It's About Time Read online

  “How could I resist fresh strawberry shortcake?”

  “Enjoy your evening, m’dears.” Emma moved away and Tory sighed with relief, knowing the woman made her nervous but not understanding why.

  Rank took another swallow of coffee. “I have a request to make of you. It’s very—” His mind went totally blank. Where had his thought gone?

  He forgot his vanished question as the waiter placed a dish, heaped with strawberries, cake and mounds of whipped cream, in front of him. He took a large bite and his expression dissolved into a look of pure pleasure.

  Whipped cream melted on his tongue and the flavor of strawberries burst upon his palate. “Are you sure you won’t try this?”

  “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  He dug into the rich dessert once more, but his appetite inexplicably disappeared. He set down his spoon and shoved the dish aside.

  Across the table, Victoria’s eyes shimmered like a cloudless sky, her shoulders glowed with the creamy translucence of magnolia blossoms, her scent teased his nostrils.

  “The evening’s too beautiful to waste.” He pushed back his chair. “Let’s take a walk in the moonlight.”

  When she stood, he draped her shawl around her shoulders, fighting the urge to enfold her in his arms.

  “A wonderful idea.” Her voice, low and melodious, caressed him like a song.

  He drew her arm through his and led her down the terrace steps to the drive that circled the hotel. The southern breeze, warm and scented with citrus blossoms, lifted tendrils of her hair off her forehead. When they reached the shadows beneath a towering pine, he pulled her into his arms. The heat of her body pulsed beneath his fingertips, causing a responding flare deep within him.

  “Victoria...”

  He felt her stiffen beneath his touch and a corresponding chill filled the breeze. Her eyes, staring wildly at a point past his shoulder, refused to meet his. He pivoted, forcing her behind him, between him and whatever had frightened her.

  Glowing with a strange light in the deep shadows, Angelina Fairchild approached, her turquoise gown and midnight black curls whipping frantically in the suddenly still air.

  He heard the sharp intake of her breath as she raised the back of one hand to her lips.

  “You!” she gasped. And vanished in the night air.

  Chapter Five

  A cloud trailed across the moon, casting a deeper pall to the shadows. Then the plaintive call of a whippoorwill and the scurrying of dry leaves across the drive broke the eerie silence Angelina had left in her wake.

  Tory clasped Rand’s arm for support, afraid her trembling knees would buckle on her. “Did you see her?”

  Even in the deep shadows, his face paled visibly beneath his tan as he turned to her and pulled her shuddering body against the hard muscles of his chest.

  “I saw.”

  He held her close and the steady beat of his heart beneath his smooth linen shirt, pulsating against her cheek, reassured her. She snuggled deeper into his embrace, savoring the confidence his nearness created, the rightness of his arms around her.

  After a few minutes, she pulled away, disconcerted by her response to him, smoothing her tousled hair from her face. She tugged her shawl tightly around her, unable to shake the cold Angelina’s presence had driven to her body’s core.

  “Let’s go inside.” Her voice wavered, echoing her inner turmoil.

  Rand grasped her elbow, and they plodded silently to their room. The moon shone dully, and the magic had disappeared from the night.

  * * *

  IN THEIR SUITE, Rand sat on the sofa, staring into nothingness. He’d removed his coat and tie and loosened the top button of his shirt. His face, void of expression, settled into stern lines.

  Plunging his hand into his pocket, he withdrew it empty. “I forgot about my watch. What time is it?”

  She glanced at the digital clock beside her bed. “After eleven.”

  He groaned. “Too late for room service, and I could really use a drink.”

  Tory opened the door of the minibar beside the dresser. “Name your poison.”

  “Scotch.” He raked long fingers through his thick hair, then accepted the glass of Chivas Regal with a mumbled thanks. Tipping back the glass, he downed the liquor in a gulp.

  “What’s going on around here?” His hand trembled slightly as he lowered the glass to the coffee table.

