Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  "But Ginny will worry."

  "Ginny will be fine. We can get word to her."

  "But—"

  He stopped, turning her to face him. "I'm not taking any more chances with your life, Loralee." His gaze locked on hers and she shivered at the look in his eyes—something deep inside her flickering to life, wanting to respond. But before she had time to sort through her jumbled emotions, he moved again, pulling her along behind him. "You ride Jack." Hearing his name, the horse raised his ears and snorted.

  Patrick grabbed the saddle and threw it on the sorrel. Still bemused, Loralee tried to focus on what was happening. "Where are you taking me?"

  He tightened the cinch, looping the girth into place. "Clune. You'll be safe there."

  "But, Patrick…" He swung her up onto the horse, and then met her gaze, one eyebrow quirked inquiringly. "I don't want to get you involved in all of this." Her tone sounded mutinous even to her own ears.

  "It seems to me you've got it backwards. It's my family that's gotten you involved. My father's ramblings seem to be the key to this whole thing, and until we figure out why, I want you somewhere safe." He adjusted the stirrup with a jerk, his black brows drawn into a fierce frown. Not a man to quibble with.

  "Fine. Clune it is." She forced her voice to sound light, but she shivered as the vision of Corabeth's lifeless body filled her mind. Would she be next?

  14

  Michael sat in an armchair by the window watching Cara sleep. Even in repose she was beautiful. Moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating the glistening strands of her hair as they fanned out across the pillows. He clenched his fist, filled suddenly with the urge to touch her, to assure himself that she was real.

  Making love had been a mistake. Instead of quelling his need for her, the act had intensified his desire. He wanted her now more than ever before. And the simple truth was that he couldn't have her. He didn't belong here. He belonged at Clune. He belonged in 1888.

  He glanced down, running a hand over the white square of gauze on his chest. Almost healed. Rotating his shoulder, he was relieved to find that the motion caused him no pain.

  It was time.

  Patrick and his father would be crazy with worry by now, assuming time was passing more or less the same in both centuries. It was all so complicated. He ran an agitated hand through his hair, the idea of losing Cara again eating at his gut. There was just no getting around the fact that he had to go back. He had obligations. And he'd be damned before he'd run out on them.

  Of course he could ask her to go with him, but that would mean asking her to give up her way of life for his. And from what he'd seen of the twenty-first century, her life was a helluva lot easier that his, even with the fire. He sighed with frustration. The simple truth was that he had nothing to offer her but debts and dreams. Not exactly an enticing package.

  "Michael?"

  Startled, he looked up to find her sitting up in the bed, tangled curls tumbling over her shoulders, covering her bare breasts. He sucked in a breath, feeling his body quicken with need. She looked like a goddess. Covering her mouth with a slender hand, she stifled a yawn. He smiled. A sleepy goddess.

  "How long have you been awake?" She leaned back against the pillows, a soft smile playing about her lips.

  "A while. I couldn't sleep."

  Her smile slipped away. "Something's wrong." She studied his face, her eyes widening with understanding. "You're thinking about leaving, aren't you?"

  He nodded, amazed at how accurately she'd read his mind. He rubbed a tired hand across his face. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Mind reading was a walk in the park when compared with time traveling.

  "When?" The word came out a whisper. She bit her lower lip and Michael could see tears welling in her eyes.

  He groaned and strode across the space between the bed and the chair, bending to scoop her into his arms. Settling onto the bed, he held her close, his breath stirring tendrils of her hair. "Soon."

  He started to speak, to try and explain, but she shook her head then tipped it back in silent invitation. His mouth slanted over hers, feeling the slight tremor of her lips.

  He pulled away, his breathing uneven, his eyes searching hers. With a crooked smile she pulled him closer, her lips planting a trail of kisses along his jaw. The heat began to build, spiraling through him with unbelievable force. Oh God, how he wanted this woman.

