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  Chapter 2

  Tim stuck the perishables Sheyna had sent with him into the small refrigerator and shoved the rest of the box of supplies up on the pantry shelf without unpacking them. Feeling oddly unsettled, he surveyed the dark interior of the tiny log cabin. Nestled in a narrow canyon in the hills above the Institute, it usually gave him a sense of well being, not concern.

  He walked over to the kitchen sink and gazed out the small window at the evening shadows. He loved any excuse to come here. He'd been on a day hike with Malachi and Thom Antoon a few weeks before the Rebellion broke out, when they'd first discovered the dilapidated structure.

  They'd spent what time they could making the place habitable, repairing the spring-fed water system, replacing the roof and windows, and clearing away the wild things that had taken up residence in and about the cabin. Now it stood solid and tight against the weather, carefully hidden within the thick woods, a quiet spot away from the constant presence of humanity at the Institute.

  Its origins were lost in the last hundred years of war and turmoil, but Tim had enjoyed sitting out on the porch with Mal and Thom, drinking beer and speculating over the cabin's past and the people who had built it.

  Tim suddenly looked up from the sink. That's what felt so weird. He'd never been here alone, before. Chuckling to himself over his unexpected case of nerves, he ran the water long enough to clear the pipes and checked the fuel levels for the water heater and gas-fired refrigerator. The sun was almost down, so he lit a kerosene lantern and set it on the table.

  The soft glow of the lamp turned the log walls golden, but left the sloped ceiling and corners in shadow. Light caught and reflected off dried specks of pitch on some of the logs. They sparkled like small jewels against the rough wood.

  Preparing the cabin had become an old and familiar routine. As Tim swept cobwebs out of the open beams, his thoughts strayed once more to Malachi's precognitive vision. His groin tightened immediately. Whoever the woman was, her effect on him was more physical than anything else, regardless of what she meant to his world's future.

  Physical for now, anyway. Tim paused, not at all pleased with the irony of the situation. What a choice…think about her and get a hard-on, or bring her forward in time so he could actually touch her, essentially trading his sex drive for kinetic power.

  Shit. He never knew how long it would take to regain his libido. After Jenna, it had been months before he'd even thought about jerking off, much less having sex.

  He'd learned about the connection between kinetics and sex early on.

  The memories always left him feeling foolish, unmanned, but they crowded him now, forcing their way into his mind. It was before he'd arrived at the Institute. He'd been coming into his power as a teenager, practicing telekinesis in private, not telling anyone his secret. Pushing himself to exhaustion, lifting bigger objects, moving them further.

  One night, feeling really cocky about his growing power, he'd gone to a party with some other kids. There'd been a really cute girl about his age—maybe sixteen or so—and she'd come on to him. She'd let him slide his hand down inside her pants, then she'd taken her shirt off. He remembered cupping her small, pointy breasts in his hands, staring at the rosy nipples and wondering why in the hell he didn't feel anything.

  He'd seen naked women in magazines and movies and it was interesting to see one in the flesh, but there'd been no reaction. Nothing. He'd been terrified she might want to feel him. He knew all she'd find was a limp dick in his pants and the humiliation would kill him. Praise the gods, she'd been too shy and hadn't done anything but let him touch her.

  All the other guys wanted to talk about was how horny they were all the time, how they spent hours jacking off, squeezing their cocks and rubbing on their balls because it felt so damned good.

  All Tim wanted to do was move stuff. That damned thing between his legs wasn't good for much more than pissing. It never got hard, never begged to be held. Nothing.

  At least he had the power. Fat lot of good it did him then, staring at those perfect breasts, snow white against his long, dark fingers. He hadn't even wanted to lick them or kiss them, hadn't wanted to suckle her perfectly shaped nipples.

  He didn't want to hurt her feelings, so he'd told her she was pretty, then he'd slipped his fingers between her legs and felt her thighs clamp down on his hand. He'd rubbed the narrow little slit through soft, downy hair and done some of the things he'd read that women liked.

