A Sexy Time of It
A Sexy Time of It
Cara Summers
To boldly go where no woman has gone before. . .It's not a story from one of the novels on her bookstore shelves–Neely Rafferty's vivid dreams of traveling back to the time of Jack the Ripper are actually real. And so is the sexy cop who's time-shifting right along with her.Max Gale has come from 2128 to 2008 to make sure Neely doesn't alter the past. But their intense psychic connection and hot sexual escapades surpass all temporal bounds. She's taking him for a ride through the ages! And he's not sure he'll be able to go back to the future–or if he even wants to!
Look what people are saying about Cara Summers…
“Ms. Summers is a compelling storyteller with a gift for emotional and dramatic prose.”
—Rendezvous
“With exquisite flair, Ms. Summers thrills us with her fresh, exciting voice as well as rich characterization and spicy adventure.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“A writer of incredible talent with a gift for emotional stories laced with humor and passion.”
—Rendezvous
“A book worthy of the keeper shelf.”
—Cataromance on The Cop
“Chills, thrills, mystery and romance combine perfectly.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Tell Me Your Secrets
“Cara Summers keeps the action fast and hot.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Two Hot!
“A roller coaster ride that the reader will want to take again and again.”
—A Romance Review on Two Hot!
Dear Reader,
Writing my first Blaze Extreme book has been quite an adventure for me. First of all, I’ve always been a science fiction fan, so I was thrilled at the chance to create a brave, new world—Planet Earth, 2128—where a small percentage of the global population has developed the psychic ability to travel back through time. One of those select few is serial killer Jack the Ripper, who is murdering women in three different centuries—San Diego 2128, Manhattan 2008 and London 1888.
Meet my very sexy cop-from-the-future hero—Max Gale—whose goal is to capture Jack. Bound by the rules of his world, Max is forbidden to change anything that’s happened in the past. (Translated, that means he can’t save any of Jack’s victims.)
Max’s plan is simple. He’ll shadow bookstore owner, Neely Rafferty, who is destined to be Jack’s last victim in 2008. Then he’ll grab Jack and take him back to 2128 to stand trial.
But once Max and Neely meet, she shoots his plan straight to hell.
I hope that you’ll come along for the ride as Max and Neely chase Jack, explore their relationship and find a way to make their very different worlds intersect.
For more information about A Sexy Time of It and my August 2008 release, Lie With Me (a continuation of the adventures of the Angelis family), visit my Web site: www.carasummers.com.
Happy reading!
Cara Summers
A SEXY TIME OF IT
Cara Summers
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A Sexy Time of It is Cara Summer’s first Blaze Extreme book, but it’s her twelfth Blaze novel. She’s already busy working on number thirteen—Lie With Me, a sequel to her 2007 miniseries, Tall, Dark, and Dangerously Hot! Her stories have won numerous awards, most recently the New Jersey Romance Writers’ 2007 Golden Leaf for The Cop and the 2007 Golden Quill for When She Was Bad… She loves writing for the Blaze line because she can write such a variety of stories—from time travel to Gothic thrillers to lighter romantic comedies. When she isn’t busy creating another story, she teaches in the Writing Program at Syracuse University.
Books by Cara Summers
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
38—INTENT TO SEDUCE
71—GAME FOR ANYTHING
184—THE PROPOSITION* (#litres_trial_promo)
188—THE DARE* (#litres_trial_promo)
192—THE FAVOR* (#litres_trial_promo)
239—WHEN SHE WAS BAD…** (#litres_trial_promo)
259—TWO HOT!† (#litres_trial_promo)
286—TELL ME YOUR SECRETS…†† (#litres_trial_promo)
330—THE P.I.‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
336—THE COP‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
336—THE DEFENDER‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
813—OTHERWISE ENGAGED
860—MOONSTRUCK IN MANHATTAN‡‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
900—SHORT, SWEET AND SEXY‡‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
936—FLIRTING WITH TEMPTATION‡‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
970—EARLY TO BED?
To my editor Brenda Chin, in honor of our
twenty-fifth book together! I’m looking forward to
the next twenty-five. Thanks so much for always
pushing me to take risks and thanks for always
helping me out when I do. Most especially,
thanks for always seeing what I’m trying to do—
and then making sure that I do it.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Prologue
RAIN FELL in a soft thick mist that nearly blocked the light from the street lamp. Neely hurried toward it, pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt. The instant she saw the gas flame, her heart kicked up its rhythm. Just to make sure, she glanced down at the street. Those were cobblestones all right. Something caught her eye. Bending over, she scooped up a coin and grinned when it wasn’t one she recognized. Excitement and anticipation streamed through her as she tucked it away in the pocket of her jeans. She definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore—her particular Kansas being New York City, 2008.
But was she where she wanted to be? Just before she’d fallen asleep, she’d been concentrating on London, September 30, 1888, when Jack the Ripper had been prowling its streets and brutally murdering women. Lately, all of her “dreams” were about places where the Ripper had killed. Hardly surprising. For the past four months a serial killer had been targeting women in Manhattan, and the media had gleefully dubbed him Jack the Second. Like everyone else in the city, including the discussion groups in her bookstore, Neely had been boning up on Jack the First’s exploits. But tonight she’d decided to conduct a little experiment. She’d focused her mind on Mitre Square where the body of Catherine Eddowes had been found in the wee hours of the morning. This was her first attempt at controlling the specific destination and time of one of her dreams. Had she succeeded?
Peering through the mist, she caught a glimpse of a wrought-iron fence across the street, and a little thrill shot up her spine. She had one foot on the cobblestones when the sound of hooves sent her backing up and she ducked behind the street lamp. A carriage clattered by, its lantern waging a brave but losing battle with the mist. Neely smelled damp leather and horses as she studied what she could see of the carriage. She was no expert on Victorian-style vehicles, but it looked close enough to the pictures she’d seen in books.
Once the hoofbeats had faded and she was satisfied the street was clear of traffic, Neely raced across it, then bent low to read the small plaque on the iron gate. Mitre Square. Her heart skipped. This was the place all right. But was it the right time? Catherine Eddowes’s body had been found on September 30, 1888. That was the day Jack the Ripper was believed to have claimed two victims.
Was she in time to warn Catherine? Or was the woman’s brutalized body lying somewhere in the square even now? Fear snaked its way up her spine, and Neely’s hand tightened on the gate. It was still hard to get her mind around the possibility that she might really be in the London of 1888.
She’d been having vivid dreams for years—usually triggered by something in a book that had captured her imagination. While they’d been alive, her parents had always attributed her stories about being in Troy when the Greeks invaded, or being in Paris when Marie Antoinette was beheaded, to her bookish nature and an overactive imagination. Only her grandmother Cornelia Rafferty had taken her dreams seriously. Cornelia had experienced the same kind of dreams and so had her great-great-grandfather Angus Sheffield. Angus had once dreamed of being in Rome on the day when Julius Caesar was assassinated. It was her grandmother’s theory that the vivid dreams were connected with the fact that some of those descended from Angus Sheffield had inherited the “bookworm” gene.
Well, she’d certainly inherited the “bookworm” gene. She’d been nine when her parents had been taken from her in a plane crash. And when she’d moved in with her grandmother, there’d been no one her age to play with on their street, so she’d frequently used books to escape loneliness.
Drawing in a deep breath, Neely pushed at the gate, then winced when it complained loudly. Gradually, the sound faded and all she could hear was her own breath going in and out. It wasn’t until recently, since she’d been researching the Ripper murders, that she’d begun to suspect her experiences were more than dreams, that she might really be visiting the past.
It was such a crazy idea—but she hadn’t been able to shake free of it. Night after night, she returned to the places in London where Jack the Ripper had left his victims. The only person she’d confided in was her best friend and business partner, Linc Matthews. She and Linc had been friends since junior high when they’d both been outsiders at school. She’d never quite fit in with the cool crowd, and Linc’s sexual orientation had alienated him from their more conservative classmates.
Neely had always been able to talk to Linc about anything. Growing up in her grandmother’s house, she’d been surrounded by people Cornelia Rafferty’s age. And though she enjoyed them and loved her grandmother dearly, she’d rarely confided in them. Linc always listened, never judged. He’d taken seriously her theory that she was traveling to the past and that had made her take it more seriously herself. He’d even recommended a new book that had come in as part of a promotion from self-published author Dr. Julian Rhoades, who had been getting local TV coverage for his theory that psychic time travel might be possible in the near future. And it had been Linc’s idea that she try to bring back some proof that she was actually visiting Victorian-era London. She slipped a hand into her pocket to reassure herself that the coin was still there.
After tonight, she would know whether she was dreaming or whether what she was seeing was real. And if it was…?
From the time she was a little girl, she’d always believed that she was meant to do something important with her life, and the idea that she could travel through time had opened up almost-limitless possibilities. The one that interested her most was that maybe she could make a difference. There had to be a reason she was being drawn to the scene of Jack the Ripper’s murders. Could she stop one of them? If she could do something to save even one woman…Well, she just had to find out. Taking a deep breath, Neely pushed through the gate and started down the path.
“Catherine? Catherine Eddowes?” she called.
No answer.
The mist was so thick that she couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. On the street behind her, another carriage clattered past. Then silence. Moving forward slowly, Neely inhaled the scents of damp earth, decaying vegetation and something else—blood? The knot in her stomach tightened when she heard a noise to her right. This time when she slipped a hand into her pocket, she closed her fingers around a can of pepper spray. Then she started toward the sound.
“Catherine? If you’re here, let me know. I can help you.”
No answer again. But a tingle of awareness had Neely stopping short. She wasn’t alone in the square. This knowledge was confirmed when she heard footsteps approaching. Fear slithered along her skin. She felt someone’s eyes on her as vividly as a physical touch, but she couldn’t make out anything. Not even a darker shadow in the mist.
“Who’s there?”
No answer again—except for the steady, inexorable march of those footsteps coming closer and closer.
Run. Run. Her mind screamed the words, but she couldn’t move. He was very close now. She sensed him not only in her mind but in every pore of her body. A fresh stab of terror pierced her and set her free. Whirling, she ran as fast as she could. But he was running, too. She felt his nearness, pictured his hands reaching out. Heart pounding, breath hitching, she shoved through a gate and sent it slamming shut behind her.
She heard a grunt, then a male voice cursing as she leaped from cobblestones to curb and hurtled herself into the mist. She’d only slowed him down. Think. Think. She had to…wake up. Of course. All she needed to do was get herself out of this dream. How? In her mind, Neely summoned up the details of her bedroom—the quilt her grandmother had made for her, the lamp on her bedside table with its leaded-glass roses, the mirror that leaned against one wall…the old Persian carpet—
Suddenly, her body was free of the pull of gravity. Wind rushed past her, deafening her. Then a velvety blackness enveloped her, and her mind went blissfully blank.
NEELY OPENED her eyes and sat straight up. A quick glance around informed her that she was back in her bedroom in the old brownstone house that she’d inherited from her grandmother. She was safe. She pressed a hand against her heart, felt its mad race as the details of her dream once again flooded her mind. Excitement and fear roiled through her. Everything had been so real. The footsteps still echoed in her mind. Her clock read only a few minutes past midnight—the exact time it had been just before she’d drifted off. Tonight’s dream had been the most vivid one yet. She began to shiver then and had to clamp her teeth together to keep them from chattering. Only then did she realize that her jeans and sweatshirt were soaked.
From the misty rain? She slipped her hand into her pocket and retrieved the coin. She could read the words quite clearly. One shilling. Her hand began to tremble, her heart to pound. Neely made herself breathe, in and out, in and out. Two things were immediately evident to her. Whatever had just happened hadn’t been a dream. She’d actually traveled to the past. And there was a good chance that she’d had a close encounter with Jack the Ripper.
Had she finally discovered her purpose in life?
1
May 15, 2008
Manhattan
LINC MATTHEWS plucked the shilling out of Neely’s hand and scrutinized it. While she’d poured out the story of her visit to Mitre Square, he’d made them each an espresso at the coffee bar, and he’d listened to every word without interrupting.
They were seated opposite each other on leather couches in the front room of the brownstone. It had always been Neely’s favorite room. Until her grandmother’s death a year ago, the space had functioned as a formal parlor where Cornelia entertained her friends from the neighborhood. The coffee table separating Neely from Linc had been the site of countless Scrabble games and hands of euchre. She’d even been invited to participate in them.
Now the room provided a cozy setting for the bookstore that she and Linc had created and named Bookends. The idea for the bookstore had been born out of desperation. When Cornelia had become ill a year and a half ago, Neely had taken a leave of absence from her graduate work in library science to nurse her grandmother.
Although she’d been aware that the illness was draining Cornelia financially as well as physically, she hadn’t realized the seriousness of the situation until her grandmother’s death. She’d not only inherited the home she’d grown up in, she’d also become responsible for two years of back taxes and Cornelia’s medical bills. And she didn’t even have a job. The attorneys had advised her to sell the brownstone.
Neely had balked at the suggestion. Not only did she love the place with its airy ceilings, intricate carved cornices and expanses of honey-colored parquet floors, but she also felt that if she sold the house, she was somehow letting Cornelia down. So she and Linc had put their heads together to come up with a solution, and Bookends had been the result. After all, she knew books and loved them. And Linc was a good salesperson, as well as a certified accountant. He’d had some money put aside to invest. And she’d taken the funds her grandmother had left her, paid off the medical bills, put some money down on the taxes and then used the rest of it to open the store. Together, she and Linc had redesigned the parlor, lining the walls with books and adding groupings of comfortable couches and chairs so that customers would feel as if they were invited to linger, to read, to drink coffee, and most importantly, to come back.
It had been a year since the doors of Bookends had opened, and they’d worked six days a week together to build a good-size customer base, starting with the neighborhood. And finally their reputation had spread uptown so that they were getting a tourist trade, as well. The taxes were paid off, and she and Linc were each drawing a comfortable salary.
But deep down in her heart, Neely had known from the start that running a bookstore wasn’t her destiny. Becoming a librarian hadn’t been her destiny, either. It was just something to do. All through college and her first semester in grad school, she’d felt as if she were treading water, waiting to figure out what she was really supposed to do.
Finally, Linc set the coin down on the table in front of him and met her eyes. “It looks authentic.”
“It is.” She’d already searched through images on the Internet and had convinced herself that the coin was genuine.
He nodded, then returned his attention to the shilling.
Neely glanced around the room. At eight-thirty, with light pouring through the windows, her experience in Mitre Square seemed far less real—more like a dream. But it hadn’t been. She’d actually been there. And a man she couldn’t see had chased her.
“Well.” Linc rested his hands on his knees and leaned back in his chair. “I suggested that you bring proof and you did. I guess you’d call it an example of—be careful what you wish for.”
“There’s a part of me that really wanted you to pooh-pooh the coin and tell me that I’m crazy.”
Linc met her eyes squarely. “There’s a part of me that wants to do that. But you’re not crazy, Neely. If you believe that you’re traveling to the past, and you can bring back a coin, then we have to explore the possibility that you really are. Dr. Julian Rhoades certainly believes it could happen.”
“In the future.”
Linc shot her a grin. “I always did figure you were ahead of your time. Speaking of Rhoades, he’s getting a lot of mileage out of his theory. I caught him on The Today Show this morning before I left. A lot of his fans, mostly women, were gathered outside the NBC Building, chanting his name. He’s going to be speaking at the Psychic Institute in Brooklyn tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll go. Maybe I can talk to him.”
“Maybe you can convince him to do a signing here at Bookends and we can both talk to him.”
She smiled slowly. And for the first time, some of the tension that she’d been feeling since she’d awakened in her bed dripping wet eased. “Good idea.”
“In the meantime, I think it might be better if you didn’t travel back to London. If you’re right and you did have a little episode with Jack, it’s too dangerous.”
She clasped her hands tightly together. “I know it’s dangerous. But—”
Linc held up both hands, palms out. “Don’t make a decision now. Think about it. You have a long day ahead of you. I’m taking a couple of hours off to have lunch with a friend, so you’ll be on your own.”
She raised her brows. “I think I can manage.”
“Perhaps.” He shot her another grin, causing one of his dimples to wink. “But our regular female customers will miss me.”
And they would, too. In addition to charm and brains, Linc Matthews was no slouch in the looks department. Tall and slim, he wore black trousers and a black silk shirt that provided a dramatic contrast to his fair skin and nearly white-blond hair. Several of their regular female customers had confided in her that he reminded them of Spike in the popular Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series.
