Aching for Always

by Gwyn Cready

“I like cliffs,” LaWren said. “Very scenic.”

  “Anyhow, you can see why I wouldn’t want to tell the police.”

  “I can see why you wouldn’t want to tell Rogan.”

  “The guy’s an asshole par excellence.”

  “You got that right.” LaWren blew out a puff of air. “I think we should have him turn around. I mean, that map could be anywhere, right?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “My sweet Lord,” LaWren said an instant after she gave the command. “That’s a rear end you can take home to meet the family.”

  Joss dragged her eyes away from the screen. “I think we may have done what we needed to do here.”

  “We have. Definitely.”

  Neither woman spoke.

  “Well, certainly now,” Joss said.

  “Right.” Another two beats passed. “I’m not seeing an exit strategy here,” LaWren said.

  “Well, let’s think. We know he doesn’t have a map.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty clear.”

  “And we know I don’t want to call the police.”

  “Yep,” LaWren said.

  “So, why not just unlock the doors . . . and run?”

  “Oh, the fourth-grade strategy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m liking it.”

  The rain had stopped. Joss closed the umbrella. “Tell him you’ll be watching until the elevator door closes. And tell him not to do anything funny, or we’ll call the police.”

  “I don’t suppose ‘anything funny’ includes getting dressed?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Only if necessary.”

  Joss hovered out of sight on the far end of the outdoor concourse. She told herself she wanted to be sure he’d left the building, but she knew the real reason she was waiting and she hated herself for it.

  He emerged from the doors in long, purposeful strides that spoke of a life where there’d been little room for diversions, though, of course, she reminded herself, he’d made room for a diversion with her when it had suited his purpose. She waited until he cleared the outside steps before heading into the building. She signed in and stopped to see LaWren, who gave her a hug, told her she deserved a much better Mr. Mistake and offered to make her a copy of the security tape.

  Joss declined and made her way to Rogan’s office, stopping at the vending machine for a bottle of water. He had a private bathroom. She was going to dump her tote, refresh her makeup and zip down to the History Center.

  She tore the annoying plastic seal off the top of the bottle, popped the valve and squirted some water into her mouth. Of course, Rogan said everything about bottled water was annoying, but where else were you going to find chilled refreshment that doubled as a watering can? She squeezed a healthy dose into the fern in the hallway.

  Sighing, she pushed open the door and put down the bottle. Then a force like a freight train hit her, and she was slammed into the wall, arm pulled taut behind her, with an overpowering weight holding her in place.

  “Frightened?”

  It was Hugh.

  Her heart was pounding and the wall was cold. She must have dropped her bag, because she didn’t feel it on her shoulder anymore. It was clear in the blink of an eye that with the office emptied out she was terrifyingly alone. “Yes.”

  “Don’t be.” He put his face quite close to her ear. “I won’t hurt you, but we’re going to stay where the eye can’t see us. Do you understand?”

  “The eye?” He wasn’t making sense, which was scaring her even more.

  He pointed to the camera on the ceiling. “Is it listening now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?”

  “You would have screamed already.” And as if to emphasize his point, he loosened his grip and waited. “I want you to take me to the map room, the one you told me about.”

  “Why?”

  He didn’t answer, just nudged her legs open with his foot and patted her down. When he got too close to her breasts, she drove her elbow into his side.

  He gasped, sighed and turned her to face him. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. I would appreciate the same consideration.”

  “I’ll be the judge of what hurts and what doesn’t.” He was still so close, she couldn’t free herself. She could feel his thighs flex as he moved.

  “I want to go to the map room and I’ll not ask again.”

  “It’s locked.” She spotted the bottle of water. It was almost within reach. “The key’s in the desk.”

  He swung his head for an instant to take in the lay of the room. “Pray, then, go to the desk and get it. However, if you make any gestures that suggest you’re in trouble, I will drag you out of this room, and I can assure you, you will not care for what happens after that.”

  There was enough grit in his voice to make her believe him.

  “On the count of three, aye? One, two—”

  She grabbed the bottle and swung with all her might. It hit him hard, and he was stunned but still on his feet. She dove for the door and had a hand on the frame when her feet went out from under her. She hit the carpet with a crash, and he pinned her wrists to the floor.

  “Dammit! You work for Brand! Don’t deny it.” He was breathing like a bull, and his knees dug hard into her sides.

  “I can’t breathe.”

  He eased his weight a degree. “Do you deny it?”

  Over the years Joss had encountered scores of people angry with her father. She was just sorry that Hugh turned out to be nothing more than another person with an ax to grind. “Why would I deny it?”

  “Why would you deny it?” he cried, disbelieving. “Perhaps because he’s one of the most singularly selfish and evil men I’ve ever had the unhappiness to meet!”

  “Do you think you’re the first person to tell me that? He was a hard man. Learn to live with it. I did. What do you want? Money?”

  “Don’t insult me.”

  The fire in his eyes turned white-hot—a proud, determined white-hot—and Joss saw her comment had hurt him. She also realized that if he hadn’t taken a swung at her now, he wasn’t going to.

  “I want the key to the map room.” He let go of her wrists and released his knees.

