Ian McCullough is a man out of time. Really. Like literally. One minute, he's in 1891 working in London on a supposed time machine with a mad, old scientist, and, the next minute, he's 126 years into the future in an ocean-side mansion in Maine. The house and the fortune that comes with it are evidently his, all set up and waiting there for him when he arrives. But he has no idea how or why any of this came about, let alone what he’s supposed to do about it. Oh yeah, and no clue how the hell he's supposed to get back to his own time. His only ally is his friend, Robert, who unfortunately, died decades ago—not that that stops him from popping in to offer advice on Ian’s predicament. That's all Ian needs. A ghost for a confidant.
Genie Lindsay is an investment adviser who’s been hauled out of Manhattan to go all the way up to God-knows-where in Maine to meet a reclusive client. Like the man couldn't be bothered to get on a plane and come to New York where the civilized folks do their business? When she meets Ian, though, she's willing to cut him some slack. The man’s gorgeous. A little quirky and oddly sheltered, but gorgeous all the same. She's supposed to explain his finances to him, but she'd like to explain a few other things as well. When her “Girls Gone Wild” attempt at seduction falls curiously flat, she takes it a little personally. But as she gets to know Ian, she realizes he’s a man playing by a whole different set of rules—and a secret.
“I realize I must have sounded odd when you first came in. I apologize. Of course you may stay.”
“Great. Thanks.” She rose to find a glass in the cupboard beside the sink and help herself to some tap water, in the absence of an offer of anything stronger.
“It’s only that you appeared extremely young when I first espied you—”
Espied? She’d met a lot of British guys in the course of her job, and none of them had had such an odd way of phrasing things. She filled the glass with water and returned to the table.
“And I worried perhaps you hadn’t reached the age of majority.”
Choking on her first sip of water, she sputtered, “Excuse me?”
“How old are you?”
She was about to point out clients weren’t supposed to ask such things, but he blithely continued.
“I understand women routinely go to university now, and I suppose you must have, but were you a child prodigy or some such thing?”
“I’m thirty.”
Another frown. “I find that difficult to believe. Your skin is so….” He seemed to be searching for the word as he gestured towards her face.
He shouldn’t be talking about her skin either, but, clearly, this guy was not your run-of-the-mill client.
“I don’t use Botox if that’s what you’re implying,” she joked, trying to get the conversation on a more even keel.
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