A Twist in Time

Chapter 12

Lucy let the hot water sluice over her head, trying to keep her balance as the boat rolled in the wind that had kicked up after the rainsqualls of the morning.

Why the hell had she answered Galen’s questions about Brad? And admitting that she slept with men? Waaaay too personal. Was she an idiot? She had blurted out her life story to a Viking she’d known for—what? Three days?

She poured a handful of shampoo and began scrubbing at her head. All she really knew about him was that he was insufferably sure of himself with women. He probably bedded everything in sight in his own time, whether they were attractive or not. Which was the only reason he’d come on to her. She wasn’t anybody’s idea of beautiful. She’d so forgotten herself she sat next to him clad in nothing but her sleep shirt for hours while they studied this morning. Was she out of her mind?

Or did she subconsciously want to provoke another attempt to kiss her?

Absolutely not. She’d just gotten carried away with teaching him. He was not her type. She liked a refined man. Brad was refined. Well educated, knew good wine. Liked to take her to the Exploratorium to try to change her into a woman who loved science as much as he did . . .

Enough. She rinsed her hair and soaped herself. There were other refined men besides Brad. It didn’t mean she’d fall for a guy who practically dragged women around by their hair.

She was at a fragile time in her life. That was how she’d let Leonardo’s book become such an obsession. That was why she felt such an attraction to Galen. And why she had dashed back in time for God’s sake, looking for answers about a life to which she no longer seemed connected? She should have told him she loved Brad and Brad loved her. That might have made her off-limits, even in his Dark Ages mind. Why hadn’t she?

Because he asked her for the truth.

As if that mattered when it came from a man like him. She pushed open the shower door and grabbed a towel. He’d just been looking for a chink in her armor. He wanted her to admit she was free and desired him so he could slake his lust without actually raping her. He must know he was dependent on her right now. He wasn’t unintelligent.

Far from it, actually.

She pulled on her clothes and dragged the brush ruthlessly through her hair. That brought back the moment of closeness they’d shared while he brushed her hair. Surprising in the extreme. She could still feel his big, calloused hands lifting her hair, his breath on her neck . . .

Get hold of yourself.

Right. Right. Well, it was good that his English would improve so rapidly. Two could play this game of eliciting uncomfortable admissions. Because he wasn’t the only one with questions. Why, for instance, did he look so ashamed of himself sometimes? That was so at odds with his insufferable sureness. Why had he been fighting Danes when he was half Dane himself? And did he have a woman back in 912? She snorted to herself. He probably had dozens, eager to welcome him to their beds. Why not, with that body and that smile?

But still there were things about himself he wouldn’t want to reveal.

She’d ask him, if for no other reason than to see him squirm. Sauce for the gander.

Lucy returned to the salon after bathing and dressing and found Galen with his boots on. “We walk out,” he said, standing. “We are on this boat too many days.”

He had cabin fever. Frankly, so did she. “Are you well enough?”

He nodded. “Ja. We walk now.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What is this smell?”

He didn’t have to ask what that word was. “Min scen . . . Nay . . . my boots. Blood.”

“Well then,” she said, pulling on a heavy knit sweater and grabbing her bag. “We will go find you new boots.”

“A quest?” He grinned at her.

“A quest.” She grabbed Galen’s pills and some more of Jake’s cash. Lucy’s bag was practically featherweight without Leonardo’s book. She felt lighter, too. Galen would probably collapse in the middle of the store. Or maybe not. The Viking seemed pretty hardy. Three days and already he was much better.

Maybe her blood donation had helped him.

Stupid. It had probably been one of many pints of blood he’d gotten. But the thought of her blood running in his veins and helping him to heal was strangely . . . intimate.

She pushed open the hatch and climbed out into the cockpit. The wind was brisk off the bay. It took her hair and whipped it around her face. She gathered it in both hands and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck. Torn clouds raced across the blue of the sky. At least it wasn’t foggy. Movement caught her eye and she turned to see a heron lifting off the marsh, out of the reeds. It glided out over the bay, its passage causing other birds to whirl up in anxiety. She recognized some mallards among the confetti spiral of smaller birds.

Galen shoved up through the hatch and climbed up to the deck, looking up at the sky. Jake’s flannel shirt flapped away from his rock-hard body.

“Why is the sky brun?” he asked, pointing over to the industrial area of the east bay. “Is there a great fire?”

