Daring Time

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.