A Sexy Time of It

She rose, throwing up her hands in a gesture of surrender, but she wasn’t quite ready to give in.

“I have another question.” On the screen she brought up an image of Cornelia—Neely—Rafferty and enlarged it. “The Ripper killed and mutilated six women in 2008, and Cornelia Rafferty was his last victim—he killed her in the early-morning hours of May 17. You’ve made several trips to New York to observe each of those women. Why have you singled her out as the one you’re going to get close to?”

Max had anticipated the question, so he had an answer prepared. Some of it Deirdre already knew. The Ripper had selected prostitutes in 1888—women whom Victorian society cared very little about. In 2008 he’d selected middle-class women, all single, all living alone. The slew of criminologists who’d studied the cases over the years all agreed that the 2008 Ripper had established some kind of relationship with each victim. All had been found in their own homes. There’d been no sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle. The experts across time had concluded that the 2008 Ripper had to have been someone the women knew, someone they trusted enough to invite into their homes. Hell, he was doing the same thing in 2128.

“In the time I’ve spent observing the six women, I discovered that besides being single and living alone, each of them had some kind of connection to books. One was a librarian, one was a college professor with several publications in the field of psychology, two were high-school English teachers, another was an editor at a publishing house and Neely Rafferty was a bookstore owner. If that’s what he used—an interest in books or a specific topic—to get close to them, I figure she’s my best bet. The Ripper might even have used her store as a base to select his victims.”

“Gut instinct again?” Deirdre asked.

“Yes. I believe she’s the key to identifying the killer.”

Max waited then. This was the trickiest part of his proposal. What he intended was to get close enough to Neely Rafferty to find out who in her circle of customers or friends might be the Ripper. Most time travelers were required to make themselves psychically invisible when they visited another time. This made it easier for them to follow the Prime Directive. Becoming personally acquainted with anyone in a previous time was prohibited—unless it was absolutely necessary for security enforcement purposes. He’d argued that in this instance it was.

Deirdre studied him very closely. Anyone worth their salt in security had a sixth sense for recognizing a lie when they heard it. He prayed that she wouldn’t see through him. He’d spoken the truth. It just wasn’t the whole truth. As seconds ticked by, Max had to put some effort into not glancing back at Neely’s picture.

The first time he’d seen it, he hadn’t been able to look away for a very long time. There was something in her face that pulled at him. No. That was too weak a word for what had compelled him to study Neely Rafferty’s image for hours.

Seeing her in person, watching her go about her business, had only deepened the effect she had on his senses. He had no idea why, but he knew that she posed a threat to him. Walking into her store that day had been a mistake. Everything that had pulled at him from a distance had intensified during those minutes he’d spent in Bookends. But when he’d touched her, held her wrist in his hands for those few moments, he’d known beyond a doubt that she was the key. Without her, he was not going to avenge his sister’s death.

If he could just figure out what it was about her that scrambled his brain. In many ways she was ordinary looking. Her hair was the color of honey and she wore it short, the way many women in his time wore theirs. Her face wasn’t what he would have called beautiful, but it was interesting. Her skin was pale and her features delicate, but she had a strong chin and a mouth that hinted at stubbornness and passion. It was her mouth that had nearly been his downfall.

He’d felt her eyes on him the whole time he’d wandered through the store, and it had been as intimate as a caress. That was when he’d known that he had to touch her. Just once. So he’d dropped the book as a ploy, and he’d timed it perfectly. She’d been so close that her scent had wrapped around him. Something that reminded him of spring rains, and he’d wondered if he would taste that flavor on her skin—or on her lips.

He’d watched her blue-gray eyes darken, not in surrender, but in sensual excitement. And then he’d felt her in his mind, willing him to kiss her. Her desire had fueled his own, nearly destroying his control. Never in his life had he experienced anything like it. God, he’d wanted to touch her—to slip that blouse off of her and let his hands run over every inch of her. For a moment, in his mind, his mouth had covered hers and he’d known that he could have her. The power of that knowledge had streamed through him. And he’d almost acted on his desire, taking her right there on the floor of the bookstore, quick and hard and hot. It would have been incredible. Crazy. And not at all what he’d gone there to do.

Pure survival instinct had given him the strength to pull back at the last minute, and he’d nearly run out of the store.

Deirdre was still studying him, still trying to read him, so he said, “Look, Dee, I can’t explain it but she’s the key. I’m as certain of that as I am that the Ripper is a psychic time traveler. And who knows what other advanced psychic abilities he possesses. He has to be stopped.”

“I hope I’m not making a mistake.”

