At the Stroke of Midnight Read online

  At the Stroke of Midnight

  By Karen Michelle Nutt

  Copyright © 2007 by Karen Michelle Nutt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the

  publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper,

  magazine or journal.

  This is a work of fiction set in a background of history.

  Any resemblance of the imaginary characters to actual

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-906806-34-7

  Published by TheEbookSale Publishing

  Limerick, Ireland.

  Praise for Karen Michelle Nutt's

  At the Stroke of Midnight

  Ms. Nutt pens a unique time travel with interesting characters

  and an unexpected twist. I was drawn into Tricia's struggle to

  save Dean's life, because she knows that their lives are

  somehow entwined. Dean is a likable playboy, who deserves

  redemption.

  All in all, AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT is an enjoyable

  short story, which I highly recommend.

  Marlene Breakfield,

  Reviewer at Mystique Books

  “The author takes us immediately to the heart of her story

  with Dean, the captivating movie star and Tricia his savior.

  This is a wonderfully romantic story. Modern and revealing!”

  Reviewer: Anastasia,

  Ghost Writer Literary Reviews

  “I absolutely loved this story. This author has great dialogs,

  well thought out characters and an awesome story line. This

  story kept my attention from start to finish and I recommend it

  to anyone who loves a time travel story with a touch of

  romance.”

  Reviewed by Tory Lynn author of My

  Charming Protector

  In Memory of Clifford Coleman

  December 1, 1992- May 27, 2007

  Chapter One

  Tricia Lancaster parked her car across the street. She leaned on her steering wheel as she gazed at the two- bedroom house that was once Dean McCloud’s home. To the right like a backdrop, she could see the Hollywood sign in the distance.

  McCloud had been an American icon in the 70’s, when angel flight pants and afghan coats were in style. He starred in the western series, The Long Trail where every week he kept the west safe from outlaws. He was on his way to being on the big screen, landing a part that would have been perfect for his bigger than life persona. He could have had it all, but he threw it all away by blowing his brains out.

  Some believed it was an accident while conspiracy theorists believed he’d been murdered. The coroner called it a suicide, leaving his fans disillusioned.

  His home was turned into a shrine. It was a museum of sorts for the long dead actor as if all of America should give homage. Tricia was here to cover a story for the local newspaper.

  In three days, it would mark the anniversary of the death of Dean McCloud. There would be thousands of flowers and presents covering the lawn and a vigil would begin a minute before midnight, the documented time of his death. She was here to do the story and take some pictures. She'd film the rest later. She begged for the piece even though it wasn’t a high priority for the small town paper. She couldn’t tell anyone the true reason she wanted the story. She felt connected to Dean McCloud as if she should know him.

  It started with the dreams. Vivid true-to-life dreams before she knew he was even an actor. For God’s sake, she wasn’t even born when Dean McCloud died. She hadn't even seen one of his TV shows until they aired on Nickelodeon. Now she owned the entire three-year series on DVD. She bought his biographies and purchased magazines on eBay that had pictures and articles about the actor, but none of them touched what she knew from her dreams.

  She opened her car door and stepped out. Without a backwards look, she locked it as she made her way to the front steps.

  She took a deep breath before she entered. She was here to take the tour. She should have done it a long time ago, faced the ghost so to speak. She hoped seeing his home and doing the story would finally put her obsession of him to rest.

  She needed to have a normal relationship, not this morbid affair with a man who died over thirty years ago.

  She paid the elaborate fee and took the pamphlet that gave a brief description of Dean McCloud. She walked into the living room where the twenty-something docent was talking about Dean as if he were a close and personal friend.

  At first glance, Tricia knew most of the furniture wasn’t original. The recliner was brown; his had been blue. The lamp should have been made out of glass marbles instead of the gold tinted glass. The carpet wasn’t even close since it used to be green shag.

  She walked down the hall glancing at the photos depicting Dean as a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, with his shoulder-length dark hair, sideburns and contagious smile that showed off the sexy dimple in his right cheek.

  She moved on, venturing toward the bedroom. She hesitated at the doorway.

  This room was where he had decided he had nothing to live for. She didn’t go in.

  Instead, she took a detour into the den. The floor television model was showing a Long Trail episode, one of her favorites. Dean, or rather his character Samuel Baines cleverly stopped a bank robber from killing a hostage. Dean was talented. He was charming and lethal all in one.

  Ignoring the roped off area, Tricia made herself at home and took a seat. She tossed her backpack at her feet. Dean had sat in this chair; this was his. She lightly caressed the threadbare arms of the recliner. She snuggled down to watch the show, catching a whiff of cologne. She smiled wondering if it was Dean’s scent forever embedded within the fabric of his chair.

  On the television, she watched Dean out draw the outlaw. This episode, this scene in the saloon was his last.

