A Twist in Time

by Susan Squires

  “Maybe the landlord is the key,” Casey muttered. “If you expect to get into your apartment after four months of not paying rent, you’ve got to have an in with the landlord. She was probably boffing him, too.”

  Brad swallowed. That couldn’t be. “Maybe the damage made the machine bring her to the wrong time. Maybe she didn’t know she was four months late.”

  “Then she’d be surprised she couldn’t get in. And where might she go?” Casey dripped condescension. “Landlord’s lying about not having seen her. We’ll work that angle.” Casey rubbed his jaw. “Then we have the problem of how they got away from the building, landlord or no. They didn’t take a cab. There’s no car missing from the parking lot. We have her car, and they can’t have walked with him in such bad shape.”

  “Rental car delivery?”

  “Checked that.”

  “You need a witness. Maybe there was a homeless person outside her apartment.”

  Casey stared back at the garden, jaw working. Okay, he’d checked that. Brad resolved not to offer any more suggestions. But Casey wasn’t giving him a choice. “There’s got to be something about her we’re missing . . . some skill, some . . . something that might tell us where she was.” He looked at Brad.

  “I told you everything I know months ago. She hangs out in libraries and bookstores. She walks—a lot. She knows lots of languages.”

  “Okay, that’s now. What about things she did as a kid?”

  “Well, she used to sail, and I think she had horses once.”

  Casey’s eyebrows rose. “You never said she sailed. That has possibilities.” Brad was relieved he’d said something useful. “Jensen find any diamond big enough to substitute?”

  Brad shook his head. “There’s a new one from India about the right size. But it’s still in the rough. The cutters in Amsterdam are studying it before they take a chisel to it.”

  “I’ll tell them to get on with it.”

  “It isn’t that easy. They have to eliminate the flaws by using them to split the stone. By the time they get it cut down, it may not be big enough.”

  Casey rose suddenly and drained the last of his coffee. “I’m going to get some sleep.” All eyes in the room followed him as he strode from the cafeteria. He looked like danger incarnate. Rumor had it that the last job he’d been on, a guy who’d reported Casey’s tactics to his superiors had gone missing. Well, all except a couple of fingers. Brad wondered if he should just go back to the lab and stay as far away as possible from Casey.

  But if anyone could find the fugitives Casey could. Brad wanted to be there when he did.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday

  Lucy dragged herself out of bed. She’d slept badly. Maybe it was the pepper spray under her pillow. He might have promised he wouldn’t try to kiss her, but you could rape someone without kissing. Whoa. Cynical. Did she really think he structured his promise so he could keep it and still rape her? The kind of guy that rapes a woman doesn’t care if he breaks a stupid promise. The problem was that deep inside she believed Galen was an honorable man. She might be losing it, but . . . but there was something about the look in his eyes . . . Maybe that was naïve. Too cynical or too naïve? The endless tape of uncertainty had played over and over in her mind last night. So, she took the pepper spray to bed. Cold comfort that.

  Speaking of comfort, she couldn’t find any. And definitely not anything cold. Her thoughts, waking, and her dreams, asleep, all had a temperature north of a hundred, involving one raping, pillaging, and very attractive Viking. Not comfortable at all. Even now she was wet between her thighs, left over from the dream she’d had just before being wakened by thunder and the pelting rain of a fresh shower.

  Maybe pepper spray wouldn’t protect her from what she really feared: that she was the one who would end up running her hands over his body, inviting a lot more than kissing.

  He was wounded for God’s sake. That sure didn’t seem to stop him last night.

  And he wasn’t her type. Viking? Hellooooo.

  Well. She wouldn’t think about any of this anymore. The best thing to do now was take a shower, for a lot of reasons. She got up, hugging her arms around her fake-satin sleep shirt. It was emerald green, her favorite color. The boat was cold. The ports were fogged opaque, the rivulets of rain on the outside only faintly visible. She pulled out her jeans and some fresh underwear and T-shirts from the drawers under the bed. Best dress before the Viking was awake and rev up the electric heater. She’d forgotten all about dying her hair yesterday in her panic to do damage control with the guy at the Quik Stop. Now the guy at the Quik Stop and the kid and the brown, hard sailor on the other boats had all seen her red hair. If she dyed it now, wouldn’t that just scream that she and Galen were hiding?

