Kiss Across Chaos Read online

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “Arlington is that way.”

  “I’m making a quick stop, first. It won’t take long. Not here, anyway.”

  He turned off the main road into a narrow side street and drove beneath bare trees dusted with snow. Houses with Christmas lights rolled past, then he turned into the parking lot for a strip mall, slotted the Mercedes into a bay and switched off the engine.

  “What’s here?” Jesse asked.

  “Here? Nothing.” He pocketed the keys, then leaned over the console and slid his arm under hers. “Relax,” he breathed, as she reared back. He pulled her back against him.

  As she registered the heat of him and the solidness, she felt the peculiar breath-robbing side-swipe of a jump and the blank mindless moment of transition.

  He’d actually jumped from inside a car.

  She blinked, looking around, as Aran let her go. She was on her feet now, and they were standing in a narrow alley formed by two buildings sitting barely four feet apart. It was cold here, too. Somewhere in the northern hemisphere, then. But the cold was different from the crisp, snowing sharpness of the air in Washington. More humid. Softer.

  Aran dug gloves out of his coat pockets. “I need a real croissant and coffee,” he told her. “Come on.”

  That told her where they were.

  Paris. France.

  Her pack was back in the car. In Washington. On the other side of the Atlantic from here. So she shrugged and followed Aran out of the alley and into the street beyond.

  She had visited Paris as a Marine, once or twice, but not to the Left Bank. This was the Latin Quarter, rich with literary and artistic history and she tried not to stare about like a tourist as Aran moved down the sidewalk.

  He didn’t have to go far. The patisserie was only a few yards away from the lane and Jesse knew, suddenly, that he used the lane for his arrival chamber because of its proximity to the bakery. He used it a lot.

  Abruptly, she recalled the coffee and croissants he had brought with him the very first time he had shuttled her from one housesitting location to the next. That had been in San Francisco. He’d told he’d bought the croissants in Paris, only a few minutes before.

  Jesse guessed that this was the bakery where he had bought them.

  He pushed open the door, which jiggled a cheerful bell and held it for Jesse to step through. The man in a white apron behind the counter perked up when he saw Aran. “Monsieur Aran!” He broke into fast French.

  The rich smell of something hearty cooking in a broth was all she could detect. It made her mouth water.

  Aran let the door shut and moved over to the counter, replying in the same machine gun fast French. He lifted his hand toward Jesse, and she heard her name among the French.

  “This is Bertrand,” he added, to her.

  “Bonjour, Bertrand,” she said, and winced. She was not good at any language but English.

  Bertrand was not a typical Parisian. He didn’t react to her abominable accent. He just smiled at her. “It is a cold day, no? A good day for soup with your bread.”

  “And coffee,” she said, her belly rumbling. “It sounds wonderful.”

  “Then soup, too. Merci, Bertrand,” Aran replied.

  “Sit, sit. I will bring.” Bertrand hurried into the back room.

  Aran moved over to the single table next to the window. The sun pooled around it.

  Jesse pulled her phone out of her pocket as she sat in the other chair.

  “Same timeline, but I brought us back to noon here, too,” Aran said softly.

  She put her phone away with a grimace. “I thought it should have been the middle of the night or something, here. ‘kay, then.”

  Bertrand hurried out with a long plate loaded with four croissants, a pot of coffee in the other hand. He put both on the table, then delved into the pocket of his apron and produced two coffee mugs, which he put on the table with a flourish. “The soup, she come.” He winked and hurried away.

  They both reached for a croissant. Jesse tore off the end of the crescent and ate hungrily.

  Soft white bread with the hint of oil, a touch of salt. Nothing else. Vive la gluten. It was perfect. She gobbled another enormous bite and sat back with a sigh.

  Aran laughed and bit into his.

  Jesse realized she was grinning, too. “A long way to go for a good croissant.”

  “But worth it.”

  “Oh yes.” She ate more, while Aran poured the coffee.

