Praise for these bestselling authors

Julie Kenner

“Julie Kenner is one of my favorite writers. Funny and sassy, her books are a cherished delight.”

—New York Times bestselling author Sherrilyn Kenyon

“Kenner’s star is definitely on the ascent.”

—Publishers Weekly

Nancy Warren

“Nancy Warren’s wonderfully realistic characters, positively charged, compelling romance, and too-hot-to-handle loving, dished up with spicy humor, will leave readers breathless.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Sexy and wonderfully witty.”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Lori Foster

Jo Leigh

“Jo Leigh knows how to blend heartwarming romance and witty dialogue into sheer joy.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Jo Leigh delivers lots of laughs.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Dear Reader,

Spring is on the way, and the Signature Select program offers lots of variety in the reading treats you’ve come to expect from some of your favorite Harlequin and Silhouette authors.

The second quarter of the year continues the excitement we began in January with a can’t-miss drama from Vicki Hinze: Her Perfect Life. In it, a female military prisoner regains her freedom only to find that the life she left behind no longer exists. Myrna Mackenzie’s Angel Eyes gives us the tale of a woman with an unnatural ability to find lost objects and people, and Confessions of a Party Crasher, by Holly Jacobs, is a humorous novel about finding happiness—even as an uninvited guest!

Our collections for April, May and June are themed around Mother’s Day, matchmaking and time travel. Mothers and daughters are a focus in From Here to Maternity, by Tara Taylor Quinn, Karen Rose Smith and Inglath Cooper. You’re in for a trio of imaginative time-travel stories by Julie Kenner, Nancy Warren and Jo Leigh in Perfect Timing. And a matchmaking New York cabbie is a delightful catalyst to romance in the three stories in A Fare To Remember, by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Julie Elizabeth Leto and Kate Hoffmann.

Spring also brings three more original sagas to the Signature Select program. Hot Chocolate on a Cold Day tells the story of a Coast Guard worker in Michigan who finds herself intrigued by her new downstairs neighbor. Jenna Mills’s Killing Me Softly features a heroine who returns to the scene of her own death, and You Made Me Love You, by C.J. Carmichael, explores the shattering effects of the death of a charismatic woman on the friends who adored her.

And don’t forget, there is original bonus material in every single Signature Select book to give you the inside scoop on the creative process of your favorite authors! Happy reading!

Marsha Zinberg

Executive Editor

The Signature Select Program

Perfect Timing
Those Were the Days
Julie Kenner
Pistols at Dawn
Nancy Warren
Time After Time
Jo Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Those Were the Days Julie Kenner

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

Pistols at Dawn Nancy Warren

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Time After Time Jo Leigh

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Those Were the Days

CHAPTER ONE

“I THOUGHT WE WERE going to an exhibit on butterflies,” Sylvia Preston said, staring into the glass case at the formidable ivory object that was—quite clearly—not a butterfly.

Beside her, Tina shrugged. “You don’t need butterflies, Syl.” She made a sweeping gesture, her arm encompassing the ornate room and the exhibit cases that filled it. “This is good for you.”

Ever since the first day they’d met as freshman roommates at UCLA, Tina had presumed to know what was best for Sylvia. A trait that Sylvia had—and still did—found both endearing and annoying.

“This is a sex exhibit,” Sylvia said, her feelings for Tina today leaning toward the annoying side of the equation. “And this,” she added, pointing to the ivory object in front of her, is a dildo.” She said the last in a hushed voice, her cheeks burning.

“It certainly is,” Tina said, her tone almost reverential.

“Are you insane? It’s the size of a…of a…of an I don’t know what!”

“They say Catherine the Great did it with a horse,” Tina said.

Sylvia put her hands over her ears. “I don’t even want to hear about it.” She walked away, Tina following.

“See, that’s your problem,” Tina said, as they moved into the next room, this one apparently devoted to electronic enhancement of the sexual experience. The Sex Through The Ages exhibit was touring the country, and this week it was in Los Angeles, on display at the Greene Mansion in Beverly Hills.

By happy coincidence, Tina and Sylvia were both in town and could visit the exhibit and the house. They’d lived in Southern California during their undergrad years, but for graduate school, they’d left the sunny beaches for the lure of a Stanford law degree. Sylvia had graduated in the top one percent of her class, with Tina not far behind in the twenty-fifth percentile. The nature of their friendship had shifted when Tina had moved to LasVegas to take a job with the district attorney’s office. Sylvia had stayed in San Francisco, snagging a very coveted position with one of the major law firms in the country.

Now that Sylvia was making the move to a Los Angeles firm, Tina had taken some vacation time, flown up to San Francisco and had driven down the coast with Syl. The trip had been a blast, with Syl and Tina playing tourist at every little town they came across. They were even doing the tourist thing in Los Angeles, even though they’d both called the city home during college. They’d gone drinking and dancing, and Sylvia had flirted and chatted, making a concerted effort to get more into the social thing.

The rest had been even more fun. They’d done shopping, the beach, the Pier, Hollywood Boulevard and the Universal Studios tour, including the totally fun tram ride through the back lot, an experience that had been Syl’s favorite so far. Corny, but she was a movie buff, and seeing the Psycho house and all the other bits of movie history had been a huge thrill.

They’d also been hitting a few museums and exhibits, including the Getty and this exhibit at the Greene Mansion, which clearly was not dedicated to butterflies. But despite Tina’s deviousness, Syl was glad they’d come. She’d always loved the Greene Mansion. It had been the home of Tucker Greene, one of her favorite film directors from the 1930s, but she’d never been inside before. And, honestly, she had to admit that while the chance to visit the mansion was what made the excursion palatable, the sex exhibit was interesting, too.

Despite her friend’s devious behavior, Syl was sad that their trip was coming to an end. Tomorrow she started her new job. And later this evening, Tina was off to the airport. It might be months before they saw each other again, what with the pressure of their jobs. Bittersweet, but time changed everything. She knew that. And she also knew that she and Tina would always be best friends, even if her friend did sometimes drive her insane. Like, for instance, now.

At the moment, Tina was gesturing to a glass case filled with vibrators. “So tell me the truth,” she was saying. “Have you ever even used a vibrator?”

Around them, other patrons glanced in their direction, and Sylvia felt her cheeks flame. “Tina,” she whispered, grabbing her so-called friend’s arm and tugging her toward a secluded corner. As she did, she noticed that one of the security guards was watching her, and she caught a twinkle in his blue eyes before he looked away. She resisted the urge to melt with embarrassment, and instead focused on Tina. “Of course I’ve used a vibrator,” she said, turning her back to the guard.

With any other friend, Sylvia would have put a quick end to the conversation. But the truth was that Syl had no other close friends. She wasn’t a loner by any means, but her whole life she’d been selective about who she let in close to her heart. Tina had barreled her way in that first day in their dorm, when she’d thrown her arms around Sylvia and said—absolutely earnestly— “Thank God you’re rooming with me. I don’t think I could make it through freshman year without a best friend.” And even though Syl had never seen the girl before in her life, it was as if Tina’s mandate had magic. Tina, quite simply, became her best friend. And that was that.

Some things, however, a girl didn’t have to put up with even from her best friend. And discussion of the use of vibrators was tops on that list, Sylvia thought as she scowled daggers at Tina.

Her friend, as usual, was unconvinced. “You?” Tina said, her voice dubious. “You’ve used a vibrator?”

“Yes. And I’ve watched dirty movies and I’ve made out in the back seat of a car.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “But I thought your whole problem with Dwight was, you know, sexual.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m clueless about vibrators,” Sylvia said. “God, Tina.” She stifled a sigh, telling herself she was grateful to have a friend like Tina with whom she could talk about things like sex, even while kicking herself for ever hinting to her friend about her hideous childhood, her asshole stepfather, Martin, or the problems in bed that had plagued her ever since.

“Sylvia? You wanna clue me in here? What exactly am I missing?”

Sylvia sighed, then cocked her head toward the side of the room, urging Tina toward the relative privacy of the far wall. “Sex with Dwight was fine,” she said. “Except, it’s not fine. I mean, I’m not, you know, comfortable with him. With telling him what I want. Does that make sense?”

“You’re the quiet type in bed,” Tina said with a shrug. “A lot of girls have trouble telling a guy what they want. Not me, of course. But a lot of girls.”

“Sure,” Sylvia said. “You’re probably right.” Not that she believed that, but this was hardly the time to talk about it.

“I mean, it even makes some sense,” Tina said. “Your early experiences with men weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy. Martin totally dominated you. It wasn’t like you could ask him to stop doing something, right? So now you don’t feel you can ask, either. For what you want or for what you don’t want.”

“Absolutely,” Sylvia said, wishing Tina would just drop it. She didn’t want to talk about this. Not when she was still dripping with guilt from having left San Francisco for Los Angeles. Everyone—her mom, Tina, Dwight—thought she’d left because she’d had an amazing job offer from the largest law firm in California. But what none of them knew was the reason she’d applied for the job in the first place—to escape.

Dwight was on the verge of popping the question. He’d been hinting around for weeks. But Sylvia didn’t want to marry him. Hell, she was only so-so on the subject of dating him. He was nice enough, and she did love him. But she wasn’t in love with him.

But she couldn’t tell him that any more than she could tell him what she wanted in bed. Instead of dealing with Dwight as a normal, rational, reasonable adult, she’d called a Los Angeles headhunter and been snatched up so fast that Sylvia had called it fate in an attempt to alleviate some of her guilt.

Of course, she’d known the job offers would flood in. That was a given considering her résumé. In a perverse way, she supposed she even had Martin to thank for her success. She’d delved in to enough pop psychology to realize that her overachiever personality was her way of fighting back. Of proving to him—and to herself—that she was worthy.

She’d aced school and landed an amazing job in San Francisco. Now she was moving to Los Angeles for an even better job with an even better salary. Would she have accomplished all that if it hadn’t been for Martin’s vile whispers every night after her mom had gone to bed? The kisses he’d planted on her mouth and between her legs, making her feel ashamed and dirty? His hushed tones telling her she was worthless, and her screaming inside her head that she wasn’t?

Martin might be the root cause of her desperation to succeed, but he was also the reason she so often escaped into fantasy. If she wasn’t buried in her work, chances were she was lost in a book or curled up in the dark with a classic movie playing on her television.

Martin was also the reason all her relationships failed. Why she couldn’t communicate sexually with a man. And why she was running now from a decent man who loved her. She couldn’t simply escape into a book or movie where Dwight was concerned. So instead of dealing with the question he was about to pop, she’d escaped real life by taking a job hundreds of miles away.

When she’d accepted the job offer in Los Angeles, she’d told Dwight that this was simply too good an opportunity to pass up, somehow neglecting to mention the part about how she went looking for that opportunity. Their relationship was strong enough to handle this, she’d said. And all the while, she’d had her fingers crossed, hoping, that in their case, distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder.

