A Sexy Time of It. Cara Summers
he’d just been home, she might still be alive.
“Remind me what was in the note,” Deirdre said.
Max dragged his thoughts back to the present and his proposal. “She said she had something to tell me that was ‘right up my alley.’ Her roommate said she’d been seeing someone. I think Suzanna had met the Ripper and that she suspected something. So he eliminated her.”
“Perhaps.” Deirdre folded her hands on the desk. “You’re too personally involved in this. For that reason alone I should turn your proposal down flat.”
Should. Max latched on to the one word, but he didn’t allow himself to feel relief. Not yet. His eyes never wavered from hers as he leaned forward. “I can get him for you, Dee. That’s my only goal. I swear. Yeah, I’m personally involved. I admit I want to catch the man who murdered Suzanna. But I’d want this case anyway. If I’m right and he’s a psychic time traveler who’s managed to breach our security, he’s got to be stopped. What if the Ripper is only one of his personas? What if he’s used other methods on other victims?”
She rose, throwing up her hands in a gesture of surrender, but she wasn’t quite ready to give in.
“I have another question.” On the screen she brought up an image of Cornelia—Neely—Rafferty and enlarged it. “The Ripper killed and mutilated six women in 2008, and Cornelia Rafferty was his last victim—he killed her in the early-morning hours of May 17. You’ve made several trips to New York to observe each of those women. Why have you singled her out as the one you’re going to get close to?”
Max had anticipated the question, so he had an answer prepared. Some of it Deirdre already knew. The Ripper had selected prostitutes in 1888—women whom Victorian society cared very little about. In 2008 he’d selected middle-class women, all single, all living alone. The slew of criminologists who’d studied the cases over the years all agreed that the 2008 Ripper had established some kind of relationship with each victim. All had been found in their own homes. There’d been no sign of forced entry, no sign of struggle. The experts across time had concluded that the 2008 Ripper had to have been someone the women knew, someone they trusted enough to invite into their homes. Hell, he was doing the same thing in 2128.
“In the time I’ve spent observing the six women, I discovered that besides being single and living alone, each of them had some kind of connection to books. One was a librarian, one was a college professor with several publications in the field of psychology, two were high-school English teachers, another was an editor at a publishing house and Neely Rafferty was a bookstore owner. If that’s what he used—an interest in books or a specific topic—to get close to them, I figure she’s my best bet. The Ripper might even have used her store as a base to select his victims.”
“Gut instinct again?” Deirdre asked.
“Yes. I believe she’s the key to identifying the killer.”
Max waited then. This was the trickiest part of his proposal. What he intended was to get close enough to Neely Rafferty to find out who in her circle of customers or friends might be the Ripper. Most time travelers were required to make themselves psychically invisible when they visited another time. This made it easier for them to follow the Prime Directive. Becoming personally acquainted with anyone in a previous time was prohibited—unless it was absolutely necessary for security enforcement purposes. He’d argued that in this instance it was.
Deirdre studied him very closely. Anyone worth their salt in security had a sixth sense for recognizing a lie when they heard it. He prayed that she wouldn’t see through him. He’d spoken the truth. It just wasn’t the whole truth. As seconds ticked by, Max had to put some effort into not glancing back at Neely’s picture.
The first time he’d seen it, he hadn’t been able to look away for a very long time. There was something in her face that pulled at him. No. That was too weak a word for what had compelled him to study Neely Rafferty’s image for hours.
Seeing her in person, watching her go about her business, had only deepened the effect she had on his senses. He had no idea why, but he knew that she posed a threat to him. Walking into her store that day had been a mistake. Everything that had pulled at him from a distance had intensified during those minutes he’d spent in Bookends. But when he’d touched her, held her wrist in his hands for those few moments, he’d known beyond a doubt that she was the key. Without her, he was not going to avenge his sister’s death.
If he could just figure out what it was about her that scrambled his brain. In many ways she was ordinary looking. Her hair was the color of honey and she wore it short, the way many women in his time wore theirs. Her face wasn’t what he would have called beautiful, but it was interesting. Her skin was pale and her features delicate, but she had a strong chin and a mouth that hinted at stubbornness and passion. It was her mouth that had nearly been his downfall.
He’d felt her eyes on him the whole time he’d wandered through the store, and it had been as intimate as a caress. That was when he’d known that he had to touch her. Just once. So he’d dropped the book as a ploy, and he’d timed it perfectly. She’d been so close that her scent had wrapped around him. Something that reminded him of spring rains, and he’d wondered if he would taste that flavor on her skin—or on her lips.
He’d watched her blue-gray eyes darken, not in surrender, but in sensual excitement. And then he’d felt her in his mind, willing him to kiss her. Her desire had fueled his own, nearly destroying his control. Never in his life had he experienced anything like it. God, he’d wanted to touch her—to slip that blouse off of her and let his hands run over every inch of her. For a moment, in his mind, his mouth had covered hers and he’d known that he could have her. The power of that knowledge had streamed through him. And he’d almost acted on his desire, taking her right there on the floor of the bookstore, quick and hard and hot. It would have been incredible. Crazy. And not at all what he’d gone there to do.
Pure survival instinct had given him the strength to pull back at the last minute, and he’d nearly run out of the store.
Deirdre was still studying him, still trying to read him, so he said, “Look, Dee, I can’t explain it but she’s the key. I’m as certain of that as I am that the Ripper is a psychic time traveler. And who knows what other advanced psychic abilities he possesses. He has to be stopped.”
“I hope I’m not making a mistake.”
Max smiled at her then. “The mistake would be if you don’t approve my proposal.”
“Right.” She held his gaze, not returning his smile. “Now all I have to do is convince Mr. Shaw of that. I want to make one thing crystal clear. You have to catch the Ripper here in this century, at this exact time. I don’t want you pulling off any tricks so that your sister and the other four girls here won’t be killed. I need to know that I can trust you not to mess with the rules before I give you the go-ahead.”
Max rose then and extended a hand. “I know I can’t undo my sister’s death. I’ll bring the Ripper to you. My word on that.”
She grasped his hand. “Take care.”
BACK IN HIS OFFICE, Max checked to see if he had everything he needed. He’d packed ahead of time. He didn’t want to stick around long enough for Deirdre to have second thoughts. The black shirt and jeans he’d changed into were from 2008. He’d selected them earlier from the supply that TGS stocked for each time period. The small cylindrical weapon that he tucked into his pocket wasn’t. Neither was the palm-size computer clipped to his belt. The small duffel he’d slung over his shoulder contained what he’d need for a very short stay. The hunt was on. He planned to arrive in 2008 on the evening of May 15, and the Ripper would kill Neely Rafferty in the early hours of May 17. That gave him only about thirty hours to identify his man. Considering his experience in the bookstore, the less time he spent with Neely Rafferty, the better. Once he arrived in 2008, the clock would be ticking.
Shutting his eyes, he pictured the row of brownstones on Thirty-fifth Street where Neely lived. As soon as the details