  ***

  Tricia was startled awake by a loud popping sound followed by screams. She catapulted out of the chair expecting to have to take cover. Fear was replaced by confusion. The last thing she remembered was watching Dean’s final performance on the old television console.

  She looked around the crowded room wondering how she slept through the caretaker setting up for the seventies costume party. The men had long hair and side burns and the women wore dark eye shadow, flowered tops and suede boots.

  Tricia deduced the popping sound came from someone uncorking a champagne bottle. A woman in a tight short skirt and go-go boots was trying to pour the bubbly into two flute glasses.

  “Hey, do you need a beer?”

  “What?” She turned, seeing the Corona inches from her face before she looked up. “No, I’m …” Her eyes widened.

  “I must be dreaming. Dean McCloud?”

  His cocky grin spread across his face.

  Tricia was convinced she was still asleep, only she never dreamt with this much clarity. “Dean?”

  “That’s me, Baby.”

  She looked around her, taking in the subtle differences that made the home seem more … McCloud-like, was all she could come up with for now. Dean sat down in the chair and snaked out a hand, grabbing her arm and pulling her onto his lap.

  Her arms went around his neck, but that was simply preservation. It was not meant as a come on. Dean obviously thought otherwise. He smiled his eyes taking in every feature before his gaze landed on her lips. She knew the moment he decided to kiss her. His eyes turned a shade darker, and his eyelids closed halfway. Her heart pounded in her chest.
She prayed if this was a dream she wouldn’t wake up. Dean McCloud was going to kiss her.

  Dean loved these parties, women throwing themselves at him as if he were a god. This one was cute even in her odd attire. He loved the way her wild curls framed her pixie-like face. Simply enchanting, he thought as his fingers caressed a curly strand.

  She seemed skittish, innocent, so unlike the other women who threw themselves at his feet. He wanted a small taste of her before he let her go. His lips came coaxingly down on hers with tantalizing persuasion, surprisingly she didn’t object. The pleasure was like sweet agony as she met his caress, as if she had been waiting for him. He took more.

  ***

  Tricia relished in the way his tongue traced the fullness of her lips before slipping between them. While he tasted her, she clung to him. Passion inched through her veins making her want the kiss to go on forever.

  She was kissing Dean McCloud, the man she dreamt about, with the contagious smile and polished moves. His hands moved to her waist holding her close. That felt too good. Her mind screamed it couldn’t be happening. The man died over three decades ago, she thought as reality came hurtling down on her. She pushed him away, breaking contact as if his lips had suddenly burned her. A shadow of annoyance crossed his face until he must have realized panic rioted within her gaze.

  ***

  Dean hadn't meant to scare her. His fingers lightly caressed her arm. “Don’t fly away little chick. I won’t hurt you.” This was a private party among friends to celebrate the wrap up the last episode of The Long Trail. Dean wondered who brought her.

  “Forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I have to know if you're real.” She touched his face his ears, his nose, which caused him to chuckle. When her fingers touched his mouth, he took hold of her wrist halting her. He tried to reclaim her lips but she moved her head to the side and his kiss landed on her cheek.

  He pulled back to look at her. She tasted wonderful, like strawberries, all sweet. He wanted her, but he had enough ethics not to pursue this one. She screamed of commitment and he wasn’t offering.

  “Chickie, I need to tend to my other guests.” His fingers twirled a honeysuckle-colored curl before he gently removed her from his lap and stood. Since she looked like she was about to pass out, Dean placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her so that she fell easily into the chair he had just vacated.

  She looked up at him with those big amber-colored eyes. Man, she was one foxy lady. He cupped her chin, gliding his thumb over her lips that were still swollen from his touch. He was tempted to take from her again, but then his gaze found hers and he knew it would be too much.

  He casually stepped back and melted away to join the others who were making bets on how many shots of whiskey Fred Mack could take before he fell on his face.

  ***

  Tricia sat there not moving for a full minute. Forget that she had miraculously traveled back in time and was thoroughly kissed. She glanced around the edge of the chair to see Dean throwing his head back with a roaring laugh.

  The phenomenon was Dean McCloud was alive.

  Chapter Two

  “I can’t believe it’s him,” Trisha said more to herself.

  “He gets that a lot.” Tricia turned to see a pleasant looking man with long hair. He sported a suede jacket with fringe.

  He smiled down at her. Without an invitation, he sat down on the arm of the chair. “I haven’t seen you around. Did you come with Fred?”

  She quickly decided the less she said the better. “Uh huh. I’m Tricia.” She held out her hand making the guy’s smile broaden.

  “Cliff Preston.” He took a hold of her hand as her mouth fell open.

  “Cliff? Dean’s co-star? Omigod!”

  “You’re easily impressed, aren’t you?”

  “No…I mean yes. I should have known who you were.” She shook her head and he laughed.

  “It’s okay. Dean tends to light up a room. I’m used to second billing.” He didn’t say this with malice, but as a fact.