  He remembered feeling as if he were merely following a list—touch here, stroke there. She liked it. She even seemed to like him, but he hadn't felt a thing, even when the girl shuddered in his arms, made little breathy, whimpering sounds and clamped her legs around his wrist. Not until months later when he'd taken a break from using his Talent. He'd awakened one morning with a raging hard-on, memories of those perfect breasts cupped in his hands, and realized what he'd traded for power.

  He'd been so careful the past few weeks, hoarding his strength, not using kinetics much at all. Gods, but he wanted to get laid. Wanted to experience what he'd only imagined, that hot, wet, female flesh clamped around his hard cock, the coiling heat in his balls, the out-of-control burst of seed that had to be better than what he managed with his hand. He'd even been afraid to jack off, so worried about losing what little libido he had.

  Was that why he'd reacted so strongly to Mal's vision? Was the woman somehow tied to him sexually? He'd felt passion, need, a sense of pure, unbridled lust when he saw her.

  He certainly hadn't seen her as a threat. He didn't associate her with anything evil or dangerous, no matter what Sheyna and Malachi thought. He'd known she was okay the minute he'd looked into her eyes. What was that old proverb—eyes are windows to the soul? He'd concentrated on her eyes the second time Mal shared the vision. Dark brown eyes framed in thick black lashes tipped with gold. Eyes filled with yearning, with the answers to age-old questions.

  Eyes focused completely on Tim. He shuddered, shaking off the vision, the very real, almost visceral sense of her, then opened the door. Stepping out onto the porch, he shook the dust and spider webs off the broom, then stood there a moment, staring at the small meadow in front of him. It was shadowed in dark greens and grays as the last rays of sunlight disappeared from the sky. The varied shades of color might just as well have been cement and asphalt for all he noticed.

  She was there, staring back at him, her honey blonde hair waving gently about her shoulders, her head tilted slightly to one side, full lips making sensual promises with her smile. Tim absentmindedly brushed his hand across the heavy denim covering his growing erection, vaguely aware of the ethereal quality of the vision before him.

  There was nothing shy or timid about either her stance or her appearance. She looked like a woman used to getting what she wanted, used to taking what was hers. He wondered what it would feel like, to be taken by someone like her? Tim groaned and closed his eyes in frustration. Hell, he wondered what it felt like to be taken by any woman. His hand stilled in the act of unzipping his pants.

  He couldn't afford the loss of energy. An erection this hard meant his power was at its peak. He took a deep breath, adjusted his jeans to ease the welcome discomfort, and stepped back inside the cabin. He reached for the clean linens Sheyna kept in the cupboards.

  Making up the bed was automatic, his swirling thoughts a litany of old grudges and regrets. Growing up Talented meant living as an outcast. It hadn't been an easy childhood for either Mary or himself, much less his mom trying to raise two unruly Talents without a husband.

  He'd found acceptance at the Armand Institute, but at what cost? He'd lost the only two people in the world who had ever shown him unconditional love. Tim blinked away threatening tears and knew he had to quit thinking about them. If what Malachi suspected were true, he had to concentrate on the job at hand. For all he knew, he might be summoning more than a beautiful woman—he might be calling forth danger.

  The image of the elusive blonde flashed through hi
s mind. He grinned as he tucked the sheets under the mattress and slipped pillowcases on each of the pillows. No way could he equate her with danger! Standing back to survey the neatly made bed, Tim couldn't help but imagine the woman, sprawled naked and wanting, right in the middle of the down comforter, legs spread in welcome, her eyes half-lidded with desire, one finger raised in a beckoning gesture.

  Once more his erection threatened to break through his zipper. His breath caught in lungs unable to expand, a steady roar filled his hearing. The sensual vision of the blonde in his bed blurred, wavered…

  …flashed out in a wink.

  The roaring in his ears dissipated. His balls still ached, but breath whooshed out of his lungs and the pressure on his cock eased a fraction. Silently, Tim turned away from the bed, walking stiffly, awkwardly.

  Dammit. She could beckon all she wanted. She could strip naked and beg him to fuck her. Once he used his Talent to bring her here, he wouldn't be able to do a damned thing to her. Of course, getting hard was the least of his problems. A little experience might help.

