Daring Time (17 page)

"I thought you said she was a virgin," Ryan muttered through teeth clenched in fury.

"She is, she is. You can see why my gentlemen friends are so eager to witness the event.

The truth be told, she's a minister's daughter!" Jack laughed as if he'd just told the punch line to a joke. His humor faded quickly when he noticed Ryan's expression. "Haven't got much of a sense of humor, have you, boy?"

"Just take me to her," Ryan muttered, sick to the point of nausea from conversing with Jack. Nothing mattered more at that moment than seeing Hope, He'd have to figure out the rest when he fully understood the landscape.

"There's one other thing, son. One of my men will be photographing the .. . event. For posterity's sake," Jack added with a slashing grin.

Ryan went entirely still. Jack must have misunderstood his rigid, shocked expression.

"Don't worry. My photographer knows his instructions. He never photographs the details of the man's face; just the back of him and the ... crucial body parts."

Jack took a wary step back when Ryan closed in on him. "You want the photographs to blackmail someone,
am I right?"

Jack's clamping jaws loosened around his cigar. "I don't suppose it hurts if you know it.

You're correct."

"A fiance? A father?" Ryan prodded. Much to his rising dismay, he already knew the answer, however.

Jack merely shrugged.

Ryan's mind spun like an out-of-control carnival ride for a second. But then it was as if someone hit a switch and the flurry of activity slowed and settled into place.

He knew what he had to do.

"Any asshole with a cock and a sick mind can rape a helpless woman," Ryan told Jack stonily. "Has it ever occurred to you that the photographs would carry a bit more . ..

punch, let's say, to her lover or her minister father if the lady in question was shown to be enjoying herself instead of merely being forced?"

Jack's glance down over Ryan was disparaging while his trip back up was more assessing

. .. more cunning.

"You think that's a possibility, eh? Well, I've said you've got balls from the start. The girl's a frigid one, though, from the information I've been given."

"From assholes like Mason? Does it surprise you she'd be cold to the likes of him?"

Jack chuckled. "No, I suppose it doesn't."

"I can do it. I can entice her to respond. I'll give you what you want. You'll be happy with the photographs you get. There's just one thing. I won't be able to get her to participate to any degree if she knows she's being photographed. I can't do miracles. I doubt she'll be too interested in romance if she knows your ...
business partners
are watching, either,"

Ryan muttered as he gave a disparaging glance to the four scumbags dressed in gentlemen's clothing. He was just playing for time and a little privacy with Hope. If he could just have that, he'd finagle a means of escape. He
had
to.

"Not a problem."

Ryan started at Jack's almost nonchalant acceptance. He hadn't expected that.

He glanced over in rising wariness when a tall, thin man carrying a black box that Ryan recognized as an old-fashioned brownie snapshot camera approached the other men. He nodded his readiness at Jack.

"What'd you mean it's not a problem?" Ryan asked cautiously.

"The bedroom where the young lady awaits you is equipped with a viewing room. Some of my patrons enjoy watching the goings-on in the boudoirs at the Sweet Lash as much as participating. Miss Stillwater won't know she's being viewed through the peepholes and there's a large enough knothole for my man to take photographs."

Jack stated things so confidently that Ryan was left in little doubt he'd had plenty of experience with this sort of sordid business in the past.

"Just take me to her and make sure you and your men stay well out of the way," Ryan muttered. He was already contriving a plan for snatching Hope once the men were secreted in the "viewing room," having her wait while he took on the guy at the base of the stairs and commandeered his gun, then escaping this hellhole with her in tow.

He started to step away but Jack stopped him with a hand on his elbow. Ryan froze when his eyes lowered and he saw Jack pointing his SIG Sauer directly at his chest.

"This is an extremely unusual weapon that you possess, Mr. Daire," he said softly. "It's making me mighty curious about you." Jack's eyebrows went up on his doughy forehead when Ryan remained silent. "Nothing to say, son? I'd sure like to hear where you got a contraption like this."

"It's manufactured in Switzerland. Very rare."

