Alex realized that she was jealous. Jealous of a love affair that had taken place almost two hundred years ago.
Alex realized that she must be lonelier than she had thought, to be so consumed with a dead man, to be jealous of his past lover. It was time to go back to school, to return to reality. She would start dating again. As soon as she finished her thesis.
And interestingly enough, her thesis was on the birth of the American navy during the Quasi War with France, which had ended in 1799—just a few years before Blackwell’s capture and execution.
With renewed excitement, Alex calculated quickly and realized that Xavier Blackwell might have very well served in the war with France. He would have only been in his early twenties. Her heart sped. She intended to check it out.
The white curtains by the window fluttered slightly.
Alex froze, because the windows were shut. Then she felt the cool air on her bare legs and she realized that the room was throughly air-conditioned. She laughed at herself. God, what a nitwit she was becoming.
But Alex did walk to the window in order to peer carefully outside. The street below was busy with pedestrians, whom she ignored. Her gaze settled on the quiet Common, vaguely illuminated with old-fashioned streetlights. And strayed beyond, towards Blackwell House. Of course, it was too far away for her to see.
Alex left the window, firmly telling herself to stop obsessing and get some sleep. She was staying in the Harkness Wing, which had been originally built in 1824. Blackwell had been dead by then, but Alex finally took in her surroundings, and was charmed by her small room with its real brick fireplace and the exposed beams on the ceilings. Her bed was a four-poster, possibly a reproduction, but like all of the furnishings, it was an echo of another, earlier time.
Alex decided to call it a night. She had lost her appetite—but she would have a big breakfast tomorrow. She shrugged out of her underwear and T-shirt and padded naked into the bathroom. Facing the mirror above the spotless white procelain sink, she studied herself a moment—she had dark circles under her eyes. When she had first arrived in New York City— and she was originally from Mystic, Connecticut—she had been approached by several modeling agencies even though she was only five foot six. She supposed that she was pretty enough, but she personally felt that her face was too angular and too different, although wherever she went she continually turned heads. In fact, most men her own age seemed to be afraid of her. Her best friend, Beth, who was average looking, was always dating. Alex hadn’t gone out with anyone since Todd.
In any case, she might have big green eyes, thick red hair, high cheekbones, and a full mouth, but she was no sexpot; that was a joke. She was twenty-three. If she hadn’t had an orgasm by now, she probably would never have one. The thought was distinctly depressing.
Alex finally left the bathroom and slipped beneath the sheets of the bed. Flicking off the lights, she stared into the darkness. Tomorrow she would return to Columbia. She would hit the library first thing. Excitement sent shivers up and down her spine. She just might research Blackwell’s entire life.
Alex rolled over, hugging her pillow. She had forgotten to bring her nightgown, and the cotton pillowcase was cool and slightly arousing to her breasts. Alex closed her eyes, wondering what it would be like to meet Blackwell if she had lived in an earlier time. She smiled, thinking about the first time they might lay eyes upon one another, perhaps at a ball at Blackwell House. He would be devastating in evening dress, she would be in some taffeta ball gown. He would see her and his eyes would widen, he would stare, and sparks would fly—just like in a romance novel.
Alex hugged the pillow harder. Her chest ached. She was being an idiot again. Her fantasy was more than foolish, it was pointless. She was never going to meet Blackwell. Not in the flesh, anyway.Never.He was a dead man, and she was very much alive.
But his image remained with her. And it was late now, the night surprisingly quiet, and Alex lay alone and nude in bed. Her body was young and female. She was aware of her thighs spooning one another.
She wished, fervently, that she were in Blackwell’s arms. Just once.
Alex gripped the pillow harder. Her eyes were closed now, tightly. The cotton pillowcase had distended her nipples.
Hearing her own breathing, which was growing harsh, aware of her racing heartbeat, Alex helplessly imagined Blackwell sliding his palm down her lean, bare back and over her firm, high buttocks. She imagined a butter-soft kiss on her jaw, her nape. He would caress the back of her thighs. Sweet, hot sensation swept through Alex, and she squeezed her thighs hard together. Had they been destined to meet, she knew he would want her far more desperately than anyone ever had, including Todd, who had claimed to love her, only to leave her for another woman.
Alex rolled over, eyes closed, trying to calm herself. But she could feel his fingertips stroking over the planes of her face, then over her shoulders and biceps. Ohmygod. Alex bit back a moan. Was it wrong to fantasize? This wasn’t the first time. And if she concentrated, it was so real.
Alex imagined him stroking her thighs, his palm rough and callused, then brushing her pubis, ever so gently. Alex gasped. She could feel him rubbing her flat belly and then he was touching her breasts. Her nipples had peaked painfully. Alex swallowed a moan. As if he were really touching her, rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger, she could hardly stand it. Alex had never touched herself, but she was almost ready to do so now.
She imagined him bending over her, sucking one tip deep into his mouth.
Laving it with his velvet-rough tongue.
And the touch she was desperate for, silently begging for, his hand, rough and hard, palming her sex.
Alex’s eyes flew open. For one instant she was so lost in fantasy that she had actually felt teeth upon her nipple, worse, a hand between her legs, possessively cupping her. In that instant, Blackwell loomed over her, his face contorted, his eyes blazing, his white shirt open to the waist, his hair swept back in a queue.
Their gazes met.
His blazingly hot.
Alex cried out, frantically reaching for the bedside light switch. The clock crashed to the floor. The lights above the bed blazed on. She scrambled against the headboard, the covers up to her chin, staring into the room.
It was empty.
Blackwell was gone.
But her heart was pounding so hard, she thought it would burst right through her chest, and she was wet and swollen and throbbing uncontrollably, Alex blinked many times.
She was alone.
