Nora Roberts - Time and Again

Time Was

CHAPTER 1

He was going down. The instrument panel was a maze of wildly flashing numbers and lights, and the cockpit was spinning like a merry-go-round gone mad: He didn't need the scream of warning bells to tell him he was in trouble. He didn't need the insistent red blip on his computer screen to tell him the trouble was big. He'd known that the moment he'd seen the void.

Swearing, clamping down on his panic, he struggled with the controls, using one hand to shove the lever forward for full power. The vehicle bucked and shuddered, fighting the gravitational pull. The G's hit him like a wall. All around him metal screamed against metal.

"Hold together, baby," he managed to say as his lips stretched back over his teeth. The floor near his feet ripped open in a jagged line three inches long. "Hold together, you son of a-"

He jammed hard due east, swearing again when it seemed that no matter how cleverly he maneuvered he and his ship would be sucked into the hole.

The cockpit lights went out, leaving only the whirl of kaleidoscopic colors from the instrument panel. His ship went into a spiral, tumbling end over end like a stone fired from a slingshot. Now the light was white, hot and brilliant. Instinctively he threw up an arm to shield his eyes. The sudden crushing pressure on his chest left him helpless to do more than gasp for breath.

Briefly, before he lost consciousness, he remembered that his mother had wanted him to be a lawyer. But he'd just had to fly.

When he came to he was no longer spiraling-he was in a screaming free-fall. A glance at his instruments showed him only that they were damaged, the numbers racing backward. A new force had him plastered back against his seat, but he could see the curve of the earth.

Knowing he could pass out again at any moment, he lunged forward to knock the throttle back and turn the ship over to the computer. It would, he knew, scan for an unpopulated area, and if God was in His heaven the crash control in the old bucket would still be functional.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd live to see another sunrise. And how bad could practicing law be?

He watched the world rush toward him, blue and green and beautiful. The hell with it, he thought. Flying a desk would never be like this.

Libby stood on the porch of the cabin and watched the night sky boil. The wicked slices of lightning and the blowing curtain of rain were the best show in town. Even though she was standing under the overhang, her hair and her face were wet. Behind her, the lights in the cabin glowed a warm, cozy yellow. The next boom of thunder made her grateful she'd set out candles and kerosene lamps.

But the light and warmth didn't lure her back. Tonight she preferred the chill and the crashing power that was barreling through the mountains.

If the storm kept up much longer, it would be weeks before the north pass through the mountains was negotiable. It didn't matter, she thought as another spear of lightning split the sky. She had weeks. In fact, she thought with a grin, hugging herself against the brisk wind, she had all the time in the world.

The best decision she'd ever made had been to pack up and dig in at her family's hideaway cabin. She'd always had an affection for mountains. The Klamaths of southwestern Oregon had everything she wanted. A spectacular view, high, rugged peaks, pure air and solitude. If it took six months to write her dissertation on the effects of modernizing influences on the Kolbari Islanders, then so be it. She'd spent five years studying cultural anthropology, three of them in extensive field work. She hadn't let up on herself since her eighteenth birthday, and she certainly hadn't given herself any time alone, away from family, studies and other scientists. The dissertation was important to her-too important, she could sometimes admit. Coming here to work alone, giving herself a little time for self-study, was an excellent compromise.

She'd been born in the squat two-story cabin behind her, and she'd spent the first five years of her life here in these mountains, living as free and unfettered as a deer.

It made her smile to remember how she and her younger sister had run barefoot, how they had believed the world began and ended with them and their counterculture parents.

She could still picture her mother weaving mats and rugs and her father digging happily in his garden. At night there had been music and long, fascinating stories. The four of them had been happily self-sufficient, seeing other people only on their monthly trips to Brookings for supplies.

They might have continued just that way, but the sixties had become the seventies. An art dealer had discovered one of Libby's mother's wall hangings. Almost simultaneously her father had found that a certain mixture of his homegrown herbs brewed into a soothing and delicious tea. Before Libby's eighth birthday her mother had become a respected artist and her father a successful young entrepreneur. The cabin had become a vacation hideaway when the family had moved into the Portland mainstream.

Perhaps it was Libby's own culture shock that had steered her toward anthropology. Her fascination with it, with society's structures and the effects of outside influences, had often dominated her life. Sometimes she nearly forgot the times she was living in with her avid quest for answers. Whenever that happened she came back here or took a few days to visit her family. That was all it took to ground her in the present.

Starting tomorrow, she decided, if the storm was over, she would turn her computer on and get to work.

But only for four hours a day. For the past eighteen months she had too often worked triple that.

Everything in its time-that was what her mother had always said. Well, this time she was going to get back a little of the freedom she'd experienced during the first five years of her life.

Peaceful. Libby let the wind rush through her hair and listened to the hammering of rain on rock and earth. Despite the storm and the rocketing thunder, she felt serene. In all her life she had never known a more peaceful spot.

She saw the light race across the sky, and for a moment she was fooled into thinking it might be ball lightning, or perhaps a meteor. But when the sky lit up she caught a vague outline and a quick flash of metal. She stepped forward, into the rain, instinctively narrowing her eyes. As the object rushed closer, she raised her hand to her throat.

A plane? Even as she watched, it seemed to skim the tops of the firs just to the west of the cabin. The crash echoed through the woods, leaving her frozen to the spot. Then she was running back into the cabin for her slicker and her first-aid kit.

Moments later, with the thunder rolling overhead, she clambered into her Land Rover. She'd noted the spot where she'd seen the plane go down, and she could only hope her sense of direction was as keen as it had always been.

It took her almost thirty minutes of fighting both the blinding storm and the rain-rutted roads and logging trails. She gritted her teeth as the Land Rover plunged through a swollen stream. She knew all too well the dangers of flash floods in the mountains. Still, she kept her speed just above the point of safety, negotiating the twists and turns as much from instinct as from memory. As it happened, she almost ran over him.

Libby hit the brakes hard when her headlights beamed over a figure crumpled at the side of the narrow trail. The Land Rover skidded, spitting mud, before the wheels grabbed hold. Grabbing her flashlight, she scrambled out to kneel beside him.

Alive. She felt a surge of relief when she pressed her fingers against the pulse in his throat. He was dressed all in black, and he was already soaked to the skin. Automatically she tossed the blanket she was carrying over him and began to probe for broken bones.

He was young and lean and well muscled. As she examined him she prayed that those facts would work in his favor. Ignoring the lightning racing across the sky, she played her flashlight over his face.

The gash on his forehead concerned her. Even in the driving rain she could see that it was bleeding badly, but the possibility of a broken back or neck made her reluctant to shift him. Moving quickly, she went back for the first-aid kit. She was applying a butterfly bandage to his wound when he opened his eyes.

Thank God. That single thought ran through her mind as she instinctively took his hand to soothe him. "You're going to be all right. Don't worry. Are you alone?"

He stared at her but saw only a vague outline. "What?"

"Was there anyone with you? Is anyone else hurt?"

"No." He struggled to sit up. The world spun again as he grabbed at her for support. His hands slid off her wet slicker. "I'm alone," he managed before he blacked out again.

He had no idea just how alone.

Libby slept in snatches most of the night. She'd been able to get him inside the cabin and as far as the couch. She'd stripped him, dried him and tended his wounds before she'd fallen into a half doze in the big armchair by the fire. Periodically, she rose to check his pulse and pupils.

He was in shock, and she'd decided he undoubtedly had a concussion, but the rest of his wounds were relatively minor. Some bruised ribs and a few nasty scratches. A very lucky man, she mused as she sipped her tea and studied him in the firelight. Most fools were. Who else but a fool would have been flying through the mountains in a storm like this?

It was still raging outside the cabin. She set the cup aside to throw another log on the fire. The light grew, sending towering shadows throughout the room. A very attractive fool, she added with a smile as she arched her sore back. He was an inch or two over six feet, and well built. She considered it good luck for both of them that she was strong, accustomed to carrying heavy packs and equipment. Leaning against the mantle, she watched him.

Definitely attractive, she thought again. He'd be even more so when his color returned. Though he was pale now, his face had good bone structure. Celtic, she thought, with those lean, high cheekbones and that full, sculpted mouth. It was a face that hadn't seen a razor for a day or two. That and the bandage on his forehead gave him a rakish, almost dangerous look. His eyes were blue, she remembered, a particularly dark, intense blue.

Definitely Celtic origins, she thought again as she picked up her tea. His hair was black, coal black, and it waved slightly even when it was dry. He wore it too long to be military, she reflected, frowning as she remembered the clothes she'd taken off him. The black jumpsuit had a decidedly military look to it, and there had been some sort of insignia over the breast pocket. Perhaps he was in some elite section of the air force.

She shrugged and settled into the chair. Then again, he'd worn old, scuffed high-top sneakers, as well. Sneakers, and a very expensive-looking watch-one with a half-dozen tiny dials. The only thing she'd been able to figure out on it after a brief look was that it wasn't keeping the right time. Apparently both the watch and its owner had been damaged in the crash.

"I don't know about the watch," she told him over a yawn, "but I think you're going to be all right." With that she dozed off again.

He woke once with a splitting headache and blurred vision. There was firelight, or a first-class simulation. He could smell the woodsmoke- and rain, he thought. He had a misty memory of having stumbled through the rain. The most he could concentrate on was the fact that he was alive. And warm. He remembered being cold and wet and disoriented, afraid at first that he had crashed into an ocean. There had been- someone. A woman. Low, quiet voice- soft, gentle hands- He tried to think, but the drumming in his head made the effort too painful.

He saw her sitting in an old chair with a colorful blanket over her lap. A hallucination? Maybe, but it was certainly a pleasant one. Her hair was dark, and the firelight was glinting off it. It appeared to be chin-length and very full and was now tousled appealingly around her face. She was sleeping. He could see the quiet rise and fall of her breasts. In this light her skin seemed to glow gold. Her features were sharp, almost exotic, set off by a wide mouth that was soft and relaxed in sleep.

As hallucinations went, you couldn't do much better.

Closing his eyes again, he slept until sunrise.

She was gone when he surfaced the second time. The fire was still crackling, and the dim light coming through the window was watery. The pain in his head hadn't dulled, but it was bearable. With cautious fingertips he probed the bandage on his forehead. He realized, he might have been unconscious for hours or for days. Even as he tried to struggle upright, he discovered that his body was weak and rubbery.

So was his mind, obviously, he decided as he used what strength he had to take in his surroundings. The small, dimly lit room appeared to be fashioned out of stone and wood. He'd seen some carefully preserved relics that had been built of such primitive materials. His family had once taken a vacation west that had included tours of parks and monuments. He turned his head enough so that he could watch the flames eat at the logs. The heat was dry, and the scent was smoke. But it was hardly likely that he would have been given shelter and care in a museum or a historical park.

The worst part was that he didn't have a clue where he was.

"Oh, you're awake." Libby paused in the doorway with a cup of tea in her hand. When her patient just stared at her, she smiled reassuringly and crossed to the couch. He looked so helpless that the shyness she had battled all her life was easily overcome. "I've been worried about you." She sat on the edge of the couch and took his pulse.

He could see her more clearly now. Her hair was no longer tousled, but was combed sleekly from a side part. It was a warm shade of brown. Exotic was exactly the right word to describe her, he decided, with her long-lidded eyes, slender nose and full mouth. In profile she reminded him of a drawing he'd once seen of the ancient Egyptian queen Cleopatra. The fingers that lay lightly on his wrist were cool.

"Who are you?"

Steady, she thought with a nod as she continued to monitor his pulse. And stronger. "I'm not Florence Nightingale, but I'm all you've got." She smiled again and, holding each of his eyelids up in turn, peered closely at his pupils. "How many of me do you see?"

"How many should I see?"

With a chuckle, she arranged a pillow behind his back. "Just one, but since you're concussed, you may be seeing twins."

"I only see one." Smiling, he reached up to touch her subtly pointed chin. "One beautiful one."

Color rushed into her cheeks even as she jerked her head back. She wasn't used to being called beautiful, only competent. "Try some of this. My father's secret blend. It isn't even on the market yet."

Before he could decline, she was holding the cup to his lips. "Thanks." Oddly, the flavor brought back a foggy memory of childhood. "What am I doing here?"

"Recovering. You crashed your plane in the mountains a few miles from here."

"My plane?"

"Don't you remember?" A frown came and went in her eyes. Gold eyes. Big, tawny gold eyes. "It'll come back after a bit, I imagine. You took a bad hit on the head." She urged more tea on him and resisted a foolish urge to brush the hair back from his forehead. "I was watching the storm, or I might not have seen you go down. It's fortunate you're not hurt more than you are. There's no phone in the cabin, and the two-way's in being repaired, so I can't even call for a doctor."

"Two-way?"

"The radio," she said gently. "Do you think you could eat?"

"Maybe. Your name?"

"Liberty Stone." She set the tea aside, then laid a hand on his brow to check for fever. She considered it a minor miracle that he hadn't caught a chill. "My parents were in the first wave of sixties counterculture. So I'm Liberty, which is better than my sister, who got stuck with Sunbeam." Noting his confusion, she laughed. "Just call me Libby. How about you?"

"I don't-" The hand on his brow was cool and real. So she had to be real, he reasoned. But what in the hell was she talking about?

"What's your name? I usually like to know who it is I've saved from plane wrecks."

He opened his mouth to tell her-and his mind was blank. Panic skidded along his spine. She saw it whiten his face and glaze his eyes before his fingers clamped hard over her wrist. "I can't-I can't remember."

"Don't push it." She swore silently, thinking of the radio she had so conscientiously taken for repairs on her trip in for supplies. "You're disoriented. I want you to rest, try to relax, and I'll fix you something to eat."

When he closed his eyes, she got directly to her feet and started back into the kitchen. He'd had no identification, Libby remembered as she began to prepare an omelet. No wallet, no papers, no permits. He could be anyone. A criminal, a psychopath- No. Laughing to herself, she grated some cheese over the egg mixture. Her imagination had always been fruitful. Hadn't the ability to picture primitive and ancient cultures as real people-families, lovers, children-pushed her forward in her career?

But, imagination aside, she had also always been a good judge of character. That, too, probably came from her fascination with people and their habits. And, she admitted ruefully, from the fact that she had always been more comfortable observing people than interacting with them.

The man who was wrestling with his own demons in her living room wasn't a threat to her. Whoever he was, he was harmless. She flipped the omelet expertly, then turned to reach for a plate. With a shriek, she dropped the pan, eggs and all. Her harmless patient was standing, gloriously naked, in her kitchen doorway.

"Hornblower," he managed as he started to slide down the jamb. "Caleb Hornblower."

Dimly he heard her swearing at him. Shaking off his giddiness, he surfaced to find her face close to his. Her arms were around him, and she was struggling to drag him up. In an attempt to help her, he reached out and sent them both sprawling.

Winded, Libby lay flat on her back, pinned under his body. "You'd better still be disoriented."

"Sorry." He had time to register that she was tall and very firm. "Did I knock you down?"

"Yes." Her arms were still around him, her hands splayed over a ridge of muscle along his back. She snatched them away, blaming her breathlessness on her fall. "Now, if you don't mind, you're a little heavy."

He managed to brace one hand on the floor and push himself up a couple of inches. He was dazed, he admitted to himself, but he wasn't dead. And she felt like heaven beneath him. "Maybe I'm too weak to move."

Was that amusement? Yes, Libby decided, that was definitely amusement in his eyes. That ageless and particularly infuriating male amusement. "Hornblower, if you don't move, you're going to be a whole lot weaker." She caught the quick flash of his grin before she squirmed out from under him. She made a halfhearted attempt to keep her eyes on his face-and only his face-as she helped him up. "If you're going to walk around, you're going to have to wait until you can manage it on your own." She slipped a supporting hand around his waist and instantly felt a strong, uncomfortable reaction. "And until I dig through my father's things and find you some pants."

"Right." He sank gratefully onto the couch.

"This time stay put until I come back."

He didn't argue. He couldn't. The walk to the kitchen doorway and back had sapped what strength he'd had left. It was an odd and unwelcome feeling, this weakness. He couldn't remember having been sick a day in his adult life. True, he'd bashed himself up pretty good in that aircycle wreck, but he'd been, what-eighteen?

Damn it, if he could remember that, why couldn't he remember how he'd gotten here? Closing his eyes, he sat back and tried to think above the throbbing in his head.

He'd wrecked his plane. That was what she-Libby-had said. He certainly felt as though he'd wrecked something. It would come back, just as his name had come back to him after that initial terrifying blankness.

She walked back in carrying a plate. "Lucky for you I just laid in supplies." When he opened his eyes, she hesitated and nearly bobbled the eggs a second time. The way he looked, she told herself, half-naked, with only a blanket tossed over his lap and the glow of the fire dancing over his skin, was enough to make any woman's hands unsteady. Then he smiled.

"It smells good."