Max smiled at her then. “The mistake would be if you don’t approve my proposal.”

“Right.” She held his gaze, not returning his smile. “Now all I have to do is convince Mr. Shaw of that. I want to make one thing crystal clear. You have to catch the Ripper here in this century, at this exact time. I don’t want you pulling off any tricks so that your sister and the other four girls here won’t be killed. I need to know that I can trust you not to mess with the rules before I give you the go-ahead.”

Max rose then and extended a hand. “I know I can’t undo my sister’s death. I’ll bring the Ripper to you. My word on that.”

She grasped his hand. “Take care.”

BACK IN HIS OFFICE, Max checked to see if he had everything he needed. He’d packed ahead of time. He didn’t want to stick around long enough for Deirdre to have second thoughts. The black shirt and jeans he’d changed into were from 2008. He’d selected them earlier from the supply that TGS stocked for each time period. The small cylindrical weapon that he tucked into his pocket wasn’t. Neither was the palm-size computer clipped to his belt. The small duffel he’d slung over his shoulder contained what he’d need for a very short stay. The hunt was on. He planned to arrive in 2008 on the evening of May 15, and the Ripper would kill Neely Rafferty in the early hours of May 17. That gave him only about thirty hours to identify his man. Considering his experience in the bookstore, the less time he spent with Neely Rafferty, the better. Once he arrived in 2008, the clock would be ticking.

Shutting his eyes, he pictured the row of brownstones on Thirty-fifth Street where Neely lived. As soon as the details became clear in his mind, he would begin the journey. For nearly forty years now, a percentage of the population who carried a specific gene had been able to psychically travel back through time. They could travel to any time they could vividly picture in their minds. Thirty years ago TGS had added training classes and licensing requirements for anyone wishing to travel to the past. So far, no one could travel to the future because they couldn’t “see” future times in their minds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3

May 15, 2008

Manhattan

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

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

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

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

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

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

Possibly.

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

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

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

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

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

He was gone.

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

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

That’s where he was. She could feel him—almost the same way she’d felt that man in Mitre Square last night. This time the sensation was more intense, and this was a different man.

How did she know that?

Rattled now, she ran into the house, slammed the door and reset the alarm.

MAX STOOD, invisible now, just inside the gate of the small park. He’d cursed himself the moment that Neely turned away from the window. She was coming. He’d read the intention in her mind as clearly as he’d felt for one instant her body beneath his, arching up to meet his thrusts. He’d felt her gripping him in a hot, wet sheath, and the pleasure had been so intense, his need so acute that for a moment he hadn’t been able to move.

When he’d broken free from the hold she seemed to have on his mind, he’d leaped off the stoop and run toward the park three houses down. And finally—too late—he’d made himself invisible. Clairvoyance was not one of his stronger psychic gifts, but there were some things he just knew, and that talent had saved his life on more than one occasion. In this case, what he knew was that he and Neely were going to make love in spite of likely repercussions.

She shouldn’t have seen him. He’d been so focused on her presence in the room above the bookstore that he’d neglected to make himself invisible. Shakespeare’s Romeo had the excuse of adolescence and rampant hormones. Max Gale could lay claim to neither of those. It was his fault that she’d run so recklessly into the street.

Worried, Max moved to the wrought-iron gate and stepped through it. He froze when she glanced in his direction. She couldn’t see him now, but he still felt her eyes on him. They had some kind of mental connection—an intimate one. For an instant, she had been in his mind and he’d been in hers. And he’d been inside of her. The sensations in his body had been very real.

No one in this time period was supposed to be that open to mind links. Sure, there were recorded cases of individuals with advanced psychic powers. But Neely Rafferty wasn’t one of those cases. He’d checked. Nor was there any documentation that anyone in her family possessed psychic abilities.

Confident that she couldn’t see him even if she looked out the window, he moved back to the stoop across from Bookends. Of course, anomalies occurred, but they were extremely rare. Still, he knew what he’d experienced. Even now, he felt a connection with her. The adrenaline rush she’d experienced when she’d dashed into the street was taking its toll. She was drifting into sleep. And he needed some himself. Climbing the stoop, he stretched out his legs, leaned his shoulders against the railing and closed his eyes.

Max was halfway between waking and sleeping when he felt the sudden pull. He had no time to react, no time to block the power of it. Without conscious volition, his body went weightless, his sight grayed, and he was sucked into a whirlpool of inky blackness.