  Sitting in the chair across from him with her feet tucked beneath her, she remembered Angelina’s hand on Rand’s arm in the picture in the west hallway. “You tell me.”

  His brows arched questioningly.

  “You’re the one who appeared in my room after my first encounter with Angelina. You’re the one she recognized tonight. So what gives?”

  He flung his arms wide along the back of the sofa, leaned his head on the backrest and stared at the ceiling. “I have no idea. I wouldn’t be surprised right now to see pigs fly.”

  Exhaustion seeped from her every pore. The past twenty-four hours had been an emotional roller coaster ride from terror to pleasure and excitement, then back to terror again,. Her body cried out for sleep, but her mind wouldn’t rest until she had some answers. “Are you the man Angelina is looking for?”

  With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. Whatever the day had been for her, she knew he’d been through worse.

  “Am I the lover with whom she quarreled? No. Did she recognize me? Of course. The hotel was a third this size—yesterday.” He grimaced at the irony of the word. “All the guests were acquainted with one another.”

  “Emma said Angelina appears only to brides here. But Jill didn’t see her. She would have told me. And now Angelina’s approached me twice. I don’t get it.”

  Her weariness mirrored his own. He dragged himself from the sofa’s depths, then lifted her by her elbows to her feet. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you retire now? We can sort this out in the morning.”

  She nodded in agreement. Groggy with fatigue, she wandered into the bathroom, stripped off her dress and stockings, tugged on a warm gown and fleecy robe and thrust her feet into fuzzy slippers.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, Rand gathered her in his arms. She sagged for a moment against him, wanting to take comfort again in his embrace but knowing it wasn’t a good idea. She drew away, tilting her face toward him, smiling to ease her rebuff.

  “Thank you for the lovely dinner. I’m sorry Angelina spoiled its ending.”

  He lifted a honeyed curl off her forehead and brushed her smooth skin with his lips. The taste of her sent a river of fire coursing through his veins and he had to rally all his better instincts to keep from crushing her to him.

  Of all that had happened to him, the surge of unfamiliar tenderness the woman caused in him was the strangest occurrence of all.

  With reluctance, he stepped away. “Sleep well, Victoria.”

  She smiled at him. “I don’t know if I can, after all that’s happened.”

  But when he came out of the bathroom after changing into his nightclothes, she lay fast asleep in the middle of the large double bed.

  She had unfolded the sofa and turned down the covers for him. Rand slipped between the sheets, fearing, for all his exhaustion, sleep would elude him. But the steady, even whisper of Victoria’s breathing soon lulled him into slumber.

  * * *

  A MOCKINGBIRD warbled a small symphony in the cypress tree outside her window. Tory turned onto her stomach and dragged a pillow over her head to block the brilliant sun, thankful she didn’t have to report to the office.

  The office!

  She bolted upright and threw back the covers, reaching for her robe. She had assured Kristin she’d sign Rand as spokesperson for the project, but she’d totally forgotten the Money Man campaign while she was with him last night. What was the matter with her?

  She stopped short at the sight of Rand, sleeping soundly, sprawled across the sofa bed with the covers kicked down a
round his ankles. He wore only the bottom of a pair of midnight blue silk pajamas and the sight of his bare, muscled torso squeezed the air from her lungs.

  She congratulated herself at the picture he presented. Her idea had been nothing short of brilliant. If every woman who viewed a Money Man ad featuring Randolph Trent had the same reaction as hers, Benson, Jurgen and Ives would be beating off female investors with a stick, and Caswell & Associates would cement its status as the most successful advertising agency in the Southeast.

  Rand rolled onto his back, brushing a shock of hazel hair off his face. When he opened his eyes and saw her, he smiled languidly, sending waves of heat washing over her, accompanied by an affection that brought a tightness to her chest.

  “Good morning.” His pleasing baritone strummed every nerve in her body, and the sensation alarmed her.

  “Did you sleep all right on that thing?” She nodded toward the sofa bed.