"My specialty." She let out a long, quiet breath, then sat beside him. "Can you manage it?"

"Yeah. I only get dizzy when I stand up." He took the plate and let his hunger hold sway. After the first bite, he sent her a surprised glance. "Are these real?"

"Real? Of course they're real."

With a little laugh, he took another forkful. "I haven't had real eggs in-I don't remember."

She thought she'd read somewhere that the military used egg substitutes. "These are real eggs from real chickens." The way he plowed his way through them made her smile. "You can have more."

"This should hold me." He looked back to see her smiling as she sipped her ever-present cup of tea. "I guess I haven't thanked you for helping me out."

"I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"Why are you here?" He took another look around the cabin. "In this place?"

"I suppose you could say I'm on sabbatical. I'm a cultural anthropologist, and I've just finished several months of field research. I'm working on my dissertation."

"Here?"

It pleased her that he hadn't made the usual comment about her being too young to be a scientist. "Why not?" She took his empty plate and set it aside. "It's quiet-except for the occasional plane crash. How are your ribs? Hurt?"

He looked down, noticing the bruises for the first time. "No, not really. Just sore."

"You know, you're very lucky. Except for the head wound, you got out of that with cuts and bruises. The way you were coming down, I didn't expect to find anyone alive."

"The crash control-" He got a misty image of himself pushing switches. Lights, flashing lights. The echo of warning bells. He tried to focus, to concentrate, but it broke apart.

"Are you a test pilot?"

"What? No- No, I don't think so."

She put a comforting hand on his. Then, unnerved by the depth of her reaction, cautiously removed it again.

"I don't like puzzles," he muttered.

"I'm crazy about them. So I'll help you put this one together."

He turned his head until their eyes met. "Maybe you won't like the solution."

A ripple of unease ran through her. He'd be strong. When his injuries healed, his body would be as strong as she sensed his mind was. And they were alone- as completely alone as any two people could be. She shook off the feeling and busied herself drinking tea. What was she supposed to do, toss him and his concussion out into the rain?

"We won't know until we find it," she said at length. "If the storm lets up, I should be able to get you to a doctor in a day or two. In the meantime, you'll have to trust me."

He did. He couldn't have said why, but from the moment he'd seen her dozing in the chair he'd known she was someone he could count on. The problem was, he didn't know if he could trust himself-or if she could.

"Libby-" She turned toward him again, and the moment she did he lost what he'd wanted to say. "You have a nice face," he murmured, and watched her tawny eyes turn wary. He wanted to touch her, felt compelled to. But the moment he lifted his hand she was up and out of reach.

"I think you should get some more rest. There's a spare bedroom upstairs." She was speaking quickly now, her words fast and edgy. "I couldn't get you up there last night, but you'd be more comfortable."

He studied her for a moment. He wasn't used to women backing away from him. Cal mused over that impression until he was certain it was a true one. No, when there was attraction between a man and a woman, the rest was easy. Maybe all his circuits weren't working, but he knew there was attraction on both sides.

"Are you matched?"

Libby's brows lifted into her fringe of bangs. "Am I what?"

"Matched? Do you have a mate?"

She had to laugh. "That's a quaint way of putting it. No, not at the moment. Let me help you upstairs." She held up a hand before he could push himself up. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd keep that blanket on."

"It's not cold," he said. Then, with a shrug, he hooked the material around his hips.

"Here, lean on me." She draped his arm over her shoulder, then slipped her own around his waist. "Steady?"

"Almost." When they started forward, he found that he was only slightly dizzy. He was almost sure he could have made it on his own, but he liked the idea of starting up the stairs with his arm wrapped around her. "I've never been in a place like this before."

Her heart was beating a little too quickly. Since he was putting almost none of his weight on her, she couldn't blame it on exertion. Proximity, however, was a different matter. "I suppose it's rustic by most standards, but I've always loved it."

Rustic was a mild word for it, he mused, but he didn't want to offend her. "Always?"

"Yes, I was born here."

He started to speak again, but when he turned his head he caught a whiff of her hair. When his body tightened, he became aware of his bruises.

"Right in here. Sit at the foot of the bed while I turn it down." He did as she asked, then ran his hand over one of the bedposts, amazed. It was wood, he was certain it was wood, but it didn't seem to be more than twenty or thirty years old. And that was ridiculous.

"This bed-"

"It's comfortable, really. Dad made it, so it's a little wobbly, but the mattress is good."

Cal's fingers tightened on the post. "Your father made this? It's wood?"

"Solid oak, and heavy as a truck. Believe it or not, I was born in it, since at that time my parents didn't believe in doctors for something as basic and personal as childbirth. I still find it hard to picture my father with his hair in a ponytail and wearing love beads." She straightened and caught Cal staring at her. "Is something wrong?"

He just shook his head. He must need rest-a lot more rest. "Was this-" He made a weak gesture to indicate the cabin. "Was this some kind of experiment?"

Her eyes softened, showing a combination of amusement and affection. "You could call it that." She went to a rickety bureau her father had built. After rummaging through it, she came up with a pair of sweatpants. "You can wear these. Dad always leaves some clothes out here, and you're pretty much the same size."

"Sure." He took her hand before she could leave the room. "Where did you say we were?"

He looked so concerned that she covered his hand with hers. "Oregon, southwest Oregon, just over the California border in the Klamath mountains."

"Oregon." The tension in his fingers relaxed slightly. "U.S.A.?"

"The last time I looked." Concerned, she checked for fever again.

He took her wrist, concentrating on keeping his grip light. "What planet?"

Her eyes flew to his. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn the man was serious. "Earth. You know, the third from the sun," she said, humoring him. "Get some rest, Hornblower. You're just rattled."

"Yeah." He let out a long breath. "I guess you're right."

"Just yell if you need something."

He sat where he was when she left him. He had a feeling, a bad one. But she was probably right-he was rattled. If he was in Oregon, in the northern hemisphere of his own planet, he wasn't that far off course. Off course, he repeated as his head began to pound. What course had he been on?

He looked down at the watch on his wrist and frowned at the dials. In a gesture that came from instinct rather than thought, he pressed the small stem on the side. The dials faded, and a series of red numbers blinked on the black face.

Los Angeles. A wave of relief washed over him as he recognized the coordinates. He'd been returning to base in L.A. after- after what, damn it?

He lay down slowly and discovered that Libby had been right. The bed was surprisingly comfortable. Maybe if he just went to sleep, clocked out for a few hours, he would remember the rest. Because it seemed important to her, Cal tugged on the sweats.

What had she gotten herself into? Libby wondered. She sat in front of her computer and stared at the blank screen. She had a sick man on her hands-an incredibly good-looking sick man. One with a concussion, partial amnesia- and eyes to die for. She sighed and propped her chin on her hands. The concussion she could handle. She'd considered learning extensive first aid as important as studying the tribal habits of Western man. Fieldwork often took scientists to remote places where doctors and hospitals didn't exist.

But her training didn't help her with the amnesia. And it certainly didn't help her with his eyes. Her knowledge of man came straight out of books and usually dealt with his cultural and sociopolitical habits. Any one-on-one had been purely scientific research.

She could put up a good front when it was necessary. Her battle with a crushing shyness had been long and hard. Ambition had pushed her through, driving her to ask questions when she would have preferred to have melded with the background and been ignored. It had given her the strength to travel, to work with strangers, to make a select few trusted friends.

But when it came to a personal man-woman relationship-

For the most part, the men she saw socially were easily dissuaded. The majority of them were intimidated by her mind, which she admitted was usually one-track. Then there was her family. Thinking of them made her smile. Her mother was still the dreamy artist who had once woven blankets on a handmade loom. And her father- Libby shook her head as she thought of him. William Stone might have made a fortune with Herbal Delights, but he would never be a three-piece-suit executive.

Bob Dylan music and board meetings. Lost causes and profit margins.

The one man she'd brought home to a family dinner had left confused and unnerved-and undoubtedly hungry, Libby remembered with a laugh. He hadn't been able to do more than stare at her mother's zucchini-and-soybean souffl‚.

Libby was a combination of her parents' idealism, scientific practicality and dreamy romanticism. She believed in causes, in mathematical equations and in fairy tales. A quick mind and a thirst for knowledge had locked her far too tightly to her work to leave room for real romance. And the truth was that real romance, when applied to her, scared the devil out of her.

So she sought it in the past, in the study of human relationships.

She was twenty-three and, as Caleb Hornblower had put it, unmatched.

She liked the phrase, found it accurate and concise on the one hand and highly romantic on the other. To be matched, she mused, was the perfect way to describe a relationship. She corrected herself. A true relationship, like her parents'. Perhaps the reason she was more at ease with her studies than with men was that she had yet to meet her match.

Satisfied with her analysis, she slipped on her glasses and went to work.

CHAPTER 2

The rain had slowed when he woke. It was only a hiss and patter against the windows. It was as soothing as a sleep tape. Cal lay still for a moment, reminding himself where he was and struggling to remember why.

He'd dreamed- something about flashing lights and a huge black void. The dreams had brought a clammy sweat to his skin and had accelerated his heartbeat. He made a conscious effort to level it.

Pilots had to have a strong and thorough control over their bodies and their emotions. Decisions often had to be made instantly, even instinctively. And the rigors of flight required a disciplined, healthy body.

He was a pilot. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated on that. He'd always wanted to fly. He'd been trained. His mouth went dry as he fought to remember- anything, any small piece.

The ISF. He closed his hands into fists until his pulse leveled again. He'd been with the ISF and earned a captaincy. Captain Hornblower. That was right, he was sure of it. Captain Caleb Hornblower. Cal. Everyone called him Cal except his mother. A tall, striking woman with a quick temper and an easy laugh.

A new flood of emotion struck him. He could see her. Somehow that, more than anything else, gave him a sense of identity. He had family-not a mate, of that he was sure, but parents and a brother. His father was a quiet man, steady, dependable. His brother.. Jacob. Cal let out a quiet breath as the name and the image formed in his mind. Jacob was brilliant, impulsive, stubborn.

Because his head was pounding again, he let it go. It was enough.

His eyes opened slowly and he thought of Libby. Who was she? Not just a beautiful woman with warm brown hair and eyes like a cat. Being beautiful was easy, even ordinary. She didn't strike him as ordinary. Perhaps it was the place. He frowned at the log walls and the gleaming glass windows. Nothing was ordinary here. And certainly no woman he had ever known would have chosen to live here, like this. Alone.

Had she really been born in the bed he was now in, or had she been joking? It occurred to Cal that a great deal of her behavior was odd, and perhaps there was a joke somewhere, and he'd missed the punch line.

A cultural anthropologist, he mused. That might explain it. It was possible he'd dropped down in the middle of some kind of field experiment, a simulation. For her own reasons, Liberty Stone was living in the fashion of the era she studied. It was odd, certainly, but as far as he was concerned most scientists were a bit odd. He could certainly understand looking toward the future, but why anyone would want to dig back into the past was beyond him. The past was done and couldn't be changed or fixed, so why study it?

Her business, he supposed.

He owed her. From what he could piece together, he might well have died if she hadn't come along. He'd have to pay her back as soon as he was working on all thrusters again. It pleased him to know that he was a man who settled debts.

Liberty Stone. Libby. He turned her name over in his mind and smiled. He liked the sound of her name, the soft sound of it. Soft, like her eyes. It was one thing to be beautiful; it was another to have gorgeous velvet eyes. You could change the color of them, the shape, but never the expression. Maybe it was that that made her so appealing. Everything she felt seemed to leap right into her eyes.

He'd managed to stir a variety of feelings in her, Cal thought as he pushed himself up in bed. Concern, fear, humor, desire. And she had stirred him. Even through his confusion he'd felt a strong, healthy response, a man-woman response.

He dropped his head into his hands as the room spun. His system might be churning for Libby Stone, but he was far from ready to do anything about it. More than a little disgusted, he settled back on the pillows. A little more rest, he decided. A day or two of letting his body heal should snap his mind and his memory back. He knew who he was and where he was. The rest would come.

A book on the table beside the bed caught his eye.

He'd always liked to read, almost as much as he'd liked to fly. He preferred the written word to tapes or disks. That was another good and solid memory. Pleased with it, Cal picked up the book.

The title puzzled him. Journey to Andromeda seemed a particularly foolish name for a book, especially when it was touted as science fiction. Anyone with a free weekend could journey to Andromeda-if he liked being bored into a coma. With a small frown, he started to leaf through the book. Then his eyes fell on the copyright page.

That was wrong. The clammy sweat was back. That was ridiculous. The book he was holding was new. The back hadn't been broken, and the pages looked as though they'd never been turned. Some stupid clerical error, he told himself, but his mouth was bone-dry. It had to be an error. How else could he be holding a book that had been published nearly three centuries ago?

Absorbed in her work, Libby ignored the small circle of pain at the center of her back. She knew very well that posture was important when she was writing for several hours at a stretch, but once she lost herself in ancient or primitive civilizations she always forgot everything else.

She hadn't eaten since breakfast, and the tea she'd carried up with her was stone-cold. Her notes and reference books were scattered everywhere, along with clothes she hadn't yet put away and the stack of newspapers she'd picked up at the store. She'd toed off her shoes and had her stockinged feet curled around the legs of her chair. Occasionally she stopped hammering at the keyboard to push her round, black framed glasses back on her nose.

It cannot be argued that the addition of modern implements has a strong and not always positive effect on an isolated culture such as the Kolbari. The islanders have remained, in the latter years of the twentieth century, at a folk level and do not, as has been implied in the human relations area files, seek integration with the modern industrial societies. What may be seen by certain factions as offering the convenience of progress, medically, industrially, educationally, is most often-

"Libby."

"What?" The word came but in a hiss of annoyance before she turned. "Oh." She spotted Cal, pale and shaky, with one hand braced on the doorframe and the other wrapped around a paperback. "What are you doing up, Hornblower? I told you to call if you needed anything." Annoyed with him and with the interruption, she rose to help him to a chair. The moment she touched his arm, he jerked away.

"What are you wearing on your face?"

The tone of his voice had her moistening her lips. It was fury, with a touch of fear. A dangerous combination. "Glasses. Reading glasses."

"I know what they are, damn it. Why are you wearing them?"

Go slow, she warned herself. She took his arm gently and spoke as if she were soothing a wounded lion. "I need them to work."

"Why haven't you had them fixed?"

"My glasses?"

He gritted his teeth. "Your eyes. Why haven't you had your eyes fixed?"

Cautious, she took the glasses off and held them behind her back. "Why don't you sit down?"

He only shook his head. "I want to know the meaning of this."

Libby looked at the book in his hand, the one he was shaking in her face. She cleared her throat. "I don't know the meaning, since I haven't read it. I imagine my father left it here. He's into science fiction."

"That's not what I-" Patience, he told himself. He had never had an abundance of it, and now was the time to use all he could find. "Open it up to the copyright page."

"All right. I will if you'll sit. You're not looking well."

He reached the chair in two rocky strides. "Open it. Read the date."

Head injuries could often cause erratic behavior, Libby thought. She didn't believe he was dangerous, but all the same she decided it was best to humor him and read the year out loud, then she tried an easy smile. "Hot off the presses," she added.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"I'm not sure." He was furious, she realized. And terrified. "Caleb." She said his name quietly as she crouched beside him.

"Does that book have something to do with your work?"

"My work?" The question threw her off enough to have her frowning at him, then at the computer behind her. "I'm an anthropologist. That means I study-"

"I know what it means." Patience be damned, he thought. Incensed, he snatched the book from her. "I want to know what this means."

"It's just a book. If I know my father, it's second-rate science fiction about invasions from the planet Kriswold. You know, mutants and ray guns and space warriors. That kind of thing." She eased it from his hand. "Let me get you back to bed. I'll make you some soup."

He looked at her, saw the soft eyes overflowing with concern, the encouraging half smile. And the nerves. His gaze shifted to where her hand lay almost protectively over his, despite the fact that he had obviously frightened her. There was a link there. It was absurd to believe that, almost as absurd as it was to believe the date in the book.

"Maybe I'm losing my mind."

"No." Her fear forgotten, she lifted her free hand to his face, soothing him as she would have anyone who seemed so utterly lost. "You're hurt."

He closed surprisingly strong fingers over her wrist. "Jolted the memory banks? Yeah, maybe. Libby-" His eyes were suddenly intense, almost desperate. "What's the date today?"

"It's May the 24th or 25th. I lose track."

"No, the whole thing." He fought to keep the urgency out of his voice. "Please."

"Okay, it's probably Tuesday, the 25th." Then she repeated the year. "How's that?"

"Fine." He pulled out every ounce of control and managed to smile at her. One of them was crazy, and he dearly hoped it was Libby. "You got anything to drink around here besides that tea?"

She frowned for a moment. Then her face cleared. "Brandy. There's always some downstairs. Hold on a minute."

"Yeah, thanks."

