Hiding in a corner, I clutched a half empty flute of champagne.
The dance with Glenn had left me weak-kneed. I’d never had a man make my heart race the way he had, and all we’d done was dance.
Okay. Maybe that wasn’t all.
He’d been watching me all night.
There was something about the way he did it, too. Something that left me feeling exposed and raw and…wanted.
More than once, I had found myself sneaking glances at him, too.
It was the last thing I should have been doing, but I couldn’t help it. Something about him drew me.
I shouldn’t have let Glenn distract me though. Peter had kept asking me questions, and I didn’t know how to answer. Questions about where I went to school, my family, about why I’d chosen to come to California. I’d made up most of my answers, bullshitting my way through most of the night.
Even the things that should have been simple needed to be lies. He asked me about what movies I liked—but if I told him the truth, he wouldn’t recognize most of them. They didn’t exist yet. So I told him The Wizard of Oz. That was an old one. Surely that couldn’t get me in trouble.
It had been a relief when a client of his dragged him away to speak to him. Then Glenn had been there, asking me to dance, and it had made everything so much better...and so much worse. I could still feel his hand burning against my back.
As I walked away from him, for the umpteenth time that night, I found myself wishing all of this was a dream, and the sudden and certain knowledge that it wasn’t led me to accept a glass of champagne—and that had driven me out to the courtyard.
I couldn’t find it in me to go back inside.
This was all real.
It wasn’t a dream.
I was in 1962, and the woman who thought I was her assistant would end her own life soon—and I was attracted to the man who would break her heart and lead her to it.
“I can’t let it happen,” I whispered, staring into the champagne. Florence was too sweet. And regardless of what she thought, Glenn wasn’t in love with her.
I was going to stop this.
“There you are!”
At the sound of Peter’s voice, I barely managed to keep from grimacing. “Oh, hello!” I said—a little too brightly—before taking a healthy swallow of champagne.
“Hiding from me?” he asked with a crooked grin.
Yes. Out loud, I said, “No. I just needed a break from everything inside. It’s been such a long day.”
“I bet it has. Come on. We’ll find a place to sit.” He offered his arm.
We ended up on lounge chairs, and I stretched my legs out and sighed. Wiggling my toes inside my shoes, I decided that whoever had invented heels had been in it solely for the torture aspect and nothing else. I loved a pretty pair of shoes as much as the next girl, but they could be murder on the arches.
I looked up and found Peter staring at my legs. Self-conscious, I went to smooth my skirt down, and realized the hem had ridden up higher than I’d thought, revealing the garters and stockings. I blushed, and he averted his eyes quickly.
An awkward silence stretched between us. It shattered when Peter cleared his throat and asked, “Did you leave a boyfriend behind in Philadelphia, Miss Cruz?”
I thought of Maverick. He hadn’t wanted to speak to me after what’d happened. I’d told my parents I’d needed to talk to him, say I was sorry…something. They’d relented, mostly because I’d convinced them I didn’t really want to talk to Caitlyn.
The sucker punch had come when Maverick had refused to see me.
His mother had tried to be gentle as she explained. He was angry and hurting. He didn’t blame me, of course.
But it hadn’t helped.
Maybe he didn’t blame me, but his entire life had been ruined. He’d lost his future.
And now I was trapped in 1962.
Laughing softly, I said, “The only thing I left behind was a relationship that ended badly.”
“Is that why you look so sad?”
Startled, I looked at him. “Was I that obvious?”
“You have very expressive eyes,” Peter said, a faint smile on his lips. “Everything you feel is right there.”
“It…ended badly,” I said, uncertain about what else to say.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together, elbows resting on his knees. “Is that partly why you came all the way out here?”
“Maybe in part,” I hedged. He was nice enough, but there just wasn’t a connection. Maybe it was because I didn’t have the Hollywood mentality that a thirty year age difference wasn’t that big of a deal. Or maybe it was because, every few moments, my gaze would wander to the house, searching for a certain, brown-haired movie star.
Part of me even wished I had even half the interest in the man sitting with me as I did for the man inside the house, the one I’d danced with. It had been a simple dance. Glenn hadn’t even held me all that close, but I’d felt the heat of his hand against my spine, the strength in his fingers clasped around mine, and the intensity of his pale blue eyes burning into me.
He’s supposed to be in love with Florence; she’s in love with him, I reminded myself.
Forcing myself to listen to Peter, I nodded and smiled as he talked about how he’d gotten started in Hollywood. I kept right on smiling and nodding, right up until I heard a familiar voice calling my name.
Florence came toward us, her hand tucked into the crook of Glenn’s arm. She waved at me and let go of Glenn’s arm to come rushing over, a bright smile on her face. She dropped down onto the chaise lounge and stretched her legs out, letting out an exaggerated sigh.
“I love to dance, but it can be so hard on your feet.” She laughed and leaned back on her hands. “You’ve got the right idea, honey. My feet are killing me.”
“Mine too.” I grinned back at her. “You can see where I’m at. I’ve been here the past hour, and you’ve been dancing around in there, the belle of the ball.”
