Kiss Across Chaos
Author: Tracy Cooper-Posey
Date: 2020-11-19 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Romance; Paranormal; Vampires; Time Travel; Fantasy
Description: She is an honorary daughter, he is an absent son... Jesse Hall, unsung hero of the war against terror, is entwined in Veris', Brody's and Taylor's extended, informal family, but has never understood why. She isn't a vampire and can't time travel. Yet they seem to like her—everyone except Aran, who is never there. Aran is busy with his burgeoning career in Washington and building a life away from the confines of the family. As a time jumper, he will never be "normal", but he lives his life as humanly as possible while milking time for everything he can. Both are content. Sort of. Yet time trave
Publisher: Stories Rule Press

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Table of Contents

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About Kiss Across Chaos

Praise for the Kiss Across Time series

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

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About the Author

Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey

Copyright Information

About Kiss Across Chaos

She is an honorary daughter, he is an absent son…

Jesse Hall, unsung hero of the war against terror, is entwined in Veris’, Brody’s and Taylor’s extended, informal family, but has never understood why. She isn’t a vampire and can’t time travel. Yet they seem to like her—everyone except Aran, who is never there.

Aran is busy with his burgeoning career in Washington and building a life away from the confines of the family. As a time jumper, he will never be “normal”, but he lives his life as humanly as possible while milking time for everything he can.

Both are content. Sort of. Yet time travel defines their lives and when Jesse’s latest house-sitting assignment sends her to Arlington, time itself ensares them in dangerous complications and they must work together to unsnarl themselves…

This book is part of the Kiss Across Time paranormal time travel series:
1.0: Kiss Across Time
2.0: Kiss Across Swords
2.5: Time Kissed Moments*
3.0: Kiss Across Chains
3.5: Kiss Across Time Box One

4.0: Kiss Across Deserts
5.0: Kiss Across Kingdoms
5.1: Time And Tyra Again*
6.0: Kiss Across Seas
6.5: Kiss Across Time Box Two

7.0: Kiss Across Worlds
7.1: Time And Remembrance*
8.0: Kiss Across Tomorrow
8.1: More Time Kissed Moments*

9.0: Kiss Across Blades

10.0: Kiss Across Chaos

11.0: Kiss Across the Universe

11.1: Even More Time Kissed Moments*

12.0: Kiss Across Forever

The characters and events in this series are interconnected from book to book. Reading the books in order is strongly encouraged.

[*Short stories and novellas featuring the characters and situations in the Kiss Across Time series].

A Vampire Time Travel Romance Novel

Praise for the Kiss Across Time series

Cooper-Posey's writing is always brilliant.

There's something fascinating and cerebral about a "Kiss Across Time" story that's more than your usual fantasy-time-travel-story.

Creative and Amazing!

I really love how original Tracy manages to be in a genre where everything seems to have been written.

I loved reading this rich, complex and interesting tapestry of interwoven lives and loves.

GOLD! More compulsive reading for the Kiss Across Time series!

Cooper-Posey is a master storyteller, but how she manages to create these elaborate interconnected storylines that flesh out character development is incredible.

I haven’t read a book in this series that I don’t like.

Starts out with a bang! Couldn't put it down. It's a whole lot of fun.

Chapter One

It was a perfect day, up until Brody opened his mouth. Jesse found it twice as hard to deal with because it was Brody who said it.

Jesse stood in front of the big picture window of Brody’s, Taylor’s and Veris’ luxury log house in the Canadian Rockies when Brody uttered his simple, awful observation. She was there because Alannah had picked Jesse up from her last housesitting assignment on Long Island three days ago. For two nights, Jesse had slept on the sofa in Alannah’s L.A. apartment. She’d spend tonight there as well. Tomorrow, Alannah would jump her to Arlington, her next housesitting job. Because Jesse had been in Alannah’s apartment when Taylor, Alannah’s mother, phoned about Thanksgiving, Taylor had insisted Jesse come to their house for the day, too.

Four years ago, Jesse might have made an excuse to get out of it. She’d been fresh out of the Marines and still finding her way and was stupid into the bargain. Since then, she had got to know everyone in the family a damn sight better, so when Taylor invited her to the family dinner table, Jesse didn’t hesitate.

So Alannah and she tucked a pecan pie and big, fresh organic avocados they’d picked up from the Grand Central Market into a carry bag, then jumped to the house on the side of a mountain where Veris, Brody and Taylor currently lived.

It had been fifty degrees in Los Angeles when they left. Here, the outdoor thermometer by the big picture window overlooking the mountains and the town of Canmore sprawling along the valley, showed it was minus fifteen. Jesse blinked at that, then remembered to convert to Fahrenheit. Five degrees. It was still damned cold. A foot of snow showed beyond the window, smoothing out the bumps and lumps in the landscape, turning it into a white rolling plain.

But it was lovely and warm inside. The house being full of people didn’t bother her, either. A fire crackled and popped in the giant stone fireplace at the end of the big front room. The smell of roasting turkey perfumed the air.

Jesse’s stomach growled.

“And welcome to you, too,” Taylor said as she got to her feet and came over to hug her. Taylor was one of the Blood, so she had heard the rumble from across the room. So had everyone else in the room, most likely. There was little true privacy when you were in the company of vampires.

“It’s been a while since I had a turkey dinner,” Jesse admitted.

“Still eating hand to mouth, then, Jesse?” Rafe asked from the depth of the armchair he was sprawled in.

“Still my self-appointed life coach, then, Rafe?” she shot back.

He just grinned. So did everyone else. Brody came over and hugged her, too. Veris didn’t, but he never did, and Jesse didn’t mind. He nodded at her from his perch on the window seat, next to Rafe’s chair. Alex and Sydney—Queen Morrigan, although she was wearing jeans, so she was just Sydney right now—were sitting together on the sofa, with Remi taking up the third cushion. London and Neven were on two dining chairs, pulled up close to the fire. London sipped something that steamed gently and smelled divine.

The three people on the second sofa—Nial, Sebastian and Winter—were from a different timeline, but they were frequent visitors here. Jesse was still trying to figure out Nial, though. He made the hair on the back of her neck lift far too frequently, and her hand reach for the Glock that no longer lived on her hip. But he never looked at the other two with anything but warm regard, and Winter and Sebastian were deeply attached to him. That had to count for something, Jesse supposed. She lifted her hand and waved at them.

Winter raised her glass of whatever in acknowledgement. Sebastian winked.

From the floor above, Jesse heard giggles and chatter, light feet bouncing and moving about. All the younger kids would be up there on the big landing space where the chairs, lounges and bookshelves encouraged reading. They were not reading, though.

“So who is cooking?” Jesse asked, looking around the big room.

“Marit is in the kitchen, bathing in the heat from the stove,” Brody said. He grinned, his dark eyes dancing. “It’s summer in Australia. Her blood is thinned.”

Jesse glanced at Veris. He could hear what Brody said, even from across the room, and even though Brody hadn’t raised his voice, but he didn’t react. He and Marit had found a mutually agreeable position of truce over the last few years, especially as David, the only other polytemporal in the known worlds and the source of Marit and Veris’ long term disagreement, tended to keep his distance.

“I’d better go and help Marit,” Jesse said.

“Me, too,” Alannah said.

“Nah, I got this,” Jesse said hastily, for Alannah was cursed, when it came to cooking. Everything she touched turned to charcoal and crumbled. Jesse was clumsy in the kitchen, but she didn’t burn things and she could take directions. Marit was the closest to the best cook in the house. Rafe was superior in skill, but he was clearly taking a day off.

Or perhaps Marit had shoved him out of the kitchen so she could linger there out of Veris’ way.

An extra loud thud came from overhead. “Why don’t you make sure the kids aren’t climbing the drapes?” Jesse suggested to Alannah, as everyone looked up.

Alannah left via the main door, heading for the stairs.

Jesse took the avocados and pie through to the dining room, where the long table had been extended and was being set for the meal, then into the kitchen.

Marit wasn’t alone. The tall redheaded woman—a different sort of red from Marit’s bronzed locks—Nayara, stood in the corner made by the counters, sipping another steaming drink, while Cael, her partner, plucked silverware from a big varnished box lined with red velvet.

Both of them nodded at Jesse. They were from somewhere in the future on this timeline, a fact that still tickled Jesse’s funny bone.

“You came back just to eat turkey, then?” Jesse teased them.

“We have turkey in the future,” Cael assured her gravely. “Although I prefer lamb, myself.”

He was Greek and human, Jesse reminded herself. Nayara was the vampire—or she was when she was in her own time. When she used psychic talents to jump back in time, the symbiot that made her a vampire went into stasis, which was how she could drink mulled wine and eat turkey.

Jesse had learned a lot about the different forms of time travel just by sitting at Veris’ table and keeping her ears pinned back. A direct question would make the jumpers and vampires clam up and toe the metaphorical dirt, too self-conscious to reply to a civilian, non-jumper and human. But getting them to reminisce over an amusing moment or a hairy one always revealed more than they realized, if she listened well.

Jesse pointed at the glass in Nayara’s hand. “Best be careful. That stuff will take your head off. You’re not used to it.” She hugged Marit, who wore a thick sweater and fleece-lined pants and still looked cold. Her nose was pink, but the rest of her was tanned and glowing with good health.

“Roasted potatoes for you and mashed for everyone else,” Marit said, before Jesse could asked.

“You shouldn’t have made them for me, first time around, or I wouldn’t keep asking,” Jesse said. She adored the roasted potatoes the way Marit did them—they were crisp on the edges and soft in the middle and soaked up all the flavors in the roasting pan. Cooked with onions, they were far superior to mashed. “What can I do?”

Marit let her gaze move over the food and utensils sitting on the scrubbed pine island. “Peel carrots, shell peas—oh, avocados! Yeah, peel a couple of those and we’ll put them in the salad.”

Jesse got to work, while chatting with Marit and Nayara and Cael, as he moved in and out of the kitchen, laying plates and cutlery and condiments on the long table.

The afternoon drifted along pleasantly. There were enough people in the house who could eat food that the dinner was a noisy, joyous occasion, with lots of empty wine bottles lining up in the center of the table. The vampires sat at the table with them, a single glass with an inch of champagne sitting before them for toasts, for Veris would not let anyone toast with an empty glass. The old pagan considered that to be beckoning the worst of ill luck.

Despite not eating with everyone else, none of the vampires looked upset or anything but contented. They talked and laughed as much as anyone else.

Five children sat at the table, although Jesse judged that Liberty wouldn’t be a child for too much longer. She was twelve, looked older and was going to be tall just like her uncle-father, Alex. She had enormous, exotic black eyes and hair and smooth olive skin, and a way of watching everyone that drew attention to her, even though she said nothing.

Sydney sat beside her, and the two of them were clearly very close, for they would put their heads together and murmur and laugh.

It was a glorious meal, finished off with their pecan pie and custard—an Aussie custom that Marit insisted everyone try. The custard was oddly delicious with the sharp sweetness of the pie.

Nayara scraped her bowl and diffidently asked if there was more, while Cael smiled and kissed her hand.

“Home life is somewhat fraught at the moment,” Cael explained. “And it’s not often we get to relax like this, back in time.”

“Amen to that,” Brody murmured. “The hazards never end.”

Veris stood and served Nayara another slice of pie, and Jesse passed the jug of custard along.

The doorbell chimed from the big front room and everyone paused, looking at each other.

Taylor got to her feet. “It’s not Thanksgiving in Canada,” she reminded them. “It’s a normal Thursday here.” She went into the front room.

Veris smiled. “We actually forgot about the Canadian Thanksgiving,” he admitted as he passed the pie down the table. “It’s in early October, but Canmore just got noisier, not quieter, like the States does for Thanksgiving.”

“Someone’s coming,” Sydney said, her head tilted as she listened to something happening in the front room. She sat up and glanced at the children. “Remember the Game, hmmm? Just for the next little while.”

They all nodded solemnly.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Aimee added. She was nearly as old as Liberty and was already beautiful.

“Aunt Sydney for now,” Sydney corrected.

Aimee nodded.

“Mom,” Liberty added and grinned. “With holes in her jeans and no bra.”

Rafe snorted. “Oh, you’ll pay for that later, darling daughter.”

“She will,” Sydney said, her tone serene.

Liberty didn’t look worried.

Alannah nudged Jesse’s arm, while holding one of the last bottles of wine over her glass.

“Not right now, thanks,” Jesse told her. “Why aren’t you comatose? You’ve drunk a whole bottle all by yourself.”

“Practice,” Alannah said, and winked.

“Also called college,” Brody said, from Jesse’s other side.

“Everyone, it’s Kit,” Taylor said from the door.

Jesse turned in her chair to look toward the archway into the front room. Kit McDonald, the park warden who lived in Canmore, stood in the archway, towering over Taylor. He wore the heavy coat the wardens used in winter and held the brimmed hat and his gloves in one hand. Snow dusted his boots. “Sorry to disturb you folks,” he said easily. “I forgot you use the American calendar.” His gaze lingered upon Alannah, who was carefully pouring the remains of the bottle into her glass. “Everyone came up for Thanksgiving, then?”

“Everyone but Aran,” Taylor said.

“He’s too busy buying and spending political favors,” Alannah added. She rested her arm on the back of her chair as she swiveled to take in the two standing in the archway.

“Something up, Kit?” Veris asked, getting to his feet once more.

Kit hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I have a whole salmon in the truck that I thought you folks might like.”

“Fresh salmon?” Marit said, her attention caught.

“Should be,” Kit told her gravely. “I pulled it out of the Clearwater this morning.”

“You don’t want it, Kit?” Taylor asked.

“I caught two. I’m salting the smaller one, but I haven’t got room for the big one and you’ve got lots of people around your fire, so…”

“Oh, I would love some salmon steaks,” Marit said. “They’re so expensive back home.”

Veris glanced at her and Jesse knew Marit’s use of the word “home” to describe Australia had prodded him. Then he smiled at Kit. “I guess that’s a yes, thank you. I’ll come out and get it.”

“No need,” Kit said. “Stay and finish your meal. I’ll put it on the verandah. It’s cold enough outside it can sit for a while.” He tapped the hat and gloves against his thigh. “Well…I’ll get going.” He nodded at everyone once more, his glossy black hair gleaming in the light from the antique-style light over the table. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Taylor took him back out to the front room, and Veris sat once more, while everyone listened to the murmur of the voices at the front door. The vampires at the table would be able to hear the conversation far more clearly.

“He stops by a lot, then?” Alex asked Veris, his brow lifting.

“Often enough,” Brody said. “He built a log house on the other side of the valley and likes to talk house-building with Veris.” He frowned. “Canadians are usually more aware of American holidays…” He met Veris’ gaze.

Veris grimaced. “Maybe he did just forget.”

“He just happened to arrive bearing gifts,” Alex murmured.

Jesse saw all three of them exchange thoughtful glances. She didn’t turn her head but slid her gaze sideways to see if Alannah had picked up the inferences.

Alannah sorted through the bowl of nuts, picking out the macadamias and lining them up beside her wine glass. Sydney was chatting with Liberty and Alannah was listening to them, oblivious to the other conversation.

Cael and Nayara exchanged fond glances. “We’ll have to worry about that, soon.”

Nayara nodded.

Winter, though, just looked sad.

Christian, the youngest person at the table, and still using a booster seat, tugged at London’s sleeve and said something in French, too fast for Jesse to follow.

“Yes, sweetheart, you can go and play,” London told him. “But let me wipe your hands and face first.” She used her napkin to clear away the last of the custard and put him on the floor.

That was a signal for the other children to slither from their seats and run from the dining room, their voices already lifting. Taylor swayed out of their way as she came back in.

“It’s enormous!” she said, also pointing back toward the door.

“I’ll take some of it off your hands, if you like,” Neven said. “London likes fish.”

Remi snorted. “She lives in Brittany. She doesn’t have a choice.”

London laughed. “I like fish anyway, but salmon would be a nice change.”

Veris got to his feet once more. “Cael, do you want to take some?”

“Yes, please,” Cael said. “We don’t…” He paused. “Well, it would be very welcome,” he added.

Jesse wondered what he had been about to say, that he had clearly considered to be a breech of protocol. Were salmon extinct in their time?

The adults at the table also rose to their feet, discussing who would get salmon, who could take it home, and how they should cook it, while they stacked dishes and took them into the kitchen.

Jesse was shooed out of the kitchen when she carried her pile of plates and dishes in and parked them on the island. “You cooked,” Sydney told her, flapping the tea towel at her. “We all sat on our asses.”

“You didn’t eat the food, either,” Jesse pointed out.

“I would have, believe me,” Sydney assured her. “Besides, if I used that as an excuse to get out of doing something, my life would come to a grinding halt.” Her smile was warm enough, but the idea was startling.

“As human as possible, huh?” Jesse said.

“For the sake of the children, for those we love, and for our sanity, yes,” Sydney said gravely. “So go and relax,” she added, turning Jesse around and pushing her out of the door.

Jesse headed for the front room and the dying fire. She built the fire up again, then moved over to the big picture window. She would never get tired of this view—although the view from the back verandah, where the Mount Lady Macdonald seemed to rise directly in front of the house, was astonishing in its own way.

Brody came up beside her and held out a small flat-based glass to her.

Jesse took the glass. “What is this?” she asked, as Brody uncorked a dark bottle with a label that looked hand-drawn. Jesse would have said it was a very old bottle, but the label was crisp and new, even though the paper it was made from had a slight creamy cast to it. There was no English on the label, either.

“This is a straw wine. A Vin Santo,” he said, and poured a deep amber liquid into the glass. “A dessert wine,” he added.

“I’ve had more than enough wine today,” Jesse said.

“Try it,” Brody urged her.

She sipped. It was sweet and thick and rich. “Mmm, nice,” she said.

“Let it warm in your hand. It gets even better,” Brody told her. “I’d warm it, but…” He shrugged, smiling. His dark eyes danced.

But he was the same temperature as the room and couldn’t warm it.

“Where is this from?” Jesse asked suspiciously, eyeing the odd-looking label once more.

“Tuscany.” He recorked the bottle. “We have…had…have a villa there, back in the fourteenth century. Taylor took me back there a couple of days ago and I took a couple of these bottles out of the cellar, just for today. I thought you would like it.”

“I do,” Jesse said truthfully.

Brody put the bottle on the mantelshelf over the fire and came back to the window seat she stood in front of. “That view doesn’t grow old,” he said softly.

The wave of…something washed over her without warning. An invisible band clamped around her chest and grabbed her throat. Her eyes stung. Her chest hitched and she realized she was a step away from crying.

She breathed deeply, trying to ride out the odd sensation.

“Hey, what did I say?” Brody said, still speaking quietly.

She shook her head, afraid that if she spoke, she would bawl, instead. She kept breathing, battling back the tears.

Brody waited. He was very good at that. So was Veris. They had infinite patience, because they had all the time in the world to figure things out.

When Jesse thought she could safely speak once more, she said, “I’m happy.” And her eyes filled once more. “God, this is stupid,” she added and dashed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I should be smiling, but it just…”

Brody was smiling. He sat on the window seat and patted it.

Jesse folded onto the cushion and wiped furiously at her damp eyes and they refilled.

“You’re family, Jesse,” he said gently. “You don’t have to be grateful for that. It just…is. Taken for granted.”

She swallowed. “But I’m pathetically, wonderfully grateful anyway.” Her voice was hoarse. “After Mom died, I was alone—jarheads excluded, but even they aren’t the same as you guys. You get me. You let me be myself. And you’re…you’re nice.”

Brody gave a soft laugh. “No one has ever called me nice before.”

“But you are. All of you. You’re different. Of course you are. But that doesn’t make any difference, or maybe that is the difference. You don’t brim over with milk and honey—none of you do—but you’re all nice to be around and you don’t seem to mind me and my ways, and you’re always happy to see me, and if it hadn’t been for you guys, I think I might have curled up and blown away, the last few years, but you’re here and you let me in and…and I’m happy.”

Brody picked up her hand and just held it. “You know there is no ‘letting in’ in the way you’re talking about, right? You’re family by default, not by a show of hands. Time tapped you on the shoulder. You’re one of us, whether you like it or not.”

She nodded. Aran had said something like that, a long time ago. “But still…”

He bumped his shoulder against hers. “We’re only nice because at the moment, no one is taking pot shots at us. No one is coming after us, stealing us away, screwing with time and our lives. So we can be nice. You haven’t been around to see the dark side. We all have one, you know.”

Jesse wiped the last of the moisture from her cheeks, feeling foolish. “I’ve got one, too,” she muttered. “That doesn’t scare me.”

“It should,” Brody said. “One day, you might get to see that darkness and then you’ll understand.” He put her hand back on her knee. “We’ve been having a nice run of peace for a few years now, but that won’t last. It never does.”

“I can’t figure out if you’re sad about that, or glad.”

“Bit of both,” Brody said. “Surviving interesting times is tough, but it’s not boring.”

“And peace is,” Jesse finished. It wasn’t a question.

“It can get that way, although for a while, it’s good.”

She nodded, because she understood that completely. It was always good to get back to camp, but a month standing down was usually too long.

“Are you upsetting Jesse, Brody?” Veris said, moving across the room toward them.

Jesse sat up straighter. “No! I was just being stupid—”

“She’s happy,” Brody added.

Veris paused. “Happy.” He repeated it woodenly. His blue eyes fixed her with an intense examination.

Jesse swallowed.

“Because for some unfathomable reason, she likes us, and likes being around us,” Brody added. “Although I’m sure she doesn’t include you on that roster, Northman.”

“I do!” Jesse protested, and realized it was the truth.

The corner of Veris’ mouth twitched. He pulled over the upright chair that London had been using and sat in front of both of them. The chair gave a tiny groan. He was a big man. He crossed his arms. “Probably just as well. Taylor would be upset if you disappeared on us.”

“Speak for yourself, big guy,” Brody murmured. “He means he would be upset,” he added to Jesse.

Veris didn’t dispute it. But he did look uncomfortable.

Jesse changed the subject. “I’m a day or two away from finishing the editing on your book,” she told Veris. She had been ridiculously touched when he had asked her to line edit his How To Survive Time Travel handbook. It would never be formally published, but her name was in the credits as editor.

He raised a brow. “Thank you for that. It’s a good time to get it out there among everyone, while this quiet spell lasts.”

“Brody was just talking about how the peace never holds.”

“You’re writing up a storm yourself, Jesse,” Brody said. “How many novels, now?”

“Twenty,” she admitted. “Only, I slowed down a bit because of…well…” Her tongue was loosened by the wine. Most normal peoples’ eyes glazed over when she talked about her writing. But neither man was looking at her with anything but deep interest. She was family, she reminded herself, and mentally shrugged. “I wrote a different sort of novel. I’m releasing it in January, under a pen name.”

“Genre?” Brody, the creative, asked.

“I don’t know where the story came from,” she confessed. “I wrote it in seven days in marathon stints. It just fell out of me…” She drew in a breath. “It’s an alternative history.”

Veris and Brody exchanged glances.

“Like the Allies losing the Second World War and what that would look like now?” Veris asked.

Wariness touched her. Only now did she realize that ‘alternative history’ to the reading public would feel like ‘messing with time’ to these real time travelers. Veris was rabid about preserving history and not messing up one’s own future.

“Or, if the Roman Empire had never collapsed,” Brody added.

“Or if Arthur hadn’t lost to the Saxons,” Veris said, his gaze on Brody.

Brody grimaced.

Veris looked at Jesse. “May I read it?”

“Buy a copy, you lout,” Brody shot back.

“I don’t know the title or the author,” Veris pointed out.

“It’s just a stupid little story,” Jesse said quickly, feeling like she wanted to squirm. As far as she knew, neither of them had ever read any of her military thrillers, and she suspected that was because they’d seen more than enough of war in their very long lives. But this story was very different. “It wouldn’t hold your interest,” she assured Veris.

Veris considered that seriously. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“He reads everything,” Brody said. “So does Alex. And Taylor.”

“The whole family reads everything they can get their hands on,” Jesse pointed out dryly.

Brody chuckled. “True. At least tell us the pen name, Jesse. Then we can get a copy…or not. And you needn’t know either way.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “Jerry Hale.”

Veris nodded. “Thank you.”

Jesse blew out her breath. “Well, I warned you.”

“Are you staying the night, Jesse?” Veris asked.

She shook her head. “I think Alannah has a date tonight.”

“Taylor can take you back tomorrow,” Veris replied.

“Thank you, but I gotta get some writing done. I’m behind,” Jesse admitted. “The three-day break between houses has jammed up my routine.”

“Where is the next house you’re sitting?” Brody asked. “And when?”

“Arlington,” she said. “I start tomorrow. They’re going to London for Christmas and won’t be back until after the New Year. A good long one, this time. Alannah said she’ll drop me there. She’s got a vacation day tomorrow.”

Alannah worked in Hollywood, doing something that Jesse wasn’t entirely sure about, except that it was something to do with the production of movies and seemed to involve a lot of drinking, parties, meetings and phone calls.

Brody lifted his brow. “Arlington. You’ll be right across the Potomac from Aran.”

Jesse’s breath caught. Her heart jolted. She hadn’t even thought of that.

In fact, she had completely forgotten that Aran lived and worked in Washington now. If she thought of Aran at all, she tended to remember him from Martha’s Vineyard, when she had first met him, which was ridiculous, because that was years ago. Even Harvard was years ago. He was a political lobbyist now, working for Abel & Toloni, one of the most prestigious consulting firms in D.C.

Her throat grew warm and the skin over it prickled, rising up to her chin. Her heart wobbled. She breathed shallowly, feeling a little ill. She had been looking forward to this very long housesitting assignment and getting a lot of writing done. The house could have been in Tacoma for all she cared. She had barely processed that it was just across the river from the Capitol.

Now the housesitting job felt…tainted.

Veris made a low sound in the back of his throat. “Across the river could be across the universe as far as Aran is concerned. He’s too damn busy for anyone.”

There was an odd note in his voice.

Brody watched his lover with a non-judgmental expression. “He’ll find his way back,” he said gently.

Jesse fought to control her breathing and wished she could order her heart to slow down. Brody and Veris would be able to hear every thudding beat. They could probably smell her distress, too.

And really, what was she panicking about? It was clear that Aran didn’t come home for family visits very much at all. It wasn’t just today. She hadn’t seen him here for years, even though she was a frequent visitor herself. Aran lived his life in Washington and she would be way over on the other side of the river. And she was housesitting, which implied she stayed in the house and watched it.

Slowly, her heart calmed. Her breathing deepened. She made herself relax.

She could still enjoy this long stretch of solitude and get some serious writing done. What had she been panicking about?

And why?

Chapter Two

By December, Jesse was going stir crazy. Her bag of coffee beans was finished. It didn’t help that the owners of the house she was sitting were health nuts and the only coffee-type substance in the house was some disgusting plant extract thing. The convenience store two blocks over didn’t know what coffee meant, either, but their black-smelling sludge at least had caffeine in it.

The sludge got Jesse through to December fifth. She was deep in the guts of the next book and didn’t want to break off, but by the fifth, she could feel the pressure to breath air that hadn’t passed through a furnace filter. She needed to move. The daily isometrics and exercises weren’t enough. She knew the signs. Rafe’s insistence that she monitor her wellbeing was ingrained, now.

When she got up from the dining room chair and had to pause while the dizziness passed, she knew her instincts had been right. Time to get going. A good long hike and fresh air. She could think about the next act in the novel while she was moving.

She did some quick research and found a French-style patisserie in Annandale with over a hundred five-star reviews. The patisserie was one-hundred-and-eighty degrees away from downtown D.C., although she wasn’t sure why that comforted her. She let the puzzle go, for there were too many storylines running through her brain and she didn’t want to mentally drop out of the novel too much, or she might lose track of characters and story arcs.

It was a good long hike to the patisserie in air that had a bite to it and made her nostrils sting. After a while she warmed enough so the chill in the air was merely pleasant.

It was a shock to find the patisserie jammed full of customers. It was an authentic-looking bakery, with green awnings and little round tables inside, black and white tiles on the floor and the divine smell of fresh, still-warm bread wafting from the door every time someone opened it, which was frequently.

Jesse pushed open the door and stepped in, her mouth watering. Beneath the strong scent of hot bread, she could also smell really good coffee. Espresso. She sighed and scanned the racks of bread loaves behind the counter, and the pastries and croissants behind the glass cases while she waited her turn to be served. She also kept an eye on the tables. The store was on a corner, and the tables ran around the corner, too, which made watching all of them a challenge.

She bought an espresso and a flat white, and three croissants, then snagged a table around the corner just as the three people rose and dusted off breadcrumbs. She settled in with her tablet and stylus to mind-dump thoughts about the book while she drank—finally—excellent coffee.

The croissants weren’t right. Jesse chewed her way through half of the first, disappointment touching her. Real French croissants didn’t taste like this. These were only sort-of right. Close, but they were missing…something.

She was really here for the coffee, though, so she drank both cups and ordered more and returned to the table, still mired in story problems.

She only realized she had lifted her head up from the tablet and was staring at nothing, thinking, when her gaze was caught by movement. There was movement everywhere in the café, but the silhouette that snagged her attention and yanked her out of the story was tall. Wide shoulders. Strong. She tended to key in on physical strength. She’d spent years professionally interested in strength and stamina and sizing up the most dangerous person in the room was still automatic.

She refocused. The man—it was usually a man she mapped in her mind as the one to watch, although not always—the man was talking to his friend.

The man was a clichéd Capitol rat. Traditional overcoat, silk scarf and leather gloves. The suit beneath would be conservative. White shirt. Blue tie, or maybe a daring red. Nothing with thin stripes that might strobe on-camera.

The man he was talking to was far more casually dressed, with a pea coat and green tartan scarf, shaggy black hair and glasses. He had sharp, intelligent eyes and nodded as the first spoke, then smiled, showing even white teeth.

They were a long way from home, she thought. Interesting. What’s their story? There was always a story. What if they had a secret meeting out here in the sticks, where no one would notice?

Spies? Co-conspirators, planning to take down the government. Or protect it, and no one believed them…

Jesse spun four or five different storyline possibilities and was about to reach for her tablet and takes notes, when the first man, the one in the suit, turned to the counter to place their order.

He was simply gorgeous.

Jesse drew in a startled breath, taking in the black hair and strong jaw. Pale, clear cheeks and an agreeable amount of stubble on his chin that was daring, for Washington. He couldn’t be a politician, then. Politicians were always clean cut and non-offensive to the broadest common denominators. Lobbyist, probably… That would make more sense, story-wise. He’d be in a position to hear things, which would make him dangerous to the wrong people.

She waited for him to turn properly, so she could get a full snapshot of his face, before she wrote anything down.

He was perfect hero material. A hero of that caliber would have a love interest off to the side. She could kill the love interest off, make him really suffer before he took out the arch enemy. Maybe the guy next to him could be the arch enemy in disguise…that would be a fantastic twist!

She reached blindly for the tablet, her brain moving faster and faster, while she mentally begged the guy to turn. She wanted to fix his full features in her mind, so she could recall them at will, later.

His friend rested his hand on the suit’s shoulder. It looked friendly, but from this angle, Jesse could see the man’s fingertips rest against the other’s neck. A soft stroke. No one else would be able to see it. She was the only person at just the right angle.

Jesse caught her breath, as story possibilities exploded. Lovers! How…delicious! How much worse would the man suffer when his lover turned out to be the bad guy?

The man paid for the coffee and croissants, each of them picked up a cup—the one the casual man picked up was paper, and his croissant was in a bag. They turned to look for a table and finally, Jesse got a full view of the first man’s face.

It was Aran.

While her breath evaporated and every fabulous story idea she’d built up blew away like dust in a breeze, Aran stared at her. She was already studying him. No chance to look away and pretend she hadn’t seen him. She couldn’t hide.

Her heart slammed. What to do?

Then Aran’s mouth quirked—a smile formed at one corner. He murmured to the guy with him, the casual one with the tartan scarf.

His lover, came the whisper in her mind.

And now it wasn’t just panic in her gut, but a hot slew of confused feelings around a core of molten, inconvenient and highly, wildly inappropriate lust. Her brain involuntarily formed graphic images of two faceless men together, limbs entwined, bodies slick with passion, while her conscience chattered inanely at her. Aran was family, he was a friend, he was so much younger than her! Stop thinking that way, Jesse—it’s sick.

And he was coming toward her.

Her breath shortened. Again.

This was the moment she had hoped to avoid. It was the moment that had scared the crap out of her at Thanksgiving. Brody had inserted the possibility into her mind, and it had terrified her so much she had blanked it out for the last few weeks. She had avoided D.C. like the plague, and buried herself in the novel, instead.

Oh, grow a pair, Hall! she railed at herself. It’s just Aran. She made herself get to her feet.

And she was glad to see him, underneath all the baffling hysteria running through her mind. Even though Aran wouldn’t remember it, he had saved her life four years ago.

So when Aran put down the cup and plate and hugged her, Jesse was able to get her arms around him and be genuinely happy to see him.

The other one—his lover, her mind supplied for her in a heated whisper—came up behind him and nodded at her.

“Jesse, this is Kyle Fisher. Kyle, Jessenia Hall. She’s an old family friend.” Aran smiled. “Not that she’s old.”

“Not in my estimation, no,” Kyle said. He grinned at her, the blue eyes behind the glasses twinkling. “Not in the slightest. Nice to meet you…Jesse, yes?”

“She won’t answer to Jessenia,” Aran assured him. He looked back at her, his gaze frankly assessing. “Are you housesitting near here?”

“Um…Arlington. This is the only decent patisserie anywhere near, though.”

“It is,” Aran said. “We’re here three times a week, at least. Although the croissants…” He held out his hand and tilted it from side to side.

“They’re not quite right,” Jesse said in agreement.

“God, listen to you two snobs,” Kyle said. “It’s just flour and water.”

“No, it’s not,” Aran said instantly. Firmly. “Until you’ve had the real thing, you can’t understand.”

“Then I don’t understand,” Kyle replied. He put his hand on Aran’s arm. “Listen, you two catch up. I really do have to go.” The hand was just friendly, this time. He let it drop. “I’ll get a cab.”

“‘kay,” Aran said, just as casually. “Ciao.”

“Jesse,” Kyle added, nodding at her. He turned and left.

Aran didn’t watch him go. Instead, he pointed at the other chair. “May I?”

Jesse’s heart had been sinking the moment she realized he would want to sit at her table. Now that he had asked, she found herself reply crisply, “Stupid fucking question. Why would you even ask?”

Aran sat and draped the fronts of the expensive coat over his long legs so it didn’t drag on the slush-covered floor.

She sat and cleared the little table of her tablet and phone to give him room, and to give herself time to pull herself together. Aran was strangely different from how she remembered him. He was four years older, only that wasn’t the sum of the change. He’d always seemed older than God to her. It came from all the jumping about in time, she suspected. He’d experienced more of the world and humanity by eighteen than most middle-aged men ever came close to.

He was just as tall as she remembered. Brody’s height. Brody’s heartbreaking, Celtic good looks, combined with Taylor’s eyes and ridiculously long lashes. And the stubble.

Her hand twitched and she put it on her knee and curled the fingers in until the nails bit her palm. “Does Kyle know? About…?” The tables were too close for her to finish the question. Does he know that you can travel through time?

“Kyle?” Aran shook his head. “He’s just a friend.”

Jesse looked at him steadily. Really? He was going to deny it?

Aran’s smile was quick. Easy. He’d interpreted her expression. “Okay, friend with benefits,” he admitted. “But not that close a friend.”

Jesse batted away the pornographic images that slid into her mind and stole more of her breath.

Aran wasn’t drinking his coffee or eating the inadequate croissant. He was simply staring at her with those eyes. She had forgotten how his eyes could pin her down and make her forget what she was going to say.

“It’s really good to see you, Jesse,” Aran said.

She nodded. “It is.” Something grabbed her throat. The same something which had made her blubber, when Brody had spoken about family at Thanksgiving. But it was different, now. It was harder. Sadder.

“You look great,” Aran added. “There’s nothing of the military about you.”

“It’s all in here,” Jesse assured him, touching her temple. “And muscle memory, too.” She smiled. “I had pinned you as the dangerous man in the room before I realized it was you.”

Aran laughed. “That’s a compliment, I suppose.”

The silence that fell was warm and good, but there was still something beneath it that was making her heart patter. Or maybe it was her imagination.

Aran glanced at his watch.

It was a casual movement, but it reminded her of what she had forgotten in the last couple of minutes. Aran had a life. A career. He was so busy with that life, he never went home anymore, even though getting to Canada was as simple as flexing his knees. He didn’t want to, is what it came down to.

That was why he seemed different. The world he was moving in now was a high-power one, and he was a player. It gave him an air of authority, of supreme confidence—well, he’d always been confident, but now it showed.

No wonder she had pegged him as the powerholder in the room.

Jesse abruptly rose to her feet, before even she was aware of what she was going to do. “I have to…I’ve got to go. I just saw the time on your watch and I have… I’ve been here too long.” She already had the tablet and her phone in the backpack. She picked it up and slung it over one shoulder, as Aran got to his feet, which was when she realized her mistake.

He was so much taller than her. She was five eight, but he had over four more inches and at least a hundred pounds on her, most of that pure muscle.

And he stood far, far too close.

She swallowed. “I’m sorry. This is…I wish I could stay…” And she really wished she could, but just a few minutes with him in front of her was unsettling. What on earth was wrong with her? She gripped the strap of the pack as he studied her and made herself smile at him. “I’ve been away from the house for too long. I should get back.”

Aran didn’t say anything.

She gave him another stiff smile and skirted past him.

“‘bye, Jesse,” he said softly.

She picked up her pace and burst out into the cold December air and breathed with the gusty inhalations of someone who had just escaped death by a bullet-width.

His coffee was cold and the croissant had lost all appeal. Not that it had held much in the first place. Kyle was the one who liked to head out here where they could talk without half of Washington stopping by their table to shore up favors or freshen the contact.

Aran stared at the foam on the cappuccino, frowning. What had just happened there? Apart from the shock of seeing Jesse in the first place? She had been on edge and he didn’t believe the “I gotta go” either.

But she was always uptight. White knuckles were her status quo. All that military training and preparedness kept her constantly braced for trouble. She was like her books—the plot never stopped for a moment. A new body would drop through the roof, bullets would fly, the story would twist on its stalk, even before you caught up with the last fantastic development.

Not that he’d read any of her books for…years. Life had just got too busy for reading.

Although she wasn’t really uptight, anymore. Not on the surface, at least. He’d spoken truthfully when he said that all the military patina she’d once worn was gone, now. She was…well, softer than he remembered. She’d let her hair grow even longer and wasn’t wearing it in a tight knot at the back of her head, either. It was thick, rich dark brown, not quite black, curling over both shoulders and down the front of her jacket. The jacket was some leather thing that cinched in around her waist and made her legs in the tight jeans seem even longer than they were.

The throaty note in her voice was unchanged, though. So was the frank, in-your-face plain speak.

He recalled the expression on her face when he’d claimed Kyle was just a friend. She’d batted that aside almost impatiently and just…looked at him.

Washington was a dangerous place to let such associations become well known. Kyle understood that as well as Aran did and was just as circumspect, but there were benefits to the mutual understanding. They had remarkably similar tastes, especially when it came to women.

A collection of snapshot moments rifled through his mind. Carnal moments, soft feminine flesh against him. Harder male hands on him. There had been many interesting times with Kyle, enough to keep the friendship going, even though Kyle was a politically risky friend to have. If anyone knew Aran was fucking a journalist at the Washington Post, his career in Washington would be deader than the undead. That was another reason they headed out here to buy croissants instead of the bakeries in Georgetown.

Jesse had seen through the mask instantly and it had felt good to just admit it and move on.

Plain speak. He’d forgotten what it was like. Even her unfinished question—had he told Kyle about time travelling—had been refreshingly direct, addressing a part of him that no one else knew about in his increasingly complicated life.

He glanced out the window at the thick grey clouds coming in from the east. More snow was on the way. And Jesse stood at the bus stop, two hundred yards up the road, the Swiss Army backpack over her shoulder, her head down. Her breath plumed the air in front of her.

“Fuck,” Aran breathed, and dug in his pocket for the car keys.

Chapter Three

Jesse had only just caught her breath and calmed down when the Mercedes S Class sedan with smoked windows pulled up beside the bus stop. The passenger window rolled down.

