by BETH KERY
He would have wished something a hell of a lot more decisive if Diamond Jack truly had been Hope Stillwater's murderer.
She's not dead.
Ryan rolled his eyes when he recognized his own stubborn thought. Befpre he had time to mentally admonish himself for clinging on to delusions, the sound of splashing water once again entered his awareness.
Goose bumps rose on his damp, exposed shoulders, neck and chest. Another wary inspection of the bathroom assured him it was empty, however. Experimentally, Ryan raised his hand from the tub. The sloshing water made a much louder sound than the one he'd just heard. That other noise had possessed a soft, trickling quality, but there was something odd about the sound . .. almost as if he'd heard it through a tin can. There'd been a muffled, slightly metallic quality to it.
When he realized he was holding on to both sides of the deep tub and listening with an intense focus, he sat up with a jerking motion. The sound of water splashing around him as he sat up forcefully was anything but subtle, instantly shattering his tense, expectant mood.
Maybe Ramiro really was right. Not about the Prairie Avenue mansion being haunted.
About his brain being fried.
He grunted in irritation when he saw that he'd left his towel on an antique wooden bench that looked as if it'd been made for a child's playhouse. It had been there when he arrived in the house and he hadn't seen any reason to move it yet. It stood a good six feet from the tub. Water streamed off his body when he stood quickly. He lifted one foot to step out, looked up and almost fell out of the deep tub when he lost his balance. His breath burned in his lungs as he stared in openmouthed disbelief.
He gaped at a very alive-looking, half-naked Hope Stillwater.
FOUR
Her eyes looked enormous in her delicate face as she peered at him over a damp, creamy shoulder. She stood at the bowl of the sink, masses of curling dark hair pinned up on her head. She held a sponge in her frozen hand. It dripped into the filled basin, the resulting sound perfectly real, soft and somehow soothing to Ryan's stunned brain.
He had caught her in the private ritual of a sponge bath.
After a moment the weird vibrations of shock resonating through him lessened. He'd been mistaken. His imagination had gotten the best of him. This was a very real woman. She must have been living in the mansion illegally. Perhaps she was the former owner and had never vacated the premises?
Despite his logical thoughts, when he finally spoke what he said was completely irrational.
"Hope?" he asked, his volume level barely above a whisper. It was as if she existed inside a fragile bubble and he was afraid his robust male essence would pop her into oblivion.
The sponge she clutched dropped into the basin of water as though she'd lost muscular control. He watched, mesmerized, as she slowly turned to face him. She met his gaze and nodded her head once.
"Hope Stillwater?" he clarified.
Again she nodded, her huge eyes never leaving his face.
Ryan blinked in amazement. Her beauty was so immense, how-ever, that it drew his attention away even from the fact that he was impossibly standing in a bathroom with a woman who'd lived a century before him.
The light that fell upon her naked shoulders and chest wasn't the same dim electric fixture that shone in Ryan's world. Her source of radiance caressed her like a lover, making her flawless, damp skin seem to glow with a dark gold light. He saw her elegant neck convulse as his gaze lowered over her body.
She wore a pair of frilly white pantaloons—at least that's what Ryan thought they called the woman's undergarment—but her upper body was bare excerpt for the silver locket.
Her arms were beautifully shaped and graceful, her carriage slender and proud. Her breasts were full, but thrust high and firm off the plane of her chest and ribs. His penis tugged in arousal as he stared at the large pink nipples. The fantasy of suckling the tender crests and feeling them tauten under his tongue played across his mind in graphic detail.
"Ryan?"
Her breathy whisper did the impossible and removed his hot stare from the most beautiful breasts he'd ever seen. Like her, he merely nodded when he met her gaze. She'd temporarily stolen his wits along with his voice. He noticed the silent query in her velvety eyes, the amazement mixing with anxiety shaping her features. He raised his hand in an instinctive quieting gesture.