“No.” How to explain smog? “Many cars and . . . and . . . smithies?”

He frowned, but it wasn’t because he didn’t understand. “The sky is sick, Lucy. I feel it.” He peered over into the side, frowning. “Water sick, too.”

“Yeah. Too many people now.” But there was nothing you could do about it, short of wiping out enough of mankind to go back to the population level in Galen’s time.

He shook his head and began moving around the deck touching the halyards, the nylon lines the fiberglass, the metal I-bolts. How strange this must all be to him. Jake is out of his mind if he thinks Galen will be able to sail a modern boat. He might be able to crew for her and follow directions if she taught him words for everything. He’d really hate taking orders from her. He might just refuse. What would she do then?

“Is she fast?” he asked, staring up at the mast.

“Not the fastest,” Lucy admitted. “These are boats for pleasure not for very fast.”

Galen peered over the edge into the water again. “She sits high.” Maybe compared with a Viking warship loaded down with men and weapons and supplies for a four-month journey, including cattle. She’d seen illustrations. He climbed down into the cockpit. “What is this?”

“The wheel.” He looked his question. True. Boats would not have had wheels in his day. “Tiller,” she said, making the motion back and forth of holding a tiller. “To the rudder.”

That he understood. “From here?”

She nodded and motioned under the boat. “From the wheel to the rudder.”

“We sail this boat today.”

Lucy frowned. “Your shoulder.” She touched her own.

He clenched his jaw, looking disgusted with himself. It must be hard for a man used to his strength to accept limitations. He climbed up and limped over to the back of the boat, leaned over the aft rail, and nodded in satisfaction at the sight of the rudder. “What is the iron under there?” He pointed to the cockpit.

Hmmmm—oh, he must have seen the engine room. She blew out a breath. How to explain? “Like the car. It makes the boat sail when there is no wind.”

He frowned at her. “Boats do not sail without wind.”

“This boat sails. Like the car goes.”

“Show me now,” he commanded.

“No. We are on a quest, remember?”

He looked rebellious. “Show now, then quest.”

“I have no desire to go sailing, with or without the motor,” she said, exasperated.

“A . . . a woman does what a man speaks.” Galen was glowering now.

“Not in this time.” Well, some did, to be fair. “Not me.” That, at least, was true.

Galen was about to retort something when his eyes sharpened and fixed upon a point over her right shoulder. Lucy turned. It was the tanned, hard-looking guy down the dock, coming topside on his boat. He stared at them.

Jeez. Here they were facing off like two boxers. That didn’t match her and Galen’s cover at all. Could the guy hear what they’d been saying? It didn’t matter. She’d better make this look like a lovers’ spat. Oh, boy. She was going to regret this.

She held out a hand to Galen and softened into a smile. “Come, darling, you know you’ll be worn out, what with all the exercise we’ve been getting.”

Galen didn’t get much of that, if anything, but he heard the tone of her voice. He glanced to her hand as she moved forward and then up to her face. The man was a picture of suspicion. Not good. Lucy took his good arm and sidled in against him, so she could keep an eye on the hard guy. A guy and the kid who’d been playing with the dog yesterday emerged from their boat about halfway down, dressed in shorts and boat shoes even in this weather. The dog was with them. Great. Everyone seemed to be coming up on deck to enjoy the respite from the rain. Now they had three witnesses to a tiff.

“Don’t be angry,” she cooed. Galen’s eyes widened. “Kiss me,” she whispered. She was going to regret this big-time.

Wariness crept into Galen’s blue eyes. His chin lifted.

“Kiss me,” she hissed, moving her head slightly to indicate the others down the dock. “Just for show.”

Wariness was replaced by that light in his eyes. “Ja, Lucy. I kiss you for show.”

“Make it good,” she whispered. “We are new wed.” She looked up at him and suddenly she was afraid. Not that he would ravish her. She was afraid of something worse. Or better.

Galen dipped his head. His breath was warm on her face. His lashes brushed his cheeks. His beard and mustache, gone, had freed his lips to reveal a sensuality that was dangerous. They brushed her lips softly. His arm came round her waist, holding her to his hip. She felt the bulge of his biceps as he tightened his embrace until she could hardly get her breath.