  “As if I’d been drugged.” He sat on its edge and stretched, sending intoxicating ripples across his chest and down his biceps.

  She pulled her gaze away. She’d have to be careful, working with such a gorgeous guy. Falling in love would add unwanted complications to her life.

  She had to find a way to douse the heat he ignited in her. “I’m going for a swim. Want to come?”

  * * *

  SHE DIVED into the large pool of the indoor spa and began swimming laps. She’d logged only two lengths before Rand, dressed in the Speedo bikini the spa attendant had provided, plunged in beside her. So much for taking her mind off his handsome physique. His abbreviated suit molded around his groin and buttocks like plastic wrap, leaving nothing to her imagination, which proceeded to run amok at the sight.

  She plunged her face into the cool water, churning its surface with a determined breaststroke. She had to get a grip. The man was business, nothing more.

  After her requisite number of laps, she levered herself onto the side of the pool and wrapped herself in a giant towel. Reclining in a folding chair beneath the wide skylight, she ordered orange juice.

  For once, Emma was nowhere in sight.

  Rand joined her, his towel wrapped around his waist. He folded himself onto the chair beside her, then stretched long, firm legs before him. “Of all the differences between your century and mine, the custom of the sexes mingling company in the briefest of attire is the most difficult to adjust to.”

  “Sometimes I have trouble with it myself,” she muttered into her orange juice, averting her eyes from the man at her side. “You didn’t have all this exercise equipment in your day, and jogging wasn’t fashionable. How did you manage to stay in such good condition?”

  “Riding is my favorite form of exercise.”

  Her dream of him cantering up the avenue from the hotel’s entrance filled her head. Strange she should have dreamed of him at almost the instant he’d stepped through time. But then what hadn’t been strange about the past forty-eight hours?

  He spoke briefly to the attendant who’d approached him, then turned to her. “Would you like to ride with me this afternoon?”

  She shook her head.

  Disappointment covered his face. “You don’t ride?”

  “I’ve ridden before, but not here. The hotel’s stables are long gone.”

  He sighed, whipped the towel from his waist and began to rub his hair dry. “About last night—”

  “We need to talk—” They’d both spoken at once, and she nodded for him to continue. He could have his say, then she’d pitch the Money Man idea to him.

  “I have to return to my time before the end of the week or the most important negotiations of my career will collapse.”

  She bit back an angry reply. “I told you, you can’t go back. You might as well get used to the fact. Besides, even if you could return, how do you know you’d go back to the same time and place?”

  “I’ll have to take that chance. I have millions at stake.” He smiled. “Believe me, I understand your skepticism. The majority of people share it.”

  “You’ve talked to others about this?” She’d have to stick closer to him or he’d end up in the loony bin for sure.

  He shook his head, spraying droplets of water. “While you dressed for dinner last night, I read the articles on time we found at the library.”

  Her lips tightened in a stubborn line. “Then you must know I’m right. You can’t go back.”

  “Dr. Christopher Smallwood isn’t quite as certain as you.”

  The spa attendant returned. “Your orange juice, sir, and today’s Wall Street Journal.”

  She raised an eyebrow at the newspaper. “Some light reading?”

  “Since I’m here I might as well try a few investments.”

  “Don’t you ever think of anything but money?” she grumbled. His penchant for investment—plus his incredible good looks—made him perfect for her advertising campaign. So why was she complaining?

  “Yes. Right now I’m thinking about how to return where I belong.”

  They were going around in circles. She attempted to break the cycle. “I have a proposition for you.”

  A wicked grin cocked the corner of his wide mouth. “It’s been a long time since I was propositioned by a lovely lady in dishabille.”

  “That’s not the kind of proposition I meant.” A flush crept over her, destroying the cooling effect of her swim. “A business proposition.”

  Shrewdness replaced the warmth in his eyes. “What kind of business?”

  “I own an advertising agency back in Atlanta—”

  “You?”