“Get in, Jesse!” Aran called.

She bent reluctantly. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

He had one hand resting on the wheel, the other on the wide console between the seats, over the window controls. All she could think was that the car was made for someone of his long length. It looked like it was molded around him.

He glanced in the rear mirror. “Bus is coming. Hurry up,” he said urgently.

She glanced behind the car. The bus was coming, forcing her to make a snap decision. She couldn’t think of a reason not to get in the car that was any better than “I don’t wanna.” That churlishness decided for her. She opened the door and slid into the seat. There was more than enough room to dump her pack on the floor between her knees, too.

She shut the door even as Aran pulled the car away from the curb. The window rolled up and warmth bathed her. Silence, too.

Jesse looked around the car while Aran steered it back into the traffic. “It’s not Brody’s Maserati, is it?” This was a soft car. A luxury car. She couldn’t even hear the engine purr. The smell of real leather and whatever the detailers used on the carpets replaced the stink of slush mixed with motor oil that was all she had been able to detect, standing at the bus stop.

“Don’t be fooled by the padding,” Aran said. “It’ll jump to sixty miles an hour in less than five seconds.”

“Really?” She reexamined the car once more. There was a full-sized tablet screen built into the console between the front seats and it was currently displaying a map, with a blip to show where they were. “I guess the lack of armor plating is misleading.”

Aran grinned. “No, it’s not even close to a Hummer. Where in Arlington is your house?”

“You can drop me on the corner of 10th and Wilson,” she said. “It’s five minutes from there.”

More like fifteen, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I can take you right to the door.”

“I like to walk.”

“It’s twenty degrees out there.”

“It’s nice,” she said, with a tone of agreement.

“A bus, Jesse?” he said, with a tone that made it sound like the question had been pushing to get out all along.

She jumped. A bit.

“There’s cabs and übers all over the city,” he added.

She gripped the strap of her pack even tighter.

“Is money really that tight?” he asked, his voice softer. “You’ve got dozens of books out there. I thought you were doing okay.”

She heard the note of stress in his voice. “It’s not up to you to keep tabs on me,” she said stiffly.

“You’re one of us, remember? That’s what we do.”

“You can’t even visit your family for Thanksgiving, so don’t drop that one on me,” she shot back.

He glanced at her, startled.

Jesse drew in a breath. “Never mind. Forget I spoke. The corner is fine.”

“It’s not, but that’s all you’re going to give me, so…” His sounded as though he was grinding his teeth together.

Her heart thudded. In the luxurious silence inside the car, it was all she could hear. “I make enough, okay?” she said, surprising even herself. “Sales are up and down and I have to save where I can because I don’t know what next month will be like.”

There. She’d said it.

“I thought you had money from the Navy?”

“Not much,” she admitted. The final pay cheque, which had looked so enormous to her at the time, had melted away like a snow pile in spring.

Aran glanced at her again. This time, his eyes were narrowed. “You’re pulling on the capital?”

Her middle jumped. “What else would I do with it?”

“Invest it. Money markets. Day trading. Rolling high interest accounts. Tax free savings. You don’t spend it. Jesus…” He pushed his hand through his hair.

Jesse considered the butter soft leather lined interior of the Mercedes once more. “You didn’t lease this on your salary, then?”

Aran gave a soft sound. She thought it might have been a snort, but it was too quiet. “This model starts at two hundred thousand and I paid cash for it.”

She stared at him. “I had no idea you were doing that well.”

“In Washington? They pay grunts peanuts here. And that’s all I am, right now.” He glanced in the mirror, then flicked the indicator on and moved the car over to the outside lane.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “Arlington is that way.”

“I’m making a quick stop, first. It won’t take long. Not here, anyway.”

He turned off the main road into a narrow side street and drove beneath bare trees dusted with snow. Houses with Christmas lights rolled past, then he turned into the parking lot for a strip mall, slotted the Mercedes into a bay and switched off the engine.

“What’s here?” Jesse asked.

“Here? Nothing.” He pocketed the keys, then leaned over the console and slid his arm under hers. “Relax,” he breathed, as she reared back. He pulled her back against him.

As she registered the heat of him and the solidness, she felt the peculiar breath-robbing side-swipe of a jump and the blank mindless moment of transition.

He’d actually jumped from inside a car.

She blinked, looking around, as Aran let her go. She was on her feet now, and they were standing in a narrow alley formed by two buildings sitting barely four feet apart. It was cold here, too. Somewhere in the northern hemisphere, then. But the cold was different from the crisp, snowing sharpness of the air in Washington. More humid. Softer.

Aran dug gloves out of his coat pockets. “I need a real croissant and coffee,” he told her. “Come on.”

That told her where they were.

Paris. France.

Her pack was back in the car. In Washington. On the other side of the Atlantic from here. So she shrugged and followed Aran out of the alley and into the street beyond.

She had visited Paris as a Marine, once or twice, but not to the Left Bank. This was the Latin Quarter, rich with literary and artistic history and she tried not to stare about like a tourist as Aran moved down the sidewalk.

He didn’t have to go far. The patisserie was only a few yards away from the lane and Jesse knew, suddenly, that he used the lane for his arrival chamber because of its proximity to the bakery. He used it a lot.

Abruptly, she recalled the coffee and croissants he had brought with him the very first time he had shuttled her from one housesitting location to the next. That had been in San Francisco. He’d told he’d bought the croissants in Paris, only a few minutes before.

Jesse guessed that this was the bakery where he had bought them.

He pushed open the door, which jiggled a cheerful bell and held it for Jesse to step through. The man in a white apron behind the counter perked up when he saw Aran. “Monsieur Aran!” He broke into fast French.

The rich smell of something hearty cooking in a broth was all she could detect. It made her mouth water.

Aran let the door shut and moved over to the counter, replying in the same machine gun fast French. He lifted his hand toward Jesse, and she heard her name among the French.

“This is Bertrand,” he added, to her.

“Bonjour, Bertrand,” she said, and winced. She was not good at any language but English.

Bertrand was not a typical Parisian. He didn’t react to her abominable accent. He just smiled at her. “It is a cold day, no? A good day for soup with your bread.”

“And coffee,” she said, her belly rumbling. “It sounds wonderful.”

“Then soup, too. Merci, Bertrand,” Aran replied.

“Sit, sit. I will bring.” Bertrand hurried into the back room.

Aran moved over to the single table next to the window. The sun pooled around it.

Jesse pulled her phone out of her pocket as she sat in the other chair.

“Same timeline, but I brought us back to noon here, too,” Aran said softly.

She put her phone away with a grimace. “I thought it should have been the middle of the night or something, here. ‘kay, then.”

Bertrand hurried out with a long plate loaded with four croissants, a pot of coffee in the other hand. He put both on the table, then delved into the pocket of his apron and produced two coffee mugs, which he put on the table with a flourish. “The soup, she come.” He winked and hurried away.

They both reached for a croissant. Jesse tore off the end of the crescent and ate hungrily.

Soft white bread with the hint of oil, a touch of salt. Nothing else. Vive la gluten. It was perfect. She gobbled another enormous bite and sat back with a sigh.

Aran laughed and bit into his.

Jesse realized she was grinning, too. “A long way to go for a good croissant.”

“But worth it.”

“Oh yes.” She ate more, while Aran poured the coffee.

Bertrand returned with a tray bearing two bowls of steaming soup. The rich smell of onions and garlic drifted over them as he put the bowls in front of them, and spoons wrapped in fabric napkins.

“It smells wonderful,” she breathed, sniffing deeply.

Bertrand beamed and went away.

The soup lived up to the promise made by the aroma. It was delicious. She ate quickly but paused when she realized that Aran was watching her. “What?” she said, the spoon in mid air.

He shook his head. “I’d forgotten that about you.”

She lowered the spoon. “That I eat?”

“That you often forget to eat.” He ate a mouthful himself. “As good as usual,” he murmured, and took another.

Jesse made herself finish the bowl of soup, even though she was no longer hungry. Her stomach was tight, her heart thudding. “Why are we here?” she asked him.

“For the croissants.”

She looked at him steadily.

Aran smiled. It made his eyes dance. “Your pauper state offends me. I’m fattening you up.”

“That’s better.” She reached for another croissant, sat back and tore the end off it. “I’m not a pauper.”

“You’re not being smart with your money,” Aran shot back. He didn’t look around, but she could almost feel him sizing up the little bakery, checking for eavesdroppers. “Given the natural advantages at your disposal, you should be rolling in money, Jesse. Why aren’t you?”

“What does that mean?” She was genuinely puzzled.

“You can access the timescape. Why haven’t you?” His voice was even lower.

Jesse could feel her jaw dropping open. She leaned forward, too. “You mean, use time, somehow?” She was appalled, astonished and intrigued all at the same time.

“Use the unique opportunity it provides,” Aran replied. “It kicks us in the ass all the time. Why not use it for payback? Literally.”

Her mouth opened even further. If Veris could hear this conversation, he would be throwing off thunder and lightning right now.

“I’m not a jumper,” she pointed out.

“A technicality that means less than zero. You know three of us who are, who would drop everything to take you anywhere you want to go.”

Marit, Alannah…and Aran. Were all three of them…god, what? Milking time for revenue? She found herself staring at Aran. All Veris’ and Brody’s, even Alex’s lectures about the dangers of screwing with time circling in her head. “The dangers,” she whispered.

His eyes narrowed. “And you could get run over by a bus tomorrow.”

She put the croissant down, unable to finish it. “I look both ways before I cross,” she said tartly. “You should, too.”

“You’re the last person to lecture me about being cautious,” Aran said. “You took on four Jihadists single-handed.”

“I didn’t have a choice. It was them or me.”

“You and everyone in England who would have died if you didn’t tackle them.” He grimaced. “Bad example,” he admitted. “But hell, Jesse, you’ve paid your dues. Time fucked up your life and dictated how it would go whether you liked it or not. Why not squeeze what benefit you can out of it?”

“Is that what you think it did to me? Fucked up my life?”

Aran’s gaze met hers. “You and me, both,” he said softly. “I didn’t have any choice, either.”

The question just popped out. “Is that why you stay away from everyone?”

He sat back, as if she had slapped him. He opened his mouth, as if he was about to protest, or refute her. Then he shut it and looked at his watch once more. “I’ve got a meeting on the Hill in forty minutes.”

As Jesse wasn’t sure why she had baited him like that, she let him change the subject. “We should get back then. You can’t…you adjusted the time when we came back here. You can’t do that going back?”

He shook his head. “It would cause an unnecessary loop. Loops are frequently deadly. I go back to the moment after I left whenever I can.”

She got to her feet, while Aran went and paid for the meal. While she waited, she ate the last half of the croissant. They were so good…

They stepped out of the store, into the more forgiving Parisian winter air and moved up the street toward the alley.

“I’m sorry,” Jesse said inadequately. “How you deal with your family is none of my business.”

“Damn it, Jesse!” he shot back, halting right there on the path. “You have as much right to question me as my fathers do! When are you going to get that through your stubborn brain?”

She blinked at him. “Is that why you stayed away from me, too?”

“No,” he said shortly, then rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, no, I didn’t stay away. And that’s not what I mean, either. Fuck! I’m supposed to be eloquent!” He took her arm and steered her into the alley and far deep inside it, where they would not be visible to passers-by.

Aran glanced over his shoulder, then looked at her. “The house you’re sitting. You’ve set up your laptop on the dining table?”

That was what she usually did. She nodded.

“Not the chair at the end. Just around the corner from it. Did you leave the laptop running?”

She opened her mouth. “Wow, am I that predictable?”

Aran’s smile was very small. “To me, yes.” He leaned forward, wrapped his arms around her and jumped, stealing her breath with surprise.

She was still without breath when the elegant dining room formed around them. The table was right next to her.

Jesse gripped the thick lapels of his coat to steady herself. “You…you did that without me guiding you!”

Aran’s smile was still small. “You were thinking about the laptop. That was all I needed.”

She considered him. “You’re very good at this now, aren’t you?”

Aran pursed his lips, weighing his answer. It made the thick bottom lip jut in an interesting way. “London once hinted that Neven jumped her to when the pyramids were being built, based on nothing but a picture in a book.”

Jesse drew in a sharp breath, shocked.

Aran’s smile grew. “You have spent far too much time listening to my fathers rail on about the dangers of time travel. And to answer your question, I am good at this. Not as good as Neven must have been, but I do okay.”

She thought of the way he had jumped from the interior of the car. “You’re going to jump back into the car, too, aren’t you?”

His voice dropped. “When you let go of me, I will.”

Jesse let go of him, startled to realize that she was still gripping his lapels. She stepped back.

Aran dug in his pocket. “Oh, and here.” He pulled out a white paper bag and held it out to her. Oil spots darkened the paper.

She took it, delighted. “More croissants!”

Aran shook his head. “I’ve created a monster.”

Jesse held the bag to her chest. “Thank you,” she breathed.

“Any time.” He paused. “I mean that, Jesse.”

“At least one more time,” she replied. “You have my backpack, still.”

And this time, when her gaze collided with his, it felt comfortable.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” Aran said.

She nodded. “Me, too. Even if you do annoy me every thirty seconds.”

Aran shifted his feet. He was about to jump. “You need more people ruffling your feathers, Jesse. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to live on the edge.”

Before she could protest that she liked her life, just as it was, he was gone, with just the snap and ruffle of his coat lingering in her mind.

Chapter Four

Aran made his Capitol Hill meeting with only a minute to spare and was out of sorts and couldn’t concentrate while the house representative broke down the constituent profile in his district and why they would always vote Democrat.

He should have jumped to the washroom here in the bowels of the building and gone back for the car later. Why had he risked pissing off a senior member by jumping straight back to the car?

Because there had been admiration in her voice when she guessed you were going to do that. The soft whisper was his voice, cynical and sour.

He hadn’t seen Jesse for years, but the last time he’d seen her felt like it was just yesterday. She could rile up his anger with a single sentence. With most sentences she said, in fact. Then she would say something in that soft voice she sometimes used, and he would make the mistake of looking into her eyes and getting lost there.

He hadn’t lied about being glad to see her, but damn time to hell…nothing had changed. She still made him feel like a teenager. It was the air of old wisdom that oozed from her. The remote sense of independence that told him she needed no one but herself.

Aran pulled his thoughts together to finish off the meeting with a promise to the representative get some proper research going, and an outline for a campaign to push his wage ceiling bill through the House.

He went back to the office and finished the afternoon early. Before he went home, he jumped back to Paris, arriving as the fresh croissants came out of the oven, bought two of them and a cup of Bertrand’s excellent coffee, then timed his jump to arrive next to Jesse’s laptop tomorrow morning around seven and left them there, along with her backpack.

Then he jumped back to the apartment in Georgetown where everyone thought he lived, then home.

He was throbbing with tiredness. He’d done a lot of jumping today—more than he’d travelled in the last month. Longer than that, really. His Washington life had taken over a minute at a time, until all his energy and hours in a day were filled with the jostling and coaxing that was his life as a lobbyist.

Jesse had forcibly reminded him of this buried side of his nature. He supposed that was a good thing.

As it was close to midnight here, he had no trouble falling into bed and sleeping under the eiderdown until the dawn chorus echoed through the leadlight above his bed along with the first pearly grey strands of dawn.

It was still pre-dawn, Washington time, which gave him time to properly prepare and have a leisurely breakfast before heading into the office. Everyone at Abel & Toloni were constantly amazed by his ability to crank out paperwork and still make all his meetings, but the secret to his productivity was to arrive at the office before anyone else was there to shoot the breeze and waste his time.

He jumped back to Georgetown and drove over to G Street. The office was deserted as usual…almost, at least. A Post-It was stuck to his computer monitor.

Come see me when you get in.—H.

Harold Mann was the major partner of Abel & Toloni. He’d earned his political laurels during the Reagan era and the crumbling of the Soviet Union. Aran could never tell him so, but he had gone back to watch Harold at work on Capitol Hill, talking fast, running favors and building the reputation of the consulting firm he’d just started. He’d been full of energy and drive. He’d also had a full head of hair.

Aran dropped his coat over the back of the chair and went to Harold’s office.

Harold’s bald head gleamed in the overhead pot lights when he looked up from the tablet he was reading. Harold didn’t smile at him.

Aran held back his own cheerful greeting and said instead, “What’s happened?”

“You tell me, Gallagher.” Harold spun the tablet around and pushed it toward Aran.

Aran picked it up. The screen showed a page from the Washington Post website, and the logline was midnight last night. One of the early morning posts they liked to dump on unsuspecting politicians, to ruin their breakfasts.

The Surprising Weaknesses and Strengths of Anthony Reenberg’s Re-Election Platform.

The swoop and drop of Aran’s middle was exactly the same as he’d have got from a rollercoaster when it hit the bottom of the dip. He didn’t need to read any more. The headline said it all.

Harold was watching him closely. He nodded. “Glad to see you’re surprised, Gallagher. Means you didn’t know about this.”

“Of course not!” Aran replied. His hand was shaking. He put the tablet back on Harold’s desk, just barely managing not to drop it. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“The post outlines the entire campaign you drafted,” Harold said. “It quotes ‘a House insider’.”

“Only, no one in the House except Reenberg has seen the white paper,” Aran said, the sickness settling deeper into his bones.

“And me, as I signed off on it,” Harold said. He sat back and put his hands over his corpulent belly. “If this has sandbagged you, and clearly it has, then I have to ask who the fuck this K.F. is on the byline.” He peered up at Aran. “You’ve been dipping your wick in the wrong ink, Gallagher.”

It wasn’t a question.

Aran glanced at the tablet once more. The initial under the headline seemed to glow. K.F.

The bastard hadn’t even tried to hide. His ego was too large to use a completely fake name. He had to keep his initials there, at least. Just so Aran made no mistake about who had done this to him.

He’d have known who it was without the initials, anyway. There was only one person who’d had access to his laptop in the last month, who could have accessed the company’s cloud server.

“You know I can’t keep you here, after this, right?” Harold said.

Aran rested his fingertips on the edge of the desk, orienting himself as dizziness touched him. “No, I guess you can’t.” His voice was hoarse.

“You’re damn good at your job, but it would set a bad example,” Harold went on. “I can’t have all the freshman thinking it’s okay to make a mistake this bad, that I’ll just let it go. You can see that, right?”

Aran straightened himself, letting go of the desk. It took effort. “I get it,” he said woodenly. He managed to look Harold in the eye. “It was a mistake. I read someone wrong.”

Harold nodded. “I figured it was something like that. Best not trust anyone in this business. It’s easier.”

Aran pushed the tablet closer to Harold. “I know I’m gone and I’ll clear out when I get back to my desk, but do you need help recovering from this? I could write another white paper. Rebuild the thing. Your eyes only. No byline. Or yours, if you want. No one but you has to know I wrote it.”

Harold tilted his head. “Unpaid?” he asked curiously.

“This is a bad fuck up. I’d like a chance to straighten it out. Gratis.”

Harold scratched his head, where the hair used to be. “Well, that’s a new one. Don’t think anyone’s ever come back at me like this.” He clicked his teeth, thinking about it. “Ya know, Reenberg was over the moon with the unique angles. If you could pull that off again, I’d…” He rubbed his head again. “I’d put in a good word for you, wherever you end up next.” He nodded magnanimously.

It was generous. Aran let out a shaky breath. “I’ll have a chat with Cicero and write up a basic outline for you.”

Harold laughed and shook his head. “You and your damned dusty books! No one else gets the juice out of dead Roman senators that you do.”

“They just ask the wrong questions,” Aran said. He held out his hand. “Sorry about this, Harold.”

Harold actually shook his hand.

The dateline on the post had been midnight last night, so Aran drove straight to Kyle’s apartment. Kyle would have gone home in the small hours to sleep out the morning after a stunt like this.

Aran would have jumped to the lane just behind the building, but it was the morning rush hour and everyone was pulling out of their garages and steering out to the main road. And he suspected…no, he knew he wasn’t thinking straight enough to jump accurately.

He hammered on the door. It was after eight. Screw the neighbors. “Kyle, open the fucking door!”

He hammered again, while a tiny corner of his brain wondered why Kyle had never got around to giving him a key to the place. And why he’d only now thought to question that.

When Kyle did open the door, his eyes bleary with sleep, Aran took a single step forward and sucker punched him in the corner of the jaw.

Kyle staggered back, tottering into the living area, his balance gone. He landed on his ass on the carpet, reached up and shoved his fingers into his mouth. They emerged bloody.

“You fucking asshole! I trusted you,” Aran raged. Belatedly, he thought to shut the apartment door.

Kyle wiped his fingers on his pajama pants. “No, you didn’t.” He still sounded tired. “Not really.”

“How can you say that? After…after everything?” The women, the parties, the sex…the heated, highly memorable sex. “I trusted you enough to leave my laptop around where you could get at it. My mistake, huh?”

Kyle got himself to his feet and brushed dirt from his ass. “You were around, but you were never available. Not for me. Not for anyone.”

Aran stared at him, flummoxed. “You destroyed my career because I didn’t…what, exactly?”

Kyle met his gaze. “You didn’t give a shit. Not deep down. What, you thought I’d never notice?” His tone was bitter.

“I thought you were enjoying yourself,” Aran shot back. “Why did it have to be more?”

“Because I’m fucking human, Gallagher!” Kyle ground out, his voice harsh. “Christ, you’re so above everyone, so fucking superior, you can’t see what’s right in front of you. I loved you.” He brushed his hands off. “Guess that was my mistake.”

Aran found words, at last, and they were pathetic. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well, you never thought I was your equal, so why would you notice? That would require giving a damn.”

Aran drew in a breath. Another. “They fired me. Hope that makes you feel better.”

Kyle grimaced. “No.”

Aran nodded. “Good. Have a nice life, Kyle.”

He got himself the hell out of there before he did anything even more stupid, and slid and staggered down the steps to the icy pavement, his heart thundering and his head aching.

When Taylor phoned, Jesse was more than happy to abandon the scene she was writing. “You usually jump over to talk,” Jesse pointed out. “I could put the kettle on. I’ve got good coffee now.” She glanced at the time on her laptop. “Wow, it’s later than I realized. I should stop for dinner, anyway.”

She had taken all of yesterday afternoon to walk to the nearest supermarket and carry eight bags of groceries back. She’d eat in from now on. Not that it would stop any of the family from reaching her if they wanted to.

Yesterday morning she had found fresh croissants and coffee waiting beside her laptop and her backpack on the chair, telling her Aran had been there. Oddly, his uninvited visit had not bothered her. She was used to the family popping in and out, and she had implied he should return the pack.

Only, the smell of good coffee wafting to her while she wrote convinced her to do something to fix the coffee situation that didn’t involve French style patisseries. Especially genuine Parisian patisseries.

She had sent Aran a carefully inelegant and casual text. Thanks 4 returning my backpack…croissants were divine.

He hadn’t replied but she didn’t notice until later that night, when she stopped to fix dinner. She was still trying to figure out if him not responding was a good or a bad thing.

Taylor said into Jesse’s ear, “No, I don’t want to jump there right now. It’s…well, it’s a awkward mother thing, Jesse.”

Jesse laughed. “You’re not awkward.”

“I feel awkward,” Taylor admitted. “Only, Aran hasn’t returned my texts for two days now, and…well…”

Jesse squeezed the phone. “Doesn’t Aran always take a while to get back to you? He takes weeks to respond to me.” When she bothered sending him messages at all, which she hadn’t done for a very long time.

“That’s where the awkwardness comes in,” Taylor said, with a deep sigh. “Veris said he and Brody sort of argued about Aran in front of you at Thanksgiving, and you must have noticed that Aran isn’t…well, around, these days.”

“Yeah, I’d noticed,” Jesse said, keeping her tone light.

“And normally, he takes his time getting back to me but this time it just…feels different. And I can’t figure out if I’m being a paranoid mother or if something is…I don’t know. A tremor on the timescape? But I’m worried, Jesse.”

Jesse bit her lip. “But you won’t come here to check on him,” she finished.

“Because I’m his mother,” Taylor said in a rush. “He’s a grown man. I won’t crowd him like that.”

Jesse rubbed her brow. “You’re asking me to do it, instead,” she guessed.

“Asking, yes. Not insisting. I know it’s an imposition, Jesse. But Aran talks to you and Marit and Alannah more frequently than he does to us, so maybe it won’t feel so invasive if you do it. You’re already in Washington.”

Jesse held her tongue. Taylor really had no idea how little Aran talked to any of them. Instead, she said, “I can try phoning him.”

“Is that what you normally do?” Taylor asked hesitantly.

Jesse sighed. “I would normally send a text.” She hesitated. “He hasn’t answered mine from two days ago, but I didn’t think anything of it. He usually doesn’t answer.”

She could almost feel Taylor’s worry spike.

“I’ll go around and see him,” Jesse said firmly. She hesitated again. “But you’ll have to send me the address.”

“Thank you, Jesse,” Taylor said, her voice wobbling. Jesse wondered if she was crying. Could vampires cry? She wasn’t sure about that. It was a question to ask one of the vampires, when they were very mellow, and in the mood to talk. “I’ll hang up and send the address right now.”

Jesse put her phone down and flipped her laptop over to the maps. When the address popped up on her phone screen, she plugged it into the maps app, then consulted the D.C. bus schedules. Her heart sank. It would take her three hours and four buses to get across the river and into Georgetown, at this time of night. There were twenty-minute waits between each bus…and it was already below thirty out there.

She picked up her phone. A phone call was going to have to do. She pulled up the text she’d sent Aran two days ago and tapped the phone number to make it dial.

Even before the call connected, a feminine-sounding computer informed her the phone was not in service.

Jesse put the phone down, her heart thudding hard. If Taylor had tried to call, she would have got the same message and would have immediately jumped to D.C., but she was trying to respect Aran’s boundaries. At least she would be spared this additional worry.

Jesse picked up the phone again and texted Alannah.

Need to speak to you. *Might* be emergency with Aran.

Silence. No dancing three dots to tell her Alannah was swiping out a response. Nothing.

Then a rustle and soft exclamation behind her.

Jesse turned on the chair. Alannah stood between the two white sofas, wearing big sunglasses, a double-breasted jacket that crossed underneath her breasts, and it looked as though she was wearing nothing under the jacket. A very short skirt, over-the-knee suede boots that match the jacket in color, and sheer dark tights.

The jacket was pushed up close to her elbows.

“Damn, it’s cold here,” Alannah said in her rough voice. She tugged down her sleeves and lifted the sunglasses. “I can’t get him on the phone,” she told Jesse. “It just cuts out.”

“Me, neither,” Jesse said, getting up. “You jumped here blind?” The twins seemed fearless when it came to jumping around the timescape.

Alannah shook her head. “There was a bookmark. I hoped there would be, otherwise, I’d have to call in Marit and she just gets snotty about things like that.” Alannah rolled her eyes. “Big sisters,” she added disparagingly.

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have one.”

“Sure you do,” Alannah said. “She’s called Marit.” She grinned.

“I’m older than her,” Jesse pointed out, trying to hide the ridiculously pleased grin that wanted to form.

“No one is older than Marit,” Alannah assured her. “Not even Far, and he’s fifteen centuries old.”

It was an oddly true statement. Jesse glanced at Alannah’s inadequate clothing. “Did I pull you out of something?”

“Party in Malibu.” Alannah shrugged. “Punch was sour, anyway. So, let’s do this.” She held out her arms.

“Oh, good, you know his apartment.” Jesse stepped up against her.

“Nope. Never been there. But I can see the map there. If we are going to do this, then we did do this, if you look back from the future, so there will be a bookmark. Ready?”

Jesse reflected that five years ago, that would have been a completely nonsensical statement. Today, she understood it perfectly.

Time swiped at them.

Chapter Five

Cold was the first thing that registered. They’d both left the house without coats, which was stupid. Jesse pulled her cardigan in around her, already shivering, and looked around the narrow tree-lined street. It was dark and threatening to snow—the smell was unmistakable. There was no one in the street. Still, Alannah had taken a big risk jumping straight here, onto the middle of the sidewalk.

There were few streetlights, strung far apart, which didn’t help spotting street numbers.

“There’s twenty-one,” Alannah said and strode over to the stoop stairs, climbed them with her very long legs and pressed the doorbell.

Jesse moved up onto the stoop behind her as Alannah rang the bell again. If she leaned over the railing she could peer in the front window. Under the circumstances, Aran’s privacy was the lesser priority. She leaned and rested her hand against the glass so she could peer in without the streetlights bouncing off the glass and dazzling her.

“It’s dark in there,” she said. “I don’t think anyone’s home.”

“Hang on.” Alannah pulled her phone out of her pocket, thumbed the screen and switched on the flashlight app and played the light through the window. She was taller than Jesse and could hold it over her head.

Jesse bent again and peered through the glass at the neat living room the light displayed. “This can’t be Aran’s place.” She pulled back and looked at the number on the door. “Do we even have the right street?”

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” Alannah shoved the phone at Jesse. “Let me see.”

Jesse raised up on her toes and held the phone up over Alannah’s back as she peered through the window.

Then Alannah straightened and took back the phone and switched it off. She shook her head. “It’s too neat.”

Jesse shuddered. The cold was eating into her face and bones.

From further inside the apartment, a light abruptly blazed out. Both of them lurched backward with breathless shrieks of surprise. Then they glanced at each other and grinned weakly. Jesse felt foolish.

Alannah pressed her finger against the bell once more, then knocked heavily.

Nothing.

“Fuck this,” Alannah said. She held out her arm. “Here.”

Jesse stepped into her hold and caught her breath as they jumped again.

The warmth that enveloped them was heavenly. They stood inside the apartment they had just been peering into, with the light from the next room pooling on the old floorboards and a pristine Berber area rug spotted with blues and greys.

The light switched off.

“Aran, you son of a bitch, stop playing with us!” Alannah shouted.

The silence that answered her thudded in Jesse’s ears.

Alannah strode through the small arch into the room where the light had been and fumbled at the wall beside the door. The light came back on again.

“Jesse, check this out!” she called.

Jesse moved into the other room, feeling like the intruder she was. Alannah didn’t seem to have the same qualms.

The other room was a kitchen/dining area. Tiny, too. Even an apartment this small, in this neighborhood, would cost a fortune. It was as pristine and simple as the front room. “No dirty dishes,” Jesse said. “Not even a scotch glass.”

“Look.” Alannah pointed at the counter which separated the kitchenette from the dining area. Against the wall was a voice-controlled home management device, the LED at the top glowing blue.

“It’s doing something,” Jesse said, stepping closer to it.

The light in the front room came on, making both of them spin and gasp.

Nothing else happened. No footsteps sounded overhead. No voice demanding to know what they were doing in here.

Alannah let out a shaking breath. “Son of a bitch…” she breathed. “I know what he’s doing. Look in the fridge, Jesse. I’ll be right back.” She turned and ran into the front room. Jesse heard her boots thudding as she ran upstairs.

Jesse had no idea what Alannah thought she might have figured out, but she went over to the little under-counter fridge and opened it.

Empty.

Jesse stared at the pristine white interior, frowning hard.

Thoughtfully, she closed the door as Alannah’s boots careened back down the stairs. Alannah strode into the room. “Closet is completely bare. He’s using this place as an arrival chamber and a mail drop.”

Jesse nodded. “The fridge has nothing in it. He’s using the thing on the counter to control the lights. Turn them on and off at certain times. Make the neighbors think he lives here.”

“He stole my freaking idea, the asshole,” Alannah muttered.

“You do this?” Jesse was astonished.

Alannah turned on one heel, taking in the neat kitchen. “You know how expensive apartments are in L.A.? Two thousand a month for a footlocker. I have a hundred square foot jumping pad in L.A. and a house in Colorado. I own the house free and clear.”

Jesse realized she was staring. Really, these two had no respect for time at all. They used it for their own ends. What would Veris think, if he knew? But she would never tell him. She didn’t want to find out what Veris did to messengers bearing that sort of news.

Besides, she was an honorary sister, apparently. Siblings didn’t rat out each other. At least, that was her understanding of what siblings did. “Okay, so he uses this place as a front door for somewhere else. Where, then?”

Alannah grimaced. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t see him on the timescape?”

“There’s bookmarks all over the place,” Alannah said. “Especially lately.” She sighed and pulled out her phone and thumbed a fast text message. “We’re going to have to pull in the big gun, after all.”

She sent the message, put her phone away, then roamed the kitchen, opening and closing doors and inspecting the interiors.

Jesse stayed with her back to the sink. Even if this was a staged living space, it still felt wrong to move around like she lived here, when Aran wasn’t here.

Marit arrived wearing sunglasses and a big brimmed hat, a brightly colored green silk sarong wrapped under her arms, which went well with her light tan. Water pooled around her bare feet. The scent of salt wafted through the room, making Jesse think of rolling waves and white sand.

“What the hell has he done now?” Marit took off her hat and glasses and shook out her hair.

“Were you swimming?” Jesse asked curiously.

“I was walking across a reef, digging up mullet fish for dinner tonight,” Marit replied. “And hello,” she added shortly. “Give me the guts of it.”

“Your mom phoned me,” Jesse said. “Aran hasn’t replied to her texts for two days, which isn’t out of the ordinary. Except this time, Taylor’s Spidey-sense is prickling. I got Alannah to jump me here, to check on him.”

“It’s an arrival chamber,” Alannah told Marit, as Marit looked around the room. “I don’t know where he actually lives and there’s bookmarks all over the timescape. We could spend a week tracking them all down and some of them are linear, too.”

That meant they were back in the past. If Jesse had properly understood the stories she’d heard everyone spin in the last few years, linear jumps were the more dangerous and certainly more emotionally fraught type of jump, because they tended to land you back in high tension moments of your own past.

This was getting far trickier than Jesse thought Taylor had intended it to be. “I just promised your mom I would look in on Aran and make sure he’s still breathing,” she told Marit and Alannah. “Maybe we should tell her about this and let her deal with it.” Taylor was a well-practiced jumper, after all.

Marit rolled her eyes. “She’ll pull in Far and he’ll pull in Athair and then this will all leap to the top end of the Richter scale.”

“When all he might be doing is bedding some woman on a deserted island in Bora Bora and he’ll kill us for calling in the troops,” Alannah added.

Jesse’s heart thudded hard. Her middle crimped. “He’s got a boyfriend, already.”

Alannah snorted. “Like that would stop him.”

Marit just grinned.

Jesse worked hard to hide her surprise and the nugget of dismay building in her chest. “Can you find him?” she asked Marit.

“Give her a minute,” Alannah murmured, while Marit stared at the floor in front of her feet, her arms wrapped around her middle. Marit would find even this furnace-warmed apartment cold, coming from summer sunlight in Australia.

Marit lifted her head. “Got him.” She grimaced. “You might be sort of right, Alannah. He’s in New Orleans, in 2003. Bourbon Street.”

“If he’s not actively screwing someone, he’s working up to it, then,” Alannah concluded.

Jesse tried to shrug off the unhappiness building in her middle and making her heart labor. She could self-assess later and figure out what the hell was wrong with her and why she was reacting like this. Instead, she pushed away from the sink. “I should at least look at him, even from a distance, so I can truthfully reassure your mom that he’s okay.”

“He won’t thank you for it.” Marit’s tone was infinitely wise.

“Then it’s better I do it than one of you guys. He already doesn’t like me.” She shrugged.

They gave her startled looks. Then they glanced at each other. A silent communication passed between them.

“Best if we both go with her,” Marit added, as if that was the end of a conversation.

Alannah nodded. “At least it’s Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras—it doesn’t matter what we’re wearing. We’ll all fit in.” She held out her arms. “I’ll jump, you steer,” she told Marit.

Jesse stepped into the circle of Alannah’s arm. “Has he ever dropped off the grid like this in the past? Taken someone somewhere isolated and just…checked out?”

“Never,” Marit said grimly. “I’ve always known where these two are.” She wrapped her arm around Jesse’s waist, the other around Alannah’s. “I know where he is now, too, so ease off, Captain Hall.”

“One,” Alannah said. “Two…three!”

They jumped.

The noise was overwhelming, even from inside the little alleyway they’d jumped to. Jesse couldn’t call it music, even though live music underlaid the roar of thousands of voices, horns, clapping and cheering. More than one piece of music, too. Trumpets blared and drums beat.

Jesse put her fingers to her ears. “My god!” She had to shout it.

“How did you know it was Mardi Gras, ‘lannah?” Marit asked her little sister, lifting her voice.

“Like he’d come here at any other time of the year!” Alannah shouted back. The volume out on the street was creeping upwards. Silhouettes of people crossing and lingering at the mouth of their alleyway played in front of powerful lights—floodlights, Jesse guessed.

Beyond the silhouettes was the parade itself, moving passed the alley at turtle speed, full of glitter and glitz. Masks. Harlequins. Floats. Bright primary colors. And everywhere, people jigging and rocking in time to drums beating frenetically.

“We’ll have to work to stay together,” she told the other two. “Marit, can you get a better sense of where Aran is, from here?”

Marit looked down at her feet, concentrating. “Lots of bodies here,” she said softly. “All I can say for now is that he’s somewhere to the right, when we step out of the alley.”

Jesse nodded. “Marit, you’re on point. You look for him and head in his direction when you get a better sense of where he is. We’ll stick to your back. There’ll be pickpockets and drunks wanting to dance or more. Alannah, all you have to do is not get waylaid. Stick with Marit and me, okay?” With her twenty-first century L.A. party clothes, Alannah would draw attention. So would her height and her high cheekbones.

Marit would draw a different sort of attention. She looked fit and healthy and fresh.

This was going to be…interesting.

“When you’re ready, Marit,” Jesse said, mentally rolling up her sleeves. She wished she had her Glock, just for a tiny fraction of a second, but that was the old instincts bellowing at her.

One could get by without a gun, if they had to. Who had told her that?

Marit headed down the alley, with the two of them following her. At the end, they had to squirm and ease their way through a crush of bodies. With the parade passing right in front of them, everyone who had been dancing and drinking on the street had been pushed back to the sides.

Marit turned and worked her way onto the verandah of the building that had formed one side of the alley. There were just as many people on here, too, pushing back against the clapboard and straining to see over heads.

Jesse kept Marit’s bare shoulders and the thick red curls rolling down her back in her sights, while tracking Alannah’s movements beside her. When Alannah fell back, she gripped her arm and hauled her forward.

At the same time, Jesse’s instincts strained outward, looking for unnatural or wrong motions, searching all the friendlies for the unfriendly face. Looking for danger.

There was too much movement here. Too much noise. Despite their casual clothing, they all looked out of place because they weren’t carrying drinks or wearing beads or a mask.

Or smiling.

Plus, they were back in time. It was only a couple of decades, but it was still not their time. All the stories Jesse had heard over the years about disasters that arrived without warning, of how fast things could go wrong, pressed in on her like a heavy cloud.

“Put your phone away, Alannah!” she shouted, when Alannah peered at her phone and shook it, with a vexed expression. Twenty years ago, cellphones had not been common. She reached over and plucked the phone out her hands and shoved it into Alannah’s pocket.

Alannah looked guilty. “Sorry!”

They pushed on, heading for the end of the verandah. Marit veered right before they reached it, heading for the interior of the building.

The front façade of the building was brick. At this end of the building, three wide doorways had their French doors pulled back and folded out of the way. There was more light and movement inside, but not nearly as much as out here. The stench of alcohol and pot and sweat was strong. Jesse couldn’t figure out if it was coming from inside, or from the people around them.

Both, probably.

Marit struggled to push through the jammed people who had clearly moved out of the building to watch the parade go by. She stumbled through them into the room beyond, which was devoid of people.

Jesse drove through the same space, bringing Alannah with her. They wiggled through the last of the crowd on the verandah and stepped into the room. Jesse drew in a deep breath, not relaxing, not yet, but pleased to be where she had elbow room.

She moved up behind Marit, who scanned the room.

It was a bar, with round tables and old French café style chairs, and a pocket-sized stage at the far end, with music stands and microphones. No musicians right now. They couldn’t compete with the thunderous noise on the street.

The bar was to the left, starting in the corner and running down the side of the room.

Most of the tables were empty, the customers out on the verandah, but not all of them.

Marit pointed. The table she pointed at was in the corner. Two men sat—although only one was doing a good job of actually sitting. The other propped himself up on both elbows, his head sinking lower even as they watched.

It was Aran.

“Shit, we came all this way for a binge session?” Alannah said, sounding disgusted. She had to raise her voice for them to hear her.

