At the Stroke of Midnight Read online

  He backed up as if she declared she had the plague. “If we aren’t having sex, why are you here? And don’t tell me you want to talk. ‘Cause Baby, I’m not interested.”

  “I’ll cut to the chase then. I’m here to save you.”

  Chapter Three

  “Holy Mother of … I don’t need saving.”

  With a frown, she watched him pick up the glass of wine and down it in one gulp.

  She knew Dean had a drinking problem. He’d been arrested for drunk driving and he was ... “You were drunk that night,” she stated as she quickly grabbed her glass and headed for the kitchen.

  “What do you mean, I was drunk?” he called after her.

  He heard her opening cupboards and slamming them shut again, muttering to herself. She sounded more and more frustrated by the second as if she couldn’t find whatever she was looking for. He concluded she was a lunatic. He needed to get rid of her and fast.

  Her shouts of delight had him poking his head into the kitchen. He nearly went ballistic himself.

  “What the hell are you doing?” He charged toward her trying to grab the bottle of scotch she seemed bent on emptying into the sink. They struggled. He grabbed hold of her arm and she bit him.

  “Ouch, God damn it. That hurt.” He pulled his arm away and stared at her.

  At least for the moment, she didn’t continue her hell-bent rage of wasting his booze. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to catch her breath. Her curly honeysuckle hair was frizzed, giving her the look as if she stuck her finger in a light socket. Her amber eyes watched him warily. Heck, he should be the one afraid. She was the insane one.

  “You bit me,” he repeated for lack of knowing what else to say.

  “Yeah well you nearly broke my arm.” She pulled up the sleeve to examine the damage.

  Seeing the marks on her arm made him cringe. He never manhandled a woman in his life. He ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Sorry about that, but man you were dumping some of my finest liquor.”

  “I’m trying to help you,” she said making him laugh.

  “What? By feeding my kitchen drain?”

  “This is serious. I know you don’t understand …”

  “Explain it to me.”

  She didn’t have time to coddle him. He had three days to live. “You can’t drink anymore or you’ll die.”

  “Great, I'm stuck with an evangelist. Chickie, a little alcohol never hurt anyone.”

  “Well, Sweetie.” Her sarcasm dripped like honey, “in your case it will be fatal.”

  She really was adorable looking. It was too bad she had a screw loose.

  “Okay, fun and games are over.” He walked over to her and took the nearly empty bottle from her hands, placing it on the counter. He took hold of her arm and started dragging her toward the door.

  “Party’s over. Time for you to go.”

  “Please. You have to listen to me. On New Year’s Eve, you will have too much to drink and you’ll commit suicide.”

  That made him stop. He looked at her, his gaze measuring her wondering what her ploy could possibly be.

  “Listen Lady. I may like a drink now and again, but I have no reason to want to kill myself. I’m at the top of my career. I just finished the third season of The Long Trail and I’m signed on for two more years. My family loves me and I have fans that adore me. I have everything to live for.

  So let me make this perfectly clear, I have no plans of ending it by killing myself.”

  “I want to believe you, but I know the truth even if you want to deny it.” Tears began to well up in her eyes.

  Now she was going to cry. Dean hated it when a woman cried. “Oh don’t go and do that.”

  “I’m telling you the truth. It will happen,” Tricia insisted.

  “Now how would you know? Are you a medium? Do you have psychic powers?”

  “No. I …”

  “You what?”

  “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  He already thought it, but he refrained from saying so. “No I won’t.”

  “Okay, what do I have to lose? You’re probably going to toss me out anyway. I might as well lay it on the line.” She took a deep breath and let it out again. “You see, the reason I know what will happen to you is because … well …”

  “Please spit it out, Chickie. I’m growing old waiting for you to tell me.”

  “I’m from the future,” she blurted.

  He should be nominated for an academy award. He looked her in the eye without cracking a smile as he listened to her story.

  “I took a tour of this house and I was watching The Long Trail on DVD.”

  “A deevee what?” he interrupted.

  “It doesn’t matter. Hear me out.”

  He nodded. He could humor her for a while longer.

  “I bought your biography.”

  “I don’t…”

  She gave him a look that clearly said she was getting impatient.

  “Okay, go on.” He waved his hand in front of him for her to continue.

  “I even downloaded the articles about you from the Internet.”

  He was going to interrupt again, but decided it wouldn’t be worth it.

  She continued. “I began to feel sorry for you, wondering why no one knew you were hurting. Why no one stopped you from ending your life.”

  If this tale weren’t so bizarre, he would have been flattered she cared so much.

  “I’m curious, how did you do this time travel thing?”

  “I don’t know,” she sighed with frustration. “Maybe the house is a conduit. You must be connected to it, like an impression in time.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t.” She raised an eyebrow. “I can hear it in your voice. You think I’m crazy. Let me assure you I’m as sane as you are. I don’t like it, but I’m linked to you in some way. Maybe you’re important to my future. All I know is that I fell asleep watching an old re-run of your show. Then I woke up here in your house over thirty-five years before I’m even born.”

