TemptressofTime (25 page)

She played mind games with herself, imagining arriving at
her parents’ fourth wedding to each other with two, possibly three studly
hunks. Attending charity balls or being interviewed on TV with her men at her
side. And how stupid was that?

Pretty damn stupid.

* * * * *

For some inexplicable reason the call from her agent didn’t
surprise her. Although she hadn’t left her house in two weeks, she reported to
Jane English’s office at ten o’clock on a Thursday morning four months after
her unexpected return to the U.S.

Jane’s welcoming smile did surprise her—its warmth a direct
conflict with her usual “Hello” grimace. Her brown eyes sparkled behind
wire-rim glasses as she motioned Diane into the office. Picking up her desk
phone she said, presumably to her receptionist, “Send her in.”

“What’s up?” Diane demanded as she sank into a crushed
velvet wingchair.

A soft rap preceded someone entering the office. Looking
behind her, Diane’s breath caught in her throat. A young woman smiled at her,
her eyes sky blue, her reddish curls streaked with blonde highlights. “Diane,
meet Meg Lansing—your publicist.”

“Pardon?” Still stunned, Diane watched the young woman come
toward her, her slender hand outstretched. She felt as if she had met the young
woman eons ago.

“Your last book has been in the top ten on several
bestseller lists for the last five months,” Meg explained, settling on the
matching side chair. “Your publisher wants you to tour to promote your next
book.”

“I-I don’t have one,” Diane confessed. In truth, she felt so
depressed she’d avoided even trying to write. A month or so ago her muse had
rapped her in the head with so many ideas Diane had banished the female to
someplace else. That place alternately burned or froze, depending on how Diane
cursed or missed her men.

“What’s this?” Jane held out a disk with Diane’s name on it,
a title beneath.
Passion’s Quest.
“You sent this just last month.”

“I did?” She rubbed her temples, but that did nothing to
ease the ache building behind her eyes. Her heartbeat pounded between her
eyebrows like a sinus infection begging to cause even more pain.
Damnation
,
writer’s block unblocked, followed by selective amnesia? “I need a vacation!”

Jane laughed.

Meg said, “Tours are seldom vacations, although you may have
time to complete your research.”

“Research?” Blast it! Now she sounded like a parrot learning
a new word.

Meg reminded her how much her readers enjoyed her
descriptions of architecture and landscapes. “Next to hot sex, that’s why folks
buy your books.”

Underlying the praise was a subtle criticism.
Heaven
knows you can’t write emotions.

But she could and had. Her last book proved it. Could she
write another one? Her agent and publisher seemed to think so. Otherwise why
would they want her to tour?

“Who’s paying?” she demanded, sounding so rude she wanted to
sink into a hole and never come out. This whole situation stank like
three-day-old unrefrigerated fish. Either that or her emotions had taken
charge, leading her to hope and pray her men—her lovers, her best friends—were
behind this wonderful, unexpected but dreamed-of invitation.

“A company that wants you to write a book about several old
houses it owns,” Jane told her. “After you finish your own book, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed, her tone wry. “What company? And
why me? Other writers specialize in coffee table books.” She shrugged, silently
praying this offer was a sign that her life was about to get better. That her
men were behind this curious offer. That her sense of having met Meg before was
not yet another sign that she was losing her mind.

Jane rattled off a name Diane didn’t recognize, then added,
“Meg vetted the company. Legit all the way.”

Grinning, the young woman tapped her portfolio. “Two
first-class tickets to London. Open-ended as to a return date.”

Disappointment warred with hope, her emotions settling
somewhere in between. “When do we leave?” she asked in a whisper as if afraid a
normal volume would burst the bubble of joy blossoming in her heart.

“Late afternoon this Saturday,” Meg said, standing in
preparation to leave. “I’ll give you a ride home if you like. Help you pack.”

Uncertain her legs would support her, Diane stood as well.
“We should arrive at Heathrow…”

“Early morning. Sunday.”

Of course!
Finally,
Sunday
would arrive.

