“Shit.”

David Morgan hitched his guitar up on his shoulder and cursed for the second time that night. The band practice session had gone late because the pyramid stage had been only half set up when they’d gotten to Worthy Farm in Pilton at midday. The organisers had tried to find the best site by using a witching rod so they could set the stage above the magical ley line that was supposed to run through here from Stonehenge. It was said to be lucky.

David strode across the field trying to shake off the anger that consumed him. Everything had gone wrong today. Bear, their drummer, had been late because of the crowds gawking at the musicians along the road into the farm. Someone had let slip that Bowie and the Stones were rehearsing, and everyone had come to the festival site hoping to see them. By the time he and the band had set up and rehearsed, it had been pitch dark despite almost being midsummer.

If they’d asked him where to put the stage, he could have shown them straight up. But he was not in the mood to talk to anyone. Holly Love, their publicist, had handed him the latest issue of the Taunton Times and he’d thrown it onto the stage floor in disgust when he’d read the bullshit the journalist had written up about how his band was about to break up because of some torrid fling he was supposed to have had with Bear’s girlfriend. Jesus, Bear didn’t even have a woman at the moment. Anything to sell a magazine or newspaper.

It had taken David three attempts to get back home across the fields and by the time he got there he was royally pissed off. He’d spent an hour wandering around in the dark before he’d finally found the stones and made his way across to the back garden of Rose Cottage. Someone had been there before him, because the small front gate leading to the narrow laneway was open.

No matter how much he protected his privacy and tried to hide, some groupie always managed to find him.

No matter where, or when he was.

After the first festival, he’d moved down to Glastonbury and settled into a vacant cottage outside the village to take refuge from the publicity and the journalists who constantly chased him. Music had flowed, and he had written new songs, day and night. Alice McLaren lived next door and she’d shown him the way to his future. At first, he’d been sceptical, but the day she’d taken him to the standing stones, a new world had opened up for him—an opportunity to escape the relentless pursuit of the press—and he had embraced it.

When Alice had first told him about the ley line behind the cottages, he’d thought it was just her new age hippie ramblings, but she’d taken him over to the three large markers in the field. She’d placed his hands on the bluish-gray stone. He’d jumped back as they’d hummed and moved beneath his fingers. The next day he’d gone exploring alone, and had slipped through to the future for the first time. When he’d come back, Alice had explained it. Her family had been travelling through the time gate for centuries. Listening to her explanation of ley lines and time slips had fascinated him.

Carefully, he’d explored the future—his future. It was as though he’d come home, taking him away from all the obsessed fans and groupies who constantly followed his band, or any band. When he had discovered how successful he’d been in the seventies, and the wealth he’d accrued since then, it had almost done his head in. The day he went up to London and  recognised the elderly banker—who was still the same man who’d set up his accounts in 1972—everything had fallen into place for him. Clive was the only other person, apart from Alice and the guys in the band, who knew his secret…but now Alice was gone.

He’d made his decision to stay in the twenty-first century and only went back through the time gates for the festivals, some touring, and when the band was recording in the studio. But living near the time gate had unsettled him, so he had bought an island in the Caymans. Davy Morgan became a recluse and the press soon lost interest in him when they couldn’t find him—or any scandal.

He cursed again, as his toe stubbed something large on the front porch. He took a step forward and tripped over a small bag. As he fell, he twisted to protect his guitar and landed on something soft; something that expelled a soft oomph.

“What the hell?” He grunted as his eyes adjusted to the faint light shining from the single lamp inside. He’d left it on after fumbling with the lock in the dark last night. It had taken half an hour to get the old key in the door. Living in an old country cottage was great for his privacy—most of the time—but it had its disadvantages. A night of singing at full volume had strained his vocal cords and all he wanted was a long, mellow whiskey to soothe his dry throat.

Dropping his gaze, he groaned as a pair of red-clad legs moved beneath him and he realised he was lying across a woman. A small, but very well-endowed woman. Wide eyes looked back at him above a white T-shirt stretched tight across her breasts.

“Well, you might as well come in. A good shag might just improve my night.”

A soft gasp followed him as he put both hands on either side of her and pushed himself to his feet before retrieving his guitar from the ground.

“But you’re not staying the night. Understood?” He looked around to the road. He hadn’t noticed a vehicle parked in the dark laneway. “However you got here, you can go back the same way.”

Moving across to the door, he reached beneath the cushion of the padded chair next to the lintel and pulled out the huge key. The girl didn’t speak as she pulled herself up from the ground.

