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A Sexy Time Of It Prologue | page 1 | page 2 | page 3 | excerpts
Rain fell in a soft thick mist that nearly blocked the light from the street lamp. Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, Neely hurried toward it. The instant she saw the gas flame, her heart kicked up its rhythm. Just to make sure, she glanced down at the street. Those were cobblestones all right. Something caught her eye. Bending over, she scooped up a coin and grinned when it wasn’t one she recognized. Excitement and anticipation streamed through her as she tucked it away in the pocket of her jeans. She definitely wasn’t in Kansas any more—her particular Kansas being New York City, 2008. But was she where she wanted to be? Just before she’d fallen asleep, she’d been concentrating on London, September 30, 1888, when Jack the Ripper had been prowling its streets and brutally murdering women. Lately, all of her “dreams” had been about places where The Ripper had killed. Hardly surprising. For the past four months a serial killer had been targeting women in Manhattan, and the media had gleefully dubbed him Jack the Second. Like everyone else in the city, including the discussion groups in her bookstore, Neely had been boning up on Jack the First’s exploits. But tonight she’d decided to conduct a little experiment. Just before she drifted off to sleep, she’d focused her mind on Mitre Square where the body of Catherine Eddowes had been found in the wee hours of the morning. This was her first attempt at controlling the specific destination and time of one of her dreams. Had she succeeded? Peering through the mist, she caught a glimpse of a wrought iron fence across the street, and a little thrill shot up her spine. She had one foot on the cobblestones when the sound of hooves sent her backing up and she ducked behind the street lamp. A carriage clattered by, its lantern waging a brave but losing battle with the mist. Neely drew in the scents of damp leather and horses as she studied what she could see of the carriage. She was no expert on Victorian style vehicles, but it looked close enough to the pictures she’d studied in books. Once the hoof beats had faded and she was satisfied the street was clear of traffic, Neely raced across it, then bent low to read the small plaque on the iron gate. Mitre Square. Her heart skipped a beat. This was the place all right. But was it the right time? Catherine Eddowes’ body had been found on September 30, 1888. That was the day that Jack the Ripper was believed to have claimed two victims. Was she in time to warn Catherine? Or was the woman’s brutalized body even now lying somewhere in the square? Fear snaked its way up her spine, and Neely’s hand tightened on the gate. It was still hard to get her mind around the possibility that she might really be in the London of 1888. She’d been having vivid dreams for years—usually triggered by something in a book that had captured her imagination. While they’d been alive, her parents had always attributed her stories about being in Troy when the Greeks invaded or being in Paris when Marie Antoinette was beheaded to her bookish nature and an over active imagination. Only her grandmother Cornelia Rafferty had taken her dreams seriously. Cornelia had experienced the same kind of dreams and so had her great, great grandfather Angus Sheffield. Angus had once dreamed of being in Rome on the day when Julius Caesar was assassinated. It was her grandmother’s theory that the vivid dreams were connected with the fact that anyone descended from Angus Sheffield had inherited the “bookworm” gene. Well, she’d certainly inherited the “bookworm” gene. She’d been nine when her parents had been taken from her in a plane crash, and when she’d moved in with her grandmother, there’d been no one her age to play with on the street, and she’d frequently used books to escape from her loneliness. Drawing in a deep breath, Neely pushed at the gate, then winced when it complained loudly. Gradually, the sound faded and all she could hear was her own breath going in and out. It wasn’t until recently since she’d been researching The Ripper murders that she’d begun to suspect that her experiences were more than dreams, that she might really be visiting the past. It was such a crazy idea—but she hadn’t been able to shake free of it. Night after night, she was returning to the various places in London where Jack the Ripper had left his victims. The only person she’d confided in had been her best friend and current business partner, Linc Matthews. She and Linc had been friends since junior high when they’d both been “outsiders” at school. She’d never quite fit in with the “cool” crowd, and Linc’s artistic flair had set him apart from their more conservative classmates. Neely had always been able to talk to Linc about anything. Growing up in her grandmother’s house, she’d