How had her lips opened? They did it without her will. He took ruthless advantage, his own tongue slipping in to caress hers. How dare he be so tender with her? He was a Viking, for goodness’ sake. But there was nothing of goodness about it and she found herself loving the moist sensuality of his mouth, the faint taste of bacon still lingering from this morning. Slowly he plunged deeper and then, somehow, their tongues entwined and she was kissing him back, even though she never meant to make it a true kiss on her side. Her hands slid around his ribbed torso, under Jake’s flapping flannel shirt. The contrast between Galen’s muscled hardness and her breasts and belly pressed against him made her feel vulnerable. That wasn’t bad, exactly.

She’d begun to feel light-headed by the time he broke the kiss. All her blood was pooled between her legs, and she was throbbing. He didn’t let her go. His arm still held her pressed to his hip. His eyes weren’t icy now. Definitely not.

“What means ‘for show’?”

So . . . so that was the problem. She felt a little shaky. Her chest was heaving as she sucked in air. Her lips felt the imprint of his lips still. “Pre-pretend—not real,” she stuttered. She resorted to Latin and repeated.

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I understand. I will know this better when I kiss you again.”

Oh no. “There will be no ‘again.’ ”

“I did not break my vow, Lucy,” he warned. “You wanted kiss.”

True. No, false. She wanted a kiss, not that kiss.

She extricated herself from his arms. He let her go. She looked around hoping her knees would hold her up and resolutely refusing to think about soft lips and hot eyes and hard body. The very tanned guy was checking the condition of his boat after the storm and pointedly ignoring them. The man and his son were giving each other disgusted looks. They had tied the dog’s leash off to a cleat. People kept cats on a boat maybe, but not a big black wolf of a dog. These reclusive, gun-toting types were really too much.

Galen leaped over the line railing and the gap to the dock, sure-footed, and turned to stretch out his good hand. His eyes heated her more than her jacket in the cold bay wind. She couldn’t refuse his hand in case the others were looking, and with the rocking of the boat she wasn’t sure she could just jump the line railing and the little gap as he had. She looked up and saw him laughing at her with his eyes. So, with no other alternative, she pressed her lips together and took his hand. The calluses against her soft palm should have been repellant. They weren’t. A shock shot through her, making her knees even shakier as she stepped across.

He gathered her into his side as they moved down the dock. Somehow she let him, but she looked up, questioning, whether herself or him she didn’t know.

“For show,” he said seriously. But she didn’t think his eyes were quite serious. Smug bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. But she couldn’t break away, just in case their neighbors were watching. She took a deep breath and let it out. Okay. So she might as well enjoy it.

No, you don’t. This is one slippery slope.

Okay. She wouldn’t feel his hip moving against hers, or the bare ribs pressed up against her side, or the bulky muscles in the arm around her shoulders. She wouldn’t feel . . . safe. Right.

Rightness coursed through her. A part of the universe thunked into place inside her, as surely as when she had realized that Brad’s secret project was Leonardo’s time machine. The very rightness of it all made her afraid. She shook off both the fear and the feeling of rightness. The guy was a Viking. He was going back to 912 as soon as she could figure out how to do it. With no access to the machine, the fact that it was broken, and . . .

She squinched her eyes shut. Their heels thudded against the boards of the dock. The water lapped in from the bay in unaccustomed enthusiasm after the storm. She might have been trembling against his side.

“Quest, Lucy,” he whispered. “You think of quest only.” And then the bastard kissed the top of her head and her trembling stopped. What right had he to quell her fear?

Casey’s mouth turned down as he surveyed the human refuse milling around the interview room through the one-way glass. The anonymous brightly lighted room was painted institutional green and served by its own elevator, just so “guests” such as these didn’t mingle with the government workers who occupied the rest of the high-rise. One woman just rocked obsessively and moaned. They were a colorful lot, from one guy’s red and white high-tops to the multicolored knit cap on that woman in the corner, ballooned out by her Afro. The only thing they had in common was a veneer of greasy dirt and dead eyes.

Damn that poncey little scientist, Steadman. He was nearly useless. But he had realized that a homeless person might have witnessed the Viking and the girl leaving the apartment building. Casey hated to admit he’d missed that angle. But you moved on.

Casey was checking the landlord’s background. He wanted to get some leverage on the guy before they tried to interview him again. Casey’s people were scouring marinas around the city with a picture of the girl and the artist’s rendering of the Viking. But the homeless riffraff on the other side of the glass still constituted at least a tenuous shot at finding the fugitives.