  Bertrand returned with a tray bearing two bowls of steaming soup. The rich smell of onions and garlic drifted over them as he put the bowls in front of them, and spoons wrapped in fabric napkins.

  “It smells wonderful,” she breathed, sniffing deeply.

  Bertrand beamed and went away.

  The soup lived up to the promise made by the aroma. It was delicious. She ate quickly but paused when she realized that Aran was watching her. “What?” she said, the spoon in mid air.

  He shook his head. “I’d forgotten that about you.”

  She lowered the spoon. “That I eat?”

  “That you often forget to eat.” He ate a mouthful himself. “As good as usual,” he murmured, and took another.

  Jesse made herself finish the bowl of soup, even though she was no longer hungry. Her stomach was tight, her heart thudding. “Why are we here?” she asked him.

  “For the croissants.”

  She looked at him steadily.

  Aran smiled. It made his eyes dance. “Your pauper state offends me. I’m fattening you up.”

  “That’s better.” She reached for another croissant, sat back and tore the end off it. “I’m not a pauper.”

  “You’re not being smart with your money,” Aran shot back. He didn’t look around, but she could almost feel him sizing up the little bakery, checking for eavesdroppers. “Given the natural advantages at your disposal, you should be rolling in money, Jesse. Why aren’t you?”

  “What does that mean?” She was genuinely puzzled.

  “You can access the timescape. Why haven’t you?” His voice was even lower.

  Jesse could feel her jaw dropping open. She leaned forward, too. “You mean, use time, somehow?” She was appalled, astonished and intrigued all at the same time.

  “Use the unique opportunity it provides,” Aran replied. “It kicks us in the ass all the time. Why not use it for payback? Literally.”

  Her mouth opened even further. If Veris could hear this conversation, he would be throwing off thunder and lightning right now.

  “I’m not a jumper,” she pointed out.

  “A technicality that means less than zero. You know three of us who are, who would drop everything to take you anywhere you want to go.”

  Marit, Alannah…and Aran. Were all three of them…god, what? Milking time for revenue? She found herself staring at Aran. All Veris’ and Brody’s, even Alex’s lectures about the dangers of screwing with time circling in her head. “The dangers,” she whispered.

  His eyes narrowed. “And you could get run over by a bus tomorrow.”

  She put the croissant down, unable to finish it. “I look both ways before I cross,” she said tartly. “You should, too.”

  “You’re the last person to lecture me about being cautious,” Aran said. “You took on four Jihadists single-handed.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. It was them or me.”

  “You and everyone in England who would have died if you didn’t tackle them.” He grimaced. “Bad example,” he admitted. “But hell, Jesse, you’ve paid your dues. Time fucked up your life and dictated how it would go whether you liked it or not. Why not squeeze what benefit you can out of it?”

  “Is that what you think it did to me? Fucked up my life?”

  Aran’s gaze met hers. “You and me, both,” he said softly. “I didn’t have any choice, either.”

  The question just popped out. “Is that why you stay away from everyone?”

  He sat back, as if she had
slapped him. He opened his mouth, as if he was about to protest, or refute her. Then he shut it and looked at his watch once more. “I’ve got a meeting on the Hill in forty minutes.”

  As Jesse wasn’t sure why she had baited him like that, she let him change the subject. “We should get back then. You can’t…you adjusted the time when we came back here. You can’t do that going back?”

  He shook his head. “It would cause an unnecessary loop. Loops are frequently deadly. I go back to the moment after I left whenever I can.”

  She got to her feet, while Aran went and paid for the meal. While she waited, she ate the last half of the croissant. They were so good…

  They stepped out of the store, into the more forgiving Parisian winter air and moved up the street toward the alley.

  “I’m sorry,” Jesse said inadequately. “How you deal with your family is none of my business.”

  “Damn it, Jesse!” he shot back, halting right there on the path. “You have as much right to question me as my fathers do! When are you going to get that through your stubborn brain?”