“I think you just need to go balls to the wall and shift into dominatrix mode. That,” Tina said, “will work wonders for your self-esteem.”

“Excuse me?” Sylvia asked, her voice climbing higher.

“When Dwight comes down to visit, you jump his bones. Tell him exactly what you want. If he can’t handle it, well, then you’re in a new town with new men. Send him back up San Francisco way.”

“I…but…” Sylvia blinked, feeling more than a little befuddled. “It’s not that easy.”

Tina deflated a bit at that. “Maybe not. I mean, you’ve got a history with the guy. That would make it harder. I know,” she squealed, her features flushing bright. “Just find someone you like and pick him up. No strings, right? Surely you can tell some stranger exactly what you want in bed. I mean, why wouldn’t you? No expectations. Just wham, bam, and tell the boy thank you very much.”

Sylvia just shook her head. “This conversation is so over.”

“I’m serious, Syl,” Tina said. “You spend your life watching movies. Just pretend you’re some uber-hot starlet. Like Uma in Kill Bill. Or Kathleen Turner in Body Heat. Find a man you want and take charge. No strings, no expectations. Just make it all about Sylvia. Get exactly what you want from the guy. And once you do that, you’ll be free of Martin. I promise.”

“I mean it, Tina,” Sylvia said. “We’re not talking about this anymore.”

Her friend pouted but didn’t say anything else. Instead, she just raised one hand, then took a step back. “I guess I’ll go check out a few more of the exhibits.”

“Right,” Sylvia said. “You do that.”

As Sylvia watched, Tina went off to look at a display of vibrators shaped like various animals. Beavers, bunnies, even a bright yellow ducky with an, um, useful beak and tail. Sylvia didn’t follow. Instead she moved out of the room and into another, finally settling on a plush bench. Antique, obviously, but Sylvia knew about as much about history as she did about dildos, so she couldn’t guess the period. Whenever it was from, it was comfortable, and she sagged a little, suddenly exhausted but still interested in the room.

The inside of the Greene Mansion was just as fabulous as she’d imagined it would be. Built in the 1800s by industrialist Carson Greene, the house overflowed with graciousness, the carved wood ornate and warm, the furniture inviting, and the many windows giving the interior a cheery, light-filled quality. Of course, there were dozens more rooms that were off-limits to patrons of the exhibit, and Sylvia was disappointed about that. For one, she’d hoped to see some Hollywood memorabilia. So far, though, she’d seen nothing.

She’d also simply wanted to explore the house. Her whole life, Sylvia had been fascinated by old houses. Or, rather, not her whole life, but at least from age six. That’s when Martin Straithorn had married her mother. They’d moved into his ramshackle farmhouse. Old, but hardly stately or elegant.

Even so, Sylvia had soon learned that the house was the best thing about her mother’s marriage. Maybe even the only good thing. Because the farmhouse had lots of nooks and crannies. And that meant lots of places for Sylvia to hide. Lots of places where she could hole up with her books and sit quietly after school, wishing the sun would never go down and she’d never have to go to her bedroom.

Because she couldn’t sleep in her hiding places. At night, she had to come out. Had to go into her bed. Had to pull the covers up to her chin and hope—no, pray—that for that one night, she’d be allowed to sleep, blissfully and peacefully. And, most importantly, alone.

Books had been her daily companions, the characters her best friends. How many times had she wished that she, too, could find a secret doorway so she could escape to another world? Sleep in another land instead of in her own bed, watched over by Aslan’s gentle eyes instead of Martin Straithorn’s deviant leer.

She shivered, hugging herself, the memories closer now than she liked them to get. She forced her mind away from the past, deliberately focusing on the room she’d stepped into. The drawing room, perhaps. Or a morning room. As much as she loved old houses, she’d never bothered to learn the names for all their various parts. It was the whole she cared about. The elegance and warmth. The detail in the woodwork. Not the strip-mall type homes that seemed to be taking over America.

She stood and wandered through the room, wondering if she was supposed to be in here. It wasn’t cordoned off, and yet none of the exhibits from the Sex Through The Ages tour were set up in here. Honestly, Sylvia had to admit she felt a bit of relief at that. She probably wouldn’t have come with Tina had she known the subject matter of the exhibit. She knew she had issues with sex, thank you very much. And she didn’t much appreciate Tina blatantly lying and telling her the exhibit was about some damn butterflies.

She saw a brochure for the exhibit sitting on one of the tables, and she picked it up, almost snorting as she skimmed through it. Some butterflies. Instead the brochure showed pictures of key elements from the exhibits, and even had an inset photograph of the guard who was traveling with the exhibit as it toured around the country. An older man, with a friendly face and unkempt gray hair escaping from under his cap. The same guard, Sylvia realized, that she’d seen in the other room. Not a bad job, she supposed. Hang around sex toys all day and watch women come and go in various stages of embarrassment or delight.

Mostly, though, the brochure described the various exhibits that now filled the rooms of the stately house. Sex as shown in the paintings of Picasso and others. Sex and technology. Plus exhibits on fertility goddesses and fetishes and the Kama Sutra. Basically, anything remotely relating to sex was there.

Definitely not butterflies. Although Sylvia wouldn’t have been surprised to find a butterfly-shaped vibrator.

The exhibit covered the range of sex and sexuality, and she knew in her heart that Tina had tricked her into coming because her best friend loved her. Tina was the only person in the world that Sylvia had ever confided in about Martin. And even then, the truths had been minimal. Mostly, Sylvia had only hinted about the past. But Tina was bright, and Sylvia knew that her friend had figured out the truth.

But while she knew that Tina only wanted to help, that didn’t change the fact that it felt like interference. Not that Sylvia didn’t find the traveling exhibit fascinating—she did. But she would have liked full disclosure before coming down here. After all, her sexual issues were hers and hers alone, and she was aware of them and dealing with them. She knew the cause—he’d married her mother, after all, so how could she not know—but wandering through rooms filled with dildos and vibrators was hardly going to make her more comfortable with her sexuality, or help her learn to communicate with men so that they knew what she wanted.

Enough.

She wanted to kick herself. She’d escaped the stupid exhibit and yet here she was, thinking about sex all over again. Think about something else, she ordered. This room. The ornately carved mantel over the fireplace. The portraits.

She got up from the bench, then walked the perimeter of the room, examining everything critically and with such an eye for detail that she had no room in her head to think about anything else. Which probably explained why she jumped a foot when the hand settled on her shoulder.

“Oh! Goodness! I’m so sorry I startled you!”

Sylvia turned, and found herself looking into bright green eyes, sparkling from a well-aged face. The woman looked to be close to seventy, with regal posture and an air of confidence. “I’m Louisa Greene,” she said with a smile. “I live here.”

“Oh. Oh. I’m so sorry.” Sylvia took a step toward the door. “I just wandered in from one of the exhibit halls. I didn’t mean—”

“Nonsense!” Louisa placed a hand on her arm. “Please, don’t run away. I saw you admiring the portraits. I thought I’d found a kindred spirit.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “I agreed to host the traveling exhibit here because I find the subject matter so very fascinating. But one does have to step away every once in a while, don’t you think?”

Sylvia blushed, and wasn’t quite able to meet the woman’s eyes. She was twenty-six—right at the age where sex and work were supposed to be the two things at the forefront of her mind—and yet here she was desperately avoiding the subject while this grandmotherly woman blatantly admitted to being fascinated by it. Whatever happened to decorum?

“Darling!” Louisa said, her voice lilting. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m so sorry. Here, please sit and let me make it up to you.”

Louisa gestured toward a divan and though Sylvia’s instinct was to run—to race—from the room, she couldn’t quite convince her feet to go along with that plan. And so she found herself sitting.

Louisa signaled to one of the docents, who came over, looked at the two women, then nodded. Then, as Sylvia watched, wide-eyed, he left the room, shutting the double doors behind him.

“Where’s he going?”

“He’ll ring Thomas for tea and will ensure we’re not interrupted. You looked like you could use a bit of a break, and I feel I must apologize for embarrassing you.”

“It’s really not—”

“Nonsense. Besides, you were enjoying the room and I interrupted. It’s the least I can do.”

Despite herself, Sylvia relaxed. There was something about Louisa she found comforting, even familiar.

“I think it’s the way I was raised,” Louisa said, making Sylvia blink with the change of subject.

“Excuse me?”

“Sex, I mean,” the older women said casually. Then, “Oh, thank you, Thomas. You can just set the tray right here.”

A butler in full livery had appeared in the doorway carrying a tea tray with a pot, two cups and an assortment of tiny desserts. Sylvia thought she ought to be impressed by the speed at which he’d prepared the tray—it was almost as if Louisa had been expecting company—but she couldn’t quite work up the energy. The whole day was turning out a bit baffling and surprising.

As soon as Thomas left, Louisa turned back to Sylvia. “It was my grandparents, you see. They were so incredibly in love, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Considering the era, it was probably quite scandalous, but I learned early on that sex is an expression of love, no matter how many electronic devices might be involved,” she added with a wink.

“I…um…oh.”

Louisa sighed. “I’ve gone and done it again. I was trying to make you feel more comfortable and I’ve just embarrassed you more.”

“Not at all,” Sylvia said. Which, of course, was a lie. “But I do think you’re naive.”

The second she spoke, she was afraid she’d insulted the older woman. To her surprise, though, Louisa just laughed. “Naive? My dear, I’m getting close to seventy. I’m a lot of things, but I’m no longer naive.”

“It’s just…well, your attitude about sex. It’s not always love, you know. Sometimes it’s about control. Power. Sometimes,” she whispered, mortified to realize her eyes were filling with tears, “it’s not a good thing at all.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Louisa said, taking her hand. “I certainly didn’t mean to belittle anything you’ve gone through. But it’s all a question of semantics, really. Don’t you think?”

Part of Sylvia wanted to race from the room. Another part wanted to protest. To clear up the perception—accurate though it might be—that Sylvia had been talking about herself. She never spoke about Martin. About what he did. Even to Tina she’d talked around the subject. Bits and pieces that let her friend draw her own conclusions. And Syl had only managed to reveal that much after ten years of friendship.

But to this woman, Sylvia had opened her heart in no time and with no warning. It terrified her, but for some inexplicable reason it also calmed her. And so instead of running, she stayed on the divan, leaned over for her tea, and asked simply, “What do you mean by semantics?”

“What you describe isn’t sex. It’s assault and battery. Using a sexual organ as a weapon, sure. But it’s not sex. It’s not a union.”

“I…” Sylvia trailed off, not entirely sure what to say to that. She wanted to believe it, actually. But wanting was a lot easier than doing.

