Kit chuckled. "You'd think with their boss in jail, they'd be more relaxed, not edgier than ever. Of course, after the fights some of 'em have been in . . ."
Half the male agents in sight sported blackened eyes and bruised knuckles. A few of the women bore scratches down their cheeks. Mike Benson had been forced to discipline half his own staff—then, he'd had to order the ATF agents into temporary quarters in one of the hotels nearest Primary, just to separate them from Station Security until the worst blew over.
"I rather expect most of them wish Skeeter Jackson and Goldie Morran had never been born, never mind made that idiotic wager," Malcolm noted wryly.
Kit glanced up at the chronometer board again.
Malcolm laughed. "The clock won't move any faster just because you keep staring at the numbers."
Kit actually flushed, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, I guess I've missed the brat."
Malcolm cleared his throat. "Well, since you mention it, I am rather anxious to see her again."
Kit gave him an appraising glance. "Yes. She might say no, you realize."
"I know." The quiet anguish in his voice betrayed him. He couldn't shake the fear that his notorious luck might still be holding steadily on "bad."
"She might say no to what?" a voice boomed behind them.
Malcolm winced. He and Kit turned to find Sven Bailey, hands on hips, watching them like a bemused bulldog.
"What in bloody hell are you doing here?" Malcolm muttered.
Sven grinned, a sight that made most men's blood run cold. "Waiting for my pupil, of course. Gotta see if she remembers anything I taught her."
Kit chuckled. "If she doesn't, we'll both wipe up the mat with her."
"Oh, goodie." Sven Bailey, widely acclaimed the most deadly man on TT-86, rubbed thick-fingered hands gleefully. "I can hardly wait. I never get to have that much fun with the tourists."
Malcolm rubbed one finger along his nose. "That's because the tourists would sue."
The terminal's martial arts and bladed-weapons instructor grunted. "No lawyers allowed in La-La Land and you know it."
A new voice said, "Good thing for you, too, isn't it, Sven?"
They glanced around to find Ann Vinh Mulhaney grinning up at him. Very nearly the only person on TT-86 who dared laugh at Sven Bailey, the petite shooting instructor's eyes sparkled with delight. Their matched heights produced a comical appearance: squat fireplug, stolid beside a sleek bird of prey.
"What is this," Malcolm muttered, "a welcoming committee?"
"Well, she is my student," Ann pointed out. "I'd like to say hello and see if she remembers anything." Her eyes flashed with unspoken humor, whether at Malcolm's discomfiture or in remembrance of Margo's early lessons, Malcolm wasn't sure.
Sven just snorted. When Ann glanced curiously at her counterpart, Kit chuckled. "That was Sven's excuse, too. You two are complete fakes. Why you should even like that brat after what she put us all through is beyond me."
"Like her?" Sven protested. He managed to look hurt—an astonishing feat, considering that his eternal expression was that of a rabid bulldog about to charge. "Ha! Like her. That's good, Kit. I just want another look at that Musashi sword guard of yours. You know, the one you said I could peek at if I trained her."
"And I," Ann said sweetly, pulling off the wheedling tone far more effectively than Sven, "covet another week in the honeymoon suite at the Neo Edo." She batted her eyelashes prettily.
Kit just groaned. Malcolm grinned. "You're as bad as they are, Kit, if you expect me to buy that theatrical groan any more than I buy their excuses."
Kit just crossed his arms and compressed his lips in a pained expression, as though he'd crunched down on a poisoned seed pod and didn't know whether to spit or curse. "Friends." Disgust dripped like ice from his voice.
"Kit," Ann laughed, touching his shoulder in a friendly fashion, "you are the biggest fake of any 'eighty-sixer walking this terminal. It's why we love you."
Kit just snorted rudely. "You sound like Connie Logan. Do all the women on this station get together and compare notes?
Ann winked. "Of course. You're famous. Half the tourists who come here are dying for a glimpse of the Kit Carson."