  Rogan’s key would open it and that was in her back pocket, but she’d be damned if she’d just hand it over. “It’s in my desk.”

  She wriggled a few inches, and he caught her. “You’re a liar.” With swift precision, he checked her blouse, bra and velvet jacket, then flipped her on her side and found the key card in the back pocket of her tuxedo pants.

  He pulled her to sitting and held the card in front of her. She slapped him.

  He ran his hand over the mark she’d left, looking surprisingly abashed. He did have a weak spot: manners.

  “Let’s go.” He lifted her to her feet. “The quicker we get this done, the quicker you can get to your little party.”

  She brushed herself off and began to move toward the door.

  “Ah ah ah.” He caught her. “I think you’ll have to make contact with the guard first. Tell her, if you would, that you believe you saw someone in the building near your desk, and ask her if she’d be good enough to make a quick check.” He settled his bulk against the door. “Don’t do anything foolhardy.”

  At this point, Joss simply wanted to get this over with. She pulled the phone from her bag and dialed. “Hi. Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Changed your mind about the copy of the tape?” LaWren asked.

  “No, that’s not why I’m calling. I actually . . .”

  Hugh gave her a stern look.

  “. . . saw someone outside my office.”

  “The guy with the luscious rear?”

  “Ah, no. Not him at all. Someone else.”

  Something caught Hugh’s eye. He went to the corner of the office and knelt down.

  “Someone else? His ass as fine?”

  “Actua
lly, it’s not bad. But the point is, I guess, the guy I saw is nobody I recognize. Do you think you could take a quick look around?”

  Hugh tugged something loose. In his hand was the demi-bra from her escapade with Rogan on Monday. She barely heard LaWren’s reply. There was nothing to be gained from responding to the question on Hugh’s face. Pride battled pride deep in her soul. Should she hold her tongue and feel the shame of having him think she’d thrown in her lot with a guy who cheated on his fiancée, or speak the truth and feel the shame of her rather incautious behavior. The line went dead. She punched End and said, “It’s mine.”

  He shook his head, placed it gently on the couch and made a theatrical gesture toward the door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Her back quivered with anger as she walked. Of course, given the fact she worked for Brand, Hugh had little sympathy to spare, especially after the indignity he’d just endured. Nonetheless, he allowed himself to imagine how the moonlight might move over that slim expanse as she reached for a decanter of wine on the bedroom floor or arched in pleasure as he stroked her.

  Her admission that the undergarment was hers had been a blow. Foolish though it had been, he had nurtured a hope that the partnership between her and Reynolds was just business, that the ring and her tales of a wedding had only been parts of a play acted out for his benefit. But there was no denying the significance of that bit of wire and silk. Had she taken Rogan to bed right there on the chaise? Hugh thought of her rocking slowly over his hips, in full view of an unshaded window, damning the eyes of anyone bold enough to look upon their joining.

  But he had more to concern himself with than daydreams. What he needed was the map upon which had been written the letter of agreement, the letter describing the two pieces of land to be traded with the signature of the two landowners at the bottom. However Alfred Brand had reached the past, he had arrived with one objective: to stop the transfer of a parcel of land from his many-times great-grandfather to Fiona’s grandfather. The land had been part of an exchange, a piece with a much-needed stream for the Brands in trade for more arable land for Fiona’s farming family. A year after the transfer, Fiona’s grandfather had found one of the richest seams of tin in the kingdom on the land that had once belonged to the Brands.

  Alfred Brand had arrived in the world of his many-times great-grandfather three years before the transfer, and, except for a short diversion to court and marry Maggie Brand, had focused single-mindedly and often underhandedly on finding his relation and stopping the transfer. But even with his careful planning, Brand had nearly been too late. The deed of intent had been filed by the time Brand had finally put his hands on the map. Without the signed map, however, the deed of intent was worthless. Then, to ensure the men didn’t go on with the transaction anyway, Alfred Brand paid someone to swear out a warrant for the arrest of Fiona’s grandfather for treason. His lands were confiscated by the Crown. The moment Brand stepped from that islet through the narrow cave entrance and returned to Pittsburgh with the map in his hand, it was as if the map had never existed. Brand, who had left his time a man of modest means, returned to a world in which his family had been wealthy for centuries.

  Hugh had seen the map once before, on the islet, when he was a child. If he could find the map and return it to the past, Hugh could restore what had been taken from Fiona and her family, but more important, he could reverse three hundred years of Brand family wealth and prosperity. Brand might be dead, but a man treasured his name above all, did he not? Brand Industries was his legacy. Hugh would destroy that and whatever else remained of the man in a single blow.

  Joss stopped at a nondescript door. She held out her hand. Reluctantly, Hugh placed the card in it. As she waved it in front of the lock, Hugh spotted a framed certificate on the wall titled the “The Brand Philosophy.” It was a description of the ideals Alfred Brand expected his workers to embrace, both florid and, if the first few sentences were any proof, hypocritical. Hugh gazed with disgust at Brand’s signature at the bottom, done in a script as ornate and self-important as that of any French emperor.