“Don’t worry about answering me,” Louisa said. “Just smile and nod and indulge me my idiosyncrasies. It’s a wonder I haven’t gone completely batty what with strangers wandering through my home four days a week.”

“So you meant it,” Sylvia said. “When you said you lived here.” She sighed. “It’s a grand house. I’ve just moved into an apartment in the mid-Wilshire area. But someday, I want a house like this.”

“Do you?” Louisa cocked her head, looking at Sylvia in a way that made her squirm. “One day, I think you’ll get one.”

“Why do you open it up to the public like this?” Sylvia asked, realizing as she spoke that it was an incredibly nosy question. “I’m sorry,” she said, backpedaling. “That’s really none of my business.”

“No, no. Not at all. I can understand your interest. So many of these stately mansions have been turned over to charitable foundations. The upkeep on a house like this is…well, I have to have a very strong glass of sherry every time I go over the numbers with my accountant. But we’re actually one of the few that is self-sufficient.” She patted Sylvia’s hand. “Not that I’m bragging. It’s simply a fact of life.”

“A nice fact,” Sylvia said.

Louisa’s smile was soft and genuine. “Indeed.”

“So, if you have the money to keep the place operational, why all this?”

Louisa stood, gesturing for Sylvia to follow, then moved across the room to stand in front of the wall of portraits. She pointed to the one in the center. “Because of her,” Louisa said.

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s my grandmother,” Louisa explained. “She was a bit of an oddity in my family, but we always took everything she said very seriously.”

Sylvia studied the portrait, noticing with interest that it seemed somehow familiar. The woman there looked calm and self-assured, with light brown hair and green eyes highlighted by a slightly large mouth and high cheekbones. Not to mention ears that stuck out just a little too much.

With a start, Sylvia realized that the woman resembled her. How strange. But perhaps it explained why Louisa was so open. Maybe Sylvia’s resemblance to her grandmother made her feel more comfortable.

Louisa apparently hadn’t realized that Sylvia’s attention had wandered. She was still talking about the woman, and when Sylvia tuned back in, her interest was piqued. “She’s one of the reasons the family is so well-off,” Louisa was saying. “Had a head for speculative finance. Made a fortune in the stock market and real estate.”

“Nice,” Sylvia said. “But what does that have to do with opening the house?”

“Grandma insisted. For as long as I can remember, she would tell me that when I was older, I had to make sure the house was opened to the public. That we must allow traveling exhibits to tour. She made me swear.” A soft shrug. “And I agreed.”

“And you don’t know why?”

Louisa’s smile was almost shy. “I have my theories. At any rate,” she said, changing her tone and moving away from the portrait, “she was right. There’s a lot of history in this house.”

“Well, sure,” Sylvia said. “I mean Tucker Greene. He was a force in Hollywood. An amazing filmmaker. Who hasn’t heard of him?”

“And the Ragtime Strangler,” Louisa added.

Sylvia cocked her head, trying to remember. “That’s right,” she said. “I read something about that. A serial killer, but back in the twenties. Went after young, pretty flappers.” She frowned, her memory fuzzy. “I’m not an expert on Hollywood or anything, but I like Greene’s movies, so I’ve read a few articles and watched the extras on DVD remasters and stuff. If I remember right, the Strangler was stalking Beverly Hills before Greene got into film, right? He was doing something else. Radio, wasn’t it? One of my DVDs even included a new performance of one of his radio plays. It was pretty cool.”

Sylvia shut up then, realizing she probably sounded like an obsessed fan. Louisa, however, only smiled and looked delighted with Sylvia’s recollection. “You’re exactly right.”

“But what does this house have to do with the Strangler?”

“My grandparents caught him,” Louisa said. “Right in the next room.”

“Wow,” Sylvia said, truly surprised. “Thank you for telling me all this. It’s a beautiful house. It’s nice to know some of the history that goes along with it.”

The door opened, and Tina poked her head in. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“I’d better let you two finish touring the exhibit,” Louisa said. “It’s been wonderful talking with you, Sylvia. You take care.”

And with a quick smile, she glided out the doors with a regal nod to Tina.

“Who was that?”

“The lady of the house,” Sylvia said. “But—” She frowned.

“What?”

“I never told her my name.”

Tina looked at her dubiously. “Well, obviously you did.”

The hair on Sylvia’s arms seemed to tingle, as if she’d walked too close to a high-voltage fence. “Of course. I must have.” She nodded toward the door, but took one last look back at the portrait, struck by the feeling that she’d seen it once before. “Let’s go.”

“YOU HAVEN’T SAID anything for ten minutes,” Tina said. They’d moved into the Roaring Twenties room, filled with flapper gowns and silk stockings and the first bit of Hollywood memorabilia that Sylvia had seen—a large poster advertising the 1922 version of Robin Hood starring Douglas Fairbanks. The poster had been framed and propped on an easel. Sylvia squinted at it, noting that Fairbanks had signed it to “My good friend Tucker Greene.” Apparently Greene had had Hollywood connections even before he tried his hand at directing.

Sylvia smiled, feeling she’d learned a secret fact. Because certainly the poster had nothing to do with the exhibit. It was original to the room, unlike the rest. The flapper gowns and jewelry, along with the sheet music and photographs, had come with the exhibit. At first, Sylvia had thought this section of the exhibit seemed superfluous, but then she started reading the information printed on cards next to the various displays. The Twenties, it said, had been a coming-of-age period for young women. Affluence and postwar giddiness had combined to create a new sensuality and freedom, particularly felt by females. Exploration and sensual delights were at a high point.

“Sylvia!” Tina said. “Are you listening to me? Why are you so quiet?”

“Sorry! Just thinking.”

“About that woman? Or about flapper gowns. You’d look great in that, you know.” She pointed to a beaded gold gown with spaghetti straps and a fringed hem. The gown had no waist, just a thick band that seemed to settle around the mannequin’s hips. The outfit was topped off with a beaded headband highlighted by a dyed feather.

“You think?”

“Oh, sure. That’s the perfect style for girls without boobs.”

Sylvia shot a look to her friend. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Tina shrugged. “It’s true. So, are you gonna tell me what’s on your mind or not?”

Sylvia wandered away from the gown. “I was just thinking about Louisa. The way the past is so alive for her.” She shuddered slightly. “Me, I’d just as soon forget my past.”

Tina snorted. “Who could blame you? And maybe then we could have a normal conversation about boyfriends and vibrators without you going all defensive on me.”

“I’m not defensive,” Sylvia said, even though she probably was. “And what’s so normal about discussing vibrators anyway?”

Tina just rolled her eyes. “I’m going down to the food cart. Coming?”

Sylvia started to say yes, but then she noticed the guard in the corner. And even though there was something oddly creepy about the way he watched her, there was something compelling, too. “I’m going to stay a bit,” she said, turning back to Tina. “I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” Tina said casually. “But let me have the backpack.” They’d both shoved their wallets, makeup and other tourist-girl essentials into a nylon Venice Beach daypack that Syl had picked up from a street vendor. Now, they were taking turns shouldering the thing.

Sylvia handed it over. “Spend your money,” she admonished with mock severity. “And stay out of my makeup.”

“Oh, sure,” Tina retorted. “Just spoil all my fun.” She aimed a grin at Syl, then headed out the door. “Catch you in a bit.”

Sylvia watched her go, shaking her head in amusement.

“Letting go of the past,” a voice said. “Now that’s something I bet a lot of people would like to do.”

Sylvia spun around, surprised to see that the guard had moved silently to stand beside her. “Pardon me?”

“I overheard you and your friend,” he explained, his smile friendly. “Sometimes it’s not about escaping your past, you know. Sometimes, it’s about confronting it.”

Sylvia squinted at him. “Aren’t you…” She trailed off, lifting the exhibit brochure and glancing at it. Sure enough, the guard she was talking to was pictured right there. How odd.

“I travel with the show,” he said. “Keep an eye on things. Make any adjustments that might be needed. That kind of thing.”

“Oh. Right.” She frowned, not really in the mood to talk to strangers, no matter how kindly. “I’ll just go catch up with my friend.”

“Of course, miss.” He stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out a quarter, and started twirling it between his fingers. She watched, fascinated by the agility with which the coin danced over his hand, weaving in and out, over and under and then—snap!—falling to the ground and rolling under the easel with the Fairbanks movie poster.

“Oh! And you were doing so well, too.”

He nodded toward the easel. “I don’t suppose you could snatch that thing back for me? These old knees don’t get down on the ground like they used to.”

She hesitated, not entirely sure why, then realized she was being ridiculous. “Sure. No problem.” She edged toward the poster, keeping her eye to the ground as she looked for the coin. “There you are,” she whispered, bending down. As her fingers closed around it, she felt something shove her from behind. She toppled forward, slamming against the poster and then actually tumbling through it.

But that couldn’t be right. Just her mind playing tricks as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. Her knees went weak and she sagged to the floor.

And the last thing Sylvia remembered thinking was that if she was going to faint, that guard had damn well better say “thank you” when she gave him back his coin.

CHAPTER TWO

TUCKER LEANED AGAINST the railing and watched the swirling, whirling melee below him. His sister, intent on garnering a reputation for throwing the best parties in Beverly Hills, had gone all out with this one. Everyone who was anyone had been invited, and even more had breached the door without invitations. The masquerade theme was fitting, allowing the guests to quaff the illicit alcohol with less fear of recognition. And, surely, the family’s social position assured that they would not be troubled.

Mostly, though, Tucker knew that the guests had come to slide into the oblivion of amusement and temporarily forget the undertone of fear that so recently colored the neighborhood. Fear of a killer who had attacked the community’s women. The Ragtime Strangler they were calling the beast, and the very thought made Tucker’s blood boil, his hatred of anyone who would so intentionally cause pain to a woman cutting at him like the blade of the knife the killer had wielded.

With effort, he forced himself not to think of that, turning his thoughts back to the party and his sister. He looked down, surveying the scene. Women in white with gossamer wings. Men with harlequin collars, their faces painted with black and white greasepaint. And everyone dancing, flirting, laughing. And, of course, drinking.

Honestly, he should be down there with them, but somehow he couldn’t quite work up the energy. He didn’t begrudge his sister her need for entertainment, but he didn’t feel lighthearted enough to join in the fun. The horrors he had seen during the Great War had robbed him of a certain ability to escape into mindless fun. And the specter of the Strangler made him wary, unlike his peers who danced and drank to forget.

Mostly, though, Tucker was occupied with his own worries. Specifically, his mind was whirring, busy plotting ways to kill off Detective Spencer Goodnight, Los Angeles Police Department.

He needed something spectacular, of course. Something that did justice to Spencer’s illustrative career. Something that pitted Spencer against a formidable enemy, like Holmes against Moriarty.