“Then we have the meeting of the armchair detectives tonight, and they’ll be peppering you with questions about Jack the Ripper.”
He was right. The armchair detectives was what she and Linc had dubbed the group of three seniors from the neighborhood who met every Thursday night. Though the subject had never come up, Neely figured Sally was the oldest of the trio and that both Sam and Mabel were in their mid-seventies. Unlike other discussion groups that selected a book and talked about it, the armchair detectives chose a murder—or a series of murders—that had occurred in the past and tried to find the killer. Last year they’d proven Shakespeare’s Richard the Third innocent of the murders he’d been accused of.
Linc rose and took her hands. “Last, but not least, it might be better to get a good night’s sleep before you go to the Rhoades lecture.”
“I always forget how good you are at persuasion.”
“Was I successful?”
She smiled at him. “I’ll think about it.”
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed.
Linc squeezed her hands before releasing them. “That’s our cue to open up and start the day.”
IT HAD BEEN the longest day of her life. And it wasn’t over yet.
The armchair detectives, consisting of her grandmother’s two best friends and a burly retired NYPD sergeant, were still firmly ensconced in the front room of Bookends. Currently, they sat in stony silence on leather couches doing their best to ignore each other. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock. In Neely’s mind, it sounded like the clanging of Big Ben.
Mabel Parish, a tall, thin woman who’d been her grandmother’s closest friend and confidante, had lost her temper and swung her book bag at Sam Thornway, but Sam—thanks, no doubt, to excellent police training—still had some good moves in him. He’d pivoted, ducked and avoided the blow.
Neely had grown up knowing Mabel. Keeping her temper under wraps had never seemed to be a problem for the woman until she’d rented one of the rooms in her nearby brownstone to the retired policeman. The two of them just seemed to rub sparks off each other. True, Mabel was strong-minded and Cornelia had once said that she had the personality of Alice’s Queen of Hearts. But usually, she got her way by using more subtle strategies, such as staring people down.
Sam seemed to be immune to her stares. A large, imposing man, he was every bit as stubborn as Mabel and rarely gave an inch. Whenever the two clashed, Sally Lansing, the third member of the group and also one of Mabel’s tenants, threatened to hyperventilate—which added a lot to the drama. A tiny, frail-looking woman, Sally reminded Neely of an absentminded fairy godmother, but she frequently provided the voice of reason that calmed down the other two.
Not tonight, however. The way Neely saw it, Mabel, who’d been a single woman all her life, was used to being the boss—a role that no one had challenged before Sam. Neely had checked into Sam’s background and discovered that he’d been a widower for eight years—a long time to live without the challenge of dealing with a woman.
This wasn’t the first time that he and Mabel had gone head to head, and Neely was beginning to wonder if they were both enjoying the clashes on some level.
Tonight’s argument had centered on just how many victims could be attributed to Jack the Ripper’s killing spree in the Whitechapel district of London. None of the criminologists who’d made it their life’s work to study Jack the Ripper could agree. But both Mabel and Sam were positive they were right.
As the seconds ticked by and the silence grew thicker, Neely caught Linc’s eye and sent him a silent plea. Left to their own devices, Mabel and Sam were going to sit there all night.
Linc’s response was a barely perceptible but firmly negative shake of his head. He mouthed the words I don’t want to be collateral damage. Then he grinned and rolled his eyes at her.
It was Sally who finally took the initiative, by rising. “Neely looks exhausted. I think we should finish this discussion at our next meeting and let her get some rest.”
Saved by the little fairy godmother, Neely thought. Now, neither Mabel nor Sam had to make the first move. They immediately turned appraising and concerned eyes on her.
“You’re right, Sally.” Sam rose and shoveled notes and books into the backpack he always carried. “We’ll sleep on this.” He shot a look at Mabel. “That will give someone’s temper time to cool.”
Though her hand tightened on her book bag, Mabel merely sniffed in reply. Then she narrowed her eyes on Neely. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.” Neely had no trouble summoning up a smile. She had to stifle the urge to do a little happy dance. They were finally leaving. Rising, she led the way to the door to exchange hugs with each of them. Mabel brought up the rear. Waiting until Sally and Sam had started down the steps, she took Neely’s hands in hers.
“You’re having those vivid dreams again, aren’t you?” she asked. “The same ones your grandmother used to have about times gone by?”
Neely nodded. Mabel was studying her very closely.
“Do you mind my asking what they’re about?”
“No.” Neely knew her grandmother had trusted Mabel implicitly. They’d been so close that at times, she’d felt jealous of the relationship. “Lately, they’ve been about the London of the Ripper—Jack the First.”
Frowning, Mabel nodded. “I should have guessed, what with all the research we’ve been having you do.” She glanced out the open door at Sam’s retreating back and spoke in a voice that carried. “I knew we never should have started this investigation into the Ripper. It was all Sergeant Thornway’s idea.”
Sam neither stopped nor glanced back.
Mabel shifted her eyes back to Neely’s. “Your grandmother always used to try and dream about safe places. Be very careful.”
Apprehension moved through Neely. She and Mabel had talked about her dreams before, but what she saw in Mabel’s eyes looked suspiciously like a warning. Did Mabel suspect that her dreams might be real? How? More importantly, why? But before she could ask, Mabel gave her a brisk, hard hug and hurried down the steps after her tenants. Neely closed the front door of Bookends, then turned and sagged against it. “I’m going to bed.”
“It’s no wonder you’re exhausted.” Linc strode through the room, turning off the Tiffany-style lamps that graced various end tables. “What beats me is how the two of them can get so fired up about something that happened in 1888. Whoever killed those women in the Whitechapel district is long dead and buried. Case closed.”
“But the case wasn’t closed. Jack the Ripper was never caught.” Neely loaded cups into the dishwasher in the small alcove that served as a coffee bar for their customers. “That’s what fascinates them.”
“And you.”
“And me,” she agreed.
“No one can change the past. If you ask me, our armchair detectives ought to focus their energy on investigating the bastard who has every woman in Manhattan carrying pepper spray and purchasing handguns. So far the police are batting zero.”
Neely had no comment on that. The media was criticizing the NYPD on a daily basis because they had no leads. So far, Jack the Second had claimed five victims in 2008—all single women who lived alone and evidently invited him into their homes.
“Look—” Linc crossed to her “—I have an idea for a change of pace. There’s a new club that just opened on Spring Street. Why don’t you come with me. It would do you good to get away from here and have a little fun. You’ve been away from the dating scene for too long.”
Neely knew that Linc was on a campaign to keep her from trying to travel to London tonight. But his words struck home. It had been a year and a half since her grandmother had taken ill—a year and a half since she’d been on a date or even to a club. It was a long time to go without any sort of normal social life, let alone a man. She’d been dating someone she liked while she’d been working on her graduate degree. But they’d drifted apart when she’d left to nurse her grandmother. Since then, there’d been no one. Her nunlike existence had been brought home to her with a vengeance earlier in the day when that stranger had walked into Bookends.
“It’s high time you had a man in your life,” Linc said.
Well, a man had certainly walked into her life today. Linc had been out, so she’d been alone in the store when Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous had strolled in. He was dressed in black, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Never in her life had she been so aware of a man. His mere presence in the room had been as intimate as a touch.
Later, when her brain had started functioning again, she hadn’t been quite able to place him either as a New Yorker or a tourist. But at the time she hadn’t been able to think straight at all. She’d said something to him, she was sure. The usual spiel—“Welcome to Bookends. I’m Neely Rafferty. Let me know if I can help you.” She had to have said something like that because he’d replied, “I’d just like to browse,” in a low, gravelly voice.
Then she’d gawked at him like a teenager. The entire time that he’d wandered through the room, she hadn’t been able to drag her eyes away from him. Every detail of his appearance had imprinted itself on her mind—that strong face, those angled cheekbones and that lean hard body. He’d caught her looking when he turned suddenly and strode toward her, a book in his outstretched hand.
She’d gulped in air and felt it burn her lungs. Whether or not she would have been able to ring up the sale was a moot point, because he’d dropped the book just as he’d reached her. They’d squatted simultaneously to retrieve it and knocked into one another. He’d grabbed her wrists to steady her, and she’d felt her pulse pound against those strong hard fingers. She’d stared into his gray eyes and watched them darken as his breath feathered over her skin.
Time had stood still.
He was going to kiss her. She’d read the intent in his eyes, felt it in her bones. In fact, though neither of them had moved—she was sure of that—she’d felt those firm lips cover hers, and she’d sampled just the promise of his taste as his tongue touched hers. Her response hadn’t been fear. Oh, no. It had been a hot curl of lust. Then, just as she was willing him to kiss her for real, he’d dropped her wrists, gotten to his feet and strode out of the store.
“Earth to Neely…”
“Hmm?” She turned to find Linc watching her in concern.
“You’ve been drifting away like that ever since I came back from lunch. You need to get out of this place for a while. Live a little. Come with me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
Linc frowned. “I know exactly what you’re going to do. The minute I leave you’re going to try to bring on one of your dreams and go off to London again. What can I do to convince you to take a break—at least until you talk to Dr. Rhoades?”
“I don’t think you can. I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I feel like this is something I have to do.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But there must be a reason I was given this ability.” Because she wanted to ease the worry in his eyes, she said, “Besides, if I went with you, what are the chances that I would meet any straight men at your club?”
“No chance at all, I hope.” He smiled then. “There’s no way I can convince you to get out of here for a while and play?”
“I’m going to the Psychic Institute tomorrow.”
“That’s not getting away. That’s work.” He crossed to the door and retrieved his jacket from the coat rack. “You need a change.”
Her mind drifted back to the stranger who’d come into her bookstore. He’d been a radical change. All day she’d been wondering what would have happened if he’d kissed her? And every time she thought about it, she experienced that curl of hot lust all over again.
Pushing the stranger firmly out of her mind, Neely walked to Linc and rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Go. Have enough fun and excitement for both of us.”
Giving up, he shook his head at her. “Be careful.”
“I will. I’ve been taking the pepper spray you bought for me.”
“Make sure you use it if you have to.”
She nodded. She hadn’t thought to the night before. She’d been so intent on escaping. But she would use it if necessary.
Linc gave her a nod, then turned to let himself out. “Lock the door and put on the alarm.”
She did exactly what he’d ordered. Then she made her way to the stairs and hurried up them. To be honest, except for that time when the stranger had occupied her mind, her whole being, she’d been filled with an urgency to return to London, 1888. She was becoming more and more convinced that she had some kind of purpose there—or perhaps a mission. The bookstore had given her life direction for a while, but now that it was operating successfully, she’d begun to yearn for a new challenge.
Linc had made a strong argument that she needed to expand her social life. No doubt that’s why she’d had such a powerful response to the stranger today. Linc was also right that she needed a lover. If she was going to react to every man who walked through her front door the way she had today, she definitely needed some sex in her life.
But tonight she had something else—someone else—on her agenda. She was going to see if she could have another encounter with Jack the Ripper.
Before she talked to Dr. Rhoades tomorrow, she intended to gather more evidence by seeing if she could travel again to London, to the scene of the Ripper’s first murder. Once in her bedroom, Neely changed into dark jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt. Then she tucked her hair into a cap. Studying her reflection in the mirror, she felt an onslaught of doubt. Did she actually believe that she was going to psychically travel back through time?
Neely met her eyes in the mirror. Yes. She did. Pressing both hands against the legion of butterflies in her stomach, she checked her reflection one last time, and decided that she could pass for a boy—if it was dark enough. If she was going to wander the streets alone at night in Victorian London, it was much safer to appear male. Finally, she made sure the pepper spray was in her pocket. Then she crossed to the chair next to her bed and sat down.
Before she fell asleep, she was going to review in her mind the story of Jack the Ripper’s first victim—Mary Ann Nichols—who was killed on August 31, 1888. Mary Ann’s body had been found in Buck’s Row in front of a stable entrance. Neely had discovered a detailed sketch of the scene in one of the books she’d located for her armchair detectives. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and brought the gate into focus. Next, she pictured the time in her mind as if it were the readout on a digital clock: 11:00 p.m. Hopefully, that would be early enough. She might not have been able to save Catherine Eddowes, but if she got there in time, maybe she could save Mary Ann.
If this worked—well, she was going to have a lot of questions for Dr. Rhoades tomorrow.
2
August 1, 2128,
San Diego
MAX GALE PUSHED his way onto the glass-and-steel elevator that would eventually lift him to the one hundredth floor of the Trans Global Security Enforcement Building. Trans Global Security or TGS was a privately owned company that handled security for the entire planet. TGS had offices in several major cities, including Hong Kong, London, New York and Buenos Aires, and each specialized in a specific branch of security enforcement. The home office was located in Paris, and its new director, Lance Shaw, oversaw all the branches. The San Diego branch handled Psychic Time Travel Security Enforcement.
Nearly all of the fifty or so passengers surrounding him wore a uniform that either by color or emblem denoted their rank in TGS. Those in red handled background checks on all who applied for time travel permits. Those in blue handled personal interviews and psychic evaluations. His own one-piece black suit, and the silver badge on his arm, identified Max as a three-star inspector. His job for the past five years had been to track down and arrest anyone who violated the laws regulating psychic time travel.
The elevator slid to a stop on the second floor and the “blues” exited. The telecom screen to his left came to life, displaying a red “breaking news” banner with what had become a too-familiar headline: The Ripper Strikes Again. The video feed scrolled through shots taken at a crime scene that morning while a pleasant female voice informed viewers that the latest victim of the serial killer the media had dubbed the Ripper was a twenty-two-year-old student at San Diego State University. The girl’s body had been discovered outside a popular nightclub.
Every enforcement officer in the elevator car now had his or her eyes glued to the screen. Everyone except Max. He’d just come from viewing the body in person. Lucy Brightstone was the fifth victim of the Ripper in the last six months. All of them had been young, beautiful, and they’d each been stabbed to death, their bodies mutilated and then discarded somewhere near the university. Max had viewed each one of the bodies. The third one—Suzanna Gale—had been his sister. She’d been killed on June 1, and like the other victims, she’d been a student at San Diego State.
Since then, Max’s one goal in life had been to catch the Ripper.
As the elevator crept upward, Max looked through the glass wall at the San Diego Bay area. The bridge to Coronado was used only by pedestrians. No vehicles had driven over it since the turn of the century when solar-powered hover vehicles had become affordable to the masses.
Max shifted to allow three female enforcement sergeants to exit the car on floor 48. He’d been surprised when Assistant Director Deirdre Mason had contacted him at six-thirty this morning and asked him to come in. She’d had his proposed plan of action for less than twelve hours. What he wanted to do had been controversial enough that he’d expected her to take a few days to consider the plan. When he’d heard about the latest victim he’d understood. The fact that the Ripper had struck again might just pressure the assistant director into approving his proposal, and while he didn’t want to be grateful to the coldhearted bastard who’d brutally murdered another woman, he needed all the help he could get.
When the elevator door opened on the hundredth floor, Xavier, Assistant Director Mason’s administrative assistant, was waiting for him.
“She’s ready for you. This way.” The tall black man led Max down a short hallway. Xavier had been with Assistant Director Mason for as long as Max could remember. The man was well over six feet, muscular and broad shouldered. He shaved his head, used one name and wore a gold hoop in his left ear. Xavier had never smiled at him.
Deirdre Mason stood with her back to him studying a screen that filled nearly one wall of her office. On it were images of the Ripper’s five San Diego victims. Max looked at each one of them, and as his gaze moved over his sister’s photograph, pain took his breath away. Clenching his hands into fists, he pushed down his emotions. But his gaze didn’t waver from the photo.
He’d taken it himself six months ago, on a day that they’d gone sailing. It had been one of the last times they’d spent together before they’d become estranged. Suzanna had been eighteen, ten years his junior, and too young to die. It had been two months since her mutilated body was found, but he could still see her every time he closed his eyes, the images of the crime scene were forever burned into his mind. Deirdre was the one who’d called to give him the news, and he’d arrived just in time to watch them put what was left of his sister in a body bag. There’d been so much blood…
“Close the door, Xavier.”
As the door snicked shut, Max brought his thoughts back to the present.
Deirdre turned. “He has to be stopped.”
Max drew in a deep breath and willed his pain away. “Agreed. If you approve my proposal, I’ll do just that.”