Kit shuddered. His loathing of tourists was La-La Land legend. "I would remind you, I'm not the only famous 'Kit Carson' by a long shot."
Sven nodded sagely. "But you're both scouts, eh?"
Kit grinned unexpectedly. "Actually, I'm not named for Kit Carson, Western scout, at all."
All three of them stared. Malcolm scraped his jaw off the floor before the others. "You're not?"
Kit's eyes twinkled wickedly. "Nope. I used to build balsa airplanes and launch 'em when I was a kid, then shoot 'em down with a slingshot off the side of some cliff. Dahlonega, Georgia," he added drily, "might not have much left but a checkered history, but cliffs we had in plenty. So when I started hitting every little balsa plane I'd made with a nice, fat rock, he took to calling me 'Kit' for his favorite WWII Ace Pilot, L. K. 'Kit' Carson. Came darn near to matching Chuck Yeager's record."
"A fighter pilot," Sven said, eyes round with lingering astonishment. "Well, hell, Kit, I guess that's not too bad a thing, being named after a flying ace. Ever have a chance to do any real flying?"
Kit's expression went distant. Malcolm knew the look. "Yeah," he said very softly.
Before anyone could pry, the station announcer interrupted.
"Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in one minute . . ."
The four watched in companionable silence as the circus of a Primary departure wound up to a crescendo of baggage searches, purple faces, outraged protests, and the exchange of shocking sums of money collected by agents in no mood to put up with anyone's lip on this particular departure. By the time the gate began to cycle, causing the bones behind Malcolm's ears to buzz, tempers were ragged on both sides of the tables.
"Good thing the gate's about to open or we'd have a fight or two, I think," Malcolm muttered to no one in particular.
"Yep," Sven said with characteristic loquacity.
The sound that was not a sound, heralding the opening of a major gate, intensified. Beyond the imposing array of barriers, armed guards, ramps, fences, metal detectors, X-ray equipment, and dual medical stations stood a broad ramp which rose fifteen feet into the air, then simply ended. Light near the top dopplered through the entire visible spectrum. Then Shangri-La Station's main gate—and sole link with the rest of the uptime world—dilated open.
Uptimers streamed into the station, hauling baggage down that long ramp toward the Medical station barring the way. One by one, station medical personnel scanned and logged medical records. Malcolm waited in a cold sweat for the one slight figure in all that crowd he'd waited months to see—and dreaded meeting again. Then, before he was ready for it, she was there, hair back to its natural flaming red, all trace of brown dye banished until she was ready to take up time scouting as a professional.
Margo . . .
Malcolm's belly did a rapid drawing in. How could he have forgotten what that little slip of a girl could do to a man's body chemistry, just by walking down an ordinary ramp? Margo was dressed—to Malcolm's astonishment—in a chaste little floral-print dress that came nearly to her ankles. The swing of its long skirt and the way it clung to skin he vividly recalled the taste and touch of did bad things to Malcolm's breath control. Her hair was longer, too, and—if possible—sexier than ever as it curled around her ears. Oh, God, what if she says no? Please, Margo, don't walk down that ramp and tell me you've met some boy at school. . . .
She caught sight of him and her face lit up like Christmas on Picadilly. She shifted a heavy duffle bag to wave and blow a kiss right at him. His belly did another rapid drawing in that made breathing impossible. He waved back. His knees actually felt weak.
"Buck up, man," Kit muttered in his ear. "You're white as a sheet."
The ring in his pocket all but burned him through the clot
h. He'd thought to give it to her here, but with all these well-intentioned onlookers . . . Then, again before he was ready, she'd cleared station medical and dropped the duffle bag to run straight into his arms.
Margo Smith had not forgotten how to kiss.
By the time they disentangled, spontaneous applause had broken out even amongst tourists Malcolm had never laid eyes on. Margo flushed, grinned, then flung her arms around Kit.
"I missed you!"
"Humph!" Kit said, crushing her close despite the attempt at pretense. "The way you greeted Malcolm, I thought you'd forgotten your grandfather existed!"