He waited until he heard her moving down the stairs. Then, cautiously, he rose and pulled open the first drawer that came to hand. There had to be something in this ridiculous place to tell him what was going on.

He found lingerie, neatly stacked despite the chaos of the rest of the room. He frowned a moment over the styles and materials. She'd said she wasn't matched, yet it was obvious that she wore things to please a man. Apparently she preferred the romance of past eras even when it came to her underwear. Far from comfortable with the ease with which he could picture Libby in this little chocolate-brown swatch with the white lace, he shoved the drawer shut again.

The next drawer was just as tidy and held jeans and sturdy hiking pants. He puzzled for a moment over a zipper, ran it slowly up and down, then shoved the jeans back into place. Annoyed, he turned and started toward her desk, where her computer continued to hum. He had time to think it was a noisy, archaic machine before he stumbled over the pile of newspapers. He didn't scan the headlines or study the picture. His eyes were drawn to the date.

He was unarguably in the twentieth century.

His stomach clenched. Ignoring the sudden buzzing in his ears, he bent to snatch up the paper. Words danced in front of his eyes. Something about arms talks-nuclear arms, he noted with a kind of dull horror-and hail damage in the Midwest. There was a tease about the Mariners trouncing the Braves. Very slowly, knowing his legs would give out in a moment, he lowered himself back into the chair.

It was too bad, he thought dully. It was too damn bad, but it wasn't Libby Stone who was going crazy.

"Caleb?" The moment she saw his face, Libby rushed into the room with brandy sloshing in a snifter. "You're white as a sheet."

"It's nothing." He had to be careful now, very careful. "I guess I stood up too fast."

"I think you really could use some of this." She held the snifter until she was certain he had both hands on it. "Take it slow," she began, but he'd already drained it. Sitting back on her heels, she frowned at him. "That should cure you or knock you out again."

The brandy was the genuine article and no hallucination, he decided. It was velvet fire coursing down his throat. He closed his eyes and let the fire spread. "I'm still a little disoriented. How long have I been here?"

"Since last night." The color was coming back, she noted. His voice sounded calmer, more controlled. It wasn't until her muscles relaxed that she realized how tightly they'd been tensed. "I guess I saw you crash about midnight."

"You saw it?"

"Well, I saw the lights and heard you hit." She smiled, continuing to monitor his pulse, when he opened his eyes again. "For a minute I thought I was seeing a meteor or a UFO or something."

"A-a UFO?" he repeated, dazed.

"Not that I believe in extraterrestrials or spaceships or anything, but my father's always been fascinated by that kind of thing. I realized it was a plane." He was staring at her again, she thought, but there was curiosity rather than anger in his eyes. "Feeling better?"

He couldn't have begun to tell her how and what he was feeling. Cal had an idea that that was all for the best. He needed to think before he said too much. "Some." Still hoping it was all some bizarre mistake, he rattled the paper in his hand. "Where'd you get this?"

"I drove into Brookings a couple of days ago. That's about seventy miles from here. I picked up supplies and a few newspapers." She glanced absently at the one in his hand. "I haven't gotten around to reading any of them yet, so they're already old news."

"Yeah." He looked at the papers that were still on the floor. "Old news."

With a laugh, she rose and began to make an effort to tidy the room. "I always feel so cut off here, more so than when I'm in the field hundreds of miles away. I imagine we could establish a colony on Mars and I wouldn't hear about it until it was all over."

"A colony on Mars," he murmured, feeling his stomach sink as he glanced at the paper again. "I think you've got about a hundred years to go."

"Sorry I'll miss it." With a sigh, she looked out the window. "Rain's starting up again. Maybe we can catch the weather on the early news." After stepping over books, she flicked on a small portable television. After a moment, a snowy picture blinked on. She dragged a hand through her hair and decided to watch without her glasses. "The weather should be on in a-Caleb?" She tilted her head to one side, fascinated by his dumbstruck expression. "I'd swear you'd never seen a television in your life."

"What?" He brought himself back, wishing he had another brandy. A television. He'd heard of them, of course, in the same way Libby had heard of covered wagons. "I didn't realize you had one."

"We're rustic," she told him, "not primitive." She narrowed her eyes when he gave a choked laugh. "Maybe you should lie down again."

"Yeah." And when he woke up again, this would all have been a dream. "Mind if I take these papers?"

She stood to help him up. "I don't know if you should be reading."

"I think that's the least of my worries." He discovered that the room didn't spin this time, but it was still a comfort to drape his arm around her shoulders. Strong shoulders, he thought. And a soft scent. "Libby, if I wake up and find out this has all been an illusion, I want you to know you've been the best part of it."

"That's nice."

"I mean it." The brandy and his own weakened system were taking over. Because his mind felt as if it had been fried in a solar blast, he didn't fight it. She had little trouble easing him into bed. But his arm stayed around her shoulders long enough to keep her close, just close enough to brush his lips over hers. "The very best."

She jerked back like a spring. He was asleep, and her blood was pounding.

Who was Caleb Hornblower? The question interrupted Libby's work throughout the evening. Her interest in the Kolbari Islanders didn't even come close to her growing fascination with her unexpected and confusing guest.

Who was he, and what was she going to do about him? The trouble was, she had a whole list of unanswered questions that applied to her odd patient, Caleb Hornblower. Libby was a great listmaker, and a woman who knew herself well enough to be aware that all her organizational talents were eaten up by her work.

Who was he? Why had he been flying through a storm at midnight? Where did he come from and where had he been going? Why had a simple paperback novel sent him into a panic? Why had he kissed her?

Libby pulled herself up short there. That particular question wasn't important-it wasn't even relevant. He hadn't really kissed her, she reminded herself. And whether he had or hadn't wasn't the issue. It was gratitude, she decided, and began to nibble on her thumbnail. He'd only been trying to show her that he was grateful to her. Libby certainly understood that a kiss was-could be-a very casual gesture. It was part of Western culture. Over the centuries it had become as unimportant as a smile or a handshake. It was a sign of friendship, affection, sympathy, gratitude. And desire. She bit down harder on her nail.

Not all societies used the kiss, of course. Many tribal cultures- She was lecturing again, Libby thought in disgust. She looked down at her hands. And she was biting her nails. That was a bad sign.

What she needed was to get her mind off Hornblower for a while and fill her stomach. Pressing a hand to it, Libby rose. She wasn't going to get any work done this way, so she might as well eat.

Since Caleb's room was dark, she passed it by, telling herself she'd check on him when she came back up. Sleep was undoubtedly more essential to his recovery than another meal.

There was a low rumble of thunder as she descended the stairs. Another bad sign, she thought. At this rate it would be days before she could get him down the mountain.

Perhaps someone was already looking for him. Friends, family, business associates. A wife or a lover. Everyone had someone.

She groped for the kitchen light as the sky cracked with the first bolt of lightning. It was going to be another boomer, she decided as she opened the refrigerator door. Finding nothing that appealed to her, she rummaged through the cupboards. A night like this called for a nice bowl of soup and a seat by the fire.

Alone.

She sighed a little as she opened the can. Recently she'd begun to think about being alone. As a scientist she knew the reason. She lived in a culture of couples. Single-unmatched, she remembered with a quick smile-single men and women often found themselves dissatisfied and depressed in their own company. The entertainment media subtly-and not so subtly-drilled into them the pleasures of relationships. Families added pressure for the single to marry and continue the family line. Good-natured friends offered help and advice, generally unwanted, on finding a mate. The human being was programmed, almost from birth, to search for and find a companion of the opposite sex.

Maybe that was why she'd resisted. An interesting analysis, Libby mused as she stirred the soup. The desire for individuality and self-sufficiency had been ingrained in her from birth. It would take a very special person to tempt her to share. She had dated only rarely in high school. The same pattern had held true in college. She'd had no interest.

That wasn't precisely true, she thought. She had had interest-the trouble was, it had usually been scientific. She'd never met a man who dazzled her enough to stop her from making lists and forming hypotheses. Professor Stone, they'd called her in high school. And it still rankled. In college she'd been considered a professional virgin. She'd detested that, had struggled to ignore it, pouring her energy into her studies. The appeal of her personality had made her friends, both male and female. But intimate relationships were another matter.

When all the data had been analyzed, there had never been one who had made her- well, yearn, Libby decided. That was the appropriate term.

She supposed there wasn't a man on the planet who could make her yearn.

Wooden spoon in hand, she turned to take out a bowl. For the second time she saw Cal framed in the doorway. She gave a muffled shriek, and the spoon went flying. A flash of lightning lit up the room. Then it was plunged into darkness.

"Libby?"

"Damn it, Hornblower, I wish you wouldn't do that." Her voice was breathless as she rummaged through drawers for a candle. "You scared the life out of me."

"Did you think I was one of the mutants from Andromeda?" There was a dry tone to the words that had her wrinkling her nose.

"I told you I don't read that stuff." She closed a drawer on her thumb, swore, then wrenched open another. "Where are the stupid matches?" She turned and bumped solidly into his chest in the dark. Lightning flashed again, illuminating his face. It took only that instant for her mouth to go dry. He'd looked stunning, strong and dangerous.

"You're shaking." His voice had gentled almost imperceptibly, but the hands on her shoulders stayed firm. "Are you really frightened?"

"No, I-" She wasn't a woman to be scared of the dark. Certainly she wasn't a woman to be afraid of a man-intellectually speaking. But she was shaking. The hands that had reached up to his bare chest trembled-and intellect had nothing to do with it. "I need to find the matches."

"Why did you turn the lights off?" She smelled wonderful. In the cool, unrelieved darkness he could concentrate on her scent. It was light and almost sinfully feminine.

"I didn't. The storm knocked out the power." His fingers tightened on her arms, hard enough to make her gasp. "Caleb?"

"Cal." Lightning flashed again, and she saw that his eyes had darkened. He was staring out the window into the storm now. "People call me Cal."

His grip had eased. Though she ordered herself to relax, the crash of the thunder made her jolt. "I like Caleb," she said, hoping her voice was pleasant and casual. "We'll have to save it for special occasions. You have to let me go."

He slid his hands down to her wrists, then back. "Why?"

Her mind went blank. Beneath her palms she could feel the strong, steady beating of his heart. Slowly his fingers skimmed down to her elbows, where his thumbs traced lazy, erotic circles on the sensitive inner skin. She could no longer see him, but she could taste the warm flutter of his breath on her parted lips.

"I-" She felt each separate muscle in her body go lax. "Don't." The word nearly strangled her as she jerked back. "I need to find the matches."

"So you said."

Leaning weakly against the counter, she began to search the drawer again. Even after she found a pack, it took her a full minute to light the match. Thoughtful, his hands plunged deep in the pockets of the sweats, Cal watched the little flame dance and flicker. She lit two tapers, keeping her back to him.

"I was heating soup. Would you like some?"

"All right."

It helped to keep her hands busy. "You must be feeling better."

His mouth twisted into a humorless smile when he thought of the hours he'd lain in the dark willing his memory to return completely. "I must be."

"Headache?"

"Not much of one."

She poured the water she'd already boiled for tea, then arranged everything meticulously on a tray. "I was going to sit by the fire."

"Okay." He picked up the two candles and led the way.

The storm helped, Cal thought. It made everything he was seeing, everything he was doing, seem that much more unreal. Perhaps by the time the rain stopped he'd know what he had to do.

"Did the storm wake you?"

"Yeah." It wouldn't be the last lie he told her. Though he was sorry for the necessity of it, Cal smiled and settled in a chair by the fire. There was something charming about being in a place where a simple rainstorm could leave you in the dark, dependent on candles and firelight. No computer could have set a better scene. "How long do you think it'll be before you regain power?"

"An hour." She tasted the soup. It nearly calmed her. "A day." She laughed and shook her head. "Dad always talked about hooking up a generator, but it was one of those things he never got around to. When we were kids, we'd sometimes have to cook over the fire for days in the winter. And we'd sleep all curled up here on the floor while my parents took turns making sure the fire didn't die out."

"You liked it." Cal knew people who went into preserved areas and camped. He'd always thought they were strange. But the way Libby spoke of it, it seemed homey.

"I loved it. I guess those first five years helped me handle the more primitive parts of digs and field-work."

She was relaxed again. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. Though a nervous Libby held a definite appeal for him, he wanted her relaxed now. The more at ease she was, the more information he might glean.

"What era do you study?"

"No specific era. I'm hung up on tribal life, mainly isolated cultures and the effects of modern tools and machines. Things like how electricity changes the sociopolitical mores of the traditional man. I've toyed around with extinct cultures, Aztecs, Incas." This was easy, she decided. The more she talked about her work, the less she would think about that jolting moment in the kitchen and her own inexplicable reaction to it. "I'm planning on going to Peru in the fall."

"How'd you get started?"

"I think it was a trip to the Yucatan when I was a kid, and all those wonderful Mayan ruins. Have you ever been to Mexico?"

Looking back, he remembered a particularly wild night in Acapulco. "Yes. About ten years ago." Or a couple of centuries from now, he thought, and frowned into his bowl.

"Bad time?"

"What? No. This tea-" He took another sip. "It's familiar."

Grinning, she tucked her legs up under her. "My father will be glad to hear that. Herbal Delight-that's his company. He started it right here in this cabin."

Cal looked down into his cup, then laid his head back and laughed. "I thought that was a myth."

"No." With a half smile forming, she studied him. "I don't get the joke."

"It's hard to explain." Should he tell her that over two centuries from now Herbal Delight would be one of the ten biggest and most powerful companies on Earth and its colonies? Should he tell her that it made not only tea but organic fuel and God knew what else? Here was Cal Hornblower, he thought, sitting cozily in a chair in the cabin where it all began. He noted that she was staring at him as if she were going to check his pulse again.

"My mother used to give me this," he told her. "When I had-" He wasn't sure what childhood illness he could name, but he was certain it wasn't red dust fever. "Whenever I wasn't feeling well."

"A cure for all ills. You're remembering more."

"Patches, pieces," he said, still cautious. "It's easier to remember childhood than last night."

"I don't think that's unusual. Are you married?" Where had that come from? she wondered, and immediately turned her attention to the fire.

He was glad she wasn't looking at him when the grin split his face. "No. It wouldn't be wise for me to want you if I were."

Her mouth dropped open, and she twisted around to look at him. Quickly she rose and began stacking the dishes on the tray. "I should take these back in."

"Would you rather I didn't tell you?"

She had to swallow once, hard, before she could speak at all. "Tell me what?"

"That I want you." He closed his hand over her wrist to keep her still. It amazed and aroused him to feel her pulse hammering. His word-by-word perusal of the newspaper hadn't given him an inkling of how men and women interacted in the here and now, but he didn't believe it could be so different.

"Yes-No."

Smiling, he took the tray out of her hands. "Which?"

"I don't think it's a good idea." When he stood up, she stepped back and felt the heat from the fire on her legs. "Caleb-"

"Is this a special occasion?" He traced a fingertip across her jaw and watched her eyes go as hot as the flames behind her.

"Don't." It was ridiculous. He couldn't make her tremble with just a touch. But all he had done was touch her. And she was trembling.

"When I woke up and saw you sleeping in the chair in the firelight I thought you were an illusion." He rubbed his thumb gently over her bottom lip. "You look like one now."

She didn't feel like one. She felt real, shatteringly real, and terrified. "I have to bank the fire for the night, and you should go back to bed."

"We can bank the fire for the night. Then we can go to bed."

She squared her shoulders, furious at the realization that her palms were sweating. She would not stammer, she promised herself. She would not act the inexperienced fool. She would handle him the way a strong, independent woman would, a woman who knew her own mind. "I'm not going to sleep with you. I don't know you."

So that was a condition, Cal mused. After thinking it over, he found it rather sweet and not completely unreasonable. "All right. How long do you need?"

She stared at him. At length she dragged both hands through her hair. "I can't figure out if you're joking or not, but I do know you're the oddest man I've ever met."

"You don't know the half of it." He watched her bank the fire carefully. Competent hands, he thought, an athletic body, and the most vulnerable eyes he'd ever seen. "We'll get to know each other tomorrow. Then we'll sleep together."

She straightened so quickly that she rapped her head on the mantel. Swearing and rubbing her head, she turned to him. "Not necessarily. In fact it's very unlikely."

He took the screen and placed it in front of the fire, exactly as he had seen her do earlier. "Why?"

"Because-" Flustered, she fumbled for words for a moment. "I don't do that kind of thing."

She recognized genuine astonishment when she saw it. It was staring at her now out of Cal's dark blue eyes. "At all?"

"Really, Hornblower, that's none of your business." Dignity helped, but not a great deal. As she swept up the tray, the bowls slid dangerously, and they would have crashed to the floor if he hadn't caught the end of the tray and balanced it.

"Why are you angry? I only want to make love with you."