  She slipped out the door to her cabin on the way to the head. She was too late to avoid Galen. There he was, in all his half-naked glory, limping out of his own cabin.

  His eyes dropped to her bare legs, slowly. She was acutely aware that she was not wearing a bra and her too-ample breasts were free underneath the sleep shirt. He tore his eyes upward to her face. “Lucy, what day is today?” She hadn’t taught him “today.” It must be like so many other words—the same in both Old and modern English.

  She had to think. What had they told her at the hospital? It was a quiet night because it was Tuesday. That meant today was . . . “Friday.”

  “Friday.” His brow creased. “Danir take bath on Thorsday. I am one day late.”

  “In there.” She nodded to the head. A shower would make him feel better. “No bath. Shower.” He didn’t know what that meant in these times, even if he understood the word. “I’ll show you. First take off the bandage. We have to see if your wound is ready for a shower.”

  He sat on the sofa and peeled at the tape. He was doing it wrong. He’d only pull too hard and tug at the stitches. She cleared her throat.

  “Let me.” At least the bandage wasn’t wet with seepage. She peeled away the tape and gently pulled back the gauze, touching him as little as possible. It wasn’t little enough, of course.

  The wound looked much improved. The edges had lost puffiness. He healed quickly. Still, no way would the stitches be ready to come out Sunday no matter what the book said. “The wound is good.”

  He peered down at his shoulder. “Ja. I tell you this befran. I am mighty.” It was a mixture of what she had taught him and his own words, but it worked.

  “Okay. You can have a shower.”

  She turned away to get him a towel from the drawers set into the cabinet next to the head. When she turned back, he had the plastic tubing at the base of his wound between two fingers. “No,” she started . . . but under her shocked gaze he pulled it out with a grunt.

  He looked up at her. “It is time.”

  She sighed. Well, at least she didn’t have to pull it out. She took it from him. It was maybe three inches long. Was his wound that deep? She peered at the stitches. A little blood and the drain left a bit of a gap, but it was probably okay. She tossed the tubing into the trash compactor and handed him the towel, pushing past him toward the head.

  Opening the narrow shower door, she turned one of the faucets. “Hot. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Cold.” She turned on the other one. “Soap.” She held it up. “Soap for hair.” She pushed open the top of the shampoo bottle and squeezed so he could see how it worked. If he couldn’t soap his hair with one hand, she’d have to do it in the little sink. “Be quick. The water tank is small.” He looked blank. “Water?” He nodded. “Tank?” Not getting that. What was sort of a primitive tank? “Barrel?” Yep. That did it. She could see it in his eyes. “Small? Little?”

  “Ja. Lyttle waeter byrla. I be swift. Am swift,” he corrected.

  She squeezed past him. Much too close. He seemed to fill the tight doorway. He stepped inside and stripped off his boxers without bothering to close the door.

  “Do you like to be seen naked?” Wit
hout waiting for an answer, she pulled the door shut.

  But she heard him say, “Ja, Lucy. I like naked.” Great, “naked” was the same word in both times. She might have guessed. He obviously had much less concern about his body than she did. Why would he? He must have about 2 percent body fat. Not that he was stringy. A better description would be “packed with muscle.” Lovely, round butt, heavy shoulders, a broad back that rippled with every movement, an eight-pack, not six-, and thighs . . .

  She turned on an electric heater in the salon. She might not need it long. She was definitely feeling warmer. She sliced bread and put it in the oven to toast and slapped some bacon into a frying pan, got out some eggs. Water beat against the fiberglass shower stall. She wouldn’t think about him soaping his . . . No. Definitely wouldn’t think about that.