Margo shocked them all by bursting into tears. "Forget you?" She hugged him more tightly than ever. "Don't you count on it!"
Malcolm cleared his throat while Kit shut his eyes and just held her. After the losses Kit had suffered, Margo's impromptu demonstration meant more than she could possibly know. And after the terrible fights they'd had, it was good to see that look on Kit's face.
Eventually she dried her eyes and sniffed sheepishly. "Sorry. I really did miss you. Sven! And Ann! You came to see me!"
Ann hugged her former pupil tightly. "Welcome home, Margo."
Sven Bailey, true to his nature, demonstrated his affection by launching a snap kick right at her midriff. Margo wasn't there when it should have connected. Despite the hampering cloth of her long dress, she danced aside and managed to land a stinging punch before grabbing Sven and hugging him tightly. He made a single sound of outrage, turned as red as Margo's hair, and extricated himself with slightly-less-than-excessive force.
"Huh. Good to see you remembered some of what I drilled into you, girl."
Margo grinned. "Just a little. Care to spar later? I've been practicing."
Sven Bailey's eyes lit up like an evil gnome's. "You're on!"
Then, shocking everyone, he picked up Margo's luggage and set out with it, calling over one shoulder, "Neo Edo? Kit's apartment? Or Malcolm's place?"
Margo flushed bright pink, glanced guiltily at Kit, bit one lip, and said, "Uh, Malcolm's?"
Kit's face fell until Margo hugged him again and whispered, "Just for tonight, okay? I mean, well, you know."
Kit turned brighter red than Sven had.
Ann laughed aloud. "That's twenty you owe me, Kit."
Kit just produced the money and said repressively, "You had better be safe about it, Margo."
Margo put out a pink tongue. "I promised that before I went off to school. And I don't break my promises." At his look, she added, "Not anymore. I learned that lesson! But I want dinner with you at the Delight, so you'd better not have any dates lined up for tonight!"
Kit relaxed into smiles again. "Arley's already reserved our table."
"Good! College food sucks!"
"Watch your mouth," Kit said mildly.
"Well, it does." But she smiled as she said it.
Her gaze caught sight of the brave decorations strangling Commons and her mouth and eyes turned into little O's of wonder. "Oh, Malcolm, look! When did that happen?"
Kit laughed. "Another new 'eighty-sixer tradition you haven't been introduced to yet. Winter Holiday Decorations Contest. The vendors around each gate try to outdo one another. Last year, a three-story, arm-waving plastic Santa caught fire."
"Oooh, bet the stink of that took a while to clear."
Malcolm chuckled. "Yes. Whichever way you choose to interpret that."
Margo sighed. The gaudy spectacle was clearly, in her eyes, utterly enchanting. Then she shook herself and glanced at Kit. "Oh, uh, by the way? I've decided going back uptime to that school you got me into is a complete waste of time. Brian's got a much better library and, well, it's just awful!"
Before Kit could erupt into a violent temper, Margo held out one hand. "Just think about it. We'll, uh, talk more later. Okay?"
Kit hrumphed and said, "All right, my girl, but you're gonna have to talk pretty fast and damn convincingly to change my mind."
Margo laughed, a grown-up burble more than a childlike giggle. "Oh, I will. Don't you fret about that."
When she grabbed Malcolm's hand, Malcolm felt like the air around his brain was fizzing and sparkling. He wondered if Margo could actually feel how hard his heart was thumping through the contact of her fingers against his.
"Any interesting prospects in that group?" Ann, who'd taken in the entire by-play with wide, fascinated eyes, asked. She nodded toward the other uptimers as they headed down the brightly lit, gloriously garish Commons.
"Hmm . . . actually, yeah. There's this group of paleontologists headed downtime through the Wild West Gate. Couple of Ph.Ds, three grad students. They're all set—they think," she chuckled, "to study the Bone Wars."
"Bone Wars?" Ann echoed, sounding astonished.