  She blinked at him. “Is that why you stayed away from me, too?”

  “No,” he said shortly, then rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, no, I didn’t stay away. And that’s not what I mean, either. Fuck! I’m supposed to be eloquent!” He took her arm and steered her into the alley and far deep inside it, where they would not be visible to passers-by.

  Aran glanced over his shoulder, then looked at her. “The house you’re sitting. You’ve set up your laptop on the dining table?”

  That was what she usually did. She nodded.

  “Not the chair at the end. Just around the corner from it. Did you leave the laptop running?”

  She opened her mouth. “Wow, am I that predictable?”

  Aran’s smile was very small. “To me, yes.” He leaned forward, wrapped his arms around her and jumped, stealing her breath with surprise.

  She was still without breath when the elegant dining room formed around them. The table was right next to her.

  Jesse gripped the thick lapels of his coat to steady herself. “You…you did that without me guiding you!”

  Aran’s smile was still small. “You were thinking about the laptop. That was all I needed.”

  She considered him. “You’re very good at this now, aren’t you?”

  Aran pursed his lips, weighing his answer. It made the thick bottom lip jut in an interesting way. “London once hinted that Neven jumped her to when the pyramids were being built, based on nothing but a picture in a book.”

  Jesse drew in a sharp breath, shocked.

  Aran’s smile grew. “You have spent far too much time listening to my fathers rail on about the dangers of time travel. And to answer your question, I am good at this. Not as good as Neven must have been, but I do okay.”

  She thought of the way he had jumped from the interior of the car. “You’re going to jump back into the car, too, aren’t you?”

  His voice dropped. “When you let go of me, I will.”

  Jesse let go of him, startled to realize that she was still gripping his lapels. She stepped back.

  Aran dug in his pocket. “Oh, and here.” He pulled out a white paper bag and held it out to her. Oil spots darkened the paper.

  She took it, delighted. “More croissants!”

  Aran shook his head. “I’ve created a monster.”

  Jesse held the bag to her chest. “Thank you,” she breathed.

  “Any time.” He paused. “I mean that, Jesse.”

  “At least one more time,” she replied. “You have my backpack, still.”

  And this time, when her gaze collided with his, it felt comfortable.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” Aran said.

  She nodded. “Me, too. Even if you do annoy me every thirty seconds.”

  Aran shifted his feet. He was about to jump. “You need more people ruffling your feathers, Jesse. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to live on the edge.”

  Before she could protest that she liked her life, just as it was, he was gone, with just the snap and ruffle of his coat lingering in her mind.

  Chapter Four

  Aran made his Capitol Hill meeting with only a minute to spare and was out of sorts and couldn’t concentrate while the house representative broke down the constituent profile in his district and why they would always vote Democrat.

  He should have jumped to the washroom here in the bowels of the building and gone back for the car later. Why had he risked pissing off a senior member by jumping straight back to the car?

  Because there had been admiration in her voice when she guessed you were going to do that. The soft whisper was his voice, cynical and sour.

  He hadn’t seen Jesse for years, but the last time he’d seen her felt like it was just yesterday. She could rile up his anger with a single sentence. With most sentences she said, in fact. Then she would say something in that soft voice she sometimes used, and he would make the mistake of looking into her eyes and getting lost there.

  He hadn’t lied about being glad to see her, but damn time to hell…nothing had changed. She still made him feel like a teenager. It was the air of old wisdom that oozed from her. The remote sense of independence that told him she needed no one but herself.

  Aran pulled his thoughts together to finish off the meeting with a promise to the representative get some proper research going, and an outline for a campaign to push his wage ceiling bill through the House.

  He went back to the office and finished the afternoon early. Before he went home, he jumped back to Paris, arriving as the fresh croissants came out of the oven, bought two of them and a cup of Bertrand’s excellent coffee, then timed his jump to arrive next to Jesse’s laptop tomorrow morning around seven and left them there, along with her backpack.