Casey grabbed a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and tapped one out as Evans led one of the interviewees out of a room. He flipped open his lighter and inhaled until the tip glowed, then snicked the lighter shut. He’d been exiled to supervise a stupid joint research project between a lab and the fuckup Italian government about a machine that still had gears, for Christ’s sake. God knew how the Italians convinced the NIATF to put money into the project in the first place. Even his superiors thought it was a bust. He was exiled to the fucking North Pole, and why? Because his assignments tended to be a little messy. He got what they wanted, didn’t he? That’s why they hired people like him, who could do things to people nobody else wanted to do. They wouldn’t have had that lawsuit if they’d let him clean up loose ends after the guys broke. And that last village was a totally expendable rat hole filled with bad narco-targets and a few basket weavers. But some jerk-off general got squeamish.

So they gave him a crappy assignment. But lightning strikes. He’d lucked onto a fucking time machine. They didn’t believe him yet. And that was fine. Now he’d have choices. He could go back and shove it in their faces and get whatever assignment he wanted.

Or he could use it for himself. Khrushchev. Now there’s a mo-fo who could have used killing. Castro? Toast. Economy in the tank? Go back and fix it. Nothing you can’t do with that machine. Save the goddamn, pathetic world. Or create a better one. In your own image. Visit the future, find the new Microsoft, and come back to invest in it today. Find your enemies and cut their fathers’ dicks off. He’d had months to think about the possibilities.

That machine can make you a god.

And it was broken. What a bitch. He needed the fucking diamond and the book. And then the world would be his oyster.

Pollington stuck his head out of the nearer room and beckoned to the glass.

Shit. Can he have something? Casey pushed himself off the desk and stubbed out his cancer stick in an almost empty Styrofoam cup. The end hissed in the sludge of old coffee at the bottom. He strode out to Pollington.

“Mr. uh, Smith here was in the right location, just across from the apartment building all night on Tuesday.” Pollington spoke in an undervoice.

Casey just pushed past the younger man and into the interview room. Mr. “Smith” was black, looked sixty, was probably forty-five. He wore layers and layers of shirts under one of those big sweaters from Tijuana. Gray fuzz covered his head and face, and his hand shook as he clutched a cup of that sludgy coffee. Great witness.

“Mr. Smith, I’m Colonel Casey. I’m in charge here.” He sat down opposite the man. The reek of unwashed bodies clung to the walls. They’d have to fumigate the place.

“Pleased, Colonel.” Smith probably once had a honeyed bass drawl, but now he was hoarse, his voice cracking. He cackled. “Only colonel I knowed before you made chicken.”

Casey smiled grimly. “You were on Filbert just off Van Ness Tuesday night?”

“That’s my regular place, yes sir. They’s a overhang on one a them buildings there, and a hedge blocks the wind. Pretty good place. Yes. Pretty good.”

Well, at least the guy was more coherent than the rocker. “You know the building just across from your digs?” The guy nodded. “Did you see anything there that night?”

Smith shrugged and shook his head. “Like what?”

Casey snapped his fingers and Pollington handed him the pictures. “Like maybe these two people coming out? It would have been—maybe four in the morning.”

Smith’s eyes opened wide. He began to nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I saw red hair. Just kind of a gleam in the streetlight. She was driving the car. Somebody big in the passenger seat.”

Casey tried not to get excited. “What kind of car was it?”

“Kinda old. Maybe a Chevy. GM anyway. Blue.”

Not bad. The guy was observant. “Was it parked at the curb? Did somebody bring it?”

“Naaah. It came outta the parking garage.”

Casey sat back, mind humming. That meant someone in the apartment building had failed to report a stolen car. Maybe someone had loaned it to them. Casey rose in one motion. Time for a little visit to the residents of 1632 Filbert.

Evans tapped on the door with a clipboard.

“So what’s the deal on the landlord?” Evans’s expression gave Casey a thrill.

“Jake Lowell,” Evans intoned. “Bought the apartment building for cash in ’77. Tenants say he got the limp in ’Nam. But there’s no service record for a Jake Lowell, or Jacob, or Jackson, or any of those as a middle name. No records at all, military or otherwise, before the purchase.” Evans cracked a smile. “Jake Lowell is not what he seems.”

“Excellent,” Casey muttered. “Just excellent. Let’s have a talk with Mr. Lowell, while you find out just where he got such a big payout, and for what services.”

“Could be mob money, drug money.”

“Maybe.” Casey doubted it. He was beginning to smell something much closer to home.