She ran a hand through her short blond hair and turned to face him. “How sure are you that our Ripper is the same one who terrorized London in 1888 and Manhattan in 2008?”
“Positive.”
She let out a laugh. “You’re always so damn sure of yourself.”
For a moment neither of them spoke; they merely faced each other across Deirdre’s desk. He’d known her from the time they’d been at the TGS Academy together. They’d even had a brief affair during their first year. It had been pleasurable, but they’d learned quickly that they were too much alike and too competitive to be a couple. However, they’d managed to remain friends. His knowledge of Deirdre Mason was a point in his favor. Her corresponding knowledge of him might not be. She knew that he didn’t like all the rules and that he’d bent some on occasion. And one of the unwritten rules of TGS was that an inspector wasn’t supposed to be assigned to a case involving a family member.
Max sank into a chair. “The man who killed my sister and the other women is not a Jack the Ripper copycat. He’s a psychic time traveler, Dee. He’s not just killing here. He’s killing in other times. I’d stake my life on it. There’s a chance he’s from the future, but my gut feeling is that he’s from this time, and he’s found a way to beat the security system.”
“Yeah, I got that.” Deirdre sat down, pressed a button and brought his proposal up on the screen. “And I’m well aware of the accuracy of your gut feelings. They’re what make you one of the best agents at TGS. But I’ve got questions—several of them. They’re the kinds of questions that Director Shaw will have for me if I approve this.”
Max’s brows shot up. “The new director intimidates you, does he?”
“Strictly speaking, he’s not so new. He’s been on the job for nearly a year. And he doesn’t intimidate me at all. But Lance Shaw doesn’t suffer fools gladly. So I won’t have you making me look like one.”
“Fair enough. Ask your questions.” Max lifted his gaze to the first part of his proposal, which she’d highlighted. There were some things that he’d purposely left out because he’d wanted to be present when she heard them. Speech was always more effective than the written word when it came to persuasion. “You want to know how he gets past our security measures.”
“Yes. The ability to psychically travel into the past runs in families…the gene lies dormant in one generation and becomes active in the next. Less than one-half of one percent of the population carries the gene. We have records, and anyone born with the active gene is implanted with a tracking device at birth. There are no exceptions.”
“No exceptions that we know of. If he’s from the future, the security rules might have changed.”
Deirdre sighed and shook her head. “I was hoping that you weren’t going to say that.”
So she had thought of the possibility of a time traveler. It shouldn’t surprise him. Deirdre Mason was one of the smartest women he’d ever met.
“I don’t believe he’s from the future. Everything that I am as a security agent tells me he’s from our time. This is his home. I also believe that he’s established identities in each time where he’s killing.”
“Why?”
Max shrugged. “I figure he needs a base of operations and an identity in other times, also. The profilers who’ve written about the other Rippers agree they’re planners. For the most part, they selected their victims. That requires a familiarity with the times. And I believe this kind of killer would want to be able to live in the time period and enjoy his notoriety.”
“If you’re right about the killer being the same man, there might be some significance to the cities he’s choosing. Or the time span—exactly 120 years.”
Max said nothing. She’d been giving his ideas some thought. He took that to be a good sign.
She raised one hand. “Okay. I prefer your gut instinct to the theory that this bastard is from the future. But if he’s found a way around our security, how are you going to catch him in another time?”
“I’m going to discover the identity he’s using in 2008.”
This time the noise she made was a snort. “The size of your ego always amazes me. I’m concerned about rules, namely, our Prime Directive. You can’t change anything he’s done in the past or you run the risk of changing the future.” She waved a hand toward the panoramic view of San Diego. “Of destroying the present as we know it. You’ve taken an oath to follow the Prime Directive.”
“I understand that.” Nothing the Ripper had done in any of the times he’d killed in could be altered. If even one of his victims survived in 1888, 2008 or 2128, ripples of change would occur that could affect the present. That was the fear that the Prime Directive was based on.
“I’ve never broken the rules,” Max said.
“We both know that you’ve skirted around them on occasion.”
He tried to control his impatience. “I’ve gotten the job done.”
This time she didn’t laugh or snort, she merely met his eyes very directly. “The problem is that you’re still beating yourself up for not finding a way around them when you arrested your sister six months ago.”
Max said nothing as pain and regret tightened his chest. He had tried to bend the rules a bit for Suzanna. When he’d learned that his sister and a group of her friends were traveling without any authorization, he hadn’t waited to be assigned the case. He’d just gone after her. He’d wanted to bring her back and hire legal counsel. But she’d refused. She wouldn’t desert her friends.
She’d been eighteen, a freshman in college. This type of illegal time traveling happened fairly regularly. Eighteen was the age at which citizens with the time travel gene could apply for a license to travel. But that was the same age at which students often adopted very idealistic causes. Suzanna and her friends had been studying the bloody tribal wars that had raged through the continent of Africa in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, and they’d decided to travel there with the goal of saving lives. A laudable objective but totally against the Prime Directive.
When she’d refused to return with him voluntarily, he’d had no choice but to arrest her. She’d declined his help again when they’d returned to 2128, preferring to make a statement against the unfairness of the Prime Directive. Suzanna and her friends had paid the price for their violation of the law by having their time travel gene neutralized. She’d never forgiven him.
“Suzanna is the reason I’m so sure the Ripper is a time traveler. She refused to see me since I arrested her. But on the day she died, she visited my sailboat and left a note.”
He hadn’t found the note until he’d returned from the crime scene. She’d put the time at the top of it—3:00 p.m. How long had he stared at the time, knowing that she’d been alive then…that if he’d just been home, she might still be alive.
“Remind me what was in the note,” Deirdre said.
Max dragged his thoughts back to the present and his proposal. “She said she had something to tell me that was ‘right up my alley.’ Her roommate said she’d been seeing someone. I think Suzanna had met the Ripper and that she suspected something. So he eliminated her.”
“Perhaps.” Deirdre folded her hands on the desk. “You’re too personally involved in this. For that reason alone I should turn your proposal down flat.”
Should. Max latched on to the one word, but he didn’t allow himself to feel relief. Not yet. His eyes never wavered from hers as he leaned forward. “I can get him for you, Dee. That’s my only goal. I swear. Yeah, I’m personally involved. I admit I want to catch the man who murdered Suzanna. But I’d want this case anyway. If I’m right and he’s a psychic time traveler who’s managed to breach our security, he’s got to be stopped. What if the Ripper is only one of his personas? What if he’s used other methods on other victims?”
She rose, throwing up her hands in a gesture of surrender, but she wasn’t quite ready to give in.
“I have another question.” On the screen she brought up an image of Cornelia—Neely—Rafferty and enlarged it. “The Ripper killed and mutilated six women in 2008, and Cornelia Rafferty was his last victim—he killed her in the early-morning hours of May 17. You’ve made several trips to New York to observe each of those women. Why have you singled her out as the one you’re going to get close to?”
Max had anticipated the question, so he had an answer prepared. Some of it Deirdre already knew. The Ripper had selected prostitutes in 1888—women whom Victorian society cared very little about. In 2008 he’d selected middle-class women, all single, all living alone. The slew of criminologists who’d studied the cases over the years all agreed that the 2008 Ripper had established some kind of relationship with each victim. All had been found in their own homes. There’d been no sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle. The experts across time had concluded that the 2008 Ripper had to have been someone the women knew, someone they trusted enough to invite into their homes. Hell, he was doing the same thing in 2128.
“In the time I’ve spent observing the six women, I discovered that besides being single and living alone, each of them had some kind of connection to books. One was a librarian, one was a college professor with several publications in the field of psychology, two were high-school English teachers, another was an editor at a publishing house and Neely Rafferty was a bookstore owner. If that’s what he used—an interest in books or a specific topic—to get close to them, I figure she’s my best bet. The Ripper might even have used her store as a base to select his victims.”
“Gut instinct again?” Deirdre asked.
“Yes. I believe she’s the key to identifying the killer.”
Max waited then. This was the trickiest part of his proposal. What he intended was to get close enough to Neely Rafferty to find out who in her circle of customers or friends might be the Ripper. Most time travelers were required to make themselves psychically invisible when they visited another time. This made it easier for them to follow the Prime Directive. Becoming personally acquainted with anyone in a previous time was prohibited—unless it was absolutely necessary for security enforcement purposes. He’d argued that in this instance it was.
Deirdre studied him very closely. Anyone worth their salt in security had a sixth sense for recognizing a lie when they heard it. He prayed that she wouldn’t see through him. He’d spoken the truth. It just wasn’t the whole truth. As seconds ticked by, Max had to put some effort into not glancing back at Neely’s picture.
The first time he’d seen it, he hadn’t been able to look away for a very long time. There was something in her face that pulled at him. No. That was too weak a word for what had compelled him to study Neely Rafferty’s image for hours.
Seeing her in person, watching her go about her business, had only deepened the effect she had on his senses. He had no idea why, but he knew that she posed a threat to him. Walking into her store that day had been a mistake. Everything that had pulled at him from a distance had intensified during those minutes he’d spent in Bookends. But when he’d touched her, held her wrist in his hands for those few moments, he’d known beyond a doubt that she was the key. Without her, he was not going to avenge his sister’s death.
If he could just figure out what it was about her that scrambled his brain. In many ways she was ordinary looking. Her hair was the color of honey and she wore it short, the way many women in his time wore theirs. Her face wasn’t what he would have called beautiful, but it was interesting. Her skin was pale and her features delicate, but she had a strong chin and a mouth that hinted at stubbornness and passion. It was her mouth that had nearly been his downfall.
He’d felt her eyes on him the whole time he’d wandered through the store, and it had been as intimate as a caress. That was when he’d known that he had to touch her. Just once. So he’d dropped the book as a ploy, and he’d timed it perfectly. She’d been so close that her scent had wrapped around him. Something that reminded him of spring rains, and he’d wondered if he would taste that flavor on her skin—or on her lips.
He’d watched her blue-gray eyes darken, not in surrender, but in sensual excitement. And then he’d felt her in his mind, willing him to kiss her. Her desire had fueled his own, nearly destroying his control. Never in his life had he experienced anything like it. God, he’d wanted to touch her—to slip that blouse off of her and let his hands run over every inch of her. For a moment, in his mind, his mouth had covered hers and he’d known that he could have her. The power of that knowledge had streamed through him. And he’d almost acted on his desire, taking her right there on the floor of the bookstore, quick and hard and hot. It would have been incredible. Crazy. And not at all what he’d gone there to do.
Pure survival instinct had given him the strength to pull back at the last minute, and he’d nearly run out of the store.
Deirdre was still studying him, still trying to read him, so he said, “Look, Dee, I can’t explain it but she’s the key. I’m as certain of that as I am that the Ripper is a psychic time traveler. And who knows what other advanced psychic abilities he possesses. He has to be stopped.”
“I hope I’m not making a mistake.”
Max smiled at her then. “The mistake would be if you don’t approve my proposal.”
“Right.” She held his gaze, not returning his smile. “Now all I have to do is convince Mr. Shaw of that. I want to make one thing crystal clear. You have to catch the Ripper here in this century, at this exact time. I don’t want you pulling off any tricks so that your sister and the other four girls here won’t be killed. I need to know that I can trust you not to mess with the rules before I give you the go-ahead.”
Max rose then and extended a hand. “I know I can’t undo my sister’s death. I’ll bring the Ripper to you. My word on that.”
She grasped his hand. “Take care.”
BACK IN HIS OFFICE, Max checked to see if he had everything he needed. He’d packed ahead of time. He didn’t want to stick around long enough for Deirdre to have second thoughts. The black shirt and jeans he’d changed into were from 2008. He’d selected them earlier from the supply that TGS stocked for each time period. The small cylindrical weapon that he tucked into his pocket wasn’t. Neither was the palm-size computer clipped to his belt. The small duffel he’d slung over his shoulder contained what he’d need for a very short stay. The hunt was on. He planned to arrive in 2008 on the evening of May 15, and the Ripper would kill Neely Rafferty in the early hours of May 17. That gave him only about thirty hours to identify his man. Considering his experience in the bookstore, the less time he spent with Neely Rafferty, the better. Once he arrived in 2008, the clock would be ticking.
Shutting his eyes, he pictured the row of brownstones on Thirty-fifth Street where Neely lived. As soon as the details became clear in his mind, he would begin the journey. For nearly forty years now, a percentage of the population who carried a specific gene had been able to psychically travel back through time. They could travel to any time they could vividly picture in their minds. Thirty years ago TGS had added training classes and licensing requirements for anyone wishing to travel to the past. So far, no one could travel to the future because they couldn’t “see” future times in their minds.
Of course the whole concept of going back in time was based on an older theory that time existed in a linear way—the way in which humans experience it. But physicists at the turn of the twenty-second century had proposed a new theory—that all times exist simultaneously. The image with which they proposed to replace the older time line was one of concentric circles. Not all scientists bought into the idea, and the discussion was ongoing. The only thing that everyone agreed on was that in this experimental stage of psychic time travel, absolutely nothing should be done to change the past—because altering past events could destroy the present.
Suzanna had disagreed with the whole concept of the Prime Directive. Max had taken an oath to enforce it. And now, he wasn’t supposed to do a damn thing to save his sister. But he sure as hell could catch her killer.
Realizing that he’d allowed his mind to wander, Max drew his thoughts back to Thirty-fifth Street in Manhattan. The first time he’d visited he’d studied a photo, but this time he had the memory fresh in his mind. As if he were painting a scene, he arranged the details in his mind—the budding trees filtering the moonlight, the street lamps, and the geranium-filled pots that flanked the door of Bookends. When he’d pictured the street in his mind with as many details as he could remember, he set his will to it. Immediately, he experienced the sudden suspension of his body as if he’d become totally weightless. Then came the howling rush of wind, the velvety blackness. When he felt the pull of gravity return, he opened his eyes and found himself sitting on a stoop across from Bookends. The store was dark, closed for the night, but there was still a light on in an upstairs window.
Leaning back against the railing, he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. Tomorrow, he and Neely would meet again face-to-face. A tingle of anticipation moved through him. He didn’t believe in lying to himself. He wanted her, and the connection he felt with her was so strong that he wondered if he would be able to control his craving. Time was on his side. In less than thirty hours, she would be the Ripper’s last victim in 2008. Surely he would be able to restrain himself.
On the other hand, time was running out. What would happen if instead of waiting until morning, he walked across the street, climbed the steps and knocked on her door? An image struck him forcefully, vividly, pushing everything else out of his mind. They were locked together in a bed, arms and legs tangled, moving as one. The desire that knotted in his gut was raw and primitive. He could taste her lips, smell her fragrance and feel the silky heat of her skin rubbing against his. For a moment, Max could have sworn that the sensations were real. He shook his head to clear it and took several deep breaths. Still, the urge to cross the street and finish what his mind had pictured was so compelling that he wrapped one hand around the wrought-iron railing to keep himself seated.
Well. That was a first. She was a first. Neely Rafferty was going to be a bigger complication than he’d anticipated. But she was part of the hand of cards he’d been dealt, and he intended to play them—no matter the consequences.
Deliberately, he shifted his gaze away from the window to the street. He usually had a plan, but this time he wasn’t at all sure about his approach and had no clue how he would navigate their next encounter. He’d get a little shut-eye and let his subconscious sort through the possible approaches he might take.
His mind had just begun to drift when he sensed her. Straightening, he glanced up at the window and there she was. Their eyes met and held for a moment. Even at a distance, Max felt the impact of the connection like a two-fisted punch to the gut.
3
May 15, 2008
Manhattan
WHO WAS SHE? And what had she been doing in Mitre Square at midnight on September 30, 1888? Those were the questions that had been battering at the edge of his mind since he’d finished what he’d needed to do and left London. As he looked out the window of his hotel suite at the gleam of moonlight on the Hudson River, he let the questions resurface.
She’d called out the name of the woman he’d just murdered. She’d interrupted him. For one instant, as he’d withdrawn his knife from the body of Catherine Eddowes, he’d experienced a raw and primitive fear. He hadn’t been sure what to do. He always knew what to do. Then fury had pushed through the terror and galvanized him into action. But he’d had to leave Catherine to chase after her. And he hadn’t been finished.
The woman had no right to be there. She’d interfered with his pleasure.
Fury erupted again, burning through his veins, and the glass in his hand shattered. As blood oozed from his finger, his throat tightened and his mind emptied. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Dread sank rusty claws into his stomach.