  Then he jumped back to the apartment in Georgetown where everyone thought he lived, then home.

  He was throbbing with tiredness. He’d done a lot of jumping today—more than he’d travelled in the last month. Longer than that, really. His Washington life had taken over a minute at a time, until all his energy and hours in a day were filled with the jostling and coaxing that was his life as a lobbyist.

  Jesse had forcibly reminded him of this buried side of his nature. He supposed that was a good thing.

  As it was close to midnight here, he had no trouble falling into bed and sleeping under the eiderdown until the dawn chorus echoed through the leadlight above his bed along with the first pearly grey strands of dawn.

  It was still pre-dawn, Washington time, which gave him time to properly prepare and have a leisurely breakfast before heading into the office. Everyone at Abel & Toloni were constantly amazed by his ability to crank out paperwork and still make all his meetings, but the secret to his productivity was to arrive at the office before anyone else was there to shoot the breeze and waste his time.

  He jumped back to Georgetown and drove over to G Street. The office was deserted as usual…almost, at least. A Post-It was stuck to his computer monitor.

  Come see me when you get in.—H.

  Harold Mann was the major partner of Abel & Toloni. He’d earned his political laurels during the Reagan era and the crumbling of the Soviet Union. Aran could never tell him so, but he had gone back to watch Harold at work on Capitol Hill, talking fast, running favors and building the reputation of the consulting firm he’d just started. He’d been full of energy and drive. He’d also had a full head of hair.

  Aran dropped his coat over the back of the chair and went to Harold’s office.

  Harold’s bald head gleamed in the overhead pot lights when he looked up from the tablet he was reading. Harold didn’t smile at him.

  Aran held back his own cheerful greeting and said instead, “What’s happened?”

  “You tell me, Gallagher.” Harold spun the tablet around and pushed it toward Aran.

  Aran picked it up. The screen showed a page from the Washington Post website, and t
he logline was midnight last night. One of the early morning posts they liked to dump on unsuspecting politicians, to ruin their breakfasts.

  The Surprising Weaknesses and Strengths of Anthony Reenberg’s Re-Election Platform.

  The swoop and drop of Aran’s middle was exactly the same as he’d have got from a rollercoaster when it hit the bottom of the dip. He didn’t need to read any more. The headline said it all.

  Harold was watching him closely. He nodded. “Glad to see you’re surprised, Gallagher. Means you didn’t know about this.”

  “Of course not!” Aran replied. His hand was shaking. He put the tablet back on Harold’s desk, just barely managing not to drop it. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “The post outlines the entire campaign you drafted,” Harold said. “It quotes ‘a House insider’.”

  “Only, no one in the House except Reenberg has seen the white paper,” Aran said, the sickness settling deeper into his bones.

  “And me, as I signed off on it,” Harold said. He sat back and put his hands over his corpulent belly. “If this has sandbagged you, and clearly it has, then I have to ask who the fuck this K.F. is on the byline.” He peered up at Aran. “You’ve been dipping your wick in the wrong ink, Gallagher.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Aran glanced at the tablet once more. The initial under the headline seemed to glow. K.F.

  The bastard hadn’t even tried to hide. His ego was too large to use a completely fake name. He had to keep his initials there, at least. Just so Aran made no mistake about who had done this to him.

  He’d have known who it was without the initials, anyway. There was only one person who’d had access to his laptop in the last month, who could have accessed the company’s cloud server.

  “You know I can’t keep you here, after this, right?” Harold said.

  Aran rested his fingertips on the edge of the desk, orienting himself as dizziness touched him. “No, I guess you can’t.” His voice was hoarse.

  “You’re damn good at your job, but it would set a bad example,” Harold went on. “I can’t have all the freshman thinking it’s okay to make a mistake this bad, that I’ll just let it go. You can see that, right?”