  He'd become a soldier of the Rebellion in a world gone mad, found companionship among other young soldiers, but never love. Not even sex. Other guys got laid. Why not you, Riley?

  Tim shook his head. He dragged a chair out from the kitchen table and settled down to concentrate on coordinates in time and space for Malachi's mystery woman.

  Why not me?

  The answer was simple. Only freaks were still virgins at twenty-five. Only freaks could transcend time and space. Too bad you can't transcend your own fucking libido, Riley.

  Wasn't that exactly what he'd been doing for so many years?

  He thought about the night he'd brought Jenna Lang forward in time. He really hadn't thought through what he was doing and he'd paid a tremendous cost. He hadn't expected the enormous physical strain, or the time it would take him to recover his energy and abilities.

  He'd been barely eighteen when General Antoon first tapped his kinetic power. Tim would never forget that first rush of success, when he'd discovered the sense of near omnipotence of working in gestalt with other Talent.

  The closest bonds he'd ever known, closer even than his relationship with his mother or his sister, had been forged in the fires of battle. Tim stared at his hands, remembering, well aware the battle was over. The bonds had frayed, the friendships scattered, the others had gone on to find lives and futures of their own.

  He'd made his choice at eighteen—he'd chosen the Rebellion over any kind of sex life. Now, though, he'd honestly hoped that could change.

  Since the Rebellion had ended, he'd backed off on the use of Talent. His libido was increasing—already he noticed a difference in the women he saw regularly at the Institute. Suddenly they were more than faces and names. They'd become breasts and thighs and soft, sexy voices. They'd filtered into his dreams, taken over his thoughts, left him tongue-tied and horny and wanting so badly to experience what he'd been missing.

  He was almost there, almost ready to take a chance with a woman, any woman. Except, once again, Malachi was asking him to give up his personal life for the good of many. Malachi, safe and warm in Sheyna's embrace, was asking Tim to forsake his own pleasure, his own shot at happiness.

  Anger surged through him, then just as quickly was extinguished. Malachi had no control over his visions. Neither did Malachi control Tim. He sighed, accepting the truth of the matter. It was entirely his choice.

  Like you don't want to find this woman?

  Who was he kidding? He could have told Malachi no. Could have refused to snatch an innocent woman from her own time. If he'd refused, though, he'd always wonder. Was she the one destined for him? What if Malachi were right? What if she was preordained to affect his time? To affect him, personally?

  The reasons were too compelling to ignore.

  Tim rubbed his temples, recalling the thought processes he'd followed when he'd searched for Jenna's particular mental signature, finally discovering it and calling her to him telekinetically.

  Damn. Was all this pre-ordained? Had his life's journey been set from childhood, his actions no more of his own free will than those of the woman he'd stolen from her own time? There was no logic, no understanding. Sometimes he felt like such a child, his life at the whim of fate and friends alike.

  He looked at his hands again, the fingers long and narrow, nails neatly trimmed, dark veins tracing the copper-toned skin from knuckles to wrist. Definitely not the hands of a child. He folded them tightly in front of him on the worn tabletop and glanced once more about the small cabin. He had a job to do. Leave philosophy to those better suited to it.

  This he understood. This action, this search for someone discovered in a dream. He was as ready as he'd ever be. The door was locked from the inside and he held the only key. The windows were tempered glass, though he realized someone desperate enough would be able to break free. Still, Malachi had insisted Tim come here alone, as if that were part of the vision he'd had. Had the doctor held information back? Had he shown Tim merely a portion of the complete vision?

  What the hell are you getting me into, Doc?

  Somehow, he had to remain conscious when he brought the woman forward, but he knew he'd be weak as a kitten. Pushing himself away from the table, Tim found a length of rope under the kitchen sink. Cutting it into four pieces, he made simple loops at one end of each section. Two he tied to the headboard of the bed.

  He left the other two pieces lying on the blanket. With any luck, he'd be able to secure the woman while she was still unconscious, but before he passed out.

