Time Was Page 8

  He liked the sound of it, the way she said it. “What’s it about?”

  “Come on, Hornblower, everyone knows what it’s about.”

  “I missed it.” He gave her a quick, guileless-smile that no woman should have trusted. “I must have been busy when it came out.”

  She laughed again, with a quick shake of her head, a brightening of her eyes. “Sure. Both of us must have had pretty full schedules in the forties.”

  He let that pass. “What was the story?” He didn’t care about the plot. He only wanted to hear her talk, to watch her as she did.

  To humor him, and because it was easy to sit by the water and daydream, she began. He listened, enjoying the way she told the tale of lost love, heroism and sacrifice. Even more, he enjoyed the way she gestured with her hands, the way her voice ebbed and flowed with her feelings. And the way her eyes mirrored them, darkening, softening, when she spoke of lovers reunited, then pulled apart, by destiny.

  “No happy ending,” Cal murmured.

  “No, but I always felt that Rick found her again, years later, after the war.”

  “Why?”

  She had settled back, pillowing her head on her folded arms. “Because they belonged together. When people do, they find each other, no matter what.” She was smiling when she turned her head, but the smile faded slowly when she saw the way he was looking at her. As if they were alone, she thought. Not just alone in the mountains, but totally, completely alone, as Adam and Eve had been.

  She yearned. For the first time in her life, she yearned—body, mind and heart.

  “Don’t.” He said the word quietly as she started to scramble to her feet. The lightest touch of his hand on her shoulder kept her still. “I wish you weren’t afraid of me.”

  “I’m not.” But she was breathless, as if she’d already been running.

  “Of what, then?”

  “Of nothing.” His voice could be so gentle, she thought. So terrifyingly gentle.

  “But you’re tense.” With his long, limber fingers, he began to rub at the tight muscles of her shoulders. He shifted, and his lips skimmed over her temple, as cool and stirring as the breeze. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  “Of this.” She lifted her hands to push against his chest. “I don’t know how to fight what I’m feeling.”

  “Why do you have to?” He skimmed a hand down the side of her body, astonished by the grinding need in his own.

  “It’s too soon.” But she was no longer pushing him away. Her resolve was melting in a flood of hot, hammering need.

  “Soon?” His laugh was strained as he buried his face against her throat. “It’s already been centuries.”

  “Caleb, please.” There was an urgency in her voice, a plea that was at once weak and unarguable. He knew as he felt her body vibrate beneath his that he could have her. Just as he knew as he looked down at the clouded confusion in her eyes that once he had she might not forgive him.

  Need jerked inside him. It was a new and frustrating sensation. He rolled to one side and stood, and with his back to her he watched the water ripple.

  “Do you drive all men crazy?”

  She brought her knees up tight against her breasts. “No, of course not.”

  “Then I’m just lucky, I guess.” He lifted his eyes to the sky. He wanted to be back there, spearing through space. Alone. Free. He heard the grass rustle as she stood and wondered if he would ever truly be free again. “I want you, Libby.”

  She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. No man had ever said those three simple words to her before. If thousands had, it wouldn’t have mattered. No one would ever have spoken them in just that way.

  Pushed to the brink by her silence, he whirled around. He wasn’t her amiable, slightly odd patient now, but a furious, healthy and obviously dangerous man.

  “Damn it, Libby, am I supposed to say nothing, to feel nothing? Are those the rules here? Well, the hell with it. I want you, and if I stay near you much longer, I’m going to have you.”

  “Have me?” She’d been certain her system was too weak and warm for anger. But it filled her with a flash that had her body straightening like an arrow. “What? Like a shiny car on a showroom floor? You can want anything you like, Cal, but when those wants concern me I’ve got some say in it.”

  She was magnificent . . . unbearably vivid, with fury in her eyes and flowers clinging to her hair. He would remember her like this, always. He knew it, and he knew the memory would be bittersweet, and yet his temper pushed him forward.

  “You can have all the say you like.” Taking both her arms, he pulled her against him. “But I’ll have something before I go.”

  This time she struggled. It was pride, pride and anger, that had her jerking free. Then his arms came around her, twin vises that clamped her body unerringly to his. She would have sworn at him, but his mouth closed hard over hers.

  It was nothing like the first time. Then he had seduced, persuaded, tempted. Now he possessed, not as if he had the right, but simply taking it. Her muffled protest went unheeded, her struggles ignored. Panic skidded up her spine, then slid down again, overwhelmed by pure desire.

  She didn’t want to be forced. She didn’t want to be left without choice. That was her mind talking. It was right; it was reasonable. But her body leaped forward, leaving intellect far behind. She reveled in the strength, in the tension, even in the temper. She met power with power.

  She came alive in his arms, making him forget who and why and where. When he could taste her, hot and potent on his lips, no other world, no other time, existed. For him it was as new, as exciting, as frightening as it was for her. Irresistible. The thought didn’t come to him. No thought could. But she was as irresistible as the gravity that held their feet on the ground, as compelling as the need that sent their pulses racing.

  He dragged her head back and plunged into the velvet moistness of her waiting mouth.