No! No! He was frightened of no one. Unfisting his hand, he let the shards of glass drop to the carpet. Then he grabbed his handkerchief and pressed it to the small cut. Breathing deeply, he reached for control. How could the woman have known that Catherine Eddowes was in the square? His research had been meticulous. Catherine had no friends, no one to come looking for her.
Unless the woman had come from the future. Was that why she’d disappeared so completely? He’d been reaching out, his fingers inches from her shoulder, but they’d closed on nothing but air. Had she shot forward into her own time?
Possibly.
Calmer now, he poured cognac into a new glass and sipped. Too bad he hadn’t gotten a better look at her. The mist had been too thick. It always was in London, which was why he’d chosen that city for some of his best work. One way or another, he would solve the mystery. And when his path crossed hers again he would eliminate her. Problem solved.
THE MOMENT NEELY saw the man sitting on the stoop across the street, her knees went weak. It was him—the stranger who’d been in her bookstore that afternoon. She’d been trying for some time to drift into sleep, but she’d been too keyed up. She’d come to the window to close the drapes. And there he was.
He sat partially in shadow on the front steps of the brownstone directly across from Bookends. He rested the upper part of his body against the iron railing, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. But it was definitely him. She felt it in every pore of her body. A flood of emotions moved through her—anticipation, excitement and a primitive desire—the same ones she’d experienced when he’d almost kissed her.
As if suddenly sensing her, he leaned forward, and when he glanced up at her, she felt the impact of his eyes clear down to her toes. For a moment, she froze. She couldn’t even think because he was in her mind. In that instant, it was as if they were one. And an image filled her mind of the two of them locked together, their bodies moving as one. She could feel him inside her, filling her. Pleasure speared through Neely, so acute that she had to grab the drapes to remain upright.
How could this be happening? Who was he? And why was he there on that stoop looking up at her window? The need to find out was so strong, so urgent that without another thought, she whirled from the window, ran toward the door and down the stairs. Disengaging the alarm delayed her a precious minute, but finally she was on her stoop.
He was gone.
She ran to the sidewalk and peered up and down the street, but there was no sign of the man who’d been sitting across from her building only moments before.
A chill prickled her skin as reality surfaced. She was standing alone on the sidewalk, her front door wide open, and there was a killer who preyed on women loose in her city. She patted her pocket, reassuring herself that she had her pepper spray with her. But there was no reason to tempt fate. Turning on her heel, she raced back up the steps. Then she paused and glanced once more down the block in the direction of the small gated park.
That’s where he was. She could feel him—almost the same way she’d felt that man in Mitre Square last night. This time the sensation was more intense, and this was a different man.
How did she know that?
Rattled now, she ran into the house, slammed the door and reset the alarm.
MAX STOOD, invisible now, just inside the gate of the small park. He’d cursed himself the moment that Neely turned away from the window. She was coming. He’d read the intention in her mind as clearly as he’d felt for one instant her body beneath his, arching up to meet his thrusts. He’d felt her gripping him in a hot, wet sheath, and the pleasure had been so intense, his need so acute that for a moment he hadn’t been able to move.
When he’d broken free from the hold she seemed to have on his mind, he’d leaped off the stoop and run toward the park three houses down. And finally—too late—he’d made himself invisible. Clairvoyance was not one of his stronger psychic gifts, but there were some things he just knew, and that talent had saved his life on more than one occasion. In this case, what he knew was that he and Neely were going to make love in spite of likely repercussions.
She shouldn’t have seen him. He’d been so focused on her presence in the room above the bookstore that he’d neglected to make himself invisible. Shakespeare’s Romeo had the excuse of adolescence and rampant hormones. Max Gale could lay claim to neither of those. It was his fault that she’d run so recklessly into the street.
Worried, Max moved to the wrought-iron gate and stepped through it. He froze when she glanced in his direction. She couldn’t see him now, but he still felt her eyes on him. They had some kind of mental connection—an intimate one. For an instant, she had been in his mind and he’d been in hers. And he’d been inside of her. The sensations in his body had been very real.
No one in this time period was supposed to be that open to mind links. Sure, there were recorded cases of individuals with advanced psychic powers. But Neely Rafferty wasn’t one of those cases. He’d checked. Nor was there any documentation that anyone in her family possessed psychic abilities.
Confident that she couldn’t see him even if she looked out the window, he moved back to the stoop across from Bookends. Of course, anomalies occurred, but they were extremely rare. Still, he knew what he’d experienced. Even now, he felt a connection with her. The adrenaline rush she’d experienced when she’d dashed into the street was taking its toll. She was drifting into sleep. And he needed some himself. Climbing the stoop, he stretched out his legs, leaned his shoulders against the railing and closed his eyes.
Max was halfway between waking and sleeping when he felt the sudden pull. He had no time to react, no time to block the power of it. Without conscious volition, his body went weightless, his sight grayed, and he was sucked into a whirlpool of inky blackness.
WHEN NEELY OPENED her eyes, she was totally surrounded by fog so thick that she could barely make out the street lamp. She moved closer until she could read the street sign. Buck’s Row. A thrill moved through her. She was just where she wanted to be. The body of Mary Ann Nichols had been discovered right down this street. Then she heard the footsteps. Pressing a hand against her heart, she peered down the fog-shrouded street. Nothing. The footsteps grew louder, then paused. She backed against a hedge and waited. He was standing beneath the street lamp. She knew it even though she couldn’t see him.
The footsteps sounded again and halted just a few feet away from her.
“Who are you?”
At the sound of his deep voice, dread blocked her throat. He was so close now that she could hear his breath heaving. The murky haze cleared a little—she saw no one. But he was there. She felt his eyes on her, and she knew suddenly that this was the same man who’d chased her in Mitre Square. Was it Jack the Ripper?
Terror spiked through her. She should run, scream, imagine herself back in her bedroom. Something. Then she remembered the pepper spray. Slipping her hand into her pocket, she closed her fingers around it. Something brushed along her cheek—cold metal. She sensed the white-hot, blinding violence in him.
The muscles in her stomach clenched. Fear iced her veins, but she yanked out the pepper spray and shot it straight ahead in an upward direction. There was a sharp, guttural cry and footsteps stumbling away from her. Then silence.
He was gone.
Relief struck her like a sharp blow. The first thing she did was breathe. The oxygen burned her lungs. But she didn’t move, and she focused on the spot in front of her where he’d been only moments before. He could come back.
As seconds ticked by and he didn’t return, she straightened her shoulders and stepped away from the hedge. For a moment, she thought of going back home. But she’d come here to see if she could save one of the Ripper’s victims. She had a sickening feeling that she might be too late. He had come from Buck’s Row. Keeping a firm grip on the can of pepper spray, she started down the street. Mary Ann Nichols’s body had been found in front of a stable gate. Neely could picture it in her mind. Fifty feet ahead, she made out the soft light of another street lamp. The fog was so thick now that when she stretched her hands out in front of her she could barely see her fingers. She sensed when she’d reached the gate because she smelled horses…and something else. The same scent that she’d noticed in Mitre Square. Blood. Neely’s heart stuttered, then raced.
When the fog shifted, she saw him.
He was bending over the body of a woman. She lay spread-eagled on her back in front of the gate that Neely had burned into her memory. There was a wide gash at the woman’s throat. Blood covered her face and matted her hair. Neely bit her bottom lip and held back a scream. She was too late to save Mary Ann Nichols, and she had to run before the Ripper saw her.
He glanced up, and recognition streamed through her. It was him—the man from the stoop. Her breath trembled when he rose. She should run, but she couldn’t seem to move. The pepper spray was still clenched in her hand but she couldn’t raise her arm. As he moved toward her, his shoulders blocked her view of the woman.
What was he doing here? He wasn’t the Ripper—she was almost sure of it. He held none of that blinding violence she’d sensed in the man she’d shot with the pepper spray. But what was this stranger doing standing over the body?
Stop asking questions, her brain shouted. Run. But she couldn’t seem to pull herself loose from his eyes. They were so dark. So intense. And all the while, he moved toward her, slowly, purposefully, the way a man might approach a skittish horse. Or a woman he intended to kill.
“Easy, girl.”
She could have sworn she heard the words. But his lips hadn’t moved. Still frozen, she was acutely aware of the way her pulse hammered at her throat, her wrists, her breast. He was inches away from her, and she was still paralyzed.
His fingers closed around her upper arm like steel bands, “C’mon, we have to get out of here.” His voice was deep, unaccented, and there was no trace of emotion as he drew her with him down the street in the direction she’d come from.
Finally, she found her voice. “We can’t just leave her there.”
“She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.”
Neely dug in her heels, but she didn’t slow him down a bit. “Did you kill her?”
He sent her a quick glance. “No. From the looks of her she’s one of the Ripper’s victims.”
“How do I know you’re not the Ripper?”
He stopped and turned to her. “Here’s a clue. If I were the Ripper, you’d be dead.”
Her throat went dry. There was something—a trace of annoyance—in his tone now. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she could feel his gaze on her, and she was very much aware of the hand that gripped her arm so tightly. She felt the press of each one of his fingers like a brand. “Who are you then? Why were you in my bookstore this afternoon? Why were you on the stoop across from my store? And how did you get here?”
“You brought me here, sweetheart. And you’re going to tell me how.”
“First, I want to know who you are.”
Max glared down at her as temper and something more dangerous burned through his system. He surprised them both by jerking her close. Then he did what he’d wanted to do earlier in the bookstore. What he’d known he was going to do. He clamped his mouth down on hers. It was a mistake—one he regretted the moment he tasted her.
Why did she have to taste so sweet? Her flavor reminded him of some wild, rare honey that he’d sampled in an ancient time. He had to have more. When she parted her lips, he dived in. The low sound of approval that vibrated in her throat had his blood racing like a river pouring over rapids. He dragged her closer until they formed one figure on the cobblestone street.
She should pull away. It was the only coherent thought that tumbled into Neely’s mind. But she couldn’t seem to gather the will. He was angry. She could taste the tartness of it on his tongue, feel it in the roughness of his palm as it lay on the side of her face and in the fingers that burned at the back of her neck. And still she wanted more.
As if he’d read her mind, he urged her back a few steps until a brick wall pressed against her shoulders. She molded herself against that strong, hard body, nearly cried out from pleasure when that bold hand stroked down her, claiming, possessing. When he gripped the back of her knee, drawing her thigh up, she wrapped her legs and arms around him, scooting up until they were together, center to center. Heat shot through her, melting muscles and bone. Still she had to have more.
He nipped at her bottom lip and deepened the kiss. It was no longer anger that she tasted, but a dark, desperate hunger. His? Hers? In another moment, he was going to take her against that brick wall. They would take each other. She could picture it so vividly in her mind, wanted it so desperately. His fingers had already slipped beneath the waistband of her jeans. The image of what they would do filled her mind so completely that the sound of the whistles barely registered. What she was aware of was that the stranger’s hands had suddenly stilled.
This time she heard the whistles. Three of them. Footsteps pounded on the cobblestones.
Neely cried out softly when he broke off the kiss and set her away from him. She leaned against the brick wall for support as he looked back in the direction they’d come from.
“Sounds like someone’s discovered the body.” Gripping her arm, he pulled her forward. “We’d better get out of here.”
We? Even with her mind still spinning, Neely didn’t think so. She had to get away from him. This was a man she didn’t even know, and they’d nearly had sex against a wall in an alley.
Desperately, she pushed the image out of her mind and concentrated on her options. He was bigger, stronger, and even if she could pull free, he could probably run faster. So…
Suddenly, she knew just how to do it. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? Closing her eyes, she conjured up the items in her bedroom—the four-poster bed, the intricately patterned quilt, the Tiffany lamp with its rosy glow. Her body went suddenly light and she let herself be pulled into the whirling darkness.
4
May 16, 2008
Manhattan
WHEN HE SURFACED, Max found himself lying in a bed with Neely Rafferty. Correction. He was lying on top of Neely Rafferty. They were positioned in a way that mirrored the image that had filled his mind when he’d been on the stoop. The major difference being that they were fully clothed. Thank God for small favors. And it was a very small one, considering he couldn’t seem to find the will to move. And he very much wanted to kiss her again. He badly wanted to finish what they’d started in that alley.
But first, he needed answers. A lot of them. Still, he couldn’t seem to make his body follow the orders his brain was sending out. Okay. For the time being, he’d stay where he was and use his position as an intimidation factor. Her eyes were open and on his. She looked a bit stunned, as if she was still trying to orient herself. He could understand that. He was badly in need of a little orientation, too. Who in hell was she? Obviously not the simple bookseller his research had revealed. Among other things, Neely Rafferty was a psychic time traveler.
And that wasn’t the only psychic power she possessed. Not only had she transported herself, but she’d dragged him with her as if he were a marionette and she held the strings. No one had ever done that to him before, and he was going to find out just how she’d accomplished it.
When she began to wiggle beneath him and arousal shot through him, Max dispensed with his intimidation plan and scraped up the will to shift off of her.
“Who the hell are you?” They spoke the question in unison. Nearly. Max noted that she’d left off the “hell.”
“Get out of my bed,” she added. As an extra incentive, she pulled something out of her pocket. Max grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the pillow above her head. Then he placed one leg over both of hers to keep her still. The good news was she hadn’t shot him with whatever was in that small metal container. The bad news was their faces were close now—so close that their lips were almost brushing.
Time spun out. There was no other sound in the room but their steady breathing. Max knew he should move. He had to move. Once more his brain gave the command to his body, but sensations battered him so fiercely that he was trapped. There was the fast, hard beat of her pulse against his fingers. And there were her eyes. His gaze lingered on them and once again it wasn’t surrender he saw, but a raw desire that matched his own. He shifted his attention to her mouth. Her lips were moist, parted. Needs thundered through him, and it took every bit of self-restraint he possessed not to close the small distance and devour. It was what he wanted, what he’d wanted from the first time he’d seen her.
Questions whirled through his mind. He wasn’t sure whose they were—his, hers? Who are you? Where are you from? But the words they both spoke aloud were, “I want you.”
He felt the shudder move through her, then him. Then came the heat and he felt the last thin grasp he had on reason slip away. This time when their mouths joined, jolts of pleasure sparked through his system with the jagged, pulsing impact of an electric current. Later, he’d try to figure out who made that final move, but as her mouth heated beneath his and he once more sampled her honey-sweet flavor, he didn’t much care. Wasn’t this what he was sure they were headed for? Wasn’t this what he’d known he’d take from the first time he’d seen her picture?
More.
NEELY FELT as if she were drowning in sensations. She couldn’t think. She could only feel. His mouth was hard and hot, just as it had been before. As he used teeth and tongue to deepen the kiss, his taste, dark and male, pumped into her like a drug and only intensified the aching greed that threatened to consume her.
More.
As if sensing her wish, his body covered hers again. Heat arrowed through her, and her body arched. Though they were both fully clothed, she felt the sensation of skin rubbing against skin. And she felt the calluses on his palm as he pressed it against her breast. Then he ran that wonderfully rough hand down her body from breast to thigh. Once more she absorbed the contact as if she were naked, and she felt the heat of his wide hand on her leg like a brand. When he slipped two fingers between her legs and pressed them against her center, a jolt of pleasure shot through her. More.
He began to stroke her.
Gently. Too gently.
He increased both the pressure and the pace.
In some part of her brain, Neely sensed that he could read her mind. No, more than that, he was in her mind, registering each of her desires, and giving her just what she craved. She knew she was still fully clothed, and so was he, but she felt the moist heat of his tongue circling her nipple. And his thumb as it stroked down her fold, separating her. Then he slipped two fingers into her.
She felt the shock of the penetration and need slammed into her like a fist. She arched upward, straining for release, crying out when he withdrew his fingers. “Don’t stop.”
“This time I won’t.” He slipped between her legs. She felt his thighs spread hers apart. He thrust into her in one smooth stroke. She surrounded him, gripped him, absorbed him. The pressure was huge, and the pleasure teetered on the edge of pain. For one timeless moment neither of them moved.
Look at me.
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Cara Summers
To boldly go where no woman has gone before. . .It's not a story from one of the novels on her bookstore shelves–Neely Rafferty's vivid dreams of traveling back to the time of Jack the Ripper are actually real. And so is the sexy cop who's time-shifting right along with her.Max Gale has come from 2128 to 2008 to make sure Neely doesn't alter the past. But their intense psychic connection and hot sexual escapades surpass all temporal bounds. She's taking him for a ride through the ages! And he's not sure he'll be able to go back to the future–or if he even wants to!