WHEN NEELY OPENED her eyes, she was totally surrounded by fog so thick that she could barely make out the street lamp. She moved closer until she could read the street sign. Buck’s Row. A thrill moved through her. She was just where she wanted to be. The body of Mary Ann Nichols had been discovered right down this street. Then she heard the footsteps. Pressing a hand against her heart, she peered down the fog-shrouded street. Nothing. The footsteps grew louder, then paused. She backed against a hedge and waited. He was standing beneath the street lamp. She knew it even though she couldn’t see him.

The footsteps sounded again and halted just a few feet away from her.

“Who are you?”

At the sound of his deep voice, dread blocked her throat. He was so close now that she could hear his breath heaving. The murky haze cleared a little—she saw no one. But he was there. She felt his eyes on her, and she knew suddenly that this was the same man who’d chased her in Mitre Square. Was it Jack the Ripper?

Terror spiked through her. She should run, scream, imagine herself back in her bedroom. Something. Then she remembered the pepper spray. Slipping her hand into her pocket, she closed her fingers around it. Something brushed along her cheek—cold metal. She sensed the white-hot, blinding violence in him.

The muscles in her stomach clenched. Fear iced her veins, but she yanked out the pepper spray and shot it straight ahead in an upward direction. There was a sharp, guttural cry and footsteps stumbling away from her. Then silence.

He was gone.

Relief struck her like a sharp blow. The first thing she did was breathe. The oxygen burned her lungs. But she didn’t move, and she focused on the spot in front of her where he’d been only moments before. He could come back.

As seconds ticked by and he didn’t return, she straightened her shoulders and stepped away from the hedge. For a moment, she thought of going back home. But she’d come here to see if she could save one of the Ripper’s victims. She had a sickening feeling that she might be too late. He had come from Buck’s Row. Keeping a firm grip on the can of pepper spray, she started down the street. Mary Ann Nichols’s body had been found in front of a stable gate. Neely could picture it in her mind. Fifty feet ahead, she made out the soft light of another street lamp. The fog was so thick now that when she stretched her hands out in front of her she could barely see her fingers. She sensed when she’d reached the gate because she smelled horses…and something else. The same scent that she’d noticed in Mitre Square. Blood. Neely’s heart stuttered, then raced.

When the fog shifted, she saw him.

He was bending over the body of a woman. She lay spread-eagled on her back in front of the gate that Neely had burned into her memory. There was a wide gash at the woman’s throat. Blood covered her face and matted her hair. Neely bit her bottom lip and held back a scream. She was too late to save Mary Ann Nichols, and she had to run before the Ripper saw her.

He glanced up, and recognition streamed through her. It was him—the man from the stoop. Her breath trembled when he rose. She should run, but she couldn’t seem to move. The pepper spray was still clenched in her hand but she couldn’t raise her arm. As he moved toward her, his shoulders blocked her view of the woman.

What was he doing here? He wasn’t the Ripper—she was almost sure of it. He held none of that blinding violence she’d sensed in the man she’d shot with the pepper spray. But what was this stranger doing standing over the body?

Stop asking questions, her brain shouted. Run. But she couldn’t seem to pull herself loose from his eyes. They were so dark. So intense. And all the while, he moved toward her, slowly, purposefully, the way a man might approach a skittish horse. Or a woman he intended to kill.

“Easy, girl.”

She could have sworn she heard the words. But his lips hadn’t moved. Still frozen, she was acutely aware of the way her pulse hammered at her throat, her wrists, her breast. He was inches away from her, and she was still paralyzed.

His fingers closed around her upper arm like steel bands, “C’mon, we have to get out of here.” His voice was deep, unaccented, and there was no trace of emotion as he drew her with him down the street in the direction she’d come from.

Finally, she found her voice. “We can’t just leave her there.”

“She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.”

Neely dug in her heels, but she didn’t slow him down a bit. “Did you kill her?”

He sent her a quick glance. “No. From the looks of her she’s one of the Ripper’s victims.”

“How do I know you’re not the Ripper?”

He stopped and turned to her. “Here’s a clue. If I were the Ripper, you’d be dead.”

Her throat went dry. There was something—a trace of annoyance—in his tone now. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she could feel his gaze on her, and she was very much aware of the hand that gripped her arm so tightly. She felt the press of each one of his fingers like a brand. “Who are you then? Why were you in my bookstore this afternoon? Why were you on the stoop across from my store? And how did you get here?”

“You brought me here, sweetheart. And you’re going to tell me how.”

“First, I want to know who you are.”

Max glared down at her as temper and something more dangerous burned through his system. He surprised them both by jerking her close. Then he did what he’d wanted to do earlier in the bookstore. What he’d known he was going to do. He clamped his mouth down on hers. It was a mistake—one he regretted the moment he tasted her.