porch guest.
In the same spot she’d found him in last night, Creed was upright, eating another one of those plastic-wrapped bars. It may have been her imagination, but his color seemed a little more pale than yesterday. From the stabbing and sleeping outside, could he be coming down with an infection? Dang it! He was not going to sit out there and die on her porch.
Shayla unlocked the door and stepped halfway onto the decking. “You stayed out here all night.” Creed stopped mid-chew and looked up.
“I apologize for the awkward situation, but I have to remain in the close vicinity of my last coordinates so that a retrieval team can locate me as soon as possible.”
“Uh-huh. I see.” Shayla nodded. He was sticking to his story. She gave him props for that. Shayla eased a bit closer, assessing him from behind an old wooden rocking chair. Creed acted like a man perfectly healthy, enjoying his breakfast and the cool mountain morning. But dark shadows lurked under his eyes, and his complexion—a shade whiter beneath his now two-day stubble said otherwise.
“Are you feeling okay?” Creed lifted his brows and met her gaze. Her pulse rippled under the effect. Irises so blue they battled with the Appalachian sky behind him, held her in their grips, and she didn’t know which one would steal her breath away first.
The sky lost.
“I’ll be fine.” Creed glanced back to the hillside. “As soon as I’m out of here,” he muttered under his breath, but she didn’t miss the remark.
“Well, if you can tolerate my company long enough, I have hot coffee in the kitchen.” Shayla spun and headed back inside. What an ass. He’d slept on her porch and then acted as if she had annoyed him.
At the counter, Shayla grabbed a cup from the cupboard. Behind her, Creed cleared his throat then spoke.
“If you wouldn’t mind, I would appreciate a cup of your coffee.”
Shayla stilled, drew a deep breath, then nabbed a second cup. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black.”
With both mugs prepared, Shayla placed them on the bar separating the living space from the small galley kitchen. Creed sat on the other side. He wrapped his palm around the ceramic and lifted his head.
“The comment earlier wasn’t about you or your home.”
“Oh.” Shayla perched on one of the stools and took a sip of her cream-and-sugared blend. “Sorry. I misunderstood.”
“I was referring to the supplies I’m in need of back in my time period.”
“I see.” Shayla eyed the bandage covering his right biceps. “Can I help in any way?”
Creed shook his head. “No. I do appreciate your offer. But like I’ve said, what I need is not available in the twenty-first century.”
“All right then.” Shayla straightened. “How about something to eat? We do have food in this century, and I’m hungry. Eggs and toast?” She stood.
“That would be very kind.” He smiled. An actual smile lit his face, the effect stealing the memory of her next step.
“You should do that more often.” The words popped out of her mouth before she could yank them back.
“What’s that?”
“Smile. It looks nice on you.”
Creed’s gaze dropped to his coffee, and he lifted it to his lips. “Thank you,” he mumbled against the rim of his cup. A flush of color rose from his neck to his cheeks. Wow. She guessed that was one way to pinken his complexion. Shayla grinned to herself on the way to the fridge. How long had it been since she’d made a grown man blush? Her heart rate quickened. Damn if that wasn’t fun.
Thirty minutes later, and after a few bites into breakfast, Shayla swallowed her last mouthful of eggs and decided she’d be the brave one and crack the frustrating silence between them. “So, Creed, where are you from?”
His jaw ground to a halt on the piece of toast he’d stuffed in only moments before. He leaned back onto the stool’s wicker backrest, his Adam’s apple doing the up-and-down action. “Do you mean where I was procreated, or where my designated parental couple housed me after I turned five and became ready for school?”
“Whoa…what?” Shayla dropped her fork and then eased forward, placing both forearms on the bar. “What exactly does all that mean?”
“I wasn’t born anywhere.” In an identical move, Creed leaned in, setting his elbows onto the Formica and met her stare. “In the twenty-seventh century children are created in a procreation facility, nurtured in a brood group home until they’re five, then if a couple is available, the rest of their rearing takes place with them.”
Shayla cocked her head, her mind ticking off all the implications of what he’d laid out before her. “You mean nobody…? Couples don’t…?”
Creed closed the distance between them, his lips a few inches from hers and whispered, “Are you asking if couples in my time engage in sex?”
Shayla jerked back, her elbow knocking her fork onto the floor with a nerve-shattering clatter. She glanced down at the lost utensil then back to Creed. He was already up, his back to her, and heading toward the door.