  The shower went silent. Jeez, he’d probably rip open his stitches drying himself with the towel. She gritted her teeth and opened the head door. “Come here.” He stepped, dripping, out into the passageway. His hair was wet, too, the blond color darkened. He smelled clean, but there was still something masculine about his scent. It made her want to bury her face in his chest. She grabbed his towel and glanced up at him. Speculation flickered in his eyes.

  Great. Now he thought she was coming on to him. “I don’t want you to harm your wounds,” she muttered, not caring if he understood. She patted his shoulder dry. “Like this.” She was not going to do his thigh. That was way too close to . . . well, she just wasn’t. She handed the towel back to him and nodded toward his other stitches. “You now.”

  He took it from her, his eyes fixed on her face. “Thonc to thu.”

  “Yeah, well, it was nothing.” She turned away. Think about something else. Like his hair. And his beard. She was going to have to do something about those. She backtracked to the head and found the razor. Then, since she didn’t want to prolong her agony, she retrieved another set of boxers (the navy blue ones) and sweats from his closet in the bedroom, along with one of Jake’s shirts. When she emerged, Galen had finished drying his body and was toweling his hair, braids and all. He’d managed to lift his bad arm a little. The nursing book and said he ought to start moving it as soon as possible, so that was good.

  “Here,” she said, shoving the boxers in his general direction.

  He grinned at her. “These both for me othe for you, Lucy?”

  She rolled her eyes and went to retrieve the toast. “The word is ‘or,’ as in ‘me or you.’ ” She slathered all four slices with butter and quartered some of the pears while the bacon sizzled. She saw him slide into the bench around the table out of the corner of her eye and chanced a glance. Whew. He’d managed to get Jake’s shirt on, though it wasn’t buttoned because it was too tight across the chest, and the sweatpants. Better for her sanity all the way around.

  Galen seemed to like the food. He went through three slices of bread, four scrambled eggs, two pears, and all but two slices of the bacon. When she had cleared away the plates, she picked up the razor.

  “Now. Your beard.” She pointed and held up the razor. She’d tackle one thing at a time.

  He looked wary. “I like min beard.”

  “We are hiding,” she said. “Yes?” She waited for his wary nod. “Then no beard.”

  He thought about that. “I have no beard if . . . you . . . are not . . . wundenlocc.”

  What?

  He pointed to her braid. “Okay. Point taken. Braids are recognizable.” She handed him the razor and gestured toward the head. He glared at her. “Oh, all right,” She flipped her braid over her shoulder and pulled out the band that held the end. She ran her fingers through it to separate the strands.

  A small smile tugged at his lips. “Better.”

  “Now you,” she said firmly, handing him the razor. “Use soap.”

  He took it, suppressing his smile, and retreated to the head, examining it carefully.

  Did Vikings shave at all? If they did, it certainly wouldn’t be with a Gillette four-bladed Skin Saver. They probably use a knife the size of . . . well, a really big knife.

  She busied herself washing up the dishes and putting things away. You couldn’t afford to be untidy living in so small a space. She got out the nail scissors she’d bought. They’d have to do to cut his hair. But her attention was all for the quiet in the head. What was taking so long? Could you accidentally cut your throat with a safety razor?

  When the head door opened, she whirled around and was confronted by a stranger. Beneath that beard had lurked a chiseled chin that sported a cleft. And now that it wasn’t obscured, his mouth was fuller than she’d thought, his lips soft looking. He seemed younger than the hardened warrior who had gone into the head a few moments ago.

  “Lucy likath . . . likes no beard?” His eyes were sly.

  Oh, God, she was staring. She turned away and shrugged. “You look different.” She glanced to him. “Not the same.” Nope. That wasn’t getting it, either. “You are a new man.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Ja. New man.”

  She brandished the small scissors. “Now for your hair.”

  His head jerked in her direction, registered the scissors gesturing toward his locks. He stilled. “No. Not hair.” His lips were a grim line.

  “No men have hair like you. We are hiding, remember?”

  “No.” He drew himself up. He looked like the Rock of Gibraltar. “Not hair.”