"Shhhh," he soothed, as though he were afraid her nervousness was like a loud noise—something that would rob him of the exquisite, otherworldly moment. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm just a man who lives in your house. I'm not sure why we're able to see each other like this."
Her breasts trembled slightly at his words.
"Why wouldn't we be able to see each other?" she whispered cautiously. She took a step toward him, her eyes searching his face. "Are you a spirit?"
"Not that I'm aware of. I was about to ask you the same question .. . even though I don't believe in ghosts."
She started slightly, as though she hadn't expected the amusement in his voice at such a moment.
"I'm just a man, Hope."
Her eyes lowered down over him.
"I see that," she murmured, her tone slightly dazed.
Her stare felt like the equivalent of a touch on the prickling skin of his chest and abdomen. When it lowered even further his cock jerked in arousal.
He couldn't stop himself. He laughed softly when he saw her startled expression of amazement as she stared at his cock with a mixture of 20 percent trepidation and 80
percent fascination. When she realized where she was staring her eyes darted to his face.
She blushed.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, clearly bemused even further by his laughter. "I've never seen a man without his clothes on before. You're the largest man I've ever seen."
"That would go without saying, since as you said, you've never seen a man naked before," Ryan said through a smile.
"I meant your overall size ... not.. . not the size of ..." Her voice quavered and trailed off.
This time a bloom of color rose all the way from her chest to her cheeks, but that didn't stop her curious gaze from flickering back to his groin.
"I know what you meant," Ryan said quietly.
The bizarreness of the situation soaked into his awareness fully for the first time at that moment. She existed but she didn't exist. The information Gail had given him today proclaimed that without a doubt, Hope Stillwater had been dead for over a century.
And yet she stood before him vibrant with life. What's more, he was naked and she was nearly so, and they were both obviously highly aware of each other sexually if his lengthening erection and her stiffening nipples were any indication.
Or perhaps she'd just grown chilly, damp as she was?
Her dark eyes lowered over him once again, lingering on his cock, and Ryan knew that her tightening nipples and flushed cheeks weren't caused by a chill in the air and embarrassment—at least not entirely. With her eyes still fastened on his growing erection, she spoke.
"If ... if you are not a spirit, then what are you?"
"A flesh-and-blood man," Ryan replied even as said flesh and blood pulsated with a primitive need to mate with the luscious female who stood before him. His muscles clenched when her gaze traveled up his torso, pausing to linger on his chest before she met his stare. He inhaled slowly to stave off a powerful wave of lust.
"Maybe I should get my towel—"
"You're even more beautiful than the Michelangelo sculptures I saw in Rome and Florence."
Ryan's mouth fell open at her spontaneous, sweet words. He'd never experienced such uncontrived honesty. He was accustomed to guarded, defensive women ... to people in general playing it cool in order to protect their vulnerable inner selves. To have such a beautiful woman compliment him so openly given the bizarreness— no, the impossibility—of the situation acted as an aphrodisiac just as potent as her naked, flame-gilded flesh.
"Hope," he began gruffly. He sta
rted to step out of the tub but hesitated, not sure if he could stop himself from touching her without the small barrier between them. "Do you understand what's happening here?"
She shook her head slowly. "Not really. I know that you're Ryan Vincent Daire and that you live in my house . .. somehow."
"How do you know my name?"
"I saw it. You wrote it, didn't you? In my book of sonnets?" She harried her shapely lower lip with her teeth anxiously when she paused for a moment. "You put the number 2008. That referred to a year, didn't it? To the year in which you live?" she asked in a rush, as if the question had required a burst of courage.
Ryan nodded cautiously, not sure what sort of an effect the news would have on an early-twentieth-century woman—if that was indeed what she was. In that moment, it seemed equally both ludicrous and self-evident at once that he held a conversation with a woman born in 1881. Didn't women at that time period swoon as regularly as sitting down to a meal?
Instead of fainting dead away, however, this incredible woman stepped closer to him, her magical eyes widening in excitement.