Look what people are saying about Cara Summers…
“Ms. Summers is a compelling storyteller with a gift for emotional and dramatic prose.”
—Rendezvous
“With exquisite flair, Ms. Summers thrills us with her fresh, exciting voice as well as rich characterization and spicy adventure.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“A writer of incredible talent with a gift for emotional stories laced with humor and passion.”
—Rendezvous
“A book worthy of the keeper shelf.”
—Cataromance on The Cop
“Chills, thrills, mystery and romance combine perfectly.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Tell Me Your Secrets
“Cara Summers keeps the action fast and hot.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Two Hot!
“A roller coaster ride that the reader will want to take again and again.”
—A Romance Review on Two Hot!
Dear Reader,
Writing my first Blaze Extreme book has been quite an adventure for me. First of all, I’ve always been a science fiction fan, so I was thrilled at the chance to create a brave, new world—Planet Earth, 2128—where a small percentage of the global population has developed the psychic ability to travel back through time. One of those select few is serial killer Jack the Ripper, who is murdering women in three different centuries—San Diego 2128, Manhattan 2008 and London 1888.
Meet my very sexy cop-from-the-future hero—Max Gale—whose goal is to capture Jack. Bound by the rules of his world, Max is forbidden to change anything that’s happened in the past. (Translated, that means he can’t save any of Jack’s victims.)
Max’s plan is simple. He’ll shadow bookstore owner, Neely Rafferty, who is destined to be Jack’s last victim in 2008. Then he’ll grab Jack and take him back to 2128 to stand trial.
But once Max and Neely meet, she shoots his plan straight to hell.
I hope that you’ll come along for the ride as Max and Neely chase Jack, explore their relationship and find a way to make their very different worlds intersect.
For more information about A Sexy Time of It and my August 2008 release, Lie With Me (a continuation of the adventures of the Angelis family), visit my Web site: www.carasummers.com.
Happy reading!
Cara Summers
A SEXY TIME OF IT
Cara Summers
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A Sexy Time of It is Cara Summer’s first Blaze Extreme book, but it’s her twelfth Blaze novel. She’s already busy working on number thirteen—Lie With Me, a sequel to her 2007 miniseries, Tall, Dark, and Dangerously Hot! Her stories have won numerous awards, most recently the New Jersey Romance Writers’ 2007 Golden Leaf for The Cop and the 2007 Golden Quill for When She Was Bad… She loves writing for the Blaze line because she can write such a variety of stories—from time travel to Gothic thrillers to lighter romantic comedies. When she isn’t busy creating another story, she teaches in the Writing Program at Syracuse University.
Books by Cara Summers
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
38—INTENT TO SEDUCE
71—GAME FOR ANYTHING
184—THE PROPOSITION* (#litres_trial_promo)
188—THE DARE* (#litres_trial_promo)
192—THE FAVOR* (#litres_trial_promo)
239—WHEN SHE WAS BAD…** (#litres_trial_promo)
259—TWO HOT!† (#litres_trial_promo)
286—TELL ME YOUR SECRETS…†† (#litres_trial_promo)
330—THE P.I.‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
336—THE COP‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
336—THE DEFENDER‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
813—OTHERWISE ENGAGED
860—MOONSTRUCK IN MANHATTAN‡‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
900—SHORT, SWEET AND SEXY‡‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
936—FLIRTING WITH TEMPTATION‡‡ (#litres_trial_promo)
970—EARLY TO BED?
To my editor Brenda Chin, in honor of our
twenty-fifth book together! I’m looking forward to
the next twenty-five. Thanks so much for always
pushing me to take risks and thanks for always
helping me out when I do. Most especially,
thanks for always seeing what I’m trying to do—
and then making sure that I do it.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Prologue
RAIN FELL in a soft thick mist that nearly blocked the light from the street lamp. Neely hurried toward it, pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt. The instant she saw the gas flame, her heart kicked up its rhythm. Just to make sure, she glanced down at the street. Those were cobblestones all right. Something caught her eye. Bending over, she scooped up a coin and grinned when it wasn’t one she recognized. Excitement and anticipation streamed through her as she tucked it away in the pocket of her jeans. She definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore—her particular Kansas being New York City, 2008.
But was she where she wanted to be? Just before she’d fallen asleep, she’d been concentrating on London, September 30, 1888, when Jack the Ripper had been prowling its streets and brutally murdering women. Lately, all of her “dreams” were about places where the Ripper had killed. Hardly surprising. For the past four months a serial killer had been targeting women in Manhattan, and the media had gleefully dubbed him Jack the Second. Like everyone else in the city, including the discussion groups in her bookstore, Neely had been boning up on Jack the First’s exploits. But tonight she’d decided to conduct a little experiment. She’d focused her mind on Mitre Square where the body of Catherine Eddowes had been found in the wee hours of the morning. This was her first attempt at controlling the specific destination and time of one of her dreams. Had she succeeded?
Peering through the mist, she caught a glimpse of a wrought-iron fence across the street, and a little thrill shot up her spine. She had one foot on the cobblestones when the sound of hooves sent her backing up and she ducked behind the street lamp. A carriage clattered by, its lantern waging a brave but losing battle with the mist. Neely smelled damp leather and horses as she studied what she could see of the carriage. She was no expert on Victorian-style vehicles, but it looked close enough to the pictures she’d seen in books.
Once the hoofbeats had faded and she was satisfied the street was clear of traffic, Neely raced across it, then bent low to read the small plaque on the iron gate. Mitre Square. Her heart skipped. This was the place all right. But was it the right time? Catherine Eddowes’s body had been found on September 30, 1888. That was the day Jack the Ripper was believed to have claimed two victims.
Was she in time to warn Catherine? Or was the woman’s brutalized body lying somewhere in the square even now? Fear snaked its way up her spine, and Neely’s hand tightened on the gate. It was still hard to get her mind around the possibility that she might really be in the London of 1888.
She’d been having vivid dreams for years—usually triggered by something in a book that had captured her imagination. While they’d been alive, her parents had always attributed her stories about being in Troy when the Greeks invaded, or being in Paris when Marie Antoinette was beheaded, to her bookish nature and an overactive imagination. Only her grandmother Cornelia Rafferty had taken her dreams seriously. Cornelia had experienced the same kind of dreams and so had her great-great-grandfather Angus Sheffield. Angus had once dreamed of being in Rome on the day when Julius Caesar was assassinated. It was her grandmother’s theory that the vivid dreams were connected with the fact that some of those descended from Angus Sheffield had inherited the “bookworm” gene.
Well, she’d certainly inherited the “bookworm” gene. She’d been nine when her parents had been taken from her in a plane crash. And when she’d moved in with her grandmother, there’d been no one her age to play with on their street, so she’d frequently used books to escape loneliness.
Drawing in a deep breath, Neely pushed at the gate, then winced when it complained loudly. Gradually, the sound faded and all she could hear was her own breath going in and out. It wasn’t until recently, since she’d been researching the Ripper murders, that she’d begun to suspect her experiences were more than dreams, that she might really be visiting the past.
It was such a crazy idea—but she hadn’t been able to shake free of it. Night after night, she returned to the places in London where Jack the Ripper had left his victims. The only person she’d confided in was her best friend and business partner, Linc Matthews. She and Linc had been friends since junior high when they’d both been outsiders at school. She’d never quite fit in with the cool crowd, and Linc’s sexual orientation had alienated him from their more conservative classmates.
Neely had always been able to talk to Linc about anything. Growing up in her grandmother’s house, she’d been surrounded by people Cornelia Rafferty’s age. And though she enjoyed them and loved her grandmother dearly, she’d rarely confided in them. Linc always listened, never judged. He’d taken seriously her theory that she was traveling to the past and that had made her take it more seriously herself. He’d even recommended a new book that had come in as part of a promotion from self-published author Dr. Julian Rhoades, who had been getting local TV coverage for his theory that psychic time travel might be possible in the near future. And it had been Linc’s idea that she try to bring back some proof that she was actually visiting Victorian-era London. She slipped a hand into her pocket to reassure herself that the coin was still there.
After tonight, she would know whether she was dreaming or whether what she was seeing was real. And if it was…?
From the time she was a little girl, she’d always believed that she was meant to do something important with her life, and the idea that she could travel through time had opened up almost-limitless possibilities. The one that interested her most was that maybe she could make a difference. There had to be a reason she was being drawn to the scene of Jack the Ripper’s murders. Could she stop one of them? If she could do something to save even one woman…Well, she just had to find out. Taking a deep breath, Neely pushed through the gate and started down the path.
“Catherine? Catherine Eddowes?” she called.
No answer.
The mist was so thick that she couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. On the street behind her, another carriage clattered past. Then silence. Moving forward slowly, Neely inhaled the scents of damp earth, decaying vegetation and something else—blood? The knot in her stomach tightened when she heard a noise to her right. This time when she slipped a hand into her pocket, she closed her fingers around a can of pepper spray. Then she started toward the sound.
“Catherine? If you’re here, let me know. I can help you.”
No answer again. But a tingle of awareness had Neely stopping short. She wasn’t alone in the square. This knowledge was confirmed when she heard footsteps approaching. Fear slithered along her skin. She felt someone’s eyes on her as vividly as a physical touch, but she couldn’t make out anything. Not even a darker shadow in the mist.
“Who’s there?”
No answer again—except for the steady, inexorable march of those footsteps coming closer and closer.
Run. Run. Her mind screamed the words, but she couldn’t move. He was very close now. She sensed him not only in her mind but in every pore of her body. A fresh stab of terror pierced her and set her free. Whirling, she ran as fast as she could. But he was running, too. She felt his nearness, pictured his hands reaching out. Heart pounding, breath hitching, she shoved through a gate and sent it slamming shut behind her.
She heard a grunt, then a male voice cursing as she leaped from cobblestones to curb and hurtled herself into the mist. She’d only slowed him down. Think. Think. She had to…wake up. Of course. All she needed to do was get herself out of this dream. How? In her mind, Neely summoned up the details of her bedroom—the quilt her grandmother had made for her, the lamp on her bedside table with its leaded-glass roses, the mirror that leaned against one wall…the old Persian carpet—
Suddenly, her body was free of the pull of gravity. Wind rushed past her, deafening her. Then a velvety blackness enveloped her, and her mind went blissfully blank.
NEELY OPENED her eyes and sat straight up. A quick glance around informed her that she was back in her bedroom in the old brownstone house that she’d inherited from her grandmother. She was safe. She pressed a hand against her heart, felt its mad race as the details of her dream once again flooded her mind. Excitement and fear roiled through her. Everything had been so real. The footsteps still echoed in her mind. Her clock read only a few minutes past midnight—the exact time it had been just before she’d drifted off. Tonight’s dream had been the most vivid one yet. She began to shiver then and had to clamp her teeth together to keep them from chattering. Only then did she realize that her jeans and sweatshirt were soaked.
From the misty rain? She slipped her hand into her pocket and retrieved the coin. She could read the words quite clearly. One shilling. Her hand began to tremble, her heart to pound. Neely made herself breathe, in and out, in and out. Two things were immediately evident to her. Whatever had just happened hadn’t been a dream. She’d actually traveled to the past. And there was a good chance that she’d had a close encounter with Jack the Ripper.
Had she finally discovered her purpose in life?
1
May 15, 2008
Manhattan
LINC MATTHEWS plucked the shilling out of Neely’s hand and scrutinized it. While she’d poured out the story of her visit to Mitre Square, he’d made them each an espresso at the coffee bar, and he’d listened to every word without interrupting.
They were seated opposite each other on leather couches in the front room of the brownstone. It had always been Neely’s favorite room. Until her grandmother’s death a year ago, the space had functioned as a formal parlor where Cornelia entertained her friends from the neighborhood. The coffee table separating Neely from Linc had been the site of countless Scrabble games and hands of euchre. She’d even been invited to participate in them.
Now the room provided a cozy setting for the bookstore that she and Linc had created and named Bookends. The idea for the bookstore had been born out of desperation. When Cornelia had become ill a year and a half ago, Neely had taken a leave of absence from her graduate work in library science to nurse her grandmother.
Although she’d been aware that the illness was draining Cornelia financially as well as physically, she hadn’t realized the seriousness of the situation until her grandmother’s death. She’d not only inherited the home she’d grown up in, she’d also become responsible for two years of back taxes and Cornelia’s medical bills. And she didn’t even have a job. The attorneys had advised her to sell the brownstone.
Neely had balked at the suggestion. Not only did she love the place with its airy ceilings, intricate carved cornices and expanses of honey-colored parquet floors, but she also felt that if she sold the house, she was somehow letting Cornelia down. So she and Linc had put their heads together to come up with a solution, and Bookends had been the result. After all, she knew books and loved them. And Linc was a good salesperson, as well as a certified accountant. He’d had some money put aside to invest. And she’d taken the funds her grandmother had left her, paid off the medical bills, put some money down on the taxes and then used the rest of it to open the store. Together, she and Linc had redesigned the parlor, lining the walls with books and adding groupings of comfortable couches and chairs so that customers would feel as if they were invited to linger, to read, to drink coffee, and most importantly, to come back.
It had been a year since the doors of Bookends had opened, and they’d worked six days a week together to build a good-size customer base, starting with the neighborhood. And finally their reputation had spread uptown so that they were getting a tourist trade, as well. The taxes were paid off, and she and Linc were each drawing a comfortable salary.
But deep down in her heart, Neely had known from the start that running a bookstore wasn’t her destiny. Becoming a librarian hadn’t been her destiny, either. It was just something to do. All through college and her first semester in grad school, she’d felt as if she were treading water, waiting to figure out what she was really supposed to do.
Finally, Linc set the coin down on the table in front of him and met her eyes. “It looks authentic.”
“It is.” She’d already searched through images on the Internet and had convinced herself that the coin was genuine.
He nodded, then returned his attention to the shilling.
Neely glanced around the room. At eight-thirty, with light pouring through the windows, her experience in Mitre Square seemed far less real—more like a dream. But it hadn’t been. She’d actually been there. And a man she couldn’t see had chased her.
“Well.” Linc rested his hands on his knees and leaned back in his chair. “I suggested that you bring proof and you did. I guess you’d call it an example of—be careful what you wish for.”
“There’s a part of me that really wanted you to pooh-pooh the coin and tell me that I’m crazy.”
Linc met her eyes squarely. “There’s a part of me that wants to do that. But you’re not crazy, Neely. If you believe that you’re traveling to the past, and you can bring back a coin, then we have to explore the possibility that you really are. Dr. Julian Rhoades certainly believes it could happen.”
“In the future.”
Linc shot her a grin. “I always did figure you were ahead of your time. Speaking of Rhoades, he’s getting a lot of mileage out of his theory. I caught him on The Today Show this morning before I left. A lot of his fans, mostly women, were gathered outside the NBC Building, chanting his name. He’s going to be speaking at the Psychic Institute in Brooklyn tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll go. Maybe I can talk to him.”
“Maybe you can convince him to do a signing here at Bookends and we can both talk to him.”
She smiled slowly. And for the first time, some of the tension that she’d been feeling since she’d awakened in her bed dripping wet eased. “Good idea.”
“In the meantime, I think it might be better if you didn’t travel back to London. If you’re right and you did have a little episode with Jack, it’s too dangerous.”
She clasped her hands tightly together. “I know it’s dangerous. But—”
Linc held up both hands, palms out. “Don’t make a decision now. Think about it. You have a long day ahead of you. I’m taking a couple of hours off to have lunch with a friend, so you’ll be on your own.”
She raised her brows. “I think I can manage.”
“Perhaps.” He shot her another grin, causing one of his dimples to wink. “But our regular female customers will miss me.”
And they would, too. In addition to charm and brains, Linc Matthews was no slouch in the looks department. Tall and slim, he wore black trousers and a black silk shirt that provided a dramatic contrast to his fair skin and nearly white-blond hair. Several of their regular female customers had confided in her that he reminded them of Spike in the popular Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series.
“Then we have the meeting of the armchair detectives tonight, and they’ll be peppering you with questions about Jack the Ripper.”
