by BETH KERY
"No, not recently, anyway," he answered with a short laugh. His laughter hardly implied amusement, however, only anxious concern for Hope's disorientation at her familiar world being wiped away in a split second. "Remember I explained that I'd just been given 1807 Prairie Street by a friend—Alistair Franklin? It's a long story, but the bottom line is, I just moved in here at the beginning of the week. It's my understanding that the house has stood empty for fifteen or twenty years. That's the only reason it seems so barren."
He walked over to the bedside table and picked up his cell phone.
"How about some Chinese food?" he asked, paging down the list of nearby restaurants that he'd programmed into his phone.
"What about it?" she asked, rising from her sitting position, her gaze glued on his cell phone.
"Do you want to have it for dinner? You said you were hungry. There's a place that has food that might be more what you're used to—chicken, steak, potatoes. Your only other choices at present are Mexican and pizza."
"What does Chinese food taste like?"
"You like beef? Chicken?"
Hope nodded. "Vegetables—peas, carrots, stuff like that?"
Again she nodded as she came closer to him. "I'll get a few things. If you're as hungry as I am, at least one of em is going to taste good to you."
As soon as he'd ordered and flipped his cell phone closed Hope ached for it.
"May I?"
"Sure," he replied, handing her the phone. "It's a cell phone."
"So you use this to contact your servants?" she asked finally after inspecting the phone with obvious fascination.
He grinned. "No. Very few people in this day and age have serwants."
"I don't understand. Who were you just giving instructions for bur dinner then?"
"Oh, the restaurant. They make meals."
"I know what a restaurant is—they have them in all the finest hotels. But you make it sound as if anyone can go to them. And it sounded as if they're going to deliver food to the house."
"Right." Ryan shrugged.
"Have we acquired a socialist form of government, then?"
"No . .. why would you say that?"
"Because you said there were hardly any servants anymore, and that anyone can have food prepared for them. I thought perhaps the government sponsored the restaurants."
Ryan shook his head. "No, good old-fashioned capitalism keeps the restaurant industry alive. That along with a good dose of American laziness and overwork."
"You mean we're going to pay money for our meals?" she asked, clearly disappointed.
" 'Fraid so, honey."
"Oh." She sighed and sat back down on the bed. "Then things really aren't that different from the past. They've just moved the servants out of the house."
"People who work in restaurants aren't servants. They get paid for their work," Ryan explained as he sat next to her on the bed. He was glad to see that some of the animation and color had returned to her face.
"Servants get paid! My father pays the best wages on Prairie Avenue and we offer the staff paid vacations and medical care from Dr. Walkerton as well. Do these people who work in restaurants make enough for their wages to raise their families? Can they go to the doctor for free and do they have paid vacations?"
"Er . .. no," Ryan admitted.
"Well, they should," Hope informed him with a pointed glance. "You should treat the people who prepare your meals well, Ryan, and they'll repay you a thousandfold with their loyalty and kindness."
Ryan opened his mouth to educate Hope on the reality of the modern-day world and shut it just as quickly. Hope may see things from the cockeyed angle of the early twentieth century and the influence of her idiosyncratic social reformist father, but that didn't mean her point of view held no validity whatsoever. Maybe she had a few things to teach him about his time period as well. So instead of lecturing her he tucked one of her errant curls behind her ear, smiling to himself when he felt her go utterly still beneath his touch.
"You know, you're right. I'll make sure I give an extra good tip."
She gave him a radiant smile.
There was no doubt about it. He was going to go bankrupt heating this monstrous old house and giving fat tips to every delivery boy in the city. But if it meant Hope Stillwater blessed him with that smile, he'd be the richest poor man in the city.
***
Hope sat cross-legged on the bed, her back against pillows that had been stacked next to the headboard. She gave a muffled cry of triumph when she successfully maneuvered the last piece of Mongolian beef into her mouth using chopsticks.
"This is delicious," she told Ryan, who sat opposite her on the bed, his back leaning against pillows and the foot railing and his legs stretched out in front of him. He'd put on a dark blue shirt earlier that only made his eyes look lighter and more striking in contrast to it. He wore a faded pair of the type of the thick cotton pants, similar to the ones he'd had on when she first saw him in the mirror. It was difficult for her to keep her stare off how well they fit his trim hips and long legs. She'd been impressed at how adroitly he handled his chopsticks, as though he had been born in China. "May we use the cell phone to order more of it for tomorrow's dinner?"
"Yes," Ryan said.
"Could you please pass the orange chicken?"
"You already ate it all."
"Oh." She frowned in disappointment and patted her belly thoughtfully. "Perhaps I'm fuller than I thought. I've never tasted food half so good. So many flavors. So exotic. And the delivery boy said he'd been to Hong Kong twice to visit his grandparents! Do you think he'll remember to bring the photographs of his last trip the next time he visits?"
Ryan's low laughter brought her out of her reverie.
"He'll remember all right. It's not likely he'll forget talking to you for a long, long time."
