What in the world was she thinking? Annabel asked herself. Twenty-four hours ago, you were shooting down that new guy in your building before he even got around to asking you out. Now you're practically panting over this perfect stranger.
This was different, Annabel tried to tell herself as she continued the inner debate. This was truly a different time, a different place. Levelheaded Annabel Lowell, who only indulged her daredevil side in her work, could afford to take some chances here. After all, none of this was permanent. Sooner or later, she would return to her own time. Surely she would.
"Careful here," Cole said as he turned to the left. "The steps get pretty slippery."
Annabel saw a set of steep, narrow wooden steps leading up the side of the hill into the darkness. There was a handrail, but only along one side of the steps. Cole switched places with her so that she would be on the side with the railing as they climbed the steps.
These steps were vaguely familiar to her, Annabel realized, just as many things here in 1906 San Francisco had struck a chord of memory within her. She thought the steps were probably still there in her own time, though the surroundings would be considerably different. They weren't really far from her home in North Beach; Columbus Avenue was just a few blocks down the other side of the hill.
As she looked around during the climb, however, she didn't see the brilliantly lit skyline of San Francisco that was so familiar to her, or the lights of the Bay Bridge, or Oakland's sprawl of fluorescence across the water. A lot of the lights in this era were fueled by gas, and the electric ones that were already in use were rather primitive. Their illumination didn't penetrate the murk of the fog like the neon and sodium lights from her time. So the glows that she saw floating in the darkness were softer to start with and were softened even more by the moisture in the air.
The lights were gorgeous, she realized, warm yellow reminders of a quieter, gentler time.
Somewhere out on the bay, the blast of a foghorn rolled out, sounding for all the world like the plaintive cry of some gigantic prehistoric beast wandering the night calling for its lost mate. Such sounds could still be heard in the San Francisco Annabel knew, but they had to be filtered out from the steady background rumble of traffic and the whining roar of airplanes taking off and landing at San Francisco International Airport.
There were three landings before the steps reached a lane that extended a couple of blocks in each direction. "You live up here?" Annabel asked as they finally reached the top of the steps.
"That's right," Cole said. The lane was lined with elegant, relatively small mansions. He turned right and led her toward one of them. In the darkness, she couldn't tell much about it other than the fact that it was three stories tall and had several gables and cupolas adorning it. A tall, wrought-iron fence with a gate divided the sidewalk from the small, terraced front yard. Annabel found herself looking forward to seeing the place in the daylight.
He pointed to the east as he stopped in front of the gate. "The lane runs in switchbacks down to Taylor Street at that end so wagons can get up here. But I thought you might enjoy taking the stairs."
"I did," Annabel said. "I imagine the view is magnificent during the day."
"It certainly is. There's an excellent view of the bay and Alcatraz and Angel Island."
Was Alcatraz already being used as a prison in 1906? Annabel wondered. Just another bit of history that she couldn't quite recall.
"Well," Cole continued after a slightly awkward pause, "I suppose I'd better take you in and show you around, so you can get settled for the night."
He opened the gate and led her up the walk to the house. Only one light seemed to be burning inside, and Annabel remembered that Cole was supposed to be on duty at the station of Engine Company Twenty-one right now.
"Do you have servants?" she asked.
"Just a cook and a housekeeper, and they've gone home for the day by now. I'm afraid we'll be here unchaperoned, but it won't be for long."
"I'm not worried. You're a gentleman, aren't you, Mr. Brady?" she teased.
"I . . . try to be."
There was just enough roughness in his voice to excite her. Annabel sensed that if she gave him enough encouragement, he might throw caution to the winds.
Forget it, she told herself sternly. She had gone through too much in the past twenty-four hours, experienced too many shocks, to even be considering something as . . . as unlike herself as trying to seduce Cole Brady. Being a little reckless and flirtatious was one thing; completely losing her mind was another.
But there was every possibility that she would wake up in the morning and discover that the whole thing had been a dream. So what harm could a little romp do?