  He pictured her once again, lying in the middle of the bed, tied this time, her legs spread wide, arms over her head. Pure lust coursed through his veins—lust and need and something more, something that tugged relentlessly at his soul.

  Shaking his head, unwilling to pursue such pointless thoughts, Tim grabbed a bottled energy drink out of the refrigerator, then sat heavily at the kitchen table. He stared at the bed, his mind filled with the search for an elusive blonde of the twenty-first century.

  He couldn't explain it, even to himself, the manner in which his mind locked on to someone of another time and place. Couldn't describe the sensation, the physical coming together of thoughts through time.

  Couldn't explain it, didn't understand it…just did it. Felt every muscle in his body tighten, fought pain as the pressure in his skull reached unbearable levels. Searched, touched, held on.

  Held on and called her soul to his, then sighed with the answering release, as Carly Harris's mind matched, then melded with his, as her body released its hold on her time and re-materialized smack-dab in the middle of the down comforter, just as Tim had imagined.

  * * * * *

  A dirty gym sock would taste better.

  Carly rolled her tongue around inside her dry mouth as she struggled into wakefulness. The last vestiges of a wonderfully graphic dream floated away with the fading image of the sexy young cabdriver, his hair all long and flowing free, his blue eyes gazing deeply into hers.

  Carly's eyes felt glued shut, her stomach rolled uncomfortably, her head throbbed and pounded and if she didn't get up and find the bathroom…

  “I really don't remember hangovers hurting quite so much,” she muttered, reaching her arms overhead in a slow stretch. Something drew her up short. She jerked awake, suddenly clear-headed and alert.

  This was not her room at the inn—this wasn't remotely close to her classy Victorian-style room. This was old and rustic, log walls and plank floor, dark and somewhat musty, as if from lack of use. This was Carly Harris, stark naked, tied hand and foot to the metal railings of a large bed. This was not good. It went beyond nightmare, beyond fear…right smack-dab into unbelievable.

  She bit back a scream. Her stomach lurched, a precursor to throwing up, something she definitely did not want to do. Fighting nausea, her breath caught in short, hard blasts. Whimpering, she yanked frantically at the ropes, giving in to panic.

&n
bsp; A familiar little voice intruded, slipping past her fear. Calm down, calm down, calm…down…calm. Carly let her breath out on a shaky sigh, inhaled deeply, then exhaled again. Panic would get her nowhere fast.

  That didn't mean she couldn't be really pissed off. She tugged at the ropes, her anger growing with each futile jerk of her hands. Damn! Where the hell was she?

  Who did this? How the hell did she get here? Where the hell was here?

  She knew she hadn't left the inn, at least not of her own volition. She'd finished her cognac and sat staring at the fire, listening to the other women talking about fantasy men. She must have drifted off to sleep, still sitting in her chair. Still thinking of the cabby. His image drifted through her mind…long, lean body, straight black hair falling almost to his waist, the seductive look in his blue eyes, affecting her like a drug…

  Carly blinked.

  Had someone drugged her drink? Drugged her and kidnapped her? What other explanation was there? She started to call out, then thought better. Instead, she twisted around as much as the ropes allowed. The bed was shoved against one wall. Opposite, she saw a small kitchen area, a wooden table with four straight-backed wooden chairs and an unfamiliar styled glass bottle, half filled with some sort of liquid.

  An old-fashioned kerosene lantern on the kitchen table cast a soft glow, but it was obviously still night, maybe very early in the morning. The cabin appeared empty, primitive. She twisted her body a bit further until…there! Just beyond her line of vision. A foot?

  The edge of one long, narrow foot, a bony ankle, a leg encased in worn blue jeans. Sprawled to one side, as if the person had passed out cold on the plank floor. Carly slid back to the center of the bed to take the pressure off the ropes. Damn!

  Panting like a terrified dog, she stared wide-eyed at the opposite wall, struggling to organize her thoughts. Her heart thudded in her chest and shudders wracked her arms and legs. She clamped her jaws shut and took a long, slow breath through her nose. She let it out, took another, felt her heart rate slow just a bit.