Free The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance by Trisha Telep Page B

his fingers flexed over his gun. “Yeah. Bum’s not worth the paperwork.” The pair turned, and the heels of their heavy black shoes clomped on the concrete path as they left. He should let them go. Couldn’t.
    “Hey, John Wayne,” Jake yelled after the cop. “Who you calling a fruitcake? You take orders from a broad.”
    The cop spun and charged, club raised.
    The female started after her partner, but Jake was quicker. He ducked the club and dived for the cop’s legs, taking him down in a
    tackle on to the damp grass at the side of the pavement. The club came down on his back. More bruises, but who gave a shit. They’d be gone in the morning. Always were.
    “Freeze,” the female yelled.
    Hearing the click of her gun’s safety, he wondered whether the command had been directed at him or her partner. Didn’t matter.
    Jake let the male cop flip him on to his face and pin him to the grass. No point in resisting the cuffs, either. At least in jail he’d have a fighting chance of being fed.
    At least jail was something to do.
    Kara studied the homeless guy they’d picked up in Central Park, now sitting in the metal chair beside the desk she shared with three other street-patrol officers. Sending Tony home to breakfast and his wife had been a good move – their opposing philosophies on anti-loitering by-law enforcement was a nightly source of conflict. All bets said she’d saved her partner another excessive force charge.
    The man pulled a clean-looking white handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “Mind if I wipe this artwork off my face?”
    Without waiting for her answer, he traced the flower petals and swiped down the stem with freakish accuracy, and then moved on to the teardrops, hitting those with precision, too. Even without a mirror, he knew exactly where to rub. Finished, he balled up the blue-stained handkerchief and tossed it into a trash can about five feet away.
    “Don’t you want that?” she asked.
    “Nah, it’ll find me.” He grinned and her heart skipped a beat.
    The man was oddly familiar – she must’ve seen him loitering in the park before – but something didn’t add up. His sandy hair, curling loosely around his sideburned face, looked clean – too clean for a man who made a habit of sleeping on park benches, and the golden stubble on his strong jaw and upper lip looked like he’d had a proper shave in the past twenty-four hours.
    His clothes insinuated a thrift-store pedigree, but even there, something was off. Although his brown-and-beige plaid suit and mustard-coloured shirt were rumpled, they looked clean and, except for the retro style, new. Plus, he didn’t have the obvious reek and grime of a man who lived on the streets. In fact, when she’d removed the cuffs, he’d smelled good – hints of fresh, citrus tones, under healthy sweat. But what was with that hippy stuff he’d just wiped from his face?
    Time to stop wondering and start asking. “Name?”
    He glanced up, his piercing eyes the colour of an angry ocean. “Jacob Reddick.”
    Her breath hitched. “It’s you, isn’t it? I know you.”
    “Believe me, honey.” He barked out a sharp laugh. “Not a chance in hell.”
    He was right. It wasn’t possible. Like an eyewitness, thinking she recognized a mugshot on her third viewing, Kara was falling prey to mistaken identity syndrome. After all those years of searching for her mystery man, imagining him everywhere, and recreating his face in her dreams, her memory was muddled. Faulty synapses crossing a face from her past with this man’s.
    Best to get this done and head home for a glass of wine – breakfast of night-shift champions. “Address?”
    “Honey, you’ve already been to visit. South side of the lake, near the terrace, Central Park, NY, NY.”
    She rolled her eyes and wrote: “no fixed address”. “Date of birth?”
    “April 17—” He paused. “What year is this?” His mouth twitched to the side.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Year.” He leaned back.