She straightened so quickly that she rapped her head on the mantel. Swearing and rubbing her head, she turned to him. “Not necessarily. In fact it’s very unlikely.”

He took the screen and placed it in front of the fire, exactly as he had seen her do earlier. “Why?”

“Because . . .” Flustered, she fumbled for words for a moment. “I don’t do that kind of thing.”

She recognized genuine astonishment when she saw it. It was staring at her now out of Cal’s dark blue eyes. “At all?”

“Really, Hornblower, that’s none of your business.” Dignity helped, but not a great deal. As she swept up the tray, the bowls slid dangerously, and they would have crashed to the floor if he hadn’t caught the end of the tray and balanced it.

“Why are you angry? I only want to make love with you.”

“Listen.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve had enough of all this. I did you a favor, and I don’t appreciate you insinuating that I should hop into bed with you just because you’ve—you’ve got an itch. I don’t find it flattering—in fact, I find it very insulting—that you think I’d make love with a perfect stranger just because it’s convenient.”

He tilted his head, trying to take it all in. “Is inconvenient better?”

She could only grit her teeth. “Listen, Hornblower, I’ll drop you off at the nearest singles bar the minute we can get out of here. Until then, keep your distance.”

With that, she stormed out of the room. He could hear the dishes crash in the kitchen.

He dug his hands in his pockets again as he started upstairs. Twentieth-century women were very difficult to understand. Fascinating, he admitted, but difficult.

And what in the hell was a singles bar?

Chapter 3

He felt almost normal in the morning. Normal, Cal thought, if you considered he hadn’t even been born yet. It was a bizarre situation, highly improbable according to most of the current scientific theories, and deep down he clung to the faint hope that he was having some kind of long, involved dream.

If he was lucky, he was in a hospital suffering from shock and a little brain damage. But from the looks of things he’d been snapped back over two centuries into the primitive, often violent twentieth century.

The last thing he could remember before waking up on Libby’s couch was flying his ship. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. He’d been fighting to fly his ship. Something had happened. . . . He couldn’t quite bring that into focus yet. Whatever it had been, it had been big.

His name was Caleb Hornblower. He’d been born in the year 2222. That made two his lucky number, he remembered with a half laugh. He was thirty, unmatched, the older of two sons, and a former member of the International Space Force. He’d been a captain, and for the last eighteen months he’d been an independent. He’d made a routine supply delivery to the Brigston Colony on Mars and had veered off from his normal route on the return trip home because of a meteor shower. Then it had happened. Whatever it was.