Jesse caught Marit’s shoulder and spoke loudly. “We’ve seen him. He’s alive—”

“If you want to call it that,” Marit said back.

“Let him pickle his brain,” Jesse said urgently. “Let’s go before he sees us.”

The upright one of the pair at the table noticed the three of them staring and got to his feet.

“Damn,” Jesse breathed. Then she properly focused on the man’s face and the olive features and curly hair. “I know him. That’s—”

“Cael!” Marit said, when he was close enough to hear them. “What are you doing back here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, except I think I know the answer to that.” He turned to look at Aran. “I’m here because I own this bar,” he added.

Jesse gaped at him. “Here in the…here and now?” she amended, for none of them could lower their voices and still be heard.

“I inherited it,” Cael added, and his face shadowed. “I come back and check in every few days. I was as surprised as you guys when Aran showed up yesterday.” He shook his head. “I’ve never given your people details about this place, although I maybe implied that I had it. He must have picked up on that and found it on the timescape.”

“He’s been sitting there drinking for two days?” Jesse said.

Cael glanced at her. His smile was grim. “Something’s eating at him. Drinking isn’t letting him get any clarity on it, either, although he didn’t believe me when I said it wouldn’t help.” He shrugged. “He needs to go home, sober up and face whatever it is.” He considered the three of them. “Can you manage him, between you? Or should I ask Kieran to come and help you?”

“Kieran is the giant, right?” Alannah said.

Cael grinned. “He’s quite human,” he assured them.

Marit shook her head. “We can handle Aran ourselves,” she decided. “Jesse will knock him out if he’s reluctant to come.”

Jesse suspected it would be more difficult than Marit made it sound to overcome Aran even as drunk as he was, but she nodded anyway. “Is there a room we can use to leave from?” she asked Cael.

He pointed to a discreet door not far from where Aran was slumped. “Manager’s office. No one is there right now. I’ll help you get him into the office.” He moved over to the table and patted Aran’s shoulder, not lightly. “Come on, up you come.” He got an arm under Aran’s shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Aran was taller, but he was slumping so badly it didn’t matter.

Jesse suspected Cael had handled more than one sloppy drunk before. He made it look easy. He moved over to the office door, bringing Aran with him, even though Aran was making feeble movements with his feet, trying to get them back under him. He wasn’t quite unconscious yet. He was wearing one of his day job suits, which looked odd in this time, but not so strange that it drew the wrong sort of attention.

Alannah opened the office door and Cael moved Aran inside and propped him on the front edge of an old wooden desk and held him upright.

When Alannah shut the door behind them, the noise dropped enough that Jesse could hear herself think.

Cael patted Aran’s face. “Open your eyes,” he said, his tone demanding, but not unkind. “You’re going to have to stand on your feet, man. Long enough for these lovely ladies to get you home. C’mon, now, wake up…”

Aran’s black eyes, with the stupidly long lashes, fluttered open. His gaze shifted from Cael to the three of them. “Sis…” he breathed. “Jesse. Shit…not far enough.”

The hurt squeezed Jesse’s chest and made her temples ache. She hid her reaction by snapping to attention. “Marit, grab his arm. Alannah, slide under the side Cael has, and take his weight. I’m stronger than either of you. I’ll keep him on his feet. You’ll have to take both of us as deadweight—I can’t jump with him leaning against me.”

They moved as she had directed.

“Let me steer again,” Marit told Alannah. “I know where we can take him.” She glanced at Jesse. “Brace yourself. I’m going to slide him off the desk and use his fall as momentum for the jump. All you have to do is catch him.”

Jesse nodded. In this matter, Marit was the expert. She glanced at Cael. “Thank you for watching out for him. Please give my regards to Nayara.”

Cael nodded. “Send word if you need any more help. You know how.”

Long term letter drop. Jesse had heard the others talk about it. She nodded. “I have it from here.” She bit off the sir that tried to emerge. Cael gave out leader vibes.

Marit resettled her grip on Aran. His head was sinking once more. “Ready? One…two…”

Jesse got her arms up and around Aran and felt his weight tip toward her.

“Three!” Marit finished.

Chapter Six

Neither sister was interested in watching over Aran while he recovered from his self-induced helpless state, so Jesse volunteered to keep an eye on him and make sure he only suffered the normal amount while he sobered.

Marit had jumped them to the beach where she had been picking mullet fish, arriving only a few minutes after she had left. Her bucket and crowbar that she had been using to pry them from the reef were still sitting in the sand.

A hand-made pergola of rough timbers with inexpertly thatched gum tree foliage for a roof was the only sign of human presence on the beach, despite the heat.

“This beach can’t be reached by car or on foot,” Marit explained, pointing at the escarpment a hundred meters inland. “At least, no one has found a way down from the top yet. So I have this place all to myself.”

That explained the amateur construction of the pergola. There was a folding bed beneath it, and a folding chair. They dumped Aran on the bed and Alannah stood looking down at him with her arms crossed. “Idiot,” she said, sounding vexed.

“Ditto,” Marit breathed. “Well, he’ll be out for hours now. Toss the stuff in the bucket back into the water, Jesse. He’ll probably need the bucket before he’s sober.”

“Fantastic,” Alannah breathed. She glanced at the water and the headland at the end of the bay. “Where is this, Marit?”

“Cape Naturaliste.” Marit checked her phone. “Gotta go. I’ve got work in two hours. Jesse, call me if you need anything.” With a small movement of her knees, she lifted herself up into a jump and disappeared.

Jesse could write anywhere, even without a laptop, but Alannah removed the need to ask for a pen and a notepad by jumping back to the house, packing up Jesse’s writing gear and bringing it back to the beach where Marit had brought them. “When you go back, I’ll take you back to the moment after we left there,” she told Jesse as she handed over the backpack. “Then you won’t be deserting the house at all.”

“Thanks,” Jesse said gratefully, for it had been weighing on her mind. “And you should get back to your party, shouldn’t you?”

“That thing,” Alannah said dryly. She glanced at Aran, who had not moved a muscle since they dumped him on the bed. “I’ve lost all desire for another drink,” she added, with a small grin. “When he’s sober, make him feel guilty for messing up our days, huh?”

She jumped away, leaving Jesse with nothing but the soft sound of the wind, the rhythmic swish and hiss of the waves, and a warmth that made her strip off the cardigan and her shoes. The dry rasp of beach sand lingered in her nostrils.

She rolled up her jeans and retrieved the bucket, emptied it and rinsed it out, then parked it next to the bed.

He phone had reconnected with the network and showed local time and date. At this time, Jesse and Alannah were still standing in Aran’s empty kitchen, trying to figure out where he was.

Jesse sent Taylor a text to tell her Aran was fine—dealing with a minor issue—but fine and he’d call her in a day or two.

Taylor answered instantly. Thank YOU!!! Talk soon.

After that, there was nothing to do but watch the waves or write and wonder why Aran thought diving into a bottle was a good idea.

Jesse had seen plenty of soldiers go through deep binges and recoveries and knew it could take a good couple of days for Aran to sober up to the point where he could go back to his life. She had nowhere to go herself and could afford to be patient.

Besides, she was working. Even battery life wasn’t an issue. She had bought a solar recharger years ago. It lived in a pocket of her backpack. She planted it in the sand just beyond the shade of the pergola. The Australian sun was steady and strong, there were no computer networks within reach of her laptop, so no Internet to distract her. She could write as long as her attention held.

Marit arrived an hour later with a small Esky in her arms, that she planted in the sand next to Jesse. She wore a smart business suit in a lightweight polished cotton, and sunglasses. Her hair was piled on her head in a messy bun. “Food, and some aspirin in the back corner for doofus, there.” She swung the backpack on her shoulder down to sit next to the Esky. The backpack gurgled. “Water. You’ll both need it. Oh, and…” She reached into the pack and pulled out a thermos. “Coffee.”

“My hero!” Jesse said with deep feeling.

“There’s other bits and pieces in the pack,” Marit added. “Text if you need anything. I see he hasn’t moved.”

“I’m not sure he’s even sleeping,” Jesse admitted.

“Alcohol poisoning?” Marit asked, her tone alarmed.

“No, I’ve seen that. He’s not that far gone. Just comprehensively drunk. He’ll live to regret it.”

“Yes, Captain.” Marit grinned. “Well, I’m should get back. Meeting in ten.” She flexed her knees and was gone.

Jesse poured herself some coffee and got back to work, breaking regularly to stretch, walk, eat and drink. It was the routine she followed no matter where she was.

At sunset, she moved into the bushland that lay between the beach and the escarpment and dragged firewood to the edge of the pergola. She could have got the fire going by herself, but Marit had left a box of matches in the pack, which made the job easier.

She watched the flames dances and the seagulls soar over the water, hovering in the stiff evening sea breeze.

Aran groaned and stirred not long after the sun set. He rolled onto his back, gave another groan and shifted back onto his side and gripped the edge of the bed. His knuckles were white.

“Bucket is right in front of you,” Jesse said.

He swallowed. “‘kay,” he whispered. His jaw flexed and she suspected he was holding his teeth together, fighting the need to throw up. She didn’t feel sorry for him, even though she knew just how dizzy and nauseous he must be feeling.

Instead, she poured herself the last of the coffee. “Let me know if you want some water,” she added, knowing damn well he would be utterly parched, and far too ill to drink it. He would bring it right back up. He had to sober more before he could keep anything down.

Aran didn’t say anything.

Alannah arrived a short while later, carrying a tray. “He’s moved. He is alive then.”

“Yep,” Jesse said.

Alannah put the tray on Jesse’s knee. “It’s hot,” she said. “I just picked it up from République. Hope you like French.”

“Love it,” Jesse breathed.

Aran groaned. “Smells disgusting…” he muttered.

“Suffer, baby,” Alannah tossed over her shoulder. “I’ll bring coffee next.” She jumped away and returned barely sixty seconds later, carrying an entire plunger pot, the plunger still drawn to the top, a ceramic mug with a spoon and a tiny carton of cream tucked inside it. She put them on the tray beside the take-out carton and stepped back. “You’re staying the night, then?”

Jesse didn’t look at Aran. “I think I should.”

Alannah wrinkled her nose. “I’ll coordinate with Marit. She can bring you breakfast.”

“Two of them,” Jesse said.

“He doesn’t deserve one.” Alannah bent and jumped, leaving them alone with the sound of small waves and a whisper of a breeze. Even the seagulls were silent.

The scents rising from the carton were enticing. Jesse ate, suddenly starving. The coffee was excellent, too, which meant this was one of the best meals she’d had in weeks…here on an isolated beach on the southwest tip of Australia.

She was sipping the second cup of coffee when Aran said, his voice strained, “I remember being pulled out of the bar. Figured I’d find Marit in the chair. Or Alannah. Or even Mom…” He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.

“I didn’t expect to be here, either,” Jesse told him. “I’ve got a house to watch, and a book to finish. This wasn’t on my agenda.”

“Sorry.” He kept his eyes closed and remained very still on the bed.

“No, you’re not, but okay.”

After a long moment, he said, “Not sorry for me. For pulling you away, yeah, I am.”

It burst from her, unintentional. “What happened, Aran? What made you think hiding in the oughts and going on a binge that would halt Hannibal’s elephants a good idea?”

He gave a long, harsh sigh, but didn’t answer.

She was kinda glad he hadn’t. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. And in the back of her mind, she saw the same little flash of memory. Long fingers stroking Aran’s neck.

Jesse didn’t know if he went back to sleep. She didn’t look at him again. Instead, she picked up her laptop from where she had parked it on the top of the little Esky and got back to work. Now the sun had set, she would only get the length of the battery life out of the laptop—a few hours, only.

One of these days, she should buy a second battery. Or maybe two of them.

It was difficult to get back into the story, but she persevered, until the characters took over and were telling their own story while she took dictation.

There was nothing better than being in this dream place and living a story.

Aran said something. His voice was quiet, as though he was talking to himself.

“Hmm…?” Jesse murmured, trying to get the next sentence down before it evaporated from her brain.

She paused, pulling the last half of the sentence together, but it was gone. And her battery was down to twelve percent.

Jesse closed the laptop and put it aside. “What did you say?” Aran was a dark shape on the bed and only now she realized that the fire had died down to glowing coals.

She rose, stretched and moved out to where her pile of firewood sat. She built up the fire. When it was crackling loudly, she sat on the sand in front of it and watched the flames slide along the branches, their edges dancing blue and red and yellow.

The sand was soft enough that she would be more than comfortable sleeping on it. Soft, fine and completely dry. Warm, too.

She was sitting at the front of the pergola, which put the bed behind her, so when Aran spoke, she jumped.

“I said, before, that I thought I was heading back to Cael’s bar because of Kyle.”

Jesse didn’t turn to look at Aran. Her gut said that if she did, he’d stop talking. That he could only say what he wanted to say while her back was turned.

No judgement. That’s what her back meant.

She held still and forced her voice to casual indifference. “He dumped you?”

“Worse.”

What could be worse? But she didn’t say it aloud.

Aran didn’t speak again for long minutes. She thought he had given her all the answer she would get, but then he used the same this-is-just-me-processing-shit tone as before, the tone that had pulled her out of her writing.

“I thought getting fired should…I don’t know. Upset me more. Getting screwed over for political gain, that’s Washington. That’s the fuel that runs the joint, so after I socked him, I got over being pissed about that. I don’t like it, but it’s a fact of life, there, and I knew that going in, so it’s a waste of energy hanging on to resentment about that. But getting fired for it, that should hurt. And I thought all of it, the whole stinking mess, was why I went back to N’Orleans.”

Jesse held still, while her heart thudded. Fired? Punching people? What had happened to him? But she couldn’t demand clarification right now. It would halt the flow. Even clearing her throat might knock him off his track, so she went quiet and dark and waited.

His voice was even quieter when he spoke next. “I’ve seen the Battle of Trafalgar from the poop deck of Admiral Nelson’s HMS Victory. I’ve ridden in Genghis Khan’s army and watched him mow down the Volga Bulgarians. I’ve heard every single speech Cicero gave the Senate. All of them.” He let out a breath—too soft to be sigh, but not a simple exhalation, either.

The thought came to her abruptly. “You like time travelling…” she breathed.

No one in Veris’ extended family had ever spoken about time travelling as something they enjoyed. Not ever. It was not quite a curse to them, not once they had adapted to a universe where time travel was possible. But it was not a gift, either. It brought troubles and near-disasters, dangers and stress.

“I like time travelling,” Aran said, his voice bitter. “Only, I don’t get to jump forever. No one mentioned that when they were showing me how to do it.”

Jesse did turn to look at him then, driven to move by her surprise. “But you jumped by yourself back to Spain. Brody told me about it. You were the first in the family to figure out place-to-place jumping…”

Aran lay on his back, peering up at the rough thatch over their heads, but he rolled his head to look at her. His eyes, in the firelight, were shadowed, with just a gleam of black showing under the lashes. “Only because I’d been listening to everyone in the family talk about it since before I could understand what they were saying. I grew up a jumper—no choice.”

“But you like it, so…?”

He sighed. A gusty one this time. “Male jumpers don’t get to keep their ability once they’re turned.”

Oh… Now she thought she understood. “Then you want to be turned, one day?”

“Right now, the idea of growing old and decrepit seems…wrong,” he said softly. “There’s so much out there I still want to see.”

The yearning in his voice!

Jesse wrapped her arms around her knees, as the heat of the fire bathed her back, instead. “You can grow old and not be able to jump, or be turned and still not be able to jump.”

Aran closed his eyes. “I’ve conversed with Plato, with Cicero, with Julius Caesar and Marcus Aurelius. Newton. Einstein. Kings, queens and heroes. I’ve watched the Titanic sink, the Battle of Britain, Martin Luther King’s last speech, the protests in Tiananmen Square. The Berlin wall being built and then being pulled down again. The pyramids being built. Games in the Colosseum. The Gettysburg Address.”

Jesse remembered to breathe. “When did you do all this?” she whispered.

“My time is limited,” he whispered. “I squeeze it in.” He turned his face away from her gaze. “Washington has always seemed like the minor leagues to me, but it’s my league, so I played my guts out. Only, now I’ve been booted out of the arena and I should be pissed. Or upset. Or both. And all I feel is…relief.”

Getting drunk sounded like a moderate response under those circumstances, Jesse thought.

Aran turned over, his back to her. She understood that, too. He’d just revealed his inner core. She would feel as exposed as he was, if it was her.

Jesse said lightly, “If you ever go back to the Battle of Trafalgar, take me with you. That is a battle I would like to see.” It had only turned the fortunes of Britain and made it the world power than controlled the oceans—which had given Britain access to the rest of the “colonial” world, well before the other European empires had got their shit together.

Aran didn’t answer. She hadn’t expected him too. She stretched out on the sand, wriggled until she was comfortable, pillowed her head on her arm and tried to sleep.

A long while later, she did sleep. When she woke, it was broad daylight and the fire was cold ash in front of her, smelling of gum resin and charcoal. The plaid blanket that had been on the bed was now over her and the bed was empty.

Jesse sat up and brushed sand from her skin. The early morning sunlight bounced off the sea with eye-watering intensity. No wonder Marit always wore sunglasses.

The little bay was about a mile from tip to tip, and the pergola was almost in the center of it. On the southern headland, half a mile from here, she spotted Aran as he strode out of the water, then hastily looked away because he was naked.

Not that she could see any detail from here, except for the long lines of his body and the surprising width of his shoulders. Aran had muscle the slim suits hid.

And she was watching him, after all, she realized.

He walked up the beach to where she could just spot the pile of dark grey suiting, shaking off water, then bent and plucked one of the items from the pile.

Jesse made herself turn and find something else to do. She pulled one of the water cannisters from Marit’s pack and drank several cupfuls. The other cannister she dropped onto the bed for Aran when he returned. He had to have a raging thirst by now. She buried the ashes from the fire by pouring more beach sand over it and tossed the remains of the firewood back into the bushes lining the back of the bay.

Marit popped into view, balancing a bowl on a potholder, with a spoon in it, and a bread plate with toast stacked on it in the other.

“Oh, he’s…there he is,” Marit said, looking over Jesse’s shoulder. “Doesn’t look any worse for wear, damn him. I’d look like a zombie, after something like that.” She shifted her gaze back to Jesse. “Oatmeal with brown sugar, cinnamon, almonds and dried apricots for you. Dry toast for him.” She put the plate on the bed and carefully transferred the bowl of oatmeal over to Jesse. “Mind your fingers. It’s hot. Coffee or tea? I left the kettle boiling.” She bent and gathered up the Esky and the considerably lighter backpack.

“I’ll wait to get home to make coffee,” Jesse told Marit. “That’ll save you a trip.”

“I’ll come back to take you home, then,” Marit said and hoisted the pack over her shoulder.

“I’ll take Jesse home,” Aran said from behind her. He’d covered the half mile damned quickly for a man who was supposed to be nursing a massive hangover.

Marit rolled her eyes. “Can you even see straight yet?”

“I’m fine. I’ll get her home.” Aran picked up the water cannister. He wore the shirt and trousers and carried everything else. He dropped the jacket and shoes onto the bed where the cannister had been, unscrewed the top and drank deeply.

“You’re welcome,” Marit said, her tone withering.

Aran shrugged. “I’d have come home by myself, sooner or later.” He drank again. His hair dripped seawater and clung to his head in persistent curls.

“Just thank her,” Jesse said, vexed at him. “Marit finding you on the timescape has stopped your Mom from hitting the button and shooting the entire family up to DefCon One.”

Aran lowered the cannister, and glanced at Jesse, startled.

“And Jesse covered your ass by playing it down with Mom, too,” Marit added. “Otherwise, it would have been Far and Athair hauling you out of New Orleans, and a year of lectures and growling every time they saw you.”

Jesse wanted to laugh, because Veris really did growl when he was irritated, or frustrated, or angry or scared for his kids and trying to hold it in. Which happened a lot, especially when time was involved. But she held her expression to neutral as Aran’s gaze shifted back to her once more.

“Then I guess I need to thank you,” Aran said. He put the lid back on the cannister with a grimace. “Both of you. I’ll catch up with Alannah, later.”

Marit’s mouth parted as she stared at her brother. Then she closed it firmly and nodded. “Right. Well, I have a kettle boiling…” She pushed the sleeves of her shirt up her arms, cleared her throat self-consciously, bent her knees and jumped.

Aran picked up one of the slices of toast and bit into it. “When you’ve finished eating, I’ll take you home,” he told Jesse. “Or we could go now, and you can eat the civilized way, on a chair at the table.”

“I’m not moving anywhere until you eat an entire slice of toast and don’t bring it up again.”

Aran’s eyes narrowed. Silently, he took another bite of the toast.

Jesse tried to ignore the way her middle had ruffled up and her chest had tightened. She got busy packing her gear away and tidying up the few things laying about on the cool sand under the pergola. In between, she took spoonfuls of the cooling oatmeal, which was delicious.

“You can’t keep still, can you?” Aran observed. He sat on the edge of the bed, now, pensively chewing through the other slice of toast.

“That’s just the problem,” Jesse said. “I can stay far too still for far too long, when I’m writing. Don’t you remember?” She had the courage to glance at him, to see if he did.

“So this fidgeting you’re doing right now isn’t natural.”

“This fidgeting you call it…it’s the sort of shit that gets a soldier picked off by a sniper, on the field. So no, it doesn’t come natural to me. I’m working against muscle memory, and more than a decade of military training to do it, but it keeps the metabolism ticking over.”

“You taught yourself to keep moving…” He said it softly. “Most people would find that an impossible change to make.”

“Lots of expats can’t make the change to civilian,” she admitted. “I was braced for that, for the chaos and lack of routine. But I got caught in the jaw by it, anyway, because it came at me from the wrong direction.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the next obvious question. Do you remember me dying? Do you remember saving me? But he couldn’t possibly remember, because he had deliberately changed time to make sure she lived, which meant his memories of that time were different from hers. Do you remember the moment just after, when you said you liked having me around?

Jesse cleared her throat and finished packing. By the time she had everything stowed and secured, Aran had put his shoes back on. He didn’t bother with the jacket, which was a rumpled mess. It felt like it was already seventy degrees, here.

“Washington is going to feel like the Arctic, now,” Jesse said, sliding her arms into her cardigan.

“Shall we stop for coffee in Paris, first?” he said.

Temptation tore at her. “I would kill for a cup of Bertrand’s coffee.” She hitched her backpack over her shoulder. “But I’m already twitchy about leaving the house for as long as I have.”

“I can take you back to the moment after you left,” Aran said, rolling the sleeves of his shirt back to his elbows. He had strong wrists and the muscle in his forearms matched what she had seen of him on the beach.

“I know that intellectually,” Jesse said, “but my gut just wants to see the house and make sure it didn’t burn down while my back was turned.”

“Arlington it is, then,” Aran said. He came toward her, his arms raising.

Jesse caught her breath and it had nothing to do with the imminent jump, even though jumping through time and space was for her still a thing of marvel, while Aran and his sisters treated it like…a tool.

He pulled her up against him and almost at the same moment, he jumped. Yet just for a heartbeat or two before the jump stole her senses, she felt his body against her. Hard. Long. Male.

Then she was blinking and trying to wake up. She’d heard Taylor talk about emerging from a jump being like waking, too. There was always a second or two of disorientation, while she sorted out where she was. Time and her place in it.

It was the dining room. The table was beside them. And Jesse was still standing with her body against Aran’s.

She looked up, blinking.

His black eyes watched her. “Steady, there,” he murmured. “See? Right back to your desk.”

His arms were still loosely around her. He never did let go until he knew she was properly on her feet. She could feel the heat of him through his thin shirt, for her arms were around his neck, the way she always linked them.

So why did it feel different now?

Why was he not stepping away from her?

She drew in a breath that shuddered.

Who kissed who? Did it matter? Although in her heart, she knew it was she who swayed up to press her lips against his. But she thought…hoped…that he bent to meet her mouth with his.

Then she forgot the petty worry and let the magic of the kiss steal her thoughts and disperse the cold that had tried to eat into her the moment they had arrived here. She heard her pack hit the floor. Had it fallen? Had she dropped it?

Then she let the thought go. All thought became inarticulate. Sensory.

When Aran raised his head, breaking the kiss, she was trembling. How long had it been since she’d been kissed like that?

No one ever kissed you like that, Captain Hall! The tiny voice was bodiless. Breathless.

“You kiss just like you do everything else,” Aran murmured.

“I’m sorry, that was—”

“I’m not,” he growled. He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again.

He held her head—there was no mistaking who was kissing who this time. His tongue pressed against her lips, slid inside and tasted her. She sighed into his mouth.

This time when they separated, Jesse pulled herself out of his arms and almost staggered over to the table. She leaned against the back of the tall dining chair, breathless and shaking.

Aran’s hand rested on the back of her shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She looked over her shoulder. He was gone.

Jesse fumbled with the chair, pulled it out and dropped into it, her hands clasped together between her knees and tried to command her breath to march steadily.

She still hadn’t properly recovered when Aran reappeared. He wore the rumpled jacket now, and he carried two of Bertrand’s coffee cups in his hands. He put one in front of Jesse. “You look like you need it,” he told her.

She reached for it and was dismayed to see her hand was shaking. Too late now—if she pulled her hand back, that would be even more of a declaration. She gripped the cup, not daring to look at him.

“Jesse…”

“It hasn’t been long enough,” she said quickly.

“It’s been four years.”

She looked up at him, startled. “I mean…Kyle.”

Aran’s eyes grew slightly larger. Then he frowned. “Ah. Kyle.” He put his coffee on the table and pulled out his phone. “Seven o’clock.”

“Don’t you just know that?”

He looked up. “Know what?”

“What the time is?”

He put his phone away. “Local time, measured by clocks cutting time up into man-made chunks? No. I know where I am in relationship to all other times and places, though. That’s how I know you left here only five minutes ago.”

He picked up the coffee cup once more. “Sleep well if you can, Jesse. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She opened her mouth to express at least one of the thousands of questions pushing at her, but he had already gone.

Chapter Seven

The questions didn’t go away. They increased. Even when she dragged herself to the very soft bed very late that night and settled beneath the down-filled quilt and inhaled furnace-warm air instead of salt-ladened breeze, the questions still circled.

The chief question that gnawed at her was why he had jumped away again. Then implied he would return.

Why had he kissed her?

Why had she kissed him? What had she been thinking? He was…he had to be ten years younger than her, and a family friend. He was family, as his family counted things. It was so inappropriate it was embarrassing.

Only it hadn’t felt inappropriate. Not for a second.

And Aran didn’t seem all that much younger than her. The opposite, really. At times it felt like he was much older than her. He didn’t even look young, not anymore.

“I’ve conversed with Plato, with Cicero, with Julius Caesar and Marcus Aurelius.” She could hear his murmur, the run of names and times and places. “Newton. Einstein. Kings, queens and heroes. I’ve watched the Titanic sink, the Battle of Britain, Martin Luther King’s last speech, the protests in Tiananmen Square. The Berlin wall being built and then being pulled down again. The pyramids being built. Games in the Colosseum. The Gettysburg Address.”

Jesse sat up and blinked at the darkness. If Aran had been to all those places and more—he’d said he’d squeezed the jumps in—then he was older than his birthdate said he should be. He had to be older. Jesse knew from the idle chatter in Taylor’s house that one didn’t just jump back and be instant best buddies with the powers of the day. It took time to assimilate to the real conditions of the era they were in. The history books always got things wrong and jumpers had to adjust on the fly. Then find a way to ease closer to whoever they were interested in, or risk getting themselves executed or run off for being too strange and pushy.

If Aran had stood on the poop deck of Nelson’s command ship at the Battle of Trafalgar, it was a sure bet he didn’t just jump to the deck and risk being noticed by the officers standing around Nelson.

He would have had to earn his place on the deck to be considered one of them.

So how long had he stayed in England, ingratiating himself with the British Navy?

How long had he spent networking his way into an interview with Cicero? Earning a place in Socrates’ classes?

None of those were overnight projects. And he had kept up the appearance of a normal life here, too, so he would have jumped back to a moment after he had left, even if he’d spent days or weeks back in time, so that he could pick up his human life and carry on.

She shivered and laid down once more, her mind overclocking with this new facet to consider.

Somewhere after midnight, she slept, only to wake to a white world and the silence a heavy snowfall imparted.

A text waited on her phone.

When do you take your first break, when you’re writing?

She moved through to the kitchen to put on the kettle and tapped out her response while waiting for it to boil.

Every hour on the hour. Start writing @ 7

Nothing in response.

Jesse made her simple breakfast and took her coffee through to the dining room, set up her laptop and got to work. She found she could work, which surprised even her. All the explosive pressure from the unanswered questions was dammed back.

Waiting.

At eight o’clock, her phone buzzed.

Her heart leapt and began to beat wildly, as she pushed her chair back out from the table.

Aran arrived only a few seconds later. He looked considerably better groomed than he had yesterday, although he wore jeans and a polar neck sweater under his coat, instead of the usual suit. The stubble was still there, though.

“How old are you, really?” she demanded.

Aran grinned. “You’re the first person to ever think to ask me that.” He stepped forward and picked up her hand. “Up you get.”

She got to her feet. “Where are you taking me?”

“Home.”

“Which is where? Because I know that apartment in Georgetown isn’t home for you. It’s just where everyone else thinks you live.”

He pulled her against him, which made her pull in a sharp breath. His arm came around her and he looked down at her. “I’ll show you.”

He jumped.

They arrived somewhere inside, but this time, the air wasn’t perfectly warm the way houses with furnaces tended to be. There was a coolness to the air that said this house didn’t have a furnace at all.

The daylight coming through the window was that of midday, but it was a different sort of light from midday in Washington.

And the room was old.

Aran let her go and stepped back, giving her room to look around.

It wasn’t a huge room, and the roof was very low overhead. Jesse suspected that if Aran jumped just a little bit, he’d ram his head against the massive beams running across the ceiling. The beams all ran toward the end of the room where a massive fireplace took up all that wall, and the stonework around it was the wall. All of it. The stones looked ancient, but the iron stove that sat in the middle of the ancient hearth was far more modern. The rest of the old hearth, on either side of the stove, was used to store stacks of wood. The stones under the wood were black with the ashes of fires long gone.

The same ancient stonework decorated the walls surrounding the door just around the corner from the fireplace. The door had a modern look, and had windowpanes on the top half—it was an exterior door, with a mail slot, and through the door’s windowpanes, Jesse could see green growing things.

The floorboards of the room were as old as the hearth, she suspected, but they were mostly covered by a grey area rug. A wing chair of bright purple was pulled up to the fire, and a black and white striped armchair sat opposite it.

The most astonishing thing in the room sat in the corner farthest from the fireplace. It was a modern, gleaming baby grand piano.

The other corner of the room had a staircase climbing up it, and an interior door beneath the staircase, but her gaze came back to the piano.

“Where is this?” Jesse said. “When is this?” she asked suspiciously. “There’s no fire and I’m not cold.”

“You’re learning to ask the right questions,” Aran said, sounding pleased. “I cheated. I wanted you to see this place at its best, so I jumped back to last May. Come and see.” He moved over to the exterior door and opened it. It hadn’t been locked.

He stepped aside so she could move out first.

She stepped out onto a broad beaten path and drew in a long, slow breath, absorbing the surroundings.

Directly ahead of her, the path ran more or less straight, to a weathered wood slat gate and a rock wall. Across the path from the house she’d just stepped out of was an ancient rock-and-mortar wall of another building. A shed or a barn, she guessed, for by the silence around them, she knew this place was not in any city.

Against the walls of the shed, trees had been espaliered, to grow flat and send their branches out in fan shapes.

On either side of the path to the gate was a proliferation of flowers and greenery, shrubs and old tripods and plant stands. The flowers ran across every range of color possible, in broad splashes and banks of blooms.

The scent of flowers and herbs and green growing things, amongst rich, dark earth, was strong.

It was beautiful, in a wildly overgrown way. Even the sides of the path were not crisply trimmed and straight, for plants grew over the edges. Birds flittered and she could hear the murmur of bees somewhere nearby.

“Wow,” she breathed.

“Now ask me where we are, again,” Aran said, from behind her.

She shook her head. “Somewhere in England,” she judged. “In the south. And it’s so darn beautiful it has to be somewhere like…maybe, the Cotswold?”

Aran laughed. “Glad I didn’t put money on that one. Come and see why I bought this place.”

Bought it?

She tucked the question away and followed him along the path, out into the middle of the garden. On her far left was a rock wall as ancient as the house, and just as tall, but it stopped after a dozen feet. As they moved passed the end of it she heard running water, but couldn’t see over the top of the bushes and shrubs edging the garden there.

The gate squeaked as Aran opened it. He held it open for her and Jesse stepped through, her attention already on the view beyond the gate.

A very narrow lane serviced the house. It had once been laid with tarmac, but the tarmac was old and rutted, and dirt had filled the cracks, so the road looked as though it was equal parts beaten earth and tarmac. The lane ended where the corner of the garden ended.

Directly across the narrow road was a footbridge with wooden planks and ancient palings on the sides. Climbing plants wound in and out of the palings and hung from the sides of the bridge, dangling masses of flowers down toward the river running beneath it.

Jesse caught her breath and moved toward the bridge on automatic. She wanted to peer over the sides. She wanted to soak in the loveliness.

There was a slight rise in the bridge and she stopped at the top and turned from one side to the other.

The river ran right alongside the house and garden, a wide, slow moving stream of placid dark green water. At the corner where the lane ended and the bridge crossed, the river forked, sending one tributary heading south, the other shooting off to the west, and running under the bridge.

Jesse turned to look to the west. The narrow river ran in a graceful curve and disappeared a mile upstream, among old willow trees and bushes that dipped their leaves into the water.

It was picture postcard perfect.

She sighed. “I would have dropped every spare penny on a place like this, too,” she breathed. “It’s gorgeous, Aran. I can understand not wanting to live in Washington when you can jump here whenever you want.”

“I don’t get back here nearly as often as I would like, although the locals are under the impression I’m here every day, because I time it to make sure I am.” He leaned back against the railing, both elbows on it. “I can show you the rest of the house another time. That’s not actually why I bought you here.”

“Then you didn’t intend for me to feel like an inadequate underachiever?” she asked dryly.

He rubbed his chin. “No, that wasn’t my intention, either. Although I can see why you might think that.”

“I was joking,” she said quickly.

“No you weren’t. Not really.” He dropped his hand. “You don’t joke with me. You keep your shield up. Always.”

Jesse deliberately turned to look the other way, so he couldn’t see her face. “What am I supposed to see, then?” she asked stiffly.

“Possibilities,” he said, and leaned against the railing she stood next to. “The possibilities of time. You really think I bought this place on my junior grunt salary at Abel & Toloni?”

Jesse glanced at him, startled. “I suppose not…” she said softly.

“I told you…” He frowned. “It really was just the other day, on your timeline, wasn’t it? I told you that time has slapped you around long enough. You need to do some slapping of your own, Jesse.”

“Using time,” she breathed. “I remember.”

“Wouldn’t a permanent home, like this, or anywhere else in the world…wouldn’t that suit you better than the permanent gypsy life you put up with now?”

“I’m a poor midlist writer.” She added as gently as she could, “And I’m not a jumper like you.”

He straightened up almost as though she had kicked him. “Which everyone in the family has forgotten, I think. Including me. Which makes me…well, I don’t know what it makes me, but I’m going to make amends.”

“By showing me possibilities beyond my control?” She squeezed the bridge rail. “This place is glorious, but not in a million years could I ever hope to have something like it. It’s just a shitty pipe dream for me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He walked off the bridge and over to the gate. “Let me demonstrate.”

She squeezed the rail even harder. “I should get back to work.”

“I’ll take you back to two minutes past eight,” he promised. “Just let me show you one more thing.”

Jesse hesitated. “I’m not like you, Aran. I’m honorary family, but that’s because of something I did in this time. You guys were bred up to think about time differently. I just get to have a so-so military career and an okay writing career after that. I’m only human.”

Aran walked back to her and picked up her hand. “I’m not the only one you keep the shield up for, Captain Hall. Come on. Let me show you just how wrong you are.”

Jesse protested as he led her back along the pretty pathway to the old house. The house had a thatched roof, she realized distantly as they approached it, which imparted a sense of the surreal, and hammered home even deeper the differences between them.

“I just want to go back to Washington,” she told Aran. “I don’t want to stop off anywhere, not even for coffee. I’ve got work to do.”

“I said I would get you back there so you don’t miss a minute,” Aran said and opened the door for her. His black-eyed gaze was steady. Confident.

“You can’t just use time like this!” she protested, moving through. Now she had been outside, she could smell old ashes, the ghosts of winter fires, coming from the black stove, faint, but distinct.

“Why not?” Aran said, his tone reasonable. He moved over to the hearth and reached in behind the firewood and felt around.

She turned to face him. “It’s dangerous!”

“You think I don’t know that?” His jaw shifted and an emotion flickered in his eyes and was gone too fast for her to guess what it was. He straightened, withdrawing a small suede bag that jingled as he put it in his pocket. “I watched my mother take a bullet in the gut, fired by a six-year-old war veteran. I saw…” And he halted and closed his mouth abruptly. “I’ve seen way too much to be casual about jumping,” he said instead.

Jesse wanted to ask him what he had been about to say, but what he’d said instead was too outrageous to go unchallenged. “Not casual?” she said, her breath snatching away. “You use time, Aran. I don’t know how, but I’ve seen enough—hell, you brought me here to demonstrate just that. You use it, manipulate it. You don’t respect it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said softly. “I respect it as much as anyone in my family. More, even. I’ve been places they wouldn’t dare go. But that’s where I’m different from them. I respect time, but I refuse to let it intimidate me.”

“That’s even worse! You expose yourself to high risk every time you jump, and I know something about that. I know what it’s like to head into battle time after time. The more times you do it and get to breathe afterwards, the more you let down your guard. You get casual.”

Aran crossed his arms. His eyes were narrowed but he wasn’t angry. “How did you get around that?” he asked, his tone one of curiosity. “How did you stay ready every time?”

“That’s beside the point—”

“You’re the one who drew the parallel between battles and jumping, so answer the question. I’m trying to make a point. How did you keep your edge sharp?”

She pointed at him. “Just that. It’s an edge. You keep it honed.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “Training. Preparation. Ritual.” She dropped her hands. “Remembering the fallen,” she added softly.

Aran nodded. “And how would you prepare your unit for time travel?”

She tried to think it through. “I guess…there really isn’t a training program, is there?”

“Except jumping itself,” Aran added. “And listening to those who also jump.”

“But you’re never there to listen to them.”

He scowled. “I had over twenty years of it, growing up. I could repeat all their adventures to you verbatim.” He gripped her elbow and drew her toward him, which made her body thrum. “You really think I’d put you at risk?” he added, his voice low.

Her middle jumped. As he put his arm around her back, she scrambled to find something to say in response.

“I wouldn’t risk anyone,” he added. “Not even me.”

The let down was almost physical. She dropped her gaze as time took them, glad of the black nothingness that dropped over them, halting all her thoughts.

Chapter Eight

It took a moment to regather her thoughts, and sound was the first thing to register, but the stench of something unspeakable registered even before she identified the clop of horses, somewhere behind her.

Jesse wrinkled her nose. “My god, what is that?”

Aran stepped away from her. “A dog died in this alley a few days ago. It keeps people away. That’s why I used it.”

Not being squashed up against him let her hear the ambient sounds clearly. But she forgot to listen to the charming sound of horse hooves and the jingle of harnesses, as she took in Aran’s appearance

He wore…well, it was a suit, but not any suit she’d ever seen on a man except in the movies. “Victorian?” she guessed.

Aran looked down at himself. “Close,” he said as he lifted the front of the dark jacket to examine the shirt and vest beneath. He wore a tie and a collared shirt, but the collar was rounded and the tie was matte black, not the silky multicolored ties she was used to. “Edwardian.”

“Where are we?” She twisted to look behind her. Already, the aroma of the poor unfortunate dog was fading in her awareness. Her twisting was halted by a rigid pushing against her breasts and hips. She gasped and looked down at herself and brought her hand up to her waist.

Aran chuckled. “They still wore corsets in 1906.”