"Listen." She took a deep breath. "I've had enough of all this. I did you a favor, and I don't appreciate you insinuating that I should hop into bed with you just because you've-you've got an itch. I don't find it flattering-in fact, I find it very insulting-that you think I'd make love with a perfect stranger just because it's convenient."

He tilted his head, trying to take it all in. "Is inconvenient better?"

She could only grit her teeth. "Listen, Hornblower, I'll drop you off at the nearest singles bar the minute we can get out of here. Until then, keep your distance."

With that, she stormed out of the room. He could hear the dishes crash in the kitchen.

He dug his hands in his pockets again as he started upstairs. Twentieth-century women were very difficult to understand. Fascinating, he admitted, but difficult. And what in the hell was a singles bar?

CHAPTER 3

He felt almost normal in the morning. Normal, Cal thought, if you considered he hadn't even been born yet. It was a bizarre situation, highly improbable according to most of the current scientific theories, and deep down he clung to the faint hope that he was having some kind of long, involved dream.

If he was lucky, he was in a hospital suffering from shock and a little brain damage. But from the looks of things he'd been snapped back over two centuries into the primitive, often violent twentieth century.

The last thing he could remember before waking up on Libby's couch was flying his ship. No, that wasn't quite accurate. He'd been fighting to fly his ship. Something had happened- He couldn't quite bring that into focus yet. Whatever it had been, it had been big.

His name was Caleb Hornblower. He'd been born in the year 2222. That made two his lucky number, he remembered with a half laugh. He was thirty, unmatched, the older of two sons, and a former member of the International Space Force. He'd been a captain, and for the last eighteen months he'd been an independent. He'd made a routine supply delivery to the Brigston Colony on Mars and had veered off from his normal route on the return trip home because of a meteor shower. Then it had happened. Whatever it was.

Now he had to accept the fact that something had shot him back in time. He had crashed, not only through Earth's atmosphere, but through about two and a half centuries. He was a healthy, intelligent flier who was stuck in a time when people considered interplanetary travel the stuff of science fiction and were, incredibly, playing around with nuclear fission.

The good part was that the experience hadn't killed him and he'd landed in an isolated area in the hands of a gorgeous brunette.

It could, he supposed, be worse.

His problem at the moment was figuring out how he could get back to his own time. Alive.

He adjusted his pillow, scratched at the stubble on his chin and wondered what Libby's reaction would be if he went downstairs and calmly related his story.

He'd probably find himself out the door, wearing no more than her father's sweats. Or she'd call the authorities and have him hauled off to whatever passed for rest-and-rehabilitation clinics at this point in time. He didn't imagine they were luxury resorts.

What annoyed him at the moment was that he'd been a poor history student. What he knew about the twentieth century would barely fill a computer screen. But he imagined they would have a pretty primitive way of dealing with a man who claimed he'd crashed his F27 into a mountain after making a routine run to Mars.

Until he could find a way out, he was going to have to keep his problem to himself. In order to do so, he'd have to be more careful about what he said. And what he did.

He'd obviously made a misstep the night before. In more ways than one. He grimaced as he recalled Libby's reaction to his simple suggestion that they spend the night together. Things were obviously done differently then-no, now, he corrected. It was a pity he hadn't paid more attention to those old romances his mother liked to read.

In any case, his problems ran a lot deeper than having been rejected by a beautiful woman. He had to get back to his ship, had to try to reconstruct what had happened in his head. Then he had to make it happen in reality. As far as he could see, that was the only way to get home again.

She had a computer, he remembered. As archaic as it was, between that and the mini on his wrist he might be able to calculate a trajectory.

Right now he wanted a shower, a shave and some more of Libby's eggs. He opened his door and nearly walked into her.

The cup of coffee she held was steaming, and she nearly splashed it all over his bare chest. Libby righted it, though she thought a little scalding was just what he deserved.

"I thought you might like some coffee."

"Thanks." He noted that her voice was frigid, her back stiff. Unless he missed his guess, women hadn't changed that much. The cold shoulder never went out of style. "I want to apologize," he began, offering her his best smile. "I know I veered out of orbit last night."

"That's one way of putting it."

"What I mean is- you were right and I was wrong." If that didn't do the trick, he knew nothing about the nature of women.

"All right." Nothing made her more uncomfortable than holding a grudge. "We'll forget it."

"Is it okay if I think you have beautiful eyes?" He saw her blush and was utterly charmed.

"I suppose." The corners of her mouth turned up. She'd been right about the Celtic blood, she reflected. If the man didn't have Irish ancestors, she'd have to go into a different line of work. "If you can't help it."

He held out a hand. "Friends?"

"Friends." The moment she put her hand in his she wondered why it felt as though she'd made a mistake. Or jumped off a bridge. He had a way of using only the barest brush of his fingertips to send her pulse scrambling. Slowly, wishing he wasn't so obviously aware of her reaction, she drew her hand away. "I'm going to fix breakfast."

"Is it all right if I have a shower?"

"Sure. I'll show you where everything is." More comfortable with something practical to do, she led the way down the hall. "Clean towels in the closet." She opened a narrow louvered door. "Here's a razor if you want to shave." She offered him a disposable safety razor and a can of shaving cream. "Something wrong?" He was staring at the items she offered as though they were instruments of torture. "I guess you're used to an electric," she said, "but I don't have one."

"No." He managed a weak smile, hoping he wouldn't slit his throat. "This is fine."

"Toothbrush." Trying not to stare at him, she handed him a spare that was still in its box. "We don't have an electric one of these, either."

"I'll, ah, rough it."

"Fine. Take whatever looks like it will fit out of the bedroom. There should be jeans and sweaters. I'll have something ready in a half hour. Time enough?"

"Sure."

Cal was still staring at the toiletries in his hands when she shut the door.

Fascinating. Now that he was over the panic, the fear and the disbelief, he was finding the whole episode fascinating. He studied the cardboard box and toothbrush with a grin, like a boy who'd found a fabulous puzzle under the Christmas tree.

They were supposed to use these things three times a day, he remembered. He'd read all about it. They had different flavors of paste that they scrubbed all over their teeth. Sounded revolting. Cal squirted a dab of the shaving cream on his finger. Gamely he touched it to his tongue. It was revolting. How had anyone tolerated it? Of course, that had all been in the days before tooth and gum diseases had been eradicated by fluoratyne.

After opening the box, he ran a thumb over the bristles. Interesting. He grimaced into the mirror, studying his strong white teeth. Maybe he shouldn't take any chances.

Setting everything on the sink, he turned to look at the bathroom. It was like something out of those old videos, he thought. The clunky oval tub, with its single awkward-looking shower head sticking out of the wall. He would start filing it all away. Who could tell, maybe he'd write a book when he got home.

Of more immediate importance was figuring out how to operate the shower. Above the lip of the tub were three round white knobs. One was marked H, another C, and the middle was graced with an arrow. Cal scowled at them. He could certainly figure out that they meant Hot and Cold, but it was a far cry from the individual temperature settings he was accustomed to. There would be no stepping inside and telling the computerized unit he wanted ninety-eight degrees at a mist. It was fend-for-yourself.

He scalded himself first, then froze, then scalded himself again before he and the shower began to understand each other. Once it was running smoothly he could appreciate the feel of hot water beating down on his skin. He found a bottle marked Shampoo, took a moment to be amused by the packaging, then dumped some in his hand.

It smelled like Libby.

Almost immediately his stomach muscles tightened, and a wave of desire flowed over him, as hot as the water on his back. That was odd. Baffled, he continued to stare down at the pool of shampoo. Attraction had always been easy-simple, basic. But this was painful. He pressed a hand to his stomach and waited for it to pass. But it persisted.

It probably had to do with the accident. That was what he told himself, and what he preferred to believe. When he got back home he'd have to check into a rest center for a full workup. But he'd lost his pleasure in the shower. He toweled off quickly. The scent of soap and shampoo-and Libby-was everywhere.

The jeans were a little loose in the waist, but he liked them. Natural cotton was so outrageously expensive that no one but the very rich could afford it. The black roll-necked sweater had a hole in the cuff and made him feel at home. He'd always preferred casual, comfortable clothes. One of the reasons he'd left the ISF was that they had a penchant for uniforms and polish. Barefoot and pleased with himself, he followed the scents of cooking into the kitchen.

She looked great. Her baggy pants accentuated her slenderness and made a man imagine all the curves and angles beneath the material. He liked the way she'd pushed the sleeves of the bulky red sweater up past her elbows. She had very sensitive elbows, he recalled, and felt his stomach knot again.

He wasn't going to think of her that way. He'd promised himself. "Hi."

This time she was expecting him, and she didn't jump. "Hi. Sit down. You can eat before I check your bandage. I hope you like French toast." She turned, holding a plate heaped with it. When their eyes met, her fingers curled tight around the edges. She recognized the sweater, but it didn't remind her of her father when it was tugged over Cal's long, limber torso. "You didn't shave."

"I forgot." He didn't want to admit he'd been afraid to try his skill at it. "It stopped raining."

"I know. The sun's supposed to come out this afternoon." She set the platter down, then tried not to react when he leaned over her to sniff at the food.

"Did you really make that?"

"Breakfast is my best meal." She sat down, breathing a little sigh of relief when he took the seat across from her.

"I could get used to this."

"Eating?"

He took his first bite and let his eyes close with a sigh of pure pleasure. "Eating like this."

She watched him plow through the first stack. "How did you eat before?"

"Packaged stuff, mostly." He'd seen ads for complete meals in packages in the newspaper. At least there was some hope for civilization.

"I live like that myself most of the time. When I come here I get the urge to cook, stack wood, grow herbs. The kind of things we did when I was a kid." And though she'd come here for solitude, she'd discovered she enjoyed his company. He seemed safe this morning, despite her initial reaction to the way he looked in the black sweater and trim jeans. She could almost believe she'd imagined the tense and unexpected little scene by the fire the night before.

"What do you do when you're not crashing planes?"

"I fly." He'd already thought his answer through and had decided it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible.

"Then you are in the service."

"Not anymore." He picked up his coffee and smoothly changed the subject. "I don't know if I've really thanked you properly for everything you've done. I'd like to pay you back for all this, Libby. Do you need anything done around here?"

"I don't think you're up to manual labor at this point."

"If I stay in bed all day again I'll go crazy."

She took a good look at his face, trying not to be distracted by the shape of his mouth. It was impossible to forget how close she'd come to feeling it on hers. "Your color's good. No dizziness?"

"No."

"You can help me wash the dishes."

"Sure." He took his first good look at the kitchen. Like the bath, it distracted and fascinated him. The west wall was stone, with a little hearth cut into it. There was a hammered copper urn on the ledge stuffed with tall dried flowers and weeds. The wide window over the sink opened onto a view of mountains and pine. The sky was gray and clear of traffic. He identified the refrigerator and the stove, both a glossy white. The wide planked-wood floor shone with a polished luster. It felt cool and smooth under his bare feet.

"Looking for something?"

With a little shake of his head, he glanced back at her. "Sorry?"

"The way you were staring out the window, it seemed you were expecting to see something that wasn't there."

"Just, ah- taking in the view."

Satisfied, she gestured toward his plate. "Are you finished?"

"Yeah. This is a great room."

"I've always liked it. Of course, it's a lot more convenient with the new range. You wouldn't believe the old museum piece we used to cook on."

He couldn't keep from grinning. "I'm sure I wouldn't."

"Why do I get the feeling there's a joke and it's two inches above my head?"

"I couldn't say." After picking up his plate, he moved to the sink and began to open cupboards.

"If you're looking for a dishwasher, you're out of luck." Libby stacked the rest of the breakfast dishes in the sink. "My parents would never bend their sixties values that far. No dishwasher, no microwave, no satellite dish." She plugged the sink, then reached in front of Caleb for the bottle of dish detergent. "You want to wash or dry?"

"I'll dry."

He watched, delighted, as she filled the sink with hot, soapy water and began to scrub. Even the smell was nice, he thought, resisting the urge to bend down and sniff at the lemony bubbles.

Libby rubbed an itch on her nose with her shoulder. "Come on, Hornblower, haven't you ever seen a woman wash dishes before?"

He decided to test her reaction. "No. Actually, I think I did in a movie once."

With a bubbling laugh, she handed him a plate. "Progress steals all these charming duties from us. In another hundred years we'll probably have robots that will stack the dishes inside themselves and sterilize them."

"More like a hundred and fifty. What do you want me to do with this?" He turned the plate in his hand.

"Dry it."

"How?"

She lifted a brow and nodded toward a neatly folded cloth. "You might try that."

"Right." He dried the plate and picked up another. "I was hoping to go take a look of what's left of my sh-my plane."

"I can almost guarantee the logging trail's washed out. The Land Rover might make it, but I'd really like to give it another day."

He bit down on his impatience. "You'll point me in the right direction?"

"No, but I'll take you."

"You've already done enough."

"Maybe, but I'm not handing you the key to my car, and you can hardly walk that distance on those roads." She took the corner of his cloth and dried her hands while he tried to formulate a reasonable excuse. "Why wouldn't you want me to see your plane, Hornblower? Even if you'd stolen it, I wouldn't know."

"I didn't steal it."

His tone was just abrupt enough, just annoyed enough, to make her believe him. "Well, then, I'll help you find the wreckage as soon as the trail's safe. For now, have a seat and let me look at that cut."

Automatically he lifted his fingers to the bandage. "It's all right."

"You're having pain. I can see it in your eyes."

He shifted his gaze to meet hers. There was sympathy there, a quiet, comforting sympathy that made him want to rest his cheek on her hair and tell her everything. "It comes and goes."

"Then I'll check it out, give you a couple of aspirin and see if we can make it go again. Come on, Cal." She took the cloth from him and led him to a chair. "Be a good boy."

He sat down, flicking her a glance of amused exasperation. "You sound like my mother."

She patted his cheek in reply before taking fresh bandages and antiseptic from a cupboard. "Just sit still." She uncovered the wound, frowning over it in a way that made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. "Sit still," she murmured. It was a nasty cut, jagged and deep. Bruises the color of storm clouds bloomed around it. "It looks better. At least there doesn't seem to be any infection. You'll have a scar."

Appalled, he lifted his fingers to the wound. "A scar?"

So he was vain, she thought, more than a little amused. "Don't worry, it'll look dashing. I'd be happier if you'd had a few stitches, but I think that's more than my Sears and Roebuck degree can handle."

"Your what?"

"Just a joke. This'll sting some." He swore, loudly and richly, when she cleaned the wound. Before she was half finished, he grabbed her wrist. "Sting? Some?"

"Toughen up, Hornblower. Think about something else."

He set his teeth and concentrated on her face. The burning pushed his breath out in a hiss. Her eyes reflected both determination and understanding as she went competently about cleaning, treating and bandaging the wound.

She really was beautiful, he realized as he studied her in the watery early sunlight. It wasn't cosmetics, and it was highly unlikely that there had been any restructuring. This was the face she'd been born with. Strong, sharp, and with a natural elegance that made him long to stroke her cheek again. Her skin had been soft, he remembered, baby-smooth. And color had rushed in and out of it as her emotions had shifted.

Perhaps, just perhaps, she was an ordinary woman of her time. But to him she was unique and almost unbearably desirable.

That was why she made him ache, Cal told himself as he felt the muscles in his stomach knot and stretch. That was why she made him want her more than he'd ever wanted anything before, more than it was possible for him to want now. She was real, he reminded himself. But it was he who was the illusion. A man who had never been born, yet one who felt as though he had never been more alive.

"Do you do this often?" he asked her.

She hated knowing she was causing him pain, and she answered absently, "Do what often?"

"Rescue men."

He watched her lips curve and could almost taste them. "You're my first."

"Good."

"There, that should do."

"Aren't you going to kiss it and make it better?" His mother had always done so, as he imagined mothers had done for all time. When she laughed, he felt his heart lurch in his chest.

"Since you were brave." She leaned down and brushed her lips just above the bandage.

"It still hurts." He took her hand before she could move away. "Why don't you try again?"

"I'll get the aspirin." Her hand flexed in his. She would have backed away when he rose, but something in his eyes told her it would do no good. "Caleb-"

"I make you nervous." His thumb caressed her knuckles. "It's very stimulating."

"I'm not trying to stimulate you."

"Apparently you don't have to try." She was nervous, he thought again, but not frightened. He would have stopped if he'd seen fear. Instead, he brought her hand to his lips, then turned the palm upward. "You have wonderful hands, Libby. Gentle hands." He saw the emotions flickering in her eyes-confusion, unease, desire. He concentrated on the desire and drew her closer.

"Stop." She was appalled by the lack of conviction in her own voice. "I told you, I-" He brushed his lips against her temple, and her knees turned to water. "I'm not going to bed with you."

With a quiet murmur of agreement, he ran his hand up her back until her body was fitted against his. It amazed him how much he'd wanted to hold her like this. Her head nestled perfectly against his shoulder, as if they had been made to dance together. He had a moment's regret that there wasn't music, something low and pulsing. The thought made him smile. None of the women in his life had ever wanted to have the stage set. Nor had he ever had the urge to set one before.

