The overpowering odors of ink and tobacco assailed Nick's nostrils, stirring him to awareness. Mumbling voices and the rapid metallic clicking brought him alert, and he struggled to focus on the sounds. His head throbbed with such pressure he was sure his eyeballs would burst from their sockets. What had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was...

Suddenly, the memories assailed him. Abby. The necklace. The woman he loved was gone.

With a groan, Nick grabbed his head and rolled onto his side, curling into a fetal position. He wanted to scream to all who would listen, to ask them to help him find Abby. How could he live without her?

Voices outside the room grew louder as did the heavy footsteps. The ground shook from the person's steps and sounded as if they stopped near his head.

Nick forced his eyes open, but his vision was unclear. After blinking several times, he could finally recognize his surroundings. His desk looked different. He blinked again. This was not the expensive furniture he'd purchased a few months previously. He glanced across the room to the window. This was not the window he'd been looking out the past several weeks, either.

He scrambled to a sitting position and realized he'd been lying by the door. He held his head to keep it from exploding, and his body ached from the effort. A vintage chair sat behind his desk, with three more in front. The light fixtures, curtains, and the throw rugs were also an outdated style.

Slowly, Nick stood, bracing his hand on the nearest wall until the room stopped spinning. The office door was closed, but through the frosted glass, he could see two people standing just on the other side. Carefully, he made his way across the room and approached the outside window. Parting the curtains he blinked as he looked out onto the street. Turn-of-the-century cars puttered along the road in front of the building. Men in brown suits, with stiff, white collars up to their chins with thick neck-ties, and wearing ridiculous hats on their heads, strolled down the walkway. Large, colorful feathers decorated the women's hats, matching their long, fitted dresses. Each woman carried a parasol. They looked much like Abby had the day Nick met her.

He inhaled sharply and jumped away from the window. Either he was dreaming or hallucinating. Perhaps he was so devastated from losing Abby that he imagined himself back in her time. Or...had he gone back in time?

Nick chuckled. Time travel? Right. Only in movies did that ever happen, and he'd kissed Hollywood goodbye long ago. Yet everything seemed so real. The smell of the ink, the metallic clicking outside his office, the people on the sidewalks, and the cars on the street. He was in Abby's world!

I must be dreaming. Nick pinched his hand as hard as he could. Pain shot up his arm. Okay, I'm definitely not dreaming.

He lifted the window and poked his head out to get a better look. The buildings he was used to seeing every day when he drove to work were no longer there. The gas station across the street where he fueled up was gone. The mini-mall on the corner—not there anymore. Instead other buildings stood on the lots...much cleaner and decorative buildings, in fact.

This was certainly not the set of a historical movie. He pulled himself back inside and jerked the curtains closed. He didn't believe in time travel. Then again, he'd never believed in ghosts until Abby showed up in his office.

On his way back toward the door, he noticed on the desk was a newspaper lying on top. He glanced at the date. 1912! Abby's time! His heart beat faster. He had suspected, but now it was confirmed. But why was he here?

He looked at the paper again as if he could find the answer to his question printed there. A black-and-white picture on the front page captured his attention, along with the headline "All Passengers on Titanic Rescued." With a sharp laugh, he picked up the paper and read about the iceberg, the unsinkable ship, and how all the passengers were rescued by the Carpathia. Nick shook his head. Whoever wrote this article must have been disillusioned, or at least received incorrect information.

The door to the office opened and a man walked in. A brown wool cap was perched on his head, and his shirt had long, baggy sleeves. Black ink stains covered his hands. The man looked at Nick from head to toe then back again, and he appeared to stifle a laugh.

It upset Nick to think the other man was laughing at him when this man was funnier looking than Nick.

"Sir? What are you doing in here?" the man asked.

Nick rolled his eyes and held up the newspaper. "What kind of gag is this?"

The man's forehead creased. "Gag, sir?"

"Yes. This article is full of lies. The Carpathia didn't rescue all of the passengers on the Titanic. The Carpathia was too late. Over fifteen hundred of the Titanic passengers died."

The man scowled, marched toward Nick, and yanked the paper out of his hands. "I don't know what you are talking about, sir. This information came right from the Carpathia."

"Then your informant must have been into his cups, because I assure you, over fifteen hundred people became shark food or human icebergs themselves."

"Who are you and what do you want?" the stranger demanded.

"I'm Nick Marshal." He paused before answering the second part of the question. He had no idea how to answer. Oh yeah, I'm here to find my ghost girlfriend, but hopefully she's not a ghost any longer.

"Well, Mr. Marshal, I assume since you're in Mr. Westland's office, you're waiting for him. But he's not here, which is what the secretary should have told you when you walked in the door downstairs."

Westland? Nick arched an eyebrow. As in Harry Westland? "Nobody told me Mr. Westland wasn't here," Nick said, going along with the other man.

"He's at the funeral, which is where a lot of the staff of the newspaper are today."

