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darkness where she could pretend nothing had happened, she’d take out today’s horror and examine it.
    She quickly shifted her thoughts back to Peter. “Now I have to live with Mr. Pleasure Master in his cave. And it’s all your fault.” Good. She’d found a scapegoat.
    Beside her, Rhett Butler drawled, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Chapter Four
    Ian listened to the woman’s restless movements in the darkness and waited. Silently. He’d learned the power of silence, whether lying in wait for an enemy when a sound could mean death, or beside a woman, touching her with quiet, allowing her desire to build. Seducing her in all the ways that needed no words, no glide of flesh against flesh. And there were many, as Kathy of Hair would soon know.
    But tonight was not the time. Tonight she thought only of this New York she believed she came from.
And what if what she says is true?
He did not close his mind to all things different, but this seemed overmuch to believe.
    No, even with her strange speech and the odd things she brought with her, he could lie beside hernow, run his fingers the length of her smooth body, touch her as he’d touched so many women, and she’d be like all other women.
    She moved again, and he drew in an impatient breath. There was nothing for it. He must speak with her or neither of them would sleep this night.
    Pulling his plaid around him, he rose and walked to where she lay. He sat beside her, letting her feel his presence.
    â€œIan?”
    His aloneness, his oneness with all things physical, opened him to the things that other men could not see. The woman’s fear and confusion broke over him in waves of tortured feeling. A canny hunter would strike while the prey was weak. He thought about it, then dismissed the idea. Not tonight.
    â€œYe canna sleep.”
    â€œI never sleep well in a new place. And your bed isn’t exactly floating-cloud quality. Besides, it’s too quiet. I’m used to traffic, people.” The darkness softened her voice, rounded the sharp edges of her complaint.
    She sighed. “I’m sorry, Ian. Forget the last whine. It’s not the bed, it’s . . .”
    He could hear the tears in her voice, knew she’d cried in the darkness, muffling the sound so she wouldn’t wake him. “’Tis the darkness that feeds yer fears. When ye canna see, ye turn yer thoughts inward.”
    â€œBut how did I get here? How will I get back?
Why
am I here?”
    He had no answers, so instead he rose and used the still-hot remains of the hearth fire to light a candle, then returned to her side. In the flickering light, he searched for the truth.
    â€œHey, I’ve got it.” Her choked laughter held no happiness. “The Great-Hairdresser-in-the-Sky couldn’t stand looking at dry split ends here for another century so She sent me.”
    He sensed the silent scream behind her words.
    He watched her turn onto her side, then prop herself up on one elbow. Listened to the rustle of her clothes. Caught his breath at the blue glitter of her eyes in the candlelight. Felt the first familiar stirrings.
    â€œYou know, that whole idea is funny. There was this . . . God, I’m already talking in the past tense.” The thought seemed to upset her. He could see it in the aimless patterns she traced on his fur, recognized it in her uneasy pause.
    â€œI watched
Ghostbusters
on video last week. You have to understand, I’m a huge movie fan. Anyway, all through the movie they kept repeating, ‘Who you gonna call?’ I guess that’s me. No offense, but your friends have to have the worst hair in the universe.” She shrugged. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. So someone or something yanked me into your time to fix it.”
    â€œYe believe this?” What was a video? What was a ghostbuster?
    â€œNo.” Her voice was small, lost. “Look, I