"Relax," he murmured, and slid his hand up to the back of her neck. "I'm not going to make love with you. I'm only going to kiss you."

Panic had her straining away. "No, I don't-"

The fingers at the back of her neck shifted, tightened, held firm. Later, when she could think, she would tell herself that he had inadvertently touched some nerve, some secret vulnerability. An unspeakable pleasure sprang into her, and her head fell back in submission. On the heels of that flash of sensation he brought his lips to hers.

She went rigid, though not from fear, not from anger, and certainly not in resistance. It was shock, wave after wave of it. A live wire, she thought dimly. Somehow she had closed her hand over a live wire, and the voltage was deadly.

His lips barely touched hers, teasing, titillating, tormenting. It was a caress, mouth against mouth, unbearably erotic. Then it was a nibble, an almost playful nibble. And a caress again, sweet and light and compelling. His lips were warm and smooth as they rubbed a whispering trail over hers. In arousing contrast, the stubble of his beard scraped roughly over her cheek as he turned his head to trace the outline of her lips with his tongue.

It was ultimate, impossibly so, the way he tasted her, toyed with her. His tongue dipped to hers, savoring dark new flavors, before he changed the mood again and caught her bottom lip between his teeth, nipping, stopping unerringly at a point between pleasure and pain.

It was seduction, the kind she had never dreamed of. Slow, soft-edged, inescapable seduction. She could hear the low, helpless sound that caught in her throat as he closed his teeth lightly over her chin.

The hand that had tensed against his chest began to tremble. She felt the solid cabin floor sway under her feet. Her rigidity melted degree by degree until she was shuddering with the heat and pliant in his arms.

He'd never experienced anything, anyone, like her. It was as though she had melted against him, quietly, completely. Her taste was fresh, like the air that wafted through the open window. He heard the soft, yielding sound of her sigh.

Then her arms were around him, clinging. She plunged her fingers deep into his hair as she strained against him. In a heartbeat, her mouth went from submissive to avid, pressing hungrily, possessively, desperately, against his. Rocked by the force, he dived into the kiss and let passion rule.

She wanted- too much. Why hadn't she known she'd been starving? Just the taste of him made her ravenous. Her body felt as though it would explode as dozens of new sensations arrowed into it, each of them sharp, separate and stunning. A muffled cry escaped her when his arms tightened painfully around her. She was no longer trembling-but he was.

What was she doing to him? He couldn't catch his breath. He couldn't think. But he could feel-too much, too quickly. The loss of control was more dangerous to a pilot than an uncharted meteor storm. He'd only meant to give and take a moment of pleasure, to satisfy a simple need. But this was more than pleasure, and it was far from simple. He needed to pull back before he was sucked into something he didn't yet understand.

He drew her away with unsteady hands. It helped-a little-that her breathing was as ragged as his. Her eyes were wide and stunned. Yes, stunned was the word, he decided. He felt as though he'd flown into the side of a building.

What had he done? Confused, she lifted a hand to her lips. What had she done? She could almost feel her blood bubbling through her veins. Libby took a step back, wanting to find solid ground again, and easy answers.

"Wait." He couldn't resist. He might curse himself for it later, but he couldn't resist. Before the first shock waves had passed, he hauled her against him a second time.

Not again. The single thought echoed in both their minds as they went under. The pull was just as strong, the need just as gripping. She felt herself seesaw between limp surrender and furious demand before she managed to yank herself free.

She nearly stumbled, and caught the back of a kitchen chair to steady herself. Her knuckles went white on the wood as she stared at him, dragging air into her lungs. She knew nothing about him, yet she had given him more than she had ever given anyone. Her mind was trained to ask questions, but at the moment it was her heart, fragile and irrational, that held sway.

"If you're going to stay here, in this house, I don't want you to touch me again."

It was fear he saw in her eyes now. He understood it, as he felt a trace of it himself. "I didn't expect that any more than you did. I'm not sure I like it any more than you do."

"Then we shouldn't have any trouble avoiding anything like this in the future."

He tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, not bothering to analyze why he was suddenly so angry. "Listen, babe, that was just as much your doing as mine."

"You grabbed me."

"No, I kissed you. You did the grabbing." It gave him little satisfaction to see her color rise. "I didn't force myself on you, Libby, and we both know it. But if you want to pretend you've got ice in your veins, that's fine with me."

The embarrassed flush fled from her face, leaving it very white and very still. In contrast, her eyes went dark and wide. The stunned hurt that glazed them had him cursing himself and stepping forward.

"I'm sorry."

She shifted behind the chair and managed to speak calmly. "I don't want or expect an apology from you, but I do expect cooperation."

His eyes narrowed. "You'll get both."

"I have a lot of work to do. You're welcome to take the television into your room, and there are books on the shelf by the fireplace. I'd appreciate it if you'd stay out of my way for the rest of the day."

He dug his hands into his pockets. If she wanted to be stubborn, he could match her. "Fine."

She waited, her arms crossed over her chest, until he strode out of the room. She wanted to throw something, preferably something breakable. He had no right to say that to her after what he'd made her feel.

Ice in her veins? No, her problem had always been that she felt too much, wanted too much. Except when it came to personal, physical, one-to-one relationships with men. Miserable, she yanked out the chair and dropped onto it. She was a devoted daughter, a loving sister, a faithful friend. But no one's lover. She'd never experienced the driving need for intimacy. At times she'd been certain there was something lacking in her.

With one kiss, Cal had made her want things she'd almost convinced herself weren't important. At least not for her. She had her work, she was ambitious, and she knew she would make her mark. She had her family, her friends, her associates. Damn it, she was happy. She didn't need some hotshot pilot who couldn't keep his plane in the air to come along and make her feel restless-and alive, she mused, running a fingertip over her bottom lip. She hadn't known just how alive she could feel until he'd kissed her.

It was ridiculous. More unnerved than annoyed, she sprang up to pour another cup of coffee. He'd simply reminded her of something she forgot from time to time. She was a young, normal, healthy woman. A woman, she remembered, who had just spent several months on a remote island in the South Pacific. What she needed was to finish her dissertation and get back to Portland. Socialize, take in some movies, go to a few parties. What she needed, she decided with a nod, was to get Caleb Hornblower on his way, back to wherever the devil he came from.

Taking the coffee, she started upstairs. For all she knew, he might have dropped down from the moon.

She passed his room and couldn't prevent a quick snicker when she heard the frantic sounds of a television game show. The man, she thought as she slipped behind her own door, was easily entertained.

CHAPTER 4

It was an education. Cal spent several hours engrossed in a sea of daytime television. Every ten or fifteen minutes he switched channels, moving from game show to soap opera, from talk show to commercial. He found the commercials particularly entertaining, with their bright, often startling, intensity.

He preferred the musical ones, with their jumpy tunes and contagious cheer. But others made him wonder about the people who lived in this time, in this place.

Some selections showcased frazzled women fighting things like grease stains and dull wax buildup. He couldn't imagine his mother-or any other woman, for that matter-worrying about which detergent made whites whiter. But the commercials were delightful entertainment.

There were others that had attractive men and women solving their problems by drinking carbonated beverages or coffee. It seemed everyone worked, many outside, in sweaty jobs, so that they could go to a bar with friends at the end of the day and drink beer. He thought their costumes were wonderful.

On a daytime drama he watched a woman have a brief, intense conversation with a man about the possibility of her being pregnant. Either a woman was pregnant or she wasn't, Cal mused, switching over to see a paunchy man in a checked jacket win a week's vacation in Hawaii. From the winner's reaction, Cal figured that must be a pretty big deal in the twentieth century.

He wondered, as he caught snippets of The News at Noon, how humanity had ever made it to the twenty-first century and beyond. Murder was obviously a popular sport. As were discussions on arms limitations and treaties. Politicians apparently hadn't changed much, he thought as he snacked on a box of cookies he'd found in Libby's kitchen, his legs folded under him. They were still long-winded, they still danced around the truth, and they still smiled a great deal. But to imagine that world leaders had actually negotiated over how many nuclear weapons each would build and maintain was ludicrous. How many had they thought they needed?

No matter, he decided, and switched back to a soap. They had come to their senses eventually.

He liked the soaps the best. Though the picture was wavy and the sound occasionally jumped, he enjoyed watching the people react, agonizing about their problems, contemplating marriages, divorces and love affairs. Relationships had apparently been among the top ten problems of this century.

As he watched, a curvy blonde with tears in her eyes and a tough-looking bare-chested man fell into each other's arms for a long, deep, passionate kiss. The music swelled until fade-out. Kissing was obviously an accepted habit of the time, Cal reflected. So why had Libby been so upset by one?

Restless, he rose and walked to the window. He hadn't exactly reacted in an expected fashion himself. The kiss had left him feeling angry, uneasy and vulnerable. None of those reactions had ever occurred before. And none of them, he admitted now, had lessened his desire for her in the least.

He wanted to know everything there was to know about Liberty Stone. What she thought, what she felt, what she wanted most, what she liked the least. There were dozens of questions he wanted to ask her, dozens of ways he wanted to touch her, and he knew that when he did her eyes would become dark and confused and depthless. He could imagine, with only the slightest effort, what her skin would feel like on the back of her knee, at the small of her back.

It was impossible. There was only one thing he should be thinking about now. Going home.

The time with Libby was only an interlude. Knowing as little as he did about women of this time didn't prevent him from being certain that Liberty Stone was not a woman a man could love and leave with any comfort. One look in her eyes and you saw not only passion but home fires burning.

He was a man who had no intention of settling down anytime soon. True, his parents had matched early and had married fairly young, at thirty. But he had no desire to be matched, mated or married yet. And when he did, Cal reminded himself it would be on his own ground. He would think of Libby only as a distraction, however pleasant, in a tense and delicate situation.

He needed to be gone. He pressed his palms against the cool glass of the window as if it were a prison he could easily escape. This was an experience some men might have craved, but he preferred breaking the boundaries of his own world-and his own time.

True, he'd learned things by reading the newspapers and watching the television. In the twentieth century the world was a long way from reaching peace, people worried a great deal about what to have for dinner and weapons were owned and used with reckless abandon. A dozen farm-fresh eggs could be had for about a dollar-which was the current U.S. currency-and everyone was on a diet.

It was all very interesting, but he didn't think any of this information was going to help. He had to concentrate on taking his mind back to what had happened on board his ship.

But he wanted to think about Libby, about what it had felt like to hold her against him. He wanted to remember how she had heated, about the way her lips had softened when his had met them.

When her arms had come around him, he had trembled. That had never happened to him before. He had what he considered a normal, healthy track record with women. He enjoyed them, both for company and for mutual physical pleasure. Since he believed in giving as much as he took, most of his lovers had remained his friends. But none of them had ever made his system churn as it had during one kiss with Libby.

All at once she'd taken him beyond what he knew and into some wild, gut-wrenching spin. Even now he could remember what it had felt like when her lips had gone hot and urgent against his. His balance had tilted. He'd almost believed he saw lights whirling behind his eyes. It had been like being pulled toward something of enormous, limitless force.

His legs turned to water under him. Slowly he lifted a hand to brace himself against the wall. The dizziness passed, leaving a hollow throbbing at the base of his skull. And suddenly he remembered. He remembered the lights. The flashing, blinking lights in the cockpit. Navigational system failed. Shields inoperative. Automatic distress signal engaged.

The void. He could see it, and even now the sweat pearled cold on his brow. A black hole, wide and dark and thirsty. It hadn't been on the charts. He would never have wandered so close if it had been on the charts. It had just been there, and his ship had been dragged toward it.

He hadn't gone in. The fact that he was alive and undoubtedly on Earth made him certain of that. It was possible that he had somehow skimmed the edge of it, then shot like a rubber band through space and time. The scientists of his era would question that idea. Time travel was only a theory, and one that was usually laughed at.

But he'd done it.

Shaken, he sat on the edge of the bed. He'd survived what no one in recorded history had survived. Lifting his hands, he turned the palms upward and stared at them. He was whole, and relatively undamaged. And he was lost. He fought back a fresh wave of panic, balling his hands into fists. No, not lost-he wouldn't accept that. If he had been shot one way, it was only logical that he could be shot another. Back home.

He had his mind, and his skill. He glanced at his wrist unit. He could work some basic computations on it. It wouldn't be enough, it wouldn't be nearly enough, but when he got back to his ship- If there was anything left of his ship.

Refusing to consider the fact that it might be completely destroyed, he began to pace. It was possible that he could interface his mini with Libby's machine. He had to try.

He could hear her downstairs. It sounded as though she were in the kitchen again, but he doubted she would fix him another meal. The regret came, too quickly to block, and the image of her sitting across the table from him flashed through his mind. He couldn't afford regrets, Cal reminded himself. And, if there was any choice, he wouldn't hurt her.

He'd apologize again, he decided. In fact, if he was successful with her computer, he would get out of her life as smoothly and painlessly as possible.

He moved quickly, quietly, into her room. He could only hope she would stay occupied until he made a few preliminary calculations. He'd have to be satisfied with those until he could find his ship and employ his own computer. Though impatience pushed at him, he hesitated for another moment, listening at the doorway. She was definitely in the kitchen, and, judging by the banging going on, she was still in a temper.

The computer, with its awkward box screen and its quaint keyboard, sat on the desk, surrounded by books and papers. Cal sat in Libby's chair and grinned at it

"Engage."

The screen remained blank.

"Computer, engage." Impatient with himself, Cal remembered the keyboard. He tapped in a command and waited. Nothing.

Sitting back, he drummed his fingers on the desk and considered. Libby, for reasons Cal couldn't fathom, had shut the machine down. That was easily remedied. He pushed through a few papers and picked up a letter opener. He turned the keyboard over, preparing to pry off the face. Then he saw the switch.

Idiot, he said to himself. They had switches for everything here. Calling on his remaining patience, he turned on the keyboard, then searched for more switches on the unit. When it began to hum, he had to muffle a cry of triumph.

"Now we're getting somewhere. Computer-" He caught himself with a shake of the head and began to type.

Computer, evaluate and conclude time warp factor-

He stopped himself again, swore, then pried off the plastic cover to reveal the memory board. His impatience was making him sloppy. And-worse-stupid. You couldn't get anything out of a machine that hadn't been put in. It was delicate, time-consuming work, but he forced himself not to rush. When he was finished, it was jury-rigged at best, but his wrist unit was interfaced with Libby's computer.

He took a deep breath and crossed the fingers on both hands. "Hello, computer."

Hello, Cal. The tinny words beeped from his wrist unit as the letters flashed across Libby's screen.

"Oh, baby, it's good to hear from you."

Affirmative.

"Computer, relay known data on theory of time travel through force of gravity and acceleration."

Untested theory, first proposed by Dr. Linward Bowers, 2110. Bowers hypothesized-

"No." Cal dragged a hand through his hair. In his hurry, he was getting ahead of himself. "I don't have time for all of that now. Evaluate and conclude. Time travel and survival probability on encounter with black hole."

Working- Insufficient data. "Damn it, it happened. Analyze necessary acceleration and trajectory. Stop." He heard Libby coming up the stairs and had time only to shut down the unit before she stepped inside. "What are you doing?"

Trying for a look of innocence, Cal smiled and swung out of the chair. "I was looking for you."

"If you've messed with my machine-"

"I couldn't help glancing at your papers. Fascinating stuff."

"I think so." She frowned at her desk. Everything seemed in order. "I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone."

"No one here but you and me." He smiled again. If he could distract her for a few minutes, he could disengage his unit and wait for a safer time. "I was probably mumbling to myself. Libby-" He took a step toward her, but she thrust a tray at him. "I made you a sandwich." He took the tray and set it on the bed. Her simple kindness left him feeling as guilty as sin. "You're a very nice woman."

"Just because you annoy me doesn't mean I'd starve you."

"I don't want to annoy you." He stepped over quickly when she wandered toward the computer. "I don't seem to be able to avoid it. I'm sorry you didn't like what happened before."

She cast him a quick, uneasy glance. "That's better forgotten."

"No, it's not." Needing the contact, he closed a hand over hers. "Whatever happens, it's something I won't forget. You touched something in me, Libby, something that hasn't been touched before."

She knew what he meant, exactly, precisely. And it frightened her. "I have to get back to work."

"Do all women find it difficult to be honest?"

"I'm not used to this," she blurted out. "I don't know how to deal with it. I'm not comfortable around men. I'm just not passionate."

When he laughed, she spun away, furious and embarrassed.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. You're overloaded with passion."

She felt something shift inside her, strain for freedom. "For my work," she said, spacing her words carefully. "For my family. But not in the way you mean."

She believed it, Cal decided as he studied her. Or she had made herself believe it. In the past two days he'd learned what it was like to doubt yourself. If he could repay her in no other way, perhaps he could show her what kind of woman she held trapped inside.

