Carla tried to get up and search for a shard of glass or a stick she could sharpen to a point, but a wave of dizziness took her down. She stared into the sky from flat on her back and looked to the Big Dipper for answers. The organized pattern of stars served as a reminder she had her paths confused. Northbrook didn’t point backward to Sanctimonia. She’d progressed forward to Upstate New York after each of her two previous visits. Whatever weapon she might fashion wouldn’t be needed in Syracuse or her mother’s cabin on Tug Hill. Besides, she didn’t know how to bring anything from one reality to the next. Brewster’s business card had come from his world to hers on its own without providing any clues about its methods. She needed to fit the pieces properly if she wanted to take control of the jigsaw puzzle her world had become.
As lucidity took hold, so did her self-awareness. She lifted her head enough to see her skimpy outfit. She’d been costumed for a whorehouse again, this time in the flimsiest of black negligees. She wrapped her arms around herself and considered her next move. Hiding behind a bush and waiting for a wormhole to Syracuse crossed her mind, but not if it meant missing her man.
A twig snapped, and she jumped.
“Are you all right?”
Now she was. Brewster came out of the shadows, knelt beside her, and settled a gentle hand onto her shoulder. That simple, caring gesture triggered a low hum in her soul and drowned out whatever embarrassment she might have suffered over arriving underdressed for just about any occasion but one.
The handsome, light-haired hunk of a wonderful man had dressed more modestly than the last time. He’d buttoned his shirt, buckled his belt. She supposed she could forgive him for that. “Here I am, eating the pavement again,” she said. “You always see the worst of me.”
“There is no worst of you.” He ran his fingers through her hair, then shifted his hands beneath her. “You’re trembling.”
“I’ve had too many thrills in one night for a simple girl.”
“How about one more? Roll a little closer and hang on.”
She melted into him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
He rose to his feet and brought her along for the ride.
“Macho man,” she said.
“Yeah, right. I think I just broke something.”
She almost laughed, but an echo of her earlier trauma ambushed her with a pang of humiliation. She lost the context of the moment. “I would have fought them, but they wrestled my knife away.”
“Who?” He swung her around and started carrying her toward his house.
The sudden motion snapped her out of it. “I’m just talking crazy.”
“Your voice is sexy when you’re crazy.”
She cuddled tighter against him. “And when I’m sane?”
“I better not touch that.”
Brewster got her into the house, took her to the couch, and sat, bringing her down on his knee. “Besides, what makes you think I’m not the crazy one?”
She kept her arms around his neck and leaned into his shoulder. “Then what am I?”
“A figment.”
She loosened her grip enough to push away and study him. He seemed serious until he winked at her. She poked his arm.
“You’re a traumatized figment by the looks of you,” he said. “I should carry you upstairs and put you to bed.”
“So you can have your way with me?” The notion of sleeping with Brewster, sizzling in its own right, had even greater appeal as a possible means of erasing the sordid forest scene from her mind.
He gave her a long, appraising look.
She bit her lower lip. For the second time in two visits, she couldn’t have come on to him more blatantly, and in this case, she regretted laying her cards on the table without knowing what hand he might show. She didn’t think she could handle any kind of rejection at the moment.
Brewster set her mind at ease by looking her up and down, letting out a low whistle, and busting into a grin. “I’ll try to control myself, Carla, but honestly, you’re making me dizzy.”
She followed his gaze down her skimpy, dark-as-the-night negligee. He had heat in his voice behind the humor, and she’d seen it in his eyes. She sat half-naked on his lap, he was making no attempt to hide his desire, and the raw electricity of the situation continued fueling her own arousal. Heat surged into her from every point of contact between her body and his. “The dark-haired slut Barbie has returned.”
Brewster drifted his fingers down her arm, tuning her buzz a notch higher. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Would you believe this isn’t necessarily my own costume choice?”
Her question chased him away. He turned to the picture window behind the couch. “I was sitting right here, watching the street when you appeared out of thin air. How much more magic does a man need to see before he stops denying something weird’s going on? I’m ready to believe anything at this point.”
“Let’s believe it’s God or His angels. There’s comfort in that.”
He nodded, stroked her hair again.
Carla stared with him into the shadowy night. The streetlamp spotlighted the urban stage she’d been trotted onto for him. “How late is it?”
“Past midnight.”
“And you were just sitting here staring out the window?”
He turned to her but still had a thousand-mile look in his expression. “You didn’t show up last night.”
“Yes, I did, I—” Wait. Maybe their year-apart lives weren’t in perfect sync. No matter. She shifted a hand to his face and kept it there until he returned his gaze to her. “We’ve cast a spell on each other, haven’t we?”
“After only two dates.”
“Remind me to send my puppet master a thank-you note.”
“Your what?”
“Don’t you feel we’re being marched through the paces?”
Brewster scrunched his forehead. “Somebody else said that recently. But hell, I’m not complaining at the moment.” He closed his warm hand over one of hers.
Carla kissed his cheek. “Neither