  He was silent for a long time trying to absorb the fantastic tale. The chick really believed every word of it. She must have taken some of Marty’s drugs. He would have to have a word with him later.

  “Honey, you’re trippin’. And you’re worried about me drinking too much.”

  “I can prove it. You said that you finished your season for next year. I know every episode that you played in.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”

  “The Gun From No Where, then The Last Dance, Sheriff From Wakefield.”

  Damn if she didn’t name every last one.

  “Oh I get it.” He snapped his fingers. “Cliff put you up to this.” He loved to play practical jokes. He had to hand it to him this was one heck of a trick.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Fred Mack?”

  She threw up her hands. “I give up.”

  He almost felt sorry for her. He watched her cover her face with her hands. Okay he did feel sorry for her. He walked over to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Don’t worry the drugs will have to wear off some time.”

  She shrugged him away. “I’m not on drugs you silly son … son of a gun.”

  He tried not to laugh but then couldn’t help it. “I’ve never been called that before.”

  Despite everything, she cracked a smile.

  “Hey, I don’t know what your real story is.”

  “Dean—”

  He held up his hand, wanting her to give him the same courtesy he gave her.

  “Maybe your story is right or maybe it isn’t. Either way I’m starving. You probably are too.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Let’s grab a bite anyway, go dancing and …” He shrugged. “Maybe come back here.”

  The way he moved his eyebrows up and down she could well imagine what he thought they would do if they came back here. He gave her
a smile with that adorable dimple creasing his right cheek. He was so gorgeous, better looking than seeing him on the television screen. She was determined to save him even if he didn’t want saving.

  “I’ll go with you, but wipe that grin off your face. I’m not that kind of girl.”

  He shrugged. “Too bad.” With an active imagination like hers, it was bound to be quite interesting in the bedroom.

  He’d work on her. His gaze traveled over her from head to toe and everything in the middle. She was one foxy looking woman. Crazy, yes, but he could overlook that for now.

  “Let’s go.” He grabbed his car keys on the entry table.

  “You better let me drive. You’ve been drinking.” She tried to take the keys away from him, but he was too quick.

  He held the keys over his head and out of her reach. “I thought you said that I’m destined to die on December 31st. I still have a few days to live. So you’re safe for tonight.”

  “Yeah, but you’re going to be pulled over by the cops and this would make your second DUI, wouldn’t it?”

  “How did you …” Nobody knew about that. Fred had kept it under the rug. It hadn’t been leaked to the public.

  She held out her hand. He tossed her the keys. “Drive.”

  Tricia was glad he didn’t ask to see her license.

  ***

  When they passed by the police car that was hidden behind the billboard sign and double-parked cars, Dean looked at the woman who claimed to be from the future in a new light.

  He usually hauled ass down this street. He wasn’t drunk by his standards, but the cops would probably think otherwise. If he had driven, he would have been hauled down to the station. It was something to think about, but it didn’t mean he believed the chick was from the future.

  Chapter Four

  “Who’s the broad?” Fred Mack slid into the booth beside Dean.

  “The broad is Tricia …” Dean realized he didn’t know her last name.

  Fred looked perturbed. “He has no manners.”

  “Lancaster,” Tricia volunteered.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Fred leaned across the table to shake her hand. “I didn’t expect to see you out after our little get together this afternoon,” he said to Dean.

  “We were hungry.”

  “I bet you were.” He gave a low growl as he ribbed Dean with his elbow and winked at Tricia. “Well, I have to jam. I’ll catch you two cats later.” Then he was out of his seat heading toward the door.

  “My manager is a little intense,” Dean explained.

  “I’ve noticed. He thinks we slept together, doesn’t he?”

  “Pretty much so.” He leaned forward. “Hey, some women would kill to be in your shoes right now.”

  “Are you trying to impress me?” she said with a slight smile.

  “Obviously, I’m falling short. Chickie, you’re a difficult one, aren’t you.”

  “And you’re way too easy.”

  He studied her for a moment before he threw back his head and laughed. If anything, this chick kept him entertained. “I guess I am. So Chickie, tell me, what do you do in the future? Are you somebody’s old lady?”

  “I’m not married if that is what you’re asking. I’m not shacking up with anyone either if that was going to be your next insightful question.”

  “A women’s libber, that’s groovy.”

  She shook her head. “I’m a reporter for—”

  “Whoa, hold on there. You’re a reporter.” It all started to make sense now. “Oh, I have to hand it to you, Chickie. You’re one smooth operator, but let me tell you: I don’t do interviews.” He stood, but her next words halted him from leaving.

  “Oh get over yourself. I’m not here to interview you unless you want to give me your final words before you shoot yourself.”

  Her voice had risen and a few people looked their way.

  He slid back into his seat. “Could you keep it down,” he whispered.

  “You started it,” she said folding her arms against her chest.