“That’s where we are?” She prodded and felt stiffness beneath the woven jacket she wore. The jacket was a plain light blue color, with a darker blue braid stitched in swirls and flourishes along the hem and up both sides of the front. The jacket was buttoned to her neck, and she could feel the soft scratch of lace under her chin. She was wearing a shirt beneath the jacket, too. Lace peeped at the edges of the jacket sleeve. The sleeve of the jacket had the same piping swirls over it as the hem, but narrower.

Jesse tried to bend to look at her feet, but her waist didn’t move and the corset dug into her hips. Bending made her conscious of the light weight on her head. She felt there, and discovered a small hat was pinned to her hair, which was piled upon the back of her head in loops and curls.

“Bend from the hips,” Aran advised her gravely, although she could hear his amusement. “Or don’t bend at all. Ladies don’t, as a rule.”

“I want to see what I’m wearing,” she muttered, and bent experimentally. It was awkward, but she caught a glimpse of a skirt that fell to nearly brush the dirt she stood upon. More flourishes decorated the skirt. Folds of the skirt fell forward as she bent, swirling around her feet. “God, there’s yards of this thing!”

“You look very nice,” Aran assured her. “Check your pockets. See if your gloves are there.”

“My…” She felt around her hips and discovered there were pockets in the skirt. She felt inside them. More lace. She withdrew the fragile looking gloves and put them on. That was when she discovered the plain gold ring on her left hand.

She stared at it, her heart thudding.

“Mmm…fortunate window dressing,” Aran murmured. “Young unmarried ladies don’t traipse around New York on their own, here and now, and I was going to pass as your husband, anyway.”

“My…” She realized dimly that she had repeated herself. “You really have to be my husband?”

Aran’s expression didn’t change. He was clean-shaved, she realized with a jolt. “It makes everything a lot easier if I am. Trust me. You’ll soon understand.” He pulled a fob watch out of his pocket, flipped the lid open and checked the time. “It is just gone nine-thirty. A good time to check their new stock, before anyone else gets there.”

“Huh?”

“You say ‘excuse me’. No one grunts here.” He held out his elbow.

“Really?” Jesse said, looking at it.

“Really,” he assured her. “It’s not a game, Jesse. This is real. Take my elbow.”

She slid her lace-covered fingers beneath his arm and followed him along the alley. They stepped out on to a New York street unlike any she’d ever seen.

Her first impression was that streets were wider in this time, but after a few steps, she realized that it was simply that the buildings were not all high-rises, here, turning the street into a canyon. She could see lots of blue sky overhead…and no smog.

The traffic along the street was louder than modern New York, but it was a completely different sort of loud. Horses with carriages and carts behind them, and horses bearing riders in their saddles trotted and cantered along the road, which was an ochre-colored dirt. Jesse itched to access a computer and research what the surface really was. It wasn’t simply gravel.

Down the middle of the street were two sets of train lines. Then she saw what travelled upon them. Trams. Street cars. They were painted a dark brown, with cream colored roofs. A tram passed by them as she watched a man run over to it, put his foot upon the rear step and swing himself up into the vehicle.

And everywhere, high overhead, there were wires. They crisscrossed the street and ran down the center of it. The center ones were used by the trams to draw power through the mechanism that ran along the wires. More wires connected to buildings and ran from pole to pole.

Most of the people moving along the sidewalks were men, wearing suits of a similar vintage to Aran’s. The few women Jesse spotted were with men, holding their arms just as she was.

It was reassuring that Aran was familiar enough with this time to know how to behave and guide her, too. She relaxed enough to gaze about her with some interest. She was familiar with New York, enough to recognize the building ahead of them, and that one over there on the right…

“Why, this is Canal Street!” she said softly. Most of the buildings she knew from modern day Canal Street were missing, and there was a great swathe of open land ahead. But the two she had spotted were still there, over a hundred years later. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Canal Street and Bowery, just down there, is the center of the jewelry trade.”

“The Diamond District is on 47th Street.”

“In the year we came from, yes. It moved there, moves there, in a few years. But in 1906 it is here.”

A man passed them, wearing a suit as clean and neat as Aran’s, while all the other men Jesse had seen were more slovenly and wrinkled. The man touched his fingers to his hat brim as he passed.

So did Aran.

His familiarity with the environment let her relax a little more. “And we are here, why?”

“To buy a diamond.”

“I don’t have my credit card on me.” She didn’t actually own a credit card, but that wasn’t the point.

Aran tapped his jacket with his spare hand and she heard the same little jingle she’d heard when he’d pulled the suede bag out from behind the logs, back in England.

Jesse nearly stopped right there on the pavement. She made herself keep walking, her fingers digging into his arm. “How can you have that here and now?” she hissed, lowering her voice. “We’re wearing local, contemporary clothing, which means this is a linear jump, which it can’t be, because neither of us was alive in 1906, and you don’t get to take things back with you on linear jumps.”

“It’s not linear, it’s compound,” Aran said.

“You mean this isn’t even our own world?”

“It is. This is a different sort of compound than the one you’re thinking of.” His tone was infuriatingly calm. “We jumped back in time, but instead of jumping straight back using someone’s memories for bookmarks, I used the timescape to make the jump.”

“What, you invented a whole new type of jump?” Her voice was getting squeaky.

“I didn’t invent this one. Sydney did.” Aran even sounded amused, damn him. “How do you think she got Liberty back to her own time?” He glanced at her, his eyes beneath the brim of the hat dark and glittering with amusement. He was laughing at her.

“I…” Jesse shut her mouth. She’d heard the story about Sydney’s jump back to medieval Egypt more than once. She tried again. “I guess I never actually catalogued that she’d done something different.”

“You got stuck on the risk she faced when she got there, and how hard it was for her to make the jump to go right.”

Jesse realized she was squeezing his arm again. She made her fingers relax. “Yes,” she admitted. Was this the difference, then? She absorbed the warnings inherent in the stories, while Aran deconstructed them like…like teaching manuals. “But that’s the whole point of your family telling us about those jumps, isn’t it? It’s what stories are all about. Even fairy stories were warnings to little kids not to wander about the forest by themselves.”

“Or how to wander the forest and not get found by the wolf,” he added. “Or how to recognize the wolf even if he’s wearing grandma’s clothes.”

Jesse gave up. “You are incorrigible, Aran.”

“So I’m told.” He smiled, not looking even a little bit upset by the judgement.

Just then, Jesse spotted a car. An automobile, she corrected herself as she stared at the vehicle as it putted by. She wasn’t the only person staring at it, she realized. It was black, upright, with a canvas roof and enormous wheels. She watched it, dazed.

“Here we are…” Aran murmured. A building with storefronts was just ahead of them, with pretty awnings over the sidewalk, and very clean windows beneath.

He headed for the door of the store in the middle of the building. As they reached the door, a man came out and nodded at them.

“Good day, sir,” Aran said, his tone polite.

“It is, indeed,” the man replied. “Ma’am.” He nodded at Jesse.

Jesse froze, her mind blank. It didn’t matter that she’d watched dozens of historical movies and read and researched history for her own books. Now she was actually here, the right thing to say in response to a simple acknowledgement deserted her. She couldn’t think of a damn word.

The man turned away, apparently unconcerned that she couldn’t unchock her mouth and speak.

Jesse swallowed and glanced at Aran, who held the front door of the store open for her. He was laughing at her again. She could tell, even though he wasn’t smiling. It was in his eyes.

She made herself stir and move into the store. It was a small place, with glass counters holding jewelry and watches and other expensive baubles she couldn’t begin to identify. The air was very still, in here, and smelled faintly of dust, although she couldn’t see any dust. Somewhere, a clock ticked heavily and, it seemed to her, slowly.

Two other customers were already in the store. The man and woman stood at the largest counter while the store clerk behind it displayed trays of jewelry for the lady. The lady was impeccably dressed. At least, Jesse assumed she was. She had layers and ribbons and lace, a hat with a brim that turned up at the back and another ribbon dangling from that over her abundant dark curls. She rested a gloved hand upon the top of a parasol handle as she examined the jewelry without bending her back to peer at the trays. She had a small handbag hanging over the wrist of the arm propped upon the parasol, dangling against the parasol’s neck.

The back of her skirt and her jacket were voluminous. It wasn’t a bustle. There was just extra fabric there, hanging in folds and giving both garments a very feminine flare.

Jesse realized her own skirt was similarly fashioned. Deliberately, she mimicked the woman, straightening her shoulders and keeping her head up. The corset stopped digging into her hips.

Another man in a sober black suit and tie hurried up to Aran. “How may I help you this morning, good sir?”

“I would like to speak to Mr. Einaudi when he has a moment to spare.” Aran spoke more precisely than he normally did, properly forming his words. His tone was very polite, but there was an implied expectation there. He wasn’t asking to speak to Einaudi. He was demanding to.

The man gave a short, almost-bow with his head and shoulders. “Would you care for refreshments while you wait for Mr. Einaudi?”

Einaudi was clearly the man behind the counter, showing the lady the jewelry.

“My wife would like a cup of tea, thank you,” Aran replied.

Jesse blinked. He hadn’t asked her if she wanted one.

You’ll understand.

The clerk barely looked at her. “At once. Would you care to step this way?” The clerk moved out of the way and waved toward an area at the back of the store. A round table sat beneath a low light, a dark tablecloth over it, and a potted plant with dark green, glossy leaves in the middle of it. Chairs were arranged around it. The clerk pulled out one of the chairs.

Aran ignored the chair, withdrew another and held the back of it.

Jesse realized she was supposed to sit there. She sank onto the chair and remembered to scoop up the yards of skirt and petticoat, so when he pushed in the chair, she didn’t end up sitting on the hems.

She felt very inelegant with her arms akimbo. No wonder someone else had to move the chair for women in these times. There was no way to scoot forward by yourself and not end up skewered by a chair leg.

When she was finally settled with her back straight, Aran sat in the chair the clerk held for him, with a murmured thanks.

The clerk moved through a curtain into a room at the back of the shop. Presumably, to arrange tea.

Jesse found herself watching the woman at the front of the store. While Mr. Einaudi held the trays, she swayed toward the other man—her husband, Jesse guessed—and murmured in his ear.

“The emerald pin,” the man told Mr. Einaudi.

The woman wouldn’t speak directly to Mr. Einaudi, apparently.

She looked effortlessly graceful. Jesse studied her, the way she was standing and holding herself, and how she moved.

When the man came out from the back room, he put the tray he was carrying on the table. A round white china teapot sat upon it, and two cups with saucers.

Jesse turned to Aran. “May I have cream and sugar, please.” She made her voice emerge the same way his had, to make the words a demand, not a question.

Aran looked at the clerk. “Cream and sugar, thank you.”

The clerk gave another bob of his head and went back into the back room and returned with two china pots, one holding sugar and one a beaker bearing what appeared to be actual, thick lumpy cream.

She could drink tea if she had to, as long as it was sweet enough to disguise the rusty flavor. She made herself sit still while the clerk poured tea for her and Aran added two spoonfuls of sugar and cream, stirred the cup and put the cup and saucer in front of her.

The pair in the front of the store were winding up their business, the man speaking softly to Mr. Einaudi, while the woman had already moved over to the door, a bored look on her face as she waited.

Jesse picked up the china cup and sipped the tea and was surprised to find that it was stronger than she’d ever tasted and flavorful, too. She sipped carefully, for it was also hot.

A few minutes later, Mr. Einaudi came around from behind the counter and presented himself at the table. “Mr. Gallagher, you are ever timely in your return to my store.”

Jesse blinked. They knew each other?

Aran stood and held out his hand and the two shook. “I heard the Sheminsky arrived from South Africa yesterday and thought I’d stop by and see what you acquired.” He sat once more.

South Africa? Diamonds.

Einaudi clasped his hands together. “I have not had a chance to begin to examine what we received, Mr. Gallagher, let alone arrange for their cutting, and I presume, as you have brought your wife with you today, that you are looking for a finished gem, yes?”

Aran shook his head. “Uncut. Perhaps three carats. I have some sapphires tucked away that can form the setting. An heirloom, Einaudi. I’m sure you’ve looked through the shipment and know exactly the potential of every stone in it. You have an eagle eye, which is why I continue to return.”

Einaudi beamed modestly. “I may have just the thing, if you will excuse me for a moment…?”

Aran inclined his head and the man hurried into the same back room the clerk had disappeared into.

Jesse lowered the cup. “I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Why are you buying a diamond back here and now?”

“You’ll see,” Aran replied in the same low voice. “This entire jump is a demonstration that will make sense once you get to the end of it.” He smiled as Einaudi reappeared with a small black velvet bag in one hand, and a velvet cloth hanging over the other arm.

Einaudi sat and pushed the tea tray to one side, lifted the potted plant down to the floor, then laid the cloth over the center of the table. He opened the little bag and shook out the contents.

Perhaps a dozen stones rolled onto the velvet. To Jesse’s uneducated eye, they looked like pieces of quartz she could pick up off any country road or field, except they were lighter and more translucent. But they still looked like pebbles, to her.

Aran lifted his hand. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Aran moved the stones around with his forefinger, then rested the tip on one barely the width of a pencil, an odd, misshapen thing. “This one.”

Einaudi beamed. “Indeed. Your eye for potential is no less than mine, Mr. Gallagher. This is the one I was thinking of.” He pushed the other rocks to one side and picked up the one Aran had pointed to. “Clear and without flaw, as far as can be seen. With careful cutting, it will be a thing of beauty. An excellent choice for the centerpiece of an heirloom.” He handed it to Aran, who turned it over and peered at it closely.

Einaudi cleared his throat and held a folding magnifying glass out. The case was engraved brass.

“Thank you,” Aran said. He unfolded the glass and peered through it at the stone. “It is a nice enough piece, and the size I’m interested in.” His tone was flat. “But there is a flaw on the edge.”

He lowered the glass.

Einaudi didn’t stop smiling. “A flaw that can be removed by a skilled cutter.”

“That will reduce the final size.” He put the stone back on the velvet. “What else do you have?”

They went through the rest of the rocks on the velvet, while the first sat to one side. Jesse watched, her thoughts racing. She knew Aran’s flat tone was faked. He did like the first stone. Yet he was going through this sideshow of examining the others and looking less pleased by the minute.

Jesse stayed silent and sipped the tea and tried to keep her expression neutral. Even bored.

Finally, Aran sat back and tugged down his waistcoat and rubbed his jaw. “This is…disappointing.”

Einaudi spread his hands upon the table, on either side of the velvet mat. “That upsets me deeply, Mr. Gallagher. How can I make amends for one of my most valued customers?”

Aran sat forward once more. “This one here.” He touched another of the stones, a smaller one than the first. “It is somewhat milky, but I might be able to work with it.” He stood. “Let us not bore the lady with numbers, Einaudi.”

“Of course, Mr. Gallagher.” Einaudi got to his feet and both of them moved over to the counter and began to speak in low tones.

Jesse tried not to let resentment shift her expression. She would have liked to have heard the negotiation. She supposed ladies of these times didn’t sully their minds with boring business, even if they would have enjoyed such discussions.

Which meant that women couldn’t step into just any store and buy anything for themselves. They had to have their husbands do it. Or servants, perhaps. Or a father, or brother or uncle. Especially for a high value item like a diamond.

You’ll understand.

She still didn’t really understand why they were buying a diamond at all, but she was beginning to guess. And now she did understand why Aran had to parade as her husband. Einaudi would no more stoop to dealing with a woman, than the lady he’d just served had deigned to speak to him directly.

Einaudi returned to the table.

“And that lumpy one,” Aran said. “If that was included, then what…?” He let his voice trail off, as Einaudi picked up the glass and the “lumpy one” and took them back to the counter.

They hunched closer together, still talking.

Jesse realized what Aran had done. He’d lowered the perceived value of the lumpy stone, making Einaudi think he wasn’t interested in it. Now he was dangling the purchase of two stones and would drive the price even lower as a result.

Einaudi didn’t even seem upset about the haggling.

Where had Aran learned it?

Her memory supplied that answer. Ancient Rome. Ancient Greece. Medieval Europe. Victorian England. Egypt in the time of the Pharaohs. Take your pick.

She made herself stay seated, while Aran reached into his jacket for the suede bag and drew it open. He withdrew folded notes that looked a lot like US dollar notes and extracted one of them and held it curled up in his hand.

Einaudi did not look at the money. He instead busied himself with putting the two rocks into a small bag, while chattering about diamond cutters he knew who would provide an exemplary service if Mr. Gallagher’s usual cutter was not up to the challenge presented by the two stones, and he would be happy to introduce Mr. Gallagher to them.

For a cost, no doubt, Jesse guessed. She sipped the tea instead. Now it had cooled a little it was excellent.

Aran strode over to the table. “Come, my dear.” He gripped the back of the chair.

Jesse immediately put the cup upon the saucer and rose to her feet, trying to make the motion look elegant. “Thank you for the tea, Mr. Einaudi. It was very good.” She pronounced her words clearly and fully.

Mr. Einaudi’s eyes widened a little, then he bowed—properly. “You are most welcome, Mrs. Gallagher.” He again shook hands with Aran, then hurried over to the front door of the store to open the door for them.

Another round of farewells and they stepped back out onto the pavement and the steady hum of early twentieth century New York.

Aran offered his elbow once more and Jesse took it without protest. He turned and headed back down Canal Street, away from the Bowery, while street cars clanged their upbeat note and horses clopped by, their wagon wheels groaning.

The air was tinged with nothing more offensive than horse crap, but even that seemed to Jesse’s jaded senses to be refreshingly simple.

For a short while they walked in silence, but Jesse couldn’t hold in all her questions for later, the way Aran kept putting her off. “You’ll understand” wasn’t good enough now. “You bought two uncut diamonds for, as far as I can tell, about fifty dollars. That was a fifty dollar note you gave him, wasn’t it?”

“It was. A 1904 fifty dollar note, which was merely a partial payment.”

“Partial?”

“Mr. Einaudi understands that I will be coming into my inheritance when my ailing father dies. He is prepared to wait for full settlement, especially as the balance keeps growing.”

“That’s…generous of him.”

“He’s charging three percent.” Aran’s tone was dry.

“Is that a lot?”

“For here and now, very much so.”

“But you keep going back to him?”

“He has good diamonds.” Aran glanced around and behind them. He made it look like he was looking for a building number, but she knew he was looking for eavesdroppers or anyone paying them too much attention. “I keep going back to Mr. Einaudi because not only does he have good quality diamonds, but in six month’s time he will be murdered at the back of his store. The whole store will be burned to the ground to hide that all the jewelry and money had been taken. In fact, the whole building was destroyed and no one remembered that the little jewelry store at street level was also gone. Einaudi was thought to have died from the fire.”

“Then how do you know he didn’t?” Jesse murmured.

“Because I jumped to that time and watched it happening, from the roof across the street. I wanted to be sure he really was in deep with the Mob before I started using him.”

“The Mob killed him?” she breathed.

“Payback for holding out on them. Einaudi only looks like a pleasant and amenable fellow. He’s a crook and con artist and he swindled the wrong person, in the end.”

She shivered. “If the building burns down, there are no records of your transactions with him, or the money you owe him…” She frowned. “Then we take the diamonds forward and you sell them at current market prices, yes?”

“Now you see it.”

“I sort of had it figured when I saw the diamond store,” she admitted. “But this seems way too simple, Aran. This is really how you can afford a cottage in the Cotswold and your car and an apartment in Georgetown?”

“And a great many other things besides,” Aran said. His tone was calm. He wasn’t boasting. “This simple thing…” He gave a soft laugh. “I paid fifty dollars for two nearly perfect uncut diamonds. Careful cutting will make them flawless. The lumpy one—”

“The one you really wanted,” she slid in.

“Yes. Twenty-five dollars in 1906 terms is about…perhaps seven hundred. How much do you think the lumpy diamond will sell for? Even if I didn’t have a jeweler on tap who doesn’t try to stiff me because he thinks long term and wants my busines to continue.”

“You mean, if someone like me walked in cold, put it on the counter and asked how much?” She laughed. “I couldn’t even begin to guess. A few thousand?” His talk of seven hundred dollars for a fifty-dollar bill made her scale up her guess. A near fifteen hundred profit per diamond would add up steadily over the long term, and Aran had clearly been doing this for a while.

Aran shook his head, smiling. “You’re not a diamond girl at all.”

“Not even close,” she said, taking no offence. “I don’t get women who go gaga over diamonds. It just doesn’t compute.”

“You drool over the Wilson Combat 9mm Classic semi auto, but jewelry baffles you.” He laughed.

Jesse was a little surprised he even knew what a Wilson Combat Classic was. They were gun porn—luxury, super expensive embellished handguns that started at mid four figures. She tried not to let her feelings be ruffled. “And you think D.C.—the seat of western world power—is the minor leagues. Everyone’s tastes run different.”

A streetcar rolled past, the overhead wires hissing and the wheels making the tracks groan.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Aran assured her. “I was…well, never mind. The two uncut diamonds I just bought, I paid…let’s say I paid five hundred each for them. They’re uncut, but I have cultivated a diamond cutter in Amsterdam. Actually, I didn’t have to cultivate him at all. He’s an artist at heart and loves the challenge of bringing out the best in the big stones I bring him. He takes a small flat fee for expenses and a percentage of the sale in return for the cutting and arranging certificates for them. Then I sell them in New York. Or I could just sell the uncut diamonds, but they’re almost worthless in comparison to a well cut stone with a certificate.”

Jesse said uneasily, “How much more is a cut stone?”

“Depends on the cutting. An unskilled cutter can reduce a diamond to the value of glass. A great cutter, though…” He shook his head.

“Okay, you’ve dangled it long enough,” she said shortly. “I’m ignorant about diamonds. I get the point. Hit me.”

“Prices vary,” he said flatly.

“You’ve been doing this a while. You can guess how much you’ll get. The lumpy one that caught your eye. How much?”

He hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug. “Fifty thousand, perhaps. I’m being conservative.”

She realized she had come to a halt on the pavement when her fingers tugged at his arm and fell away. She stared at him, her heart thudding in her ears. “Fifty thousand?” Her voice was hoarse. The tea in her stomach churned uneasily.

Aran turned back to her. He didn’t seem to be concerned about her shock. “The second one won’t get nearly that much. Maybe fifteen or twenty thousand.” He paused. “This is what I wanted to show you,” he added, his tone kind. “And this is just one way to use time. It’s complicated, because of the cutter and the certificates, but it’s more straightforward than gold, or coins and currency. Although even those are good for quick cash, when you need it.”

Her hearing was muffled. Seventy thousand dollars. He was walking around with seventy thousand dollars in his jacket pocket. That was three times what she had earned last year, before taxes. “Why don’t you just stick the fifty dollar note in a bank and let compound interest do all the work? Why do it this way?”

“Like Far and Athair do?” Aran asked. He gave a slight shake of his head. “They live through the years the interest compounds. They can shepherd it and become the inheritors of their own accounts when their current IDs get too old. I don’t have that option.” He didn’t sound upset about it. But she remembered what he’d said when he’d been sobering, about the Hobson’s choice he faced.

This, then, was one of the ways he was compensating for what he saw as a bitter choice.

Aran’s gaze shifted over her shoulder and his eyes narrowed, as a man behind them said in a thick Italian accent, “A moment of your time, signore.”

The hairs on the back of Jesse’s neck, beneath the high lace-edged collar of her shirt, prickled hard. Her hearing restored itself instantly. Cold calm dropped over her.

Aran didn’t signal by so much as a twitch that he was also suddenly wary, but Jesse knew he was. She could feel it.

Aran smiled pleasantly. “I apologize, sir. We were obstructing the footpath. Please, continue on.” He drew Jesse to the street side of the sidewalk, which also put him between her and the small man in a rumpled suit, who had come up behind them.

The man had grey-shot black hair, olive skin and jowls dark with growth above a grimy white collar. His brown hat was a bowler, Jesse thought, although it was worn on the brim and had a bald spot on the crown. He didn’t smile at Aran’s apology. “I need you to both walk with me. Just a little way. Up there.” His arm moved slightly, the thick fingers gesturing along the sidewalk. The movement sent a wash of stale garlic and tobacco over them.

Jesse didn’t let her gaze flicker to her left to check what was “up there”. She knew it would be an alley, or a building the man controlled.

“I don’t think so,” Aran said softly. “It’s time for you to move on,” he added. His tone was so cold that Jesse shivered.

The little man’s eyes narrowed. “No, you don’t understand.” His tone hardened. “It is not a question I ask, see.”

“My answer is still no,” Aran replied. “I would suggest you let this go. You will only regret it, if you insist.”

Jesse realized she was trembling. It wasn’t fright, or anger at Einaudi for sending his goon to retrieve the two stones that Aran had bought in good faith, or even that Einaudi was apparently as crooked as Aran had implied.

It wasn’t a repressed memory dinging at her, or even an old memory of too many times like this, in the past.

She didn’t remember being shot in an alleyway in New York, but she had written about it so that she would remember when the correction in time Aran had made to save her life replaced the memory with the events of her new, altered timeline. She could recall the words she had written with complete clarity because she had re-read them so many times, usually while wishing she had written in far, far greater detail about how she’d felt, what she’d seen. Why hadn’t she captured the moment in the alley with cinematographic precision, so that she could get the memory back?

But now, she had the moment back. It was this moment, right now. This was a mirror moment to that moment in the alley when she had nearly died, when she would have died. Aran had been just as he was now—a tall, implacable pillar of power. Dangerous, in the way that only those who dealt in danger would recognize. To the people shuffling past them on the sidewalk and sending them irritated glances, Aran would look like any other man out for a stroll with his wife.

The little man, though, failed to read the moment correctly. He thought he had the power. He thought he had control. He grinned at Aran’s mild suggestion that he move on. He fingered the front edge of his grubby jacket and pulled it open just enough to show them the butt of what looked like a nickel-plated Colt revolver hanging in a holster under his arm. “Walk,” he said flatly.

Her breath shortened. Jesse recognized the panic pooling in her middle. Now she understood what she had meant in her essay to herself, when she had spoken of being used to conditions that no longer applied.

The last time she actually remembered being threatened with a gun, she’d had an AK under her arm, and a backup on her ankle, a knife in her boot and one hanging down the back of her fatigues on a string. She wore combat boots and a helmet, and a sniper laid a half-mile away, watching them through her scope, her rifle covering their asses if this went sideways.

None of those conditions existed here. That was why she had got shot. That was why Aran had thrown her pistol into the Columbus River and told her to learn to live without a gun.

This was the reason why. This moment right now, when a stinky man who thought he was the king of the street was reaching for his pistol right here on Canal Street.

“Very well,” Aran said, lifting one hand in a gesture of surrender that was utterly fake. He glanced at Jesse. “Come along,” he told her. He didn’t offer his elbow. He wanted her to have both hands free.

They turned and walked along the sidewalk and the little man followed them. His footsteps told her he was several paces behind them—too far to spin and take him out. He could fire before she reached him. The bastard was practiced at this.

Jesse could see the little alleyway just up ahead. It wasn’t the one they had arrived in, but it would do. They couldn’t do anything about the man out here on the street, even though he was free to gun them down if he wanted to.

Her spine tried to crawl up into her skull.

She put one foot in front of the other, trying to unfreeze her brain. She didn’t have a gun, so what else could she do?

Nothing came to her. All her combat training involved having at least one weapon at her disposal. All she had was lace-covered hands.

Moving slowly, she slid the gloves off and pushed them into her pocket.

“Into the lane,” the man behind them said, as they reached the alley.

“Good god, it stinks in there,” Aran protested.

Jesse nearly smiled. Nearly. He was disarming the man mentally. Letting him think that the last thing they wanted was to step in there.

“Oh, dear…” she added in a weak voice, bringing her hand to her nose. Although the stench was powerful. Urine, horse shit, mold, damp and years of neglect and garbage piling up in the corners and along the edges. It was making her eyes water, just standing at the mouth of the alley. “I won’t go in there. I just can’t. I’ll…I’ll faint if you make me.”

“Tell your lady to shut up,” the man growled to Aran. “Go in there, or I’ll shoot you right now.”

“You can’t just shoot us!” Aran protested. “We could scream. The police—”

The man laughed nastily. He was enjoying himself, Jesse realized. “You think my family don’t have this street sewn up? No cop is coming to save you. Now get in the fucking lane. Now.”

Aran rested his hand on her back, encouraging her to move. “Just hold your breath for a moment, dear, while I sort this out.”

Jesse would have laughed at his patronizing attitude except she was already trying to figure out how he wanted to play this. She let him shepherd her into the position he wanted her to take, while moaning at the stench and waving her hand in front of her face.

The man trod heavily behind them, a dozen paces into the aromatic laneway. The earth squelched under her feet. Jesse’s toes wanted to curl up inside her boots. She didn’t want to know what was making it squish like that.

She swallowed, tasting copper, and turned as Aran did. It put her on the man’s left, where his gun was, and where his right hand rested inside his jacket, ready to pull the gun. Aran was on his right.

Suddenly, she knew what to do. It was right there in her mind. Finally.

Jesse didn’t stop to reconsider or wonder if she might have guessed wrong. Acting fast was always tactically advantageous.

She waved her hand weakly and closed her eyes. “Oh, dear god…I can’t breathe…” She let her knees fold, sinking toward the ground.

The mobster was both experienced and without empathy. He let her slump into the foul dirt and didn’t automatically step forward to save her, as Aran did…which put Aran a pace closer to the man.

Jesse thrust out her foot and surged toward the man.

His gun hand jerked in reaction, but it was already too late. She gripped his elbow and his forearm and bore down on them grimly, holding his arm in place so he couldn’t pull the gun.

Aran was already turning. He used the impetus from his spin to drive his fist into the man’s stomach.

The mobster grunted, expelling hot, garlic-ladened breath. His head jerked forward. Jesse moved out of the way, still gripping his wrist and pushing the gun back into the holster. The jacket yanked aside to reveal their tug-of-war, while Aran followed the blow to the stomach with an upper cut that took the man off his feet.

The gun was drawn out of his holster by his backward movement. Jesse plucked the gun out of his now nerveless fingers as he fell back, his eyes rolling in his head. He landed heavily in the wet earth and groaned.

She bent carefully from the hips and pressed the muzzle of the heavy Colt against his temple. He grew still.

“Carotid is quickest,” she told Aran.

“…the fuck are you people?” the man muttered thickly.

Aran pressed his finger and thumb around the man’s neck, against the pulse points.

Fifteen seconds passed, then the man slumped, his eyes closing.

“That will give us only a few seconds,” Aran said. He took the gun from her, crack it open and shook out the shells into his hand and pocketed them. Then he pulled the gun apart and threw the pieces deeper into the alley. “We’ll jump from here.” He pulled Jesse against him, hard enough to make her breath gust from her. “Sorry,” he added and bent his knees.

She sucked in her breath as time swiped at them.

Chapter Nine

Still warmth. Silence.

No, she could hear the nearly silent hum of her laptop. Jesse glanced over her shoulder, her post-combat shakes already settling in. It was the house she was sitting. The dining room. Her computer. The cup of tea she had been drinking sat beside it, still steaming.

The time on the bottom right of the screen said it was three minutes past eight.

Just as he’d promised.

Aran was still holding her upright, until she oriented herself. She glanced up at him, at his eyes with the long lashes and thick black brows.

“Do you know how my mother discovered she could time travel?” he said, his voice very low.

“I…uh…what?” She couldn’t get her brain to work properly.

He kissed her and his hand pressed her against him, as the kiss deepened and heated and grew into something hot and hard and panting.

Survivor high, she thought stupidly. Everyone felt it, after a battle or close call. It was why there had been a baby boom after the war. It was why the soldiers in her unit had to cool off with alcohol and parties and adrenaline-induced hysteria. There had to be a venting. An expression of relief.

But she had never felt it like this. Not this irresistible need to tear off her clothes and fuck, as hard as she could, as much as she could handle…

Aran bore her backward until her thighs were pressed up against the table, and she was jammed between it and him, which she had no objections to at all. His body was hard and hot, and she could feel his cock rearing between them.

His lips released her mouth and moved over her chin and down her throat, feasting, while his hands…his hands were on her bare flesh. He’d hoisted her teeshirt, and his fingers slid over her belly, up toward her bare breasts.

Jesse wanted it. She wanted him with a power that made her groan. All he had to do was yank down her jeans and drive into her. She would welcome it. She would love it.

She reached for his belt and pulled the end out of the square buckle, breathing hard, and with no thought than to get rid of his clothes as swiftly as possible.

The alarm on her computer begin to ding steadily and relentlessly. It wouldn’t turn off until she moused over and clicked it off.

She groaned.

Aran’s mouth grew still against her throat, just under the corner of her jaw. His hands, too.

“I have to turn it off,” she whispered, her voice thick and distorted.

Aran straightened and stepped away from her. His jeans were swollen, bulging.

Jesse tore her gaze away, and moving stiffly, turned and put her finger on the mouse pad. The alert in the middle of the screen yelled at her: GET BACK TO WRITING, JESSE!

It took two tries to turn the thing off.

She cleared her throat, suddenly too self conscious to look at him.

Aran tugged the back of her teeshirt down, straightening it. “Your task master is right. Get back to work, Jesse.”

Jesse gave a short laugh. “After the last few hours?”

“There’s always going to be hours like the last few. Write, anyway. It’s what you do.” His lips settled against the back of her neck, then he brushed her hair back into place.

She shivered, the tips of her breasts aching.

Silence.

She spun. The room was empty. He’d jumped, just like that.

Her body throbbing, her pulse jumping and her limbs shaky with more than post adrenaline weakness, she fumbled to put the chair back in front of the computer and settled on it.

Her fingers felt thick and awkward. She was still breathing hard.

How was she supposed to work after this?

She studied the words on the screen. They looked foreign. Had she really written them? The story seemed trite, now. Completely uninteresting.

She read the last paragraph. Garbage. She couldn’t remember what she had been thinking when she wrote it, which had been only five minutes ago here and now but was hours ago in her personal timeline.

What else was there to do but write?

Only, Aran would be back. In her bones, she knew he would be. He had the other half of his object lesson to demonstrate, at the very least.

And her body ached for him to return.

Jesse put her face in her hands. She wanted Aran with a power that was rendering her unable to do anything but think of what she would do to him if he was here right now.

It was so wrong. He was a sibling. Honorary, but that didn’t matter. Her adopted family would crucify her. Taylor would carve her throat open, if she caught even a hint of the fetid yearning running through Jesse’s blood.

They would destroy her for betraying their trust in her.

He was too young, too…

Only he wasn’t young, not anymore. He’d spent so much time in other timelines and places, that he’d caught up with her. She didn’t know how old he really was, anymore. Not in actual, subjective years. And the longer he continued to jump, the smaller the difference in years between them would grow. Perhaps it might even go in the opposite direction—he would surpass her and become even older than her.

Not that he’d ever really had a chance to be young and innocent. Not in this family.

Her thoughts kept pinging about in her head, refusing to settle down and let her make sense of any of it.

So she opened a new document and began to type. Not fiction, this time. Instead, she dumped her thoughts upon the blank page, filling it with emotions, stray feelings, worries, impressions. The stink of garlic. The smell of horse manure that was actually more pleasant. Tea that actually tasted good.

The staggering price of diamonds.

His height. The heat of him.

Her betraying body and clumsy fingers as she tried to analyze as coldly as possible all the reasons why she couldn’t let this progress any further than it already had.

She was playing with fire. Aran wasn’t for her, not even temporarily. He was the beloved son of a grand family that included two fathers who’d survived more than a thousand years of history each and a mother who could leap those centuries with a flex of her knees, and was the glue that held the family together.

Aran was a time traveler himself. He was destined for great things. Yes, even greater than the D.C. minor leagues he disparaged.

Her heart began to slow. Calm returned. Sense with it.

It was just the survivor high. That was all. He was an attractive man. She was woman enough to be able to see that for herself. But it didn’t mean she had to act on it.

She was too old to let hormones get the better of her.

Use your other brain, Captain Hall! she admonished herself.

It hadn’t really been a true battle, anyway. It was a few moments of heightened tension. That was all.

A time jump that had been very nearly without incident.

Nothing to get excited about.

Jesse drew in a deep, deep breath and let it out, and suddenly realized she was starving.

But there was something she wanted to do before she got up and went and made a very early lunch. Or second breakfast, she supposed. She opened her web browser and dived into researching 1906 New York and Canal Street in particular. The power structure of the day and the diamond industry, which must have been informal and unorganized back then.

The mobs. There had been organized crime back then, too.

You think my family don’t have this street sewn up? When she recalled the man’s thick Italian accent she could almost smell the unwashed stench and the lingering, stale garlic on his breath.

The other thing about 1906 that surprised her was that photographs were not as rare as she thought they should have been. There were many of them, thanks to the Internet’s habit of sucking up and holding onto anything digital.

She found a photo of Canal Street from 1906 and studied it curiously. The black and white and grainy focus made the street seem not quite real. She had seen it in full color, moving and sounding like a perfectly normal street instead of something quaint. And the photo was not the section of the street she and Aran had walked, either, but it looked almost the same—street cars and a thick net of wires overhead.

Jesse was finishing her research and thinking longingly of the half-a-sandwich she’d left in the fridge last night when Aran returned.

“Figured you’d find a way back to working,” Aran said, behind her.

She whirled, so startled, her heart began to thud and careen about. But that’s not the only reason you jumped, the cool voice whispered in her head.

Jesse lurched out of the chair and to her feet to face Aran, where he stood in the clear space between the dining room table and the back of the sofa in the formal sitting room. “If you’re going to just keep…keep appearing like this, then I’m moving the laptop to the other side of the goddam table,” she said breathlessly.

“Are you hungry, Jesse?” Was he laughing at her?

“Goddamn it, I’m starving!” she growled.

Aran lowered a leather briefcase to the floor, reached into the unzipped center compartment and pulled out…

“A hamburger!” she breathed, her mouth filling with saliva.

He grinned and held it out to her. “You should learn to eat when you’re actually hungry,” he chided her.

Jesse ignored him. She took the paper wrapped goodness, parked her butt on the edge of the table, unwrapped it and took an enormous bite and chewed swiftly. Only now did she notice that he was wearing one of his expensive suits, a tie and a formal overcoat and scarf. His outfit matched the briefcase at his feet.

“You’ve been somewhere…” she guessed, around a mouthful of relish and beef.

“I’ve been in Amsterdam and New York for over a week,” he told her. “Getting the two diamonds cut and certified, then selling them.” He picked up the briefcase and dropped it onto the captain’s chair at the head of the dining table, then took off the overcoat and scarf.

Yeah, it was one of the silky, slim cut suits underneath. It made him look even taller than he was.

She tore her gaze away from him, her cheeks burning, and concentrated on finishing the burger. There wasn’t much of it left, anyway. “You sold the diamonds already?”

“They were beautiful, once the gem cutter was done. He even offered to buy them from me. But he would have expected a deal and I wanted full price, so I went to my two favourite dealers and asked them for their best quote.”

“You auctioned them?” Her breath evaporated at his chutzpah. “Isn’t that against the rules or something?” She took another mouthful of burger.

“An auction in all but name. They bid against each other. I let them know I had other interested parties, at least two of them. That made it an interesting few hours.” He grinned. Devilment lit his eyes, making them dance.

Jesse remembered the burger and made herself take the last bite, while Aran sorted through the briefcase once more. “I had them make the cheque out in your name, Jesse, but you’ll have to create a holding company for yourself, or taxes will eat you alive.” He came toward her, holding out a certified bank cheque. “I can show you how to do that and what sort of account to put it in, so the interest is maximized. There’s all sorts of ways of doing it.”

She stared at the cheque, all thoughts frozen.

Jessenia Hall.

She glanced to the right, on the next line.

$87,395.49.

Jesse coughed, the dry burger bun scraping the back of her throat. Hastily, she chewed and swallowed, but it lodged halfway down, and she held her hand against her breastbone as it ached. “You can’t give that to me!”

Aran frowned. “That was the entire point of the exercise. This is start up stakes, Jesse.” He put the cheque on the table.

“But they were your diamonds!”

“Pay me back the fifty dollars I used to buy them, once you’ve deposited this cheque,” he told her dismissively.

“Seven hundred dollars,” she said swiftly. “That’s what you told me it was worth, back then.”

“Seven hundred then. But I did this for you, to show you how. And if you hadn’t been there, it might have ended far differently, so as far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”

“If you’re talking about Stinky, at the end, then it wouldn’t have happened at all if I wasn’t with you,” she said swiftly. “The only reason they figured they could rip you off was because you had a wife you would give up the diamonds for.”

