Sunbeam Stone was not where he should look for it.
The more he thought about where he was, when he was, the more he was certain that Cal needed to be brought to his senses and taken home.
Some sort of space fever, Jacob decided. His brother had suffered a shock, and the woman—as some women had throughout time—had taken advantage of him. When he approached Cal logically, they would get into the ship and go home.
In the meantime, he would take the opportunity to study and record at least this small section of the world.
At the edge of the forest, he paused. It was colder today, and he sincerely regretted the lack of warmer clothing. Gray clouds, plump with snow, had drifted in to cover the sun. In the gloomy light he watched Sunny lifting logs from the woodpile at the rear of the cabin. She was singing in a powerfully erotic voice about a man who had gotten away. She didn’t hear his approach, and she continued to sing and stack wood in her arms.
“Excuse me.”
With a yelp, she jumped back, sending the split logs flying. One landed hard on her booted foot, and she swore roundly and hopped up and down. “Damn it! Damn, damn, damn! What’s wrong with you?” Clasping her wounded foot with one hand, she braced the other on the cabin wall.
“Nothing.” He couldn’t help the grin. “I think there’s something wrong with you. Does it hurt?”
“No, it feels great. I live for pain.” She gritted her teeth as she set her foot gingerly back on the ground. “Where did you come from?”
“Philadelphia.” She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you mean now?” With a jerk of his thumb, he said, “That way.” He paused to glance at the logs scattered in the snow. “Want some help?”
“No.” Favoring her foot, she crouched down to retrieve the logs. All the while, she watched him carefully, braced for any move he might make. “Do you know why I’m here, Hornblower? For peace and solitude.” She blew the hair out of her eyes as she looked up at him. “Do you understand the concepts?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Turning, she limped back into the cabin, letting the door slam shut behind her. After dumping the logs in the woodbox, she came back to the kitchen. And swore. “What now?”
“I left my bag.” He sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”
With a sound of disgust, she darted to the toaster, banging on it until the smoking, blackened bread popped up. “This stupid thing sticks.”
To get a better look at the fascinating little device, he leaned over her shoulder. “Doesn’t look appetizing.”
“It’s fine.” To prove it, she bit into the toast.
Her scent drifted to him over the smoke. His instant reaction annoyed him, but pride had him resisting the instinctive move away. “Are you always so stubborn?”
“Yes.”
“And so unfriendly?”
“No.”
She turned and was immediately made aware of the miscalculation. He didn’t move aside, as she had expected. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his palms against the counter and casually caging her between his arms. There was nothing she detested more than being outmaneuvered.
“Back off, Hornblower.”
“No.” He did shift, but closer. As on their first meeting, their thighs rubbed, but there was nothing loverlike in the connection. “You interest me, Sunbeam.”
“Sunny,” she said automatically. “Don’t call me Sunbeam.”
“You interest me,” he repeated. “Do you consider yourself an average woman of your time?”
Baffled, she shook her head. “What kind of a question is that?”
She had dozens of shades in her hair, from pale white to dark honey. He was sorry he had noticed. “One that requires a simple answer. Do you?”
“No. No one likes to be considered average. Now would you—”
“You’re beautiful.” His gaze skimmed over her face, deliberately, a test of himself and his endurance. “But that’s merely physical. What do you think separates you from the average?”
“What are you doing, a thesis?” She lifted a hand to shove him away and met the solid wall of his chest. She could feel his heartbeat there, slow and steady.
“More or less.” He smiled. He was disturbing her at a very basic level, and he found it intensely satisfying.
It was his eyes, Sunny thought. Even if the man was unhinged, he had the most incredibly hypnotic eyes. “I thought you dealt with planets and stars, not with people.”
“People live on planets.”
“At least this one.”
He smiled again. “At least. You could consider this a personal interest.”
She wanted to shift but realized that would only make the contact more intimate. Cursing him, she kept her voice and her gaze level. “I don’t want your personal interest, Jacob.”
“J.T.” He felt the quick tremor from her body into his. “The family usually calls me J.T.”
“All right.” She spoke slowly, all too aware that her brain had turned to mush. What she needed was some distance. “How about you get out of my way, J.T., and I put together some breakfast?”
If she didn’t stop nibbling on her lip, he was going to have to stop her in the most effective way he knew. He hadn’t realized that such a small, nervous habit could be seductive. “Is that an invitation?”
Her tongue slipped out to nurse her lip. “Sure.”
He leaned closer, enjoying the way her eyes widened, darkened, steadied. It wasn’t easy to resist. He was known for his brilliance, his tenacity, his temper. But not for his control. And he wanted to kiss her, not scientifically, not experimentally. Ruthlessly.
“Toast!” he murmured.
She let out a quick puff of air. “Froot Loops. They’re great. My favorite.”
He eased back, much more for his sake than for hers. If he was going to spend the next few weeks around her, he was going to have to work on that control. Because he had a plan.
“I could use some breakfast.”
“Fine.” Telling herself it was a change of strategy, not a retreat, she darted across the kitchen to pluck two bowls from the cupboard. With those and a colorful box in hand, she walked to the table. “We could never have these as kids. My mother was—is—a health fiend. Her idea of cold cereal is hunks of roots and tree bark.”
“Why would she choose to eat tree bark?”
“Don’t ask me.” Sunny grabbed the milk from the fridge, then dumped it over the piles of colorful circles. “Anyway, ever since I moved out I’ve been on a binge of junk food. I figure since I ate healthy for the first twenty years I can poison myself for the next twenty.”
“Poison,” he repeated, giving the cereal a dubious look.
“To the health fiend, sugar’s poison. Dig in,” she added, offering him a spoon. “Burnt toast and cold cereal are my specialties.” She smiled, charmingly. She, too, had a plan.
Because he wouldn’t have put it past her to poison him, he waited until she had begun to eat before he sampled the cereal. Soggy candy, he decided. And fairly appealing. He considered the informal meal a good start if he wanted to ingratiate himself with her enough to pump her for. information.
It was obvious that Cal had told no one except Libby about where—and when—he had come from. Jacob gave him full marks for that. It was better all around if the matter was kept quiet. The repercussions would be . . . well, he had yet to calculate them. But Sunny might not have been far off when she had said that Cal’s marrying her sister could change the course of history.
So he would play the game close, and cautious, and use the situation to his advantage. Use her to his advantage, he thought with only a twinge of guilt.
He intended to pick her brain, about her family, her sister in particular, her impressions of Cal. And he wanted her firsthand account of life in the twentieth century. With a little luck, he might be able to convince her to guide him into the nearest city, where he could add to his data.