  So he had. “You’re a reporter,” he hissed.

  “And you’re an arrogant, pig-headed actor, so what?”

  He opened and closed his mouth. Then he smiled. “You forgot good-looking bloke.”

  She didn’t want to smile, but damn, did he have to go and grin with his dimple winking at her. “Okay, you’re mildly attractive.” She rolled her eyes at him. “But you already knew that.”

  They were quiet while the waitress gave them their order of hamburgers, French fries and some drink that looked like mud. Dean saw her wrinkle up her nose as she picked up the glass to sniff the substance.

  He chuckled. “That’s swampwater.”

  “Yuck.” She put it down, pushing it away from her.

  “It’s half A&W Root Beer and half Orange drink. It’s the new thing around here.”

  “I haven’t mixed my sodas since I was ten.”

  He shrugged and took a big slurp of his drink. “What a punch. So Ms. Reporter, what do you report?”

  “My latest was going to be on your tribute.”

  Dean was about to take a bite of his burger, but now he put it down. “Tribute?”

  “Yeah. Your house is like a shrine. On the anniversary of your death, people travel from all over to leave flowers and presents at your doorstep.”

  “That’s outta sight.” Since Dean was playing this wild game, he might as well know what else was part of her story.

  It would give them something to talk about anyway. “Since you have the low down on how I leave this earth, who showed up at my funeral?” He stuffed his mouth with a generous portion of French fries.

  “Cliff Preston did your eulogy.”

  “That sounds like Cliff.”

  “Fred Mack was there with women surrounding your coffin. They wailed as if they truly missed you.”

  “You doubt?”

  She pierced her lips together in a sideway grin.

  “Okay, he probably hired them for publicity. Who else was there?”

  “Delores Zaczek. She was the last to leave your gravesite.”

  He sat back in his seat. “Delores was broken up, was she?”

  Tricia wondered how much she should tell him. Maybe it would be better if he knew all of it. Maybe it would sway his final decision. “She never got over you.”

  Tricia saw the way he looked. He was a playboy there was no doubt, but he really cared about Delores. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

  His gaze met hers. “Know what?”

  “That you love her,” she clarified.

  Dean tried to brush what she said aside, but Tricia knew she had hit a nerve.

  It floored Dean that Delores would care what happened to him. She walked out on him. He hadn’t seen her for three months now. She wouldn’t answer his calls.

  “Delores …” He didn’t need to explain his relationship to Tricia, since she already seemed to know so much. “We have a history.” He decided he didn’t want to talk about it. It was too depressing. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They headed outside. It was raining, a good down pour. Dean knew Tricia’s flimsy jacket would have her soaked in a matter of a second. “Stay covered and I’ll go get the car.” He started toward the curve. They had used the valet parking at the nightclub across the street.

  Dean lifted his jacket over his head obscuring his vision, but Tricia saw the lights first before she realized the car wasn’t going to stop. Fear, stark and vivid made her move.

  She ran forward as she screamed Dean’s name. She barreled into him like a linebacker. They went sprawling forward onto the hard concrete as the car screeched by.

  The valet saw what happened and came running over to them. “Are you all right, Mr. McCloud, Miss?”

  “Fine,” Dean said but he was looking at Tricia. A strange surge of affection gripped him; this weird and wonderful woman just saved his life.

  She shivered and he took off his jacket, draping it around he
r.

  Chapter Five

  Tricia came out of the bathroom with Dean’s robe that was inches too big draped around her. She was trying to brush through the tangles that were once curls.

  “Is that all natural?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” she said with a sigh.

  “I rather like it.” Her gaze met his. She believed she was a time traveler, if that just didn’t yell crazy. Yet he found her oddly fascinating. Crazy or not, he couldn’t dismiss the fact that she saved his life tonight.

  He cleared his throat. “I made some hot cocoa.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Your tackle was impressive.”

  She smiled. “Three brothers. They taught me well.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. He moved closer, taking the hairbrush from her. She looked up at him. Her gaze spoke of innocence. He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers anyway. “So am I what you expected, Tricia Lancaster, time traveler, and reporter?”

  “The truth?”

  “Sure.”

  “Not really.” She did so love his hurt little boy look. It made her want to kiss the frown away. “Reading about your life, I only had a glimpse of who you really were. Meeting you is so much better.”

  His grin widened. “So, does that mean you’ll …?”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you.” She kissed his cheek, giving him a hug in the process. “Besides, you’re in love with someone else.”

  ***

  Dean couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about what Tricia had told him. If any of it was true, he didn’t want Delores thinking he never cared. He cared too much, but she didn’t see it that way. She couldn’t handle the publicity, the tabloids splashing their lives all over the place. They fought about it all the time.

  He rolled over on his side. Still not comfortable, he sat up and turned on the light beside his bed. It was almost six.

  Delores would be up already. She was a receptionist at Dr. Ross’ office, a dentist downtown. He picked up the phone and dialed, hoping this time she wouldn’t hang up on him.