  She frowned. She couldn’t cut his hair if he didn’t want her to. Unless she pulled a Delilah and did it in his sleep. Right. She’d never believed that story. Samson would have wakened and just pitched Delilah across the room. Like this Viking had nearly done when Lucy had tried to wake him in the car the other day. Maybe the Samson/Delilah story applied in other ways, though. In Samson’s time men thought long hair was what made them a man.

  “Okay. You can keep your hair.” She put the scissors in the head. “But no braids for you, either. They’re just too . . .” Well, just too everything if it came to that. She retrieved her brush from her bag and handed it to him. He was probably used to combs carved out of antlers, but he got the idea. He sat and pulled the leather ties from the narrow braid at each temple, glaring at her. She couldn’t help but grin. “Turnabout is fair play. Sauce for the goose?” She reverted to Latin and repeated the sentiment.

  The corners of his lips tugged upward against his will. He dragged the brush through his hair. It got stuck. Too many tangles. She rolled her eyes.

  “Silly.” She strode over, extracted the brush, and started from the bottom.

  He went still. She worked at the tangles, trying not to break the strands. It was such beautiful hair, thick, a dozen colors of light brown and blond. Untangling it took a long time. She couldn’t help but touch his neck, his cheek, but at least Jake’s red and black plaid flannel shirt covered Galen’s upper body. Brushing his hair this way was strangely peaceful. When at last the brush ran through the strands freely, she stood back and put her hands on her hips.

  “There.”

  He pushed his hair behind his ears. It promptly fell across his cheeks, too thick for such confinement. Guess that was why he braided the temples, to keep it out of his eyes.

  “Okay.” She took one of the leather thongs, gathered a piece from each temple at the back of his head, and tied them firmly. “Better.”

  He nodded, examining her face. “Now you,” he said, standing.

  “Me?”

  “Sit,” he ordered. “Sauce.” The tiny smile appeared at the corners of his newly revealed mouth. He had a sense of humor. It made her think it might be okay to do as he said. To yield.

  Don’t go there.

  But she sat. He knelt beside her and took the brush. He started at the bottom of her hair and worked his way up until he could brush with long strokes from the crown to the ends. “Is good hair. You are frfeaxen.”

  He probably wasn’t talking about faxing fire.

  “Hair mid fr.”

  It dawned on her. “Red
-haired.” She smiled. How could she not? “You can write it for me.” She got up and got out their chart paper.

  Shoulder to shoulder, heads bent over the chart, puzzling out a common language felt . . . natural. Mayhaps even right in a way Galen could not explain. He could smell her hair, the woman’s scent of her. Her breasts moved freely under the fine smooth green shirt she had slept in. When he first encountered her this morning, she had seemed self-conscious. But now she had forgotten herself in the task at hand. Her hair was thick and wavy from her braid. It cascaded down her back and over her shoulders like a molten river of lava. Was it the same in her time—that a woman’s hair was left unbound only in the presence of her family or her man? If so, then letting him comb it was for her the incredibly intimate gesture he’d intended. They had combed each other’s hair. He felt his manhood stir. It was as well she had brought him the baggy breeches that stretched. He didn’t want to frighten her and spoil this moment. He repeated the word she spoke.

  This language would come easily. It was much like his Englisc, only more simply constructed. The words that were different he would learn. Some of them seemed related to Latin, which made those easier, too. He had an excellent memory, almost as good as a scald’s. And he had learned much harder tongues under much less comfortable circumstances. The prison in Kiev flashed through his mind. Learning the language of the wretch in the chains next to him was the only thing that had kept him sane.

  He had suggested that they try to speak only English so he would learn faster. She agreed, with the proviso that she could revert to Latin for words that were difficult to explain. Just now only half his attention was engaged in learning the action words she was teaching him. The other half studied the delicate tint washing the fine, pale skin of her cheeks and the long, dark lashes that hid her green eyes as she wrote the word “sail” on the parchment. The smattering of freckles that dusted her nose made her look vulnerable.