“I’m sick. I’ve never been so sick. I feel like I’ve lost my soul.”
“Nonsense!” Beth snapped. “Hey, he didn’t suit you, Alex. For godsakes, he was a nineteenth-century macho man. A buccaneer. How long do you think the two of you could have lived together without killing one another?”
“Forever,” Alex murmured, sitting up while Beth opened two containers of freshly ground coffee.
“Hah! I’d give you both two months. Lots of hot sex and then you’d both realize you had nothing in common except sex, and, Alex, you’d be bored.” Beth smiled knowingly.
Alex accepted one of the containers of coffee. Beth was wrong. If only she were right.
“Listen, why don’t you focus on the fact that he’s a liar and a cheat? He betrayed you, Alex. Royally. He was a typical male shit.”
Alex sipped the coffee.I love you.She could hear his deep, resonant voice as if he spoke to her now. Why hadn’t she been more understanding? He had been married when they met, and yes, he should have told her, but what would it have changed? She wouldn’t have been able to stop loving him, and in time, he would have fallen in love with her. They’d had a destiny to share. They might have fought that destiny for different reasons, but it would have overwhelmed them eventually anyway—just as it had done.
“Alex? Try this,” Beth said, handing her a bagel smothered in cream cheese and smoked salmon.
Alex shook her head. The coffee was perking her up. Would the memories be enough? It had been a grand adventure. Maybe she should write a novel about it. About a woman traveling through time to meet her destiny, a woman bold enough to rewrite history.
Alex sipped her coffee. “Beth, did I tell you that we changed history?”
Beth squinted, sitting by Alex’s feet. “What are you taking about?”
Alex sat up straighter. “Ohmygod. I just had a thought! While I was in the past, things happened differently than what I’d read. If I went to those books now—what would they say? Did we actually change history?” Alex began to tremble.
“Alex, what are you doing?” Beth cried.
Alex, a whirlwind, was dashing across the room. “I’m hopping in the shower,” she yelled. “I have to go to the library!”
Beth stared at the bathroom door as it slammed closed. Worry was etched all over her face.
Alex new exactly where to go in the stacks, which, as a graduate student, she had permission to use. Clad in faded Levi’s and a white T-shirt, she raced down one long row of bookshelves heading for the section that was devoted to the history of the United States and Tripoli. She skidded to a halt. Another student was standing in front of that exact section. She fought down her irritation and annoyance.
Alex paused and waited for him to find what he was looking for, barely restraining herself from stamping her foot. It was an incredible coincidence to find another student examining the same books she wished to look through. The topic of relations between the United States and Tripoli in the early nineteenth century was not a popular one.
He must have sensed her presence because he suddenly glanced at her. “Am I in your way?” he said with a friendly smile—and then he stared, wide-eyed.
Alex froze. Staring back in shock. Into amazingly familiar silver eyes. “Murad?” Her pulse raced.
His brow furrowed. “No, Joseph. Have we met before?”
Alex didn’t know why she had made such a mistake; of course it was Joseph. Nevertheless, she felt dazed. “I meant, Joseph. Of course. We met a few days ago, three to be exact.”
His gaze remained narrowed. “No, that’s impossible—I could never forget you.”
She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Three days ago—in Tripoli. At your father’s shop. I bought the oil lamp and we made a date for you to give me a tour of the palace. But … I had to return home.”
He was silent. “I didn’t go home this summer,” he finally said. “I’m a student at Harvard, and I usually go home, but not this summer. So you met someone else.” His expression was strained now. “My dad does have a small antiquities shop just outside the museum, though.”
Alex’s heart pounded. Did this make sense? He was Joseph—but he hadn’t been in Tripoli three days ago—he was insisting that they had never met. Intuition made her glance at the book in his hand. It was her very favorite source book by Roberts. The work she was looking for. “That’s a great reference book.”
He seemed startled, but he smiled. “Yeah, it is. Did you want this? I don’t need it. I’ve read it before, several times, in fact.”
Alex was breathless, sweating now in spite of the library’s excellent air-conditioning. “You’re a scholar of United States-Tripolitan relations, aren’t you?” It was hard to remember what he had said, but she seemed to recall that they had shared an avid interest in the same subject.
“Actually, I’m a poli sci major. But the U.S.-Tripolitan war of 1804 has always fascinated me, though I’ve never been able to figure out why. It’s kind of a hobby of mine.”
Alex nodded. She knew why the war fascinated him so. “Have you ever heard of an American sea captain who was secretly commissioned by Jefferson but who became a captive in Tripoli?”
“Xavier Blackwell?” He was grinning. “Who hasn’t? He’s such a dashing figure that they teach sixth graders about him in most public schools.”