  He flipped her onto her back, covering her with his body, her softness blending with his hardness, an exact match, a perfect fit. With one quick thrust, he was inside her, her heat surrounding him, pulsing, alive. Together, they moved, establishing a rhythm to a silent orchestra only they could hear.

  Their mouths met and he drank deeply, trying to draw her in, to hold some part of her captive in his heart—

  A constant memory of what could never be.

  Cara woke in a warm cocoon of blankets. The sun streamed through the window, bouncing across the brightly colored patterns on her quilt. She yawned and stretched, as contented as a cat, her body sated from a night of lovemaking, her brain still fuzzy with sleep. She rolled onto her side, reaching for Michael.

  The bed was empty, the pillow indented slightly where his head had been.

  She jerked upright, fully awake, her heart pounding as she searched the room for some sign of him. Oh God, no. Please, not yet. Her heart sent the prayer fervently heavenward and she scrambled out of the bed, wrapping the quilt around her.

  The empty room silently mocked her.

  Soul rending pain rocked through her.

  He was leaving her. Had left her, the little voice brutally reminded her. Panic swirled in the depths of her stomach, turning and churning, until she felt sick.

  "Cara?"

  She looked up, her heart refusing to beat another minute. He stood in the doorway, a tray in his hands, his ebony brows drawn together in concern. She tried to talk, but her mouth wouldn't move. Tears ran down her cheeks and her heart resumed beating with a lurching thud.

  "Honey, what's wrong?" He dropped the tray on the bureau, cutlery clanging against crockery. With one swift step he was beside her, his arms pulling her close against him as he lifted her, quilt and all, into his lap.

  "Gone…I thought…you'd…gone." Between the tears and the huge lump in her throat, she couldn't make the words come out right. She buried her face in the warmth of his bare chest, willing herself a part of him.

  He stroked her hair, rocking her back and forth, his voice gentle and soothing. "Hush now, I'm here. You're just reacting to all that's happened. Let it come. That's right, let it come."

  She felt his lips on her hair and abandoned any effort at control. With a wrenching sob, she pushed closer, obeying him, letting the tears come. She cried for all that she had lost. Her gallery, her paintings, her innocence, her parents, her grandfather—and she cried for Michael. She cried because he was leaving, and she cried because he could never truly be hers, and she thought that surely her heart would shatter.

  All the while, he rocked her, whispering nonsensical words of comfort, keeping her safe in the warm circle of his arms.

  "Better?"

  She nodded, feeling the echoed rumble of the word deep in his chest.

  He relaxed his arms and tipped her tear-stained face up to his with a gentle finger. Her green eyes were dark with a mixture of anguish and passion, but her face was calm, the worst of the storm had passed. "I made you breakfast."

  She smiled shakily and sat back, the quilt slipping, baring her breasts. He sucked in a breath and forced his hand to remain placidly on her shoulder, the desire to feel her nipple respond to his touch was almost more than he could bear. She made him crazy. With a shaking hand, he reached for the corner of the quilt, tucked it securely under her arm and tried for a casual tone of voice. "Come on, it's probably cold."

  He reached for a bowl on the tray and handed it to her. He had to admit the congealed glop in the bottom wasn't very appetizing. Colorful, but not particularly edible. Bu
t then what did he know about modern tastes?

  She stirred it with the spoon. "What is it?"

  He struggled to remember the name. "Froot…something. Loops. Froot Loops. That was it." He smiled at the whimsy of the name.

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. The box said it was cereal. I figured I could handle that. I mean all you have to do with cereal is mix it with water and heat it to a boil. Simple enough. I even figured out how to use the contraption you call a stove." He sat back, feeling smug.

  She choked on a laugh, obviously trying to swallow it.

  "What?"

  The laughter escaped despite her efforts, and she almost dropped the bowl. "I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you." She swallowed. "This is so sweet of you, but you don't cook this kind of cereal." She lifted the spoon and turned it upside down. The rainbow colored blob hung from the spoon, firmly glued in place. "You eat it right out of the box. With milk."