Hope put her chopsticks in the empty carton and carefully placed it on a paper napkin on the bedside table. She'd been unimpressed when Ryan had explained that the rough white paper was meant to be a substitute for cloth napkins and immediately asked why they didn't make napkins as soft as the paper she'd found in the bathroom. He'd laughed at her then just as he did presently.
"I suppose I must seem very foolish to you," she murmured.
Ryan shook his head and swallowed a bite of sweet-and-sour pork. "You don't seem foolish, honey. You make me see my world in a whole different way. I only meant that boy would never forget having such a beautiful woman listen to every word he uttered like she thought he was the most fascinating male on the planet."
Warmth flooded her at Ryan's compliment. He hadn't kissed her and only briefly touched her since they'd awoken from their nap; The heat in his eyes when he looked at her combined with his special small smile made her feel as if he'd been caressing her intimately the entire time, however.
"I did think he was fascinating. How many people do you know who have been to Hong Kong twice by the time they were sixteen? And these airplanes that he spoke of . .." She trailed off, gazing off into the distance and fantasizing what it would be like to get on a vehicle and be on the other side of the globe within a day and a night. "Airplanes sound like something right out of one of Mr. Jules Verne's novels. I can't wait to discover the other miracles of your time. I can't wait to tell my father about it all .. . the airplanes, the cell phones, the Chinese food delivery, the toilet paper . .."
It struck her suddenly that there was a very good chance she'd never have the opportunity to tell her father anything ever again.
A moment later she glanced up and saw Ryan standing beside her through an annoying veil of tears. He came down on the bed next to her. She found herself enfolded in his arms. She buried her face in his shirt, infinitely thankful for his steadying presence as her world rocked precariously. He said nothing as she cried but he ran his hand soothingly along the back of her head and shoulders, once pausing to pull the combs out of her hair.
"I'm sorry," she said wetly against his chest a whil
e later. At some point her attention had turned from her grief to the sensation of Ryan's fingers running through her unbound hair.
"You don't have to apologize. You've been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours."
Hope sniffled and raised her head to look at him. They were so close she could perfectly see the vivid pinpoints of color in his cerulean eyes. For a moment she found herself drowning in the depths of his gaze as though she'd dove down into a warm, sunlit sea. "I want you to know something, honey." "What?"
"When I first came into this house—when I first starting seeing you—I was convinced you weren't dead." He saw her crinkled brow and continued. "Ramiro—he's my partner—tried to tell me you were a ghost. The documents and newspaper articles I read stated that without a doubt you'd died in the year 1906. But I didn't believe it, Hope. And now you're here in my arms proving me right." His hold tightened around her. Her body slid along his several inches, until their faces were only inches apart. "I don't understand what you mean," she whispered.
"I'm trying to say that I don't think time works the way you and I had always thought.
Somehow—some way—I knew you weren't dead. I sensed that we were only separated by something human beings usually don't have the power to penetrate. But you and I—we're solid proof that it's not an impossibility."
Hope merely watched him soberly, emotion clogging her throat. He opened his big hand along the side of her head, his thumb caressing her damp cheek gently.
"I'm trying to tell you I don't think your father is dead . .. not in the way we used to think of it. We're separated from him at present, that's true. But if a gateway could be formed, you would see him, alive and well."
"But—"
He shook his head. "I know there's a paradox involved. I used to feel the discomfort of living with that paradox in regard to you. You were both alive to me and not. I had to force myself to choose which reality I wanted . .. which reality felt more tangible to me . .
. more right. Which one I wanted the most."
She swallowed with difficulty. "Are you saying that it's necessary to believe that my father is still alive, that this house still exists just as I recall it over a hundred years ago?"
He wiped the tears from her other cheek carefully. Hope could sense him deliberating on how to choose his words. "What I think I'm saying, honey, is that it's a possibility.
Someday, just like I did, you'll have to decide which possibility is your reality."
She stifled a sob of anguish.
"But that day isn't today, Hope. For now, we're here together."
She stared into his eyes, feeling like she soaked up some of the courage he offered her.
"We don't know enough about the mirror that remains. I'm just telling you this because
..."
"You don't want to see me give up hope. I understand, Ryan. Thank you."
He just watched her silently. Hope became preternaturally aware of every point on her body where they touched; how his chest brushed against the tips of her breasts when he inhaled.
"I'm looking forward to learning more about your world," she whispered.
"Do you want to go out right now? See the city?"
"It's dark out now. Perhaps ... we could wait until morning?"
"If that's what you'd like."
She studied him from beneath her lowered lashes. "I slept all day. I'm not at all tired yet.
What will we do?"
"We could watch television."
"What's television?" She looked over to where he nodded. She saw a rectangular electrical device with a pane of opaque glass. It was the first time she'd noticed it because Ryan had draped the coat given to him by one of Addie Sampson's men on top of it.
"It's like a radio with pictures."
"I don't understand."
His eyelids narrowed as he studied her. "It's sort of hard to explain. You might just have to see it. That little box over there could tell you a lot about the early twenty-first century, but it might be misleading as well. Maybe it'd be best if you started out by reading newspapers."
