Perfect Timing: Those Were the Days / Pistols at Dawn / Time After Time. Nancy Warren

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      She