“Stinky?” He raised a brow. This time he really did laugh. Then he tapped the cheque. “Don’t march into the nearest Citibank with this, hmm? Let me explain what you should do with it. Then, every now and again, you can top up the principal, or spread it around and do interesting things with it.”

“Top up the principal? You mean, jump back in time more? I’m not a jumper.”

“I am, and I’m out of a job and bored, and this is a great way to keep my jumping instincts alive.” He smiled a little. “The Jesse Hall Trust Fund.”

Jesse crumpled the burger wrapper and put it on the table, then moved closer to the cheque and peered at it. “This is what you do to buy your car and your clothes and everything? The house in England?”

“This is what I do,” he said, his voice low. “There’s a few other things, too, but they’re riskier.”

She looked up at him. “It was risky enough. Do you know who Stinky really was?”

“Not his name. His connections, I have figured out. Einaudi demonstrated his true colors. He didn’t want to give up the lumpy diamond. He knew it would be extraordinary, once it was cut. So he decided to have it both ways.” He tapped the cheque once more. “You earned this, Jesse. Take it, so I can stop worrying you’ll die of malnutrition.”

She peered at the figure once more. “Eighty thousand dollars,” she breathed. “That’s more than…than a whole year for me…”

“Longer than that, if you set it up right, and keep adding to the capital.”

She swallowed, as a huge well of emotion rose inside her. “It just…it feels like cheating, somehow.”

“It’s not cheating,” Aran said, his tone firm. “You paid for this. You got pushed around by time, a hundred years ago and again, five years ago, when you stopped the planeload of Sarin smashing into Greater London. Time doesn’t care about you. It doesn’t have rules or morals or empathy. You paid and your life hasn’t been the same since. You even had to take risks and work to get this.” He tapped the cheque again. “Now you get payback.”

She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Put that way…”

When had he got so close? She shivered as she felt the radiant warmth of his body heat. She couldn’t tell if he was wearing cologne or after shave, only that he smelled spicy warm and delicious.

Jesse didn’t know who kissed who, this time, only that they came together with a soft sound which might have been a mutual moan of pleasure. Aran’s hands tangled in her hair, then held her head as he drove his tongue into her mouth.

Jesse realized she had pushed her hands under his jacket only when she felt pliant warmth under her fingers, and soft shirting. His muscle played under her hands as he plundered her mouth.

He tasted the way he smelled.

His mouth released hers only after she had no breath left and she had to prop herself against him. Her legs were shaky.

Aran didn’t let her go. His lips brushed her cheekbones, as he stroked her back. “For eight days, I’ve thought of little else but coming back here and doing this…” He slid a hand beneath her teeshirt and rested his hand against her flesh. “Soft. Always softer than I think it will be.” He kissed her again.

Jesse tried to remember all the reasons she shouldn’t be doing this and couldn’t think of a damn thing. Then she couldn’t think at all. She stopped trying to control anything and just opened herself up to the delight of being wanted and being held and being touched.

Aran lifted his head and studied her. “You can say stop, Jesse.” His voice was hoarse. “Say stop, if you want to. But say it now, because I plan to…” He swallowed. “It has been a very long eight days,” he finished, his voice dropping even lower. The heat in his eyes made Jesse shiver.

Yet he didn’t move, even though she could feel him throbbing against her. His control was formidable. Admirable. He wouldn’t try to convince her physically, the way other men might have. He just held her loosely, so she could step out of his arms if she wanted to.

Jesse swallowed. “I didn’t write a single word of the story, while you were gone.”

Aran pushed her hair over her shoulder. Tucked it behind her ear.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she finished and reached up to kiss him.

Aran wrapped his arms around her and picked her up off her feet and carried her backward. This time, when her thighs connected with the table, he bore her back, so she was laid upon it.

Aran kissed her—a hard, brief touch. Then he stripped her jeans with three quick movements, taking her panties with them and pulling her socks from her feet at the same time.

He spread her knees, his gaze upon her pussy. The front of his trousers was as congested as his jeans had been. He unfastened the belt and pulled it away, then lowered the fly. His hand shook.

His gaze met hers, as he lifted her knees. “First, I have to…”

He didn’t have to finish. She knew exactly what he meant. She clawed at the table as his cock pressed up against her sopping cleft, then rammed into her. His fingers dug into her thighs and he groaned. “So good…”

Jesse could hardly draw a proper breath. The feel of him inside her was better than she had imagined it might be. Her entire body seemed to gather around him, and the shivers rippled outward from that junction. Her clit throbbed.

“More,” she said, her voice rough. “Harder.”

Aran withdrew and rammed back into her, as hard as she had wanted. “God, I’m…” His jaw worked. He shook his head and began to thrust in deep, heavy movements, making the table creak.

Jesse’s hearing shut down, as the waves of pleasure built. She closed her eyes, her breath shortening to little pants.

Aran groaned and came in little thrusts, his pelvis hard up against her. He gave a shuddering sigh, one hand propping him upon the table.

Jesse swallowed. Every nerve ending in her body was fizzing and splitting like live wires in water. She couldn’t control her breathing. Her pussy clamped around him in convulsive waves.

Aran lifted himself off his hand. “Now I can do this properly.” He got a hand under her shoulder. “Come here.”

He lifted her upper body, even though he was still inside her. The pure muscle needed to do that didn’t seem to tax him. He stripped her teeshirt from her and gave a soft sound of pleasure. “Do you have any idea how much it teases a man, once he’s figured out you’re not wearing a bra?”

She could barely make sense of the question and certainly didn’t have the capacity to answer him…but she didn’t need to, for Aran dipped his head and drew her nipple into his mouth, scattering all further thoughts to the four winds. She cried out, her head rolling back, as he feasted on her breasts, stroking them with his tongue, scraping them with his teeth, and drawing out the other nipple with his fingers.

Jesse writhed on the table, barely coherent. Her climax was building, made even better because he was still inside her.

Then he lowered her back to the table and claimed one breast with his hand. The other trailed over her quivering belly and slipped between her flesh to stroke her clit.

Jesse cried out, the pleasure almost too intense. “Oh dear god…!” she choked out.

“Come for me, Jesse,” Aran coaxed, his stroking sending shooting spasms of excitement through her. “Let me feel it. Make me come just from you coming.”

Her breath hitched and hitched again, then she came with a deep scream that tore at her throat and her eyes. Everything in her body clamped down, except her clit, which pulsed in waves of endless pleasure that seemed to last for a year.

When she could see properly once more, she found that Aran was watching her, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

She wanted to kiss that corner. More.

“Better?” he asked her.

Jesse sighed. An absurd urge to giggle struck her, but she held it back.

Aran withdrew from her then scooped her up from the table. She realized with a jolt that he was still fully dressed, while she was naked.

“Bedroom,” Aran said urgently.

She pointed.

Chapter Ten

Aran lowered her to the coverlet and stripped his clothes with hurried movements, revealing a body that was as powerful as she had suspected from her far-distant glimpses of him in the lonely cove on Cape Naturaliste. He climbed onto the bed, kissed her and drew her up against him. “Now, where was I…?”

He played with her, explored and drew from her reactions she hadn’t thought herself capable of. That included climaxing with him, merely from the stroking of his cock inside her. As she shuddered and moaned, Aran held her, his own body quivering, then kissed her gently. “Your expression is…odd,” he said.

“I…it’s just…I don’t usually come, like this.” She could feel her cheeks heating.

Aran lifted a brow. “You will in future.” Then he turned her onto her belly and straddled her. He stroked her back and shoulders while she tried to encompass exactly what his comment meant.

He moved back down her body, making her squirm and sigh, until his fingers slipped between her buttocks and into her pussy, stroking and delving.

She moaned, her eyes closing.

Aran lifted her onto her knees, and she fully expected him to slide back into her, but he didn’t, not at first. He kept teasing and stroking, hard and fast, or soft and slow. Or he would slide down to stroke her clit and make her hips jerk and Jesse to give a shuddering gasp.

When his cock did finally push into her, Jesse pressed backwards, more than ready. His hand claimed one buttock as he thrust. He pressed his thumb against her ass, and the muscle and nerves there gave out a pang of pleasure.

Shockingly, Jesse climaxed, shuddering and gripping the bedcover in a hard fist.

“I’ll have you come a second time before I’m finished here,” Aran promised her. His hand slid under her hip and nudged her clit, which pulsed in response. She did come a second time, her throat straining and her heart galloping. Aran gripped her hips and slammed into her, his breath working hard as he built to his own climax, one that made him groan deeply.

Then he lowered her onto her side with him wrapped around her back, and they lay together, breathing hard. The heat between them was enormous.

Outside the window, she heard the grind and crunch of the weekly garbage trunk collecting garbage from the rows of trashcans lined up along the street. It was Wednesday and it was still only mid-morning.

Wow.

“Such a romantic sound,” Aran murmured, as the garbage men yelled at each other and clanged the empty cans.

Jesse giggled and clamped down on it so only a small sound escaped her. “The recycle truck is even louder,” she warned. She had got used to the weekly din.

They listened for only a few second more, then Aran shook his head—she could tell he had by the movement of his body against her back. He eased himself away from her and got to his knees. “Come here.” He hauled her up against him. “Let’s go somewhere much quieter.” He put his arm around her.

Alarmed, Jesse grasped his shoulders. “Like this? From here?”

“Relax, Jesse.” His gaze met hers. “I know what I’m doing.”

She felt him…she didn’t know what to call it. Flex? Kick upward? Jerk?

As her astonishment built that someone could time jump from their knees, and dared to jump buck naked, to boot, the black nothingness of time swiped across her…

…and was gone.

And she was still on her knees, on softness that felt cool.

Aran held her as he always did, watching her to see that she had her bearings before letting her go.

Only he didn’t let her go, this time. The hand he had around her back smoothed itself against her flesh. He spread his fingers, so that the tips brushed against her ass, making her quiver.

And all the while he watched her with his black gaze, the heat building in his eyes.

“Where the hell are we?” she whispered, all the volume she could manage at the moment, because her heart was galloping—and not all from the unexpected jump.

“My bedroom, in the Cotswold,” he breathed. “That’s genuine goose down under your knees.” He kissed her, stealing the little breath she had and making her heart work even harder.

They stayed on the bed until the dappled light coming through the lace curtain painted extended filigree shadows on the old floorboards beside the bed, then slid up onto the bed itself, shading them in mottled light.

The air in the room wasn’t perfectly warm, for the house was old and the chill of December slipped through cracks. Jesse barely minded the touch of cool fingers upon her heated skin, until she grew still with her head upon Aran’s shoulder.

He drew up the eiderdown over both of them and kissed her temple. The silence built.

And in that silence, Jesse could feel the questions building in her gut and her heart.

What was this they were doing? Was it just sex? Just venting a post-travelling high?

Guilt tried to chide her for giving into impulse, to obeying her gut instead of good sense. She shoved it away. The deed was done. Now she could actually think properly, she should see what damage she could undo.

But it was far too comfortable, lying this way. She’d never found a man’s shoulder so accommodating before.

Aran lifted a lock of her hair and twirled it in his fingers. “I like your hair longer, like you have it now,” he told her. “All the curl is coming in on the ends.”

“Another inch or two and it will be full ringlets,” she admitted. “That’s why I kept it short, most of the time.”

The peace descended once more. Running water chuckled softly, the sound faint through the window. She could smell green growing things.

Now was the time to speak, she realized. But she didn’t want this peace to end just yet.

Aran stirred. Cleared his throat.

She knew that throat clearing from other times. Other men. The clearing of the throat was followed by the confession.

This was nice but… But I’m married. But I’ve got a fiancé back home. But I’m shipping out tomorrow. But I’m heading back Stateside tomorrow. But it was just this once time. But we shouldn’t do this again. But it’s against regs, right? But…but…but…

Jesse opened her mouth to head off whatever Aran was about to say, even before she realized what she was trying to do. “Stinky’s real name was Federigo Aiolfi.”

Aran hesitated. “That’s not a name I’ve heard from that time,” he said finally.

Jesse sat up. “He was…is, I suppose, as far as we’re concerned….he’s with the Barbieri family.”

Aran sat up…sort of. He put one of the big pillows against the headboard and propped himself up against it, so that he was inclined, rather than sitting. “Giorgino Barbieri.”

“That’s a name you have heard, then,” Jesse concluded.

“Small time gang, but vicious. They didn’t last beyond the First World War.”

That matched what she had read. “They controlled most of Canal Street,” she added. “Aiolfi was muscle, pure and simple.”

“That fits with the impression he leaves behind,” Aran said. His shoulders shifted. A small shrug. His gaze met hers.

Jesse shivered and pulled the eiderdown up around her once more.

“What is it you’re not saying?” Aran coaxed.

She frowned. “I kept wanting to reach for my Glock.”

“The Glock you don’t have on you anymore.”

Jesse threaded her fingers together. “For years you’ve said I should learn to survive without a gun, but I don’t think it properly sank home until Stinky came up on us the way he did, and I didn’t have so much as a parasol to hit him with.”

“Seems to me you did just fine with what you had.”

She shook her head. “I froze. Just for a moment. I couldn’t get my brain to unlock. I couldn’t think beyond the panic of not having my weapons on me.”

“You had fifteen years of Navy discipline drilled into you,” Aran pointed out. “That’s a lot of old habits you’re carrying around.”

“But I’m not in the Marines anymore,” Jesse countered. “I have to…I don’t know…unlearn all that stuff.” She made herself meet his gaze. “Teach me how you do it.”

Aran stared at her.

Through her.

He wasn’t smiling, either.

Jesse swallowed. “I guess that’s a no, then…” Her heart thudded unhappily. “Forget I asked,” she added quickly, sitting up. She glanced around the oddly shaped room with the sloping ceiling. What the hell could she wear? Her jeans were back in Arlington.

His hand rested against the back of her shoulder, hot and big. “No, I’ll teach you,” Aran said softly.

Jesse didn’t have the guts to look at him and maybe see impatience or irritation in his gaze. “It’s just…I can’t just knuckle everything out on the fly.”

His lips touched the skin where his fingers had just been. “But, you white knuckle everything. It works for you.”

“I don’t want it to.” She heard the word repeat in her mind. “Yeah, I don’t want that anymore,” she added to herself.

Aran didn’t answer.

The tension in her gut grew. “Do you have a shirt, or a sweater I can wear?” Her tone was awkward.

She felt the bed move. Aran padded over to a standalone closet, one of the antique claw-footed wooden kind. If they had been in France, it would be called an armoire. Here, it was just an ordinary wardrobe.

Jesse’s gaze drew to Aran’s ass as he opened the closet and reached inside. He withdrew a dark green satin robe and dropped it onto the bed in front of her.

“What, you have guest robes?”

“It’s mine,” Aran told her, as he reached back into the closet and pulled out a pair of jeans and the sweater she had asked for. He thrust his long legs into them. “Let me guess,” he added. “You’re starving.”

“Yes!” She picked up the robe, sorted out the arms and put it on. The scent which was uniquely Aran’s rose from the silky fabric. The sleeves hung beyond her fingertips, so she rolled them up.

“Coffee, first, though, right?” He pulled the sweater down over his jeans and looked at her.

Jesse pulled the robe in around her, as her throat contracted at the thought of fresh, hot coffee. “That would be good.” It would be more than good, but the atmosphere had shifted and changed in the last few minutes and she was wary.

Aran nodded. “Coffee and a meal. Let me see what I can scare up.”

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Of course. It’s the other room, up here.” He gave her a brief smile and left.

Jesse let out a shuddering sigh. She had messed this up, somehow. It had to be her fault his mood had abruptly altered.

She just wasn’t used to the afterward part of sex. Who was she trying to kid? There had never been an afterward. Not for her.

And why the hell was she worrying about afterward, now? This was just hormones raging, wasn’t it?

She stepped out of the bedroom and found herself on a tiny landing, at the top of a long, steep flight of stairs with a worn carpet running down the center of them. There was only one other door on the landing, at a ninety-degree angle to the bedroom door.

Jesse moved into the bathroom. It was small but had been updated sometime in the last few years, so the fittings were new and efficient. The shower was the walk-in kind, that she suspected had replaced what had once been a bathtub with a shower head and curtain.

She showered and found the water was hot and the pressure was good. The house was a mixture of old and new. It creaked with age, but daily necessities had been modernized. The interior looked old and worn, and the view through the high window in the shower unit was timeless and classic. Slow moving water in a narrow river, with high grasses and trees, and just from the far corner of the window she could glimpse the flower-hung footbridge over the tributary.

When she turned off the water and reached for the single thick towel hanging on the rod, she paused, dripping.

Music was playing, downstairs.

She listened as she reached for the towel and dried herself.

When the run of notes stopped and then began again, Jesse realized with a jolt that she was listening to Aran playing the baby grand in the living room.

She dried out her hair as much as she could, then braided it. If she let it dry in the braid, the curl would be contained and manageable. Then she put the robe back on and climbed carefully down the narrow stairs to the living room. The steps were uneven, and some bowed in the middle.

She stepped down into the living room where Aran had first bought her.

Aran sat at the piano, a distant look on his face as his fingers moved over the keys.

Jesse moved over to the wide bench but didn’t sit on it, even though he had taken one side of it instead of sitting in the middle. She didn’t know if he would welcome her inviting herself onto his bench while he was playing.

“I knew you had learned to play,” she said, when Aran’s hands grew still and he glanced at her. “I didn’t know you were so good at it.”

Aran shook his head. “My father is good. I’m…adequate.”

She didn’t dispute him. She wasn’t a music nut and didn’t know if his assessment was correct. She just knew that what he had been playing sounded every bit as good as any pianist she’d heard playing professionally. “You didn’t want a career in music?”

Aran moved his right hand over the keys, playing a trilling set of pretty notes. “This is just how I relax.” He frowned. “How I think,” he added, then put both hands on the keyboard and played a completely different tune than the one he had been playing before. It was an oddly compelling run of notes that made her want to listen hard.

“What is that?” she asked.

“It doesn’t have a name yet.”

“You composed it?” Her breath bellowed.

“It’s how I think,” he repeated and patted the bench. “Sit. I won’t bite.”

She sank onto the corner of the bench, giving him elbow room. “How you think…” she murmured. The most natural next question would be to ask what he was thinking about, but that would lead them into the subject she wasn’t yet ready to tackle.

She ran her finger over the satin-smooth lacquered black frame running in front of the white keys. “So, music second. Politics first, right?”

Aran shook his head, his gaze upon the keys. He drew more rippling, climbing notes from the piano and as they hung in the air, fading, he said, “Time is more interesting.”

He meant time jumping was more interesting. The activity which filled his fathers with angry fear he found merely interesting. More than that; he prioritized time jumping above his career of choice.

Jesse opened her mouth, perhaps to warn him that his casual attitude to time would trip him up, but what emerged instead was, “This was great, Aran, but…”

His hands stilled. He didn’t look at her.

Jesse made herself go on. She was committed to finishing the thought, now. “…but we probably shouldn’t do it again. You know that, right?”

Aran’s hand moved. A jarring sour note. He put his hands on his knees instead. He still didn’t look at her. “Why shouldn’t we?” His tone was flat and reasonable.

Jesse could have marshalled an entire brigade’s worth of reason and arguments centered upon his family and how much they would resent her taking up their son’s attention and time, or how they would feel betrayed, when they learned that she had…had…played around with him.

But he was already defensive about his family having too much influence over him, so she said, instead, “You freaked out when I asked you to teach me how to fight, how to defend myself the way you do. You don’t really want me horning in on your life.”

Aran turned his chin and pinned her with his gaze. “I knew you’d misread that.” He put his hands on the keys. A single note quivered. “I had to come here and think it through, myself. Fact is…” He frowned and played another lovely chord. Then a second. “You lowered the shield, Jesse.”

Her heart gave a little lurch. “I did?”

Aran nodded. “Just one little corner, but that was enough to stun me. You asked me to teach you how to fight.” He grimaced. “The great Captain Hall, unsung hero, thinks I have something worthy to offer her.” The notes grew stronger and turned into a melody. “Most women…” He glanced at her and away. “The morning after, I normally get a thank you and a kiss on the cheek. You ask me to teach you guerilla strategy.”

A hard mass was forming in the middle of her chest, making her breathe too hard and too fast. “I forgot to say thank you…”

“You did say thank you. You said it the Jesse Hall way.” He swiveled and their knees came together. He took her face in his hands. “Up until then, I could have withstood the kiss on the cheek, but now I really don’t want it.” His voice was low, ladened with feelings she didn’t have the capacity to identify. Just having his hands on her was making her stomach flutter and her clit to throb.

Damn it, she hadn’t got this out of her system at all. She wanted him now more than ever. She was holding her breath as he studied her.

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered.

“Neither do I.” His thumb smoothed over her flesh, making it sizzle. “But I want to find out.”

She shivered.

“Do you, Jesse?” he asked, his voice very low.

“I…” She swallowed. I shouldn’t even be sitting here, but… “…I think my sloppy impulse control is growing back.”

Aran sat back, the corner of his mouth lifting even as he frowned. “You never say what I think you might.”

Jesse let out another shuddering breath. “There’s something I wrote that I must get you to read, one day. I joined the Marines to learn discipline, because mouthing off and acting on instinct kept getting me into trouble. Over and over.”

Amazingly, Aran seemed to understand. He nodded. “The Marine discipline is wearing away everywhere else but when you fight, the one area you want to offload it.”

“Maybe I need to offload all of it,” she whispered. “Maybe Captain Hall isn’t really me. Maybe it was just a shell. Built by the military and now useless.”

“She’s not useless,” Aran said. He touched his lips to hers, making her flesh tingle. “She’s you. That facet of you just doesn’t get much light anymore. You need to polish a different facet, now.”

Jesse tried to think beyond tracing where his fingers were sliding down her neck and resting beside the edge of the robe, heating her still-damp flesh. “Aran, I…”

“Hmm?” His hair tickled her chin, as his lips replaced his hands.

“I…” She sucked in a breath as he pulled the robe aside and cupped her breast.

Aran lifted his head. His gaze met hers. “You…?”

His hand stroked. His fingers tangled with her hard nipple, tugging, sending fizzing pleasure coursing through her.

“I can’t think…” she whispered helplessly.

“Good,” he growled, bent his head and drew her nipple into his mouth.

Chapter Eleven

Not thinking became the norm in Jesse’s life.

Whenever she was not in Aran’s arms, she buried herself in writing more and more stories, so she didn’t have to think about what she was doing or examine her motives very closely.

Being in Aran’s arms became the secondary trait of her days. When she was not writing, he would take her back to the living room in England and teach her how to fight his way—his guerilla strategies.

And when she was not sleeping, writing or training, Aran drained her energy and thoughts with sublime, mind-numbing, body-tingling sex. He was inexhaustible in both creativity and vitality…and he used the timescape even there.

More than once, he had surprised Jesse by jumping them to some far away and very private location while kissing her—which he called traditional family-style jumping. Once, he jumped them elsewhere even as he was inside her. Jesse had climaxed with her back in hot, tropical sand, while a salt-ladened sea breeze played over their skin and the sun warmed them.

There were lagoons and private clearings deep in forests, high mountain valleys no man could reach on foot. Beaches galore. His Paris apartment. The penthouse in a Dubai tower on the one hundred and ninth floor, overlooking the Persian Gulf—or overlooking a plain of clouds with the higher buildings in Dubai punching through like sharp rocks in a white sea.

When Aran was not making her body sing, Jesse wrote, ate the meals Aran prepared or bought, or ate at the restaurants and cafes he took her to. She trained and slept. The days clicked through, one page following the next. She barely noticed. She wouldn’t let herself notice too closely, for that would require examining how much time had passed while she indulged herself. Which would lead to asking herself what she thought she was doing.

It would mean thinking about where all this ended.

In the far back corner of her mind, she did wonder what would bring it all to a screeching halt. Something would. Nothing remained stable forever and this…this thing she had with Aran wasn’t stable. It was unclassified, undocumented, an unknown species.

And on the three occasions they jumped back to 1906 New York to buy more diamonds, it was a high-risk venture.

Einaudi sold them the diamonds while everyone pretended he was a simple jeweler, and that she and Aran had not overcome and disarmed the man Einaudi had sent to take back the diamonds he hadn’t wanted to sell. Jesse could see in Einaudi’s eyes, though, that he knew they could not be underestimated. He also knew they knew who he really was.

Yet she sipped his excellent tea while Aran played the well-off heir and dickered over uncut gems to take back to modern New York and add to Jesse’s retirement fund.

They celebrated the winter solstice, not Christmas, just as the rest of the family did, but Aran refused to return to the big log house in Canada.

“Not yet,” he told her, when Jesse showed him her email from Taylor, inviting her to the solstice feast at their house, which was where the extended family was celebrating the solstice this year. Last year it has been held in Remi’s, London’s and Neven’s house in Brittany.

“I’m not ready to…” Aran sat up and ran his hand through his thick hair, the muscles on his chest bunching at the movement. They were sprawled on the big sofa in the house Jesse was sitting. “I don’t want to have to answer endless questions about you that I can’t answer…not yet, anyway.”

Jesse lowered the cell phone, her heart jumping with fright. No, she didn’t want to have to answer questions, either. “We could go and not say anything at all.”

Aran shot her a glance. “Just by standing in the room with them, we’ll be shouting the facts. You know what vampires can detect even if you say nothing at all.”

True.

Jesse squeezed the phone. “Then I should go, at least. It will look odd if I don’t.”

Aran considered her. “Is that what you really want to do?”

Jesse breathed heavily. “No,” she admitted, her voice tiny. “The idea of looking Brody in the eye…or Taylor… Veris will turn me inside out with that death stare of his.” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “I’m not ready yet, either.”

Aran pulled her against him and held her. “Spend the solstice with me,” he breathed, his voice rumbling in his chest. “Then neither of us has to be alone.”

So she had made her excuses to Taylor, who had been gracious enough to accept them, even though they sounded weak even to Jesse. Aran assuaged her guilt by taking her to Lucerne for the solstice, for a sleigh ride on the frozen lake. They saw the new year start in New York.

On the first Thursday of the new year, Jesse officially released her little alternative history book, under the Jerry Hale pen name. Then she promptly forgot about it. Jerry Hale, author, was known to absolutely no one. Jesse did no marketing for the book, either. She just quietly put the book out for sale, almost embarrassed by the odd little tale.

Then she swiftly returned to her life and to Aran’s arms, both of which were far more interesting, now.

On January 6th, the owners of the house returned from their extended Christmas vacation and took back possession. Jesse had her backpack filled with her writing gear and her duffel bag filled with her other possessions and clothes and was ready to go, even though she didn’t have another house-sitting assignment lined up. She had been too busy to send out feelers to all her contacts and former clients to see if anyone was heading out of town for a while and needed their house watched.

She had realized she was too late to find a place only a week ago. “I normally start asking at least a month before I have to move on,” she told Aran, as she worked to compile an email to everyone she knew. “This is Portland all over again.”

“What is Portland?” Aran asked, frowning.

He didn’t remember.

Jesse chided herself. Portland had been a different timeline. Her being without a home for three weeks had happened on the timeline when she had died from a New York mugging.

Aran didn’t remember any of it, because he had changed the timeline. He had changed history and let her live.

Jesse shook her head, making it look as casual as possible. “Nothing. Never mind.” She turned back to her laptop.

Aran closed the lid over her hands. She snatched them out.

His gaze was steady. “Don’t worry about finding a place right now,” he said. “It’s winter and January. No one heads out of town at this time of year.”

“I don’t have another house until March,” she pointed out. “I’m supposed to live on the streets until then?”

“I have a perfectly good house in the Cotswold that needs a caretaker.”

Caution rose in her like the tide on fast forward. Her heart fluttered. “What does that mean?” she said carefully. “I don’t understand…”

Aran sat back. “It means absolutely nothing except that there’s a corner where you can park your backpack and an unused dining table…well, kitchen table, anyway. It means I’m taking the pressure off you to find a roof, as I’m mostly to blame for why you didn’t get around to doing it until now, when it’s too late.”

Her heart wouldn’t slow down, even though his attitude was pragmatic and his tone reasonable.

“That’s all?” she said.

“Relax, Jesse. I’m not asking you to move in. I’m offering you a roof and a table to write upon. You can make anything you want out of that, but it’s just a roof and a table to me.”

So when the owners of the house in Arlington came home, Aran jumped Jesse to England. She put her duffel bag down by the fireplace and unhitched the backpack. “I’ll put this on the table,” she told Aran and went into the kitchen to park the pack on the old vinyl chair at the table.

And while she was there, she unpacked everything and set up the laptop and mouse and speakers on the end of the table, facing the sink and the island where Aran did most of the meal preparations.

She checked her mail while she had the laptop running, then checked sales, then opened the book she was currently writing, so it would be ready for her when she next sat down to write.

There was a typo in the last paragraph, so she fixed that. Then she tweaked the grammar in the rest of the paragraph. The next paragraph formed in her head as she fixed it, so she wrote the next paragraph down before she forgot it.

Some time later, Aran turned on the light in the kitchen, got out two plates and put them on the other end of the table. While he cooked two steaks and fried mushrooms in garlic and butter, she continued to write, the scent of garlic and searing beef not quite stealing her attention away from the story.

They ate the steaks at the other end of the table from her laptop, facing each other. Jesse realized she was starving. With all the time-hopping and place-jumping they did, her only guide on when to eat was her hunger, which she was still learning to recognize.

When they had finished eating, Aran pushed her back toward the laptop, then cleared the dishes and tidied the kitchen. He put a cup of coffee in front of her a little later.

A few pages later, she heard the piano being played softly. It wasn’t a tune, exactly. He kept playing the same notes over and over, except each repetition was a little different, or had different notes…she didn’t know music well enough to know what to call the different parts he played, but she did know what creating something looked like or, in this case, sounded like. He was composing music.

She got back to her story, enjoying the sound of industry on the other side of the wall.

Some time after that, Aran plucked her hands away from the laptop, pulled her to her feet and took her upstairs to bed. It was only then Jesse realized midnight had come and gone.

Her duffel sat in the corner of the bedroom farthest from the bed. It was still zipped up, which she found both reassuring and discomforting.

The duffel stayed in the corner in the days to come, while she pulled what she needed from it and returned the freshly laundered clothes to it, just as she did with every house she had ever lodged in.

January became February. Aran took her to Auckland, New Zealand, for a day cruise to see whales and dolphins. Dinner that night was in a restaurant overlooking the famous harbor.

Jesse toyed with her glass of wine as they waited for their meals to arrived.

“You’re like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Aran observed.

Jesse nodded and drank. “Sorry.”

“You were fine until we reached the restaurant, so what’s biting you?” His gaze was steady.

Jesse grimaced. “It’s stupid.”

“Because I’ve never had a stupid thought in my life,” Aran shot back. “I must tell you about Božidarko one day.”

“You had a stupid thought in Božidarko?”

“I had a stupid idea and acted on it, and Božidarko was the result. Stop trying to side-track me. I’m not giving you that very long story right now. We’re talking about you.”

“We don’t have to. Tell me the story. It sounds interesting.”

“Stories with body counts always interest you.” Aran’s brows came together. “You really are trying to wiggle out of telling me. Spit it out, Jesse.”

She put the glass back on the table and pushed her hands between her knees, feeling suddenly cold. “It’s just…well…” She took a deep breath. “I saw an ad for handmade chocolates this morning, on Facebook.”

Aran tilted his head. “That’s the stupid bit?”

She shook her head. “They were advertising for Valentine’s day.”

Aran sat back. “Okay, now I’m the one who feels stupid. You’ll have to connect the dots for me.”

Jesse could feel her cheeks warming. “Well, it would be kinda natural to figure that you and I, for Valentines, should…I don’t know…mark the occasion in some way. Only I don’t know that either of us should,” she ended lamely.

“You don’t want dinner and roses and chocolates for Valentines?” Aran said.

She couldn’t figure out what his tone meant. Aran was often unreadable. Still often unreadable, despite having examined every inch of him up close and in a very personal way. She didn’t know him well despite hours of conversations that rambled every which way and all through history, too.

If she’d ever had a relationship that had lasted longer than the next morning, Jesse would have expected that the longer the relationship continued, the better she would get to know the man. Only, Aran still baffled her.

She would sometimes catch him watching her, with the intent stillness and endless patience of a cat watching a mouse. The second he realized she was looking at him, the expression would vanish. Very soon after that, Aran would distract her with one of his jumps to somewhere exotic, unexpected, or just plain fun. Or he would pull her against him, or pin her to wall and kiss her until she was hot and aching for him to take her. Always, something would happen which would make her forget about those moments until later and by then, it was too late to ask him about them.

Not that she was sure she had the right to ask, anyway.

It was those great shut-away swathes of his life, the moments she caught him staring at her in that intense way, and the feeling that she had no right to probe, that made her say now, “No, I don’t think doing anything for Valentine’s Day is right for us.”

Aran’s expression didn’t change by a millimeter. He just nodded. “Then let’s do something really, really inappropriate, instead.”

Relief touched her. At the same time she felt let down. Hastily, she grabbed the glass of champagne and drank. “What would be really, really inappropriate?” she demanded.

“I don’t know.” He sat back and rubbed his jaw. “Mud wrestling in the Amazon basin?”

Her jaw dropped. “That’s a thing?”

“I have no idea.” Aran smiled. “We could find out. Or…” He paused. “How would you like to see where those uncut stones come from? I mean, the actual patch of dirt. Maybe do a bit of digging ourselves.”

Jesse frowned. “Can you do that? Just go have a look around with a shovel under our arms? I’d have thought those territories would be like the gold mining claims. Staked out and highly controlled and secure.”

Aran glanced around, a casual flicker of his eyes, but she knew he was checking for anyone who might be taking too close an interest in their conversation. “Depends on when you go there,” he said, lowering his voice.

“Oh…” He meant travelling back in time to a moment before the diamonds had been discovered. “I’m still not used to thinking of that aspect as naturally as you do.”

“I’d be astonished if you did. I’ve had a lifetime of thinking that way.” He didn’t sound upset and when their meals arrived a few seconds later, the conversation shifted. They didn’t really get back to discussing Valentine’s Day again that night, which was a relief to her.

And as it turned out, any plans they might have made would have been wasted because the thing, the event that changed everything, the one Jesse had been expecting would happen, finally arrived.

Only, it didn’t look like the thing that would end everything. Not to start with, anyway.

Only two days after their dinner in Auckland, Jesse headed downstairs, yawning and looking forward to the first cup of coffee. The French press sat on the island, half-full and still warm enough to drink. Even if it wasn’t, she could run it through the microwave for a few seconds—a habit that made Aran make retching sounds, when he first saw her do it. Yet the coffee was perfectly drinkable, so she wasn’t sure what his objections were. It was better than pouring the other half of the pot out, just because she didn’t drink a pint in thirty seconds the way he could.

Aran had drunk the other half of this morning’s pot and was who the hell knew where, doing something mysterious.

As usual.

Jesse dropped bread in the toaster, drank coffee, watched birds flit about the still half-dormant garden visible outside the kitchen window. Unlike most of the double-glazed and insulated homes in America, she could hear faint twitters and calls the birds made through this window. She watched and listened while running the next scenes of her book through her mind. When the toast was buttered, she took the plate over to the laptop and went through her usual morning check of sites, social networks and news feeds.

She came to a halt in the middle of her Facebook stream, at a comment that had been posted to one of her author groups very early in the morning, UK time. Which meant it had been late last night for someone in the States.

She read the post again, her heart screaming.

Read an alt hist by a complete newbie author—just finished it. One of the best stories I’ve read this year and last year…maybe this century. Going back to read it again. Give it a look yourself.

And below the text was the cover of her book, with Kiss Across Chaos emblazoned on the top and Jerry Hale in the flourishing script the cover artist had used instead of the upright squared-off font Jesse Hall military thrillers got.

Beneath the cover was over thirty comments from other authors, saying they were going to check it out or that they had read it already.

The comments were mostly from the Australian and New Zealand authors, who had already passed through their day. North America was still to wake up.

The last comment she came to had gone unanswered.

Who is Jerry Hale, anyway? Anyone heard of her before?

Jesse didn’t respond. The last thing she wanted was for everyone to know who Jerry Hale was. Yes, it was great that one guy thought it was a good read, but that was just one guy. There were also people who hated Harry Potter, too.

Her intense curiosity let her do something she rarely did. She checked for reviews on the book.

It had only been out for just under six weeks and it already had forty-three reviews, ranging from three stars to a staggering thirty-eight five-star reviews.

She spotted the same question in the reviews. Who is Jerry Hale? She doesn’t seem to exist anywhere but on the book cover.

Jesse hadn’t bothered with an author photo or even much of a bio. There was one line; This is Jerry Hale’s first novel. She had bought the site domain, JerryHaleAuthor.com, purely to run email via the domain address. She hadn’t put up even a rudimentary site. After all, who would bother to look for one?

Her heart thudding even more, Jesse broke with her normally iron-clad personal rule of not checking her sales except at the end of the month, to square the bookkeeping for the month. At the end of January, she had sold only a dozen copies, as she had expected to do for a first novel by a complete unknown.

She pulled up the sales charts and sat back, breathing hard.

Since January 31st, when she had last checked sales, Kiss Across Chaos had sold three hundred and eighteen copies.

In eleven days.

Jesse went back to the reviews, perplexed. It was a silly little novel. How could people like it so much?

Even more puzzling were the many references to the book as a romance.

I didn’t write a romance, Jesse mentally protested.

But some old, dead writer had once said that a manuscript was for the author. The book that came from the manuscript was for everyone else. The author lost all opinion about what the book meant, after that.

If readers wanted to call it a romance, they were right.

If they wanted to buy it, they could. And they were buying it.

Her hand shaking, Jesse scrolled down the product page to where the sales ranks were displayed.

Kiss Across Chaos was #49 in Women’s Fiction.

She was charting on the first page of a category best seller list. She’d never done that before.

Jesse shut the laptop down and poured more coffee and drank it while sitting on the deck chair on the gravel in front of the house, wrapped in Aran’s pea coat.

When he got home a few hours later, she said nothing about the spiking sales of the book. She was too embarrassed. She also didn’t write that day.

When she got up the next day, Jesse didn’t check her feeds or groups. She opened the manuscript and started writing, instead.

Sinking into the story soon blew away the fragments of unease which the momentary spike had imparted.

That night, Jesse asked Aran if he could take her to Europe in the morning.

“Of course I can. Where and when?”

Jesse smiled. “Paris, the spring of 1957. And Geneva in 1923.”

“That’s very specific. Have you been researching? Why there?” He sat up enough to put his head on his hand and study her.

“I want to try something…it’s a spin on your retirement fund idea and it’s probably not nearly as risky.”

“Anything involving time is risky,” Aran said. “Usually it’s the innocent-looking jumps that turn out the worst. So if we go, we go with our mental shields up.”

Jesse sat up. “I was researching for my book—just a quick look up for a couple of details. And I tripped over something that made me sit up.”

“Like you’re doing now?” He reached and pulled her down so that she was resting with her head on the pillow, which put him above her and made her heart run a little harder at the possibilities ahead.

She rolled onto her back so she wasn’t looking into his eyes. “In 1957, you could buy a Grace Kelly bag from Hermès for about fifty American dollars. An original Kelly bag made in that year was just sold at Christies. Wanna guess what it sold for?”

“A fashion accessory?” Aran just barely avoided laughing. “Okay, tell me.”

“Twelve thousand dollars.” She paused. “American,” she added.

“For a handbag?” Aran laid on his back, too. After a moment, he blew out his breath. “You have my attention. Paris, 1953, is for the bag. What’s in Geneva in the 1920s…” He rolled his head to look at her. “Damn. Rolex, right?” He held up his wrist, displaying the watch there, that he hadn’t paused to take off when he had been removing his and her clothing an hour ago.

Jesse nodded. “You paid how much for yours?”

“This is a Daytona. They’re about seven thousand, depending on where and who you buy it from.”

“That’s today’s prices for a new watch. A 1934 Submariner in what Christie’s called ‘Relatively good condition’ sold for fifty thousand Euros last week.”

Aran blew out his breath once more. “Wonder what they would make of a mint condition 1920s Submariner?”

“I thought I might try to find out. The only catch with the Rolex is that we have to park it somewhere safe back in that time, then collect it here and now.”