"Did you build a time machine, perhaps? Something similar to what Mr. Wells wrote about?"
Ryan blinked. And he'd been thinking she might faint.. .
"No, I haven't done anything intentional to make this happen. Well, except to unexpectedly gain ownership of 1807 Prairie Avenue. You read The Time Machine?"
His brow crinkled in confusion when she looked vaguely embarrassed by his question. It surprised him, considering this singular woman hadn't shown a trace of embarrassment over the fact that she stood before him wearing only some sheer pantaloons. The thinness of the garment had become uncomfortably more obvious to Ryan the closer she came to him. He'd never had reason to think about an early-twentieth-century woman's underwear before and was surprised at how sexy the garment was. He could easily see the dark pubic hair between her legs and map the shape of her curving hips and slender thighs through the wispy material.
"I assure you that I temper my reading of novels with that of Serious, thoughtful texts, Mr. Daire."
His eyebrows shot up on his forehead at her sudden formal tone.
She must have noticed his reaction because she bit her lower lip before the excited gleam entered her eyes once again. Apparently Hope Stillwater's enthusiasm was not a thing so easily repressed by convention.
"But Mr. Wells—and Mr. Jules Verne as well—write such amazing adventures. And now we are in one of our own!"
When she saw his wry smile, her eyes dropped to his naked body and then to her own.
Clearly Hope Stillwater hadn't meant adventures of the sexual kind. That was just Ryan's dirty, twenty-first-century male mind working. He wondered, though, when she jolted visibly. Ryan guessed the full impact of the strangeness—not to mention the potent eroticism—of their situation had just slammed into her consciousness.
"Don't. Don't move," he said.
"Why?" she asked breathlessly.
"I don't know what will make it stop. I don't want you to go."
She swallowed convulsively. "I ... I don't want you to go, either."
A charged silence ensued.
"Do you ... do you suppose we should try and touch? To see if it's ... real?" she asked cautiously.
Ryan hesitated. Hope Stillwater certainly matched none of his ideas about what an early-twentieth-century woman might be like, not that he'd ever given it much thought before. The power of her singular personality smashed all stereotypes to dust. Her lively curiosity and freshness left him stunned and aroused. He also sensed her impulsive, headstrong nature, however . . .
"I want to. Very much," he admitted slowly.
"But you're afraid it will break the connection. Aren't you?"
Ryan's pulse escalated both in his neck and his cock at her reference to a connection. Did she feel it, too, then?
"Yes. But I want to touch you so badly right now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take the risk."
She took another step toward him. He drowned in deep pools of ebony fringed with the thickest, longest eyelashes he'd ever seen. Her eyebrows arched gracefully on her pale forehead, their shape somehow highlighting her animated expression, the sheer vibrancy that seemed to exude from her being.
Her gaze lowered. She held up one elegant hand just inches from his chest. Her pulse throbbed madly at her throat.
"Wait."
"What?" she asked a trifle impatiently, her hand still outstretched.
"Do you understand what's going to happen if you put your hand on me?" he rasped.
Her gaze flickered over his naked body and back to his face.
"Yes."
"Touch me, then. And be prepared to be touched. But first, tell me this. What is the date there . .. where you are?"
The hand that was suspended in the air trembled slightly.
"November the tenth of the year 1906."
Ryan's jaw tightened. In three days in her time period—perhaps sooner—Hope would be abducted. Her murder would soon follow. The untenable thought was the only thing that kept him from stepping out of that tub and pulling her into his arms. If he didn't feel her dewy, silky-looking skin slide next to his body sometime soon, he worried he might die from thwarted lust.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice sounding harsher than he'd intended. "I want you to be careful. Someone intends to harm you."
"What do you mean?" she asked, clearly confused.
Ryan studied her uncertainly. If he could touch her, hold on to her, perhaps he could keep her here with him in the twenty-first century. Keep her safe?
"Come closer," he demanded quietly.