"Is that right?" Jack murmured silkily. "Strange, that a mick from Bridgeport would own such a weapon. It looks accurate and as deadly a gun as I've ever seen in my life. I just want you to know it will be trained on you the entire time from one of the peepholes in the viewing room. If you don't do everything as agreed, I'll gladly test out this strange-looking weapon directly on your head. Big Mario will be all too glad to step in to take your place with the girl, I assure you. I've always found his methods to be most effective in the past."

Ice water streamed through Ryan's veins in a torrential rush when he glanced over to where Jack motioned with his head. Big Mario had regained consciousness. He walked into the foyer. His fierce, furious, one-eyed gaze on Ryan belied the giant's blood-smeared face and unsteady gait.

"Just take me to her," Ryan muttered stiffly. "And keep that damn photographer from flashing any photographs when she has her eyes open."

Ryan felt a grim sense of inevitability several moments later as he walked with the rest of the men down a long, gaslit hallway. Jack nodded to a closed door. Ryan opened it, lingering for a second in the entrance. He watched Jack's cronies file into the next door down the hall into the room Ryan assumed was the "viewing room." Jack closed the door behind Ryan and turned a key in the lock.

He entered warily, taking in the garish decorations, the alcove where the bed was situated

.. . the stunning, dark-haired woman that lay restrained to it.

The last time he'd seen the room it'd been in a black-and-white image, but he recognized it nevertheless. A quick glance at the wall to the left of the alcove confirmed there were plenty of peepholes cleverly concealed in the design of the wallpaper. Although he couldn't make it out without staring, one of them was obviously large enough for the lens of a camera.

He knew this for many reasons, the most important of which being that he'd seen the result of that camera's endeavors in the twenty-first century. As fate would have it, he—Ryan—had been the one in those photos along with Hope.

A sense of desperation pressed down on his chest when he noticed the items that had been placed strategically on the bedside table for the purposes of Hope Stillwater's ravishment and degradation: a leather flogger, a whippy-looking crop, a bottle of oil, a wooden paddle.

He approached the bed slowly. The dull ache of his injuries from the boxing match was nothing compared to the deep pain he experienced for Hope—for the ugliness of this situation. He took heart at seeing the flush of color in her cheeks. She was either unconscious or sleeping.

She would likely never forgive him when she learned about his part in the plan.

And even more intimidating to consider: what if his presence in the past made no difference whatsoever in Hope's death? That was
him
in those photographs with Hope, after all. Maybe his trip to save her had somehow already become an integral factor in the events that led up to her murder.

He heard a muffled knock coming from the wall to the left of the alcove and knew he couldn't deliberate on time paradoxes at the moment. He needed to focus on keeping them both alive—second to second. If he endangered himself, he endangered Hope. If Jack killed him, Big Mario would be sent in and Hope would be photographed with her rapist instead of her lover.

Her rapist and quite possibly her murderer.

Ryan's mouth twisted slightly when he realized he'd referred to himself in his mind as Hope's lover. But that's what he was, wasn't he? What else would you call a guy foolish enough to come back in time in order to claim her from death's grip?

Love is not time's fool,
Ryan recalled as he checked the pulse at Hope's neck, relieved to feel its strength and regularity.

He eased onto the bed, reclining next to her. The feeling of her curving, soft body felt good. The intoxicating scent of gardenias and sweet, succulent woman entered his nostrils. He inhaled slowly, letting the fragrance beguile him for a few precious seconds into for-getfulness of their foul circumstances.

God, he wished this could be different. But what else could he do? He was going to have to make love to this exquisite woman here, in front of these depraved assholes. He thought of waking her and whispering the truth to her, begging her to go along with Jack's plan until a more likely moment came for their escape. But something wouldn't allow him to do that to her. He didn't want to expose her to the details of the sordid situation.

He knew she'd never be able to let go ... to find fulfillment instead of become humiliated if he told her about the greedy men who observed them. And if she balked, they'd send in Mario . ..

Ryan swallowed convulsively as he pressed his mouth to her throbbing pulse, awestruck by the silkiness of her fragrant skin beneath his worshipping lips. The miracle of her presence, of being able to touch her at will penetrated his awareness fully for the first time.