  He looked at the spoon and then at her, his face breaking into a rueful grin. "Patrick's always on me for not reading instructions." He shrugged. "I guess I'm not quite up to twenty-first century cuisine." The look in her eyes sobered him instantly and he ran a finger across her cheek, wiping away the last traces of her tears. "I'm sorry."

  "For the cereal?" Her gaze met his, and he lost himself in the fathomless depths of her eyes.

  "No. For all of this." He shrugged helplessly. "For everything."

  She put the bowl down, and with a lithe twist, straddled him, dropping the quilt, her eyes never leaving his. "Not for everything, I hope." She smiled, a slow seductive turn of her lips that had his body singing with joy.

  With trembling hands, he reached for her. "No, not everything."

  "Tell me more about your relationship with Nick."

  Cara looked across the table at him. "Where did that come from?"

  He slid a forkful of pancakes into his mouth and licked at the syrup left in the corners of his lips. "This is really good," he mumbled over the pancakes.

  She stared at his mouth, imagining that she was the one licking away the sweet sticky... She inhaled sharply. "Surely you have pancakes in 1888?"

  He swallowed. "Yeah, sure, Patrick makes them all the time. But they don't taste anywhere near this good."

  "God bless Aunt Jemima."

  "Who?" He bit into another mouthful.

  She smiled at his obvious ecstasy. "Never mind. You mentioned Nick."

  He swallowed and laid his fork on the plate, reaching across it to cover her hand with his. "I want to know more about him. Something about last night just doesn't ring true. And I've got the feeling Vargas is at the bottom of it."

  "Are you talking about the fire? We know what happened. It was the space heaters. The fireman told us." She leaned forward, searching his eyes for answers. "Are you saying it wasn't my fault?"

  He pulled his hand away, running his hand through his hair. "I don't know. I just keep going over it in my head, hearing you talking about no smoking. You said one spark and…what was the word?"

  "Kablooey."

  "Right, kablooey. The point is you were being careful. Overly so, in my opinion." She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off with the wave of his hand. "I'm saying that I don't believe anything you did caused the explosion. It just doesn't make sense."

  She frowned, letting his words sink in. "But I still—"

  "Look, when we left the gallery to go eat, you shut everything down. I remember because I was hungry and you were intent on checking everything twice."

  She went over the details in her mind, trying to focus on her actions. She remembered crating The Promise. Michael had helped. And then she'd finished the paperwork, except the manifest. And then she'd— "Oh my God. I turned them off. Michael, I turned off the space heaters."

  "Exactly." The smile reflected in his lapis gaze warmed her insides, making her feel like she was the most amazing woman on the planet.

  "So I didn't…" She hesitated, unable to finish the sentence.

  He shook his head, still smiling. "No. You didn't."

  She exhaled, the rest of what he was saying sinking in. "You don't think this was an accident."

  "Frankly, I don't see how. At the very least, someone had to turn those heaters back on."

  The bite of pancake in her mouth suddenly lost its flavor. She swallowed. "And at the very worst?"

  "Someone set the fire deliberately."

  "But why?"

  "I haven't worked that out yet." He frowned. "But I will."

  She leaned forward, her mind spinning. "You think Nick did it, don't you?"

  "I don't know anything for sure, but I think it's a little too coincidental that we saw him five minutes before the explosion and then again right afterward."

  Cara shook her head. "That can't be right. Nick can be pushy and even obnoxious, but he'd never hurt me. I mean he…" She cut herself off, wrinkling her nose, smiling in embarrassment.

  "Wants you?" Michael raised his eyebrows, his mouth curling into a grin. "Can't say that I blame him."

  Cara's body clenched deep inside, responding primordially to some signal she hadn't even realized he'd sent. She'd never known a man who was so…well, manly. His expression sobered and she came back to reality with a crash.

  "Did he know about the space heaters?" he asked.