His hands rose to just an inch above her creamy shoulders. The need to touch her felt imperative. He realized his gaze was glued on her breasts and that he was imagining his hands cradling the weight of them while his forefinger whisked over the tightening, rosy nipples. The heavy head of his cock strained for her almost as though it was made of metal and Hope was a powerful magnet.
He forced his eyes up to her face.
"If something should happen ... if this"—he glanced down to the narrow space between them—"connection should be broken when we touch, I want you to try and contact me through the mirror."
Her eyes widened. "The one in my bedroom? You were there. You saw me as well?"
"Oh, I saw you all right," he muttered grimly. He thought of the way the mirror had felt yesterday for a second when he touched it: not solid, not liquid, but not like empty space, either. More like ... a fullness, an indescribable web of possibilities. "Use the mirror, Hope. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
He frowned slightly when he heard her solemn whisper. God, she was sweet. Not to mention sexy as hell without ever intending to be. He really didn't want anything to happen to her—
"And under no circumstances should you venture out alone over the next few days.
Agreed?"
She nodded.
"Don't go anywhere with a stranger. Am I making myself clear?"
"Even you?" She looked dazed as her hand sunk toward his chest.
"I don't understand what's happening here, Hope, but I'm no stranger to you," he growled before he reached to claim her .. .
... And hissed in monumental frustration when his hands closed on empty air.
Ryan charged into his bedroom down the hall still naked and damp, but impervious to the chill in the hulking old house. He swung open the wardrobe door and stared at the image of himself in the antique mirror. His wet hair spiked up from his head at haphazard angles. His cock and balls hung heavy between his thighs, still semi-aroused .. . still expectant.
"Hope?" he demanded. After he'd repeated her name several times, each time the volume of his voice escalating, he closed his eyes in profound frustration. Christ, what did he think he was going to do? Scold her into the year 2008?
He shouldn't have tried to touch her. Since when did he let his cock rule his actions? How was he going to reach her now? How the hel
l was he going to keep her from being murdered?
And did he really believe such a thing was a possibility?
Ryan thought of the dazed arousal in Hope's dark eyes when her hand had hovered above his chest.
It didn't matter what he believed. He knew he'd just spoken with a woman named Hope Stillwater. He knew danger and death hovered over her.
He knew he'd do anything in his power to stop her from being harmed.
When it came down to it, belief and bone-deep knowledge were two very different things, Ryan realized for the first time in his life as he stared blankly into the looking glass.
His gaze sharpened on the outer edge of the mirror. Was it his imagination or had an inch or so of the fogginess cleared? He touched the cool, hard surface and cursed. No give to the solid ect. No be No Hope.
***
Ramiro looked pissed off enough to bite through metal the next day as he and Ryan left the Immigration and Naturalization Ser-vice Detention Center in Chicago's Loop.
Although he doubted his expression gave away much, Ryan was every bit as furious as Ramiro after interviewing the twenty-year-old kid who would be extradited back to Mexico within the week.
"My grandparents live in a village about the size of that kid's! So do my aunts and uncles and cousins. It could have been their vil-age Donahue sent Chirnovsky and that other asshole Gutierrez to rape. One of my cousins could have been lured with all their lies into doing slave labor for Donahue, just like that kid was. A woman from my family could have been kidnapped for their white slavery ring. Saturday night can't come quick enough for me," Ramiro exclaimed heatedly, referring to their sting operation to finally collar Jim Donahue.
"Donahue's done," Ryan stated flatly.
Ramiro took a deep breath and nodded as they walked out onto Monroe Street, seeming partially mollified by Ryan's steadfast assurance.
When Ryan parallel parked on Eighteenth Street at eight p.m. later that night, he just sat for a moment and stared out the car window at the imposing French Chateauesque-style limestone mansion he now owned, the multiple towers and cupolas, the ornate ironwork, the sloping mansard roof. Ryan couldn't imagine a more unlikely place for him to live or a house more perfectly suited to Hope Stillwater's elegant, lush American beauty.