"Would you like to take a walk?"

She blinked at him. "What?"

"A walk."

"Why?"

He tried not to smile. She was a woman who would require reasons. "It's a nice day, and I'd like to see a little of where I am. You could show me."

She untangled the fingers she'd twisted together. Hadn't she promised herself she would take time to enjoy herself? He was right. It was a nice day, and her work could certainly wait.

"You'll need your shoes," she told him.

There was a scent to the cool, slightly moist air. Pine, he realized after several moments' mental debate. The scent was pine, like Christmas. But it came from the genuine article, not a scent disk or a simulator. The ground was thick with trees, and the breeze, though it was light, sounded through them like a sea. The clear pale-blue sky was marred only by the gray-edged clouds due north. There was birdsong.

But for the cabin behind them and a dilapidated shed, there were no man-made structures-just mountain, sky and forest.

"This is incredible."

"Yes, I know." She smiled, wishing it didn't please her quite so much that he appreciated and understood. "Whenever I come here, I'm tempted to stay."

He walked beside her, matching her pace, as they entered the sun-dappled forest. It didn't feel odd being alone with her now. It felt right. "Why don't you?"

"My work, primarily. The university wouldn't pay me to walk in the woods."

"What do they pay you for?"

"To research."

"When you don't research, how do you live?"

"How?" She tilted her head. "Quietly, I suppose.

I have an apartment in Portland. I study, lecture, read."

The path was steeper now. "For entertainment?"

"Movies." She shrugged. "Music."

"Television?"

"Yes." She had to laugh. "Sometimes too often. What about you? Do you remember what you like to do?"

"Fly." His grin was quick and charming. She hardly noticed when he took her hand. "There's nothing else like it, not for me. I'd like to take you up and show you."

Her expression was bland as she glanced at the bandage on his head. "I'll pass."

"I'm a good pilot."

Amused, she reached down to pick a wildflower. "Possibly."

"Absolutely." In a move that was both smooth and natural, he took the flower from her and slipped it into her hair. "I had some trouble with my instruments, or I wouldn't be here."

Because the gesture threw her off, she stared at him for a moment before she began to walk again. "Where were you going?" She slowed her pace as Cal dallied, picking wildflowers along the trail.

"Los Angeles."

"You had a long way to go." He opened his mouth, fooled for a moment into thinking she was making a joke. "Yes," he finally managed. "Longer than I anticipated."

Hesitantly she touched the blossom in her hair. "Will someone be looking for you?"

"Not for a while." He turned his face to the sky.

"If we find my- plane tomorrow, I can assess the damage and go on from there."

"We should be able to drive into town in another day or two." She wanted to smooth away the worry line that had formed between his brows. "You can see a doctor, make some phone calls."

"Phone calls?"

His baffled look had her worrying about his head injury again. "To your family or friends, or your employer."

"Right." He took her hand again, absently sniffing at the clutch of flowers he held. "Can you give me the bearing and distance from here to where you found me?"

"Bearing and distance?" Laughing, she sat on the bank of a narrow, fast-running creek. "How about if I tell you it was that way?" She pointed toward the southeast. "Ten miles as the crow flies, double that by the road."

He dropped down beside her. Her scent was as fresh as the wildflowers, and more alluring. "I thought you were a scientist."

"That doesn't mean I can give you longitude and latitude or whatever. Ask me about the mudmen of New Guinea and I'll be brilliant."

"Ten miles." Eyes narrowed, he scanned the fringe of fir. Where it thinned, he could see a towering, rough-edged mountain, blue in the sunlight. "And there's nothing between here and there? No city? No settlement?"

"No. This area is still remote. We get a few hikers now and again."

Then it was unlikely that anyone had come across his ship. That was one concern he could push to the back of his mind. His main problem now was how to locate his ship without Libby. The easiest way, he supposed, would be to leave at first light, in her vehicle.

But that was tomorrow. He was coming to understand that time was too precious, and too capricious, to waste.

"I like it here." It was true. He enjoyed sitting on the cool grass, listening to the water. It made him wonder what it would be like to come back to this same spot two centuries later. What would he find?

The mountain would be there, and possibly part of the forest that closed in around them. This same creek might still rush over these same stones. But there would be no Libby. The ache came again, dull and gnawing.

"When I'm home again," he said very slowly, "I'll think of you here."

Would he? She stared at the water, at the play of sunlight over it, and wished it didn't matter. "Maybe you'll come back sometime."

"Sometime." He toyed with her fingers. She would be a ghost to him then, a woman who had existed only in a flash of time, a woman who had made him wish for the impossible. "Will you miss me?"

"I don't know." But she didn't draw her hand away, because she realized she would miss him, more than was reasonable.

"I think you will." He forgot his ship, his questions, his future, and concentrated on her. He began to weave the flowers he'd picked through her hair. "They name stars and moons and galaxies for goddesses," he murmured. "Because they were strong and beautiful and mysterious. Man, mortal man, could never quite conquer them."

"Most cultures have some historical belief in mythology." She cleared her throat and began to pleat the baggy material of her slacks. "Ancient astronomers-" He turned her face to his with a fingertip.

"I wasn't talking about myths. Though you look like one with flowers in your hair." Gently he touched a petal near her cheek. " 'There be none of Beauty's daughters/ With a magic like thee;/ And like music on the waters/ Is thy sweet voice to me."

It was a dangerous man, she knew instinctively, who could smile like the devil and quote poetry in a voice like silk. His eyes were the color of the sky just before dusk, a deep, dreamy blue. She'd never thought she was the kind of woman who could go weak just looking into a man's eyes. She didn't want to be.

"I should go back. I have a lot of work to do."

"You work too much." His brow rose when she turned her head aside and frowned. "What button did I push?"

Restless, more annoyed with herself than with him, she shrugged. "Someone always seems to be saying that to me. Sometimes I even say it to myself."

"It isn't a crime, is it?"

She laughed because his question seemed so sincere. "Not yet, anyway."

"It's not a crime to take a day off?"

"No, but-"

"No's enough. Why don't we say 'It's Miller Time?' " At her baffled look, he spread his hands. "You know, like on the commercials."

"Yes, I know." Hooking an arm around one upraised knee, she studied him. Poetry one moment, beer commercials the next. "Every now and again, Hornblower, I wonder if you're for real."

"Oh, I'm real." He stretched out to watch the sky. The grass was cool and soft beneath him, and the wind played lazily through the trees. "What do you see? Up there?"

She tilted her head back. "The sky. A blue one, thank goodness, with a few clouds that should clear by evening."

"Don't you ever wonder what's beyond it?"

"Beyond what?"

"The blue." With his eyes half-closed, he imagined- the endless sweep of stars, the pure black of space, the beautiful symmetry of orbiting moons and planets. "Don't you ever think about the worlds up there, just out of reach?"

"No." She saw only the arc of blue, speared through by mountains. "I suppose it's because I think more about worlds that were. My work usually keeps my feet, and my eyes, on the ground."

"If there's going to be a world tomorrow, you have to look to the stars." He caught himself. It seemed foolish to pine for something that might be lost. How odd it was that he was thinking so much of the future, and Libby so much of the past, when they had the here and now.

"What movies and music?" he asked abruptly. Libby shook her head. There seemed to be no order to his thought patterns. "Before, you said you liked movies and music for fun. Which ones?"

"All sorts. Good or bad. I'm easily entertained."

"Tell me your favorite movie."

"That's difficult." But his eyes were so intense, so earnest, that she picked one at random from her list of favorites. "Casablanca."

He liked the sound of it, the way she said it. "What's it about?"

"Come on, Hornblower, everyone knows what it's about."

"I missed it." He gave her a quick, guileless smile that no woman should have trusted. "I must have been busy when it came out."

She laughed again, with a quick shake of her head, a brightening of her eyes, "Sure. Both of us must have had pretty full schedules in the forties."

He let that pass. "What was the story?" He didn't care about the plot. He only wanted to hear her talk, to watch her as she did.

To humor him, and because it was easy to sit by the water and daydream, she began. He listened, enjoying the way she told the tale of lost love, heroism and sacrifice. Even more, he enjoyed the way she gestured with her hands, the way her voice ebbed and flowed with her feelings. And the way her eyes mirrored them, darkening, softening, when she spoke of lovers reunited, then pulled apart, by destiny.

"No happy ending," Cal murmured.

"No, but I always felt that Rick found her again, years later, after the war."

"Why?"

She had settled back, pillowing her head on her folded arms. "Because they belonged together. When people do, they find each other, no matter what." She was smiling when she turned her head, but the smile faded slowly when she saw the way he was looking at her. As if they were alone, she thought. Not just alone in the mountains, but totally, completely alone, as Adam and Eve had been.

She yearned. For the first time in her life, she yearned-body, mind and heart.

"Don't." He said the word quietly as she started to scramble to her feet. The lightest touch of his hand on her shoulder kept her still. "I wish you weren't afraid of me."

"I'm not." But she was breathless, as if she'd already been running.

"Of what, then?"

"Of nothing." His voice could be so gentle, she thought. So terrifyingly gentle.

"But you're tense." With his long, limber fingers, he began to rub at the tight muscles of her shoulders. He shifted, and his lips skimmed over her temple, as cool and stirring as the breeze. "Tell me what you're afraid of."

"Of this." She lifted her hands to push against his chest. "I don't know how to fight what I'm feeling."

"Why do you have to?" He skimmed a hand down the side of her body, astonished by the grinding need in his own.

"It's too soon." But she was no longer pushing him away. Her resolve was melting in a flood of hot, hammering need.

"Soon?" His laugh was strained as he buried his face against her throat. "It's already been centuries."

"Caleb, please." There was an urgency in her voice, a plea that was at once weak and unarguable. He knew as he felt her body vibrate beneath his that he could have her. Just as he knew as he looked down at the clouded confusion in her eyes that once he had she might not forgive him.

Need jerked inside him. It was a new and frustrating sensation. He rolled to one side and stood, and with his back to her he watched the water ripple.

"Do you drive all men crazy?"

She brought her knees up tight against her breasts. "No, of course not."

"Then I'm just lucky, I guess." He lifted his eyes to the sky. He wanted to be back there, spearing through space. Alone. Free. He heard the grass rustle as she stood and wondered if he would ever truly be free again. "I want you, Libby."

She didn't speak. She couldn't. No man had ever said those three simple words to her before. If thousands had, it wouldn't have mattered. No one would ever have spoken them in just that way.

Pushed to the brink by her silence, he whirled around. He wasn't her amiable, slightly odd patient now, but a furious, healthy and obviously dangerous man.

"Damn it, Libby, am I supposed to say nothing, to feel nothing? Are those the rules here? Well, the hell with it. I want you, and if I stay near you much longer, I'm going to have you."

"Have me?" She'd been certain her system was too weak and warm for anger. But it filled her with a flash that had her body straightening like an arrow. "What? Like a shiny car on a showroom floor? You can want anything you like, Cal, but when those wants concern me I've got some say in it."

She was magnificent- unbearably vivid, with fury in her eyes and flowers clinging to her hair. He would remember her like this, always. He knew it, and he knew the memory would be bittersweet, and yet his temper pushed him forward.

"You can have all the say you like." Taking both her arms, he pulled her against him. "But I'll have something before I go."

This time she struggled. It was pride, pride and anger, that had her jerking free. Then his arms came around her, twin vises that clamped her body unerringly to his. She would have sworn at him, but his mouth closed hard over hers.

It was nothing like the first time. Then he had seduced, persuaded, tempted. Now he possessed, not as if he had the right, but simply taking it. Her muffled protest went unheeded, her struggles ignored. Panic skidded up her spine, then slid down again, overwhelmed by pure desire.

She didn't want to be forced. She didn't want to be left without choice. That was her mind talking. It was right; it was reasonable. But her body leaped forward, leaving intellect far behind. She reveled in the strength, in the tension, even in the temper. She met power with power.

She came alive in his arms, making him forget who and why and where. When he could taste her, hot and potent on his lips, no other world, no other time, existed. For him it was as new, as exciting, as frightening as it was for her. Irresistible. The thought didn't come to him. No thought could. But she was as irresistible as the gravity that held their feet on the ground, as compelling as the need that sent their pulses racing.

He dragged her head back and plunged into the velvet moistness of her waiting mouth.

The world was spinning. With a moan, she ran her hands up his back, until she was clinging desperately to his shoulders. She wanted it to go on spinning, whirling madly, until she was dizzy and breathless and limp. She could hear the murmur of the water, the whisper of the breeze through the pines. There was a strong shaft of sunlight on her back. She knew that in reality her feet were still on solid ground. But the world was spinning. And she was in love.

The sound that came from deep in her throat was one of surrender. To him. To herself.

He murmured her name. A searing ache arrowed through him as desire veered painfully toward a new, uncharted emotion. The hand that had been roaming through her hair clenched reflexively. He felt the petals of a flower crush. The scent, sweet and dying, rose on the air.

He jerked away, appalled. The flower was in his hand, fragile and mangled. His gaze was drawn to her lips, still warm and swollen from his. His muscles trembled. A wave of self-disgust rose up inside him. Never, never had he forced himself on a woman. The idea itself was abhorrent to him, the most shameful of sins. The reality was unforgivable-most unforgivable because she mattered as no one else ever had. "Did I hurt you?" he managed. Libby shook her head quickly, too quickly. Hurt? she thought. That was nothing. Devastated. With one kiss he had devastated her, showed her that her will could be crumbled and her heart lost.

He wouldn't apologize. Cal turned away until he was certain he was under control enough to speak rationally. But he would not apologize for wanting, or for taking. He would have nothing else of her when he left.

"I can't promise that won't happen again, but I'll do my best to see that it doesn't. You should go back inside now."

And that was all? Libby wondered. After he had stripped her emotions to the bone he could calmly tell her to go back inside? She opened her mouth to protest, and she nearly took a step toward him before she stopped herself.

He was right, of course. What had happened should never happen again. They were strangers, whatever her heart told her to the contrary. Without a word, she turned and left him alone by the creek.

Later, when the sun and shadows had shifted, he opened his hand to let the wounded flower fall into the water. He watched it drift away.

CHAPTER 5

She couldn't concentrate. Libby stared at her computer screen, trying to work up some interest in the words she'd already written. The Kolbari Islanders and their traditional moon dance no longer fascinated her. She'd been certain work was the answer-an immersion in it. No one had ever distracted her from her studies before. In college she'd completed a thesis while her roommates threw an open-door pizza party. That single-minded concentration had followed her into her professional life. She'd written papers in tents by lamplight, read notes on the back of a jogging mule and prepared lectures in the jungle. Once a project was begun, nothing broke the flow.

As she read a single paragraph through for the third time, all she could think of was Cal.

It was a pity she hadn't had a greater interest in chemistry, she thought, pulling off her glasses to rub at her eyes. If she had, perhaps she would understand more clearly her reaction to him. Surely there was a book somewhere that would give her the information so that she could analyze it. She didn't want to feel without being able to list logical reasons why. Daydreaming about love and romance was one thing. Experiencing it was something else altogether.

This wasn't like her.

With a long sigh, she pushed away from the desk and folded her legs under her. Her eyes still on the screen, she propped her elbows on her knees and braced her chin on her fisted hands. She wasn't in love, she told herself. It had been a knee-jerk reaction to the intensity of the moment. People didn't really fall in love that quickly. They could be attracted, of course, even strongly attracted. For love, though, other factors had to be mixed in.

Common ground and common interests, Libby decided. That made good, solid sense to her. How could she be in love with Cal when the only interest he had that she knew about was flying? And eating, she added with a reluctant smile.

An understanding of each other's feelings, goals, temperaments. Surely that was vital to love. How could she be in love when she didn't understand Caleb Hornblower in the least? His feelings were a mystery to her, his goals had never been discussed, and his temperament seemed to change by the hour.

He was troubled. A frown brought her brows together when she thought of the look that she so often saw in his eyes. Sometimes he made her think of a man who had taken a wrong turn on the freeway and ended up in a strange, foreign land.

Troubled, yes, but he was also just plain trouble, she reminded herself, trying to keep her compassion from outweighing her common sense. His personality was too strong, his charm too smooth, his confidence too high. She didn't have room in her neatly ordered life for a man like Cal. He would, simply by existing, cause chaos.

She heard him come in the kitchen door, and her body braced automatically. Just as her pulse speeded up and her blood ran faster. Automatically.

Disgusted with herself, she scooted her chair back to her desk. She was going to work. In fact, she was going to work straight through to midnight, and she wasn't going to give Cal another thought. She caught herself gnawing on her thumbnail again. "Damn it, who is Caleb Hornblower?" The last thing she'd expected from her muttered question was an answer. The tinny, disembodied voice had her jolting. She grabbed the edge of her desk to keep from spilling out of her chair, then stared, openmouthed, at her computer screen. Hornblower, Caleb, Captain ISF, retired. "Oh, my God." With a hand to her throat, she shook her head. "Now just hold on," she whispered. Holding.