Nick's heart plummeted. Funeral? He grabbed the paper away from the man and read the full date. April 16, 1912. It wasn't Abby's funeral. He blew out a sigh and set the paper back on the desk.

"Whose funeral, may I ask?"

The other man's eyebrows lifted. "Edward Carlisle, of course. Where have you been lately? The whole city is in shock."

Nick ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. Her father had died first, and she'd died exactly two weeks later. "Please accept my apologies and my sympathy. Do you happen to know where the service is being held?"

"It's a graveside service." The man glanced at the clock on the wall. "It started fifteen minutes ago."

Muttering his apologies again, Nick rushed out of the office. A few people stood by the elevator, which didn't look anything like the one he remembered, so he turned and fled down the stairs. Once he exited the building he stopped. Was the cemetery still in the same spot as it had been in his time? And if it was, how would he get to there? He didn't have a car, and it was too far to walk.

He glanced at the few cars parked nearby. A woman who looked to be in her mid-forties had just opened the door to her car and climbed in. Nick hurried to her, hoping he could charm her into a ride. When she looked at him, a soft smile touched her eyes.

"Hello," he greeted.

Her gaze skimmed over his clothes before her mouth stretched into a grin. "Good afternoon."

"I hope you can help me. I desperately need a ride to the cemetery. Edward Carlisle's funeral is today, and I really need to be there."

She nodded and motioned her hand to the passenger's side. "I would love to help you. That's on my way, so it's no problem at all."

"Thank you, ma'am. You've made my day." Nick was surprised at how kind and generous she was; he wouldn't have thought to ask someone for a ride in his day.

After what seemed like forever—because Nick was sure the woman took the scenic route through the city—the woman pulled the car into the cemetery. He was glad to know the cemetery hadn't been moved in over a century. Thanking her for the ride, he quickly climbed out of her car. Even from where he stood at the bottom of a hill, it was evident Edward Carlisle had many friends. A large crowd had gathered around his grave.

Nick hurried up the hill. Would Abby remember him? He chuckled to himself. Of course she wouldn't.

Slowing his step, he pondered over how he was going to introduce himself to her. What could he say that would make her want to trust him? No way could he tell her she was going to die in two weeks. If he had his way, that part of history would not be repeated.

He scanned the mourners who huddled closest to the gravesite. When he noticed her, his throat choked and his chest tightened seeing her look so forlorn...yet his heartbeat hammered quickly, knowing that he could actually see her. Alive!

Abby sat beside the casket garbed all in black. Though a thin veil hid most of her face, the sadness emanating from her expression broke his heart. A white handkerchief contrasted vividly with the black-gloved hand clutching it. She sat with her shoulders slumped, staring at the casket, which was draped in a colorful array of flowers.

She's real! Finally, Nick would get to talk to her, hold her, and kiss her like a real person, not a ghost. His heart raced at the thought. It would be hard to keep from touching her just to make sure she was indeed real and not a dream, but he must. He couldn't have her thinking he was a crazy person.

He recalled Abby explaining how she'd felt after her father's death—numb, helpless, lost, and confused. His arms ached to hold her, to comfort her, yet he couldn't do that if she didn't know him.

Standing behind Abby with his hand on her shoulder was a man with sandy brown hair and a long mustache. He looked to be in his early forties. Nick clenched his fists. This wasn't Alexander, her uncle, because Nick had seen her uncle's picture on the Internet.

He searched the faces of the others standing near the casket. Opposite from Abby stood a man, a woman, and a teenage boy.

Nick nodded. There were his suspects: Alexander, his wife Julie, and their son Anthony.

Nick switched his attention to Abby again. So who is the guy consoling her?

The crowd broke up, and Nick waited while people spoke with Abby and the man by her side. Nick wanted to say something, anything to make eye contact with her. Again realization hit him—she wouldn't remember at all. Somehow he needed to gain her trust and become her friend, and he must not scare her away by mentioning their future relationship.

The darkly clad mourners filed past Abby, paying their respects. She nodded but didn't speak much. When Nick stepped beside her, he hesitantly took her hand. She felt different this time—more real, warmer—and he didn't want to let go. Sad eyes met his gaze through the black netting. He wished he could lift it and see her beautiful face. He stooped slightly and peered at her through the veil. Her eyes widened in alarm, but she didn't pull her hand away.

"Abb...um, Miss Carlisle, I'm very sorry for your loss. If there is anything I can do, please don't hesitate to ask."

She nodded. "Thank you, sir."

"My name is Nick Marshal."

She nodded again, staring at him. "Do—do I know you?"

He wanted to tell her exactly how well they did know each other, that he could describe the small white scar behind her left ear he'd found while kissing her the other day; the way she arched only one eyebrow when she joked with him, and the way her eyes glittered like stars right after he'd kissed her, but she would never believe him. It wouldn't do to have her thinking he was loony.

"Not yet," Nick responded.

Again her eyes widened. How he longed for even a glimmer of recognition.

"Did you know my father?"

"Not personally, which I deeply regret. I heard he was a wonderful man."