Too bad Tucker had never created a Moriarty-like character within the Goodnight: Los Angeles cast. An astonishing lack of foresight on his part, but he’d certainly never planned on ending the show. Why would he? Of all the radio shows broadcasting from Los Angeles, his was one of the most popular. Families tuned in each week for Spencer Goodnight’s next adventure. Certainly Tucker would never get another job in radio after pulling the plug on such a popular—and profitable—enterprise.

That sad fact weighed on him, but bearing down equally hard was the fact that he had no choice. His father had spoken. And in the Greene household, the Colonel’s word was law.

Some things, it seemed, were simply too good to be true. And some dreams were destined to die.

As, apparently, was Spencer Goodnight.

Perhaps an ocean liner. Something along the lines of Titanic. Goodnight could be on a pleasure voyage. A deb murdered in a grisly fashion. Goodnight finds her killer. But the victory is bittersweet when the ship hits an iceberg and—

“Desperately dull, isn’t it, love?”

Tucker jumped, yanked from his fantasy by his sister Blythe. She took a long drag on a cigarette, precariously settled at the end of a silver holder. She tapped the holder against the railing, releasing a flurry of ashes to the crowd below as she watched him, her expression filled with ennui.

“My dearest Blythe, if the hostess is bored, whatever does that say about the quality of the entertainment?” He knew, of course, that his sister was far from bored. With their parents in London for the summer, Blythe had made sure that the Greene family’s Beverly Hills estate was the after hours destination for anyone who was anyone.

“The entertainment is just fine,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye.

Two flappers ran behind them, giggling as two fellas chased them, champagne sloshing from crystal flutes as they ran.

“Must be me then,” Tucker said, turning away from his sister to watch the crowd below him.

“Darling, it’s always you.” She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “You’re supposed to be mingling, you know. Playing the host.”

“And steal your spotlight? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She laughed, then snagged the sleeve of a passing woman. “Lizzy, be a love and find me a drink. I’m positively parched.”

Blythe’s former school chum winked at Tucker, then disappeared into the crowd, returning momentarily with two flutes of champagne. “The best the host has to offer,” she said.

“And the hostess has very good taste,” Blythe said, lifting her flute.

“I have good taste, too,” Lizzy said, sliding an arm around Tucker’s waist. She batted her lashes, then pressed her hip flirtatiously against his crotch. Lizzie had suffered under an infatuation with him since she’d been in diapers and Tucker in short pants. Never once during those years had he returned her admiration. Even so, since Tucker was neither dead nor a saint, he found himself immediately standing at attention, his body suddenly interested in the young woman who’d never before captured his eye.

Lizzy noticed, of course, and cupped his crotch. Then she giggled, and he had to wonder just how much naughty salt had tickled her nose. Not that the effect would lessen her appeal in bed. Quite the opposite, actually. A happy side effect of the powder was a certain exuberance among the women in his bed.

Blythe took a sip of her champagne, arched an eyebrow and made a graceful exit, leaving Tucker and Lizzy alone.

He pulled her close, then crushed his mouth over hers, the beads of her dress making a satisfying shooshing sound as it scraped against his suit. He grabbed her, his hands tight on her soft rear as he pushed her toward him, their bodies grinding together. So easy, he thought. So easy to lose himself in her. A little sex, a little dance, a little drink. And maybe he could forget his problems. At least until the sun came up.

“Why, Tucker,” she said, when they came up for air, “I didn’t know you cared.”

She was teasing, of course, but the words struck him in the gut, knocking him off-kilter. Because he didn’t care. Not about the business he was being forced to inherit from his father. Not about the parties his sister lived for. Not about this girl.

He cupped her face in his hands, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Go find Roger, Liz,” he said, referring to the boyfriend she’d tossed aside a mere two days ago. “Tell him you want to dance.”

“I—” Her wide eyes, painted with blue and gold, blinked at him, full of hurt.

Tucker couldn’t help himself. He smiled. “Darling Liz,” he said. “It’s not me you want. It’s this.” He took her hand and pressed it against his crotch. Then he swept his arm to encompass the room. “And there’s a lot of that out there.”

He held his breath, afraid he’d pushed her too far, expecting the sting of her palm against his cheek. It didn’t come. Instead, the corner of her mouth lifted, and then she laughed.

“Tucker, darling, you are a wonder.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then left in a shimmy of beads and feathers, leaving Tucker not sure whether he should be relieved that she left so easily or insulted that she didn’t get into a snit.

He decided to go with relief. Much easier, especially since it was true. Honestly, it wasn’t Blythe’s party that bored him so much as it was the guest list. Particularly the guests of the female persuasion.

Although they put up a good show—as did he, of course—he had yet to find a woman who was truly interested in him. His money, yes. Or the bit of celebrity that came from writing the Spencer Goodnight broadcasts.

Mostly, though, the girls were interested only in getting in his bed. As if he were there to be conquered.

To a certain extent, he supposed that was true. For that matter, he wasn’t entirely sure why he minded. The good Lord knows he’d conquered his share of females. Lately, though, he’d found himself restless. And the idea of bedding another flighty female simply held no appeal.

“Tucker, old man. There you are. Why the devil are you hiding out up here?”

Tucker turned to see Jonathan Straithorn coming toward him, his arms out wide. Jonathan’s family lived a few doors down, and he tended to appear whenever Blythe threw one of her parties. A nice enough fella, though Tucker couldn’t say he knew the man well.

“So many lovely women for the pickings. Or men, if that’s your particular poison.” Jonathan cocked his head, indicating the far side of the gallery and the two Ethels, heads so close together Tucker could practically see the heat rise between the two men, so obviously infatuated with each other.

“It’s not,” he said succinctly.

“Nor mine,” Jonathan agreed. “If those two aren’t careful, they’ll end up in the papers. Rumor is that the Tattletale is here. Along with a crasher toting a camera.”

“Bloody hell,” Tucker said, irritated that the infamous gossip columnist had crashed the party. He leaned over the rail, scouring the crowd for an unfamiliar face or anyone carrying a camera or a flash pad. The exercise was futile, of course. No one looked familiar. And considering the density of the crowd, he probably wouldn’t notice a photographer until the flash powder ignited.

“Bloody hell,” he repeated. “You would think with the Strangler still roaming the city the news hounds would have better things to do than chase gossip.”

“Ah, but the Ragtime Strangler’s a mystery,” Jonathan said. “Nothing but questions. Who is he? When will he strike next? Who will be his next victim?” He shrugged. “Not much to report there. But the loves and affairs of the social elite? That, my friend, sells newspapers.”

Tucker eyed him curiously. “A very passionate speech. I’d almost think that you are the mysterious Tattletale.”

Jonathan chuckled. “I assure you, I am not. Though I will admit to having some secrets.”

“Do you now?” Tucker asked, smiling at his neighbor. “You pique my curiosity. Be careful, or I’ll have to enlist Blythe’s aid. She could coerce a secret out of a priest.”

“I imagine she could,” Jonathan said with a tight smile. “And I could only dream of being so lucky as to be the subject of your sister’s coercive tactics.”

“Jonathan, I’m sorry,” Tucker said earnestly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” Jonathan said, but his face was still tight and he didn’t quite look at Tucker.

Tucker wanted to kick himself. How stupid of him to have suggested getting Jonathan and Blythe together, even in jest. The extent of Jonathan’s admiration for Blythe was no secret. Nor, unfortunately, was Blythe’s stout refusal to be wooed by the man. “He may be a neighbor,” she’d told Tucker, “but I don’t like him.” No explanation, no second chances. And that, quite simply, was that.

Tucker cleared his throat. “Been two weeks since the Strangler last attacked,” he said in an effort to change the subject. “I expect there will be another incident soon.”

Jonathan eyed him curiously. “Do you?”

“Seems like a reasonable guess to me,” Tucker said. “Like you said, the bastard’s getting no press. And my guess is he craves attention. From the world, and from the women he attacks.”

“Careful there, Greene. You’re turning into your Detective Goodnight.”

“I think not,” Tucker said. “But the conclusions don’t seem out of sorts, do you think? All of his victims have been women with a certain breeding. More, they’ve all been the types of young women you might see described in the Tattletale’s column. Not young women studying abroad or living in a convent.”

“Flappers,” Jonathan said agreeably. “Women who share our gin. And our beds. Loose women,” he added. “Or that’s what my father would say, anyway.”

Tucker looked at him sharply. “And do you agree?”

Jonathan waved the question away as if it were smoke. “That stuffed shirt? The man has ticker tape where his blood should be. But his attitude does suggest a question. What did the victims do to attract the Strangler’s attention?”

“Figure that out, and we can bait the bastard,” Tucker said.

“Tell me you’re not serious.”

“I’m not,” Tucker said, though in truth he wished he did have the wherewithal to see such a plan through. That a man was so vilely and violently violating and then murdering Beverly Hills women…well, it made his blood burn.

He’d seen horrors during the war, of course, but those horrors spoke to an ideal. Even though he had been conscripted, and would not care to repeat the experience, he understood and agreed with President Wilson’s motives for joining the Allies in the conflict. The vindication of human right, the President had said. And Tucker agreed. To now hear tales of women torn about in the manner of the men he’d crouched with in the French trenches—men less fortunate than he, who had not come home—well, the horror made him ill.

“Speaking of loose women,” Jonathan said, unaware that Tucker’s mind had wandered. “Isn’t that Talia Calvert?” He pointed toward an older woman in orange with an overly large ostrich feather protruding from her head scarf.

Talia Calvert—also known in the gossip magazines as the woman who shared home and hearth with motion picture director R. J. Calvert—tossed her head back in response to something her companion was saying and laughed with delight. She opened her eyes, saw Tucker and waved. Then she aimed her cigarette at him and mouthed, Don’t move.

Ten minutes later she’d worked her way through the room and up the stairs, flirting and laughing and generally beaming at every male within a fifty-foot radius. She pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks. “Tucker, darling, I’m paralyzed with happiness to see you. And who is your absolutely delicious friend?” she asked, turning to Jonathan.

After Tucker made the introductions, Jonathan pressed a kiss to Talia’s hand, sparking a delighted tinkle of laughter. She hooked an arm around his waist and scooted close, apparently claiming Jonathan as hers for the evening. “Have you thought any more about R.J.’s offer?” she asked, tossing her husband’s name into the mix even while her hand slid down to knead Jonathan’s ass.

Tucker tried to keep a straight face, pointedly looking at Talia’s eyes and not the direction of travel of her nimble fingers. “R.J. and I have had this conversation, Talia. I’m not leaving radio to move into film. I’m leaving radio to take the helm of my father’s empire.”

“Empire,” she said with a laugh and a wave of her hand. “Darling, the war is over, or hadn’t you heard? Leave the munitions as your father’s legacy and move on.”

