Flirtinis with Flappers (26 page)

He nodded appreciatively and planted a small kiss on the top of my head. Then he limped over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

I glanced around the room. No place to sit but the bed. After pulling off my coat and hat and hanging it on a hook, I hopped on, the springs squeaking their protest against the added weight. Not exactly the Ritz, that was for sure. But I guessed it would do. Still, when I got back to the twenty-first century, the first thing I was going to do was book myself on a luxury cruise or something. I
so
needed pampering right about now.

I drummed my fingers against the bed frame. I should have snagged a book somewhere. Of course, I'd probably be too tense to read. Soon, the sounds of running bathwater came from the other room, and I contented myself with imagining Nick, naked and soapy. That definitely helped to pass the time.

About a half-hour later, Nick emerged from the bathroom, still dripping wet. He had wrapped a towel around his waist, giving me a good glimpse at his perfectly sculptured chest. Not that I was trying to look, mind you. But there it was. Hard to avoid. A few black-and-blue marks marred his skin, but they just served to make him look more dashing and dangerous.

"Sorry about the near-naked look," he said as he walked over to the bed. "There's no way I can put those disgusting, bloody clothes back on right now." He climbed up onto the mattress, careful not to let the towel gape. He let out a sigh and lay back in bed, resting his head on the flat pillow. "I think I washed off fifty pounds of grime."

"Feel better?' I asked from my sitting position on the other side of the bed. A good portion of my willpower was contemplating going over to the dark side and jumping him right then and there. But after what he'd been through, I guessed he might not appreciate the grope-age.

"Much." He turned and looked up at me. "I guess I haven't properly thanked you," he said with a shy grin. "Kind of wimpy, huh? To be saved by a girl?"

I playfully swatted at him, then lay down on my side so I was facing him. I propped my head up with my elbow. "Better to be emasculated than dead, I suppose."

"Of course a girl would say that. I'm not sure most males would agree with you."

I laughed. "Testosterone is a scary thing."

"Anyway, they can't kill me that easily," Nick said with mock bravado. He patted his chest for emphasis. "In fact, I'm darn near indestructible. Kidnap-able, sure," he added with a rueful smile. "But evidently not killable."

"Right. Well, luckily, you're also rescue-able."

He laughed, reaching out to brush a lock of hair that had fallen into my face. I closed my eyes, rejoicing at the feel of his fingers running through my hair. After he brushed the initial piece away, he kept fingering the strands. It felt nice. Real nice.

"Sorry," he said, as if remembering himself. He pulled his hand away, and I opened my eyes. "I shouldn't do that."

"It's okay," I said, lowering my eyes, "I like it."

He groaned and rolled over onto his side, staring at the wall instead of me. "God, this is so hard," he said.

I cocked my head. "What is?"

He rolled back over to face me. "You're so beautiful and so sweet," he said. "I really like you a lot."

"But…?"

He sighed. "I told you. I'm still in love with my ex-girlfriend. With Dora. She and I were so close. She was my best friend. And I miss her like crazy. Not a day goes by when I don't have her in my thoughts. And half my nights are spent with her tempting me in my dreams." He shot me a sheepish smile.

"It's been a year. I'm verging on pathetic, now. I don't know why I'm having such a hard time letting go. After all, she doesn't miss me one bit. She's totally moved on. Has some new fancy job and has made it very clear she doesn't want anything to do with me. Not that I blame her."

I shook my head, my heart aching. If only he knew how wrong he was about me. As wrong as I'd been about him, I guess. Here I'd thought this whole year that he'd been the one who had moved on. Moving to LA to take on that high-profile network-anchor job. Rocking the red carpets at Hollywood premieres. Being named one of
People Magazine's
"50 Most Beautiful People." The glamour, the starlets, the fan clubs. Had it all really been some halfhearted attempt to escape the fog of war? Of losing me? It seemed so unlikely, but here he was. Spilling his guts to a stranger in a strange land. Why would he bother to lie to Louise?

I tried to focus on his words.

"Anyway, I know at some point I have to allow myself to grieve and move on. I can't hold out hope forever. She's made it very clear that she hates me. That she's never coming back. She's got a whole new life in a whole new town and seems to be doing fine. I've got to accept that, be happy that she's happy without me."