  The world was spinning. With a moan, she ran her hands up his back, until she was clinging desperately to his shoulders. She wanted it to go on spinning, whirling madly, until she was dizzy and breathless and limp. She could hear the murmur of the water, the whisper of the breeze through the pines. There was a strong shaft of sunlight on her back. She knew that in reality her feet were still on solid ground. But the world was spinning.

  And she was in love.

  The sound that came from deep in her throat was one of surrender. To him. To herself.

  He murmured her name. A searing ache arrowed through him as desire veered painfully toward a new, uncharted emotion. The hand that had been roaming through her hair clenched reflexively. He felt the petals of a flower crush. The scent, sweet and dying, rose on the air.

  He jerked away, appalled. The flower was in his hand, fragile and mangled. His gaze was drawn to her lips, still warm and swollen from his. His muscles trembled. A wave of self-disgust rose up inside him. Never, never had he forced himself on a woman. The idea itself was abhorrent to him, the most shameful of sins. The reality was unforgivable—most unforgivable because she mattered as no one else ever had.

  “Did I hurt you?” he managed.

  Libby shook her head quickly, too quickly. Hurt? she thought. That was nothing. Devastated. With one kiss he had devastated her, showed her that her will could be crumbled and her heart lost.

  He wouldn’t apologize. Cal turned away until he was certain he was under control enough to speak rationally. But he would not apologize for wanting, or for taking. He would have nothing else of her when he left.

  “I can’t promise that won’t happen again, but I’ll do my best to see that it doesn’t. You should go back inside now.”

  And that was all? Libby wondered. After he had stripped her emotions to the bone he could calmly tell her to go back inside? She opened her mouth to protest, and
she nearly took a step toward him before she stopped herself.

  He was right, of course. What had happened should never happen again. They were strangers, whatever her heart told her to the contrary. Without a word, she turned and left him alone by the creek.

  Later, when the sun and shadows had shifted, he opened his hand to let the wounded flower fall into the water. He watched it drift away.

  Chapter 5

  She couldn’t concentrate. Libby stared at her computer screen, trying to work up some interest in the words she’d already written. The Kolbari Islanders and their traditional moon dance no longer fascinated her. She’d been certain work was the answer—an immersion in it. No one had ever distracted her from her studies before. In college she’d completed a thesis while her roommates threw an open-door pizza party. That single-minded concentration had followed her into her professional life. She’d written papers in tents by lamplight, read notes on the back of a jogging mule and prepared lectures in the jungle. Once a project was begun, nothing broke the flow.

  As she read a single paragraph through for the third time, all she could think of was Cal.

  It was a pity she hadn’t had a greater interest in chemistry, she thought, pulling off her glasses to rub at her eyes. If she had, perhaps she would understand more clearly her reaction to him. Surely there was a book somewhere that would give her the information so that she could analyze it. She didn’t want to feel without being able to list logical reasons why. Daydreaming about love and romance was one thing. Experiencing it was something else altogether.

  This wasn’t like her.

  With a long sigh, she pushed away from the desk and folded her legs under her. Her eyes still on the screen, she propped her elbows on her knees and braced her chin on her fisted hands. She wasn’t in love, she told herself. It had been a knee-jerk reaction to the intensity of the moment. People didn’t really fall in love that quickly. They could be attracted, of course, even strongly attracted. For love, though, other factors had to be mixed in.

  Common ground and common interests, Libby decided. That made good, solid sense to her. How could she be in love with Cal when the only interest he had that she knew about was flying? And eating, she added with a reluctant smile.

  An understanding of each other’s feelings, goals, temperaments. Surely that was vital to love. How could she be in love when she didn’t understand Caleb Hornblower in the least? His feelings were a mystery to her, his goals had never been discussed, and his temperament seemed to change by the hour.

  He was troubled. A frown brought her brows together when she thought of the look that she so often saw in his eyes. Sometimes he made her think of a man who had taken a wrong turn on the freeway and ended up in a strange, foreign land.

  Troubled, yes, but he was also just plain trouble, she reminded herself, trying to keep her compassion from outweighing her common sense. His personality was too strong, his charm too smooth, his confidence too high. She didn’t have room in her neatly ordered life for a man like Cal. He would, simply by existing, cause chaos.

  She heard him come in the kitchen door, and her body braced automatically. Just as her pulse speeded up and her blood ran faster. Automatically.

  Disgusted with herself, she scooted her chair back to her desk. She was going to work. In fact, she was going to work straight through to midnight, and she wasn’t going to give Cal another thought. She caught herself gnawing on her thumbnail again.

  “Damn it, who is Caleb Hornblower?”

  The last thing she’d expected from her muttered question was an answer. The tinny, disembodied voice had her jolting. She grabbed the edge of her desk to keep from spilling out of her chair, then stared, openmouthed, at her computer screen.

  Hornblower, Caleb, Captain ISF, retired.

  “Oh, my God.” With a hand to her throat, she shook her head. “Now just hold on,” she whispered.

  Holding.