It wasn't possible, Libby told herself as she pressed an unsteady hand to her mouth. She had to be hallucinating. That was it. Emotional stress, overwork and the lack of a good night's sleep were causing her to hallucinate. Closing her eyes, she took three deep breaths. But when she opened them again, the words were still on the screen.

"What the devil is going on here?" Information requested and relayed. Is additional data required? With an unsteady hand, she pushed aside some of the papers on her desk and uncovered Cal's watch. She would have sworn the voice she had heard had come from it. No, it just wasn't possible. Using a fingertip, she traced a thread-slim transparent wire that ran from his watch to the computer's drive.

"What kind of game is he playing?" "Five hundred twenty games are available on this unit. Which would you prefer?

"Libby?" Caleb stood just inside the doorway, thinking fast. There was no use berating himself for being careless. In fact, he wondered if subconsciously he'd wanted to put himself in a position where he would be forced to tell her the truth. But now, when she turned, he wasn't certain that would be good for either of them. She wasn't just frightened, she was furious.

"All right, Hornblower, I want you to tell me exactly what's going on here."

He tried an easy, cooperative smile. "Where?"

"Right here, damn it." She jabbed a finger at the machine.

"You'd know more about that than I would. It's your work."

"I want an explanation, and I want it now."

He crossed to her. A quick scan of the screen had a smile tugging at his mouth. So she'd wanted to know who he was. There was some comfort in knowing she was as confused by him as he was by her-and as interested.

"No, you don't."

He said it quietly, and he would have taken her hand if she hadn't batted his away.

"I not only want one, I insist on one. You- you-" On a sound of frustration, she took another breath. He wasn't going to make her stutter. "You come in here and plug your watch into my machine, and-"

"Interface," he said. "If you're going to work on a computer, you should know the language."

She snapped her teeth together. "Suppose you tell me how you can interface a watch with a PC."

"A what?"

She couldn't prevent the smirk. "Personal computer. You'd better brush up on the language yourself. Now-answers."

He put a hand on each of her shoulders. "You'd never believe me."

"You'd better make me believe. Is that watch some kind of miniature computer?"

"Yes." He started to reach for it, but she slapped a hand down on his wrist.

"Leave it. I've never heard of any miniature computer that answers voice commands, interfaces with a PC and claims to play over five hundred games."

"No." He looked down at her angry eyes. "You wouldn't have."

"Why don't you tell me how to get one, Hornblower? I'll buy my father one for Christmas."

Pure good humor tilted the corner of his mouth. "Actually, I don't think that model's going to be on the market for a little while yet. Can I interest you in something else?"

She kept her eyes level with his. "You can interest me in the truth."

Stalling seemed to be the best approach. He turned her hand over and linked his fingers with hers. "The whole truth, or the simple parts?"

"Are you a spy?"

The last thing she'd expected was laughter. After his first chuckle it rolled out of him, warm and delighted. He kissed her, once on each cheek, before she could stop him.

"You didn't answer my question." She wiggled out of his hold. "Are you an agent?"

"What makes you think so?"

"A wild guess," she said, throwing up her hands and spinning around the room. "You crash down in the middle of a storm no sensible person would have been driving in, much less flying. You have no ED. You claim you're not in the military, but you were wearing some kind of weird uniform. Your shoes were nearly falling apart, but you have a watch that makes a Rolex look like a Tinkertoy. A watch that talks back." Even as she said it, it seemed so preposterous that she looked at the screen to make certain she hadn't imagined it all. "Look, I know intelligence agencies have some pretty advanced equipment. It might not be James Bond, but-"

"Who's James Bond?" Cal asked. Bond, James. Code name 007. Fictional character created by twentieth-century writer Ian Fleming. Novels include-

"Disengage," Cal ordered, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair. One look at Libby's face told him he was in deep. "Maybe you should sit down." With a weak nod, she sat on the edge of the bed. Though it was a bit late for precautions, Cal unhooked the wire and slipped it and his unit into his pocket. "You want an explanation."

She wasn't so sure anymore. Calling herself a coward, she gave a quick, jerky nod. "Yes."

"Okay, but you're not going to like it." He sat in her chair and crossed his ankles. "I was making a routine run from the Brigston colony."

"Excuse me?"

"The Brigston colony," Cal repeated. Then he took the plunge. "On Mars."

Libby closed her eyes and rubbed a hand over her face. "Give me a break, Hornblower."

"I told you you wouldn't like it."

"You want me to believe you're a Martian."

"Don't be ridiculous."

She dropped her hand into her lap. "I'm ridiculous? You sit there and try to feed me some story about coming from Mars and I'm ridiculous?" For lack of anything better to do, she tossed a pillow across the room, then rose and began to pace. "Look, it's not as though I'm prying into your personal life, or even that I expect some kind of humble gratitude for dragging you in out of that storm, but I think some mutual respect is in order here. You're in my home, Hornblower, and I deserve the truth."

"Yes, I think you do. I'm trying to give it to you."

"Fine." Temper wasn't going to help, she thought. She dropped back on the bed and spread her arms. "So you're from Mars."

"No, I'm from Philadelphia."

"Ah." She let out a long, relieved breath. "Now we're getting somewhere. You were on your way to Los Angeles when you crashed your plane."

"My ship."

Her face remained calm and impassive. "That would be your spaceship."

"You'd call it that." He leaned forward. "I had to reroute because of a meteor shower. I was off course- farther, I realize, than I had first thought, because my instruments were unstable. I ran into a black hole, an uncharted one."

"A black hole." She no longer felt like laughing. His eyes were absolutely sincere. He believed it, she realized as she folded her hands tightly in her lap. His concussion was obviously much more serious than she had originally thought.

"That's a compressed star. Very dense, very powerful. Its gravity sucks up everything-stellar dust, gas, even light."

"Yes, I know what a black hole is." She had to keep him calm, Libby reasoned. She would humor him, express a friendly interest in his story, then get him back into bed. "So you were flying your spaceship, ran into a black hole and crashed."

"In simple terms. I'm not sure exactly what happened. That's why I hooked my wrist unit up to your computer. I need more information before I can calculate how to get back."

"To Mars?"

"No, damn it. To the twenty-third century."

The small, polite smile froze on her face. "I see."

"No, you don't." He rose to prowl the room. Patience, he told himself. He could hardly expect her to accept in a moment what he still had trouble believing himself. "There have been theories about time travel for centuries. It's generally accepted that if a ship could get up the needed speed and slingshot around the sun it could pass through time. It's only theory at this point, because no one's sure how to keep the ship from being sucked into the sun's gravity and frying. The same holds true for a black hole. If I'd been pulled in, the power and radiation would have ripped the ship apart. It had to be blind luck, but somehow

I hit on the right trajectory-the precise speed, distance, angle. Instead of being pulled in, I bounced off." He flicked the curtain aside to look out at the darkening sky. "And landed here, over two and a half centuries back in the past."

Libby rose to lay a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "You should lie down."

He didn't look back at her, didn't need to. "You don't believe me."

She opened her mouth, but she couldn't bring herself to lie to him. "You believe it."

He turned then. There was sympathy in her eyes, the warm golden glow of it. "How would you explain it?" He reached in his pocket for his unit. "How would you explain this?"

"There's no need for explanations now. I'm sorry I pressured you, Caleb. You're tired."

"You have no explanation. For this-" he dropped the unit in his pocket again "-or for me."

"All right. My theory is that you're part of an intelligence operation, perhaps some elite section of the CIA. You were probably burned out-stress, tension, overwork. When you crashed, the shock and trauma of your head injury pushed you over the edge. You don't want to be a part of what you were, so you've chosen to give yourself a different time, a different history."

"So you think I'm crazy."

"No." The compassion was back, in her eyes, in her voice. She touched her hand to the side of his face in a comforting gesture. "I think you're confused and you need rest and attention."

He started to swear, but he caught himself. If he continued to insist, he would only frighten her. He'd already caused her a great deal of trouble that she didn't deserve.

"You're probably right. I'm still shaky from the crash. I should get some rest."

"That's a good idea." She waited until he reached the door. "Caleb, don't worry. It's going to be all right."

He turned back, thinking this would be the last time he saw her. Purple twilight filled the window at her back, and she seemed to be standing at the edge of a mist. Her eyes were dark and full of compassion. He remembered how rich and sweet the flavor of her lips was. Regret struck him like a fist.

"You are," he said quietly, "the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She stared, speechless, at the door he closed behind him.

He didn't sleep. As he lay in the dark he could only think of her. He switched on the television and watched the figures move like ghosts over the screen. They were, he realized, more real than he.

She hadn't believed him. There was little surprise in that. But she had tried to comfort him. He wondered if she knew how unique she was, in this age or any other. A woman who was strong enough to live on her own yet fragile enough to tremble in a man's arms. His arms.

He wanted her. In the pearly-gray light of early dawn he wanted her almost more than he could stand. Just to hold her would be enough. To lie beside her with her head settled on his shoulder. In silence. He could think of no other woman he would be content to spend hours of silence with. If he had a choice-

But he had no choice.

He was lying across the bed fully dressed. Now he rose. He had nothing to take with him, and nothing to leave behind. Moving quietly downstairs, he slipped out of the house.

The Land Rover was parked near the porch steps, where she had left it the night she'd brought him home. He crossed to it, casting a final glance at Libby's window. He hated to leave her stranded. Later he'd break into a radio frequency and broadcast her location. Someone would come for her.

She'd be mad. The idea made him smile a little as he climbed into the driver's seat. She would curse him, hate him. And she wouldn't forget him.

Cal took a moment to be charmed by the old-fashioned instruments and controls. The birds were singing as he tested the steering wheel and pumped the gas pedal curiously.

There was a lever between the seats marked with numbers running from one to four in an H pattern. Gears clanked when he shoved the lever forward. Confident he had the skill to operate such a simple vehicle, he turned knobs. When he got no response he jiggled the gearshift while depressing the floor pedals. Through trial and error, he found the clutch and shifted smoothly into first gear.

A beginning, he decided, and wondered where the hell the designer had put the ignition.

"You're going to have a hard time starting it without this." Libby stood on the porch, one hand in a fist on her hip, the other aloft, with the ignition key dangling from her fingers. She was mad, all right, Cal thought. But he didn't feel like smiling. "I was just- thinking about taking a ride."

"Were you?" She tugged her hastily donned sweater farther over her hips before she walked down the steps. "It's your bad luck I didn't leave the keys in the car."

So it took a key. He should have known. "Did I wake you?"

She jabbed a fist hard at his shoulder. "You've got nerve, Hornblower. Feeding me all that garbage last night so I'd feel sorry for you, then trying to steal my car. What were you going to do, hot-wire it and leave me stranded? I'd have thought a hotshot pilot like you would be able to do it faster, and quieter."

"I was just borrowing it," he said, though he doubted the difference would matter to her. "I thought you'd be better off if I drove out to where I wrecked by myself."

She'd trusted him, she thought, calling herself ten kinds of a fool. She'd felt sorry for him. She'd wanted to help him. Betrayal and fury had her clenching her fist until the key bit into her palm. She'd help him, all right.

"Well, you can stop thinking. Move over."

"I'm sorry?"

"I said move over. You want to go to the wreck, I'll take you to the wreck."

"Libby-"

"Move over, Hornblower, or that hole in your head's going to have company."

"Fine." Giving up, he eased himself over the gearshift and dropped into the passenger seat. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"To think I was feeling sorry for you."

He watched, intrigued, as she pushed the key into a slot and turned. The engine roared to life. The radio blared, the windshield wipers swished, and the heater blasted.

"You really are a case," she muttered, switching knobs.

Before he could comment, she popped the clutch, rammed down on the gas and sent them speeding onto the narrow dirt road.

"Libby." He cleared his throat, then pitched his voice above the noise of the engine. "I was doing what I thought was best for you. I didn't want to involve you any more than I already have."

"That's swell." She yanked the gearshift back and sent stones flying. "Just who do you work for, Hornblower?"

"I'm an independent."

"Oh, I see." Her mouth tightened into a grim line. "You sell to the highest bidder?"

The renewed anger in her tone puzzled him. "Sure. Doesn't everyone?"

"Some people don't put a price on their loyalty to their country."

Cal pressed his fingers to his eyes. He hadn't realized they were back to that. "Libby, I am not a spy. I don't work for the CAI-"

"CIA."

"Whatever. I'm a pilot. I run supplies, people, equipment. I deliver to spaceports, colonies, labs."

"So you're playing that tune again." She gritted her teeth as she sent the Land Rover over a sloping bank and across a stream. Water gushed up the sides. "What are you claiming to be this time-an inter-galactic truck driver?"

He lifted his hands, then let them fall. "Close enough."

"I'm not buying it anymore, Cal. I don't think you're crazy. I don't think you're deluded. So cut it"

"Cut what?" When she only hissed at him, he decided to try again, once more, calmly. "Libby, everything I told you is true."

"Stop it." If she hadn't needed both hands on the wheel, she might have slapped him. "I wish I'd never seen you. You literally fall into my life and make me care about you, make me feel things I've never felt before, and all you do is lie."

He saw only one option. On impulse, he reached out and turned off the key. The Land Rover bumped to a stop. "Now listen to me." With his free hand, he grabbed her sweater and yanked her around. "Damn it." The oath came out as a murmur when he saw her face. "Don't cry. I can't stand it."

"I'm not crying." She wiped angry tears away with the backs of her hands. "Give me back the key."

"In a minute." He released her, holding his hand palm out in a gesture of truce. "I wasn't lying when I said I was leaving this morning because I thought it was best for you."

She believed him. And she hated herself because he could so easily make her believe. "Will you tell me what kind of trouble you're in?"

"Yes." Because he couldn't resist, he trailed a fingertip across her damp cheek. "After we've found the-where I went down-I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"No more evasions or ridiculous stories?"

"I'll tell you everything." He lifted her hand, then pressed his palm to hers. "You have my word.

Libby-" He linked his fingers with hers. "What do I make you feel?"

She drew her hand away to grip the wheel. "I don't know, and I don't want to think about it."

"I'd like you to know that I've never had the same feelings for another woman as I have for you. I wish things could be different."

He was already saying goodbye, she realized. A rippling ache spread in her chest. "Don't. Let's just concentrate on what needs to be done." While she stared straight ahead, he slipped the key back into the ignition. "You were right up there," she told him as she switched it on. "At the curve. The best I could say is that you were coming from that direction. I got the impression when I saw you crash that you went down along that ridge somewhere." With a frown, she lifted a hand to shield her eyes. "Strange- it looks like there's a break in that bank of trees up there."

Not strange, Cal thought, when you considered that a ship over seventy meters long and thirty across had come down in them. "Why don't we take a look?"

Libby turned off the road and started up the rocky slope. The part of her that was still annoyed hoped the jostling ride gave Cal the willies. But when she glanced at him, he was grinning.

"This is great!" he shouted. "I haven't done anything like this since I was a kid."

"Glad you're having fun." She turned her attention back to driving and didn't notice when Cal pushed a series of buttons on his watch. Excitement began to drum in him as he studied the directional beam on one of the dials.

"Twenty-five degrees north."

"What?"

"That way." He used his other hand to gesture with. "It's that way. Two point five kilometers."

"How do you know?" He sent her a brilliant smile. "Trust me." They climbed the ridge to where the line of pines thickened. The scattered dogwoods were budded but not yet ready to bloom. Libby shivered once in the cool air before she shut the engine off. "I can't drive through this. We'll have to walk."

"It's not far." He was already out and offering an impatient hand. "A few hundred meters."

She kept her hand at her side as she stared at his watch. It was sending out a low, regular beep. "Why is it doing that?"

"It's scanning. It only has a range of ten kilometers, but it's fairly accurate." Holding his wrist out, he moved in a slow circle. "Since I doubt there's anything metallic as big as my ship around here, I'd say we've found it."

"Don't start that again." Libby pushed her hands into her pockets and started to walk.

"You're supposed to be a scientist," Cal reminded her as he fell into step beside her.

"I am a scientist," she muttered, "which is why I know that men do not bounce off black holes and drop into the Klamath Mountains on the way back from Mars."

He slung a friendly arm around her shoulders. "You're looking behind you, Libby, not ahead. You've never seen anyone who lived two centuries ago, but you know they existed. Why is it so difficult to believe that they exist two centuries in the future?"

"I hope they will, but I don't expect to offer them coffee." He wasn't crazy, she decided, but he was clever. "You told me you'd tell me the truth-all of the truth-when we found your plane. I'm holding you to that." She tossed up her head, then froze. "Oh, my God."

Less than twenty feet ahead she saw a gap in the trees, the break she had spotted from beneath the ridge. Up close it looked as though a huge sickle had sliced through the forest, hewing down a swath of evergreen and undergrowth more than thirty feet wide.