Aran turned on his side once more. “Why?”

“The luminous dial and hands were made with radium, pre-1964. They actually test vintage Rolexes with Geiger counters to check the degree of radiation, when they authenticate them. A 1920s watch should be just about stone dead on the Geiger counter, but if we bought it directly back here, it would light the thing up like a Christmas tree.”

“So we stow it and retrieve it a hundred years later.” Aran smiled. “I think you’re getting the hang of this.”

Jesse shook her head. “It’s your idea. I’m just tweaking it.”

“And you told me there are no new ideas in story telling, that anything you write has been done before. People still call that creating a book.” He drew her to him.

It took five days to prep for the jump to Paris in 1957 and Geneva in 1923, but the prep paid off. Both jumps went without incident.

Aran brought old money suitable for both times. Setting up the Swiss bank account and depositing the watch in the lock box was the most complicated part of the arrangement. At least in 1920 they were still not using fingerprints or complicated identity papers.

And Jesse learned that she loved the swish of multiple crinolines. “It’s ridiculous,” she told Aran in Paris, as she spread the skirt of her dress—a ‘frock’, she had heard it called. “I’ve led men into battle, driven Hummers under fire from drone rockets, blown up buildings, and—”

“And saved everyone in greater London single-handedly,” Aran added, a twinkle in his eye as he took in her dull silk ensemble.

“I’m the least feminine woman I know,” Jesse finished. “But I feel all silly and delicate and lady-like in this.”

“You look it,” Aran replied. “Not the silly part. But the lady-like part is a lock.” He got up from the little wrought iron table where they had paused for coffee and a croissant and refastened the buttons on his double-breasted jacket. The jacket had enormous padded shoulders and very wide lapels.

Jesse got to her feet and paused as Aran held his elbow out for her. “They do that here and now?”

“I don’t give a damn if they do or not,” Aran said. “I want you on my arm.”

Jesse took his arm, trying to contain her smile to something elegant, instead of the goofy grin that wanted to form.

It was an extended day of jumping that ended up being the last pleasant day they would have for a while, because the shit had already hit the fan. They just didn’t know it yet.

Chapter Twelve

The first sound Jesse grew aware of as the living room of Aran’s cottage formed around them was the sound of her cellphone vibrating against the closed top of the piano, jiggling in a little dance across the ebony lacquer.

“Sorry,” Jesse said quickly, for Aran was fastidious about caring for the piano. “No one ever phones me,” she added and picked up the phone.

The caller hung up before she could connect.

“Not even my mother?” Aran asked, sounding merely curious, not peeved. He emptied his pockets upon the high mantelshelf above the hearth.

Jesse had to think to recall how she could check who had just phoned. While she was flipping through the screens, the phone vibrated and rang again.

The alert popped up over the top of her screen.

Incoming Call.

That was it. No number.

“Well, who is it?” Aran asked.

Jesse shook her head. “There’s no name. Not even a number.”

Aran moved closer. “Don’t answer it.”

Even before Jesse could begin to analyze the odd note in Aran’s voice, the phone stopped ringing again.

She looked up at him. “I don’t know who it is.”

“That’s the point of jigging your outgoing ID. No one knows who is calling until they answer the phone. They want you to pick up.”

“Phishing? Some sort of scam?”

“You won’t ever find out,” Aran said grimly. “Because you won’t answer the call. If they were legitimate, they’d have an ID you could read.”

Jesse relaxed when the phone didn’t ring again and grimaced. “It’s stupid how much it bothers me that I can’t see who it is. Modern tech, huh?” She went over to the shopping bag that held the brand-new vintage handbag. “I should put this in plastic and seal it.”

“Once you’ve got rid of the tags and the new car smell,” Aran added. “Tomorrow we can head over to Geneva and pick up the watch, too. Sell them both in one jump to New Y—”

The phone buzzed again, making Jesse start. She lifted it to check the screen, even though there wouldn’t be anything there to see.

Only, there was.

This time, there was a phone number and an ID.

“The Huffington Post?” she read aloud and looked at Aran, her gut clamping. “Why would HuffPo want to talk to me?”

Aran crossed his arms. “Let me see. Why would one of the biggest online news outlets want to speak to an author?” His face was sober, but humor glittered in his eyes.

“But I’m just a midlist indie…” she began.

The book. The book.

She wasn’t certain why the alternative history book leapt into her mind. No one knew who Jerry Hale was. She still turned on her heel and dashed into the kitchen and to her laptop and fired it up. She clicked over to check the book itself, just to see that it was there, that it wasn’t being shat all over by reviewers. Maybe something really horrible had happened to it and HuffPo wanted a juicy quote from her to make their update sensational and click-baity. She’d heard of trolls ganging up on an author they took exception to and painting the author’s book with dozens or hundreds of one star reviews with horrible, blood-drawing comments about the author and the quality of the book.

Maybe she had been targeted.

Her heart racing, Jesse waited for the page to load, while Aran strolled into the kitchen behind her and leaned against the island, watching with his brows together. He didn’t interrupt her with endless questions.

Not that she could answer any of them right then.

The page finally formed, and Jesse discovered she had been flagged, but not by trolls.

Her pulse froze. Her throat tightened. Her gut squeezed down into a fist-sized rock sitting in her middle and burning. “I’m number one,” she breathed.

“Really?” Aran straightened, sounding very pleased. “In which category?” It had taken hours to teach him the intricacies of genres and categories. He was a voracious reader, but he read non-fiction almost exclusively.

Jesse looked up at him. Her neck creaked. “All of them. The whole site.”

Aran blinked. “You’re number one for the entire store?”

She nodded, despite the stiffness of her neck. She couldn’t feel her fingertips. Her toes were tingling.

Aran crossed the room, pulled her to her feet and hugged her. Hard. “God, Jesse, that’s amazing,” he breathed, the warmth of his breath brushing her neck. “I’m so very happy for you.”

Jesse let him hold her. She didn’t know what else to do. Her thoughts careened off each other. Chief among them was the sensation that this was wrong, that it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, not with this silly little book, not when her back was turned, and she was busy falling in—

Jesse snapped up straight. She was trembling, now, too.

Aran shifted away from her. Just a few inches. His eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Her phone buzzed again, rattling against the little table.

They both jumped.

Jesse looked down at the screen once more.

“The Vineyard Gazette?” Aran said, over her shoulder. “Why would they be trying to reach you?”

Jesse looked at him, startled.

Aran rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s fantastic that the media want to speak to the author of the top selling book, but I don’t get why the Vineyard’s little paper would be one of them.”

Horror slammed into her. “Oh, god,” she breathed. “It can’t be…”

Aran was frowning again, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the laptop screen. “Who is Jerry Hale?” he said, his tone flat.

Jesse disconnected the call, then turned off her phone. It took twice as long as it should because her fingers were uncooperative. Her heart was slamming against her chest. It didn’t help her composure to have Aran peering at the book.

He looked up at her. “This is you?”

Jesse crossed her arms. “I didn’t tell anyone it was me.” Her tone came out sounding apologetic, for she could see the stirring of anger in his eyes. “No one, Aran. I don’t know why these media people are trying to reach me but having the Vineyard Gazette call makes me think…makes me suspect they’ve figured out that Jerry Hale is me.”

“What does Martha’s Vineyard have to do with it?” Aran demanded.

“That’s the snail mail address I use for everything. Veris said I could, because I’m itinerant.” She swallowed. “Your parents still own the house there, and Taylor checks on the house once a month and brings any mail that arrives there for me. But it’s only when I need a snail mail address, you see…”

Her phone buzzed again.

Jesse turned it over. “I thought I’d turned it off…”

“Take the SIM card out,” Aran said, his tone urgent.

She frowned.

“You’re not answering the phone,” Aran said. “How long do you think it will take them to give up calling and track the phone’s location, instead?” He glanced at the window. “They could already be on their way here.”

Fresh horror built in her. She cracked the case quickly and removed the card, feeling nausea swirl in her gut. “This is…how could I have slipped up? There wasn’t any connection between me and Jerry Hale. I thought I’d made sure of it. She doesn’t even have a website.”

Aran was back to reading the screen on her laptop. Reading the book blurb. He glanced up at her. “But there’s an email address in the author description,” he pointed out. “At Jerry Hale dotcom, so you bought the domain. Did you buy privacy for it, too, Jesse?”

Her lips parted. “No…” she whispered. “I didn’t even think of that.”

Aran nodded. “That’s how they figured out who you are. Ten seconds online and they’d have your name, your phone number and your snail mail address…in Martha’s Vineyard.”

He scrolled the screen back up to the top of the page and began reading the description again. “This isn’t your usual fare, is it?” he remarked, his voice tight.

Her heart thudded unhappily. “Aran, no one knew about the book. I didn’t leave you out of this deliberately—”

This time, it was Aran’s phone that interrupted them.

Jesse shuddered. She needed to sit down. She wanted a stiff drink. She felt light-headed.

Aran fished out his phone and glanced at the screen. His only reaction to the caller’s ID was to lift a brow. He answered. “Far…what world-ending event made you pick up the phone?”

Jesse froze. Veris was calling Aran. Aran was right, this was a seismic event.

She thought, suddenly, of Thanksgiving and Veris’ bitter, not-so-off-hand remark about Aran never going home.

That lack of contact ran both ways, she realized.

Aran was frowning as he listened. “Yeah, I can do that, but…” His frown increased. “I can. Of course, I can, but…” He straightened, as if he’d been slapped. “I see,” he said quietly. “Five minutes.” He listened a bit more. “See you then.” He disconnected, put his phone on the table and studied it. His expression was thoughtful.

“Aran?” Jesse didn’t speak too loudly. She didn’t want to startle him or piss him off. She wasn’t sure what was going on, only that she felt as she did when there was a live grenade nearby.

Aran didn’t look up. His tone was complete devoid of expression as he said, “Far wants me to jump you to Canada. He got a phone call from the Edgartown Police Department on the Vineyard. There’s a gaggle of journalists and cameras in front of the house.”

Jesse pressed her temples. Hard. “Oh, shit…”

Then a secondary, but just as alarming, thought occurred to her. “How did your father know I was with you?”

“I imagine my mother found us both on the timescape. She defers to Marit as the expert, but she’s nearly as good as Marit at navigating the time plane.” He still spoke in that stiff, formal and remote voice. The sound of it wasn’t making Jesse feel any happier.

“They know we’re, that we have been, that…that we’re…whatever it is we are?” Jesse felt like she was running three different defense strategies at the same time. Three different threats, all of them major. She didn’t know which one to tackle first.

For the first time since he’d finished his conversation with his father, Aran looked at her.

She couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. There was no expression, she realized. He was holding everything in. He’d shut down, just as she’d seen Brody do, more than once, when he…when he was wounded, or angry but couldn’t sound off because it was Veris he was pissed at and they weren’t in private. Or when he was holding in his response to something he didn’t like or didn’t agree with, especially if it was Veris he was disagreeing with.

Her pulse leapt yet again. How many more times could it do that and not come out the top of her head, or rupture a ventricle? “Aran…”

He shook his head. “There’s no time. Far wants you there yesterday.”

“Literally?” She caught her breath.

“Figuratively. He wants to speak to you. You know what he’s like. He’s probably standing beside the arrival chamber, his arms crossed and his foot tapping.”

Jesse might have laughed at the accuracy of the observation at any other time. She couldn’t even summon a weak smile, now.

Aran’s gaze was unwavering. “How does he know you’re connected with what’s happening on the Vineyard?”

Her heart squeezed again. This time, it lodged in her throat and stole her breath.

Aran nodded, as if she had confirmed his guess. “Far knows about the book.”

“I…” Horror touched her. “I forgot I had told him, Aran! He almost broke my arm to make me give him the name, and Brody said if Veris had the name then I didn’t have to know when or even if he was reading the book.”

“Then Athair knows, too?” Aran’s voice was flat. Almost disinterested in tone, but it made her heart fibrillate.

She pressed her fist against her aching chest. “This is a disaster.”

“That’s one name for it.” Aran’s tone was dry. “Get your coat. It’s still below zero in Alberta.”

Jesse moved into the loungeroom, where her coat hung over the piano bench, where she had dropped it the last time they had moved through space-not-time. Jumps back into the past, these days, meant arriving in clothes belonging to the life which time instantly spun around them when they arrived. Taking a coat with her was a waste of, well, time.

She picked up the coat and shoved her arms into it. She felt sick. Weak.

Aran had followed her into the room. He stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers, his gaze bleak.

“Aran—”

He shook his head. “Not now.” The two words were clipped. Precise.

“Then soon. We have to talk soon. Promise me.”

Aran moved over to the hooks next to the front door and took down his overcoat and donned it, then came back to her. “I can’t promise,” he told her. “I don’t know what we’re jumping into. The only thing I know about my parents is that life around them is interesting in the Chinese curse way.” He put his arm around the middle of her back, just barely pulling her up against him. “We’re jumping back into the cauldron,” he finished bleakly and leapt.

Chapter Thirteen

The brightly lit workroom in the basement of the big log house formed around them. The benches on three sides of the neatly painted square in the center of the room—the arrival chamber—were as usual: one scattered with frantic sprays of equipment and bits and pieces of projects; one table with absolutely nothing on it but a computer tower and monitor; the third with some sort of delicate box construction glued and clamped together drying in the middle of the tabletop. Jesse didn’t know which table belonged to any of them, but she suspected the untidy one was Brody’s.

Brody himself stood just outside the square of white paint, which surprised Jesse.

Aran quickly dropped his arm from around her back. “Athair.”

“They’re on the island already,” he told them. “I’m here to tell you to jump straight there. Taylor got antsy about journalists peering in her windows or damaging the place because they couldn’t raise anyone.”

Jesse’s heart sank.

Brody’s gaze shifted to her. “Don’t let them get to you,” he added. “They’re like sharks. If they sense blood in the water they’ll circle for days until you weaken and they can close in.”

And he would know. He’d been the lead singer of a rock band that had been famous for a while, especially in Europe.

“Great way to make her feel confident, Brody,” Aran said.

Brody looked at his son with a steady gaze that was Aran’s, almost exactly. “Jesse already has the steel backbone. She just needs a sit rep, that’s all.”

Aran glared at his father.

Because Brody never aged and because Aran aged too damned fast, the two of them looked more like siblings than father and son. Their jaws were both squared and stiff. They were identical in height and breadth of shoulder. The same dark hair and pale Celtic flesh. Only Aran’s chin was dark with growth, while Brody stayed clean-shaved, most of the time.

“And it’s good to see you, too,” Brody added. He moved toward the swing door of the work room. “I’ve called the others. They’ll be here when you get back.”

“The others” meant everyone else in their extended, unofficial family, including Neven, London and Remi. Alex, Sydney and Rafe, too.

Jesse’s belly clenched even harder. Brody was calling in the big guns. Sydney was Morrigan, Queen of the Americas, and David Pallis’ second in command.

Jeeze louise…

Aran pulled her back against him, his manner almost rough. “I guess we’re jumping again.” He almost growled it.

Before Jesse could catch her breath, he jumped.

The air in the big central room of the house on Martha’s Vineyard was musty but not cold, for the furnace was left running. Snow piled up against the glass doors on the rear of the house, bright white and dazzling in the late afternoon sun. The naked, leafless oaks around the perimeter of the property sent long shadows over the untouched snow.

Only two of the French doors had their blinds raised. It would have been dazzling in the room if all of them had been opened.

“There you are!” Taylor said, hurrying across the room to where Jesse and Aran stood by the fireplace, which was the unofficial arrival point inside the house for any jumpers. Taylor always left the spot in front of the hearth clear of furniture and obstacles, to avoid tripping up arriving jumpers. She crossed the open spot now, with a thick wad of mail in one hand.

“Hi, Mum,” Aran said, his tone…odd.

“Come here,” Taylor said and hugged Jesse, not Aran.

Jesse took the few seconds of the hug to pull her scattered thoughts togethers. “Hi Taylor,” she breathed.

Taylor gave her another squeeze and let her go. Her big brown eyes were shining when she stepped back to consider Jesse. “Veris won’t tell me what the hell is going on. There’s a dozen journalists at the end of the drive and I think one of them is the ABC, and the others are network affiliates. What have you been doing, Jesse?”

Jesse swallowed. “It’s…complicated.”

Taylor nodded. “It’s you. Of course it’s complicated.”

Jesse blinked. She was complicated? That was not something she would have said about herself.

Taylor went on. “Veris went up to the surgery to spy on the journalists and talk to the Chief about running them off, or not.”

“Can’t we all just go away and ignore them?” Jesse asked, wondering if that was too naïve a hope.

“That’s complicated, too,” Aran said from behind her, his tone wise.

“It is,” Taylor said, nodded. “We’ve had a bit of practice dealing with the media,” she added.

“And Athair scared the crap out of her with some of that experience,” Aran added dryly. “Do we really need to be here?”

“Veris wanted to speak to Jesse,” Taylor said. “Probably better to do it here than have Sydney over your shoulder, weighing in.” She smiled as she said it, with warmth coloring her tone. “Jesse, why don’t you head up to the surgery? I’ll take this chance to talk to Aran in person instead of by text.”

Jesse wanted to protest. To refuse. The last thing she wanted to do was be in a small room with Veris, who could detect more truths just by standing beside her than Sherlock Holmes had deduced in his entire career.

But she couldn’t refuse. It would be churlish, just to begin. It would be juvenile.

Gear up, Captain Hall, she told herself. She gave Taylor a stiff smile and a nod, turned and headed for the stairs.

Her heart was racing by the time she stepped into the surgery. There was nothing in here, now, but it had once held a small ER’s worth of diagnostic equipment and supplies. The built-in counter was empty. A thin layer of dust on the top tickled her nose.

Veris stood near the window. Not right next to it, where anyone glancing up could spot him, but close enough to look through and still be out of reach of the daylight that would reveal him. A cellphone hung between the fingers of one big hand, which made the oversized phone look like one of the old, small ones from ten years ago.

He put the phone on the bench as Jesse came in and turned to her. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look upset, either. “You’ve been busy.”

Jesse spread her feet. She realized she had settled into the ready position, weight on both feet. She made her hands hang at her sides, instead of putting them behind her back. She was on the alert. Veris tended to do that to her.

“Not something I planned.” She just barely held back the “sir” that tried to follow.

Veris considered her. “Coaxing the world’s media to your door? It’s not your style.” His tone was one of agreement. “But they’re here, now, which means you miscalculated, Captain.”

Jesse nodded. “I did. I forgot to add a privacy screen to the registration for the pen name domain.”

“Ah. I wondered where the leak had sprung,” Veris murmured. He crossed his arms. “Congratulations, by the way. You’re a best seller.”

Jesse grimaced.

Veris tilted his head. His very blue eyes considered her even more closely. “No?”

Jesse sighed. “I just wanted to put the story out there so a few people might read it. That’s all. This, all this fuss, it’s not what I wanted. Not for this book, at least. It was just a throw-away story.”

“You said it wrote itself.”

“It did. But if I wanted this at all, it would be for one of the books with my real name on it. Why did it have to be this one, of all of them?” She threw out her hand.

Veris’ mouth twitched. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Life can be contrary, in that way. It’s always the thing you don’t have your eye on that blows up on you. The possibility you didn’t think of is the one that happens.”

“That’s just it. I didn’t think it was even a possibility,” Jesse admitted. “I’m a midlist author writing genre fiction. I had no great expectations. If I’d wanted press gaggles hounding me, I would have become an actor.”

“You?” Veris did laugh, this time. A low chuckle. “You didn’t even turn up for your own award ceremony. You flew up here from Washington to tell Aran you weren’t wearing a red shirt.”

Jesse drew in a breath as she remembered that day. She had put on her dress uniform, her arm still in a sling, with every intention of heading to the Armistice Day celebrations in Washington, where she was due to receive a medal she’d earned. Instead, she had headed for the airport and the first flight to Boston.

She had stood before the front door of this house after ringing the bell. The smell of burning leaves had been thick in the air, along with salt from the ocean, and the cry of a distant seagull.

Aran had opened the door. He had appeared to be much younger then than how he looked now. Much more than the few years that had actually passed. Even then, his eyes had caught her attention. The life in them. The intelligence. And the hint of wisdom that belonged to a much older man. Even then, he’d felt older than her.

Jesse made herself breathe steadily as that moment came zinging back with unusual clarity. Veris would spot her spiking heartbeat. Would smell the adrenaline.

He examined her with the intense concentration of a hunter watching its prey and Jesse suspected he’d seen all that and much more. Yet he said with a mild tone, “I can already guess what your answer will be, but I still have to ask, Jesse. Do you want to go down there and talk to them?” He moved his head to indicate the window and the journalists at the end of the drive. “You could give them the quotes they want, the footage that will make their editors happy, and acknowledge you’re Jerry Hale. Step out into the public limelight.”

“Or…?” Jesse breathed, pressing the side of her fist against her belly as it swirled.

“Or don’t. Let the story die for lack of oxygen.” He shrugged. “They’ll soon figure out that Brody Gallagher lives here, too, and they’ll dig up the old stories about his band and that’ll add to the speculation, but if you don’t give them anything, all they can do is make guesses. They’ll find someone else who does want the limelight, and move on.”

“That one,” Jesse said quickly, relief trickling through her. “That’s what I want.”

Veris relaxed. It wasn’t obvious. He didn’t telegraph it with slumping shoulders like civilians often did. He had more military training from more military organizations than she did, which was why she often felt like she was reporting to a senior officer. He was good at hiding his reactions. But Jesse’s senses were all on high alert, because it was Veris she was talking to. She felt him lower an internal guard.

Puzzled, she said, “You really thought I might say I wanted all this?”

Veris weighed his answer. “You became a writer for a reason.”

“To tell the world the truth about war and violence, in a way that wouldn’t get me court-martialed,” she replied. “I’m not in it for the fame.”

Veris smiled. It was one of his small, intense smiles, that Jesse had come to realize was the expression he used with those he trusted the most. He used the bright, large, dazzling smile for strangers. “Brody told me something similar once.”

That jolted her. “You asked him the same thing?”

“Just before he started the band,” Veris replied.

“He said he was in it for the music,” Jesse concluded. Wasn’t that just another version of what Aran had said about his piano-playing? He did it because he liked it, not to be a “success” in the eyes of the world. “Why did you want to know that?” she added, for Veris had made a point of asking her the same thing.

Veris glanced at the window, as if he was glancing at the media gaggle, but he couldn’t possibly see them from over here. “When you pass through time the way we do, drawing attention to oneself can be dangerous. Spotlights reveal the wrong things, make the wrong people ask the wrong questions. Becoming known to the power-holders in any age was hazardous. It always drew the wrong attention. It pulled enemies out of the woodwork, and those enemies would dig for weaknesses. For secrets.” He gave a tiny shrug with his massive shoulders. “Since the invention of the camera and records that capture images, it has grown increasingly more dangerous. Becoming a public figure and having our faces out there is something we’ve sought to avoid.”

Jesse crossed her arms. “That must have made Brody’s rock-star days interesting for you.”

Veris laughed. “That it did. The makeup and hair and attitude were enough to misdirect most people, although I’m not glad those days are gone.” He said it with a frank air. “We’ve spent the last two and a bit decades trying to drill this into our kids, Jesse.”

She jumped. A little. She held herself still and drew in a calming breath. “That fame is dangerous? It shows. Aran is allergic to the limelight.”

“He told you that?” Veris’ tone was casual. There was no interrogation in his voice.

“He didn’t have to,” Jesse said. “Do you have any doubts that if he’d chosen the front end of politics, he wouldn’t one day end up in the Whitehouse? Instead, he’s a lobbyist, where there’s zero glamour and all the cameras are pointed away from him.”

Veris studied her. “I know Aran can achieve anything he puts his mind to. He’s his father’s son. The other father, I mean.” He smiled. “The one whose blood he shares, along with Taylor’s…and it shows.”

His pride in Aran shone in his eyes, just for that one little moment, stealing Jesse’s breath. She knew Veris had lowered the guard enough to let her see it and she was dazzled as well as breathless. She was also warmed by his revelation.

Then the thought struck her and she pressed her fingers to her temple. “That’s why you brought me up here, isn’t it? You thought that if I wanted the…the fame, then you had to warn me.” She dropped her hand. “Me,” she repeated. “You think it’s dangerous for me to become well-known, too.”

Veris crossed his arms, but it was just a relaxed thing to do with his arms. There wasn’t the usual defensiveness in the pose. “You’re part of this family, Jesse. You’ve been touched by time and with each passing year, you’re becoming more entwined in it. For now, you’re human and have a human life that is documented and withstands scrutiny. A little of it, at least. Somewhere in the future, that will no longer be the case and then, notoriety will become a deadly enemy to you.”

Jesse held still, even though her heart abruptly began to race, again. “You know what is in my future?” she breathed.

“I can see the shape of it,” Veris said, his tone gentle. “Not the details, but the direction.” His gaze was steady.

He knew about Aran and her. Something in what she’d said, a wrong note, or maybe Aran’s scent clung to her…something had given her away.

Jesse cleared her throat. “I wish I was as certain as you,” she whispered.

Veris stood. “Nothing is ever that certain,” he replied. “Except, perhaps, your hunger.”

Her belly grumbled.

“There. See?” He raised a brow.

Jesse put her hand to her belly. She couldn’t help the weak laugh that escaped her. “It’s been a very long day so far,” she admitted.

“I’m sure,” Veris said, which was unusually diplomatic of him. “If you’re certain you don’t want to court the hellhounds out there, then we should head back to Canmore.”

“I shouldn’t impose.”

“The media are imposing. You’re invited. Speaking of which…” He lifted the phone. “You go ahead. I need to let the Chief know we have no intention of speaking to the media and he can discourage them all he wants.”

He turned back to the window.

Jesse made her way back down to the sunroom in the middle of the house, wondering what Aran and Taylor were talking about. Was it as unsettling, as oddly comforting, as her conversation with Veris?

Chapter Fourteen

Aran watched Jesse climb the stairs up to the suite of rooms over the garage. He could read her reluctance in the tautness of her shoulders and the steady pace of her steps.

“Move away from the fireplace, Aran,” his mother told him. “I’m not expecting anyone, but jumpers rarely call ahead.”

Aran stepped closer to the sofa, as Taylor settled on the far end of it and put the mail she had been holding on the central cushion. She settled back in the corner, looking relaxed and casually chic, which Aran found a discomforting thought to have about his mother.

Only she didn’t feel like “Mom”. Not anymore. The last time he’d been in the room with her, which was, shit, over a year ago… He paused to absorb the fact. It added an extra dollop of guilt to the pile already steaming in his gut. Aran perched on the opposite arm of the sofa to the end where Taylor sat and considered her.

Why had she hugged Jesse and not him?

Why did that bother him so much? He’d stayed away, yes. But he hadn’t ghosted anyone. He’d stayed in contact. Called and texted. Not regularly, it was true, but…

It really had been over a year since he’d seen the family. He came back to that sad fact with a jolt.

And somewhere in between the last Thanksgiving he’d attended and today, he’d stopped thinking of the woman sitting at the end of the sofa as his mother. She was Taylor in appearance and in his mind, the woman who had captured the love and devotion of two of the oldest vampires still marching the earth, men who’d survived innumerable dangers, wars and disasters, who refused to suffer fools and who had belonged to no one but themselves until shortly before Aran had been born…

He loved all three of them but had no illusions about his fathers. They were shaggy old wisdom bound in eternal, deceptively youthful flesh. That was probably why they raised his hackles within minutes, no matter what the conversation.

Aran always felt completely inadequate, talking to his fathers. His mother, though, never seemed to judge him, no matter what.

Yet she was studying him now, and not smiling. “We missed you at the solstice dinner.”

“I thought you were a historian and good at keeping records? I’ve missed more than one. Thanksgivings, too.”

“Yes, but I thought I’d ease into that.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“To be in the same room with us?” Her tone was cool.

“Something like that.”

Taylor’s gaze didn’t waver. Then, suddenly, she smiled. “Did I ever tell you how small Veris and Brody made me feel, when I first got to know them?”

Aran could feel his jaw loosening. “You?”

Taylor nodded. “It’s all that history behind them. It oozes from their pores when they speak and react to anything. You can almost smell it. And there was I, a history professor, who knew nothing compared to their first-hand experiences.”

Aran rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, it’s something like that.” In fact, he thought Taylor had come closer to putting her thumb precisely on what unsettled him the most when he was around his parents, for Taylor gave off dazzling wattage of her own. “I got tired of feeling humble and stupid,” he added.

Taylor considered that with a small nod of her head. “You know that feeling is purely in your own head, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t stop me feeling it.”

“But it does stop you from coming home…” she concluded with an unhappy little sigh.

Aran shifted uneasily on the sofa arm. “Well, I’m home now.”

“Not quite,” Taylor pointed out. “Although Veris will ask you to come back to Canada with us. You should say yes.”

“I should?” He could feel the resistance building in him.

“Jesse will want to visit, and it will cut down on my return jumps there and back.”

“Jesse visits a lot.”

“She doesn’t mind feeling humble,” Taylor said, with a small smile. “Her tolerance comes from her military training and having superiors telling her how high to jump, I suspect. And she likes listening to stories, which endears her in Veris’ and Brody’s eyes.”

“Now you’re just rubbing the guilt in,” Aran growled.

She looked surprised. “I’m not, actually. Not intentionally, at least. Jesse is family, Aran.”

The knowledge was clear in his mind that Taylor was in some way trying to warn him. She was referring to the fact that she had found them in the same location on the timescape. Had she extrapolated from there? Did she suspect that they were…whatever they were?

And Aran was back to the knotty problem which had been gnawing at his middle for weeks. It reared its head way too often, lately. Every time he looked at Jesse, it hovered in the back of his mind.

What was she really thinking? She had always been completely and utterly independent, to the point where even sharing her thoughts was unnecessary, in her eyes.

How would this sudden public fuss impact her? Would she finally lose interest in anything but her writing? Aran had been braced for her to move on. Was this what would end it?

Whatever “it” was.

He’d grown adept at choking out any hint of hope in his thoughts. He starved his imagination and just…waited. “Jesse will hate all the media attention.”

“Jesse knows how to handle herself. She might yet surprise us all,” Taylor replied.

Aran frowned. “You all seem to think she’s made of titanium.”

“And you know differently?” Taylor asked softly.

Aran looked away. He’d revealed too much. If he answered her, it would pull him into a conversation he did not want to have. Not yet. Not while fear still lived on his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

Taylor added; “Jesse will need us now.”

“Relax,” Aran shot back. “I’ll bring her back to Canada for you.”

Taylor smiled. “Thank you.” She picked up the mail. “I think there’s a few letters in here for you, too. Did I tell you about the last Thanksgiving and the salmon Kit brought to the house?”

“Kit MacDonald?” Aran clarified. “He’s a visitor now, too?”

“Not the way Jesse is,” Taylor replied. She tossed two envelopes onto the far cushion. Both bore his name. “He does find some highly inventive reasons for popping by suddenly. Usually when Alannah is visiting, although I’m still not sure how he learns she is there.” Her smile was full of mischief.

Kit McDonald and Alannah. Aran let that idea hang in his mind as he reached for the letters. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Although it wasn’t up to him, anyway. Alannah had been born knowing how to make up her own mind about what she wanted and how to get it, too. Which meant she also knew how to avoid what she didn’t want.

Taylor told him about the stupefyingly large salmon Kit had left on the front verandah for Thanksgiving, which had given Taylor headaches trying to fillet and store it for a household of people who didn’t eat food. She went on to describe the solstice feast they’d held last year and the arm-wrestling competition between Neven, Alexander, Rafe and Remi, to decide who would hold this year’s solstice feast.

Aran realized he had sunk onto the cushions when he leaned back against the arm of the sofa with a small smile at the mental image of four vampires caught up in an ancient display of machismo.

He realized with a start that he was actually looking forward to the jump back to Alberta and seeing everyone again.

That was when Jesse reappeared, climbing down the steps with a distant look on her face. What had Veris told her to make her look that way?

“Are you heading out to speak to the media?” Aran asked her, wondering why his heart was thudding so hard. The effort it took to ask that question!

Jesse looked at him, startled. “God, no,” she breathed and shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Something loosened in his middle. Aran didn’t linger to ask himself what it was that had just sighed in relief. He got to his feet, too uneasy to remain seated.

Taylor rose, too. “I’m going to tour around the house and make sure everything is still screwed down tight. Then I’ll bring Veris back. You two should go ahead.” She looked at Jesse. “You’ll stay for dinner, yes?”

Jesse smiled. “That depends. Who is cooking?”

“Rafe, I suspect,” Taylor said. “He’s probably already going through the contents of the kitchen and building a shopping list.”

“In that case, yes,” Jesse said. “I’d love to stay.”

Aran smiled. Rafe’s cooking was vastly superior to anyone else’s, including the humans in the family. He even baked and his croissants nearly rivalled Bertrand’s.

The pleasant remembrance let Aran squash down the hard knot in his middle and momentarily extinguish it, enough to let him put his arms around Jesse and steal the small pleasure while he jumped her to Canmore.

When Jesse climbed up the open stairs to the hidden door on the main level of the big house, she learned that everyone was there, just as Brody had said they would be. The house was stuffed full of people, once more, although the humans among them were mostly sleeping, for it was the middle of the night for Europe.

No one instantly pulled Jesse aside and demanded to know what the hell she had been doing to make the global press corps come after her. No one said congratulations about the ranking book. Even when Veris returned, he didn’t immediately call a family meeting around the big dining table to deconstruct what had happened and make plans to deal with it.

In fact, Jesse wasn’t even sure everyone did know about the book, or why Brody had yanked them over to the Canadian Rockies. This family was incredibly non-inquisitive about others’ concerns. They may be curious, but they wouldn’t ask.

So why were they here if not to critique her affairs?

Jesse finally relaxed half-way through dinner, when she realized that the evening was merely one of the impromptu gatherings that seemed to happen occasionally. The occasion was made all the louder and happier because Aran was at the table, too—something that hadn’t happened in more than a year.

Unlike previous years, though, Aran didn’t sit off to one side and brood—and no one could brood like Aran could, when he was of a mind to, which had always seemed to be his preferred mode when he was here. Tonight, though, it seemed to Jesse that he had started in that frame of mind, then, suddenly, he wasn’t.

She first noticed the change when Brody had been talking about the recent mayoral election in the town and the fuss about the First Nations candidate who had lost the election by a small margin.

“There was the usual call for a recount and claims of ballot miscounting,” Brody added. “But not by Peter Chiniquay or his staff, which was interesting.”

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t behind the call for the recount,” Aran said.

Everyone looked at him, including Jesse, for it was the first time he had spoken since the meal had begun

Brody’s mouth turned up at one corner. “I don’t think it was a stooge for Chiniquay, either. The man shouting the loudest for a recount is the owner of the local Safeway. He’s white, middle-aged and conservative.”

Aran shook his head. “You’re blinded by Chiniquay being Sioux—”

“They’re the Stoney tribe, here,” Veris added. “Nakoda people.”

“Okay,” Aran said easily. “Stoney-Nakoda band, then. It doesn’t matter, is what I’m saying. You’re looking at the color of his skin and basing your assumptions about the power streams on that.” Aran said back with a small smile. “Which means Chiniquay is smarter than most people think.”

Sydney leaned forward so she could see Aran at the end of the table. “Chiniquay has the local businessmen in his pocket?” Sydney was a politician of a different type, but understood power, all the same.

Aran nodded. “They’re pissed about missing out on whatever he promised them. That’s why the Safeway owner is shouting. He wants the deal Chiniquay dangled.” He paused. “If Chiniquay has the businessmen and all their influence, in a town this small, then I have to ask why he lost the election. Maybe there is a need to recount.”

“Interesting you should say that,” Taylor said. “I was talking to the librarian in town yesterday. Betty is on the town council, too. She said there was enough evidence of possible tampering that they were seriously considering calling for a second election.”

Aran sat back and picked up his wine glass. “There you are, then.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Brody added.

“Watson will send you my bill,” Aran replied.

A small chuckle ran around the table.

“There’s two doctors at the table,” Alexander pointed out. “Which one did you have in mind?”

Aran swirled the wine in the bottom of his glass. “Actually, there’s three, if you’re counting the degrees properly.”

“Thank you,” Taylor said, with a broad smile. She blew Aran a kiss.

Alexander inclined his head toward her. “Although you will forgive me if I never ask you to lance a boil.”

“Ugh.” Sydney shook her head. “Criminology is a cakewalk, compared to family medicine.”

“Although I think Aran was proposing that his Watson merely write an invoice,” Veris said.

“A fully-fledged medical doctor writing invoices?” London said, and laughed.

Aran smiled. “It’s called credential inflation. Next year, all the professors will become janitors. So get your scrub brush out, Far.”

Everyone laughed even more loudly this time, while Veris tried to look affronted.

“Before you take away his merit badges, let me move, first,” Taylor said.

“Away from the table?” London asked.

“Away from the world…and maybe the universe.”

The meal continued on in that vein, with moments of laughter, most of them supplied by Aran.

Taylor seemed to glow with happiness whenever she glanced at her son, which she did frequently.

Jesse sighed to herself. Why had Aran stayed away so long?

Even though the meal was quickly finished, everyone lingered at the table for the rest of the evening. As it was the early hours of the morning in Greenwich time, Jesse found herself drooping. She didn’t understand how Aran could look so fresh and energetic, for he was working with the same jet lag, but he was clearly enjoying himself.

When Taylor lifted her to her feet and drew her away from the table, Jesse realized she had actually nodded off. “Sorry,” Jesse mumbled. “It’s been a really long day.”

“Which bed do you want, Jesse?” Taylor asked softly, as she led her into the front room.

“Window seat, please,” Jesse said quickly. She loved sleeping on the window seat, where she could look out upon the mountains and the clear air and stars above them. And she didn’t mind the hardness of the seat beneath the cushions. It wasn’t any more rigid than some of the planks she had slept upon during missions, or solid ground, which she had dozed upon more than once.

Taylor steered her over to the window seat, rearranged cushions and patted the long cushions on the seat itself.

Jesse curled up on the seat as Taylor dropped the blanket that usually laid over the back of the sofa in front of the fireplace over her. Jesse drew the blanket in around her.

“Warm enough?” Taylor murmured.

“Mmm.” She could feel sleep pulling over her once more. This was the sort of exhaustion that couldn’t be denied. Her body was going to make her sleep, no matter what her brain thought about it.

She heard Aran’s voice from the dining room as her eyes closed.

When she next woke, it was still dark outside, and the lights in the dining room had been lowered. She heard Veris’ voice, and then Sydney’s, too low to make out the words.

“It doesn’t matter if she is a jumper or not,” Neven added, his voice a little louder. “Time has singled her out for some reason. Maybe she has a jumper’s DNA to pass on. No one knows, Veris. You can’t make assumptions.”

And that was when Jesse realized that everyone had gathered here tonight to deconstruct her life, after all.

Chapter Fifteen

Jesse stirred and got to her feet. She instantly shivered as the cooler air in the room replaced the toasty blanket. She picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders once more and moved back into the dining room.

She was surprised to find that the three—Veris, Sydney and Neven—were the only ones at the table. The table had been cleared of dishes and the lights turned down to leave twin puddles of yellow light gleaming onto the varnished wood at either end of the table.

Sydney had moved up to where Veris had been sitting. So had Neven and they were speaking with their heads together.

They looked up as Jesse moved into the room. None of them jumped or looked awkward, though.

Sydney pulled out the chair next to her. “You’re on a different time zone, I guess.” She patted the chair.

“Mmm…” Jesse sat in the chair. “I think hearing my name woke me.”

Only Neven shifted his expression. He smiled. “You aren’t the subject under discussion,” he told her easily. “Just the object lesson that got us onto the subject in the first place.”

“You’re talking about time again.”

“Always,” Sydney said. “It defines our lives. Haven’t you noticed?”

“It has made some changes to mine, lately,” Jesse admitted.

Neven glanced at Veris. “There. She’s wrapped up in time as much as any of us. Point. Set. Match.”

Veris shook his head. “Not without details. Care to share, Jesse?”

Jesse drew in a quick breath, waking up properly. “Um…no, not really.” And she watched Veris, waiting to see if he would grow angry with her lack of cooperation.

Veris just smiled. It was the small, warm one.

