A Sexy Time of It. Cara Summers

the population who carried a specific gene had been able to psychically travel back through time. They could travel to any time they could vividly picture in their minds. Thirty years ago TGS had added training classes and licensing requirements for anyone wishing to travel to the past. So far, no one could travel to the future because they couldn’t “see” future times in their minds.

      Of course the whole concept of going back in time was based on an older theory that time existed in a linear way—the way in which humans experience it. But physicists at the turn of the twenty-second century had proposed a new theory—that all times exist simultaneously. The image with which they proposed to replace the older time line was one of concentric circles. Not all scientists bought into the idea, and the discussion was ongoing. The only thing that everyone agreed on was that in this experimental stage of psychic time travel, absolutely nothing should be done to change the past—because altering past events could destroy the present.

      Suzanna had disagreed with the whole concept of the Prime Directive. Max had taken an oath to enforce it. And now, he wasn’t supposed to do a damn thing to save his sister. But he sure as hell could catch her killer.

      Realizing that he’d allowed his mind to wander, Max drew his thoughts back to Thirty-fifth Street in Manhattan. The first time he’d visited he’d studied a photo, but this time he had the memory fresh in his mind. As if he were painting a scene, he arranged the details in his mind—the budding trees filtering the moonlight, the street lamps, and the geranium-filled pots that flanked the door of Bookends. When he’d pictured the street in his mind with as many details as he could remember, he set his will to it. Immediately, he experienced the sudden suspension of his body as if he’d become totally weightless. Then came the howling rush of wind, the velvety blackness. When he felt the pull of gravity return, he opened his eyes and found himself sitting on a stoop across from Bookends. The store was dark, closed for the night, but there was still a light on in an upstairs window.

      Leaning back against the railing, he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. Tomorrow, he and Neely would meet again face-to-face. A tingle of anticipation moved through him. He didn’t believe in lying to himself. He wanted her, and the connection he felt with her was so strong that he wondered if he would be able to control his craving. Time was on his side. In less than thirty hours, she would be the Ripper’s last victim in 2008. Surely he would be able to restrain himself.

      On the other hand, time was running out. What would happen if instead of waiting until morning, he walked across the street, climbed the steps and knocked on her door? An image struck him forcefully, vividly, pushing everything else out of his mind. They were locked together in a bed, arms and legs tangled, moving as one. The desire that knotted in his gut was raw and primitive. He could taste her lips, smell her fragrance and feel the silky heat of her skin rubbing against his. For a moment, Max could have sworn that the sensations were real. He shook his head to clear it and took several deep breaths. Still, the urge to cross the street and finish what his mind had pictured was so compelling that he wrapped one hand around the wrought-iron railing to keep himself seated.

      Well. That was a first. She was a first. Neely Rafferty was going to be a bigger complication than he’d anticipated. But she was part of the hand of cards he’d been dealt, and he intended to play them—no matter the consequences.

      Deliberately, he shifted his gaze away from the window to the street. He usually had a plan, but this time he wasn’t at all sure about his approach and had no clue how he would navigate their next encounter. He’d get a little shut-eye and let his subconscious sort through the possible approaches he might take.

      His mind had just begun to drift when he sensed her. Straightening, he glanced up at the window and there she was. Their eyes met and held for a moment. Even at a distance, Max felt the impact of the connection like a two-fisted punch to the gut.

      3

      May 15, 2008

       Manhattan

      WHO WAS SHE? And what had she been doing in Mitre Square at midnight on September 30, 1888? Those were the questions that had been battering at the edge of his mind since he’d finished what he’d needed to do and left London. As he looked out the window of his hotel suite at the gleam of moonlight on the Hudson River, he let the questions resurface.

      She’d called out the name of the woman he’d just murdered. She’d interrupted him. For one instant, as he’d withdrawn his knife from the body of Catherine Eddowes, he’d experienced a raw and primitive fear. He hadn’t been sure what to do. He always knew what to do. Then fury had pushed through the terror and galvanized him into action. But he’d had to leave Catherine to chase after her. And he hadn’t been finished.

      The woman had no right to be there. She’d interfered with his pleasure.

      Fury erupted again, burning through his veins, and the glass in his hand shattered. As blood oozed from his finger, his throat tightened and his mind emptied. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Dread sank rusty claws into his stomach.

      No! No! He was frightened of no one. Unfisting his hand, he let the shards of glass drop to the carpet. Then he grabbed his handkerchief and pressed it to the small cut. Breathing deeply, he reached for control. How could the woman have known that Catherine Eddowes was in the square? His research had been meticulous. Catherine had no friends, no one to come looking for her.

      Unless the woman had come from the future. Was that why she’d disappeared so completely? He’d been reaching out, his fingers inches from her shoulder, but they’d closed on nothing but air. Had she shot forward into her own time?

      Possibly.

      Calmer now, he poured cognac into a new glass and sipped. Too bad he hadn’t gotten a better look at her. The mist had been too thick. It always was in London, which was why he’d chosen that city for some of his best work. One way or another, he would solve the mystery. And when his path crossed hers again he would eliminate her. Problem solved.

      

      THE MOMENT NEELY saw the man sitting on the stoop across the street, her knees went weak. It was him—the stranger who’d been in her bookstore that afternoon. She’d been trying for some time to drift into sleep, but she’d been too keyed up. She’d come to the window to close the drapes. And there he was.

      He sat partially in shadow on the front steps of the brownstone directly across from Bookends. He rested the upper part of his body against the iron railing, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. But it was definitely him. She felt it in every pore of her body. A flood of emotions moved through her—anticipation, excitement and a primitive desire—the same ones she’d experienced when he’d almost kissed her.

      As if suddenly sensing her, he leaned forward, and when he glanced up at her, she felt the impact of his eyes clear down to her toes. For a moment, she froze. She couldn’t even think because he was in her mind. In that instant, it was as if they were one. And an image filled her mind of the two of them locked together, their bodies moving as one. She could feel him inside her, filling her. Pleasure speared through Neely, so acute that she had to grab the drapes to remain upright.

      How could this be happening? Who was he? And why was he there on that stoop looking up at her window? The need to find out was so strong, so urgent that without another thought, she whirled from the window, ran toward the door and down the stairs. Disengaging the alarm delayed her a precious minute, but finally she was on her stoop.

      He was gone.

      She ran to the sidewalk and peered up and down the street, but there was no sign of the man who’d been sitting across from her building only moments before.

      A chill prickled her skin as reality surfaced. She was standing alone on the sidewalk, her front door wide open, and there was a killer who preyed on women loose in her city. She patted her pocket, reassuring herself that she had her pepper spray with her. But there was no reason to tempt fate. Turning on her heel, she raced back up the steps. Then she paused and glanced once more down the block in the direction of the small gated park.

      That’s where he was.