Timeless Moon by C. T. Adams, Cathy Clamp Page B

she recognized. It was the same sound as when Ellen had stopped by the previous evening to deliver towels. Josette gasped for air and fought her way back to the present until she stood blinking in the center of the motel room, the coffee in her cup now ice-cold.
    As she walked toward the door, a scent hit her like a blow —warm and musky, tinged with oil and gasoline and just a hint of lemongrass cologne.
    Rick! Her brain screamed the name and her heart began to beat frantically. Another knock, this one a little heavier, followed by his voice. "Josie? Are you in there? Are you okay, mon ch ère?"
    How long had she waited to hear his voice again — prayed someone would call her and say his death was all a mistake? But he'd even disappeared from her visions of the future. She couldn't seem to move from where she stood, as though she was bolted to the floor by the weight of indecision.
    Anger … apprehension … delight —they all fought for dominance in her heart and she had no doubt he'd be able to feel all of them through the door.
    As in times long ago when they'd fought, she heard him rest his head against the door. His voice was soft, because he knew she could hear, and it answered the questions she couldn't seem to get out of her mouth. "I know I hurt you, mon ch ère, my beautiful Josette. I never meant to. But I was too consumed by what was happening to me—to my gift —to do anything more than disappear. I swear to you, though, when I heard you were missing, that you might be in danger, all I could think of was finding you. I want to help you face whatever future you're running from. Please, I just want to talk to you, to tell you what I've learned from Charles and the others. And then, if you want me to go, I will."
    The last few lines did it. He was lying. She could smell the black pepper so strong that she sneezed. But she couldn't decide why, or what part was the lie. Maybe he wouldn't be willing to leave; or perhaps there was more to his visit than he was saying, but her logic clamped down on her emotions. The annoyance at grieving for him for so long flooded her, so that when she put down her cup and opened the door, she was more than a little suspicious.
    Rick looked exactly the same as the day he'd walked out her door, so many decades ago. As in her vision the other day, his hair was sun-streaked with so many shades of yellow that Van Gogh would be impressed. He looked miserably hot in a forest green flannel shirt, which was far too thick for the climate, but the color was the perfect to show off his golden eyes and neatly trimmed beard.
    He seemed awestruck at the sight of her, and she fought to retain her annoyance as his eyes raked her body with a need that took her breath away. Apparently, he was even more adept at projecting emotions than in years past, and it was difficult to put any venom behind the first words out of her mouth. "You're lying."
    "Probably." He nodded as he reached for her and no matter how hard she fought against it, the burning, desperate desire to be touched by him crushed her willpower. Magic flowed over her skin as their bodies met and when his lips found hers, a nearly anguished yowl rose from her chest.
    God, he tasted so good; felt so wonderful wrapped around her again. His grip was like steel around her shoulder, and her own fingers convulsed against his solid back muscles in reflex. When his tongue slipped in her mouth, she nearly giggled at the first flavor to greet her after so long. Maple syrup and butter. He's still a sucker for waffles and sausage for breakfast.
    How she'd missed the sensation of his rough beard against her face as his jaw moved against hers in the deepening kiss. It was nearly enough for her to forget everything that had happened. It wasn't until his mouth left hers to gently kiss down her neck that he dissolved the illusion of happiness.
    "I've missed you so much, Bun."
    The words struck her like a blow to the heart. Bun —the warm endearment went