A tear slipped down Abby's cheek and her lips quivered. Instinct told him to take her in his arms, but he managed to hold himself at bay. He was sure as soon as his arms went around her shoulders, the bulldog standing behind her would put a quick stop to it.

"Thank you, Mr. Marshal. My father was wonderful." She glanced up at the man beside her. "Mr. Marshal? Do you know my father's best friend, Harry Westland?"

Nick frowned. Here was the man who had proposed to Abby a day before she was killed...and the idiot who'd married Cassandra.

Nick rose to his full height and shook Harry's hand. Nick took pleasure in standing several inches taller than the rival suitor. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Westland."

Harry's gaze narrowed, his lips thinned in obvious distrust. "So, Mr. Marshal, how did you know Edward Carlisle?"

"Like I said, I didn't know him personally, but a dear friend of mine told me all about him." He looked directly at Abby as he spoke, before winking at her. He bent to her ear and whispered, "I believe your grandmother has spoken of me."

When he pulled away, Abby stared at him as if she'd seen a ghost. Her eyes were wide and her face looked as if she'd lost color. Did she suspect he was the man with initials N.M. that her grandmother had told her about? If she didn't, he'd help her along. He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief out of his breast pocket and handed it to her, his initials in clear view. "Please, Miss Carlisle, I insist that you take this."

She nodded slowly as she took it from him. Her gaze fell to his initials and her mouth hung agape. This time when she met his gaze, a spark of curiosity glowed behind the tears.

People behind him in line shifted restlessly, so he lifted Abby's hand to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. "Once again, please know my thoughts are with you and your family at this difficult time."

He kept his gaze on her as he walked away. She watched him until he was out of sight. Hopefully, he'd manage to talk to her again soon, and this time she wouldn't be afraid of him.

The gravesite wasn't as crowded now, and he had a chance to look around the cemetery, but every so often, he'd glance back at Abby as she listened to another person offering condolences. Frequently her gaze drifted toward Nick and he smiled, knowing he'd caught her interest.

He turned back to look at the casket. Not as elaborate as the ones in his day, but still quite fancy. Abby's father would have wanted the best.

A tap on Nick's shoulder broke his focus on Abby, and he turned around to see who was there. He came face to face with Harry Westland. The man's sneer warned Nick to be on guard.

"Mr. Marshal, can I ask you a question?"

Nick folded his arms across his chest. "Sure, shoot."

The man's eyebrow lifted. "Shoot?"'

Mentally, Nick kicked himself for using a modern figure of speech. "I mean, please proceed with your question."

"If you don't know Edward Carlisle, why did you come to his funeral?"

It was a good question. Now, could Nick answer it without making himself sound like a fool? "Because I felt I should." Well, that wasn't exactly far from the truth.

"You've never met Miss Carlisle or her father, yet you come here and offer your condolences?"

"Yes. Why? Is that a crime?"

The man folded his arms, mimicking Nick. "No, it's not a crime, but what I'm wondering is your real purpose here."

"What exactly are you wondering, Mr. Westland?"

Harry lifted his chin. "Is the sole purpose of your visit to woo Miss Carlisle? After all, she is an heiress now. Everyone knows that. I've met many men within the past few days that are coming forth to meet Miss Carlisle, claiming to be her friend."

"I'm not claiming to be her friend, Mr. Westland." Nick gritted his teeth. "I am her friend, or I will be if she allows it."

Scowling viciously, Harry scrutinized Nick. Maybe he should have found clothes that fit the era before venturing out to find Abby. Too late now.

"Where are you from, Mr. Marshal?"

"I live here in California."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a lawyer." He probably shouldn't have said that, since he had no license to practice law in 1912.

"A lawyer?"

"You heard me right, Mr. Westland. Now, if you'd kindly move aside, I'd like to end this conversation and leave."

Nick stepped around Harry, but the obstinate man gripped Nick's arm, stopping him. His deep brown eyes practically burned into Nick's.

"Stay away from Miss Carlisle," Harry warned. "I told her father a long time ago I'd keep money-hungry men away from her."

"That's a good plan, and I'm sure Mr. Carlisle would be proud of you for sticking to your promise. But I'm not one of those suitors bent on getting money from Miss Carlisle. Sorry, Mr. Westland, but you're picking a fight with the wrong man."

Nick yanked his arm out of the other's grasp and stormed away. Before he was out of sight, he turned to find Abby. She had stood and walked his way, but stopped when he did. His heart softened. She was interested. But today was definitely not the day to talk to her.

He gave a small wave, to which she responded by raising her hand. Grinning wide, he turned and walked down the hill. So far, so good. Now he needed to find a place to stay—and some different clothes.

Nick stopped and withdrew his wallet. People in 1912 had no idea what credit cards were, so his MasterCard and VISA were no good. He did have one hundred dollars in cash, but doubted the currency was recognizable in 1912. Too bad, since one hundred bucks went a lot farther in this era than in his.

Perhaps it was time to pay a visit to Abby's grandmother. Nick was certain the old woman would be his ally.