He was right. The armchair detectives was what she and Linc had dubbed the group of three seniors from the neighborhood who met every Thursday night. Though the subject had never come up, Neely figured Sally was the oldest of the trio and that both Sam and Mabel were in their mid-seventies. Unlike other discussion groups that selected a book and talked about it, the armchair detectives chose a murder—or a series of murders—that had occurred in the past and tried to find the killer. Last year they’d proven Shakespeare’s Richard the Third innocent of the murders he’d been accused of.
Linc rose and took her hands. “Last, but not least, it might be better to get a good night’s sleep before you go to the Rhoades lecture.”
“I always forget how good you are at persuasion.”
“Was I successful?”
She smiled at him. “I’ll think about it.”
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed.
Linc squeezed her hands before releasing them. “That’s our cue to open up and start the day.”
IT HAD BEEN the longest day of her life. And it wasn’t over yet.
The armchair detectives, consisting of her grandmother’s two best friends and a burly retired NYPD sergeant, were still firmly ensconced in the front room of Bookends. Currently, they sat in stony silence on leather couches doing their best to ignore each other. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock. In Neely’s mind, it sounded like the clanging of Big Ben.
Mabel Parish, a tall, thin woman who’d been her grandmother’s closest friend and confidante, had lost her temper and swung her book bag at Sam Thornway, but Sam—thanks, no doubt, to excellent police training—still had some good moves in him. He’d pivoted, ducked and avoided the blow.
Neely had grown up knowing Mabel. Keeping her temper under wraps had never seemed to be a problem for the woman until she’d rented one of the rooms in her nearby brownstone to the retired policeman. The two of them just seemed to rub sparks off each other. True, Mabel was strong-minded and Cornelia had once said that she had the personality of Alice’s Queen of Hearts. But usually, she got her way by using more subtle strategies, such as staring people down.
Sam seemed to be immune to her stares. A large, imposing man, he was every bit as stubborn as Mabel and rarely gave an inch. Whenever the two clashed, Sally Lansing, the third member of the group and also one of Mabel’s tenants, threatened to hyperventilate—which added a lot to the drama. A tiny, frail-looking woman, Sally reminded Neely of an absentminded fairy godmother, but she frequently provided the voice of reason that calmed down the other two.
Not tonight, however. The way Neely saw it, Mabel, who’d been a single woman all her life, was used to being the boss—a role that no one had challenged before Sam. Neely had checked into Sam’s background and discovered that he’d been a widower for eight years—a long time to live without the challenge of dealing with a woman.
This wasn’t the first time that he and Mabel had gone head to head, and Neely was beginning to wonder if they were both enjoying the clashes on some level.
Tonight’s argument had centered on just how many victims could be attributed to Jack the Ripper’s killing spree in the Whitechapel district of London. None of the criminologists who’d made it their life’s work to study Jack the Ripper could agree. But both Mabel and Sam were positive they were right.
As the seconds ticked by and the silence grew thicker, Neely caught Linc’s eye and sent him a silent plea. Left to their own devices, Mabel and Sam were going to sit there all night.
Linc’s response was a barely perceptible but firmly negative shake of his head. He mouthed the words I don’t want to be collateral damage. Then he grinned and rolled his eyes at her.
It was Sally who finally took the initiative, by rising. “Neely looks exhausted. I think we should finish this discussion at our next meeting and let her get some rest.”
Saved by the little fairy godmother, Neely thought. Now, neither Mabel nor Sam had to make the first move. They immediately turned appraising and concerned eyes on her.
“You’re right, Sally.” Sam rose and shoveled notes and books into the backpack he always carried. “We’ll sleep on this.” He shot a look at Mabel. “That will give someone’s temper time to cool.”
Though her hand tightened on her book bag, Mabel merely sniffed in reply. Then she narrowed her eyes on Neely. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.” Neely had no trouble summoning up a smile. She had to stifle the urge to do a little happy dance. They were finally leaving. Rising, she led the way to the door to exchange hugs with each of them. Mabel brought up the rear. Waiting until Sally and Sam had started down the steps, she took Neely’s hands in hers.
“You’re having those vivid dreams again, aren’t you?” she asked. “The same ones your grandmother used to have about times gone by?”
Neely nodded. Mabel was studying her very closely.
“Do you mind my asking what they’re about?”
“No.” Neely knew her grandmother had trusted Mabel implicitly. They’d been so close that at times, she’d felt jealous of the relationship. “Lately, they’ve been about the London of the Ripper—Jack the First.”
Frowning, Mabel nodded. “I should have guessed, what with all the research we’ve been having you do.” She glanced out the open door at Sam’s retreating back and spoke in a voice that carried. “I knew we never should have started this investigation into the Ripper. It was all Sergeant Thornway’s idea.”
Sam neither stopped nor glanced back.
Mabel shifted her eyes back to Neely’s. “Your grandmother always used to try and dream about safe places. Be very careful.”
Apprehension moved through Neely. She and Mabel had talked about her dreams before, but what she saw in Mabel’s eyes looked suspiciously like a warning. Did Mabel suspect that her dreams might be real? How? More importantly, why? But before she could ask, Mabel gave her a brisk, hard hug and hurried down the steps after her tenants. Neely closed the front door of Bookends, then turned and sagged against it. “I’m going to bed.”
“It’s no wonder you’re exhausted.” Linc strode through the room, turning off the Tiffany-style lamps that graced various end tables. “What beats me is how the two of them can get so fired up about something that happened in 1888. Whoever killed those women in the Whitechapel district is long dead and buried. Case closed.”
“But the case wasn’t closed. Jack the Ripper was never caught.” Neely loaded cups into the dishwasher in the small alcove that served as a coffee bar for their customers. “That’s what fascinates them.”
“And you.”
“And me,” she agreed.
“No one can change the past. If you ask me, our armchair detectives ought to focus their energy on investigating the bastard who has every woman in Manhattan carrying pepper spray and purchasing handguns. So far the police are batting zero.”
Neely had no comment on that. The media was criticizing the NYPD on a daily basis because they had no leads. So far, Jack the Second had claimed five victims in 2008—all single women who lived alone and evidently invited him into their homes.
“Look—” Linc crossed to her “—I have an idea for a change of pace. There’s a new club that just opened on Spring Street. Why don’t you come with me. It would do you good to get away from here and have a little fun. You’ve been away from the dating scene for too long.”
Neely knew that Linc was on a campaign to keep her from trying to travel to London tonight. But his words struck home. It had been a year and a half since her grandmother had taken ill—a year and a half since she’d been on a date or even to a club. It was a long time to go without any sort of normal social life, let alone a man. She’d been dating someone she liked while she’d been working on her graduate degree. But they’d drifted apart when she’d left to nurse her grandmother. Since then, there’d been no one. Her nunlike existence had been brought home to her with a vengeance earlier in the day when that stranger had walked into Bookends.
“It’s high time you had a man in your life,” Linc said.
Well, a man had certainly walked into her life today. Linc had been out, so she’d been alone in the store when Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous had strolled in. He was dressed in black, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Never in her life had she been so aware of a man. His mere presence in the room had been as intimate as a touch.
Later, when her brain had started functioning again, she hadn’t been quite able to place him either as a New Yorker or a tourist. But at the time she hadn’t been able to think straight at all. She’d said something to him, she was sure. The usual spiel—“Welcome to Bookends. I’m Neely Rafferty. Let me know if I can help you.” She had to have said something like that because he’d replied, “I’d just like to browse,” in a low, gravelly voice.
Then she’d gawked at him like a teenager. The entire time that he’d wandered through the room, she hadn’t been able to drag her eyes away from him. Every detail of his appearance had imprinted itself on her mind—that strong face, those angled cheekbones and that lean hard body. He’d caught her looking when he turned suddenly and strode toward her, a book in his outstretched hand.
She’d gulped in air and felt it burn her lungs. Whether or not she would have been able to ring up the sale was a moot point, because he’d dropped the book just as he’d reached her. They’d squatted simultaneously to retrieve it and knocked into one another. He’d grabbed her wrists to steady her, and she’d felt her pulse pound against those strong hard fingers. She’d stared into his gray eyes and watched them darken as his breath feathered over her skin.
Time had stood still.
He was going to kiss her. She’d read the intent in his eyes, felt it in her bones. In fact, though neither of them had moved—she was sure of that—she’d felt those firm lips cover hers, and she’d sampled just the promise of his taste as his tongue touched hers. Her response hadn’t been fear. Oh, no. It had been a hot curl of lust. Then, just as she was willing him to kiss her for real, he’d dropped her wrists, gotten to his feet and strode out of the store.
“Earth to Neely…”
“Hmm?” She turned to find Linc watching her in concern.
“You’ve been drifting away like that ever since I came back from lunch. You need to get out of this place for a while. Live a little. Come with me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
Linc frowned. “I know exactly what you’re going to do. The minute I leave you’re going to try to bring on one of your dreams and go off to London again. What can I do to convince you to take a break—at least until you talk to Dr. Rhoades?”
“I don’t think you can. I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I feel like this is something I have to do.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But there must be a reason I was given this ability.” Because she wanted to ease the worry in his eyes, she said, “Besides, if I went with you, what are the chances that I would meet any straight men at your club?”
“No chance at all, I hope.” He smiled then. “There’s no way I can convince you to get out of here for a while and play?”
“I’m going to the Psychic Institute tomorrow.”
“That’s not getting away. That’s work.” He crossed to the door and retrieved his jacket from the coat rack. “You need a change.”
Her mind drifted back to the stranger who’d come into her bookstore. He’d been a radical change. All day she’d been wondering what would have happened if he’d kissed her? And every time she thought about it, she experienced that curl of hot lust all over again.
Pushing the stranger firmly out of her mind, Neely walked to Linc and rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Go. Have enough fun and excitement for both of us.”
Giving up, he shook his head at her. “Be careful.”
“I will. I’ve been taking the pepper spray you bought for me.”
“Make sure you use it if you have to.”
She nodded. She hadn’t thought to the night before. She’d been so intent on escaping. But she would use it if necessary.
Linc gave her a nod, then turned to let himself out. “Lock the door and put on the alarm.”
She did exactly what he’d ordered. Then she made her way to the stairs and hurried up them. To be honest, except for that time when the stranger had occupied her mind, her whole being, she’d been filled with an urgency to return to London, 1888. She was becoming more and more convinced that she had some kind of purpose there—or perhaps a mission. The bookstore had given her life direction for a while, but now that it was operating successfully, she’d begun to yearn for a new challenge.
Linc had made a strong argument that she needed to expand her social life. No doubt that’s why she’d had such a powerful response to the stranger today. Linc was also right that she needed a lover. If she was going to react to every man who walked through her front door the way she had today, she definitely needed some sex in her life.
But tonight she had something else—someone else—on her agenda. She was going to see if she could have another encounter with Jack the Ripper.
Before she talked to Dr. Rhoades tomorrow, she intended to gather more evidence by seeing if she could travel again to London, to the scene of the Ripper’s first murder. Once in her bedroom, Neely changed into dark jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt. Then she tucked her hair into a cap. Studying her reflection in the mirror, she felt an onslaught of doubt. Did she actually believe that she was going to psychically travel back through time?
Neely met her eyes in the mirror. Yes. She did. Pressing both hands against the legion of butterflies in her stomach, she checked her reflection one last time, and decided that she could pass for a boy—if it was dark enough. If she was going to wander the streets alone at night in Victorian London, it was much safer to appear male. Finally, she made sure the pepper spray was in her pocket. Then she crossed to the chair next to her bed and sat down.
Before she fell asleep, she was going to review in her mind the story of Jack the Ripper’s first victim—Mary Ann Nichols—who was killed on August 31, 1888. Mary Ann’s body had been found in Buck’s Row in front of a stable entrance. Neely had discovered a detailed sketch of the scene in one of the books she’d located for her armchair detectives. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and brought the gate into focus. Next, she pictured the time in her mind as if it were the readout on a digital clock: 11:00 p.m. Hopefully, that would be early enough. She might not have been able to save Catherine Eddowes, but if she got there in time, maybe she could save Mary Ann.
If this worked—well, she was going to have a lot of questions for Dr. Rhoades tomorrow.
2
August 1, 2128,
San Diego
MAX GALE PUSHED his way onto the glass-and-steel elevator that would eventually lift him to the one hundredth floor of the Trans Global Security Enforcement Building. Trans Global Security or TGS was a privately owned company that handled security for the entire planet. TGS had offices in several major cities, including Hong Kong, London, New York and Buenos Aires, and each specialized in a specific branch of security enforcement. The home office was located in Paris, and its new director, Lance Shaw, oversaw all the branches. The San Diego branch handled Psychic Time Travel Security Enforcement.
Nearly all of the fifty or so passengers surrounding him wore a uniform that either by color or emblem denoted their rank in TGS. Those in red handled background checks on all who applied for time travel permits. Those in blue handled personal interviews and psychic evaluations. His own one-piece black suit, and the silver badge on his arm, identified Max as a three-star inspector. His job for the past five years had been to track down and arrest anyone who violated the laws regulating psychic time travel.
The elevator slid to a stop on the second floor and the “blues” exited. The telecom screen to his left came to life, displaying a red “breaking news” banner with what had become a too-familiar headline: The Ripper Strikes Again. The video feed scrolled through shots taken at a crime scene that morning while a pleasant female voice informed viewers that the latest victim of the serial killer the media had dubbed the Ripper was a twenty-two-year-old student at San Diego State University. The girl’s body had been discovered outside a popular nightclub.
Every enforcement officer in the elevator car now had his or her eyes glued to the screen. Everyone except Max. He’d just come from viewing the body in person. Lucy Brightstone was the fifth victim of the Ripper in the last six months. All of them had been young, beautiful, and they’d each been stabbed to death, their bodies mutilated and then discarded somewhere near the university. Max had viewed each one of the bodies. The third one—Suzanna Gale—had been his sister. She’d been killed on June 1, and like the other victims, she’d been a student at San Diego State.
Since then, Max’s one goal in life had been to catch the Ripper.
As the elevator crept upward, Max looked through the glass wall at the San Diego Bay area. The bridge to Coronado was used only by pedestrians. No vehicles had driven over it since the turn of the century when solar-powered hover vehicles had become affordable to the masses.
Max shifted to allow three female enforcement sergeants to exit the car on floor 48. He’d been surprised when Assistant Director Deirdre Mason had contacted him at six-thirty this morning and asked him to come in. She’d had his proposed plan of action for less than twelve hours. What he wanted to do had been controversial enough that he’d expected her to take a few days to consider the plan. When he’d heard about the latest victim he’d understood. The fact that the Ripper had struck again might just pressure the assistant director into approving his proposal, and while he didn’t want to be grateful to the coldhearted bastard who’d brutally murdered another woman, he needed all the help he could get.
When the elevator door opened on the hundredth floor, Xavier, Assistant Director Mason’s administrative assistant, was waiting for him.
“She’s ready for you. This way.” The tall black man led Max down a short hallway. Xavier had been with Assistant Director Mason for as long as Max could remember. The man was well over six feet, muscular and broad shouldered. He shaved his head, used one name and wore a gold hoop in his left ear. Xavier had never smiled at him.
Deirdre Mason stood with her back to him studying a screen that filled nearly one wall of her office. On it were images of the Ripper’s five San Diego victims. Max looked at each one of them, and as his gaze moved over his sister’s photograph, pain took his breath away. Clenching his hands into fists, he pushed down his emotions. But his gaze didn’t waver from the photo.
He’d taken it himself six months ago, on a day that they’d gone sailing. It had been one of the last times they’d spent together before they’d become estranged. Suzanna had been eighteen, ten years his junior, and too young to die. It had been two months since her mutilated body was found, but he could still see her every time he closed his eyes, the images of the crime scene were forever burned into his mind. Deirdre was the one who’d called to give him the news, and he’d arrived just in time to watch them put what was left of his sister in a body bag. There’d been so much blood…
“Close the door, Xavier.”
As the door snicked shut, Max brought his thoughts back to the present.
Deirdre turned. “He has to be stopped.”
Max drew in a deep breath and willed his pain away. “Agreed. If you approve my proposal, I’ll do just that.”
She ran a hand through her short blond hair and turned to face him. “How sure are you that our Ripper is the same one who terrorized London in 1888 and Manhattan in 2008?”
“Positive.”
She let out a laugh. “You’re always so damn sure of yourself.”