  She smiled at his expression of shocked disbelief. “Women do have their own businesses now, and one of my newest clients is Benson, Jurgen and Ives.”

  “The investment firm?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve corresponded with them.” He looked thoughtful. “They’re a new firm but with a very impressive record.”

  His interest sent a thrill of triumph through her. “Not new anymore. They celebrated their centennial five years ago. Their company motto stresses over a hundred years of satisfied clients. That’s where you come in.”

  “Me?” He choked on his orange juice. “What do I have to do with them? I conduct my own brokering out of Chicago.”

  “Not in the last hundred years,” she reminded him gently.

  “I don’t understand. Are you asking me to work for them?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Actually, I’m asking you to work for me.” She held her breath, waiting for his reply.

  His expression turned wary. “Doing what?”

  She mentally crossed her fingers and plunged ahead. “Acting as spokesman for the Money Man campaign I’m planning for Benson, Jurgen and Ives.”

  “Money Man?”

  “Part of the pitch for their advertising. You inspired me. ‘Making money is what I do. I don’t apologize for it.’” She glimpsed the flicker of rekindled curiosity in his granite eyes. “You’d be featured in both print and television ads.”

  His frown sent her hopes plummeting. “Sounds undignified. Besides, I don’t plan to be here that long.”

  Ignoring his last words, Tory focused on the first. “The ads would be very tasteful. Split page and split screen. You as the reserved, prosperous broker of the 1890s on one side, and on the other, as the reliable investor of the 1990s. You’d represent one hundred years of continual, dependable service.”

  “But why me?” His brow wrinkled in a puzzled scowl.

  “We call it typecasting. You look like a reliable investment broker, you talk like one, therefore, in the minds of the public, you—representative of Benson, Jurgen and Ives—must be a reliable broker.”

  And every female investor in America will fall madly in love with you, she added silently, and beat a path to my client’s door.

  “It’s a clever idea but, as I said, I won’t be here long enough to help you. Professor Smallwood believes time travel is possible.”

  Her eyes wide
ned with skepticism. “You’re kidding. A scientist of his caliber?” Then another thought struck her. If Smallwood was right, she might never see Rand Trent again. The thought hung like a gray cloud in the back of her mind.

  He sat on the side of the chaise, his strong hands clasped between his knees. “Smallwood’s a man of impeccable credentials. And his theories are exciting.”

  “Aha! So we’re still speaking theoretically here.” Smugness dripped from her voice.

  He thrust a bare, lean arm toward her. “Pinch me.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  The stern look in his eyes compelled her to do as he said. She reached forward and grasped his muscled forearm between the pads of two fingers. The feel of him set her nerve ends tingling, and she pulled her hand back. She had to clear her throat of the emotion that clogged it before she could speak.

  “So?” she croaked, still quivering from the nearness of him.

  “So there’s nothing theoretical about me. I’m here, flesh and blood, living proof that time travel can happen.”

  He was flesh and blood, all right, and driving her senses wild. She struggled to focus on the issue at hand. “But your being here is some sort of fluke. You don’t really expect Dr. Smallwood to replicate that accident and send you back?”

  His lips lifted in an engaging grin that sent her humming senses into overdrive. “Read his article when we get to the room. You’ll see he’s on to something.”

  Pity for him stabbed through her. If she was in his place, she supposed she’d grasp at any straw to return where she belonged.

  Rand read the skepticism on her face. He’d negotiated with skeptics before—and won. “Now I have a proposition for you. A bit of quid pro quo.”

  Her seawater eyes shone in the soft morning sun filtering through the skylight above the pool. “I’m listening.”

  “You arrange a meeting for me with Dr. Smallwood and accompany me to Raleigh. If he convinces us both it’s impossible to send me back to my time, then I’ll be your Money Man.”

  Triumph flashed across her delicate features, and she proffered him a slender hand. “Mr. Trent, you have yourself a deal.”