  The door clicked and they entered. The room was narrow, lined with chests that held wide, shallow drawers. Under softly lit lamps stood a slanted worktable upon which sat a magnifying glass of some sort as well as white gloves and small biscuit-shaped weights. There were no windows. The eye, he noted, was positioned over the door.

  He let door click behind them and leaned against it. “Find a map and sit at the desk,” he commanded.

  “Which one?”

  “Any one. You need to look like you’re working.”

  With a sigh, she opened a nearby drawer, selected the top map and settled in at the worktable. He figured the first chest of drawers was out of view of the eye and decided he would begin his search there.

  “Good. Now, keep your head down and look the part,” he said. “I’ll let you know when I need your help.”

  She picked up the magnifying glass and searched the map on the table before her. “How did you get back in to our offices?”

  “I held the door for a woman carrying a mop and pushing a large bucket.”

  Josh laughed. “So good to know being polite still gets you somewhere these days. And how did you know I’d go to Rogan’s office?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Great. I just walked into it, Joss thought. “You know, I might be able to help if you let me know what map you’re looking for.”

  “You’ve helped quite enough.” He opened the first drawer and pulled out the entire contents—six maps, separated with sheets of pristine white paper—then flipped through them, scanning the fronts and the backs. None of these maps was like what he’d seen at all. In fact, they appeared to be of areas in the Orient. He returned the maps and considered with a grimace the number of drawers he would have to search.

  “Honestly, I can help,” she said.

  “Keep your head down. It mustn’t look like you’re talking to someone.”

  She returned to the glass and positioned herself with her back to the eye. “Tell me what you’re looking for. The maps are arranged by source and time period.”

  “England,” he said with some reluctance. He did not care to let her even that far into his confidence.

  Her brow went up. Did she know about the stolen map or not? He was finding it extremely difficult to read her.

  “We have a number of English maps,” she said. “My mother was English, you see. If you care to be more exact, I can narrow the search further.”

  What connection her mother had to the maps here, he did not know. “East Fenwick,” he said after considering his prospects. Something flickered behind her eyes.

  “The maps would be in those drawers.” She pointed to a cabinet a few yards from where she sat.

  “Bring them to me.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you wore gloves.”

  He nodded. “As you wish.”

  She snagged the gloves as she stood, stuffing them into the same pocket he had so recently explored. A certain entrancing confidence radiated from her like perfume, but the addition of male trousers, which revealed her body in a way no woman would ever dare in his time, pushed the effect from interesting to frankly provocative.

  She bent to open the lowest drawer and pulled out a handful of maps, taking care to hold them by the paper separators. She walked by the desk and placed them on the chest in front of him. “There are four drawers of southern England.” She placed the gloves on top of the maps.

  “They’re tight,” he said, slipping one on his hand.

  She bit her lip. “Better let me do it then.”

  She slipped the gloves on easily and leafed through the pages, pausing to let him review each one over her shoulder.

  “Why do you possess such a large number of maps?” he asked, wondering if Brand had indulged in reversals of fate in other times as well.

  “I told you, we sell maps.”

  “Alfred Brand had a map company?” Hugh w
as amazed. The irony overwhelmed him.

  “This is not a part of Brand Industries,” she said hotly.

  Again he sensed an underlying resentment. What was the connection between her and Brand?

  “’Tis a cover of some sort; then? Your own idea?”

  “It’s not a cover. It’s a real company. Mine.”

  He looked at this slip of a girl, hardly more than twenty. “You run this?”

  She shifted. “I try. It’s something I do to try to honor my mother.”

  No. The flicker in her eyes gave the lie to this fabulous tale. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t believe it—the company, the maps or the dead mother.”

  She stood up, furious, and jerked his arm hard enough to turn him. Before him hung a small but beautifully illuminated map of Surrey. Beneath the frame hung a plaque that read:

  IN HONORED MEMORY OF MY MOTHER,

  WHO INSPIRED US WITH HER DEDICATION AND SPIRIT. WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOUR LOVE OF MAPS.

  —JOSS O’MALLEY

  When he turned back to Joss, her eyes were wet.

  “Do you believe me now?” she said, and wheeled back to the chest of drawers.

  He felt a rush of shame that took him back to the days when his brother would have boxed his ears for such an impertinence. What had he become?

  “I-I regret my words about your mother. They were most ungentlemanly. You honored me with your confidence, and I betrayed it.”

  She made no sound.

  “I feared your words were a way to get me to open up about my brother. For that, I am quite ashamed.”

  Her shoulders relaxed a little. She brushed a wrist past her nose, sniffing, and toyed with the magnifying glass.

  So the mother was true. He looked again at the inscription. He wondered if the daughter was capable of inspiring as much feeling as the mother. The little he’d seen so far suggested the answer was aye.

  And then he noticed a detail drawn over Redhill Brook on the Surrey map. “Hang on. What’s this?”

  She turned, reluctant, and looked where he was pointing.

  “Sheep. They’re meant to indicate pastureland. Sheep for pasture. Upside-down Ws for hills.”

  “But I know that stretch of land. That’s marsh. Nothing but mud and weeds. Completely unusable.”