* * * * *

Georgian grace. Diane hadn’t noticed it before, too intent
on Jason and getting to the folly to even look at her home. Now, however, as
their chauffeur drove them up the wide, seashell-topped road, she saw all of
the house’s symmetry. Equal numbers and sizes of windows on each story. Two
sets of stone stairs leading from the second floor to the portico sheltering
the ground-floor entrance. Beyond the structure, lush green lawns disappeared
into formal gardens. Meg followed her out of the limousine, looking as
awestruck as Diane felt.

“His Grace,” the butler said, meeting them before they reached
the doors leading inside, “and Lords de Vesay and Leveson await you on the
terrace.” An outstretched hand indicated they should take the left staircase.

Diane knew either set would take them to the same location,
but didn’t argue. Easier to follow directions than try to explain how she knew
what she knew.

Reaching the terrace, she spotted Jason lounging against the
balustrade. No one else. Disappointed, her spirits rose when Jason’s smile
bloomed and he came forward. Casual clothes suited him. A chocolate-colored
polo shirt hugged his impressive torso. Belted beige slacks accented his trim
waist and long legs. Odd, his usual fluidity seemed missing and his warm brown
eyes kept returning to Meg. Diane turned her head, taking in her companion’s
dumbstruck expression.

Ah. This was the
someone close
to Diane Jason had
expected. The reason their lovemaking had not happened. A spark of jealousy
flared, but died for lack of fuel. Diane silently wished the young couple a
smooth journey to their happy-ever-after ending.

After introducing them, she strolled away, not at all
concerned that Jason still held Meg’s hand. He guided her to a wrought iron
table shaded by a large red-and-blue-striped umbrella, then pulled out her
chair. For a long moment they seemed inclined to kiss, but Meg looked around,
spotting Diane, and that moment went away.

Aware of movement at her side, Diane looked up.

“At last,” Adrian said, taking her hand.

“About bloody time,” Walker declared, his smile at odds with
his words. “You look…rested.”

Like Jason, her men wore polo shirts that matched their
eyes. Adrian’s white slacks and deck shoes gave him a nautical look. Walker,
all in black, still resembled that powerful yet sleek cat.

“I slept most of the flight,” she told them, wanting to hug
them both. Although they looked happy to see her, they appeared as
uncomfortable as she felt. Lovers. Friends of a sort. Strangers. They also had
circles under their eyes—as if they hadn’t slept in days. Perhaps they also
dreaded this day of reckoning.

“Is this something your friend should hear?” Adrian asked,
his gaze on the oblivious young couple several yards away and engrossed solely
in each other.

“Probably not, but…yes. Just in case Jason thinks
otherwise.” Men being men, they always viewed information as power and withheld
as much as they could.

“Trust me,” Walker said, clearly out of sorts with the
lordling, “he’s insisted on telling the entire story.”

“No matter how fantastical it sounds,” Adrian muttered
darkly.

“Haven’t you said something about our pasts?” Walker said.
“To your companion?”

“Only as a premise for my next book.” She laughed. “After I
write your coffee table book, of course.”

Both men looked down at their feet.

“You found us out.”

“I guessed,” she admitted, looping her hands around their
elbows and tugging them toward the table. “You buried yourselves so well under
corporate fronts even Meg gave up trying to dig deeper.” Arriving at the table,
she waved Jason back to his chair then reached to pull out her own. Walker and
Adrian waged tug-of-war with the chair until she cleared her throat. Their
smiles sheepish, they waited for her to sit before they sat as well, then
introduced themselves to Meg.

“Are you the time travelers Jason’s been telling me about?”
she demanded to know. Her excitement made them all groan.

“Gullible,” Walker observed, his smile removing the sting
from his words.

“Accepting,” Adrian corrected with a grin at Meg.

“One of us,” Jason informed them, his tone saying,
Mine
.

“There’s no such thing,” Adrian began.

“As a female master of time,” Walker finished.

Meg laughed. “Of course not. Diane and I are mistresses of
time. We are, after all,
women
.”

Struck mute, they all gaped at the young woman. She smiled
at each in turn, then said, “I’ve searched for all of you through a half-dozen
lifetimes. I’m so glad we finally connected. And are aware of it.”

His expression fervent, Jason said, “So am I,” and raised
Meg’s hand to his lips. Sighing, she blushed, but didn’t pull away.

“I’m so confused I’m dizzy,” Diane told them.