For a moment neither of them spoke; they merely faced each other across Deirdre’s desk. He’d known her from the time they’d been at the TGS Academy together. They’d even had a brief affair during their first year. It had been pleasurable, but they’d learned quickly that they were too much alike and too competitive to be a couple. However, they’d managed to remain friends. His knowledge of Deirdre Mason was a point in his favor. Her corresponding knowledge of him might not be. She knew that he didn’t like all the rules and that he’d bent some on occasion. And one of the unwritten rules of TGS was that an inspector wasn’t supposed to be assigned to a case involving a family member.
Max sank into a chair. “The man who killed my sister and the other women is not a Jack the Ripper copycat. He’s a psychic time traveler, Dee. He’s not just killing here. He’s killing in other times. I’d stake my life on it. There’s a chance he’s from the future, but my gut feeling is that he’s from this time, and he’s found a way to beat the security system.”
“Yeah, I got that.” Deirdre sat down, pressed a button and brought his proposal up on the screen. “And I’m well aware of the accuracy of your gut feelings. They’re what make you one of the best agents at TGS. But I’ve got questions—several of them. They’re the kinds of questions that Director Shaw will have for me if I approve this.”
Max’s brows shot up. “The new director intimidates you, does he?”
“Strictly speaking, he’s not so new. He’s been on the job for nearly a year. And he doesn’t intimidate me at all. But Lance Shaw doesn’t suffer fools gladly. So I won’t have you making me look like one.”
“Fair enough. Ask your questions.” Max lifted his gaze to the first part of his proposal, which she’d highlighted. There were some things that he’d purposely left out because he’d wanted to be present when she heard them. Speech was always more effective than the written word when it came to persuasion. “You want to know how he gets past our security measures.”
“Yes. The ability to psychically travel into the past runs in families…the gene lies dormant in one generation and becomes active in the next. Less than one-half of one percent of the population carries the gene. We have records, and anyone born with the active gene is implanted with a tracking device at birth. There are no exceptions.”
“No exceptions that we know of. If he’s from the future, the security rules might have changed.”
Deirdre sighed and shook her head. “I was hoping that you weren’t going to say that.”
So she had thought of the possibility of a time traveler. It shouldn’t surprise him. Deirdre Mason was one of the smartest women he’d ever met.
“I don’t believe he’s from the future. Everything that I am as a security agent tells me he’s from our time. This is his home. I also believe that he’s established identities in each time where he’s killing.”
“Why?”
Max shrugged. “I figure he needs a base of operations and an identity in other times, also. The profilers who’ve written about the other Rippers agree they’re planners. For the most part, they selected their victims. That requires a familiarity with the times. And I believe this kind of killer would want to be able to live in the time period and enjoy his notoriety.”
“If you’re right about the killer being the same man, there might be some significance to the cities he’s choosing. Or the time span—exactly 120 years.”
Max said nothing. She’d been giving his ideas some thought. He took that to be a good sign.
She raised one hand. “Okay. I prefer your gut instinct to the theory that this bastard is from the future. But if he’s found a way around our security, how are you going to catch him in another time?”
“I’m going to discover the identity he’s using in 2008.”
This time the noise she made was a snort. “The size of your ego always amazes me. I’m concerned about rules, namely, our Prime Directive. You can’t change anything he’s done in the past or you run the risk of changing the future.” She waved a hand toward the panoramic view of San Diego. “Of destroying the present as we know it. You’ve taken an oath to follow the Prime Directive.”
“I understand that.” Nothing the Ripper had done in any of the times he’d killed in could be altered. If even one of his victims survived in 1888, 2008 or 2128, ripples of change would occur that could affect the present. That was the fear that the Prime Directive was based on.
“I’ve never broken the rules,” Max said.
“We both know that you’ve skirted around them on occasion.”
He tried to control his impatience. “I’ve gotten the job done.”
This time she didn’t laugh or snort, she merely met his eyes very directly. “The problem is that you’re still beating yourself up for not finding a way around them when you arrested your sister six months ago.”
Max said nothing as pain and regret tightened his chest. He had tried to bend the rules a bit for Suzanna. When he’d learned that his sister and a group of her friends were traveling without any authorization, he hadn’t waited to be assigned the case. He’d just gone after her. He’d wanted to bring her back and hire legal counsel. But she’d refused. She wouldn’t desert her friends.
She’d been eighteen, a freshman in college. This type of illegal time traveling happened fairly regularly. Eighteen was the age at which citizens with the time travel gene could apply for a license to travel. But that was the same age at which students often adopted very idealistic causes. Suzanna and her friends had been studying the bloody tribal wars that had raged through the continent of Africa in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, and they’d decided to travel there with the goal of saving lives. A laudable objective but totally against the Prime Directive.
When she’d refused to return with him voluntarily, he’d had no choice but to arrest her. She’d declined his help again when they’d returned to 2128, preferring to make a statement against the unfairness of the Prime Directive. Suzanna and her friends had paid the price for their violation of the law by having their time travel gene neutralized. She’d never forgiven him.
“Suzanna is the reason I’m so sure the Ripper is a time traveler. She refused to see me since I arrested her. But on the day she died, she visited my sailboat and left a note.”
He hadn’t found the note until he’d returned from the crime scene. She’d put the time at the top of it—3:00 p.m. How long had he stared at the time, knowing that she’d been alive then…that if he’d just been home, she might still be alive.
“Remind me what was in the note,” Deirdre said.
Max dragged his thoughts back to the present and his proposal. “She said she had something to tell me that was ‘right up my alley.’ Her roommate said she’d been seeing someone. I think Suzanna had met the Ripper and that she suspected something. So he eliminated her.”
“Perhaps.” Deirdre folded her hands on the desk. “You’re too personally involved in this. For that reason alone I should turn your proposal down flat.”
Should. Max latched on to the one word, but he didn’t allow himself to feel relief. Not yet. His eyes never wavered from hers as he leaned forward. “I can get him for you, Dee. That’s my only goal. I swear. Yeah, I’m personally involved. I admit I want to catch the man who murdered Suzanna. But I’d want this case anyway. If I’m right and he’s a psychic time traveler who’s managed to breach our security, he’s got to be stopped. What if the Ripper is only one of his personas? What if he’s used other methods on other victims?”
She rose, throwing up her hands in a gesture of surrender, but she wasn’t quite ready to give in.
“I have another question.” On the screen she brought up an image of Cornelia—Neely—Rafferty and enlarged it. “The Ripper killed and mutilated six women in 2008, and Cornelia Rafferty was his last victim—he killed her in the early-morning hours of May 17. You’ve made several trips to New York to observe each of those women. Why have you singled her out as the one you’re going to get close to?”
Max had anticipated the question, so he had an answer prepared. Some of it Deirdre already knew. The Ripper had selected prostitutes in 1888—women whom Victorian society cared very little about. In 2008 he’d selected middle-class women, all single, all living alone. The slew of criminologists who’d studied the cases over the years all agreed that the 2008 Ripper had established some kind of relationship with each victim. All had been found in their own homes. There’d been no sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle. The experts across time had concluded that the 2008 Ripper had to have been someone the women knew, someone they trusted enough to invite into their homes. Hell, he was doing the same thing in 2128.
“In the time I’ve spent observing the six women, I discovered that besides being single and living alone, each of them had some kind of connection to books. One was a librarian, one was a college professor with several publications in the field of psychology, two were high-school English teachers, another was an editor at a publishing house and Neely Rafferty was a bookstore owner. If that’s what he used—an interest in books or a specific topic—to get close to them, I figure she’s my best bet. The Ripper might even have used her store as a base to select his victims.”
“Gut instinct again?” Deirdre asked.
“Yes. I believe she’s the key to identifying the killer.”
Max waited then. This was the trickiest part of his proposal. What he intended was to get close enough to Neely Rafferty to find out who in her circle of customers or friends might be the Ripper. Most time travelers were required to make themselves psychically invisible when they visited another time. This made it easier for them to follow the Prime Directive. Becoming personally acquainted with anyone in a previous time was prohibited—unless it was absolutely necessary for security enforcement purposes. He’d argued that in this instance it was.
Deirdre studied him very closely. Anyone worth their salt in security had a sixth sense for recognizing a lie when they heard it. He prayed that she wouldn’t see through him. He’d spoken the truth. It just wasn’t the whole truth. As seconds ticked by, Max had to put some effort into not glancing back at Neely’s picture.
The first time he’d seen it, he hadn’t been able to look away for a very long time. There was something in her face that pulled at him. No. That was too weak a word for what had compelled him to study Neely Rafferty’s image for hours.
Seeing her in person, watching her go about her business, had only deepened the effect she had on his senses. He had no idea why, but he knew that she posed a threat to him. Walking into her store that day had been a mistake. Everything that had pulled at him from a distance had intensified during those minutes he’d spent in Bookends. But when he’d touched her, held her wrist in his hands for those few moments, he’d known beyond a doubt that she was the key. Without her, he was not going to avenge his sister’s death.
If he could just figure out what it was about her that scrambled his brain. In many ways she was ordinary looking. Her hair was the color of honey and she wore it short, the way many women in his time wore theirs. Her face wasn’t what he would have called beautiful, but it was interesting. Her skin was pale and her features delicate, but she had a strong chin and a mouth that hinted at stubbornness and passion. It was her mouth that had nearly been his downfall.
He’d felt her eyes on him the whole time he’d wandered through the store, and it had been as intimate as a caress. That was when he’d known that he had to touch her. Just once. So he’d dropped the book as a ploy, and he’d timed it perfectly. She’d been so close that her scent had wrapped around him. Something that reminded him of spring rains, and he’d wondered if he would taste that flavor on her skin—or on her lips.
He’d watched her blue-gray eyes darken, not in surrender, but in sensual excitement. And then he’d felt her in his mind, willing him to kiss her. Her desire had fueled his own, nearly destroying his control. Never in his life had he experienced anything like it. God, he’d wanted to touch her—to slip that blouse off of her and let his hands run over every inch of her. For a moment, in his mind, his mouth had covered hers and he’d known that he could have her. The power of that knowledge had streamed through him. And he’d almost acted on his desire, taking her right there on the floor of the bookstore, quick and hard and hot. It would have been incredible. Crazy. And not at all what he’d gone there to do.
Pure survival instinct had given him the strength to pull back at the last minute, and he’d nearly run out of the store.
Deirdre was still studying him, still trying to read him, so he said, “Look, Dee, I can’t explain it but she’s the key. I’m as certain of that as I am that the Ripper is a psychic time traveler. And who knows what other advanced psychic abilities he possesses. He has to be stopped.”
“I hope I’m not making a mistake.”
Max smiled at her then. “The mistake would be if you don’t approve my proposal.”
“Right.” She held his gaze, not returning his smile. “Now all I have to do is convince Mr. Shaw of that. I want to make one thing crystal clear. You have to catch the Ripper here in this century, at this exact time. I don’t want you pulling off any tricks so that your sister and the other four girls here won’t be killed. I need to know that I can trust you not to mess with the rules before I give you the go-ahead.”
Max rose then and extended a hand. “I know I can’t undo my sister’s death. I’ll bring the Ripper to you. My word on that.”
She grasped his hand. “Take care.”
BACK IN HIS OFFICE, Max checked to see if he had everything he needed. He’d packed ahead of time. He didn’t want to stick around long enough for Deirdre to have second thoughts. The black shirt and jeans he’d changed into were from 2008. He’d selected them earlier from the supply that TGS stocked for each time period. The small cylindrical weapon that he tucked into his pocket wasn’t. Neither was the palm-size computer clipped to his belt. The small duffel he’d slung over his shoulder contained what he’d need for a very short stay. The hunt was on. He planned to arrive in 2008 on the evening of May 15, and the Ripper would kill Neely Rafferty in the early hours of May 17. That gave him only about thirty hours to identify his man. Considering his experience in the bookstore, the less time he spent with Neely Rafferty, the better. Once he arrived in 2008, the clock would be ticking.
Shutting his eyes, he pictured the row of brownstones on Thirty-fifth Street where Neely lived. As soon as the details became clear in his mind, he would begin the journey. For nearly forty years now, a percentage of the population who carried a specific gene had been able to psychically travel back through time. They could travel to any time they could vividly picture in their minds. Thirty years ago TGS had added training classes and licensing requirements for anyone wishing to travel to the past. So far, no one could travel to the future because they couldn’t “see” future times in their minds.
Of course the whole concept of going back in time was based on an older theory that time existed in a linear way—the way in which humans experience it. But physicists at the turn of the twenty-second century had proposed a new theory—that all times exist simultaneously. The image with which they proposed to replace the older time line was one of concentric circles. Not all scientists bought into the idea, and the discussion was ongoing. The only thing that everyone agreed on was that in this experimental stage of psychic time travel, absolutely nothing should be done to change the past—because altering past events could destroy the present.
Suzanna had disagreed with the whole concept of the Prime Directive. Max had taken an oath to enforce it. And now, he wasn’t supposed to do a damn thing to save his sister. But he sure as hell could catch her killer.
Realizing that he’d allowed his mind to wander, Max drew his thoughts back to Thirty-fifth Street in Manhattan. The first time he’d visited he’d studied a photo, but this time he had the memory fresh in his mind. As if he were painting a scene, he arranged the details in his mind—the budding trees filtering the moonlight, the street lamps, and the geranium-filled pots that flanked the door of Bookends. When he’d pictured the street in his mind with as many details as he could remember, he set his will to it. Immediately, he experienced the sudden suspension of his body as if he’d become totally weightless. Then came the howling rush of wind, the velvety blackness. When he felt the pull of gravity return, he opened his eyes and found himself sitting on a stoop across from Bookends. The store was dark, closed for the night, but there was still a light on in an upstairs window.
Leaning back against the railing, he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. Tomorrow, he and Neely would meet again face-to-face. A tingle of anticipation moved through him. He didn’t believe in lying to himself. He wanted her, and the connection he felt with her was so strong that he wondered if he would be able to control his craving. Time was on his side. In less than thirty hours, she would be the Ripper’s last victim in 2008. Surely he would be able to restrain himself.
On the other hand, time was running out. What would happen if instead of waiting until morning, he walked across the street, climbed the steps and knocked on her door? An image struck him forcefully, vividly, pushing everything else out of his mind. They were locked together in a bed, arms and legs tangled, moving as one. The desire that knotted in his gut was raw and primitive. He could taste her lips, smell her fragrance and feel the silky heat of her skin rubbing against his. For a moment, Max could have sworn that the sensations were real. He shook his head to clear it and took several deep breaths. Still, the urge to cross the street and finish what his mind had pictured was so compelling that he wrapped one hand around the wrought-iron railing to keep himself seated.
Well. That was a first. She was a first. Neely Rafferty was going to be a bigger complication than he’d anticipated. But she was part of the hand of cards he’d been dealt, and he intended to play them—no matter the consequences.
Deliberately, he shifted his gaze away from the window to the street. He usually had a plan, but this time he wasn’t at all sure about his approach and had no clue how he would navigate their next encounter. He’d get a little shut-eye and let his subconscious sort through the possible approaches he might take.
His mind had just begun to drift when he sensed her. Straightening, he glanced up at the window and there she was. Their eyes met and held for a moment. Even at a distance, Max felt the impact of the connection like a two-fisted punch to the gut.
3
May 15, 2008
Manhattan
WHO WAS SHE? And what had she been doing in Mitre Square at midnight on September 30, 1888? Those were the questions that had been battering at the edge of his mind since he’d finished what he’d needed to do and left London. As he looked out the window of his hotel suite at the gleam of moonlight on the Hudson River, he let the questions resurface.
She’d called out the name of the woman he’d just murdered. She’d interrupted him. For one instant, as he’d withdrawn his knife from the body of Catherine Eddowes, he’d experienced a raw and primitive fear. He hadn’t been sure what to do. He always knew what to do. Then fury had pushed through the terror and galvanized him into action. But he’d had to leave Catherine to chase after her. And he hadn’t been finished.
The woman had no right to be there. She’d interfered with his pleasure.
Fury erupted again, burning through his veins, and the glass in his hand shattered. As blood oozed from his finger, his throat tightened and his mind emptied. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Dread sank rusty claws into his stomach.
No! No! He was frightened of no one. Unfisting his hand, he let the shards of glass drop to the carpet. Then he grabbed his handkerchief and pressed it to the small cut. Breathing deeply, he reached for control. How could the woman have known that Catherine Eddowes was in the square? His research had been meticulous. Catherine had no friends, no one to come looking for her.