“He’s diversified,” Tucker said, forcing his voice to stay calm and reasonable even though he wanted to scream at her to drop the damn subject. He had no interest in stepping in to fill his father’s shoes. But what choice did he have? He’d been born to this life and, as his father had said, it was his obligation to protect it and the family. Just as it had been his obligation to fight for his country in the war. He’d pursued his own dream for the past four years, writing radio plays. Now it was time to look to duty.

“Diversified?” Talia asked.

“Most of my father’s days now are spent overseeing his portfolio.”

At that, Talia actually snorted her gin, which had the side effect of forcing her to remove her hand from Jonathan’s tush so that she could dab at the front of her dress. Jonathan, always a gentleman, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it over Talia’s breasts.

“You?” Talia said, pressing her hand over Jonathan’s to stop his dabbing, and forcing him to cup her left breast. “Darling, I really can’t imagine you spending the day in a dreary room reading a ticker tape.”

“I hardly expect you to imagine me at all, Talia,” Tucker said, pointedly dropping his gaze to her chest. “I should think you’d have many other things to fantasize about.”

“Indeed,” she said, apparently knowing when to end a conversation. Or, perhaps, simply ready to find a dark corner. “Too bad, though. You have such talent. R.J. will be disappointed.”

Tucker looked at Jonathan. “Yes. I imagine he will.”

“Tucker!” They all looked up as Blythe rushed toward them, causing curious guests to turn in her direction as she sped past.

“Darling, what is it?” Tucker asked as his sister clutched his arm, her chest heaving.

“There’s a woman on the floor in the drawing room,” she said. “I think she may be dead!”

CHAPTER THREE

“THE STRANGLER?” Tucker asked as he ran down the stairs, breathless, behind his sister.

“I don’t know. She’s just…lying there.”

“I can’t imagine the Strangler would hit now,” Jonathan said. “Too many people. He’s never been that bold before.”

“Just hurry,” Blythe said.

They rounded the corner, moving farther away from the grand ballroom and the rear veranda and rushing down the hall toward the front door and the thick, carved oak doorway that led into the drawing room.

The doors were closed, and Tucker shot a questioning glance toward his sister. The room was usually kept open, and during their fetes, the room often saw the still-sober crowd, smoking and discussing philosophy or jazz from the comfort of the oiled-and-rubbed leather furniture.

“I didn’t want anyone wandering in,” Blythe said. “I left Anna in there with the body,” she added, referring to their housekeeper.

“Good Lord, woman,” Jonathan cried. “Have you gone mad? Anna with a dead body? The story will be all over the gossip rags by tomorrow. I imagine that wretched photographer has beaten us to the room.”

“I’ll thank you not to question my judgments in my home, Jonathan,” Blythe said, looking down her nose at him. “I trust Anna implicitly. She’s been with us for years.”

“Perhaps you would do well not to—”

“Enough,” Tucker said. “There’s no point in bickering. Open the door and we’ll see the situation for what it is, whatever it is.”

As it turned out, Blythe was right. Their motherly housekeeper hadn’t moved, and certainly hadn’t brought in any other help. Instead, she was hunched over the prone form of a young woman. She held one of the girl’s hands tight against her breast, and with her free hand, she patted the girl’s cheek.

Tucker raised his brow. “I know that the dubious bit of combat medicine I gleaned during my infantry days is no substitution for a formal medical education, Anna darling, but I sincerely doubt that a pat on the cheek will prove restorative.”

“She’s not dead, sir. Just a mite under the weather.”

Tucker took a tentative step forward and found himself looking into a very alive—albeit very unconscious—face. A beautiful face, too, with light brown hair framing angelic features.

She wore no makeup, unlike the current fashion, and Tucker tried to recall the last time he’d seen a young woman without her face painted. He’d gotten so used to seeing his sister and her friends, their eyes outlined in kohl, their lids painted blue, their cheeks and lips flush with rouge.

He’d forgotten how fresh a woman could look. Soft and new, as if she’d just woken in his arms after a night of lovemaking.

Tucker closed his eyes, frowning, and wondered where the devil such absurd thoughts had come from. Yes, the woman was attractive, but she was also quite knocked out. And he was behaving like a foolish schoolboy.

Quickly, before anyone noticed his distraction, he bent beside her, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it over her. “Yours, too, Jonathan,” he said. “If she’s in shock, we need to keep her warm.”

“Do you think that’s it?” Talia asked. “Shock? Did she meet the Strangler perhaps?” Her eyes, Tucker noticed, were wide with excitement. “And what a strange costume she’s wearing. Dungarees and that odd top. I realize this is a masquerade party, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a young woman choose such inappropriate attire. It’s both provocative and entirely unflattering.”

“Out,” said Tucker firmly.

“Pardon me?” Talia’s eyebrows rose in amazement.

Tucker nodded his head, in deference to the woman’s years. “Please. I’d like you to step out.” In truth, he agreed with Talia’s assessment. It all was very odd. And the way the black material clung to her breasts was, indeed, very alluring. “The girl hardly needs to wake up to five strangers peering at her as if she were a carnival sideshow.”

For a moment, he thought Talia would argue. But the older woman surprised him, her eyes losing their scandalous gleam and fading to a warm sympathy. “Quite so,” she said. She took Jonathan by the elbow and started to steer them both toward the door. Jonathan, however, held back.

“You, too, old man,” Tucker said.

“Very well,” Jonathan said. “But first, a word.”

Reluctantly, Tucker left the girl’s side. “What?”

“The way she’s dressed. Dark colors. Pants more suitable for a working man.” He exhaled loudly. “The woman has a pretty face, but don’t fail to consider the obvious, Tucker. Your home is filled with valuables as well as with your guests. You’d do well to ensure the security of both.”

Tucker bit back an instinctive response to slug Jonathan and defend the girl’s honor. Instead he nodded stiffly. “Of course,” he said, then motioned for the door.

“Give a shout if you need anything,” Jonathan said, casting one backward glance at them before the oak doors swung shut, leaving Tucker alone with Anna, Blythe and the unconscious woman.

“Anna, go prepare a room. I expect we’ll have an overnight guest.”

“Of course, sir. Should I send for Dr. Williams?”

Tucker looked at Blythe, who shrugged. “Yes,” he told Anna. “I think that might be a good idea.”

As Anna scurried out to take care of the various tasks, Tucker bent over the woman, her hand tight in his. Blythe knelt down beside them, her face furrowed with concern. “Whatever could be wrong with her?”

“I don’t know,” Tucker said. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this helpless in his life. Not even during the nine months he spent fighting in the war, with artillery bursting all around him. At least then he’d had a sidearm, had a fair chance of staying alive. And he’d understood the situation.

“Where do you think she came from? Did she come for the party? Does she know one of the guests? Perhaps she’s come to work. We hired dozens and dozens of waiters. Could she be wearing some odd new uniform?”

“Blythe,” Tucker said, without looking at his sister, “do be quiet.”

Blythe made a hurt little noise, but she complied, and for that, Tucker was grateful. He needed to think, and he couldn’t get his head around the situation, not with her blathering on and on. He knew the answer to none of her questions, and that one simple fact preyed on him. This beautiful woman had collapsed in his drawing room, and he had no idea as to her identity or purpose. No idea about anything at all, for that matter.

Except for one thing.

Something about the woman fascinated him. He brushed his fingers across her cheek in a soft caress, wishing he knew what had brought her to him. Although he couldn’t explain it, the scent of danger filled the air, and just looking at her made him want to ball his hands into fists, leap to his feet and play the savior.

Only, what, he wondered, would he be saving her from?

He didn’t know. All he knew for sure was that a compulsion was growing within him. A deeply felt need to watch over this woman. To protect her.

And right then, with her hand held tight in his own, he silently promised to do just that.

SYLVIA OPENED HER eyes, managed to process the bizarre realization that she was flat on her back with a strange man’s eyes peering down at her, and screamed.

She sat bolt upright, still screaming, the sound coming clearer and stronger as she changed position and pulled more air into her lungs. The sound—or possibly the movement—drove the man backward, and she told herself that was a good thing, even as a small part of her mind mourned the fact that he was no longer stroking her hand.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” a woman’s soft voice murmured beside her, and Sylvia turned, her head swimming with the motion, and her stomach threatening to lose its tenuous hold on whatever she’d eaten recently. What had she eaten recently? She couldn’t remember. She frowned, concentrating as she tried to force her mind to feel like something other than warm Jell-O.

Right. Yes. Of course. Pancakes at DuPars at the Farmers Market. Then she and Tina had tooled down Sunset in Tina’s convertible, and stopped at the Greene mansion for the sex exhibit.

The frown deepened, and she turned her head, taking in the familiar—and yet oddly different—room. “Where are the exhibit cases?” she asked. She saw the Robin Hood poster, framed and on the wall instead of propped on an easel. But nothing else seemed familiar. “For that matter, where’s Tina? Or that guard?”

The woman and man looked at each other, shaking their heads in very obvious confusion.

Sylvia fought off a warm rush of panic and forced herself to speak very slowly. “What happened to me?”

The woman beside her shot a frown toward the man. “We’re not sure what happened,” she said softly. “We think you fainted.”

“Oh.” Sylvia considered that. As far as she knew, she’d never fainted in her life. Considering all the boxlugging, furniture-moving and shelf-hanging she’d done over the past few days, perhaps she would have been smart to have worried less about calories and eaten more than half a pancake at breakfast. “Okay then,” she said, looking into the woman’s eyes. “Then who are you?”

“I’m Blythe,” the woman said. “And this is Tucker,” she added, pointing toward the man. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sylvia,” she said automatically, her eyes never leaving Tucker’s face. It was an interesting face, to go with an interesting name. And how curious that Louisa had just mentioned her grandfather, also named Tucker.

This Tucker was darkly handsome, with tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, as if he knew how to laugh and practiced often. And those eyes! They watched her with an intensity that should have made her uncomfortable but instead made her feel inexplicably warm and safe. As if his only purpose in the world was to watch over her.

“When I opened my eyes,” she said, “I saw your eyes. I thought you were an angel.”

His grin shot down to her toes. “So naturally you screamed your head off.”

Her cheeks warmed with the blush. “The angel thing only lasted a second,” she said. “Then I realized I was lying on the ground and I’d never seen you before in my life.”

“I was looking out for you,” he said. “We thought you were injured. I was trying to help you.”

“I believe you,” she said, hoping he understood that she was telling the truth. For some reason, she didn’t want this man to think she was afraid of him.

She started to climb to her feet, and Blythe moved in and took her arm for support. Her head started swimming about halfway up, though, and she sank back down to the ground. “Maybe it’s a little too soon for that,” she said.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Tucker said, settling himself comfortably on the floor beside her.