Hope bit her lower lip indecisively. She knew what she wanted to do and it wasn't along the lines of reading newspapers.
"I was thinking perhaps we could get to know one another better."
"If it's something you're feeling up to," Ryan muttered gruffly. Her heartbeat skipped into overtime when his magnificent eyes lowered once again to her lips and his nostrils flared slightly. Beneath her layers of clothing she felt the tension grow in his body and the stiffening of his member along her hip.
He remained unmoving, however, and Hope found herself uncertain as to how to proceed. She stared fixedly at his firm, sensual mouth and realized he looked unblinkingly at the same place on her anatomy.
She leaned down and softly placed her mouth on his, fitting her lower lip into the closed seam. Her eyes fluttered closed. She turned her head just a tad, letting their textures rub together, luxuriating in the pleasurable sensations that coursed through her body. They molded their mouths together, discovering textures. After a spellbound moment Hope realized he didn't breathe as she learned the nuances of his lips with her own.
She shyly slid the tip of her tongue between his lips and his hold on her tightened.
Feeling encouraged by his reaction, she tilted her head and explored his mouth ...
tentatively at first, but then with growing eagerness as she registered his familiar taste and he began to participate, rubbing his tongue sensually against her own.
Their kiss continued, exploratory, languid ... more delicious than she could begin to describe. Liquid heat swelled at her sex, and she pressed against his hard chest to alleviate the throb in her nipples. His hand opened along her ribs inches below her armpit, his palm lightly caressing the sides of her breasts. His other hand came up to twine in her unbound hair. He tugged gently and broke the magical kiss.
She saw that he watched her with hawk-like intensity.
"So this is how you would like to spend the evening, witch?"
She met his gaze solemnly and nodded. "If you would find that agreeable."
His low laughter caused the back of her neck to roughen. She couldn't resist leaning down and touching his curving lips with her own.
"Agreeable seems like a pretty lukewarm description to describe how I feel at the prospect of making love to you."
Hope swallowed. "I was hoping that.. ."
"Yes?" he asked when she faded off in rising discomfort.
"I was hoping that you would allow me to make love to you, Ryan."
"It's always a mutual endeavor, honey."
"Yes, but last night.. . you ... you made me feel good again and again, and yet you .. ."
"Only came once? Is that what you mean?"
She stared at his chest and nodded.
"Hope, look at me. It's true that I can come more than once, but in general women have shorter refractory periods between orgasms." Her puzzlement must have been clear because he continued, "A man usually can't come as frequently as a woman in the same amount of time."
"Oh, I see."
His mouth quirked. "I'm not so sure that you do, but you will soon enough given the amount of time I plan on making love to you."
Warmth spread into her cheeks and downward from her belly to her sex when she heard he intended to make love to her often. Didn't that imply he wanted to spend a considerable amount of time with her?
"So may I now?"
"May you what?"
This time instead of a gentle warmth, heat scalded her cheeks. "Make you .. . come?" she asked tentatively, trying out the word in this new context for the first time.
He gave her a slow smile that made her clamp her thighs together to still the dull throb between them.
"Be my guest, witch."
TWENTY-ONE
Hope's heart began to throb in her ears as she leaned on her elbow and reached for the hem of Ryan's shirt. She slowly drew it up over his torso. When the s
hirt reached his chest he obligingly shrugged out of it with a fascinating flex of ridged muscle and tossed it on the floor. She looked down at the breathtaking male landscape just inches away from her face.
She ran her hand over the delineated muscles of his abdomen and up over his ribs. They shivered in tandem.
"I've never seduced a man before."
"You're wrong."
She glanced up at him in surprise even as her hand continued to discover the fascinating sensation of dense muscle gloved in smooth skin. Ryan watched her hand fixedly as she slid it down his arm and palmed a bulging bicep.
"You've been successfully seducing me ever since I first saw you in that mirror."
"But I wasn't really doing anything, then," Hope whispered distractedly. Most of her attention was focused on the manner in which Ryan's small brown nipples pulled into erection the more she touched him. She experimentally flicked her fingernail over the stiffened flesh.
She glanced up into his face to gauge his reaction when he made a hissing sound. The rigid set of his features made her lightly scrape his nipple again.
"So you want to do more? Is that it, witch?" he asked gruffly.
Hope nodded eagerly.
"You might consider taking off your clothes for a start then."
"Oh. Of course." She rolled on top of him, making him grunt in surprise, and clambered off the bed. "I suppose you want me to take off my clothing here ... not in the bathroom?"
"That's right." Her eyes widened when he put his hands behind his head and stretched on the bed, as though he were getting comfortable for some sort of spectacle. She saw the long ridge of his erection pressing against the cotton material of his pants and realized her undressing before him was the spectacle. The knowledge made her hands tremble a little in nervous excitement as she unbuttoned her shirtwaist and then reached around to do the same to her skirt. Once she'd removed both garments and placed them neatly over the bottom railing of the bed she drew down her petticoat.
She found it increasingly difficult to meet Ryan's stare as more and more garments were added to the pile of clothing.