Sydney gave a soft laugh. “That’ll teach you,” she told Veris.

Veris ruffled a hand through his hair and looked at Sydney. “Neither of you has proved the point to my satisfaction, yet.”

“We don’t have to,” Sydney said, her tone calm. Too calm. It sounded as though Sydney had made that statement more than once already. “Send a letter to Nayara. Have her jump back here and confirm it.”

“Confirm what?” Jesse asked, puzzled.

“That we’re the only natural jumpers anywhere in time,” Sydney said.

“Really?” Jesse breathed, astonished. “There isn’t more of you in parallel worlds?”

“There would be, if our other selves didn’t get themselves killed off,” Neven said. “But that’s not the real point,” he added, with a tone that said he was also circling back to a previous point. “The point is that we are here for a reason—”

“You want it to be for a reason,” Veris said. “It was a wild mingling of genes that produced jumpers, that’s all. A one in a quadrillion chance. Which is why there are no others.”

“You know that for certain?” Jesse asked curiously.

“We’ve been charting other timelines for years, now,” Sydney said. “We’ve never come across other jumpers in those worlds or heard rumors of them. The timescape is bare of others when I cross it. The only time I’ve ever felt anyone in the timescape, it’s been one of us.”

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t any,” Neven added. “I don’t care how unusual the DNA mix had to be to produce me, or Sydney or any of us. It can’t be unique. It can’t be that rare. There are…” He paused, and Jesse could see he was counting silently. “Seven jumpers in this family alone, and that’s who we know about. We’re still waiting to see if Liberty or ours have any abilities at all.”

“You’re trying to make something significant out of a simple passing on of genes,” Veris rumbled. His arms were crossed, but he didn’t look upset. He merely looked amused. Interested, too. This was engaging his mind. Challenging him.

Jesse knew he would appear much different when facing an enemy. She never wanted to be in the position to find out, either.

Neven shook his head. “We call ourselves family, Veris, but there’s no genetic connection between us. Sydney and I have no blood connection to Taylor or each other. Neither does London. If jumpers are so rare, then how do you explain that three separate sets of jumpers happened to find each other in this time and place? That’s a coincidence too large to be chance.”

Veris shook his head. “We’re a one-time deal, Neven. I know that doesn’t please you, but if we were not the only ones, Nayara and her people wouldn’t be back here every second week, checking in on us. They want to make sure we survive to their time.”

“For reasons unknown to us,” Sydney added, her tone dark.

“That’s a different conversation,” Veris said shortly.

“Aren’t you thinking two dimensionally?” Jesse asked.

Everyone looked at her, their brows lifting.

“Excuse me?” Neven said, but his dark eyes were dancing. “You’re accusing Veris of channeled thinking?”

Jesse swallowed. “I suppose, if you put it that way, I must be.”

Sydney snuffled back laughter. “You’d better explain yourself before Veris explodes.”

Veris didn’t look upset, though. Well, not much. His stare was intense, but she didn’t think—she hoped, anyway—that there was no anger in it.

“It was something I was researching,” Jesse said. “For a book,” she added awkwardly, for the research had been for the alternative history book that was the cause of everyone sitting here now and arguing about time. Again. “About the evolution of man and peak times in history. There was a time when he evolved enough to grasp tools and figure out how to use them to his advantage, which let him thrive. There was a time when man had evolved enough to sort out agriculture and get along well enough with others to build communities to protect the farmers while they grew food.”

Veris nodded. “Another was when man lived long enough to have three generations alive at the same time. The grandparents could pass along survival tips, which vastly accelerated the pace of adaptions.”

Jesse hesitated.

“That means ‘go on, you have my attention’,” Sydney interpreted.

Jesse finished up. “What if this time here and now is another peak? Maybe the DNA has always been there, but only now, has man evolved to the point where he can use time. That’s why the jumpers have emerged—because now they appreciate time and have the mental development required to use it.”

Veris stared at her. Neven grinned.

Jesse let out a rough breath. Veris’ gaze was intimidating, even when he was relaxed.

Then he stirred and scratched thoughtfully at his throat. “That’s a possible explanation for why the DNA just suddenly appeared,” he said. “It doesn’t explain where it goes, and why Nayara’s people are so interested in us.”

“And they’re not about to tell us,” Sydney added, in the same vexed tone.

Neven rested his hand on the table. “The fact is, somewhere in our future, natural jumpers no longer pop up. Does that mean the gene is recessive and expires through natural selection? It’s not like our kids can intermarry just to preserve the gene.”

“That’s a sobering thought,” Sydney said softly.

“It’s one of two possibilities,” Veris said. His voice was soft.

“What’s the other?” Neven asked.

Jesse could already see where Veris was going. She’d seen genocide, up close and personal. “The time jumpers are all destroyed before they can pass on their DNA,” she said.

Neven sat back. “Damn,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” Sydney said in heavy agreement.

A slight movement in the corner of her eye made Jesse look toward the door into the kitchen. Aran stood with his shoulder against it, his arms crossed. He was watching her, a smile at the corner of his mouth.

How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? Had he witnessed her arguing with his father?

Veris looked up, too. “You didn’t sleep long,” he told Aran.

Aran pushed himself away from the doorframe and moved into the dining room. “I was suddenly awake. I’m on British time, and it’s ten in the morning, there.”

“Greenwich time?” Neven said sharply.

Jesse could feel her cheeks heating, as Sydney glanced at her with a thoughtful expression.

Veris did not look at her. He got to his feet, instead, and patted Aran’s shoulder as he passed him. “You both need coffee, then. Sit. I’ll get the kettle going.”

“As long as you don’t actually make the coffee, Far,” Aran called out after him. He looked back at Neven and Sydney. “The sludge at the bottom of Athair’s old Lamborghini would taste better than what Far manages to make.”

“Give him a break,” Jesse shot back. “He wasn’t even human when coffee arrived in the western world.”

Sydney leaned toward Jesse. “If you don’t like his coffee, never ask him to make tea. You’ll live to regret it.”

“I heard that!” Veris called out softly from the kitchen as water ran.

“Good!” Sydney shot back.

“Maybe his coffee-making skills are the reason time jumpers disappeared,” Aran said judiciously, sitting at the table. “We all ran away.”

By the time the other humans in the house were awake and clamoring for food, Jesse realized that no one was going to quiz her about the book. No one was asking any impossible-to-answer questions about anything.

She learned, though, they had been thinking it through, when Brody drew her away from the breakfast table and into the front room, where her temporary bed under the window had scattered cushions onto the floor.

A man with short, dirty blond hair thickly touched with gray stood at the other window. He was only slightly taller than Jesse, but he was a rolling lump of muscle. Jesse sized him up with a glance. He wasn’t ex-military. He didn’t have the bearing. But he could be dangerous in a blunt object way. His fists could do real damage with that much muscle behind it.

He turned as they approached, and Jesse put his age at mid-forties or maybe a youthful fifty. There were deep creases at the corners of his hazel eyes and around his mouth. His skin might have been fair to match his hair, but sun had aged it and left it permanently tanned.

“Jesse, this is Andy,” Brody said.

Andy stuck out his hand and Jesse shook it. Yeah, there was packed-away power there, for sure, but that wasn’t all his grip told her. “Hello Andy,” she said. “Cool hand.”

Andy glanced at Brody, with a grin. “You called it.” He looked back at Jesse. “Yeah, I’m of the Blood now…but it’s new to me, so don’t judge me, ‘kay?”

Brody put his hand on Andy’s shoulder. “A long time ago, Andy helped Taylor out. Then we helped Andy. He was one of my band’s crew for years and he ended up helping us all over again. We’ve been trading favors for years. Andy is in personal security now.”

A bodyguard.

Jesse wrapped her arms around her middle. “You think I can’t look after myself?” Her voice came out too high. “I’m not going to engage with the sharks, Brody. I don’t need protection.”

But it was Andy who replied. “I’m guessing you haven’t had much practice dealing with the media, then. You might be able to look after yourself in normal circumstances…” His gaze flickered over her. “Military, yes?”

She nodded stiffly.

“You’re used to working among enemies who wear uniforms to declare they’re the enemy, who you can fire at to get ‘em out of the way. The media, though…that’s a different sort of enemy. You can’t wave your pistol to scatter them. You certainly can’t fire it and you can’t take ‘em out to clear your way. They’ll hound you day and night, if you don’t handle them just right and win them over with your charm. That’s why you leave all the manhandling to me.”

Jesse squeezed her middle even harder. “But I have no intention of dealing with them at all. I’m going to ignore them and go back to my life.”

“Forgive me, Jesse,” Andy said gently, “but you might not get a choice in that.”

“Andy has guarded some pretty big names, Jesse. He knows what he’s doing,” Brody added.

Unhappiness settled in her middle.

“Let her breathe while she can,” Veris said, from behind them.

Jesse glanced over her shoulder, startled. Veris stood only a few paces away, listening in. So did Alexander. And Aran.

This, then, was the moment she had been braced to face since Aran had jumped her here, yesterday afternoon.

Veris came up to them and rested his hand briefly on Andy’s shoulder. It was a greeting, she realized. “Jesse isn’t interested in being a public figure, Andy. Can you back off until she needs you?”

Jesse focused on his phrasing. He’d said “until”, not “if”. Her heart sank. “This really is going to happen?” Her voice was hoarse. “I’m going to get smeared across social media whether I like it or not?”

Andy gave her a sympathetic smile, that made it all the way to his eyes. “You might be one of the lucky ones that the press gives up on. Plenty of stars have pushed back and the media know to leave them alone. But you have to teach them and until they learn that about you, it could be…rough.” He grimaced.

Aran touched her elbow. Jesse knew it was his touch just from the heat alone. “Harper Lee was notoriously private, and the press left her alone. They’ll figure it out with you, too,” he murmured.

“Brody put up a wall, too,” Veris added softly. “It took a couple of years, but the press got it eventually.”

“A couple of years?” Jesse breathed, alarmed.

“Back off and take your foot out of your mouth, Far,” Aran said as Brody rolled his eyes.

Andy held up his hand. “It won’t take near that long for you, Jesse. Brody was a rock star and the media hounds them because they provide colorful copy. You’re just…well, forgive me, but you’re an introvert writer. Once the sensation about who you really are dies down because you’re not giving them anything else to write about, they’ll back off. And if they don’t, I’ll explain it to them, okay?”

Jesse looked into his eyes and relief touched her. She believed him. She trusted him. His experience showed in his calm demeanor and his happy disposition. He wasn’t stressed by this at all. He didn’t even look challenged. She had to be boring compared to the truly famous people he’d apparently worked with.

She was just a writer.

Jesse drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Okay.”

Andy nodded and took out a cellphone. “Give me your number.”

“I took out the SIM card,” Jesse said.

Andy lowered his phone. “You’ll have to change your number,” he said simply. “Then make sure that number is delisted, private and not on any databases anywhere.”

Jesse swallowed and nodded.

“Don’t go to the phone company to arrange that,” Andy added. “Get a friend to do it for you. Know someone you trust absolutely, with your money and your personal log ins?”

Jesse didn’t hesitate. She nodded and fought not to let her gaze shift to Aran.

“Get them to do it for you, at least until the initial heat blows away,” Andy continued. “Where are you living at the moment?”

Jesse’s throat closed over. “I…ah…”

“Take the house on the Vineyard, Jesse,” Veris said. “You can’t house-sit anymore.”

Jesse frowned. “I can’t do that.”

“That’s where the media are looking for her, ain’t they?” Andy said. “Probably not a good idea.”

“I can find somewhere myself,” Jesse said, trying to inject firmness into her voice.

“Let me know where it is, when you have that figured out,” Andy told her. He didn’t seem to be flummoxed by someone not having a permanent address. “And let me have your phone number, when you get one. This here is mine.” He pulled a card out of his casual suede jacket and held it out to her.

Jesse took it. Andy G. 310-555-9873. 24/7.

She looked up at him. He had these non-descriptive cards ready to go, which meant he used them. A lot. “Okay,” she said heavily.

Andy pointed at the card. “There’ll come a time when you need me. Don’t hesitate, ‘kay? Call. No matter where or when.” One eye almost closed in a nearly-not-there wink. “Thanks to these dudes, I can be there inside three minutes, no matter where you are. Which is why I can back off and let you walk around and breathe free air as long as the jackals let you.”

“Veris, what about the cottage in France?” Brody said.

“Or Tuscany,” Veris said thoughtfully.

“Okay, you two,” Aran said. He put his hand on their shoulders. “Let it go. Jesse can find a place to live all by herself.”

“Besides, those two places are probably back in time somewhere, right?” Andy added.

Brody scratched at the back of his head. “Yeah.”

“She’s gotta be in the here and now,” Andy said. “She’s gotta control this mess—as much as she can, so they get it good and proper. Once they’ve moved onto the next poor bastard, she can dive down any time hole she wants.”

“You know about…?” Jesse said delicately.

Andy rolled his eyes. “They left me guessing for fucking years. ‘scuse my French.”

“He figured it out, anyway,” Brody said.

“Guess you’re one of the not-stupid,” Jesse murmured, for Brody and Veris and their family and friends didn’t tolerate deliberate stupidity or laziness of thought.

Andy blinked. Then he laughed. “Hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Enough,” Aran said firmly. “Jesse has been drinking Far’s coffee and eating Sydney’s cooking. I’m going to take her to Paris for a decent breakfast and good sludge. Then she’ll find somewhere to live. Then you can regale her with days-gone-by. Out of the way.” He pushed between Veris’ and Brody’s shoulders and moved over to Jesse. “If that’s okay with you?” he added softly.

She nodded, relief touching her. “I’ll get my coat.”

Chapter Sixteen

It was almost a relief to arrive in Paris and sniff the mild warmth of February. There was no snow, just the stirring of air that smelled slightly moldy because of the dead leaves the melting snow had uncovered.

They were in the usual lane. Jesse followed Aran wordlessly onto the sidewalk and up to the café, where the smell of fresh bread was still strong despite it being past midday.

Bertrand was not behind the counter, today. The woman with the neat apron with her hair pinned up in a messy bun preened at Aran as they chatted in very fast French that Jesse could barely follow.

It left her to her own thoughts, which swirled unhappily. It was only now she was away from the big house that she remembered the last words she and Aran had exchanged, before the shit had hit the fan and they’d jumped to Canada.

They had not been happy words.

Instead of settling at the little table they had used before, Aran picked up the brown paper bag and the two paper cups of coffee and led her outside and across the street. There was a park there, small and almost deserted, with brown grass and patches of mud where the snow had been churned by passing feet. The pathways running across the park at different angles were all mud-smeared and tracked with footprints.

A deserted bench hunched just inside the border of the park. They settled there. Aran handed her one of the coffee cups and opened the bag.

Jesse knew she couldn’t eat a thing. She sipped the coffee, her heart running too hard for sitting still.

Aran held out one of the croissants to her. She took it automatically, tore off the end and ate it before she realized what she was doing. The taste of the croissant made her mouth flood and she quickly ate the rest of it, then licked her fingers and went back to sipping her coffee.

The food helped. A bit.

Aran crumpled the bag in his fist, his coffee in the other hand. He was staring into middle-distance.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Jesse said.

He shook his head.

She held her jaws together and went back to sipping coffee, even though now it was tasteless.

“Where do you want to live, Jesse?”

Her heart squeezed. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully.

“No bucket list cities?”

“I’ve been virtually living at your place,” Jesse pointed out. “The Cotswold were on my list.” Which was true. The pretty, dainty lanes and rose-covered cottages were one-hundred-and-eighty degrees away from every base she had ever lived on.

Aran grew still. “Are you saying you want to stay on there?” His voice was emotionless.

Caution flooded her. “I wouldn’t presume to think that is an option,” she said quickly. “I’m just…I don’t know! You just handed me the entire fucking world, Aran, and said ‘pick!’ How am I supposed to do that?”

“Pins work, I’m told.” His tone was flat.

“Ha ha.” She relaxed her grip on the coffee cup as the sides dented inward and threatened to slosh hot black juice on her ungloved hand.

“It doesn’t matter where you choose,” Aran said. “You can always change your mind, later. You live out of a duffel bag. Switching addresses won’t be an issue for you.”

“Why do I have to choose now? My whole life just got inverted! I’ve got the private phone number of a bodyguard in my pocket, and the media beating down my door. Can’t I just draw a breath, first?”

Aran stood and tossed his undrunk coffee and the bag into the trashcan next to the tree and sat again, only this time, he turned to face her. His black eyes were shielded. She couldn’t guess any of his thoughts at all.

“Thank you for not telling them.” His voice was low.

She let out her breath, startled. That was not what she had thought he was about to say. “You didn’t want to go there for Christmas because of the hard questions they might ask.” She couldn’t meet his eye, though. Had he not seen that everyone had guessed? The shape of it, at least, as Veris had said.

They had all very carefully let Aran and her have their privacy. They had given Jesse back the thing that had been stripped away from her in the last twenty-four hours, and that which Aran had fought to preserve for himself inside the big, close family.

Aran rested his arm on the back of the bench and threaded his fingers together as he studied her. “What makes you think staying with me isn’t an option?”

Her breath escaped her in another hard rush. “It isn’t? I mean, it is?”

His gaze wouldn’t let her go. “You want breathing room, yes? Time to think about what happens next. So, stay with me some more. Transition time—that’s what you were doing, anyway, only this time won’t be for you to look for the next housesitting job. This time, it’s to figure out what you do next.”

Jesse pressed her lips together. “I don’t feel as though I should.”

Aran sat back. “Why not?”

“You were upset about me not telling you about the book.”

He shook his head. “Peeved, maybe. But I know why you didn’t tell me. I even know why you told Veris and Brody—they’re implacable when they’re joined at the hip.” He paused. “Stay with me and let’s both figure out what happens next.”

Jesse got up and tossed her coffee, too. She’d lost all desire to finish it. “I’m glad you know why I didn’t tell you,” she muttered, sitting down again. “I’d forgotten. About you losing your job. It seems like such a long time ago, now.”

He nodded. “I have a human life I have to go through the motions of living, so that the correct documentation is archived and no one asks the wrong questions.”

“Like having the fake address in Georgetown?”

“Exactly like that. I didn’t say anything back at the house, but mine would be the perfect set up for you right now, Jesse. A public address with a closed front door the media can pummel on all they like, and a private life a long way from there.”

“Only, Andy said I need to…to shape their expectations.”

“He meant by ignoring them. Moving through them with your nose up in the air and ‘no-commenting’ them to death.”

“But that would mean…” Her skin prickled. “I would be completely reliant upon you to jump me back and forth.”

His face didn’t shift. His gaze remained steady. “I don’t mind.”

“But I do!” she cried. “I can’t ask you to do that. To be some sort of…of family car!” She thumped her fist on her knee. “Oh, how I wish I could jump, like you!”

Aran picked up her wrist and eased her fingers open. “No, you don’t. Not really. It’s not a gift, Jesse. You know that. Shh…” He massaged her palm with his thumb. His gaze met hers once more, while little shockwaves ran along her arm and made her nerves fizz. “You like my idea though.”

“Yes,” she admitted dully. Then it burst from her, taking even her by surprise. “I hate all that fame stuff, Aran. I really, really hate it. People staring at me, at my image online, even. It gives me the creeps.”

He nodded. “The public arena is a dangerous place for all of us.”

“That’s your father talking.”

He didn’t ask which one. Brody would have said the same thing, too. Jesse knew that with utter certainty.

“It’s me saying it, too,” Aran said quietly. There was something in his eyes. His face. His jaw worked.

Jesse turned to study him closely. “Something happened…” she breathed. Then it clicked. “New Orleans. That’s why you went back there and got comprehensively drunk, isn’t it?”

His gaze shifted from her. He looked down at the muddy ground around their feet. “I played with fire and got burned. Having facts put out into public…it can wound people. It destroys lives….” There was pain in his eyes.

Jesse caught his hand in hers. “Kyle…I can’t remember his last name. He was a journalist.” She let out a breath. “Journalists deal with public facts,” she added. “He was with you and then he wasn’t. What did he do to you, Aran?”

Aran’s gaze shifted to her and away. “If you ask Kyle, he’ll tell you I’m the one who handed out all the damage. Yet I’m the one who lost his job.”

Jesse cupped his jaw. “I’m sorry.”

Aran shook his head. A tiny movement. “I’m not. I needed the reminder.”

Jesse stared at him. Aran was talking about being exposed in public, about privacy and keeping secrets. Yet the pain in his eyes told a different story. Of broken trust and hurt and withdrawal behind a shell, so the world couldn’t reach him…

She didn’t realize she was going to kiss him until her mouth pressed against his.

The kiss was explosive, an expression of everything she couldn’t say, didn’t dare show in any way but this, when meaning was lost behind want and touch.

Aran drew her up against him, with a deep groan, which only made it better. It made her nerves sizzle. It made her want him even more. She lost track of where she was, their public location. She cared for nothing but his mouth against hers, and what his hands were doing to her.

He’d pushed them under her coat and slid them over her sweater, then under it. She shivered at his hot touch, then drew in a sharp breath as his hand cupped her breast and his fingers stroked her nipple.

Jesse tore her mouth from his. “Your place.” Her voice was hoarse.

“Yes.” So was his voice rough and low.

They got to their feet, while Aran tugged her sweater down and pulled her coat back into place. Then he gripped her hand and walked back to the lane in long strides. Jesse didn’t protest at having to break into a run every few steps to keep up with him. The faster the better.

In the lane, he drew her to him with another long, deep, slow kiss. Time enveloped them. Then released them.

Aran had brought them right to his bed again.

Jesse sighed and happily removed his clothes in between helping him strip hers away. He moved over the top of her as soon as she had finished with both. His cock was rigid, more than ready and he slid into her and it felt so…right.

They moved together, while the rest of the world and all their concerns fell away from them and left them free to wallow in the melding of minds and bodies.

Jesse cried out her pleasure as she climaxed, while Aran drove himself into her with hard thrusts, every tendon straining, until he came with a hard, heavy groan.

Afterwards, he pulled her up against him, while rain pattered against the window over their heads and the day turned to night. Jesse let herself be held because it meant she could delay making hard decisions just for a little longer.

She was nearly asleep when Aran spoke, his voice rumbling in his chest, which was just under her ear. “Stay here. Just for a while.”

Jesse sighed. “Okay.”

His arm tightened.

It had been the easiest decision in the world to make, because it was the equivalent of doing nothing.

Nothing changed.

Jesse wrote during the morning, while Aran did his mysterious things, and after lunch, she worked on administration.

Neither of them looked at news feeds. Neither of them suggested going anywhere outside the house. Jesse didn’t rush to replace her phone card. She didn’t want a working phone. Not right now. And as far as she knew, Aran had turned his off. She never heard it buzz.

They stayed in and streamed movies and TV shows or read. Or made love. Or cooked. Aran had groceries delivered, so they didn’t need to go out for food, either.

It was as if the whole best seller mess had blown away like the dandelion seed heads that were already growing in the garden. Spring was coming.

Three days slid by, while Jesse held her breath and said nothing that might destroy the fragile peace and silence.

On the third day, she came down the stairs after sprinting up them because she had waited too long to go to the bathroom. She was into the last twenty thousand words of the current novel, and that was always when she grew completely obsessed about the story, spending all day writing it, if she could. Breaking off from writing to do ordinary things like bathroom breaks, sleeping and eating she left until she absolutely had to.

At the third to last step from the bottom, she paused. From here, she could see the hearth end of the living room, and the wing chair Aran had turned so his back was to the fireplace and away from the sun shining through the front door, which shielded the screen of his tablet.

He did that nearly every morning he sat there to read.

He was still reading now. One hand held the tablet propped up on his knee, the other hand hung over the side of the armchair. His long legs were thrust out and his ankles crossed, which made them look even longer.

Such a beautiful man… The words whispered through her mind.

Jesse sank onto the step and hugged her knees, studying Aran. His dark, curly hair. The impossibly long black lashes over black eyes. His chin, dark with growth and the pale cheeks above the scruff.

His throat and the wide shoulders. The long lean lines that disguised a strength that always surprised her and humbled her.

I don’t want this to end, the same voice whispered.

Only, it would. Things always ended. Always. In blood and defeat, or in victory, they did end.

And this was not her place, anyway. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be stealing Aran’s attention the way she had been. He was made for greater things and better people than her…

Aran looked up from the tablet. He didn’t smile at her.

A chill touched her innards. Made her heart give a little thud. “Am I bothering you, sitting here?”

“I’ve seen you sit in the middle of the garden path in the rain while you thought out a scene, before now.”

“I was watching you.”

He didn’t ask why, the way she hoped he would, which didn’t ease the knot in her gut. “What’s wrong, Aran? I can tell something is.”

In answer, he sat up and put the tablet on the carpet beside the chair, the screen face up and his fingertips behind it. He shoved, and the tablet skidded across the floor toward her. It came to a halt a few paces from the stairs.

Her heart racing, Jesse moved down to the floor, bent and picked the tablet up.

Aran watched her silently.

She turned the tablet, then clicked her tongue with annoyance and tilted it so it would arrange itself the right way up.

The last three paragraphs of a book displayed. Jesse read the first line and could feel the color draining from her face. She knew the words. She knew the story. It was hers. It was the alternative history. Kiss Across Chaos.

She lowered the tablet. She could barely bring herself to look at him.

“I thought I would read it for myself,” Aran said. “Just to find out what the fuss was about. So I could understand why I should be proud of you.”

Jesse could feel the tablet sliding through her nerveless fingers. She moved over to the piano and put the tablet onto the bench. She chose her words carefully. “It’s just a silly little story. That’s why I put it out there under a pen name. It’s nothing like any other book I’ve ever written. I don’t understand why you’re upset about that.”

Aran launched himself from the chair and took two long steps toward her. “She’s mugged in an L.A. carpark and nearly dies! The hero saves her by changing timelines!”

Jesse stared at him, her heart galloping. She tried to claw together her thoughts in the face of his fury. “So?” It was a casual question, but her throat was so tight it came out in a little squeak.

He came closer, his eyes glittering. “An L.A. carpark? Why not a New York alley, Jesse? Why not make the character change history, instead of changing timelines.” He pointed at the tablet. “He’s me!”

She sank onto the piano bench beside the tablet, her legs trembling. Nausea gripped her. “My god…” she whispered. She put her hand out to prop herself up and notes jangled unmusically as the heel of her hand landed against the keys. She snatched her hand away and held it against her chest. The trembling was rising up through her middle, now.

Aran stood over her. “Are you honestly trying to pretend you didn’t know?”

Her lips wouldn’t cooperate. She had to fight to speak clearly. “I didn’t know. Not until right now. I don’t know why I didn’t see the parallels…” She looked up at him. “It’s not you. It’s not me. We’re not the people in the story. That’s why I didn’t see the similarities.” It hurt to talk.

Aran didn’t retreat by an inch. “Why do you keep calling it a silly little story? Why do you keep trying to minimize it, if it really means nothing to you?”

His anger was making it hard to think, but there was something there, something trying to make her pay attention, to notice it…

Then she had it. Jesse gasped. “You remember saving me! How is it you remember? You changed history. It should have wiped your memories. How do you know about it still?”

Aran did not move away from his dominating position over her. “Because I wrote it down, just like you did!”

She stared up at him, trying to understand. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to preserve the memory. Because it was important to me! Because you are important to me!” Finally, he spun and moved away from her.

Jesse felt both hot and cold. Her hands shook as she put them together and pressed them between her knees. “You…I…am important? What does that mean?”

He turned to her and flung out a hand. “What do you think it means? Do you know how long I’ve waited for you, Jesse? How long I’ve wanted you in my life? And now that—” He pointed at the tablet. “That tells me I shouldn’t have bothered. You are so independent, so fucking solitary, it never occurred to you that you were writing out a piece of your own history. You dumped the moment into a story and then you moved on.”

“But…” She was shaking. “But you were with Kyle…”

“You were married to your writing and your bohemian lifestyle,” he shot back. “And I was never with Kyle, and he knew it. That’s why he thought it was perfectly acceptable to hang me out to dry.” He paused. “Sex without even a modicum of feelings tends to piss people off.” His tone was drier than the Mohave.

Jesse jerked, stung. “That’s not what this is!” she cried.

“No?” His tone was withering. “Then why am I pissed off?”

She swallowed. “At least give me a moment to think this through. To figure it out. You just hit me with it.”

“You don’t need time,” he said, and his voice was suddenly soft. Dangerously so. “Not really. You figured it all out when you wrote the book.”

“Not the conscious part of my brain,” she whispered. If she had been aware of what she was doing, she wouldn’t have done it.

Would she?

Jesse shivered and clutched herself.

“Now this story is out there, selling hundreds of copies a day,” Aran added. Then he paused, groaned and shut his eyes. “Far has read it.” He gripped his temples.

“I don’t know if he has or not.” Her voice was without strength. “He said he wouldn’t tell me if he did.”

“Because you were embarrassed about the silly little story,” Aran finished, his tone flat and angry.

Jesse shuddered. There was nothing she could say to refute that. Only, why had she been embarrassed? Was it simply because it was such an odd story for her to have written?

She said the only thing she could say. “This isn’t what you think, Aran. I swear to you. I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t that. You have to believe me.”

“You make up stories for a living,” he said bitterly. “I want to believe you but…I just can’t.”

It hurt. But he’d meant it to hurt, because he was hurting.

Jesse nodded. She knew what to do with war wounds, at least. Slowly, she got to her feet and stood with a hand to the piano lid, until her balance was certain. She felt weak and hollow, like one of the reeds along the river’s edge, just outside the window.

Aran stood watching her, his chest rising and falling fast. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

“Away from here,” she said as calmly as she could. She thought about heading into the kitchen to pack up her writing gear, but she didn’t think she had the strength or the will to do that. She just wanted to get away. To think. To finally and properly think. “Would you mind taking me…” She frowned. “And this is the basic flaw between us, do you see? I can’t go anywhere unless you take me there, not when I’m in your life. I’m…”

“Dependent,” Aran finished softly.

She swallowed back the hard knot in her throat. Her eyes ached. “Could you take me to Canada?” For there was nowhere else for her to go, and at least there, she would be well out of reach of the media.

“Of course I’ll take you to Canada,” Aran said, his tone lifeless.

She glanced over at the front door and the hooks beside it. Her coat hung there, where Aran had put it, for she tended to drop the coat onto one of the chairs. It was only a few paces across the room, but might as well have been across the continent, for her.

Aran moved over and unhooked the coat and brought it back to her.

Jesse put it on, fumbling and getting her hair tangled in the collar, while Aran moved to the center of the room, where he preferred to jump from.

Jesse followed him slowly. The three steps were difficult, but she stood before him and realized, her heart aching, that she would have to touch him. She looked up at him, and her vision blurred as tears built.

“Don’t,” he breathed, his hands about her face.

“This isn’t how I thought the day would go,” she whispered.

He kissed her, a soft touch of his lips, and she felt the transition wash over her—a deep, endless blank nothing that she felt more than she saw. Then it was gone.

And she stood alone on a wide footpath with wires overhead and trams clanking by.

It was Canal Street of 1906.

Jesse spun on her heel and heard her skirt and petticoats swish. Where was Aran? Why were they here? What had gone wrong?

The smell of stale tobacco and garlic washed over her as fingers clamped around her arm. “Well, what have we here? The lady with the right hook…”

It was Stinky Aiolfi. The Barbieri family’s button man. The man she and Aran had ignominiously defeated in an alleyway.

Jesse tried to turn, to talk to him, but he yanked on her arm. “Nope. You’re coming with me, lady. My boss wants to have a word with you.”

Chapter Seventeen

Stinky yanked on Jesse’s arm, making her turn and come with him.

Where was Aran? The question pounded in her temples.

Jesse knew she could overcome this fat, squat little man easily, but then what? She needed Aran to jump back to their time. If he wasn’t here, then she was stranded. Only, he had to be somewhere.

If she shrugged off Stinky, where could she go?

She would have to overcome him in a way that didn’t draw public attention. She didn’t want to have to explain how a lady knew how to bring down a man. She couldn’t afford to be questioned by the authorities.

The questions built in her mind as Stinky pulled her along the sidewalk. Most of them she would have to answer in some way before she made any sort of move.

Her apartment!

Jesse almost gasped. The apartment she had been sitting when Aran saved her life… Was it possible the building had been built by now? She didn’t think so, but the address existed, at least. Even if it was a bare road with grass waving where the building stood in her time, it was a location. It was somewhere to head that Aran knew about.

She felt the same little jolt of shock she had felt when he said it the first time.

Because I wrote it down, just like you did. Because I wanted to preserve the memory.

How many times had she heard Taylor and Alex and the others talk about jumps that went wrong because someone was upset and focused upon the wrong memory, which skewed the direction of the jump?

Was that how they had ended up here? He had been more upset than he had shown—of course he had been. He was just like Brody. Silent and withdrawn when he was wounded.

Would he think to look for her at the apartment’s address? It was the only possible rendezvous she could think of that they had in common, here, that wasn’t thick with Italian crooks.

From somewhere very close, a handgun fired.

Jesse ducked and dived for cover without thinking. Then she came to a halt, half-crouched and dangling from Stinky’s grip.

He shook her. “Get up!”

“That was a gun!” she cried, injecting a hint of panic in her voice.

“We’re clearing out the bloody Irish, woman. Get up, I tell you.” He hauled, bringing her to her feet, and set off down the sidewalk once more.

The gang war. She had read about it. Late 1906, the Irish gangs and the Italian mob had clashed. Canal Street was the southern border of Little Italy—or it was in modern times.

Seven more gunshots fired before they reached Stinky’s destination, the last two so close together, the bellow deeper than the rest, that despite the distorting echo, Jesse knew someone had unloaded both barrels of a shotgun.

Few people lingered on the street, unlike the last time she had been here. They had decided that staying indoors was safest today. No wonder Stinky had latched on to her the moment he’d spotted her. She would have stood out. She could see no other women on the street.

The stoop Stinky stepped onto belonged to a white, three story building with symetrical windows, all with window boxes, on either side of the central front door.

A private house, she guessed. Even in 1906, it was a palatial residence.

Once they were in the foyer, she could act. No one would see her from out here. She could deal with Stinky and get herself free.

Stinky pulled the left side of the door open with his left hand. He held her with his right and pushed her through the half door.

Jesse stepped into the tiled foyer and halted, her heart sinking. Six men sat or stood about the foyer. Every single one of them jerked his hand toward or inside his jacket the moment she appeared. They all wore hard expressions, their eyes narrowed.

To the right of the foyer, through an elegant arch, two women in lovely tea dresses were sitting at a round table, a silver coffee pot between them and fine china cups in their hands.

They turned to examine Jesse, their brows raising.

Stinky removed his hat. “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Barbieri. Me and the lady need a word with your husband.”

Mrs. Barbieri was the older of the two. She didn’t seem upset by the armada of armed men in her foyer, or that Stinky was pulling Jesse about against her will. “Mr. Barbieri is in his study, Mr. Aiolfi.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Stinky nodded his head and pushed Jesse toward the stairs.

Upstairs. There’ll be a place I can act upstairs, Jesse told herself. Somewhere along the corridor, out of sight of these goons and their guns. Then she would have to figure out a way to get out of the building once more. There would be windows at the back of the building. She would worry about that in minute, though.

First, Stinky.

She used her right hand to lift her skirts and climb the stairs. Stinky was clearly not the most gifted of button men, for he held her with his dominant right hand, which left hers free. It was an advantage she would use, to his regret.

They turned about the post on the half-landing and moved up to the next floor and Jesse sighed in her head. There were more men up here. They lingered in the corridor, all perfectly dressed, with slicked down hair and stiff white collars, watching her with suspicious gazes. Some of their hands lingered up by their middles, a quick reach away from pulling their guns.

The cluster of armed men, their deployment through the house, reminded her of command posts in Afghanistan. If Barbieri and his family associates were ‘cleaning out the bloody Irish’, then this was a command post, too.

That meant there would be even more men inside the command office—in this case, Barbieri’s study.

Her options had dwindled to next to nothing. She adjusted her expectations down from that assessment to “nothing” because she wasn’t feeling suicidal, which the few moves she could make in this house would end up being.

All she could do was keep assessing and waiting for the moment she could act. It would arrive without warning. It would be up to her to properly identify it and capitalize upon the opportunity, to seize it and run. Literally, in this case. She didn’t need to disarm the enemy this time or leave them incapacitated. She just had to get away from them and head north to where the apartment would be in SoHo…or what might be the beginnings of SoHo, at least.

Jesse drew in a long, slow breath as they reached the top of the stairs and Stinky turned left. She let it out the same way, through barely parted lips, and repeated the breathing, drawing in calming oxygen, flooding her system with endorphins to counter the adrenaline, so that she could properly think, and could act when the moment arrived.

Stinky approached a double door at the end of the wide, carpeted corridor. A man standing right in front of it stepped aside, knocked on the door and pushed his head inside and spoke in quick Italian. A short reply came.

The man pushed both doors open and stood aside.

Stinky nodded at the guard and muttered in Italian, too. The guard grinned, his gaze moving over Jesse, a speculative gleam in his eyes.

He made it fourteen handguns outside the room that she would have to overcome or avoid on the way out.

They stepped into the room.

Three more in here, Jesse estimated, scanning the three men standing in front of a big desk. The desk was decorated with hand carvings. Angels and vines, trumpets and scrolls.

The man behind the desk lowered the newspaper he was reading and said something to Stinky. He was middle-aged, well dressed, with the same slicked, smooth hair. The hair at his temples was white. He had dark brown eyes that were small and mean.

“This is the one what I was telling choo about, Mr. Barbieri.” Stinky pushed Jesse forward.

Barbieri folded his newspaper with slow, deliberate movements and laid it precisely in front of him. He laced his fingers together and put his hands on the desk in front of the newspaper, before looking up at Jesse once more and examining her closely.

She almost smiled at the obvious intimidation tactic, only she was supposed to be a distressed housewife. She wasn’t interested in playing that role today, though. The need to leave this place and find Aran beat at her temples and made her heart run too hard, despite the calming techniques.

Don’t underestimate people from the past. Don’t disrespect them because they were born in an age that appears simpler than ours. That is a fallacy that could prove fatal. Veris’ voice whispered in her mind, even though he’d never spoken the words aloud. Jesse had read them in his time travelling handbook, when she had edited it. They came back to her now.

She shifted her feet, so her weight was evenly distributed and brought herself back to situational awareness, the mindset which would help her spot any anomalies, any weaknesses.

Her right hand was free, she was at full strength and had the element of surprise on her side. She just had to wait…

Barbieri’s eyes narrowed. “There is more to her than her appearance says. I begin to understand how she embarrassed you, Federigo.” His accent was mild.

Scratch the element of surprise. They knew she’d taken out Stinky. They wouldn’t underestimate her.

Through the closed and curtained window, another gun fired. It was close, this time, but Barbieri didn’t even twitch. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, making the leather squeak. “Do you like stories, Mrs. Gallagher?”

She held in her surprise that Barbieri knew her name in this time. The jeweler Aran had bought the diamonds from, Einaudi, was mobbed up—Aran had told her that. Einaudi got himself killed…or he would get himself killed, rather, because he had been shorting Barbieri’s take, or something like that. Barbieri’s men would use a riot as cover to burn down the building with Einaudi’s body inside.

Jesse nearly gasped. A riot. Could that be the same thing as a gang war?

Too many seconds had gone by while she puzzled things out. She said in a meek tone, “I like fairytales.”

Barbieri smiled, showing yellow teeth. “A fairytale like the one Federigo told me about how you and your husband bested one of my strongest men with your bare hands?” He held up a peremptory hand for silence, even though Jesse had not intended to speak. “Your husband has been buying diamonds from Signore Einaudi for some months now. Far too many of them, with merely a deposit to secure the transaction. The last time I attempted to settle that outstanding balance, you attacked my man.”

“He had a gun. What else was I supposed to do?”

She heard the men behind her shift. Even Stinky gawped at her. She’d used the clipped and to-the-point way of talking she had left behind with her battle fatigues.

While Barbieri stared at her, blinking, Jesse tried again. “You’re looking at the wrong person if you want to square away your books, Barbieri. You should be talking to Einaudi, not me. That’s where you’ll find the hole.”

She could feel the sudden snap of attention in the room. She’d surprised them. Good.

Barbieri shifted his attention to Stinky. “Is this true, Federigo?” His tone was mild. Too mild.