"But there was no fire." She had to quicken her pace to keep up with Cal. "What could have done all this?"

"That." When they reached the break, Cal pointed. There, nestling on the rocky, needle-strewn ground, was his ship. Trees, some of them thirty feet high, lay like pickup sticks around it. "Don't go any closer until I check for radiation," Cal warned, but he needn't have bothered. Libby couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to.

Using his wrist unit, he checked the level and gave a quick nod. "It's well within normal limits. The time warp must have neutralized any excess." He slipped an arm around her shoulders again. "Come on inside. I'll show you my etchings."

Dazed, silent, she went with him. It was huge, as big as a house, and like no plane she had ever seen. A military secret, she told herself. That was why Cal had been so evasive. But surely one man couldn't fly something so large.

The front was its narrowest point, blunted, somewhat bullet-shaped, before it curved out into the body. There were no wings. That thought caused an uneasy lurch in her stomach. It's shape reminded her of a stingray that scuttled across the ocean floor.

An experiment, she told herself as she climbed over a fallen pine.

The body was a dull metallic color not glitzy enough to be called silver. There were scrapes and dents and dust all over it. Like an old, reliable family car, she thought giddily.

The damage had happened in the accident, she decided, but it worried her more than a little that several of the dents looked old. The Pentagon or NASA or whoever had built it would certainly have taken better care of something that had to be worth millions of taxpayer dollars.

"You came in this thing by yourself," Libby managed when he leaped down the slight slope to run his hand over the side of the ship.

"Sure." His fingers moved over the metal in an unmistakable caress. "She handles like a dream."

"Who does it belong to?"

"It's mine." There was both pleasure and excitement in his eyes when he held up a hand to help her down. "I told you I didn't steal it."

As a wave of relief passed over him, he spun her in a circle, then kissed her hard on the mouth. Finding the taste alluring, he kept her feet an inch off the ground and lingered over a second kiss.

"Caleb-" Breathless, dizzy, she pushed away from him.

"Kissing you's become a habit, Libby." He circled her waist with his hand. "I've always had a hard time breaking habits."

He was just trying to distract her, she thought. And he was doing an excellent job of it. "Pull yourself together," she ordered. "Now we've found this- thing. You promised me an explanation. We both know very well that nothing like this is owned by a private citizen. Spill it, Hornblower."

"It is mine," he told her, still grinning. "Or it will be after ten more payments." He pressed a button to open the hatch. Libby's mouth dropped open as a door lifted up silently. "Come on, I'll show you the registration."

Unable to resist, she walked up the two steps and into the cabin. It was as large as her living room and was dominated by a control panel. There were hundreds of colored buttons and levers in front of two high-backed black seats shaped like scoops. "Have a seat," he said.

Staying close to the open hatch, she rubbed her arms to ward off a sudden chill. "It's, ah- dark in here."

"Oh, yeah." Crossing to a panel, he touched a switch. Libby let out a muffled shriek as the front of the craft opened. "I must have hit the shields when I started down."

She could only stare. Before her were the forest, the distant mountains and the sky. Strong sunlight poured through. You could hardly call it a windshield when it spanned twenty feet.

"I don't understand." Because she needed to, she moved quickly to one of the chairs and sat. "I don't understand any of this."

"I felt the same way a couple of days ago." Cal opened a compartment, scanned through some material, then took out a small, shiny card. "This is my pilot's license, Libby. After you read it, take a nice long breath. It might help."

His picture was in the corner. His grin was as attractive and disarming as it was in the flesh. The ID claimed that he was a United States citizen and licensed to pilot all A to F model ships. It listed his height as 185.4 cm, his weight as 70.3 kg. Hair black, eyes blue. And his birth date was- 2222.

"Oh, my God," Libby whispered.

"You forgot to take that breath." He closed a hand over hers on the card. "Libby, I'm thirty. When I left L.A. two months ago it was February, 2252."

"That's crazy."

"Maybe, but it happened."

"This is a trick." She pushed the card back into his hand and sprang up. Her heart was racing so hard and fast that she could feel it vibrating between her temples. "I don't know why you're doing this, but it's all some kind of elaborate trick. I'm going home."

She rushed toward the hatch just as the door closed. "Sit down, Libby. Please." He saw the wild, trapped look in her eyes and forced himself not to step toward her. "I'm not going to hurt you. You know that. Just sit down, and listen."

Because she was angry that she had tried to run, she walked stiffly back and sat down. "So?"

He sat opposite her, steepled his fingers and thought it all through. There were times, he supposed, when it was best to treat an abnormal situation as if it were normal. "You didn't have any breakfast," he said abruptly. Pleased with the inspiration, he opened a small door and took out a glossy silver pouch. "How about ham and eggs?" Without waiting for an answer, he swiveled, opened another door and tossed the pouch inside. He pushed a button, then sat smiling at her until a buzzer sounded. Taking a plate out of another compartment, he opened the door and scooped out a heap of steaming eggs loaded with chunks of ham.

Libby locked her icy hands in her lap. "You're full of tricks."

"No trick. Irradiation. Come on, taste." He held the plate under her nose. "They're not as good as yours, but they'll do in a pinch. Libby, you have to believe what's in front of your eyes."

"No." Very slowly, she shook her head from side to side. "I don't think I do."

"Not hungry?"

She shook her head again, more firmly this time. With a shrug, Cal plucked a fork from a drawer and dug in.

"I know how you feel."

"No, you don't." She took his advice, belatedly, and sucked in three long breaths. "You're not sitting in what looks like a spaceship having a conversation with a man who claims to be from the twenty-third century."

"No, but I'm sitting in my ship talking to a woman who's a couple of centuries older than I am."

She blinked at that, then found laughter-only slightly hysterical-bubbling out. "This is ludicrous."

"Oh, yeah."

"I'm not saying I believe it."

"Give it time."

Her hand was no longer cold, but it was still unsteady when she pressed it to her head. "I need to think."

"Fine."

With a sigh, she sat back and studied him. "I'll take that breakfast now."

CHAPTER 6

The eggs were bland, but they were certainly hot. Irradiated, Libby thought as she took a second bite. She'd heard of the controversial process for preserving food. Still, it was a far cry from a microwave TV dinner.

Somehow she'd woken up in the middle of a science-fiction movie.

"I keep telling myself there has to be another explanation."

Cal polished off his eggs. "Let me know if you find one."

Dissatisfied, she set her plate aside. "If all this is real, you seem to be taking it very calmly."

"I've had some time to get used to it. Are you going to eat the rest of that?"

She shook her head, then turned to stare through the clear shield. She saw a pair of elk meander into the trees about a hundred yards away. A beautiful sight, she mused. Beautiful, and normal here in the mountains of Oregon. If the elk had wandered down Fifth Avenue in Manhattan they would still have been beautiful, and they would still have been real. But, for reasons of basic geography, they wouldn't have been normal.

There was no denying that Cal was real. Was it possible that he and his incredible vehicle were a perfectly normal sight in another place? In another time?

If it were true- if she allowed herself for just one moment to believe it- How must he feel? She looked at the elk again. They were standing in a patch of sunlight. Mustn't he be feeling as confused and displaced as any animal taken out of its natural habitat and tossed into a strange world?

She remembered the panic she had seen on his face the day he'd come to her with a paperback novel. A novel published this year, Libby reflected. She'd dismissed his pallor, his dazed confusion, as the effects of his head injury. She'd discounted his odd questions and remarks the same way.

Now there was the ship-and no matter how far she stretched it she couldn't call the vehicle a plane. If she accepted that it was real and not part of some strange, vivid dream, then she had to accept Cal's story.

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,/ than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

"Hamlet." He grinned at her quick, suspicious look. "We still read Shakespeare. Want some coffee?"

She shook her head. Dream or not, she needed answers. "You say you- bounced off a black hole?"

He smiled, immeasurably relieved. She believed him. Perhaps she didn't fully realize it herself, but she believed him. "That's right, or at least that's what I think. I'm going to need my computer. My instruments went berserk when we hit the gravitational field, so I went to manual and managed to bank east. I remember the force. It must be what a fly feels like when someone gives it a good solid bat. I passed out. When I came to, I was free-falling toward Earth. I switched back to computer and thought my troubles were over."

"That doesn't explain how you ended up here-or should I say now."

"There are a lot of theories. The one I lean toward deals with the space-time continuum. It's like a curved bowl." He cupped his palm to demonstrate. "Mathematically, the bowl isn't space and it isn't time. It's a combination of both. Everything in it moves through space and time. Gravity's the curve of the bowl, drawing everything down. Around the Earth it's not much of a curve. You don't really feel it unless you, say, fall off a cliff. But around the sun, and around a black hole-" He deepened the cup of his palm.

"And you're saying you were caught in that curve?"

"Like a marble being spun around the lip of the bowl. And somewhere, somehow, along the spin, I was flicked off. The speed, the trajectory, sent me tunneling not just through space but through time."

"It sounds almost plausible when you say it."

"It's the only theory I've got. Maybe if we look at it, it'll sound more plausible." Leaning forward, he turned a dial. "Computer."

Yes, Cal.

Libby lifted a brow at the soft, sultry voice. "Since when do they make computers tall, blond and busty?"

He just grinned. "Intergalactic runs can be lonely. Computer, play back log date 02-05. On screen."

Cal swiveled in his chair and leaned forward as a small viewing screen rose out of the console. Sound filled the cockpit Impassive, he watched his own image flicker on. From her chair, Libby stared mesmerized, as the playback progressed. She could see him sitting precisely where he was sitting now. But there were lights flashing, buzzers sounding. While the cockpit vibrated, he reached up to secure a safety strap. She could see the sweat beading on his face as he fought the controls of the bucking ship.

"Widen image," Cal commanded.

Then Libby saw what he had seen through the shield. There was the vastness of space, seductive and compelling. There were stars, clusters of them, and what was surely a distant planet. There was a blackness, an absolute blackness, that spread for miles. The ship seemed to be hurtling toward it.

She heard Cal swearing-or rather the image of Cal was swearing as he pulled on a lever. There was a sound, a screaming rip of metal that seemed to vibrate all around her. The cockpit began to roll, end over end, with sickening speed. And then the screen went blank.

"Damn it. Computer, continue playback."

Memory banks damaged. No further playback possible.

"Terrific." He started to command an analysis, but then he caught a glimpse of Libby. She was sitting limply in the chair beside his, her cheeks a dead white, her eyes glassy. "Hey." He was up quickly and leaning over her. "Take it easy." Cupping her face in his hands, he pressed his thumbs lightly on either side of her throat. "It was like I was there."

He cursed himself and took her icy hand in his to warm it. He had known better, Cal thought in disgust. But he had only been thinking of himself and his need to see what had happened. "I know. I'm sorry."

"It was horrible." Whatever doubts she had harbored had vanished completely during the playback. Her fingers tightened convulsively on his as she looked up at him. "It's all been horrible for you."

"No." He combed his fingers through her hair. "Not all." Softly, gently, he touched his lips to hers, then skimmed them over her jaw. She reached a hand to his face, letting it linger while she gave and took the comfort.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find a way back." She felt a pain, sharp and sudden. Of course he couldn't stay. Carefully she laid her hand back in her lap. "When will you go?"

"It's going to take a little time." He straightened and glanced around the cabin. "I need to do some repairs on the body of the ship. There are a lot of calculations that have to be done."

"I'd like to help you." She made a helpless gesture with her hands. "I don't know how."

"I'd like you to stay while I'm working. I know you've got a lot to do, but if you could spare a few hours?"

"Sure." She dug up a smile. "I don't get many offers to spend the day in a spaceship." But she couldn't sit beside him at that moment. If he looked at her too closely he might see what she had just discovered: when he left he would break her heart. "Can I look around?"

"All you want." She was still pale, he noted, but her voice was strong. Perhaps, like him, she needed some tune alone. "I'd like to get the computer started on some calculations."

She left him to it, trying not to jolt when automatic doors whispered open at her approach. She entered what seemed to be a small lounge. A pair of couches were built into the walls, curving back, then out, with bright orange cushions. A table of what appeared to be Lucite was bolted to the floor. There were a few glossy informational sheets tossed around. The future's version of Car and Driver, she thought with a nervous laugh as she chose one. She tapped it absently against her thigh as she wandered around the room.

She was a sensible woman, Libby told herself. A sensible woman accepted what couldn't be denied. But-

There were no buts. She was a scientist. One who studied man. For the time being, she would study what man would be rather than what he had been.

For an hour she walked through the ship, observing, absorbing. There was a narrow, untidy room she took to be the galley. There was no stove, only a wall unit that resembled a microwave. A refrigerator of sorts held a few bottles. The labels were a familiar red, white and blue and carried the name of a popular brand of American beer.

Man hadn't changed that much, Libby decided. She chose an equally familiar brand of soft drink and twisted off the cap. She took a first experimental sip.

Amazing, she thought as she took another. She might have found the bottle in her own refrigerator. Taking the bottle and its comforting familiarity with her, she wandered on.

She found herself in an enormous bay area. It was empty except for a huddle of boxes strapped into a comer.

He'd said he'd just made a supply run, she remembered. To Mars. When her stomach fluttered, she took another sip from the bottle.

So man had conquered Mars. Even in the twentieth century, scientists had been making plans to do so. She would have to ask Cal when the first colony had been built and how the colonists had been chosen. Slowly she rubbed her fingers against her temple. Perhaps in a day or two this would all seem less fantastic. Then she would begin to think logically and ask appropriate questions.

She continued through the ship. There was a second level that seemed to be comprised almost completely of bedrooms. Cabins, Libby corrected automatically. On ships they were called cabins.

The furniture was streamlined, and most of it was built directly into the wall. Smooth formed plastic and bright colors were the style.

She found Cal's almost by accident. She didn't want to admit she'd been looking. There was little difference between his and the other cabins, other than its homey untidiness. She saw a jumpsuit, similar to the one he'd been wearing when she'd found him, tossed in a corner. The bed was unmade. On the wall was a picture, eerily three-dimensional, of Cal standing with a group of people.

The dwelling behind them was multileveled and almost entirely glass. There were white terraces jutting out at all angles, and there were tall, shady trees on a green lawn.

This was his home, she thought, certain of it. And his family. She studied them again. The woman was tall and striking and appeared much too young to be his mother. A sister? she wondered, but then she remembered that he had spoken of only one brother.

They were all laughing. Cal had his arm slung around the shoulder of another man. The height and build were similar, and there was enough facial resemblance to make her certain that this was Cal's brother. His eyes were green, and even in the photograph they were uneasily piercing. A tough customer, she decided and shifted her attention to the third man in the photo.

He seemed slightly befuddled. His face wasn't as blatantly handsome, but there was kindness in it.

Trapped in time, she mused. That was what a photograph did. It trapped people in time. Just as Cal was trapped now. She lifted a hand, but she caught herself just before she stroked the image of his face.

It was important to remember that he was only here until he could break free. He had another life, in another world. What she was feeling about him, for him, was impossible. Just as impossible, she thought as she pressed the cool bottle to her brow, as the fact that she was standing in a vehicle designed to travel through space.

Abruptly weary, she sat down on the bed. It was crazy, all of it. And the craziest part of all was that she had fallen in love for the first time in her life. And the man she loved would soon be far beyond her reach. With a sigh, she stretched out on the slick, cool sheets. Perhaps it was all a dream after all.

He found her there more than an hour later, curled up on his bed. She was sleeping, as she had been the first time he remembered seeing her. It brought him an odd, unsettling feeling to watch her now.

She was lovely, but it was no longer her beauty that drew him. There was a sweetness about her, a combination of compassion and shyness. She had strength and passion. And innocence-an incredibly alluring innocence. He wanted to go to her now, to gather her up and make love with her in the softest, gentlest way he knew.

But she wasn't for him. He wished it could be like a fairy tale, wished she could go on sleeping for a hundred years, for two hundred and more, until he awakened her and claimed her for his own.

He wasn't a prince, he reminded himself. He was just an ordinary man caught in an extraordinary situation.

Moving quietly, he crossed to the bed to draw the sheet over her. She stirred, murmured. Unable to resist, he reached down to stroke her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open.

"Cal. I had the strangest dream." Then she was awake and pushing herself up to stare around the cabin. "Not a dream."

"No." He sat beside her. No matter how much he lectured himself, he couldn't deny the pleasure it gave him to share his bed with her, if only as a friend. "How do you feel?"

"Still a little rattled." She combed both hands through her hair, holding it away from her face for a moment before she let it fall. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep. I guess my mind needed to shut off for a while."

"It's a little much to take in all at once. Libby?"

"Yes?" She glanced distractedly around the cabin, trying to let it all settle in.

"I'm sorry. I have to." He closed his lips over hers and savored. She was warm and soft from sleep. He couldn't have explained to her how badly he needed that yielding texture. Reflexively she lifted a hand to his shoulder. But there it relaxed.