"But she's not happy without you," I blurted before I could stop myself. A lump formed in my throat, and tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Great. Evidently, some of Dora was impossible to hide.

Nick stared at me. "How would you know?" he asked.

Good question. But one I was finally ready to answer. After that confession, he deserved to know the truth. He deserved to know that I was Dora. And that I wasn't over him. That I hadn't moved on. And I was still just as in love.

"How do I know?" I echoed, gathering up my courage. What would he do when he found out? Would he be angry? Horrified? Relieved? Or just really, really confused?

"Uh, yeah," he said. "I mean, you don't know Dora, obviously."

"Actually…" What if he totally freaked out? I mean, this was going to come as such a shock.

I swallowed hard, firming my resolve. After all, this was no time for doubts and fears. And besides, what was I afraid of? He'd just admitted that he loved me.

"Actually, I do know her," I said softly. My whole body was trembling like crazy, was wound up as tight as a top.

"No. Trust me, you don't." Nick laughed.

"I do. Because…I am Dora."

He chuckled. "Yeah, right," he said. "Funny. You had me for a moment." He ruffled my head. "Nice try, kiddo."

Of course he wasn't going to believe me at first. But I had lots of ammunition.

I sat up in bed. "I'm serious," I said. I paused for a moment, then added, "Nick."

That did it. He jolted up in bed, his eyes wide and unbelieving. His mouth hung open like some cartoon character. He stared at me. "What did you just call me?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

I took a deep breath. Here went nothing. "Nick, I'm Dora. Your Dora. From the twenty-first century. They sent me back in time to find you."

He leaped off the bed, all blood drained from his face. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost. Perhaps, in a way, there were some similarities to that situation. After all, I'd just admitted I was someone who wasn't even born yet.

"Dora?" he whispered, his voice seemingly caught in his throat. "But how…? No!" He held out a hand, as if to ward off a blow to the head. The other clung to the towel around his waist. "It can't be!"

I jumped off the bed, approaching him cautiously. He backed away, like a wild animal caught in a trap. I'd never seen him so freaked out. "Nick, calm down," I tried. "I know this comes as a shock." I reached out to touch his arm, but he dodged me.

"A shock? You're a full-on heart attack!"

I sighed and retreated, sitting back down on the bed. "If you would just sit down. Relax. Listen. I could explain."

He approached the bed cautiously, his eyes boring into me, as if he expected to be able to use X-ray vision to view my true self under my Louise mask.

Then he shook his head. "This is crazy. Or some kind of trick. There's no way you're Dora."

"Why not?" I asked. "Why couldn't I be? After all, you've time-traveled too. You know it's possible."

"It's just…no. I don't accept this."

"What would make you believe me?" I asked. "You want me to tell you who died in the last season finale of
Game of Thrones
?"

"Even if you're from the twenty-first century, that still doesn't make you Dora."

"Your name is Nick Fitzgerald. You're thirty-six. You served as a foreign correspondent over in Iraq until last year. Now you work as a network news anchor in Los Angeles. You love lobster but are allergic. Your favorite singer is David Bowie, but your karaoke jam is Eminem. You enjoy long walks on the beach but hate sand between your toes." Wow. This was beginning to sound like a Match.com profile. "Oh, and you hate Broadway musicals, which is why I knew you'd never catch on when I sang 'All that Jazz' at the movie producer's party."

"Please," Nick scoffed. "Anyone with access to Google could know that about me."

"Okay, fine," I said, switching tactics. He wanted personal? I'd give him personal. "You consider yourself a caretaker but secretly love to be cared for. You're a bear when you're sick and refuse to take it easy. You act tough, arrogant, and suave, but you're a total softie at heart. You're a very professional reporter with impartial journalistic ethics, and so your personal feelings about the ongoing conflict overseas have been tough for you to reconcile."

I paused, then smiled and added, "You have a stuffed black bear named Melvin that your grandmother bought you in Tahoe. You brought it to Iraq, and when you're stressed out, you sleep with him tucked under your arm."