“I’m not sure I can,” she said. “I remember looking at the exhibit, and talking with Louisa about the portraits and the history of the house. Stuff like that. And then I went back into the exhibit to find my friend Tina. She went off to find some food, and I ended up chatting with the guard. And then he dropped a coin, and I volunteered to pick it up for him. But then I felt a shove, and….” She trailed off with a shrug, not willing to confess the very odd sensation of falling through a picture. “I guess I passed out.”

Tucker and Blythe were looking at each other more than her, and though she tried, Sylvia couldn’t interpret the signals that seemed to be passing between them.

She watched them, then decided she might as well ask what had put that look of concerned confusion in their eyes. But when she opened her mouth to ask, a completely different question came out. “So, um, are you two married?”

She clapped her hand over her mouth, completely mortified. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I must be dizzier than I thought. That is so not my business.”

She wanted to look at Blythe while she spoke, but her eyes kept drifting to Tucker who, she was relieved to see, looked amused rather than upset.

“She’s my sister,” he said, with a tender smile that made her heart do little backflips. “Who is Louisa?”

“The lady who lives here,” Sylvia said. “At least, she lives in the part of the house without the exhibits.” She looked around the room again. “Where on earth did the exhibit cases go?”

“The room’s the same as it’s always been,” Blythe said. “As for Louisa, maybe you ended up at the wrong house? Tucker and I live here. Our parents, too, when they aren’t in London.”

“Oh.” Sylvia reached up to rub her temples, trying to process that information. “Is Tina here, then? Did I have some sort of walking blackout?” Maybe she and Tina had moved on to the next event in Tina’s packed schedule for the day? Since Sylvia had never fainted before, she wasn’t entirely sure how she would react. Maybe losing hours and hours was perfectly normal.

Automatically, she stretched out her arm, pulling her sleeve back to reveal her pink Swatch. The damn thing was stopped, the second hand stuck firmly on the twelve, and the time at eleven forty-five, just about the time Tina had headed off for a snack.

So much for the lost-time theory. That was okay, she supposed. Because as disconcerting as the odd memory lapses were, they weren’t nearly as frustrating as this damn headache. She could barely even focus, the pain was so intense.

Experimentally, she concentrated on the wall, squinting until one of the portraits came into focus. A man, in a dinner jacket, a monocle in one eye. She’d seen it before. Near the portrait of Louisa’s grandmother.

“This is the house,” Sylvia said. “I remember that portrait.” She frowned. “But the one of Louisa’s grandmother isn’t here.”

She frowned, wondering what was going on, when she once again saw Blythe and Tucker exchange looks filled with confusion and concern.

“Okay,” Sylvia said. “Enough. Why do you keep looking at each other like that? Am I talking crazy? You’re acting like I should be in the nuthouse or something.”

“This Louisa,” Tucker said. “What was her last name? Do you know?”

“Of course,” Sylvia said. “Louisa Greene. I told you. She owns the house.”

“She doesn’t,” Tucker said, looking at Blythe rather than at her. “There is no Louisa Greene. This house is owned by Irene and Carson Greene. Our parents.”

She blinked at that, trying hard to get a grip on reality. “Greene,” she repeated. “Your last name is Greene?”

“Yes.” He frowned at her, his brow creased with worry. “Miss, are you okay?”

She realized she’d put a hand to her head, and she could tell without a mirror that she was pale. “I…I guess I must just be a bit confused.” That was certainly an understatement.

“I imagine so,” he said. “As you can see, there aren’t any exhibit cases here,” he said. “They’re as mysterious as Louisa.”

“Right.” She licked her lips.

“I think you need a doctor,” he said. He looked up at his sister. “Can you go see if Anna’s managed to locate Dr. Williams?”

“Of course.” She bent down and gave Sylvia’s hand a squeeze. “Everything’s going to be fine, darling.” And then she floated out of the room, her short, beaded gown shimmering in the soft lighting.

“Flapper,” she whispered, her mind registering the clothes even before she’d realized. “Like in the exhibit room.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, as her heart started to pound in her chest. Her skin went cold, and she felt her insides start to tremble with a sensation that felt remarkably like an anxiety attack. Hell, maybe it was an anxiety attack. If the ridiculous theory trying to squeeze into her mind was correct, she had every reason to be anxious. “Oh, my God,” she whispered again.

“Are you all right?” His eyes were filled with so much concern that her heart nearly melted, and she was overcome with the urge to touch him. No, not just touch, but to kiss him. The urge was overwhelming for that matter, as if she might be sucked out of this world and into oblivion if she couldn’t find her footing in this man’s arms.

Prodded by some force she couldn’t control, she leaned forward, pressed her palms against his cheeks, and pressed her lips against his. Soft yet firm, his mouth moved beneath hers, first in surprise, and then in response. They kissed deeply, their tongues meeting and mating. Liquid lust pooled in her belly and between her thighs, her breasts tingling with desire, and her body weak with longing.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he said when they pulled apart, all too soon from Sylvia’s point of view. “But what was that for?”

“I needed to feel alive,” she said, only realizing as she spoke the words that they were exactly true. And that it had worked. The kiss had worked a magic on her, sending electric currents through every part of her body. Making her feel safe and alive and grounded.

She drew in a breath, still unsteady from the rush of desire. “Tucker, what day is it?”

“September tenth,” he said. “What day is the last you recall?”

“What year?” she asked, ignoring the second part of his question and tightening her hands into fists as she steeled herself for his answer.

“Nineteen twenty-three,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

But once again, she didn’t answer. Because even though she’d told herself that had to be the explanation—even though she’d expected to hear from his lips that she’d somehow traveled back in time—now that he’d said the date aloud she knew that she couldn’t open her mouth. Not right then. Not yet.

Because if she did, she’d surely scream again.

CHAPTER FOUR

DR. WILLIAMS bent over the girl, his hand clutching her wrist, his focus directed solely at his pocketwatch. The woman, Tucker noticed, also had a watch. Hers was strapped to a pink strip and wrapped around her wrist. An usual piece of adornment, to be sure. Like nothing he’d seen before, either among the women of Beverly Hills or during his European travels.

He’d almost pointed it out to Talia and Blythe, but something had caused him to hold his tongue, and by the time Blythe had looked at him, her eyes questioning and concerned, the timepiece had disappeared under the sleeve of the girl’s strange garment.

“Doctor?” the girl said. “Am I okay?”

Dr. Williams stood up, stroking his chin. “Your pulse is a bit fast, but not of a level to raise concern. Your pupils are responding properly to light and your reflexes are perfectly normal. Except for your dizzy spells and your inability to remember how you got here, I’d have to say you seem like a perfectly healthy young woman.”

“Thank you,” she said, with obvious relief.

“I do need to ask you some questions now, though. I conducted the physical examination, first, to rule out any injuries or illnesses. But now—”

“You want to check my head. I get it.”

Williams’s smile was gentle, and Tucker found himself grateful he was treating the woman with such care. Intellectually, he knew that was a ridiculous reaction. The woman had appeared mysteriously in his drawing room, dressed in dark clothes and unknown to any of his friends or guests. A logical guess was that she intended to steal from them, just as Jonathan had suggested. Their kiss, however, had told him otherwise. The press of her lips against his had been a reaction filled with need and desire, but also with honesty. And the longing that had fired his blood had been like nothing he’d experienced before.

Logic, therefore, had very little hold on Tucker at the moment. He was, quite simply, infatuated. More, he knew—from her face and from her touch—that she did not intend any harm for him or his family. She was in trouble. She needed him.

And, in truth, he needed her, too. He didn’t understand the depth of feeling that coursed through him, but he knew that it was real.

“Ask me anything,” the girl was saying to Dr. Williams.

“Do you know what your name is?”

“Sylvia,” she said, and Tucker couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t volunteer her last name.

“A pleasure to meet you, Sylvia,” Dr. Williams said. “Do you know our president?”

The girl laughed, a little nervously. “Do I look like a girl who moves in those social circles?”

Tucker laughed, and the doctor joined in.

“I don’t mean to be flip,” Sylvia said. “But I’m fine. Truly. Just a little dizzy. I was disoriented, but I’m better now.”

“But you came for Louisa,” Blythe said. “And we don’t know a Louisa.”

“I met her at a party,” Sylvia said. “Perhaps I misunderstood her last name. Or perhaps she was playing a trick on me.”

“Why would she do that?” Tucker asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Can you stand?” That from the doctor.

She drew in a breath. “I think so.” She started to climb to her feet, taking Tucker’s outstretched arm when he offered it to her. “Yes,” she said. “See, I’m much better.” She kept clinging to his arm, though, a fact that didn’t trouble Tucker at all.

“And do you know where you live, my dear?” the doctor asked.

“Doctor, of course. You’re acting as if no one has ever fainted before,” she said with a charming smile. To Tucker’s eyes, though, the smile didn’t seem to reach her core. She was, he realized, lying. Or at least not telling them the full truth.

“How’s your head?” he asked. “Anna will have made a place for you by now in one of the guest rooms. We should let you get some sleep.”

“Oh,” she said. “I couldn’t. I mean, I should…” She trailed off with a frown.

“You should?”

“I was just going to say that I should go home. But—”

“Later,” he said, determined to keep her there. “It’s late, and I wouldn’t feel right letting you travel in your condition. She should stay for the night, shouldn’t she, Blythe?”

Blythe’s eyes shifted with remarkable speed from surprise to delight. “Absolutely,” Blythe said. “You can stay as long as you need until you’re feeling better.” She took Sylvia’s other arm and shot a triumphant smile toward Tucker.

He wanted to tell her not to be melodramatic. He was simply concerned for the girl. He was acting out of chivalry, not romance.

But even had they been alone, he couldn’t have said any of that. Because the truth was that from the first moment he’d seen her on his floor, Sylvia had fascinated him more than any of the women giggling and dancing in his ballroom or on his veranda. Until he knew why—until he’d explored the possibilities with this woman—Tucker didn’t intend to let her get away.

TIME TRAVEL.

Sylvia sat at the foot of the bed, her silk-clad knees hugged to her chest, as she let the words flit through her head one more time.

Time travel.

Could it really be possible?

Considering she was sitting here in a bedroom of the Greene mansion—which was clearly not doubling as a museum—wearing silk pajamas and listening to the dying strains of “Has Anybody Seen My Girl” played on a scratchy phonograph somewhere in the house…well, she had to admit that the idea of time travel was feeling pretty damn plausible.

She got up and paced, loving the feel of the soft pajamas against her skin. Blythe had told her to help herself to anything in the room, and she’d taken the girl at her word, pulling on the decadently soft outfit, like something she’d find in a vintage-clothing store, and certainly not like the ratty T-shirt and panties she wore to bed in her own time.

