If I Can't Have You (5 page)

He could see the slight roundness of her breasts through the white satin—small, much less than a handful. The fabric molded to her body, and he could see every curve, her slender waist, her narrow hips, the line of those almost nonexistent panties underneath.

A thick lump caught in his throat, and he nearly gasped when she reached under the shimmering satin. Her fingers slipped around the straps at her hips and she pulled the panties away, sliding them slowly down her legs, stepping out of the small scrap of fabric one foot at a time.

Life wasn’t the least bit fair, he decided. She’d put on a strip show, teasing him with just a hint of what was yet to come, then covered up the best before he got a peek. Maybe he had died and gone to heaven, or maybe, just maybe, he was in hell, having to watch naked women for all eternity without being able to touch. Was that to be his punishment for a life that had been less than perfect?

She lifted the black-and-white garment from the floor, slipped it onto a hanger, and moved toward him. He crouched at the back of the closet, hoping the clothes would quit swaying before she opened the door.

All he could see when she stepped in front of him were her slender ankles, her feet and toes, all tanned a nice shade of golden brown, and he wondered if the rest of her body would be tanned as nicely if he
saw it in bright light without the hindrance of louvers.

When she closed the door, he moved through the clothing again and watched her shove something black and rectangular into a metal box on top the dresser. She climbed under the frilly white covers, fluffed the pillows, and wiggled until she got comfortable.

She picked up another black object, pointed it at the dresser, and he saw snow and heard static in the glass-fronted box. Words flashed across the screen. He could just make out the beginning, something about it being illegal to make copies. He tried to make sense of the words, but they disappeared and something familiar met his eyes. The Warner Bros. emblem blazed across the screen in black-and-white, and in big letters,
Trevor Montgomery in Captain Caribe.
He
smiled, not at his name, but at the thought that she had a movie theater right here in the bedroom. He liked the concept, liked the idea of lying in bed and watching gorgeous young starlets, maybe a bevy of Busby Berkeley beauties, parading before him as he fell asleep. He’d heard talk of an invention like this, but he didn’t think it had been developed to this extent. The woman must be rich to afford such a thing.

He watched her resting against the pillows, finding the lady in his bed much more interesting than his own small image. She cried during the love scenes, wiping her eyes again and again. She smiled when he climbed the mast and swung from one ship to another, pulling out his sword and fighting the soldiers who’d soon be hanging from the yardarm. And close to the end, her
head gently dropped to one side
and Trevor knew she’d gone to sleep. The movie played on, the credits rolled, and once again snow and static appeared on
the
title screen.

The noise didn’t disturb her sleep and he hoped
his movements wouldn’t either as he retied the string below the light bulb, crept out of the closet, and started for the door. Maybe somewhere in the house was an explanation for what was going on. As far as he knew, it was July 5,1938. Two days ago he might have murdered a woman; last night he’d tried to commit suicide and failed. Today someone strange—but beautiful—was living in his house, driving his car, and even worse, he’d heard all that talk about his disappearance—sixty years ago.

It didn’t make any sense at all.

He headed for the door, then stopped when he heard a soft sigh from the bed.

“
Trevor,” she whispered.

The gentle sound of his name made him momentarily forget his troubles, and he went to the bed. The woman lying there wore no makeup. Her pale blond lashes rested lightly against the creamy smoothness of her skin, and her eyes flickered beneath nearly translucent eyelids. Silently he thanked the moon for shining through the window to reveal the loveliness of the woman in his bed.

Was she a guardian angel come to rescue him? He wasn’t sure if he believed in God, but he’d often prayed for help, prayed for someone to take away his demons. No one had come. Maybe things hadn’t been bad enough.

Now they were. His life seemed to be crashing in around him. Nothing made sense anymore.

Last night, right before he’d stepped into the water, he’d asked for forgiveness. He could have prayed for a miracle. He could have begged for help. But all he’d wanted was an end to the agony and absolution for all his wicked ways. Maybe this time his request had been granted.

Maybe this woman was the answer to a lifetime of prayers.

Adriana jolted awake. Somewhere in the house someone or something was rummaging, and for the first time since moving into Trevor Montgomery’s home, she felt a tremor of fright

Maybe the neighbor’s cat had sneaked inside when she’d come home. That had happened before, but in daylight. The cat had gotten into a pile of papers set aside to be recycled and had pushed and pawed and made a bed. Perhaps the curious, mischievous feline was at it again.

Sliding out of bed, Adriana tiptoed across the cold tile floor, careful not to make any sound. Down the hallway she moved, silently, slowly, more than halfway afraid it might not be a cat disturbing her belongings. She reached the doorway to the living room but stayed hidden, listening to the definite rustle of paper.

Peeking around the edge, she saw a man sitting on the sofa, hunched over looking at the books on her coffee table about Trevor Montgomery.

She jerked back, cowering behind the cover of the wall. Holding her breath, she prayed that he hadn’t seen or heard her.
Get out of here now,
she told herself.
Run to the neighbors. Run to your bedroom and try to get out a window before he finds you.