She waved a hand at me. “I’ve gotten used to it. Sometimes, I have to be on my feet fifteen hours a day. Directors can be slave drivers.”
“I think you love it,” I said.
Judging by the way her face lit up, I was right.
“I do.” She shrugged. “Speaking of which, we’re going to have to leave soon. I’ve got an early casting call.”
Dread settled deep in my gut, but I hid it behind a smile. A yawn escaped me and nearly cracked my jaw. “Yes, I’m pretty tired myself.”
“Where are you staying?” she asked as we headed out to the car a few minutes later. The men were walking behind us, and I felt Glenn’s eyes on me as acutely as if he were touching me.
Crap. Where was I staying? Today had been such a whirlwind that I hadn’t thought any further ahead than this party.
“Actually, I was going to ask if you could recommend a hotel.” I lifted a shoulder as she stopped to stare at me. I slowed my steps, offering a weak smile. “I haven’t gotten around to finding a place yet. It’s so hard trying to figure that out from the other side of the country.”
Now Florence wasn’t the only one staring at me.
“What?” I tried not to look put-off by their surprised scrutiny. I couldn’t exactly say it’s hard to find a place from fifty years in the future.
Still, blood rushed to my face, staining my cheeks red. I felt foolish, even though I hadn’t exactly planned to show up in 1962, all homeless and everything.
“I was going to start looking today, but the party...”
Yet again, Florence saved me. She wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “Oh, honey. I am so sorry. That was just thoughtless of me. You know what? You’re not going to a hotel. You’re staying with me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can,” she said firmly. A dazzling smile lit her face. “I’ve got a guest house on my property. You can stay there. Just consider it part of your salary. I never use it, and I h
ardly ever have company that needs the entire house. When somebody does come, they usually sleep in the big house.”
Feeling like a ten-pound weight had fallen from my shoulders, I gave her a grateful look. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely. No more talk about it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
9
Maya
Morning came slowly. Waking up came even slower. I had never been a morning person, and this morning was being particularly difficult. As birds outside the window chirped and sang, I rolled onto my belly and buried my face beneath my pillow.
What a crazy dream.
Completely crazy.
Nothing about it had made sense, but man…it had been so vivid.
As tired as I was, as sore as I was, sleep was slipping farther and farther away, so I rolled onto my back, still determinedly blocking out the light.
The bed springs squeaked.
I frowned.
I didn’t have bed springs.
And just like that, my memory came rushing back. I was staying with Uncle Daniel at his place in California.
Jolting upright, I looked around.
Nothing looked familiar.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered.
I wasn’t in my room at Uncle Daniel’s house.
The rest of my memory came forward.
The bed creaked under me again, and I sucked in a breath, trying to calm the panic raging inside me.
That crazy dream hadn’t been a dream.
It was real.
Shit.
A cold sweat broke out over me, and I slid out of the bed, waiting for my legs to steady under me. Bracing a hand against the wall, I stared outside over the lavish, green estate that belonged to one Florence Woods.
“Unreal,” I whispered. “Completely unreal.”
Reaching up, I touched the necklace I’d put on before going to bed. The golden heart seemed to pulse under my touch. It was warm, even warmer than my skin.
“I’m going to save her,” I said to myself.
I didn’t know how. I couldn’t even remember when it was supposed to happen, but I knew it was coming—so that had to count.
I had a few days, I was pretty sure.
She was still with Glenn, and they’d seemed…okay last night.
Okay, even if he had seemed to be something of a flirt.
Well, not a flirt.
Just…aware. Full of masculine awareness that had set my skin to sizzling, all but burning.
“Stop it,” I said quietly. Closing my eyes, I rested my forehead against the window. Heat from the morning sun had warmed it, and I laughed weakly. No triple pane windows to insulate a home in the sixties, I guessed. An image of Glenn danced through my mind, making the heat of the sun seem almost tepid.
“Stop it. He’s not yours.”
Florence was already up by the time I got to the house. Harrison escorted me into the breakfast nook where she was munching on bacon and eggs, and sipping coffee that was strong, hot, and black.
I longed for a mocha, but something told me that trend hadn’t hit Hollywood yet, so I asked for cream and sugar and doctored mine, causing Florence’s brows to arch.
“Like it sweet, huh?”
“Sweet enough to cause cavities,” I said with mock cheerfulness. My belly growled, reminding me how long it had been since I’d had a decent meal. The canapés and hors d’ oeuvres offered last night hadn’t done anything to fill the hole in my belly.
“Miss Woods, your car will be here in thirty minutes,” Harrison advised before turning to me. “Would you like breakfast, Miss Cruz?”
“I’d love some. Where are the plates?”
Surprise danced across his dark face, then he smiled. “I’ll get it, please, sit.”
“I can…”
Florence laughed. “Honey, that’s why I pay him. He’ll get it. Just relax.”
I watched as he walked out of the room, the unease in me growing, but I was so out of place and I didn’t know how to handle any of this.
Florence rose, coffee in hand. “I’ll be down shortly.”
