Time and Again Read Free

caught a chill. "My parents were in the first wave of sixties counterculture.
    So I'm Liberty, which is better than my sister, who got stuck with Sunbeam." Noting his confusion, she laughed. "Just call me Libby. How about you?"
    "I don't-" The hand on his brow was cool and real. So she had to be real, he reasoned. But what in the hell was she talking about?
    "What's your name? I usually like to know who it is I've saved from plane wrecks."
    He opened his mouth to tell her-and his mind was blank. Panic skidded along his spine. She saw it whiten his face and glaze his eyes before his fingers clamped hard over her wrist. "I can't-I can't remember."
    "Don't push it." She swore silently, thinking of the radio she had so conscientiously taken for repairs on her trip in for supplies. "You're disoriented. I want you to rest, try to relax, and I'll fix you something to eat."
    When he closed his eyes, she got directly to her feet and started back into the kitchen. He'd had no identification, Libby remembered as she began to prepare an omelet. No wallet, no papers, no permits.
    He could be anyone. A criminal, a psychopath- No. Laughing to herself, she grated some cheese over the egg mixture. Her imagination had always been fruitful. Hadn't the ability to picture primitive and ancient cultures as real people-families, lovers, children-pushed her forward in her career?
    But, imagination aside, she had also always been a good judge of character. That, too, probably came from her fascination with people and their habits. And, she admitted ruefully, from the fact that she had always been more comfortable observing people than interacting with them.
    The man who was wrestling with his own demons in her living room wasn't a threat to her. Whoever he was, he was harmless. She flipped the omelet expertly, then turned to reach for a plate. With a shriek, she dropped the pan, eggs and all. Her harmless patient was standing, gloriously naked, in her kitchen doorway.
    "Hornblower," he managed as he started to slide down the jamb. "Caleb Hornblower."
    Dimly he heard her swearing at him. Shaking off his giddiness, he surfaced to find her face close to his.
    Her arms were around him, and she was struggling to drag him up. In an attempt to help her, he reached out and sent them both sprawling.
    Winded, Libby lay flat on her back, pinned under his body. "You'd better still be disoriented."
    "Sorry." He had time to register that she was tall and very firm. "Did I knock you down?"
    "Yes." Her arms were still around him, her hands splayed over a ridge of muscle along his back. She snatched them away, blaming her breathlessness on her fall. "Now, if you don't mind, you're a little heavy."
    He managed to brace one hand on the floor and push himself up a couple of inches. He was dazed, he admitted to himself, but he wasn't dead. And she felt like heaven beneath him. "Maybe I'm too weak to move."
    Was that amusement? Yes, Libby decided, that was definitely amusement in his eyes. That ageless and particularly infuriating male amusement. "Hornblower, if you don't move, you're going to be a whole lot weaker." She caught the quick flash of his grin before she squirmed out from under him. She made a halfhearted attempt to keep her eyes on his face-and only his face-as she helped him up. "If you're going to walk around, you're going to have to wait until you can manage it on your own." She slipped a supporting hand around his waist and instantly felt a strong, uncomfortable reaction. "And until I dig through my father's things and find you some pants."
    "Right." He sank gratefully onto the couch.
    "This time stay put until I come back."
    He didn't argue. He couldn't. The walk to the kitchen doorway and back had sapped what strength he'd had left. It was an odd and unwelcome feeling, this weakness. He couldn't remember having been sick a day in his adult life. True, he'd bashed himself up pretty good in that aircycle wreck, but he'd been, what-eighteen?
    Damn it, if he