No, these pajamas made her feel feminine. Sexy even, and she felt her cheeks heat at the thought—and at the image of the man that flashed into her head. Tucker Greene. And not the vague concept of him, either, as some force in Hollywood. No, this Tucker Greene was flesh and blood and devilishly sexy. Their kiss had fired her blood, heated her soul. And although she’d not been thinking clearly when she’d put her mouth to his, now her thoughts were focused and clean. She wanted him. She wanted him with a fury like nothing she’d ever felt before.

She’d been attracted to many men in her life, but none so strongly—or so instantaneously—as Tucker. Under the circumstances, the attraction seemed bizarre. After all, she was time-traveling here. Sex should be the last thing on her mind. And, honestly, it was. But even through the haze of confusion, her body had tingled with his proximity, and she’d mourned a little when Blythe and Anna had escorted her to this room.

“God, you’re as bad as Tina,” she whispered to herself, getting up to pace the room and force the prurient thoughts from her head. She was in another decade. Another millennium, for that matter. Best she focus on that, and forget about the supersexy man of the house. At least for the moment.

Resolved, she made a quick pass of the room, confirming what she already knew: no television, no digital alarm clock, not even a radio even though she was certain radios existed in the twenties. But back then the family had gathered around it, right? And they all sat together like a family listening to The Shadow or Jack Benny or whoever it was that was around during that time. Honestly, if she’d known she was going to be time-traveling, she would have paid more attention in history class. Or at least watched The History Channel more often.

Time travel. Now that was something for the Discovery Channel, and unfortunately she hadn’t watched much of that, either. She still couldn’t quite grasp it, despite all the evidence. Her hesitation probably made sense. After all, the whole concept wasn’t exactly within the realm of normal.

She should be in shock. Freaking out. Borderline hysterical. That was the proper way to act when the unimaginable happened to you, right? Except she wasn’t any of those things, because to Sylvia, the situation wasn’t unimaginable at all. Instead, it was the culmination of all her dreams.

That was the real reason she couldn’t quite wrap her head around the concept. Because if it were true—if she had really traveled through time—then all of her hopes and fantasies really had come true. And that seemed like too much to wish for.

With a sigh, she sat back on the bed, the intricately embroidered pillows propped behind her back. It was true. Being here meant that all those afternoons of wishing she could be swept away to a different land—of wishing she could find the magic wardrobe and Aslan the King—had paid off.

Dear God. She’d finally gotten her childhood wish, but it had come too damn late. Martin had been dead for years now. If Fate was going to toss her backward by almost a century, then why in hell couldn’t it have happened when she truly needed the escape?

She got off the bed and started pacing again. She had to get back, of course. She had a fabulous job she was supposed to start in the morning. Not that she had a clue how to get back.

Still, she had to figure out a way. She had obligations and a life that she’d fought for tooth and nail despite the specter of Martin always hanging over her shoulder. He may have tried to screw up her life—both literally and figuratively—but in the end she’d come out on top. She’d aced every school she’d attended, and the bidding war when she’d graduated law school had been a beauty to behold. She was a success now—one hundred percent—and that was all in spite of Martin Straithorn.

Of course, just thinking his name made her shiver, and she rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to make the goose bumps disappear. “So much for coming out on top,” she whispered, the sound of her voice making her feel a little crazy because, honestly, who talked to themselves?

All of a sudden, she wished Tina were there. That wish, however, wasn’t going to come true. Sylvia was all alone, just as she had been so much of her life. Alone, and always running away.

She paused for a moment, her mind in a whirl as she thought about how she’d run toward academia and work, even while she was running away from Martin and the memories. She’d used her work to substitute for a relationship because she couldn’t handle the intimacy. She couldn’t handle the give and take that came with an honest relationship with a man, because all Martin ever did was take. She knew that. Her motivations were so clear any Psych 101 student could see them.

But knowing and changing were two different things. Blame the man, sure. But she still had to wriggle out from under his thumb.

She just wasn’t sure how to do that.

She’d reached the window and now looked blankly down toward the manicured lawn, watching the men in suits and the women in colorful dresses flit away into the night.

One turned, looking up toward her window. Tucker. She gasped, realizing her heart had started pounding double time. She didn’t even know the man, and yet his touch had fired her blood.

Pheromones. She’d learned all about them in biology. Their effect on fruit flies, animals and, of course, people.

Sexual attraction, chemistry, lust at first sight. Whatever you called it, it was real. Scientifically established. Her body chemistry reacted to his. That was all. That was what had compelled her to kiss him.

But she couldn’t help wondering if his body reacted the same way to hers, although she was pretty sure it had. There’d been real passion in his kiss, after all.

She smiled a little at the possibility, at the same time thinking that she must be an idiot. Because how many girls who found themselves thrust into the 1920s spent their time lusting after a man instead of trying to figure out how to get back home?

She didn’t know the answer. But even with the question hanging out there, she knew one thing—she wanted Tucker Greene.

The thought took her a little aback. Sure, she’d been attracted to guys on and off all her life. After all, Martin may have screwed up her ability to communicate sexually, but he hadn’t put a dent in her ability to lust after a man. But she’d never felt for a guy anything like what she now felt for Tucker. A desperate longing. An almost physical need. The sense that if she couldn’t touch him again, the world would never shift back and everything would be slightly off-kilter from now until the end of time.

Melodramatic, but that was how she felt. And because of that, she took a deep breath and allowed herself to consider the decadent little thought that had been seeking entrance to her mind: Tina’s words, loud and clear in her head. “Find a man you want and take charge. No strings, no expectations. Just make it all about Sylvia. Get exactly what you want from the guy. And once you do that, you’ll be free of Martin. I promise.”

Tina’s plan had seemed unlikely and frivolous while standing in the museum, now it seemed not only palatable but promising.

Tucker Greene could be the focus of her Grand Experiment. A chance to follow Tina’s advice and to take what she wanted. Not her usual behavior, to be sure, but nothing about this situation was usual. She could be gone in a split second, right? For that matter, she wasn’t even really here. After all, she wouldn’t even be born for another sixty-some years.

So why not—as Tina said—take what she wanted?

She took a deep breath, steeling her resolve. She was going to seduce Mr. Tucker Greene. And for the first time in her life, she intended to be the one in charge between the sheets.

Scary to be sure. But mostly, Sylvia simply couldn’t wait.

SYLVIA COULDN’T SLEEP.

She tried. Everything from counting sheep to singing lullabies to herself.

Nothing worked. She told herself that she simply wasn’t tired. For all she knew she’d been blissfully asleep for the equivalent of days as she traveled back through time. It wasn’t as if she understood the physics of going back, after all. For all she knew, it had taken a full month of “her” time to get here.

A nice theory, but probably not true. More likely, she couldn’t sleep because she couldn’t get her mind to calm down. Having come up with a plan, now she wanted to implement it.

Trouble was, she wasn’t very good at first steps. At least not where men were concerned.

A soft tap at her door startled her, and she jumped. Probably Blythe, come to check on her. She drew in a breath, slid out of bed and called, “Come in.”

A rattle and then the door pushed open. Sylvia’s heart did a skittering number as she saw that it wasn’t Blythe standing there at all. It was Tucker, and her pulse immediately picked up its tempo. This was her chance, she thought, even as she wondered if she could see it through.

“Ah,” he said, looking at her, then immediately at the floor. “I beg your pardon, Sylvia. I thought I heard you say come in.”

“I did,” she said, wondering what was wrong with him. The thought had barely entered her mind, when she realized the answer. She was in pajamas. True, they covered up more of her body than many of the outfits in her closet at home, but they were pajamas nonetheless. Intimate apparel. And this was, after all, another era.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, slipping into a robe she’d found earlier. “I don’t know where my head is. Please, I’m decent now.”

He looked up then, and the heat she saw in his eyes sent a trill of power through her. Without a doubt, he’d had the same reaction to her that she’d had to him. And if she wanted to take advantage of the situation, now would be a perfect time.

The trouble, of course, was that she had no clue what to do. She took a step toward him, wishing she had Tina’s bold confidence. How could she be so confident in the courtroom and so muddled with a man? It really defied explanation.

“Did you—” She broke off, cleared her throat, and tried again. “Did you need something?”

“No, I…” He moved closer, and she matched him step by step until they were separated only by inches, the air between them crackling with need. She wanted to touch him, but although she had the desire, she couldn’t quite find the courage.

“I saw your light on,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed.”

Not everything. But she couldn’t say the words aloud. Instead, she nodded. “I’m fine,” she said, watching his chest rise and fall. His eyes stayed on her, dark brown and intense. Filled with concern and something else, too. A familiar heat that she was certain was matched by her own steady gaze.

Do it! Walk one step toward him and kiss him. You’ve already kissed him once. Just do it again. Take control, just like Tina said.

Right. She could do that. This was fantasy. She was in a world not her own, and when would she ever have such an opportunity to be bold again?

Before she could stop herself, she shifted her weight, starting to take the last step toward him. She froze, however, when he started to speak.

“I also wanted to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable.”

She peered at him, confused, and something in his tone making her wary. “Not at all. It’s a lovely room. Blythe gave me carte blanche with the closet. And these pajamas are awesome.”

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat and not quite looking her in the eyes. “I noticed.” He cleared his throat again. “Ah, what I mean to say is that I understand you were a bit dizzy and delirious earlier. I hope you don’t think that I would be so bold as to presume any intentions on your part because of our earlier, ah, kiss.”

It was Sylvia’s turn to blush. “Oh. Right.” Damn. So much for her ability to read men. In the moment, she’d thought he’d been enjoying the kiss. Apparently, he’d only been indulging her particular neurosis. “Um, thanks for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. It was essentially an exit line, and she expected him to turn and leave.

Except he didn’t. He stood there, looking at her, his expression soft, his eyes warm and inviting. So inviting, in fact, that she almost took another step toward him.

She tried to channel Tina. Tried to conjure up some semblance of control. Of a woman who could, in fact, have the upper hand with a man.

But whatever confidence she’d gathered only moments ago had vanished, and she found herself unable to meet his eyes. Even as she cursed her hesitation, she heard herself say, “Thanks for coming to check on me. That was very sweet of you.”

“Of course,” he said. “You’re our guest. We want you to be comfortable. If you need anything during the night—”

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, riding waves of hope. “Yes?”

“—Blythe’s room is the last door on the left. Or you can ring for Anna.”

“Oh. Sure. Thanks,” she said, the butterflies turning to lead weights.

He turned then and left, his departing gesture nothing more sensual than a smile.

Sylvia stood there, staring at the door and cursing herself for her failed attempt to take control. Even in the twenties, she thought, some things never seemed to change.

TUCKER PACED THE length of his room, not sure if he should be thanking his parents or cursing them. Because it was only their constant drilling of manners into his head that had made him walk away from Sylvia.

Damn.

He’d wanted her—still wanted her. And it had cost him dearly to walk away.