been surrounded by people Cornelia Rafferty’s age. And though she enjoyed them and loved her grandmother dearly, she’d rarely confided in them. Linc always listened, never judged. The fact that he’d taken her theory that she was actually traveling to the past seriously had made her take it more seriously herself. He’d even recommended a new book that had come in as part of a promotion from a self-published author, saying that Dr. Julian Rhoades had been getting local TV coverage because of his theory that psychic time travel might be a possibility in the near future. And it had been Linc’s idea that she try to bring back some proof that she was actually visiting London. She slipped a hand into her pocket to reassure herself that the coin was still there. Well, after tonight, she would know whether she was dreaming or whether what she was seeing right now was real. And if it was…? From the time she was a little girl, she’d always believed that she’d been born for some purpose, that she was meant to do something important with her life, and the possibility that she could travel through time had triggered a boatload of possibilities. But the one that had quickly hit the number one slot was whether or not she could make a difference. There had to be a reason she was being drawn to the scene of Jack the Ripper’s murders. Could she stop one of them? If she could do something to save just one woman… Well, she just had to find out. Drawing in a deep breath, Neely pushed through the gate and started down the path. “Catherine? Catherine Eddowes?” she called. No answer. The mist was so thick that she couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. On the street behind her, another carriage clattered past. Then silence. Moving forward slowly, Neely drew in the scents of damp earth, decaying vegetation, and something else—blood? The knot in her stomach tightened when she heard a noise to her right. This time when she slipped a hand into her pocket, she closed her fingers around a can of pepper spray. Then she started toward the sound. “Catherine? If you’re here, let me know. I can help you.” No answer again. But a tingle of awareness had Neely stopping short. She wasn’t alone in the square. This knowledge was confirmed when she heard the footsteps approaching. Fear skittered up her spine. She felt someone’s eyes on her as vividly as a physical touch, but she couldn’t make out anything. Not even a darker shadow in the mist. “Who’s there?” No answer again—except for the steady, inexorable march of those footsteps coming closer and closer. Run. Run. Her mind screamed the words, but she couldn’t move. He was very close now. She sensed him not only in her mind but in every pore of her body. A fresh stab of fear pierced her and set her free. Whirling, she ran as fast as she could. But he was running too. She sensed his nearness, pictured his hands reaching out. Heart pounding, breath hitching, she shoved through a gate and sent it slamming shut behind her. She heard the grunt, then a male voice cursing as she leapt from cobblestones to curb and hurtled herself into the mist. She’d only slowed him down so she had to think. She had to…wake up. Of course. All she had to do was get herself out of this dream. How? In her mind, Neely summoned up the details of her bedroom—the quilt her grandmother had made for her, the lamp on her bedside table with its leaded glass roses, the mirror that leaned against one wall…the old Persian carpet— Suddenly, her body was free of the pull of gravity. Wind rushed past her, deafening her. Then a velvety blackness blanketed her, and her mind went blissfully blank. # # # Neely opened her eyes and sat straight up. A quick glance around informed her that she was back in her bedroom in the old Brownstone house that she’d inherited from her grandmother. She was safe. She pressed a hand against her heart, felt its mad race as the details of her dream once again flooded her mind. Excitement and fear roiled through her. Everything had been so real. The footsteps still echoed in her mind. A quick glance at her clock told her that it was only a few minutes past midnight—the exact time it had been just before she’d drifted off. Tonight’s dream had been the most vivid one yet. She began to shiver then and she had to clamp her teeth together to keep them from chattering. Only then, did she realize that her jeans and sweatshirt were soaked. From the misty rain? She slipped her hand into her pocket and drew out the coin. She made out the words quite clearly. One shilling. Her hand began to tremble, her heart to pound. Neely made herself breathe, in and out, in and out. Two things were immediately clear to her. Whatever had just happened hadn’t been a dream. She’d actually traveled to the past. And there was a strong possibility that she’d had a close encounter with Jack the Ripper. |
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