Unless the woman had come from the future. Was that why she’d disappeared so completely? He’d been reaching out, his fingers inches from her shoulder, but they’d closed on nothing but air. Had she shot forward into her own time?
Possibly.
Calmer now, he poured cognac into a new glass and sipped. Too bad he hadn’t gotten a better look at her. The mist had been too thick. It always was in London, which was why he’d chosen that city for some of his best work. One way or another, he would solve the mystery. And when his path crossed hers again he would eliminate her. Problem solved.
THE MOMENT NEELY saw the man sitting on the stoop across the street, her knees went weak. It was him—the stranger who’d been in her bookstore that afternoon. She’d been trying for some time to drift into sleep, but she’d been too keyed up. She’d come to the window to close the drapes. And there he was.
He sat partially in shadow on the front steps of the brownstone directly across from Bookends. He rested the upper part of his body against the iron railing, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. But it was definitely him. She felt it in every pore of her body. A flood of emotions moved through her—anticipation, excitement and a primitive desire—the same ones she’d experienced when he’d almost kissed her.
As if suddenly sensing her, he leaned forward, and when he glanced up at her, she felt the impact of his eyes clear down to her toes. For a moment, she froze. She couldn’t even think because he was in her mind. In that instant, it was as if they were one. And an image filled her mind of the two of them locked together, their bodies moving as one. She could feel him inside her, filling her. Pleasure speared through Neely, so acute that she had to grab the drapes to remain upright.
How could this be happening? Who was he? And why was he there on that stoop looking up at her window? The need to find out was so strong, so urgent that without another thought, she whirled from the window, ran toward the door and down the stairs. Disengaging the alarm delayed her a precious minute, but finally she was on her stoop.
He was gone.
She ran to the sidewalk and peered up and down the street, but there was no sign of the man who’d been sitting across from her building only moments before.
A chill prickled her skin as reality surfaced. She was standing alone on the sidewalk, her front door wide open, and there was a killer who preyed on women loose in her city. She patted her pocket, reassuring herself that she had her pepper spray with her. But there was no reason to tempt fate. Turning on her heel, she raced back up the steps. Then she paused and glanced once more down the block in the direction of the small gated park.
That’s where he was. She could feel him—almost the same way she’d felt that man in Mitre Square last night. This time the sensation was more intense, and this was a different man.
How did she know that?
Rattled now, she ran into the house, slammed the door and reset the alarm.
MAX STOOD, invisible now, just inside the gate of the small park. He’d cursed himself the moment that Neely turned away from the window. She was coming. He’d read the intention in her mind as clearly as he’d felt for one instant her body beneath his, arching up to meet his thrusts. He’d felt her gripping him in a hot, wet sheath, and the pleasure had been so intense, his need so acute that for a moment he hadn’t been able to move.
When he’d broken free from the hold she seemed to have on his mind, he’d leaped off the stoop and run toward the park three houses down. And finally—too late—he’d made himself invisible. Clairvoyance was not one of his stronger psychic gifts, but there were some things he just knew, and that talent had saved his life on more than one occasion. In this case, what he knew was that he and Neely were going to make love in spite of likely repercussions.
She shouldn’t have seen him. He’d been so focused on her presence in the room above the bookstore that he’d neglected to make himself invisible. Shakespeare’s Romeo had the excuse of adolescence and rampant hormones. Max Gale could lay claim to neither of those. It was his fault that she’d run so recklessly into the street.
Worried, Max moved to the wrought-iron gate and stepped through it. He froze when she glanced in his direction. She couldn’t see him now, but he still felt her eyes on him. They had some kind of mental connection—an intimate one. For an instant, she had been in his mind and he’d been in hers. And he’d been inside of her. The sensations in his body had been very real.
No one in this time period was supposed to be that open to mind links. Sure, there were recorded cases of individuals with advanced psychic powers. But Neely Rafferty wasn’t one of those cases. He’d checked. Nor was there any documentation that anyone in her family possessed psychic abilities.
Confident that she couldn’t see him even if she looked out the window, he moved back to the stoop across from Bookends. Of course, anomalies occurred, but they were extremely rare. Still, he knew what he’d experienced. Even now, he felt a connection with her. The adrenaline rush she’d experienced when she’d dashed into the street was taking its toll. She was drifting into sleep. And he needed some himself. Climbing the stoop, he stretched out his legs, leaned his shoulders against the railing and closed his eyes.
Max was halfway between waking and sleeping when he felt the sudden pull. He had no time to react, no time to block the power of it. Without conscious volition, his body went weightless, his sight grayed, and he was sucked into a whirlpool of inky blackness.
WHEN NEELY OPENED her eyes, she was totally surrounded by fog so thick that she could barely make out the street lamp. She moved closer until she could read the street sign. Buck’s Row. A thrill moved through her. She was just where she wanted to be. The body of Mary Ann Nichols had been discovered right down this street. Then she heard the footsteps. Pressing a hand against her heart, she peered down the fog-shrouded street. Nothing. The footsteps grew louder, then paused. She backed against a hedge and waited. He was standing beneath the street lamp. She knew it even though she couldn’t see him.
The footsteps sounded again and halted just a few feet away from her.
“Who are you?”
At the sound of his deep voice, dread blocked her throat. He was so close now that she could hear his breath heaving. The murky haze cleared a little—she saw no one. But he was there. She felt his eyes on her, and she knew suddenly that this was the same man who’d chased her in Mitre Square. Was it Jack the Ripper?
Terror spiked through her. She should run, scream, imagine herself back in her bedroom. Something. Then she remembered the pepper spray. Slipping her hand into her pocket, she closed her fingers around it. Something brushed along her cheek—cold metal. She sensed the white-hot, blinding violence in him.
The muscles in her stomach clenched. Fear iced her veins, but she yanked out the pepper spray and shot it straight ahead in an upward direction. There was a sharp, guttural cry and footsteps stumbling away from her. Then silence.
He was gone.
Relief struck her like a sharp blow. The first thing she did was breathe. The oxygen burned her lungs. But she didn’t move, and she focused on the spot in front of her where he’d been only moments before. He could come back.
As seconds ticked by and he didn’t return, she straightened her shoulders and stepped away from the hedge. For a moment, she thought of going back home. But she’d come here to see if she could save one of the Ripper’s victims. She had a sickening feeling that she might be too late. He had come from Buck’s Row. Keeping a firm grip on the can of pepper spray, she started down the street. Mary Ann Nichols’s body had been found in front of a stable gate. Neely could picture it in her mind. Fifty feet ahead, she made out the soft light of another street lamp. The fog was so thick now that when she stretched her hands out in front of her she could barely see her fingers. She sensed when she’d reached the gate because she smelled horses…and something else. The same scent that she’d noticed in Mitre Square. Blood. Neely’s heart stuttered, then raced.
When the fog shifted, she saw him.
He was bending over the body of a woman. She lay spread-eagled on her back in front of the gate that Neely had burned into her memory. There was a wide gash at the woman’s throat. Blood covered her face and matted her hair. Neely bit her bottom lip and held back a scream. She was too late to save Mary Ann Nichols, and she had to run before the Ripper saw her.
He glanced up, and recognition streamed through her. It was him—the man from the stoop. Her breath trembled when he rose. She should run, but she couldn’t seem to move. The pepper spray was still clenched in her hand but she couldn’t raise her arm. As he moved toward her, his shoulders blocked her view of the woman.
What was he doing here? He wasn’t the Ripper—she was almost sure of it. He held none of that blinding violence she’d sensed in the man she’d shot with the pepper spray. But what was this stranger doing standing over the body?
Stop asking questions, her brain shouted. Run. But she couldn’t seem to pull herself loose from his eyes. They were so dark. So intense. And all the while, he moved toward her, slowly, purposefully, the way a man might approach a skittish horse. Or a woman he intended to kill.
“Easy, girl.”
She could have sworn she heard the words. But his lips hadn’t moved. Still frozen, she was acutely aware of the way her pulse hammered at her throat, her wrists, her breast. He was inches away from her, and she was still paralyzed.
His fingers closed around her upper arm like steel bands, “C’mon, we have to get out of here.” His voice was deep, unaccented, and there was no trace of emotion as he drew her with him down the street in the direction she’d come from.
Finally, she found her voice. “We can’t just leave her there.”
“She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.”
Neely dug in her heels, but she didn’t slow him down a bit. “Did you kill her?”
He sent her a quick glance. “No. From the looks of her she’s one of the Ripper’s victims.”
“How do I know you’re not the Ripper?”
He stopped and turned to her. “Here’s a clue. If I were the Ripper, you’d be dead.”
Her throat went dry. There was something—a trace of annoyance—in his tone now. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she could feel his gaze on her, and she was very much aware of the hand that gripped her arm so tightly. She felt the press of each one of his fingers like a brand. “Who are you then? Why were you in my bookstore this afternoon? Why were you on the stoop across from my store? And how did you get here?”
“You brought me here, sweetheart. And you’re going to tell me how.”
“First, I want to know who you are.”
Max glared down at her as temper and something more dangerous burned through his system. He surprised them both by jerking her close. Then he did what he’d wanted to do earlier in the bookstore. What he’d known he was going to do. He clamped his mouth down on hers. It was a mistake—one he regretted the moment he tasted her.
Why did she have to taste so sweet? Her flavor reminded him of some wild, rare honey that he’d sampled in an ancient time. He had to have more. When she parted her lips, he dived in. The low sound of approval that vibrated in her throat had his blood racing like a river pouring over rapids. He dragged her closer until they formed one figure on the cobblestone street.
She should pull away. It was the only coherent thought that tumbled into Neely’s mind. But she couldn’t seem to gather the will. He was angry. She could taste the tartness of it on his tongue, feel it in the roughness of his palm as it lay on the side of her face and in the fingers that burned at the back of her neck. And still she wanted more.
As if he’d read her mind, he urged her back a few steps until a brick wall pressed against her shoulders. She molded herself against that strong, hard body, nearly cried out from pleasure when that bold hand stroked down her, claiming, possessing. When he gripped the back of her knee, drawing her thigh up, she wrapped her legs and arms around him, scooting up until they were together, center to center. Heat shot through her, melting muscles and bone. Still she had to have more.
He nipped at her bottom lip and deepened the kiss. It was no longer anger that she tasted, but a dark, desperate hunger. His? Hers? In another moment, he was going to take her against that brick wall. They would take each other. She could picture it so vividly in her mind, wanted it so desperately. His fingers had already slipped beneath the waistband of her jeans. The image of what they would do filled her mind so completely that the sound of the whistles barely registered. What she was aware of was that the stranger’s hands had suddenly stilled.
This time she heard the whistles. Three of them. Footsteps pounded on the cobblestones.
Neely cried out softly when he broke off the kiss and set her away from him. She leaned against the brick wall for support as he looked back in the direction they’d come from.
“Sounds like someone’s discovered the body.” Gripping her arm, he pulled her forward. “We’d better get out of here.”
We? Even with her mind still spinning, Neely didn’t think so. She had to get away from him. This was a man she didn’t even know, and they’d nearly had sex against a wall in an alley.
Desperately, she pushed the image out of her mind and concentrated on her options. He was bigger, stronger, and even if she could pull free, he could probably run faster. So…
Suddenly, she knew just how to do it. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? Closing her eyes, she conjured up the items in her bedroom—the four-poster bed, the intricately patterned quilt, the Tiffany lamp with its rosy glow. Her body went suddenly light and she let herself be pulled into the whirling darkness.
4
May 16, 2008
Manhattan
WHEN HE SURFACED, Max found himself lying in a bed with Neely Rafferty. Correction. He was lying on top of Neely Rafferty. They were positioned in a way that mirrored the image that had filled his mind when he’d been on the stoop. The major difference being that they were fully clothed. Thank God for small favors. And it was a very small one, considering he couldn’t seem to find the will to move. And he very much wanted to kiss her again. He badly wanted to finish what they’d started in that alley.
But first, he needed answers. A lot of them. Still, he couldn’t seem to make his body follow the orders his brain was sending out. Okay. For the time being, he’d stay where he was and use his position as an intimidation factor. Her eyes were open and on his. She looked a bit stunned, as if she was still trying to orient herself. He could understand that. He was badly in need of a little orientation, too. Who in hell was she? Obviously not the simple bookseller his research had revealed. Among other things, Neely Rafferty was a psychic time traveler.
And that wasn’t the only psychic power she possessed. Not only had she transported herself, but she’d dragged him with her as if he were a marionette and she held the strings. No one had ever done that to him before, and he was going to find out just how she’d accomplished it.
When she began to wiggle beneath him and arousal shot through him, Max dispensed with his intimidation plan and scraped up the will to shift off of her.
“Who the hell are you?” They spoke the question in unison. Nearly. Max noted that she’d left off the “hell.”
“Get out of my bed,” she added. As an extra incentive, she pulled something out of her pocket. Max grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the pillow above her head. Then he placed one leg over both of hers to keep her still. The good news was she hadn’t shot him with whatever was in that small metal container. The bad news was their faces were close now—so close that their lips were almost brushing.
Time spun out. There was no other sound in the room but their steady breathing. Max knew he should move. He had to move. Once more his brain gave the command to his body, but sensations battered him so fiercely that he was trapped. There was the fast, hard beat of her pulse against his fingers. And there were her eyes. His gaze lingered on them and once again it wasn’t surrender he saw, but a raw desire that matched his own. He shifted his attention to her mouth. Her lips were moist, parted. Needs thundered through him, and it took every bit of self-restraint he possessed not to close the small distance and devour. It was what he wanted, what he’d wanted from the first time he’d seen her.
Questions whirled through his mind. He wasn’t sure whose they were—his, hers? Who are you? Where are you from? But the words they both spoke aloud were, “I want you.”
He felt the shudder move through her, then him. Then came the heat and he felt the last thin grasp he had on reason slip away. This time when their mouths joined, jolts of pleasure sparked through his system with the jagged, pulsing impact of an electric current. Later, he’d try to figure out who made that final move, but as her mouth heated beneath his and he once more sampled her honey-sweet flavor, he didn’t much care. Wasn’t this what he was sure they were headed for? Wasn’t this what he’d known he’d take from the first time he’d seen her picture?
More.
NEELY FELT as if she were drowning in sensations. She couldn’t think. She could only feel. His mouth was hard and hot, just as it had been before. As he used teeth and tongue to deepen the kiss, his taste, dark and male, pumped into her like a drug and only intensified the aching greed that threatened to consume her.
More.
As if sensing her wish, his body covered hers again. Heat arrowed through her, and her body arched. Though they were both fully clothed, she felt the sensation of skin rubbing against skin. And she felt the calluses on his palm as he pressed it against her breast. Then he ran that wonderfully rough hand down her body from breast to thigh. Once more she absorbed the contact as if she were naked, and she felt the heat of his wide hand on her leg like a brand. When he slipped two fingers between her legs and pressed them against her center, a jolt of pleasure shot through her. More.
He began to stroke her.
Gently. Too gently.
He increased both the pressure and the pace.
In some part of her brain, Neely sensed that he could read her mind. No, more than that, he was in her mind, registering each of her desires, and giving her just what she craved. She knew she was still fully clothed, and so was he, but she felt the moist heat of his tongue circling her nipple. And his thumb as it stroked down her fold, separating her. Then he slipped two fingers into her.
She felt the shock of the penetration and need slammed into her like a fist. She arched upward, straining for release, crying out when he withdrew his fingers. “Don’t stop.”
“This time I won’t.” He slipped between her legs. She felt his thighs spread hers apart. He thrust into her in one smooth stroke. She surrounded him, gripped him, absorbed him. The pressure was huge, and the pleasure teetered on the edge of pain. For one timeless moment neither of them moved.
Look at me.
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Cara Summers
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: To boldly go where no woman has gone before. . .It′s not a story from one of the novels on her bookstore shelves–Neely Rafferty′s vivid dreams of traveling back to the time of Jack the Ripper are actually real. And so is the sexy cop who′s time-shifting right along with her.Max Gale has come from 2128 to 2008 to make sure Neely doesn′t alter the past. But their intense psychic connection and hot sexual escapades surpass all temporal bounds. She′s taking him for a ride through the ages! And he′s not sure he′ll be able to go back to the future–or if he even wants to!