“And no doubt hungry too. She slept most of the way. Woke up
just in time to land the plane. White-knuckled flyer,” Meg added
sotto voce
.

As if responding to a cue delivered by an actor, several
young men appeared carrying trays. One by one, they lifted domed covers off
plates, then served before disappearing as quickly and quietly as they’d
appeared. One returned with an enormous salad bowl and a gravy boat of
dressing. Another distributed glasses of iced tea. Then both left.

They dug in, content to delay conversation until they’d
filled their stomachs and slaked their thirsts. Diane’s stomach rebelled before
she could eat more than a few bites of fillet of sole, green beans and boiled
red potatoes.

“Meg… If I understood you correctly, you’ve traveled through
time while looking for us? Even me?” Her blue eyes shining, Meg patted Adrian’s
hand and smiled fondly at Walker. Diane went on. “You were—
are
the same
person you were in those other lives?”

“Yep.”

“And you remember those lives and the people you met?”

A small shrug, then, “Of course.”

“I don’t,” Diane mumbled. “I mean, I recognized Walker and
Adrian the second time we met, but I didn’t the first time. And we—that is
they
obviously had met that other Diane before they met me. At least it seemed that
way to me.”

She looked at Adrian then Walker for confirmation. Adrian
shrugged. Walker shifted his attention from Meg to her, but said nothing. Diane
caught herself before she reverted to past behavior and lambasted them for
withholding information. They deserved a vicious tongue-lashing, but they
looked as if they’d suffered as much as she had. Breathing deeply, she exhaled
negative emotions. Those feelings had, she suspected, kept them from happiness
in the past. She refused to let anything interfere with them being together
now.

“Bad karma back then,” Meg said, a scold in her voice. “Each
of you plotting against the others. Using one another to further yourselves.
Maybe that’s why you don’t remember everything about those times.” Meg
shivered.

Diane’s skin dotted with gooseflesh. “Is that why we kept
meeting? To make up for all the bad things in our pasts?”

“Probably.”

“What are the chances we’ll be parted again?” Walker asked
in a gentle voice. Almost as if he and Meg had shared a life the rest hadn’t.

Meg flashed a grin. “Hey, I’m a mistress of
past
times. Can’t see into the future.”

“Yet,” Jason added, recapturing Meg’s hand, then twining his
fingers with hers.

“
You
can,” Diane accused, glaring at Jason.

“Not for myself—at least not only for me. Sometimes…for others
I can see a little of the future.”

“Like the Gypsy fortuneteller,” Meg said, startling all of
them. “Oh, come on…
William
.” Her stare at Jason had him blushing.

“How’d you know me?” he managed to ask. “
Marget.
”

“Holy shit!” Diane swore, then clamped both hands over her
mouth, ashamed of swearing in front of her new young friend. No wonder she’d
felt close to Meg as soon as they met. Despite not looking like Marget, she
was
Arnaud’s lover—his first of the medieval time period. As far as Diane knew, at
any rate.

Meg giggled, the sound so familiar Diane laughed too. “And
no, Diane, neither Walker nor Adrian is William’s—Jason’s—father.”

That assurance didn’t keep her happiness intact. Smile
fading, Diane said, “
I
was that hateful, jealous woman? I was—
am
that other Diane?”

“Someone’s great-great—” Jason began, shrugged, then
continued. “The fortuneteller said you had lessons to learn.”

“The first being compassion.” Adrian gave her a soft smile
so reminiscent of her young medieval husband her heart hurt. “You showed it
when you allowed Arnaud’s children to stay at Belleange.”

Everything came flooding back. How she’d hated Arnaud for
having so many women. Knowing he would never bow to her demand, she’d plotted
to destroy them. If they refused to leave when ordered by the countess, she
would burn them out—them and their bastards. The vitriol she’d felt then almost
choked her now.

Meg’s hand covering her own drew her away from the edge of
self-loathing. As if she’d shared that vision in the Gypsy’s crystal ball, Meg
said, “
That
fire never happened. The Days lived long lives and died
content, surrounded by their children and grandchildren—even
great-great-grandchildren.” With a brief squeeze of Diane’s fingers, she added,
“Your compassion saved them all.”