“Come on. We’ll be more comfortable inside.” He opened the door and flicked the light switch as he waited for her to follow. When she stayed where she was, he turned and frowned as he noticed the luggage on his porch.

“No way, sweetheart. You’re not staying. You’ve heard of ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’? Well, if you want me in your pants, that’s the deal. You get what you came for and then you leave. Okay?”

As he turned, the light fell on her face. Older than the usual groupie, she was tall, and dark shadows circled her large green eyes. Her hair was pulled back from her face and her mouth hung open.

“Well, are you coming in or not? Because I need a drink.”

“Oh my God, you’re Davy Morgan.” Her voice was low and husky, and a ripple of something long forgotten ran down his back.

“David Morgan, at your service.” He dipped in a sweeping bow before turning away from her. “And don’t pretend you didn’t know who I was when you came looking for me.” Suspicion kicked in and he narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t follow me back from the festival, did you?”

Of course she hadn’t.

She’d been lying here on the porch when he’d come around the side. His biggest fear was someone following him and losing his privacy and his life here.

“How long have you been here?” he said tersely.

She continued to gape at him before she spoke. “But you can’t be Davy Morgan. You’re too young.”

He gave a bitter laugh and pulled out his stock explanation. “Ah, you are obviously mistaking me for my uncle. The famous Davy Morgan? You’re not familiar with me, the other David Morgan, then?”

“No. I’m not.” Her eyes were riveted on him and they widened even more as she shook her head. “Why are you in my house?”

“Your house?” he said as he ran his hand through his hair. This one was obviously a nutcase. “Sorry, sweetheart, but good try. This is my house. Now why don’t you pick up your gear like a good little girl and go back to wherever you came from.”

And he’d make sure she’d go and not come back. “Now I’ve had a look at you, you’re too old for me and not my type. Great boobs but the haunted look doesn’t do it for me.” He tried to be as rude as he could. The sleazier he sounded, the quicker she’d get out of here and leave him in peace.

He stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him and crossed to the makeshift bar on the old dresser. With a bit of luck, she’d take the hint and go before he had to think up any more coarse insults.

He ignored the pounding on the door as he uncapped the whiskey bottle.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He muttered under his breath as he picked up his glass and walked back to the door. For the past forty years, he’d managed to avoid anyone discovering his secret. Having his cottage as a bolt-hole had been a godsend. How had this girl found him?

He wrenched it open. “You can’t be that desperate, darling?”

“You are a vile human being, whoever you are. Do the McLarens know you are squatting at their place?” Her voice conveyed her disgust and his interest was piqued as she stood on the porch, the light of battle in her eye. He glanced down at her chest. Her shoulders were back and she wasn’t wearing a bra. Everything was on display, and to his disgust he felt a stirring of interest.

Hmm. A vile human being. That’s exactly what he was.

“Ah…you’re referring to the family of the late Alice McLaren, I guess?”

She nodded and spoke slowly, the wary look still in those shadowed eyes. “That would be correct.”

He leaned against the lintel and sipped his whiskey. She held his gaze. Once you got past the purple shadows beneath her flashing eyes, and the rosy flush high on her cheekbones, she was really quite beautiful. Her lips were deep red and full, and her complexion was pale, despite the twin spots of colour signaling her anger. He hoped she’d stay angry. Women were trouble, and he was a sucker as soon as they went soft and pulled out the tears or quivering lips.

But not anymore. After having his privacy disturbed, she was lucky he was even having a conversation with her. He’d been manipulated in the past and he was not going to go there ever again, no matter how vulnerable the woman was.

“Well, sweetheart. If you weren’t looking for me and a good shag—”

“Shag?” she interrupted. “Who says shag these days? You sound like Austin Powers.” Her pretty lips tilted up in a brief smile.

“Who?” He shook his head and then set her straight. “I assume you’re looking for Violet Cottage—which is next door.” He inclined his head with a slight nod to the house next door.

“But the taxi dropped me here.” Her shoulders sagged and it was like watching an exotic flower wilt beneath his gaze. Regret spiked in his chest for a brief moment, but he needed to be cruel to protect himself. Being alone was what he wanted.

“This is Rose Cottage. You’ll find the key beneath—”

“I know where to look for the key. I just had the wrong cottage.” She turned away and picked up a small bag and a laptop case. “Please accept my heartfelt apologies. I’m sorry your sexual thirst won’t be slaked tonight.” The sarcasm dripped from her words and he smothered a grin. “You’ll have to make do with your drink. I’ll come back for my suitcase after I let myself into Violet Cottage.”