Even now, he could imagine the way the soft silk of those pajamas felt under his hands. The buttons hard against his fingers as he made short work of them. The softness of his skin against his palm and the beat of her heart pounding in time with his own.

He pressed his hands to his head, cursing himself. It was as if the woman had worked a spell on him. She was beautiful, yes, but she was also confused, possibly sick, and most definitely lost. He wasn’t a scoundrel. And only a scoundrel would take advantage of a woman in her condition.

He paused in front of his window and looked down at the yard. Only a few stragglers remained. Understandable since it was almost four in the morning. Still, if he went down now, surely he could find someone to share a drink—or five—with. He needed to sleep. And with Sylvia on his mind, sleep wasn’t going to come without a bit of gin to help it along.

Armed with a plan to keep his mind off the girl, he crossed to his door and yanked it open, then gasped as he saw her standing there, her hand raised as if she were just about to knock.

“Sylvia!”

“I—Oh, I didn’t realize you were stepping out. I’m…I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s—”

“Wait.” She closed her eyes, drew in a breath. When she opened her eyes again, she seemed calmer, less confused, and certainly more in control. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and pointed at him. “You,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly. “Back in the room.”

“Pardon?” But she was already stepping toward him, and he had no choice but to move backward. As soon as she cleared the threshold, she kicked back, catching the door and slamming it shut. “Does it lock?”

“Yes,” he said, then watched with increasing fascination as she engaged the lock and handed him the key.

She drew in a breath, looking nervous and determined and positively delicious. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“No,” he said, feeling himself harden, and hating himself for so desperately hoping that she’d come to him in that way. “Not at all.”

“Good.” Her features relaxed a bit, and her mouth curved into a smile. “I had second thoughts,” she said.

“About what?”

“About letting you leave my room.”

Heat coursed through his veins, and he felt a wave of relief. He’d been right. Thank God, he’d been right. “I see,” he said, hoping he really did.

“Did I misunderstand?” she asked, her voice losing some of its power and taking on a vulnerable tone. “I thought you had wanted to stay. That you’d only left to be polite. Proper.” She licked her lips. “Was I wrong?”

He could practically hear his parents screaming in his head for him to send the girl back to her room. She’d had a difficult evening. She was confused. No gentleman would take advantage of her in that state.

Tucker, however, wasn’t concerned with being a gentleman. Not then. Not with her.

Slowly, he shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers. “No,” he said. “You didn’t misunderstand.” And then, when he saw the flare of heat in her eyes, he knew that he’d said exactly the right thing.

SYLVIA COULDN’T believe she’d done it.

After he’d left her room, she’d cursed herself, trying to talk herself into following him. She’d never expected to convince herself, though. And the fact that she had—that she’d actually ended up outside Tucker’s door—both delighted and baffled her.

Fantasy, she reminded herself. She wasn’t even born yet. This wasn’t real, no matter how much it might feel real. This was just a chance. A chance to be in charge. A chance to work out the demons of her personal past here in the temporal past. Because right now she should have no demons. Martin didn’t exist any more than she did. All that mattered in this world was her and Tucker and that zing of desire she’d felt arc between them.

Fulfill the promise embedded in that zing, and she could go back to her own time with a new confidence. The kind of confidence she’d wanted to take with her to Los Angeles, leaving her sexual shyness behind with Dwight in San Francisco.

That had to be why the guard had sent her here, after all. Because she was certain he had sent her. All that talk about the past, and then the business with the coin. She didn’t know how he did it. But she was absolutely certain that the exhibit guard was responsible.

Only time would tell if she should thank him or curse him. But as she stood there looking at Tucker, her heart was filled only with gratitude. And desire.

“I convinced myself I needed to come after you,” she said, distilling the lecture she’d given herself in her room to its most basic components.

“I’m glad you did,” he said.

“Are you?” she moved toward him, her voice low, her body humming.

“You may think me very ungentlemanly, but I’ve craved you from the first moment I saw you.” He’d moved even closer to her as he spoke, and now he was mere inches away, so close she could feel the heat of his skin, and the scent of him made her light-headed.

More than his proximity, though, it was his words that thrilled her, firing her confidence. “Kiss me,” she said boldly, forcing the demand out before she could stop herself.

He didn’t give her any time to change her mind. The request had barely left her lips when his mouth blocked any further words. His lips were soft, yet firm, and captured her fully. One hand snaked around her waist, and the other held the back of her head, holding her captive as his tongue sought entrance and explored the heat of her mouth.

Her body reacted, melting against him even as her head screamed for her not to give in, to take charge. To take him.

But the connection between mind and body had been severed. She was losing herself to the sensations. His mouth. His hands. The way his fingers stole down the pajama top, managing to combine skill and fumbling as he unfastened the buttons and freed her breasts.

His hands cupped them, his thumbs rubbing her rockhard nipples. She tilted her head back and lost herself to the pleasure. And it was good. His touch, the heat that coursed through her, the trembling in her belly. Nothing dangerous. Nothing scary.

But also nothing in her control.

It’s okay to give up control when you want to. The words ricocheted through her head, and she told herself they were true. Martin had taken her control away. Here, she was giving it freely to Tucker.

His mouth left hers, and she gasped, sucking in delicious air to cool the heat raging within her. A heat that didn’t dissipate when he pressed his mouth to her neck and started kissing his way down, lower and lower, his lips caressing the curve of her breasts even as his fingers kneaded and pulled, igniting a fuse that ran from her nipples all the way down to between her thighs.

She pressed her legs together, not sure if she was trying to quell the need building there or satisfy it. All she knew was that she couldn’t keep still, and she writhed against him, desperate for his touch.

His lips didn’t disappoint, as he continued his southward journey. His tongue played across her skin, tickling her navel as he teased and promised with his lips and hands.

His fingers tugged at the soft drawstring on the pajama bottoms, and she gasped a little when they came loose, then pooled around her feet. She hadn’t worn her panties, instead rinsing them out and hanging them in the bathroom to dry for the morning. Now she heard his gasp as he saw her naked before him.

He eased his thumb between her thighs and found her clit. She tossed her head back, her eyes closed as he stroked her, her entire body shaking from the thrill of it. She wanted to lose herself to him in a way she’d never done before. Certainly not with Dwight. Not, for that matter, with any man before.

But then he did the unthinkable. He bent his head closer, his breath tickling the soft skin of her inner thighs. And with his tongue, he teased and tasted her.

She froze. Fear and revulsion fought to take over, and she fought back. Not with Tucker. She didn’t want those feelings with Tucker. The sense of being lost, of losing herself. Of having to take whatever was given even if she didn’t want it at all.

But she was. She was standing there taking it even though inside her head she was screaming for him to stop. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek, and she knew that she’d lost the battle. She’d foolishly believed that Tucker was different. That even though she’d come in here with Tina’s plan of being in control, that she could surrender to him and still not lose herself.

She’d been wrong, and now everything between them would be tainted.

Tucker. Dear Lord, not this. Not when a fantasy had been laid at her feet. This was her fantasy, and she was determined to take it back.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

And as she repeated that mantra in her head, her heart pounded in her chest, fear fighting courage, until she had to force the word out in a single breath even as her hands cupped the side of his head. “Stop.”

He looked up, his eyes soft but surprised. The surprise faded quickly to alarm, and he was on his feet, his finger brushing away a tear. “My darling,” he said. “Forgive me. I was too bold. I thought—”

She pressed a finger to his lip. “Shut up,” she said, then kissed him hard. She fumbled for his belt and loosened his pants. “The bed,” she demanded, determined to take control. To take back this moment, and not let anything about Tucker be tainted with the revulsion she felt for her stepfather.

He hesitated, but when he looked into her eyes, something seemed to shift. He pressed a kiss to her lips, then scooped her up, carrying her bridelike to the bed and laying her there.

She refused to stay down, though. She climbed to her knees and then, with a soft hand on his chest, she laid him back, then straddled him. Leaning forward, she captured him with a kiss, her hands stroking his chest as she went to work on the buttons of his shirt.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, a testament to her nerves. But she wanted this. Wanted to take this man on her terms and prove that she could do it. And so she pushed onward, stroking his shoulders as she eased off his shirt, delighting in the way his muscles tightened as she ran a finger down the smattering of hair leading to his navel.

She eased his fly open, then tugged his pants down, noticing with delight how he lifted his hips to help. He was rock hard, and that fact both thrilled her and urged her on.

“Sylvia,” he whispered.

“Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. “No talking,” she said, then replaced her finger with her lips.

With one hand, she took his and pressed it between her thighs, easing him back and forth until he took up the motion, his fingers sliding in and out and making her even hotter and wetter than she’d been before.

He drove her to the edge like that, and she moaned against his mouth, her hands tight against his chest until she couldn’t stand it any longer. With a sharp sigh, she slid onto him, impaling herself on the length of him. She arched back and moaned. His throaty groan matching hers, and his hands reached for her, cupping and stroking her breasts even as his hips rose and fell in a rhythmic motion that matched hers.

They fell into a pattern full of wild and desperate need, more and more until, at last, the world exploded around her and she sagged against him, totally spent.

He was, she realized, still hard. He started to ease her over, but she shook her head, spooning up tight against him. “Later,” she whispered, even as fatigue took over.

She thought he might argue, might fight her for this moment of control. But he didn’t. Instead, he pressed tight against her, his hands softly stroking her back. She felt safe in his arms. Safe and right and free of her demons.

And with that thought, she drifted to sleep, secure in Tucker’s arms.

CHAPTER FIVE

“MORE TEA, MR. GREENE?” Anna asked, holding the teapot as if she were determined to pour whether Tucker wanted more or not. He didn’t, actually, but neither did he want to leave the patio yet. After an incredible evening with Sylvia, then falling asleep in each other’s arms, he’d awakened quite alone.

Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure what to think. The woman had taken over their lovemaking, a scenario that had thrilled him more than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t quite gotten all that he’d wanted out of the encounter, though, and he’d ended up taking a cold shower after she’d drifted off.

Despite the cold shower, he’d awakened this morning hoping that his own satisfaction was on the agenda, only to be disappointed by the discovery that she’d disappeared during the night.

He’d come down to breakfast, hoping to see her here, and instead found only his sister.

Though once again frustrated, he supposed it was for the best that she’d sneaked back to her room, especially since Blythe had announced to Tucker that she’d popped her head into Sylvia’s room and told her where to find them for breakfast. As soon as his sister had told him that, Tucker had slowed down his attack on his poached eggs and toast, hoping she would appear before he finished his breakfast.

So far, he was eating by himself.

He shot a glance at his sister and amended the thought. Not by himself, but also not with the woman with whom he wanted to be.

“If you keep staring at the door, she’ll never come,” Blythe said, a teasing smile dancing across her expression.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Tucker said, reaching for the newspaper.

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