She left the room in a cloud of perfume, her long, sandy waves spilling down the back of her satin robe.
Harrison put a plate in front of me, and I gave him an uncomfortable smile. “Thanks.”
“Miss Woods will be down shortly. Please, make yourself at home.”
“Are you leaving?” I eyed him over the rim of my coffee.
“I have to take care of the day’s shopping. Is there anything you’d like me to pick up for you? I understand you’ll be staying here.” He continued to smile at me, eyes kind.
“No. Um…I’m good, thanks. I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s no trouble.”
I shook my head. I didn’t even know what I needed—except a time machine. I had to fight back a hysterical laugh.
Once he was gone, I stopped trying to hold it together and dropped my head into my hands. What was I going to do?
The scent of bacon and eggs wafted up to me and, feeling dejected, I picked up a crunchy slice and munched on it. Yum. Bacon. I kept at it until my belly was full, wishing I was somebody who could take comfort from food. I might eat when I was feeling down, but I sure as hell didn’t feel better for it.
My belly was full to bursting by the time I’d finished clearing my plate. I got up to seek out the kitchen before somebody could appear to wash the plate.
I’d just finished when I heard a knock on the door.
If there were other people who worked there besides Harrison, I hadn’t seen them, so I went to answer the door, checking the clock as I walked by. It was ten-thirty, a bit early for the car, so I peeked through the window before I opened it.
A young woman stood there.
I pasted a smile on my face and answered.
“Hello.” She smiled politely.
“Hi.”
“I’m Donna Cruz.”
Shit. Shit. Shit! “Oh.” My brain raced furiously. “Miss Cruz. I’m terribly sorry, but the studio execs promised you’d arrive yesterday. Weren’t you informed?”
Her mouth rounded. “I…I’m sorry, excuse me?”
The words poured out of me. “Yes, we requested you be here yesterday. You weren’t, so they hired somebody else.”
She blinked, looking dazed, and guilt churned inside me.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I’m sorry! Out loud, I said, “I really am sorry, but Miss Woods needed somebody immediately.”
Please don’t let her come down, please don’t let her come down. I felt almost sick with guilt, but I had to keep this job, had to stay with Florence. If I didn’t, then Florence would commit suicide—and I had to believe I was here for a reason. What other reason could I be here for?
“I don’t understand. I wasn’t told—” She shook her head. “Please, if you could just let me—”
“I’m sorry,” I said again, all but hurling the words out as I went to close the door. “The job is no longer available. Good luck.”
I shut the door and leaned my back against it, eyes closed. I hated myself for what I’d just done.
You did it for a reason. And she wouldn’t have had a job after Florence died anyway.
That didn’t make me feel any better.
Some part of me almost wished that I could go back to the silly co-ed I’d been up until the accident—the girl who probably wouldn’t have been too concerned with everything going on around me.
Sure, I’d have been sad knowing somebody had killed herself, but I wouldn’t have thought it was my job to fix it.
Yet I knew better now.
If I knew, then I had to do something.
People mattered, and sometimes doing the right thing—or trying to—meant others got hurt. I didn’t like that, but this hurt was definitely the lesser of two evils.
“Who was at the door?”
I jolted guiltily and looked up to see Florence at the top of the stairs, wear
ing a pair of jeans rolled up at the ankle and a men’s shirt. The outfit brought a small smile to my lips. Some things, I guessed, never went out of style.
I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I lied. “She was lost.”
I hated the deception, but I hated the thought of her dying even more.
“You should have called me,” Florence said, looking concerned. “I could have helped.”
“Oh, it was fine. I actually knew exactly where she was going,” I said, rushing to cover my mistake. Florence frowned and I continued, making up one lie to cover another. “She was just a street off, and since I noticed the streets on the drive over, she’s all straightened out.”
“That’s lovely.” Florence smiled. “I can never keep streets straight.”
I quickly changed the subject. “I’m so excited about today. Spending all day at on a movie set? How cool is that?”
She chuckled. “Honey, you are going to be so disillusioned. The movies themselves are magic. But making them? Not so much.”
“Really?” I huffed out a breath, surprised that I actually felt let down. “That’s kind of…depressing.”
She winked at me. “Tell me about it. Sometimes I think I’ll die from the boredom. But don’t tell anybody.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
Florence smiled and walked away. If only I could tell her it wasn’t boredom, but a heartbreak, that would kill her.
10
Glenn
An annoying, obnoxious noise penetrated my dream, but I just pulled the blanket over my head and rolled over on the mattress, burying myself underneath my sheets.
Caught between that weird state of wakefulness and sleep, I slid back into the dream with little effort.
It was sunset at the beach. I always loved the beach.
It was my favorite part about living in California. I had a nice piece of land, my own private stretch, secluded and set apart from everybody else. Most the time, I could sit out there and be completely and utterly alone.
But I wasn’t alone. Maya writhed underneath me. That mouth, which pursed so thoughtfully when she was thinking, or puckered in pensive disapproval, was every bit as sweet as I’d thought it would be. Right now, it was open under mine and she moaned, the sound echoing in me and around me, driving me wild.