Nancy Warren - Perfect Timing - Those Were the Days / Pistols at Dawn / Time After Time

“I’m Blythe,” the woman said. “And this is Tucker,” she added, pointing toward the man. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sylvia,” she said automatically, her eyes never leaving Tucker’s face. It was an interesting face, to go with an interesting name. And how curious that Louisa had just mentioned her grandfather, also named Tucker.

This Tucker was darkly handsome, with tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, as if he knew how to laugh and practiced often. And those eyes! They watched her with an intensity that should have made her uncomfortable but instead made her feel inexplicably warm and safe. As if his only purpose in the world was to watch over her.

“When I opened my eyes,” she said, “I saw your eyes. I thought you were an angel.”

His grin shot down to her toes. “So naturally you screamed your head off.”

Her cheeks warmed with the blush. “The angel thing only lasted a second,” she said. “Then I realized I was lying on the ground and I’d never seen you before in my life.”

“I was looking out for you,” he said. “We thought you were injured. I was trying to help you.”

“I believe you,” she said, hoping he understood that she was telling the truth. For some reason, she didn’t want this man to think she was afraid of him.

She started to climb to her feet, and Blythe moved in and took her arm for support. Her head started swimming about halfway up, though, and she sank back down to the ground. “Maybe it’s a little too soon for that,” she said.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Tucker said, settling himself comfortably on the floor beside her.

“I’m not sure I can,” she said. “I remember looking at the exhibit, and talking with Louisa about the portraits and the history of the house. Stuff like that. And then I went back into the exhibit to find my friend Tina. She went off to find some food, and I ended up chatting with the guard. And then he dropped a coin, and I volunteered to pick it up for him. But then I felt a shove, and….” She trailed off with a shrug, not willing to confess the very odd sensation of falling through a picture. “I guess I passed out.”

Tucker and Blythe were looking at each other more than her, and though she tried, Sylvia couldn’t interpret the signals that seemed to be passing between them.

She watched them, then decided she might as well ask what had put that look of concerned confusion in their eyes. But when she opened her mouth to ask, a completely different question came out. “So, um, are you two married?”

She clapped her hand over her mouth, completely mortified. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I must be dizzier than I thought. That is so not my business.”

She wanted to look at Blythe while she spoke, but her eyes kept drifting to Tucker who, she was relieved to see, looked amused rather than upset.

“She’s my sister,” he said, with a tender smile that made her heart do little backflips. “Who is Louisa?”

“The lady who lives here,” Sylvia said. “At least, she lives in the part of the house without the exhibits.” She looked around the room again. “Where on earth did the exhibit cases go?”

“The room’s the same as it’s always been,” Blythe said. “As for Louisa, maybe you ended up at the wrong house? Tucker and I live here. Our parents, too, when they aren’t in London.”

“Oh.” Sylvia reached up to rub her temples, trying to process that information. “Is Tina here, then? Did I have some sort of walking blackout?” Maybe she and Tina had moved on to the next event in Tina’s packed schedule for the day? Since Sylvia had never fainted before, she wasn’t entirely sure how she would react. Maybe losing hours and hours was perfectly normal.

Automatically, she stretched out her arm, pulling her sleeve back to reveal her pink Swatch. The damn thing was stopped, the second hand stuck firmly on the twelve, and the time at eleven forty-five, just about the time Tina had headed off for a snack.

So much for the lost-time theory. That was okay, she supposed. Because as disconcerting as the odd memory lapses were, they weren’t nearly as frustrating as this damn headache. She could barely even focus, the pain was so intense.

Experimentally, she concentrated on the wall, squinting until one of the portraits came into focus. A man, in a dinner jacket, a monocle in one eye. She’d seen it before. Near the portrait of Louisa’s grandmother.

“This is the house,” Sylvia said. “I remember that portrait.” She frowned. “But the one of Louisa’s grandmother isn’t here.”

She frowned, wondering what was going on, when she once again saw Blythe and Tucker exchange looks filled with confusion and concern.

“Okay,” Sylvia said. “Enough. Why do you keep looking at each other like that? Am I talking crazy? You’re acting like I should be in the nuthouse or something.”

“This Louisa,” Tucker said. “What was her last name? Do you know?”

“Of course,” Sylvia said. “Louisa Greene. I told you. She owns the house.”

“She doesn’t,” Tucker said, looking at Blythe rather than at her. “There is no Louisa Greene. This house is owned by Irene and Carson Greene. Our parents.”

She blinked at that, trying hard to get a grip on reality. “Greene,” she repeated. “Your last name is Greene?”

“Yes.” He frowned at her, his brow creased with worry. “Miss, are you okay?”

She realized she’d put a hand to her head, and she could tell without a mirror that she was pale. “I…I guess I must just be a bit confused.” That was certainly an understatement.

“I imagine so,” he said. “As you can see, there aren’t any exhibit cases here,” he said. “They’re as mysterious as Louisa.”

“Right.” She licked her lips.

“I think you need a doctor,” he said. He looked up at his sister. “Can you go see if Anna’s managed to locate Dr. Williams?”

“Of course.” She bent down and gave Sylvia’s hand a squeeze. “Everything’s going to be fine, darling.” And then she floated out of the room, her short, beaded gown shimmering in the soft lighting.

“Flapper,” she whispered, her mind registering the clothes even before she’d realized. “Like in the exhibit room.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, as her heart started to pound in her chest. Her skin went cold, and she felt her insides start to tremble with a sensation that felt remarkably like an anxiety attack. Hell, maybe it was an anxiety attack. If the ridiculous theory trying to squeeze into her mind was correct, she had every reason to be anxious. “Oh, my God,” she whispered again.

“Are you all right?” His eyes were filled with so much concern that her heart nearly melted, and she was overcome with the urge to touch him. No, not just touch, but to kiss him. The urge was overwhelming for that matter, as if she might be sucked out of this world and into oblivion if she couldn’t find her footing in this man’s arms.

Prodded by some force she couldn’t control, she leaned forward, pressed her palms against his cheeks, and pressed her lips against his. Soft yet firm, his mouth moved beneath hers, first in surprise, and then in response. They kissed deeply, their tongues meeting and mating. Liquid lust pooled in her belly and between her thighs, her breasts tingling with desire, and her body weak with longing.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he said when they pulled apart, all too soon from Sylvia’s point of view. “But what was that for?”

“I needed to feel alive,” she said, only realizing as she spoke the words that they were exactly true. And that it had worked. The kiss had worked a magic on her, sending electric currents through every part of her body. Making her feel safe and alive and grounded.