He had to make this as palatable as possible for her. For Hope's sake, he needed to find a way to transcend this ugly situation ... to take her to a place where only the two of them existed. When he'd viewed those photographs in the twenty-first century, it'd never occurred once to him that the woman was being forced. The expression that had radiated from her lovely face in those photos couldn't possibly be mistaken for anything but pure ecstasy. Hope would submit to him ... submit to her own desire, no matter how unlikely the circumstances.

In that moment, Ryan
knew
he could do it, because thanks to the evidence of the photos

... he already had.

TWELVE

Hope luxuriated in a delicious drowsy world where Ryan nuzzled and kissed her neck.

His low, rough voice whispering in her ear caused shivers to race down her spine and her nipples to pinch tight against the cool sheet in anticipation of pleasure.

"Wake up, honey."

Her eyelids fluttered open. "Oh. I'm dreaming," she whispered through leaden lips when she saw Ryan lying beside her. He leaned his head on one braced hand and stared down at her. His scent filled her nostrils, making her dizzy with desire. He smelled rich, male and musky, but she caught the underlying odor of clean soap.

"I'm sorry. I had a . . . workout of sorts earlier and no chance to shower."

Her gaze sharpened on him. Her brow crinkled in puzzlement. "Workout?
Shower?"

Hope whispered, confused as much by his apologetic tone as his odd word usage. She blinked in rising disorientation as reality slammed into her. Her head jerked up off the pillow.

"Ryan!"

"Shhhh," he commanded tautly. He nuzzled her ear once again and whispered. "We're in a dangerous place, beauty. Speak very softly."

"But there's a cut on your brow. And you
shaved?"
she exclaimed in a muted voice as she turned her head toward him.

She watched as his sculpted, firm lips twitched with humor. Her heart seemed to surge against her breastbone. But
Lord,
Ryan Vincent Daire was a handsome man.

"Is that all you have to say?" he teased in a low rumble. "I came back from the year 2008

to find you, and the thing you're most concerned about is the faqt that I shaved?"

Hope gaped at him for a long moment. Almost as if Ryan knew precisely that she was about to try to rise into a sitting position, examine her surroundings and demand he tell her precisely what was going on, he spoke tautly.

"Stay still, Hope. Trust me," he murmured. She felt his hand moving ever so gently along the back of her neck. She winced when his fingertips ran over the back of her skull.

"You've got a nice goose egg back here. Are you dizzy?"

"No, I—" She gasped as memory came crashing back. Panic rose in her gut like a swelling wave and stifled her lungs. "Oh God. Diamond Jack Fletcher murdered that poor woman!"

"Quietly," Ryan murmured. She saw a muscle leap with tension in his lean cheek. His nostrils flared slightly as he stared down at her. "The walls and doors in the Sweet Lash are thin. You saw Jack murder someone?"

"Sadie Holcrum. She worked for him here in the Sweet Lash. I think this is her room.

Diamond Jack sent her to Central Station to lure me. Marvin Evercrumb, one of the men Jack employs for his white slavery operation, hit me over the head once Sadie got me to the ladies' lounge and they brought me here. Did you come through the mirror?" she whispered, abruptly changing the topic. She couldn't get over the fact that Ryan was here, lying next to her, incredibly real and solid. She was wild with curiosity and excitement over his presence, no matter how bizarre and dangerous the circumstances.

He nodded.

"Did you come to save me?"

His small, wry smile caused a delicious heat to spread in her lower belly.

"And doing a hell of a job of it, it would seem. I ended up at the Sweet Lash unexpectedly, but I suppose it makes sense considering you're here. I won't bore you with all the details at present; I'll just say Jack figured I was up to something. We're being held prisoner in this room for the night."

Her eyes sprang wide.

"Don't worry. I'll get us out."

"You know ... I believe you will," she replied softly.

The heat spread to become an ache between her thighs when Ryan's singular greenish-blue gaze sunk to her mouth.

"Hope .. ."

His dark head dipped and she was inundated with the pleasure of his firm mouth moving over her own, shaping her flesh to his, nibbling and plucking at her lips as though he considered them to be the most succulent of sensual delicacies. He lightly caressed his tongue along the seam of her lips. A shiver rippled down her spine and her womb tightened in a spasm of desire. He continued to mold her flesh to his, sandwiching first her lower lip between his own, and then the upper until she reciprocated the caress hungrily.