No, she couldn’t run away: She couldn’t risk him taking her precious belongings.

Her heart beat heavily. A lump had formed in her throat, and her legs and arms tingled with fear.

Stay calm. Don’t panic. He’s in the living room looking at books. He didn’t sneak into your bedroom. He isn’t rummaging through drawers or hastily throwing silver and crystal into a bag.

He’s not here to hurt you. Just tell him to leave.

Forcing herself to breathe slow and easy, she again peered into the living room. The man hadn’t moved.

Her gaze darted to the front door. Locked, and he
was directly in its path. There was no easy way to escape if her foolishly brave plan didn’t work.

For the first time in her life, she wished she had a gun for protection. She settled for the tall, sleek, but heavy bronze sculpture of a man in top hat and tails sitting on the table just inside the room. The carving would make the perfect lethal weapon, unless the intruder had something better, like a gun or a knife. That thought horrified her.

She kept her eyes on the stranger and stepped quietly into the room.

The man lifted his head and looked toward the bar. He hadn’t heard her or seen her... not yet anyway. She raised the statue to her shoulder, just in case she had to use it. Call the police, she told herself. Let them get rid of him.

She grabbed the phone.

The intruder’s head jerked around and, even though his face was cloaked in shadow, she could see the intensity of his eyes as a thin beam of moonlight slashed across his face.

Oh, God.

The phone slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor, its dial tone ringing annoyingly in the stark silence of the room.

Run for kelp. Don’t try to be brave.
She knew she shouldn’t be standing there, but she felt completely hypnotized by his eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice wavering in fear. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer her question. He just stared.

Her chest rose hard and fell even harder as she tried to breathe, tried to calm her fear. She should run, but, as if in a dream, she couldn’t move.

The intruder rose from the couch, and in the dim light of the reading lamp, she could see the unkempt nature of his clothes. His jacket sleeves and pants were far too short, and it looked as if he’d been
swimming in his shoes. Was he a vagrant dressed in a salvaged tuxedo, a homeless person who’d selected her house for a night’s lodging?

“I asked you a question,’ she said, attempting to sound in control of the situation. “Who are you?”

“Put down the sculpture. I won’t hurt you.”

His voice sounded familiar. Deep, resonant, refined. She didn’t know this person; she didn’t know anyone who lived on the streets, and it didn’t matter that she knew that voice. She didn’t want him here.

“You don’t belong in my house. Get out... now.” An icy chill raced up her spine when he didn’t move.

“Please,” she begged.

“It’s you who doesn’t belong,” he stated flatly.

She wished she could see more than just his eyes, see who was uttering such nonsense.

“This is my house,” he continued. “I’m the one who should be asking
you
to leave.”

“You’re crazy. This is my home. Mine. Do you understand?”

“I’m not
crazy,”
he said emphatically, his voice deepening. “You’re in my home; you’ve been sleeping in my bed. I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what’s going on, but I want things back to normal again.”

Adriana backed against the wall. He was mad; totally and completely insane. Who was he to make such strange accusations?

“Who are you? Tell me. Please,” she repeated.

Slowly he bent down and picked up one of the books about Trevor Montgomery that sat on her coffee table. He held it in front of himself and she could see Trevor’s beloved face on the front.

The man glared at her again.

“According to these books of yours,” he said with an old familiar laugh, “I’m a man who disappeared in 1938.”

The woman reached behind her, flipped a switch, and the room filled with light.

She stared at him for the longest time, and a flicker of recognition crossed her face. Her eyes narrowed slowly in question, then widened again as she drew in a deep, quick breath. She backed away, bumping into the wall, but she continued to watch him as if she didn’t want him out of her sight.

Her lips began to tremble, and the white silk of her flimsy gown shimmered as her body shook.

All of Trevor’s earlier thoughts about her being an angel had diminished. His doubts arose when he began reading the books about himself, about all the drinking and carousing and womanizing, about his involvement in Carole’s murder, and about his disappearance. God! He hadn’t disappeared. He’d been yanked out of one decade and thrown into another. If this woman had been sent to him by some heavenly being, why was he trapped in hell?

He watched her raise the statue to her shoulder like a ballplayer would a bat. Did she plan on swinging it, or throwing it across the room directly at his head?

Her fingers tightened around the bronze. Her gaze
shifted from Trevor’s eyes to the book he held, then back again to his face. “Who are you?” she asked again.

How could she ask such a question? Everyone knew him. He was one of the most photographed and well-known movie stars in the world, whether he looked it or not. Had the events of the day before changed him so much?

Somehow he managed a short, brisk laugh, and pointed to the cover of the book. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize me. You’ve got half a dozen books about my life.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead, her voice quivered when she spoke. “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“I’m not either,” he blurted out. “But let me tell you, lady, either I’ve gone totally insane in the past twenty-four hours, or someone’s playing the joke of the century on me.”

“You must be insane. Why else would you break into someone else’s home?”

“This is my home,” he protested
again. Wasn’t she listening? “I
bought it in 1931.”

Her frown deepened and she shook her head. “You’re crazy. Get out. Now!”