  It wasn’t possible, Libby told herself as she pressed an unsteady hand to her mouth. She had to be hallucinating. That was it. Emotional stress, overwork and the lack of a good night’s sleep were causing her to hallucinate. Closing her eyes, she took three deep breaths. But when she opened them again, the words were still on the screen.

  “What the devil is going on here?”

  Information requested and relayed. Is additional data required?

  With an unsteady hand, she pushed aside some of the papers on her desk and uncovered Cal’s watch. She would have sworn the voice she had heard had come from it. No, it just wasn’t possible. Using a fingertip, she traced a thread-slim transparent wire that ran from his watch to the computer’s drive.

  “What kind of game is he playing?”

  Five hundred twenty games are available on this unit. Which would you prefer?

  “Libby?” Caleb stood just inside the doorway, thinking fast. There was no use berating himself for being careless. In fact, he wondered if subconsciously he’d wanted to put himself in a position where he would be forced to tell her the truth. But now, when she turned, he wasn’t certain that would be good for either of them. She wasn’t just frightened, she was furious.

  “All right, Hornblower, I want you to tell me exactly what’s going on here.”

  He tried an easy, cooperative smile. “Where?”

  “Right here, damn it.” She jabbed a finger at the machine.

  “You’d know more about that than I would. It’s your work.”

  “I want an explanation, and I want it now.”

  He crossed to her. A quick scan of the screen had a smile tugging at his mouth. So she’d wanted to know who he was. There was some comfort in knowing she was as confused by him as he was by her—and as interested.

  “No, you don’t.”

  He said it quietly, and he would have taken her hand if she hadn’t batted his away.

  “I not only want one, I insist on one. You . . . you . . .” On a sound of frustration, she took another breath. He wasn’t going to make her stutter. “You come in here and plug your watch into my machine, and—”

  “Interface,” he said. “If you’re going to work on a computer, you should know the language.”

  She snapped her teeth together. “Suppose you tell me how you can interface a watch with a PC.”

  “A what?”

  She couldn’t prevent the smirk. “Personal computer. You’d better brush up on the language yourself. Now—answers.”

  He put a hand on each of her shoulders. “You’d never believe me.”

  “You’d better make me believe. Is that watch some kind of miniature computer?”

  “Yes.” He started to reach for it, but she slapped a hand down on his wrist.

  “Leave it. I’ve never heard of any miniature computer that answers voice commands, interfaces with a PC and claims to play over five hundred games.”

  “No.” He looked down at her angry eyes. “You wouldn’t have.”

  “Why don’t you tell me how to get one, Hornblower? I’ll buy my father one for Christmas.”

  Pure good humor tilted the corner of his mouth. “Actually, I don’t think that model’s going to be on the market for a little while yet. Can I interest you in something else?”

  She kept her eyes level with his. “You can interest me in the truth.”

  Stalling seemed to be the best approach. He turned her hand over and linked his fingers with hers. “The whole truth, or the simple parts?”

  “Are you a spy?”

  The last thing she’d expected was laughter. After his first chuckle it rolled out of him, warm and delighted. He kissed her, once on each cheek, before she could stop him.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” She wiggled out of his hold. “Are you an agent?”

  “What makes you think so?”

 
“A wild guess,” she said, throwing up her hands and spinning around the room. “You crash down in the middle of a storm no sensible person would have been driving in, much less flying. You have no ID. You claim you’re not in the military, but you were wearing some kind of weird uniform. Your shoes were nearly falling apart, but you have a watch that makes a Rolex look like a Tinkertoy. A watch that talks back.” Even as she said it, it seemed so preposterous that she looked at the screen to make certain she hadn’t imagined it all. “Look, I know intelligence agencies have some pretty advanced equipment. It might not be James Bond, but—”

  “Who’s James Bond?” Cal asked.

  Bond, James. Code name 007. Fictional character created by twentieth-century writer Ian Fleming. Novels include—

  “Disengage,” Cal ordered, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair. One look at Libby’s face told him he was in deep. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  With a weak nod, she sat on the edge of the bed.

  Though it was a bit late for precautions, Cal unhooked the wire and slipped it and his unit into his pocket. “You want an explanation.”

  She wasn’t so sure anymore. Calling herself a coward, she gave a quick, jerky nod. “Yes.”

  “Okay, but you’re not going to like it.” He sat in her chair and crossed his ankles. “I was making a routine run from the Brigston colony.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Brigston colony,” Cal repeated. Then he took the plunge. “On Mars.”

  Libby closed her eyes and rubbed a hand over her face. “Give me a break, Hornblower.”

  “I told you you wouldn’t like it.”

  “You want me to believe you’re a Martian.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She dropped her hand into her lap. “I’m ridiculous? You sit there and try to feed me some story about coming from Mars and I’m ridiculous?” For lack of anything better to do, she tossed a pillow across the room, then rose and began to pace. “Look, it’s not as though I’m prying into your personal life, or even that I expect some kind of humble gratitude for dragging you in out of that storm, but I think some mutual respect is in order here. You’re in my home, Hornblower, and I deserve the truth.”