  Trisha had read about Cliff Preston. His career didn’t end when Dean died. He landed another series that had a nine-year run until he succumbed to lung cancer.

  Tricia watched him pull out a pack of Salems, offering her one.

  “No, thank you, I don’t smoke.”

  “Probably a good thing,” he said as he balanced the cigarette between his lips. He lit it up, inhaling deeply. “Do you want to meet him?” He shrugged his head in Dean’s direction.

  Meet him? Cliff obviously missed her previous introduction. It didn’t seem quite right to exchange names now when Dean already had his tongue down her throat.

  Tricia glanced at Dean who was laughing and hanging on a buxom blonde. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

  Cliff chuckled. “Man, you are unique. I’ll give you that.” He leaned forward. “Here’s a little advice. If you want to be one of his groupies, you have to let him see you.”

  “I don’t want to be a groupie. I want to …” She stopped clamping her mouth shut.

  Cliff raised his eyebrow a fraction of an inch.

  “You won’t understand.”

  “Try me.” He puffed on his cigarette as he waited.

  She couldn’t tell him the whole truth without sounding like a complete lunatic. “I want to change history.”

  He laughed. “Man, that would take something short of a miracle.”

  He stood then. “I wish you luck.” He moved away but turned to give her a wink.

  She sat there trying to decipher why fate allowed her to travel back in time. What did it mean? Why was she here?

  Could she stop Dean from pulling the trigger? She sure in the heck was going to give it a go.

  The man had everything to live for. It wasn’t all about his career. He had a son. Her hand flew to her mouth. Dean never knew about his son, Brian, who tried to follow in his footsteps. Brian had the looks, but the talent wasn’t there.

  She'd seen one of Brian's movies. She thought he had potential, but the tabloids destroyed his career, claiming he was ill-tempered and difficult to work with. Maybe it was true, but she tended to believe he was never judged by his virtues but instead compared to his legendary father who could light up a room.

  She saw Cliff talking to Dean. Then Cliff looked at her, giving her a shrug as if to say he tried to send Dean over to her.

  She wasn’t the heartthrob’s type. Dean had kissed her and obviously she failed the test. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t here to date him.

  She stayed put, talking to those who chose to say something to her. Most were drunk or stoned and couldn’t carry on a conversation if their lives depended on it. The crowd dwindled to a few until finally she was left alone with Dean.

  He seemed surprised when he saw her sitting there, but he recovered quickly. His wolfish grin told her he thought she stayed for a specific reason. Well she had, only it wasn’t what he was thinking.

  “So we finally meet again, Chickie.” She waited for him, which he found interesting. Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as she appeared.

  “Tricia,” she said.

  “What?”

  “My name is Tricia.”

  “Okay.” He walked over to the bar and poured two glasses of wine. He handed one to her. “What do I owe the pleasure, Tricia?” Where did she come from? He had asked, but nobody knew who she was.

  “We need to talk.”

  That wasn’t exactly what he was going for, but they could start there. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “What’s the date?”

  He lifted both brows. “It’s December 28th.”

  “That doesn’t leave much time.”

  “Much time for what, Chickie?”

  “Tricia.”

  “Okay. Tricia.” He moved in to capture her lips but she slipped out of the chair to stand behind it.

  He was amused how she used the chair as a barrier as if it would stop him.
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  “Are you depressed?” she asked.

  “I am now.” Her brows furrowed, causing him to laugh. “I wanted to taste your lips of wine and you cleverly avoided me. My ego is sorely bruised by your rejection.” His hand went to his chest with his mock pretense.

  She smiled. “Aren’t you the charmer? I’ll have to give you that. With droves of girls at your beck and call, I doubt my rejection will faze you.”

  He liked her fresh approach. He walked toward her and she backed up. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?” he asked.

  “No.” Her actions spoke otherwise for she circled the chair as he came around it.

  At this pace, it would be New Year’s before he took her to bed. “Is this a game we’re playing?”

  “Of course not,” she told him. “I need to stay focused and I can’t do that—”

  She didn’t have the chance to finish because he hurdled over the chair landing right in front of her. She was so stunned she just stood there. He took her untouched wine glass and placed it next to his on the end table before he faced her.

  “Now where were we?” He tilted her chin and leaned down covering her mouth with a kiss that sent her toes curling within her tennis shoes.

  He lifted his head and smiled. “Wasn’t that better than talking?”

  “Yes.” Her voiced sounded deeper, throatier. The man was intoxicating. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.

  He leaned forward ready to take her under again, but this time she was ready. She firmly placed her hand in the center of his chest. “I’m not here to sleep with you.”

  That seemed to sober him right up. “Why not?”

  His pout made her laugh. “Oh come on. Does every woman you meet sleep with you?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Really?” she asked before she could stop herself. “I mean, then it is high time someone tells you no.”