“Thank you for the meal, Ms. Murphy. I’ll do my best to stay out of your way and unnoticeable.”
“Umm, wait.” Shayla jumped from her seat and rounded the bar. He stopped in front of the door, pivoted, and his head craned in her direction. “You didn’t answer my—”
“No, we don’t,” he answered before she could finish her sentence. “And I spent most of my life in central South Carolina.” Creed turned back around before she could respond and opened the door. He started across the threshold, then came to a halt when his knees buckled, his hands going to the doorjamb for support.
“Creed!” Shayla darted for him and circled her arm around his torso. His body sagged against hers. Oh my God. Her heart raced. As one, they shuffled back inside and over to the sofa. Sweat beaded across his forehead, his breathing reduced to short pants.
He plopped onto the seat and fell back against the cushions. Creed lifted a palm and covered his face.
“Shit,” he drawled. “I’m so sorry about this.”
Shayla stood over him and rubbed her hands together as if the action would somehow kindle an idea in her head of what to do. “Is it your arm?”
Creed shook his head. Well, more like lolled his head from side to side. “No. Not really.”
What the hell did that mean? “Maybe it’s infected?” She leaned in and placed the back of her hand to his forehead. Creed dropped his arm and gave her a glassy-eyed stare. “You feel warm.” She straightened, headed for the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of pills from the shelf. After filling a glass of water, she made tracks back to her patient. Shayla dumped two white tablets into her palm. “Here.” She placed them and the glass in front of his face. Creed reached up, grasped the medicine, tossed them in his mouth, then gulped a mouthful of the water.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, his eyes glassy. “If you don’t mind…maybe I could,” he drooped onto his right side, “lie here for just a few minutes.”
“Okay.” His eyelids shuttered. “Umm. Sure,” she added. But she had a feeling the words fell on deaf ears. Shayla tapped his shoulder. “Creed?” He didn’t budge. “You okay?” She leaned in a little closer. His breathing was nice and even. “Oh damn.” He’d passed out. Now what? “Don’t do this to me. You were supposed to be gone. I’m supposed to be making headway on my book, not nursing some guy who believes he’s a time traveler,” she groaned. “You are so messing up my schedule.”
Shayla grabbed him by the shoulders and repositioned him onto his back, then shoved a pillow under his head. She stood back and crossed her arms under her breasts, studying his profile. He was so pale. Alabaster skin, raven lashes that brushed the high crest of his cheekbones alongside a straight, aristocratic nose. Dark stubble shaded his jaw and above the
full curve of his upper lip. He kept his hair closely cropped to his scalp. The midnight color of what covered his head and shadowed his face only added to the fairness of his complexion.
Striking.
He was definitely a man worthy of a few girls’ late-night fantasies.
Giving herself a mental shake, Shayla blinked. She needed to stop daydreaming and get him awake, back to his old self, and out of there. Her life didn’t have room for this kind of stuff. Handsome princes who swept in from faraway places to bring desire and romance to the lonely heroine didn’t exist and lived only between the pages of one of her books.
Besides, more than likely this guy was a nutcase.
After a quick trip to her medicine cabinet, Shayla had put together a few first-aid supplies. She pulled up a chair and placed a cool, damp cloth to his forehead. Unbidden, her fingers trailed across his temple, then down the length of his face. The coarse hairs of his beard pricked her fingertips, sending a shiver down her spine. She jerked her hand back and rubbed both palms along her thighs. He was the one with the fever, not her. Right?
She lifted the scissors from the kit and carefully cut away the makeshift bandage he’d placed around his biceps yesterday. Shayla peeled back the layers from his flesh, dried blood causing the gauze to stick to the open injury. She grimaced. Thank God he was out cold. All his symptoms had to be a result of the stabbing. She assessed the area. It was red, slightly swollen, but it wasn’t very hot to the touch. Not any more warm than he already felt. Nor did the wound drain. Maybe this wasn’t the source of his illness?
Shayla rinsed the cut and started to apply an antibiotic salve when something caught her eye. She left his side, nabbed the lamp from the nearby lounge chair’s side table, and brought it back to her work area. After propping it in the seat of her straight-back chair, she drew it in close, then peered into the open wound. Before having Madelyn, this would have totally grossed her out. Amazing how childbirth and the resulting years after rearing that little one could change a girl. Using a gauze sponge, she pulled back the edges of the torn flesh.