Nick's ears turned bright red. Ha! That certainly wasn't something Google-able. I giggled. This was kind of fun in a very strange way.

"God," he breathed. He moved in closer, until his face was mere inches from mine. He lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips down my cheek. I closed my eyes and savored the feathery sensation. "You're really Dora?" he whispered, his voice full of awe. ''You're really and truly her?"

"Mm-hm." I smiled.

"And you came back to find me?"

"Yes."

He pulled his hand away, and I opened my eyes to better read his expression. His beautiful kaleidoscope eyes met mine, our mouths inches from one another. What was he thinking? Was he happy I was here? Freaked out? Angry? A little of everything mixed together?

"I have a billion and one questions," he murmured. "Who, what, where, why—all the journalistic biggies. But I'm sorry, Dora. At this very second, not one of them seems to be as important as holding you in my arms and kissing you." He paused, then added, "If that's okay with you."

"I think I could be all right with that," I whispered, suddenly shy.

I wanted answers too. More than anything. Except, perhaps, this. I'd waited too long for this moment. Spent too many cold nights tossing and turning in my bed. Now we were here. Together. Two people against the universe.

The Q&A could wait. At least for the moment.

He closed his eyes and leaned forward, covering my face with soft, tender kisses. My forehead, my cheeks, my eyelids, my nose. I could feel his long eyelashes fluttering against my skin, as tender as a butterfly's caress. My heart felt like it was going to explode. It was almost too much.

That connection between us. The magnetism that had never gone away.

I wanted to laugh and cry and shout and sob all at the same time. How could I feel so much for one person? It seemed impossible. And to have the feeling returned—well, I couldn't think of anything better in any time.

We had to talk. That much was obvious. I had to know what had really happened in Iraq. And I had to convince him to not change the future by waking up Bugs Moran. But words and explanations were too much, and I was content to communicate with my body. My heart. There'd be time to talk afterwards.

"I've missed this," I admitted, almost against my will. I felt open, vulnerable, admitting this to him. But this was not the time to be Self-Protective Girl. I had to trust him. To trust that he wouldn't hurt me again.

"Me too." He smiled against my cheek and then lowered his lips to meet mine. Our mouths caressed, moved against one another, feeling, finding, discovering. These weren't Nick's natural lips, and he wasn't kissing mine. But in some weird way that made it all the more fun, the familiarity mixed with the strange.

The intensity of our kisses grew, pressure on my mouth from his lips mounted. I pressed back, parting my lips to allow for a deeper kiss. He responded instantly, delving into my mouth. His hands left my face, traveling down my neck to cup my shoulders. Then he dragged further down my arms, gripping me tightly.

"It's so strange," he murmured, raising his head a moment to meet my eyes. "To caress a complete stranger's body but know that it's really yours."

"She has a better body than I do," I couldn't help but crack. "And she's lacking in the ugly facial scars department."

Nick shook his head, his eyes clear and bright. "Even with that tiny flaw, Dora, you're the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. It makes the rest of you even more special."

I started to laugh bitterly at that, but he pressed a finger to my mouth.

"I'm serious," he said. And he looked it too. "I wouldn't trade you for anyone." He paused, then added, "This past year, I could have had my pick of women. My job inspires a lot of wanton fans, for some reason." He laughed bitterly. "But I wasn't interested in any of them. I only wanted you."

He lowered his head to kiss me again. This time, the sensation of his lips on mine was different. Now there was love in the kiss, a kind of worshipful caress. From it, I could tell without a shadow of a doubt that he meant every word he said.

After what seemed like hours of just kissing, he pulled away and smiled at me. "I know this isn't your real body," he murmured, smiling slyly. "But do you think I can still make you scream?"

"Well," I grinned back, "I guess there's only one way to find out."

*   *   *

Turned out, Nick still had his superpower. And I wondered, afterwards, if the rest of the hotel now knew it too. But I didn't care. I was too cozy, too happy. Wrapping my arms around him and squeezing him in a hug, rejoicing in the weight of his body on top of mine. The sheen of sweat. His heavy breath struggling for control. I wanted the moment to last forever.