"If ... if you are not a spirit, then what are you?"
"A flesh-and-blood man," Ryan replied even as said flesh and blood pulsated with a primitive need to mate with the luscious female who stood before him. His muscles clenched when her gaze traveled up his torso, pausing to linger on his chest before she met his stare. He inhaled slowly to stave off a powerful wave of lust.
"Maybe I should get my towel—"
"You're even more beautiful than the Michelangelo sculptures I saw in Rome and Florence."
Ryan's mouth fell open at her spontaneous, sweet words. He'd never experienced such uncontrived honesty. He was accustomed to guarded, defensive women ... to people in general playing it cool in order to protect their vulnerable inner selves. To have such a beautiful woman compliment him so openly given the bizarreness— no, the impossibility—of the situation acted as an aphrodisiac just as potent as her naked, flame-gilded flesh.
"Hope," he began gruffly. He sta
rted to step out of the tub but hesitated, not sure if he could stop himself from touching her without the small barrier between them. "Do you understand what's happening here?"
She shook her head slowly. "Not really. I know that you're Ryan Vincent Daire and that you live in my house . .. somehow."
"How do you know my name?"
"I saw it. You wrote it, didn't you? In my book of sonnets?" She harried her shapely lower lip with her teeth anxiously when she paused for a moment. "You put the number 2008. That referred to a year, didn't it? To the year in which you live?" she asked in a rush, as if the question had required a burst of courage.
Ryan nodded cautiously, not sure what sort of an effect the news would have on an early-twentieth-century woman—if that was indeed what she was. In that moment, it seemed equally both ludicrous and self-evident at once that he held a conversation with a woman born in 1881. Didn't women at that time period swoon as regularly as sitting down to a meal?
Instead of fainting dead away, however, this incredible woman stepped closer to him, her magical eyes widening in excitement.
"Did you build a time machine, perhaps? Something similar to what Mr. Wells wrote about?"
Ryan blinked. And he'd been thinking she might faint.. .
"No, I haven't done anything intentional to make this happen. Well, except to unexpectedly gain ownership of 1807 Prairie Avenue. You read The Time Machine?"
His brow crinkled in confusion when she looked vaguely embarrassed by his question. It surprised him, considering this singular woman hadn't shown a trace of embarrassment over the fact that she stood before him wearing only some sheer pantaloons. The thinness of the garment had become uncomfortably more obvious to Ryan the closer she came to him. He'd never had reason to think about an early-twentieth-century woman's underwear before and was surprised at how sexy the garment was. He could easily see the dark pubic hair between her legs and map the shape of her curving hips and slender thighs through the wispy material.
"I assure you that I temper my reading of novels with that of Serious, thoughtful texts, Mr. Daire."
His eyebrows shot up on his forehead at her sudden formal tone.
She must have noticed his reaction because she bit her lower lip before the excited gleam entered her eyes once again. Apparently Hope Stillwater's enthusiasm was not a thing so easily repressed by convention.
"But Mr. Wells—and Mr. Jules Verne as well—write such amazing adventures. And now we are in one of our own!"
When she saw his wry smile, her eyes dropped to his naked body and then to her own.
Clearly Hope Stillwater hadn't meant adventures of the sexual kind. That was just Ryan's dirty, twenty-first-century male mind working. He wondered, though, when she jolted visibly. Ryan guessed the full impact of the strangeness—not to mention the potent eroticism—of their situation had just slammed into her consciousness.
"Don't. Don't move," he said.
"Why?" she asked breathlessly.
"I don't know what will make it stop. I don't want you to go."
She swallowed convulsively. "I ... I don't want you to go, either."
A charged silence ensued.
"Do you ... do you suppose we should try and touch? To see if it's ... real?" she asked cautiously.
Ryan hesitated. Hope Stillwater certainly matched none of his ideas about what an early-twentieth-century woman might be like, not that he'd ever given it much thought before. The power of her singular personality smashed all stereotypes to dust. Her lively curiosity and freshness left him stunned and aroused. He also sensed her impulsive, headstrong nature, however . . .
"I want to. Very much," he admitted slowly.