Stinky shifted on his feet. He shrugged, but the attempt to look unconcerned failed. Jesse could see his wariness building. “How would I know, Mr. Barbieri? I just do what you say. I take care of little matters for the jeweler when he needs them done.”

Like stealing back a pair of uncut diamonds after they’d been honestly sold.

Barbieri raised a beringed hand and smoothed it over his hair. She’d unsettled him.

Then Jesse realized what she had really done. She had raised Barbieri’s suspicion about Einaudi. It was she who had pushed Barbieri into taking care of the jeweler.

Sickness swirled in her gut. This was what Veris meant about time twisting back to bite at you.

Beyond the closed doors behind her, Jesse heard thudding and raised voices. The men in the room shifted again, their attention caught. The commotion was coming closer.

Barbieri spoke fast Italian. Two of the men pulled out their handguns and aimed at the door.

Now was not the moment to act, not when there were two weapons already out and ready to fire, even though everyone in the room had forgotten about her. Even Stinky’s grip on her arm had loosened.

Scuffling sounded just outside the door. The doors opened—burst open, really—and three men staggered into the room.

Aran was the man in the middle. His arms were hiked up high, in the hands of the two on either side of him. They’d split his lip and his chin was bloody.

The two dropped Aran on the carpet before Barbieri’s desk. One drew a gun and rested it against the back of Aran’s head.

Jesse drew in a hard breath, squashing down the flare of panic.

Barbieri was on his feet, but he clawed back his dignity and considered Aran while stroking his chin. “You are a difficult man to find, Mr. Gallagher. I have been anxious to speak to you for some time now.”

“I can’t say the same, Barbieri.” Aran’s voice was rough. He couldn’t raise his head because of the gun pushed against the back of it.

“Your wife has informed me of something that I was not aware of,” Barbieri continued, as if Aran had not spoken. “If you can confirm that it is true in a way that can be demonstrated, then I may be moved to consider the matter that lies between us as concluded. Do you understand?”

Aran didn’t move.

Barbieri snapped something in Italian and the man with the gun stepped back a half-pace, taking the gun off the back of Aran’s head and letting him lift his head, so he could look at Barbieri.

Aran straightened and put his hands on his worsted-covered thighs. The fingers were together. He looked Barbieri in the eye.

Jesse kept her gaze on Aran’s hands. Her heart rate elevated. The moment was coming.

“Tell me about the jeweler,” Barbieri demanded of Aran. “Is it true that he has been stealing from me?”

Aran considered Barbieri. He showed zero surprise. No fear or wariness was in his face or body language. He might have been sitting across the dining table from the mobster, instead of being on his knees with a gun to his head. “Stealing?” He gave a soft laugh. “Einaudi has been skimming from you in so many different ways, a prostitute would blush because she didn’t think of it herself.” And the three outer fingers of his right hand shifted away from the forefinger and thumb.

Jesse wanted to roll her eyes. Three of them? There were five men in the room, plus Barbieri, and she was the one no one was watching. It should be four and two, with her taking the four, including Barbieri. She wasn’t in a position to argue, though. Aran couldn’t look at her, so he had to call the shots.

Barbieri’s face turned red. He didn’t wave his hands or scream, or bite his knuckles, the way they did in the movies. He just buttoned his jacket with slow, deliberate movements. “How can I establish that this is true, Mr. Gallagher?”

Jesse shifted her feet, centering her weight. Preparing.

Aran’s jaw worked. Then he leaned forward and spat a wad of blood upon the carpet in front of the desk. He straightened up once more. “There’s two sets of books,” he told Barbieri. “He keeps the real set inside the potted plant on the table where he deals with customers. The round table at the back.”

The one where she had drunk tea.

“The plant lifts out,” Aran continued. “The journals are underneath the false bottom. I found them one day, while he was in the back. I knocked my knuckle against the bottom of the pot and it sounded hollow, which made me look closer.” He shrugged.

Jesse knew the last part was false. Aran didn’t accidentally find the second set of books at all. He would have been looking for them because he already knew Einaudi was a crook.

Barbieri’s face grew thunderous. Everyone watched their boss, waiting for him to explode so they knew in which direction to duck.

Jesse dropped her gaze to Aran in time to see him surge to his feet. She didn’t wait longer than that. She spun to her right, toward the still open double doors. Barbieri could wait. He didn’t have a gun. Instead, she took out the man with the gun pointing at Aran. All it took was a single step. She brought her knee up, skirt and petticoat making it a nice thick blunt instrument that she drove into the man’s crotch. She thrust her left hand up, her thumb outstretched and shoved the man’s wrist up into the air as he doubled over. The gun jarred out of his fingers and flew up into the air.

Jesse dropped him by driving her knuckles deep into his throat, stepped over his sagging body and caught the gun by the barrel as it tumbled back down. A half turn to the right, then she hammered the butt of the gun into the temple of the guard at the door, who was only just turning to check what was going on behind him. He dropped heavily. No sagging for him.

That was her two, leaving only Barbieri himself, but Aran’s third was the other guard at the door, who was already bringing the gun swinging around toward her.

Jesse ducked under the gun and let her momentum slide her forward feet first. She used the handy-dandy built up narrow heels on her boots to ram up against the side of the guard’s knee and heard something crack.

He cried out and dropped his gun, which she caught in her right hand, as he folded and clutched at his destroyed knee, his chest hitching in pain and panic.

Jesse flipped the gun in her left hand and caught it by the butt, spun on her ass to face the desk and raised the guns.

Barbieri raised his hands.

Aran was using his double Vulcan neck pinch thing to block the artery of the man he stood behind. The man closed his eyes and dropped. Aran lowered him to the floor and plucked his gun from his nerveless fingers. He didn’t aim at Barbieri, because the man was watching Jesse.

“Time to go,” Aran said.

“There are five men in the corridor,” Jesse warned.

“When I find out who you people really are,” Barbieri told them, his hands still up high, “I will destroy you for this…this insult. In my house! In my very own house, with my wife and children downstairs!” His face was back to purple again.

Jesse got to her feet. “You’re the one what brung us here,” she reminded him. “We haven’t shot anyone yet,” she added. “Don’t make us do that.”

“Lead the way,” Aran told her.

She stepped over the groaning men and through the doorway, her guns up. The five on the landing all had their guns out, but when she gestured with the barrels of hers, they dropped them and backed up. Only, they didn’t lose the dangerous light in their eyes. These men, the closest to the inner sanctum, would be the relentless ones. The hardened ones, who didn’t give up at the first opposition.

“To the stairs and up,” Aran said quietly, behind her. “I’ve got your back.”

“Up?” she repeated, trying to keep her voice down. She moved forward along the carpet, heading for where the stairs begun, leading up to the third floor. “We’ll be trapped up there.”

“Up,” he repeated.

The men watched them pass with narrowed eyes and she was very glad Aran was behind her, even if he wasn’t in favor of guns and didn’t practice with one. These bruisers didn’t know that.

She took the first step up the stairs and felt Aran’s hand on her back. Jesse turned and climbed sideways, so she could keep the gun in her left hand trained on the men below. It slowed her down, doing it that way, but it let her also keep an eye on the flight of stairs coming down from the third floor, on the other side of this flight. There was no one on those stairs.

They reached the landing and Aran stepped up next to her. They both aimed at the men, who had gathered at the foot of the stairs and were watching them. Jesse knew they would come after them the moment they turned their backs.

“Ready?” Aran whispered.

“Yeah,” she murmured back.

“Go.”

She lowered the guns, gripped her skirts and lifted them high, then sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Aran had longer legs and could have climbed three at once, but he stayed behind her.

As soon as they were out of sight, Jesse heard the thudding steps of Barbieri’s men on the other flight. They were in pursuit, as advertised.

At the top of the stairs, she paused. “Which way?” This was his grand plan, after all.

“Pick one!” Aran shouted.

She turned right and ran. The corridor was empty, with doors on either side. Bedrooms, she guessed. Maybe a bathroom, or maybe they were still using pitchers, basins and chamber pots.

The thudding grew louder.

“Pick a room!” Aran shouted.

Jesse took the next door on the right, gripped the knob and twisted as she rammed her shoulder against the solid door. Behind her, she heard Aran’s breath expel and the smack of flesh upon flesh. The fastest of the men had reached Aran. Jesse didn’t turn to look, because that would slow her down. She scanned the interior of the room. Bed. Closet. Bare boards. Night table. Lamp. Nothing useful. Maybe the lamp as a cudgel…

Aran shut the door and turned the key in the lock and spun to face her. He held his side, breathing hard. He had a stitch. “Window,” he said breathlessly and put his hand on the door, as if he could hold it closed.

“What?”

“Open the window.”

Her puzzlement hung in her mind like a neon question mark, but she lunged for the window, snagged the catch open and shoved the bottom pane up. It shrieked but rose.

Heavy bodies rammed against the door, which creaked and made the frame shiver. A couple more of those and the lock would give, or the frame itself…

“Stand in front of the window,” Aran told her.

Jesse stepped into the middle of the window. “What the fuck?”

“Trust me,” Aran said and ran at her.

The question mark in her mind flashed and boomed, as Aran took her off her feet, his arm around her. They fell backward through the window.

Jesse shrieked.

The bedroom door behind them burst open, but they were already falling.

“Trust me,” Aran breathed once more, as they plunged toward the earth.

Time swiped at them.

Chapter Eighteen

The living room with the old hearth and the armchair was still turned away from the window had never looked so sweet. Jesse untangled her arms from around Aran’s neck, as the post-battle adrenaline surged. She put her face in her hands and breathed hard. No words came to her.

Aran was still breathing hard. Too hard.

Jesse lowered her hands in time to see him pull up his sweater.

There was a neat two inch slit in his side. Blood poured from it.

Jesse froze, fear stealing every thought, every instinct she’d carefully honed for moments just like this one. She’d applied field first aid dozens of times in her life. She’d rallied her unit, got them back on their feet and fighting. This moment was no different, only it was, because it was Aran who buckled while she got over herself.

Jesse managed to get her arms around him. He was a dead weight and she nearly went down with him because of his size. She got her foot underneath her and thrust. “No, no, no…Aran!” She couldn’t shake him because she was holding him up.

With Herculean effort, she staggered over to the armchair and dropped him into it. He fell back.

She leapt to the hooks by the front door and snatched the wool scarf hanging there and returned to the chair, folding the scarf. She pushed the wadded scarf up against his wound. “Aran, listen to me. Aran?”

He stirred but didn’t answer.

“Aran!” She gripped his jaw and shook him with her spare hand. She slapped his cheek, not lightly. “Aran, wake up! You can’t pass out yet!”

He stirred and his eyes opened, narrowed in pain. She saw the glittered black of his pupils, behind the lashes.

“Are you listening?” She kept her voice sharp and commanding, even though it shook as she spoke. “Aran, can you hear me.”

His throat worked. His lips formed a ‘yes’ even though no sound emerged.

“I’m going to pull you out of the chair,” she told him. “All you have to do is jump. For once, I’m going to steer the jump, okay? You just have to make the jump. Got it?”

Nothing.

“Aran! Do you understand?” She patted his face once more.

His chin lifted and fell.

Relief touched her, but a new worry gripped her. She’d never steered a jump. She’d never controlled one in any way. But she had heard everyone at the big house talk about steering jumps, more than once. It was a matter of concentrating on where you wanted to be. Forming a picture, if you could. Reaching out with your mind and your heart, with all your being…

Jesse focused on keeping the scarf up tight against the wound and wrapped her hand around the back of Aran’s neck. “Hear me?”

Again, the tiny movement of his head.

“Ready…one…two…three!” She hauled on his neck, bringing him toppling toward her and slapped her arm over his shoulder as his weight shifted forward. At the last second, she felt Aran grip the back of her coat in a tight fist. He was taking her with him…

The black nothingness that she sometimes glimpsed during jumps enveloped them now, as she realized that the success of this jump was up to her. She gathered her breath—not that she could really breathe, here. She couldn’t feel Aran here, either, but she knew he was with her. She gathered her energy and her will, everything she had, and thought of the big house in Canada. Of Taylor and Brody and Veris. She reached out toward them and in her mind she shouted to get their attention, to warn them.

They fell. She could feel them falling. Falling…

Aran was too heavy for her to hold up under the impact of their landing, which was hard and jarring. She dropped underneath him and threw out a hand to catch at the window seat beside her.

“Jesse! Jesse!” Taylor was right beside her. Jesse could feel Aran’s weight shifting against her. Taylor had the abnormal strength needed to lift Aran. “Veris! Get in here!” she shouted.

“Mom! What the hell..?” That was Marit’s voice. Jesse wondered what she was doing here, but not for long. She fought to keep the scarf against Aran’s side as he was lifted from her. It meant springing to her feet without pushing with her hands, but somehow she managed it.

“Jesus Christ on a pony!” Alannah’s husky voice. “Who was yelling at me? Aran, what the fuck!”

Heavy footsteps. Running.

“Here, let me take him.” That was Veris.

“The wound, keep the scarf against it,” Jesse said, struggling to manage that for herself.

“I’ve got it, Jesse,” Brody said, his tone calm. “You can let go.”

“Veris, Sydney just pulled me out of the study…”

Jesse looked around. Alexander was coming through the door, wearing jeans, bare foot, with a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, which was incredibly casual for Alex. He halted when he saw Veris lift Aran up in his arms. “I’ll go ahead and prep,” Alex said, his tone smooth and devoid of any emotion. He spun and left.

Brody was doing what Jesse could not. He was keeping the scarf in place.

He and Veris took Aran out of the room, heading for the well-equipped little surgery on the other side of the stairs. When they were through the door, Sydney moved into the room, glancing back at them. She spotted Taylor and raised a brow. Then she saw Jesse. “Was that you shouting at me in the timescape?”

Jesse’s eyes blurred. “Did I?” She wanted to sit. She wanted to hurry after Aran. But she was covered in his blood and was probably already dripping onto Taylor’s rugs. “I didn’t know what to do!” she whispered as her tears spilled.

An arm came around her and held her. “You did just fine, Jesse,” Sydney told her. “Taylor, Marit. You, too, Alannah. Help me with her. She’s in shock, I think. A warm shower, clean clothes and food. Ah, London! You heard it, too?”

“So did Neven,” London said in her crisp accent. “Dear god, Jesse! What happened?”

“Out of the way, Elle,” Neven said. “We can wait for answers.”

Sydney and Taylor shuffled Jesse along. Jesse let them guide her because her vision was too blurred to see where she was putting her feet. The shaking hit her all over again.

Sydney helped Jesse into the bathroom and stayed on the stool while she stood in the hot water and shivered and sniveled, until the water ran clear. Taylor handed a pair of her jeans and a sweater through the door and Jesse dried herself and dressed. The jeans were too short on her legs.

“Still shaky?” Sydney asked.

Jesse nodded. “Is he…did I get here in time?”

Sydney didn’t nod or smile. “I don’t know yet,” she said, her tone frank. “I’ve been in here making sure you didn’t pass out and fall through the shower wall. We’ll know as soon as they do, Jesse.”

Jesse bit her lip and nodded.

Sydney followed her into the kitchen. Marit was at the stove, stirring a pot. “Chicken soup,” she called over her shoulder.

“And garlic bread,” Alannah said by the microwave, that pinged as she spoke.

Sydney pushed Jesse onto the solitary stool behind the peninsula. “Eat,” she said. “I’ll see if there’s any news.”

Marit poured soup into the bowl sitting waiting on the counter and slid the bowl in front of Jesse, and added a spoon. “You keep saying you’re basic human.” Her tone was chiding.

“I am,” Jesse said dully. She made herself pick up the spoon.

Alannah put the garlic bread in front of the soup bowl. “Not if you can shout across the timescape like you did.”

Jesse looked at her, startled.

Alannah was smiling.

“That’s why you all came?” Jesse said.

“You didn’t notice that everyone who arrived first was a jumper?” Marit said. “Even Neven, which will tickle him pink when he puts it together.”

Jesse tried to eat a spoonful of the soup. It was too hot. And the anxiety building in her gut was too overwhelming. She dropped the spoon back into the soup with a plop and slid off the chair. “I have to know,” she breathed and hurried across the house to the surgery.

The door was open and Sydney stood just inside it. Taylor hovered in the corridor and looked up at Jesse as she approached. “You’ll just be in the way,” she warned.

“I’ll stay back. I can’t just wait.” Jesse moved around her and edged into the room.

Sydney must have gone back to Granada on her way to the surgery, for Rafe was in there, too. The four men stood around the surgical bed Aran lay on. He was bare from the waist up, and the spotlight was trained upon the ugly wound in his side.

Two doctors, two scrub nurses and all of them looked grave. Alexander watched the readouts on the vitals monitor over the bed, frowning. The monitor was beeping, but the blips weren’t regular.

He glanced at Veris, who didn’t look any happier.

“If we could just stabilize him…” Alex said.

Jesse’s heart squeezed.

Sydney glanced at her, then shocked her by picking up her hand and holding it.

Jesse began to shake again.

“There’s always the last alternative,” Brody said, his voice hoarse.

“No!” Jesse said forcibly.

The four men turned to look at her, with a range of expressions from amazement to puzzlement.

“Why not, Jesse?” Sydney asked in her calm voice.

“He doesn’t want that. Not now,” Jesse said. She was dismayed to hear her voice break. “He wants to jump. He likes it. His whole life is set up around it. If you take that away from him, he’ll have nothing.”

Brody studied her, as Veris and Alexander looked at each other. “He’ll still have you,” Brody said.

Jesse felt the jolt down to her toes.

Veris cleared his throat. “Okay, Alex. Game on. You heard the lady.”

Alexander pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and tossed it toward the counter, then rolled his sleeves up even higher. “Jesse, Sydney said you shouted through the timescape.”

“If you say so,” Jesse said dully.

Alexander nodded. “Can you shout now? Talk to Aran? Sometimes, the thing that makes the solitary difference is the will to live. But he has to have a reason to want it.” His gaze was steady.

Jesse swallowed. “I don’t know how to reach the timescape. I’m not a jumper.”

Taylor said from the doorway, “I can get her there.”

Alex nodded, his gaze already pulling to Aran. “Do it. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Taylor tugged gently on Jesse’s elbow. “Come with me.”

Jesse followed Taylor into the front room. Taylor stood before her, her large brown eyes steady. “Once we’re there, you have to forget I’m with you. Do you know why?”

Jesse nodded. “I have to be myself. I have to be…real.”

Taylor gave her a small smile. “Better it stays between us, anyway.” She put her arm around Jesse’s back. “Ready?”

Jesse drew in a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

Taylor was just like Aran. She barely moved at all, yet the blackness slid over them. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t airless. It was nothing.

Taylor?

I’m here. Call to him. See if he answers.

Jesse turned her back on Taylor—mentally, at least. She wondered how she was supposed to do this. But she had “shouted” at the jumpers. What had she done then? She had sort-of leaned toward the house. She had warned them. She remembered calling to them, not with her mouth, but in her thoughts.

Ah….!

Jesse gathered her energy, as she had before, and in her mind, called out to Aran. It was inarticulate. Formless. But she could feel a part of her radiating outward. She poured herself into the stream and sent in onward, her heart aching.

Nothing came back to her. There was no answer.

I’ll take you back. Taylor’s mental voice was sad.

No! Jesse could feel the protest knocking against the inside of her mind. Let me try again.

This time, she didn’t have to puzzle her way through how to do it. She threw herself out across the timescape. If she had been light, she would have blazed with the power in her. If she had been sound, anyone who heard would have been deafened.

Jesse? Even Aran’s mental voice was weak.

Yes! Aran, you must hear me. You have to go back.

Back?

You have to fight. Do you remember getting hurt? The knife?

…yes. Then more strongly. Yes. And even though she could not really see or hear in that place, she knew that Aran was coming closer. Drawing to her.

Jesse braced herself. Now she knew why Taylor had warned her to forget that Taylor was there. Now she had to bare her soul.

You must go back, Aran. For me. You have to embrace the pain and live. Because I love you and I want you back.

He didn’t answer her in words. But she felt him envelope her. She was showered in a love so powerful that it radiated through her and warmed her. Her heart swelled. Her mind sighed. Peace spilled through her.

Humbled and happy, she opened her heart and answered him and he reflected her answer a hundredfold.

Jesse… he whispered, and the word quivered and throbbed. Then, I must go back.

Yes, she agreed softly.

His presence separated from her. Drifted away.

You’ll be there?

Every moment, she promised him.

Then he was gone.

Taylor came closer and swept Jesse’s presence along with her…

…and suddenly, they were back in the living room, both sitting on the floor, with Sydney standing over them, her hands on her hips.

“Thanks for the headache,” Sydney said dryly, pressing her fingertips to her temples.

Taylor winced as she got to her feet. “Small price to pay.” She held out her hand to Jesse. “You’ve got a promise to keep,” she said softly.

Jesse let her pull her to her feet and moved through the house to the surgery.

Brody waited at the door. “You spoke to him.” It wasn’t a question.

“How did you know?” For as far as Jesse was aware, Brody was not and had never been a jumper, as Neven had been before he was turned.

“Because Aran stabilized about two minutes ago.”

“Suddenly,” Veris added from over his shoulder, as he used a syringe to inject something into Aran’s IV.

Alex pulled a wheeled cart loaded with instruments around to the side of the bed closest to Aran’s wound. “Move your ass, doctor,” he told Veris curtly. He looked up at Jesse and gave her a small smile. “All that is left is to stitch him up, now.”

Brody squeezed her shoulder.

Jesse moved further into the room. “I promised I’d stay with him.”

“Then you’d better stay with him,” Rafe said and stepped out of the way. “Here.” He shepherded her to the head of the bed. “Veris can be Alex’s scrub nurse for the closing of the wound. He’ll backseat drive, anyway. He might as well be useful while he’s running his mouth.”

“Calumny,” Veris muttered, but he was watching Alex widen the wound with a sterile instrument, so he could work inside it.

Rafe moved over to Brody and tugged on his sleeve. “Let’s give ‘em elbow room.” He pushed Brody and Taylor out of the surgery and closed the door.

Jesse stayed in that spot for the three hours it took to close the wound, while Alex worked deep inside Aran’s gut, up through layers of organs and tissues and muscle fibers, to the skin itself.

Veris did backseat drive, but Alex didn’t seem to mind the suggestions. Perhaps he was used to it. The two conferred in a clipped medical shorthand and sometimes Alex even shook his head, as they worked steadily.

Jesse didn’t remember reaching for Aran’s limp hand, but found she was holding it. She didn’t look away. She had seen wounds aplenty.

When the wound was closed and stitched and Alex had pulled Veris away, Jesse was finally in the room alone with Aran. She pulled the blanket up over him, then dragged the wheeled stool closer to the bed and settled on it, her aching back and legs twinging. She picked up his hand and waited.

Chapter Nineteen

Aran woke seven hours later, although Jesse didn’t know how much time had passed right then. She had spent the waiting time reviewing her life, especially the years since she had met Aran and his family, and her odd position in it.

It appalled her to realize how much she had operated on autopilot, too afraid to tap into her real feelings about anything.

During the waiting hours, people would stop by to check on Aran—that was usually Alexander, and sometimes Veris, and once, Taylor—or to bring her food or coffee. Marit brought a warmer blanket for Jesse to put around her shoulders and a pillow for her to rest on the edge of the bed, to sleep, if she wanted. Jesse knew she couldn’t sleep but was touched by the pillow and blanket. She was more deeply moved by Marit’s silent, hard hug, before she hurried away with her eyes sparkling suspiciously.

Aran stirred, with a soft groan. His fingers tightened over her hand.

Jesse sat up, her breath catching, and watched his eyes. Her own were aching with more tears. She blinked rapidly to clear them. She didn’t want to miss a single moment, right now.

She knew he was properly awake when his gaze slid to her face. The corner of his mouth curled up. “Hey.” His voice was hoarse. “Right where you promised,” he added.

Her breath caught. “You remember!”

“I won’t ever forget,” he whispered. He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against the back of it.

“How long?” she demanded.

Aran didn’t try to pretend he didn’t understand. “I’ve loved you forever, it feels like.”

Jesse shuddered.

“I knew for sure when you nearly died in that alley,” he added.

“You said nothing,” she breathed.

“There wasn’t any point. You had zero room in your life for anyone.”

Independent. Solitary.

“So I waited,” Aran finished.

“I did have room.” Her voice was hoarse. “I just didn’t know it.”

Aran’s gaze slid toward her.

“The book,” she blurted. “I told you I didn’t know why I wrote it. That’s the way it works for me. I have to write things down to figure out how I feel about them. I think with the keyboard. So, I wrote the book. That’s how it came out. Only my subconscious refused delivery. So I tucked away the whole mess, and pretended it was a silly book about nothing, and hid behind a pen name, too.”

Aran was listening. His gaze was steady. “Why?”

This was the part she had spent the last few hours turning over and over. She couldn’t write, not with one hand in his, so she had made herself think without the prop. With time, everything had become clear.

“I spent my adult life following orders, not having to think too much about anything. I heard all the horror stories about ex-pats not being able to adapt to civilian life. They wash their lives down the toilet. Drugs. Drink. Suicide. Or they find some faux military life with a mercenary outfit and die an ugly, unsung death in some noxious place on the planet. I was determined I wouldn’t be like that.”

“You didn’t come even close to that,” Aran whispered.

“But I did,” Jesse breathed. “I got out and I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to cope, so everything that wasn’t me thriving was jettisoned. I offloaded everything, in order to survive…and that included you.”

She hung her head. “But it came out through the book, and even then, I didn’t have the guts to admit it.”

Aran tugged on her hand. “Look at me.”

Jesse made herself look at him. “I always thought of you as…off-limits. You’re a jumper, part of the family I would die to protect, a beloved son. It felt wrong, somehow.”

“Because you think you’re unworthy,” Aran breathed.

Jesse tried to laugh. It came out shaky. “Stupid, I know. But I still feel that way. Not that it’s wrong, exactly. But like I don’t deserve you.”

Aran’s fingers closed around her hand again. “And you don’t want to be dependent upon anyone.”

She shook her head quickly. “Such a stupid, stuck up, idiotic idea… I didn’t know how deeply I’d already been tangled up in your life. You and your family. I’ve been dependent upon you guys for years. Since I got out, really. I wouldn’t have survived as a civilian without you in particular. I don’t know if you remember that…” she hesitated.

“Portland,” he said flatly. “I kept all of it, Jesse. Even the stuff I knew would make you cringe. I just let you think I couldn’t remember.”

She sighed. “I guess you get to love all of me, not just the parts I think worthy.”

“That’s right.” His voice was rough.

She put her hand over his fingers where they curled against hers. “I’ve been in total denial for a very long time.” She looked up. “I love you, Aran. So much, I can’t examine it too closely. It makes me sheer away in shock. I have to take it in pieces.”

“If you’re willing to take me, Captain Hall, you can have me in any damn way you want.” His voice was hoarse.

Jesse stood and kissed him…not too thoroughly, for he gasped at the movement, and not in a good way.

Aran reached for her hand once more. “By the way. Back on Canal Street…”

It was her turn to wince. “Why on earth did you tackle them by yourself?” she demanded. “You know perfectly well I could have handled them.”

“You can,” he said, his tone one of agreement. “It doesn’t mean you have to. Not while I’m there.” His gaze met hers. “Never while I’m in your life.”

Warmth touched her. It spread through her. Jesse realized she was smiling.

She was happy.

Then Aran frowned. “You took the second guard at the door,” he said. “That was supposed to be my guy.”

Jesse giggled. It turned into laughter and Aran joined her, even as he winced and hissed in pain.

Chapter Twenty

Winter Solstice. Granada, Spain.

When the human meal had ended, but the feast was still far from over, Jesse pushed her chair back from the table. Aran pulled his closer to hers and took her hand. He did that a lot, these days. She didn’t mind a bit, either.

She smiled at him and waited for the first toast to be made. The toasts were always many, usually long, often inventive and frequently funny.

“Before you start the ball rolling, Rafe,” Aran called.

Rafe, at the head of the table, lowered the glass he had raised. “Yes?”

“There’s something else I want to do first.”

Jesse leaned away from him and peered at him. “What are you up to?”

“Trust me,” Aran said. He turned her chair even though she was on it, showing his strength. When she was facing him, he picked up both her hands. “Jesse…”

Jesse’s breath froze. Her heart swooped.

“Aran, no!” Taylor called, sounding scandalized. “Not here.”

Aran’s gaze didn’t shift from Jesse’s eyes. “Yes, here,” he said. “Right here in front of everyone. We’ve done too much hiding, both of us.”

Happiness made her dizzy. Her throat hurt. Jesse nodded in agreement. “Yes, here.” Her voice was bodiless.

The room was still, for vampires could remain still in a way that humans could never manage. But even the children at the table stopped kicking at their chair legs and wriggling with impatience to be away to play somewhere else.

Aran squeezed her fingers and she looked into his eyes and for that moment, the room and the people in it went away. It was just her and Aran.

“I’ve loved you forever,” he said. “Marry me forever.”

Jesse shivered. “It really can be forever, can’t it?”

Aran’s smile was heated. “For far longer than most people get to have, we can have each other, yes.”

Jesse drew in a trembling breath. “Then, yes.” She said quickly, “I would have said yes, anyway, but forever makes it far better.”

Aran brought her face to his and kissed her. “Any way is fine by me, Captain Hall.”

Only then did Jesse hear the tinking of spoons against glasses and the clapping around the table.

Jesse moved out into the cool evening air, for even though it was December in southern Spain, it could still be warm, especially in a closed room. She headed for the balcony with its grand stone balustrades and the view of the mountains.

She was not the first there. The silhouette of three people standing close together brought her to a halt. Judging by the size of the biggest of the three, it was Veris, Brody and Taylor.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Jesse said, backing away, as the three of them separated.

“You can’t sneak up on us, remember?” Taylor said. “Don’t go away, Jesse. Come here.”

Jesse moved reluctantly over to the balustrade. “I just wanted to breathe air and think for a moment.”

“So did we,” Brody said. “It’s been a hell of an evening.”

Jesse turned to face them, even though she couldn’t really see them in the dark. She knew they could see her perfectly. “Do you mind?” she asked, her throat tightening and her heart pounding. She picked out Veris’ tall silhouette as she said it.

Taylor touched Jesse’s arm. “I was there on the timescape. I know what you mean to each other. How could I mind?”

Jesse could feel her cheeks heat.

Brody rested his arm around Taylor’s waist. “I’ve learned not to argue with my wife. She’s always right.” He paused. “Aran long ago stopped needing our blessing, Jesse. You’ve never needed it. Which is why you’re perfect for him. You’re your own person and that scares Aran enough that he’ll never risk losing you.”

“But I’d like your blessing anyway,” Jesse said.

Brody glanced over his shoulder. “I think she’s talking about you, big guy.”

Veris’ big shadow moved. He came over to the balustrade where Jesse stood and at this angle, the porch light illuminated one blue eye and the high cheek bone. “You used to be afraid of me.”

“I…” She cleared her throat. “I guess, yes. Once.”

“But not anymore.”

“Oh, you still terrify me when you’re in Northman mode, but most people scatter when you start frothing at the mouth.” She shrugged.

Veris’ eye narrowed and she knew he was silently laughing. “As far as I’m concerned, Jesse, you’ve been a part of this family since you arrived in your dress uniform with your arm in a sling. You’re just making it official. Which means I get to call you something I could never say aloud before.” He leaned and touched his lips to her forehead. “Daughter,” he breathed.

Jesse felt stupidly, dizzyingly happy. “Thank you,” she breathed.

“Are you manhandling my fiancé, Far?” Aran said. He moved across the balcony, slid Jesse away from Veris and wrapped his arms around her from behind so they could look at the three of them. Aran was hot against her back.

Veris didn’t move away or spout denials. “I think it’s time you dropped the Far and Athair, Aran. We all look too close in age, these days, for it to be publicly acknowledged.”

Jesse didn’t need to look around to know that Aran was shaking his head. “Never,” he said flatly. “Not while it’s just us, Far.”

Veris dropped his gaze to his toes and Jesse realized with a start that he was marshalling his reaction. Then he raised his chin and she caught her breath, for his eyes were glittering.

Brody made a rough sound in his throat and wrapped his arms around Veris and kissed his cheek. “Marshmallow,” he said, his voice rough.

Taylor moved so that she was standing beside them, completing a tight little circle. “They’ll never say it, so I must. Thank you, Jesse, for saving Aran. You brought him back to us, and we can never thank you enough for that gift.”

Aran’s arms tightened around her. “Ditto,” he breathed, kissing the top of her head.

Jesse sighed.

“And,” Taylor said, in a more normal voice. “Have you thought about a date for the wedding, at all?”

Jesse glanced up at Aran. He smiled.

“November 11,” they said together.

“Which one?” all three replied back.

_____

The Next Book in the Kiss Across Time series

The next book in this series, Kiss Across the Universe, will be out in 2021.

In the meantime, try more vampire time travel ménage stories from the Beloved Bloody Time series.

Bannockburn Binding, Book 1, Beloved Bloody Time series.

Time is theirs to keep. But it comes with a price

In the early 23rd Century, vampires learned how to travel back in time, and created a time-tsunami that threatened life as we know it, until they corrected their mistake.  They created the Chronometric Conservation Agency, which is tasked with preserving history and therefore protecting humanity’s future.  The Touring arm of the Agency offers trips back into the real past, with vampire guides, called travelers.

When Natalia (Tally) Marta, vampire and traveler, takes her client to visit the siege of Stirling Castle in 1314, she is caught and held hostage for ransom by Robert MacKenzie, a Bruce clansman. Rob finds himself drawn to the wilful, stubborn and very different English lady he has captured and the relationship becomes an intimate, highly-charged sexual pairing. Swiftly, Tally and Rob realize their bond is more than sexual, that the emotions stirring their hearts are true.

Christian Lee Hamilton, vampire, one of the last true southern gentlemen, and Tally’s ex-lover, knows the 1314 time marker enough to jump back and help Tally return home. His arrival at Bannockburn adds complications, for Christian finds himself drawn to Rob MacKenzie as much as Tally is. But neither of them can stay in the past forever. To do so means certain death.
___

Amazon Best Seller – Top 100 (#5)
#1 Amazon Time Travel Romance Bestseller
#1 Amazon Fantasy Romance Bestseller
Reviewers’ Top Pick —The Romance Reviews
Nominated Erotic Paranormal Book of the Year 2011—The Romance Reviews

Reviewers’ Top Pick: Oh wow, is this a great read! I simply couldn’t put this down once I started. OMG! I didn’t see this resolution coming. —The Romance Reviews

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About the Author

Tracy Cooper-Posey is a #1 Best Selling Author. She writes romantic suspense, historical, paranormal and science fiction romance. She has published over 100 novels since 1999, been nominated for five CAPAs including Favorite Author, and won the Emma Darcy Award.

She turned to indie publishing in 2011. Her indie titles have been nominated four times for Book Of The Year. Tracy won the award in 2012, and a SFR Galaxy Award in 2016 for “Most Intriguing Philosophical/Social Science Questions in Galaxybuilding” She has been a national magazine editor and for a decade she taught romance writing at MacEwan University.

She is addicted to Irish Breakfast tea and chocolate, sometimes taken together. In her spare time she enjoys history, Sherlock Holmes, science fiction and ignoring her treadmill. An Australian Canadian, she lives in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, a former professional wrestler, where she moved in 1996 after meeting him on-line.

Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey

For reviews, excerpts, and more about each title, visit Tracy’s site and click on the cover you are interested in: http://tracycooperposey.com/books-by-thumbnail/

Scandalous Scions

(Historical Romance Series – Spin off)
Rose of Ebony
Soul of Sin
Valor of Love
Marriage of Lies
Scandalous Scions One (Boxed Set)
Mask of Nobility
Law of Attraction
Veil of Honor
Scandalous Scions Two (Boxed Set)
Season of Denial
Rules of Engagement
Degree of Solitude
Ashes of Pride
Risk of Ruin
Year of Folly
Queen of Hearts

Scandalous Families – The Victorians

(Historical Romance Series – Spin off)

His Parisian Mistress
Her Rebellious Prince
Their Foreign Affair

Once and Future Hearts

(Ancient Historical Romance—Arthurian)

Born of No Man
Dragon Kin
Pendragon Rises
War Duke of Britain
High King of Britain
Battle of Mount Badon
Abduction of Guenivere
Downfall of Cornwall
Vengeance of Arthur
Grace of Lancelot
The Grail and Glory
Camlann

Kiss Across Time Series

(Paranormal Time Travel)
Kiss Across Time
Kiss Across Swords
Time Kissed Moments
Kiss Across Chains
Kiss Across Time Box One (Boxed Set)
Kiss Across Deserts
Kiss Across Kingdoms
Time and Tyra Again
Kiss Across Seas
Kiss Across Time Box Two (Boxed Set)
Kiss Across Worlds
Time and Remembrance
Kiss Across Tomorrow
More Time Kissed Moments
Kiss Across Blades

Project Kobra

(Romantic Spy Thrillers)

Hunting The Kobra
Inside Man
Heart Strike

Blood Knot Series

(Urban Fantasy Paranormal Series)
Blood Knot
Southampton Swindle
Broken Promise
Vale
Amor Meus
Blood Stone
Blood Unleashed
Blood Drive
Blood Revealed
Blood Ascendant
Flesh + Blood (Boxed Set)

Vistaria Has Fallen

Vistaria Has Fallen
Prisoner of War
Hostage Crisis
Freedom Fighters
Casualties of War
V-Day
The Vistaria Affair (Boxed Set)

Romantic Thrillers Series

Fatal Wild Child
Dead Again
Dead Double
Terror Stash
Thrilling Affair (Boxed Set)

Beloved Bloody Time Series

(Paranormal Futuristic Time Travel)
Bannockburn Binding
Wait
Byzantine Heartbreak
Viennese Agreement
Romani Armada
Spartan Resistance
Celtic Crossing
Beloved Bloody Time Series Boxed Set

Scandalous Sirens

(Historical Romance Series)
Forbidden
Dangerous Beauty
Perilous Princess

Go-get-‘em Women

(Short Romantic Suspense Series)
The Royal Talisman
Delly’s Last Night
Vivian’s Return
Ningaloo Nights

The Sherlock Holmes Series

(Romantic Suspense/Mystery)
Chronicles of the Lost Years
The Case of the Reluctant Agent
Sherlock Boxed In

The Kine Prophecies

(Epic Norse Fantasy Romance)
The Branded Rose Prophecy

The Stonebrood Saga

(Gargoyle Paranormal Series)
Carson’s Night
Beauty’s Beasts
Harvest of Holidays
Unbearable
Sabrina’s Clan
Pay The Ferryman
Hearts of Stone (Boxed Set)

Destiny’s Trinities

(Urban Fantasy Romance Series)
Beth’s Acceptance
Mia’s Return
Sera’s Gift
The First Trinity
Cora’s Secret
Zoe’s Blockade
Octavia’s War
The Second Trinity
Terra’s Victory
Destiny’s Trinities (Boxed Set)

Interspace Origins

(Science Fiction Romance Series)
Faring Soul
Varkan Rise
Cat and Company
Interspace Origins (Boxed Set)

Short Paranormals

Solstice Surrender
Eva’s Last Dance
Three Taps, Then….
The Well of Rnomath

Jewells of Tomorrow

(Historical Romantic Suspense)
Diana By The Moon
Heart of Vengeance

The Endurance

(Science Fiction Romance Series)
5,001
Greyson’s Doom
Yesterday’s Legacy
Promissory Note
Quiver and Crave
Xenogenesis
Junkyard Heroes
Evangeliya
Skinwalker’s Bane

Contemporary Romances

Lucifer’s Lover
An Inconvenient Lover
Contemporary Romances Boxed Set

Non-Fiction Titles

Reading Order

(Non-Fiction, Reference)
Reading Order Perpetual

Copyright Information

This is an original publication of Tracy Cooper-Posey

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2020 by Tracy Cooper-Posey
Text design by Tracy Cooper-Posey

Cover design by Dar Albert
http://WickedSmartDesigns

Edited by Mr. Intensity, Mark Posey

All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

FIRST EDITION: November 2020

Cooper-Posey, Tracy
Kiss Across Chaos/Tracy Cooper-Posey—1st Ed.

Romance—Fiction
Paranormal – Fiction