  "Yes, he did. He was always ragging on me about it. Said I was just asking for trouble. But that still doesn't give him a reason to burn down the gallery."

  "No, but I'd be willing to bet a bundle it had something to do with your paintings."

  "The Promise?"

  "Yeah." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I heard him, Cara, he wanted those paintings badly enough to threaten you."

  "I told you, I don't think he would have hurt me. Besides he wanted the paintings. That's hardly motivation to destroy them." She winced, the pain of losing her artwork almost physical. "Why would he do something like that?"

  "Maybe because you wouldn't sell them to him. I don't know." Michael shoved his chair back and stood, leaning forward, hands braced on the table, his face hardened with anger. "Truth is, there's only one person who can give us the answer."

  "Nick."

  "Right. So, I'd say it's time we pay him a little visit." He narrowed his eyes, the anger solidifying into granite composure. "Do you have any guns?"

  She tried to tell herself there was something good in all this.

  Michael was still here, his thoughts of returning put on a back burner. He'd made it perfectly clear that he wasn't going anywhere until he was certain she was safe.

  But that was merely postponing the inevitable.

  She sighed, sneaking a quick look at the tense man sitting beside her. His crash course in driving after the fire may have made him confident in his skills, but considering the grinding noises under the hood, she was somewhat less enthusiastic. The engine was not responding well to his less than gentle manipulation of the gear stick. What in the world had she been thinking when she'd allowed him to drive?

  The steel butt of a revolver jutted out of his jeans. Her grandfather's. She glanced behind her at the rifle carefully bracketed to her Jeep. It was like riding in a damned arsenal. And she was riding shotgun, literally.

  "Turn here." She pointed to an intersection and Michael swung the Jeep sharply to the left without benefit of braking first. The Jeep squealed in protest, but made the turn with all four wheels on the ground.

  She sucked in a breath, relieved that they were still upright. "This is it."

  He braked, the resulting impact enough to have thrown her through the windshield if she hadn't been wearing a seatbelt. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. And hers was instantaneous. She was driving them home. No amount of testosterone driven enthusiasm was worth risking her life for.

  Michael reached for the rifle. "You stay here."

  "I most certainly will not. It's my gallery that got incinerated and I want to be there when you find out what happened."


  His eyes narrowed, his face turning stubborn. "I don't want you anywhere near him."

  She frowned, feeling mutinous. "Look, I'll be perfectly safe. I'll have you and your guns with me." She gave him her most beguiling look, stopping just short of batting her eyes.

  His lips quirked upwards, not a full-fledged smile, but she knew she'd won. "Come on." He swung down from the Jeep, not waiting to see if she followed.

  Nick's house was one of those pretentiously pseudo-Victorian structures, built to look old with all the modern conveniences. The porch creaked as she stepped on it, a counterpoint to Michael's staccato hammering on the door.

  "Vargas, open the damn door."

  Cara reached his side and placed a restraining hand on his elbow. The fury in his face almost made her step back a pace. She'd been right in her previous estimations. This was not a man to mess around with.

  "I don't think anyone is home," she offered quietly.

  Her words sank in and he stopped pounding.

  The whole thing was kind of anti-climatic. Not that she was complaining. She hadn't really been looking forward to a showdown with Nick.

  Michael looked calmer and she dared a question. "He's not here. Now what?"

  He reached for the brass doorknob. "We go in."

  The house was immaculate. Not surprising really. Vargas was the type to be finicky. The hallway ran the length of the house with closed doors indicating various rooms opening off the entry. A large staircase sprang from the back of the hall.

  Michael stepped into the house, careful to keep Cara behind him. The lady had guts, but he was determined to keep her safe even if it meant locking her in the closet. He smiled at the picture the thought inspired. Hell, maybe he'd just lock himself in there with her.

  He opened a door, and peeked into a parlor. It reeked of some sort of floral scent. He wrinkled his nose and quickly closed the door.

  "We shouldn't be doing this," she hissed from beside him.

  "Doing what?"