Margo glanced up at Kit, looking smug as a cat that's sneaked a choice morsel off someone's plate. "Yeah, the Bone Wars. There were these two paleontologists, see, Cope and Marsh, who got into a war with one another collecting fossils from the American West. It was kind of an undeclared wager to see who could name the most new specimens and mount them in museums back east. Heck of a wager, too, let me add. Their agents would actually sneak into one another's camps and smash up specimens, shoot at one another, real exciting stuff. But they brought out a king's ransom in dinosaur bones, between them, because of the competition. Named tons of new species and genera and stuff. So, anyway, these guys—well, one of the grad students is a woman—they want to study it first-hand. Said they've already got their own weapons, rifles and pistols, but they were all cased up for the trip through Primary. I made 'em promise to show me their rifles and stuff before they left and made 'em swear to God and all the angels they'd see you for lessons first. I think one of 'em would rather touch a live rattlesnake than the guns he brought along."
Ann grinned. "Good girl!"
Margo chuckled. "It was easy. The four of 'em who were guys were drooling all over themselves for an excuse to talk to me." She rolled her eyes. "Men."
The stab of white-hot jealousy that shot through him stunned Malcolm. Margo glanced up quickly. She must have felt his hand twitch, because she said, "You all right, Malcolm?"
"Fine," he lied. Just what do these so-called paleontologists look like? He studied the incoming uptimers, but there were so many, he wasn't sure which group they might belong to.
Margo squeezed his hand. "Hey. Malcolm. They were boring."
The way her eyes sparkled when she smiled made his insides go hot and cold. "Really?" There, that had come out reasonably steady. Buck up, man, as Kit says. She hasn't said no yet.
Margo flounced as only Margo could. Malcolm followed the movement with a tortured gaze. She added, "Hah! Their fossils would've been more interesting! I just wanted a peek at their rifles."
Kit laughed. "Malcolm, I'd say you just won your standing bet, eh?"
Margo colored delicately. "I wouldn't say that. The time limit on that bet ran out ages ago."
Malcolm sighed. "Well, there are other ways of getting your life's story, I suppose."
"Hmm. We'll just have to see how creative you are, Mr. Moore." But she squeezed his fingers.
"At least," Kit said, eying them askance, "you seem to be picking up your American history nicely. Maybe Malcolm's idea wasn't such a bad one, after all."
"Malcolm's idea," Malcolm growled, "was supposed to be Malcolm's surprise."
Margo just looked up at him, wide-eyed. "You planned a surprise for me?"
Heat rose into his face. "Yeah. And Grandpa's doing his damndest to spoil it."
"Got a bet on?" Margo asked suspiciously.
"Not me," Malcolm sighed. "But I wouldn't be surprised if Kit does."
"Kit and everyone else in La-La Land," Ann laughed. "Mind if you have company for dinner, or is this a family affair?"
Margo blushed. "Uh, would you mind if we had lunch tomorrow, instead?"
"Not at all." Ann had to reach up slightly to ruffle Margo's hair. "Imp. It's good to have you home."
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She strolled off with a backward wave.
Kit rubbed the back of his neck. "I, uh, have some things I have to take care of . . ."
"So soon?" Margo wailed.
He glanced at Malcolm. "I think Malcolm wants you to himself for a while. Grandpa can wait. But not long," he added with a fierceness in his voice that his playful smile could not quite disguise.
She hugged him tightly. "Promise."
Kit kissed the top of her head, then gently disentangled himself. "Dress up pretty for dinner, okay?"
"I will."
He ruffled her hair much the way Ann had, then left Malcolm alone with her. Malcolm swallowed hard, finding his throat suddenly dry. "Did you, uh, want to catch a bite to eat first?"
Margo's green eyes smoldered. "I'm starving. But not for food. C'mon, Malcolm. It's me. Margo."
He ventured a tentative smile. "That therapy of yours seems to have helped."
She grinned. "Yeah, the rape counsellor I've been seeing is good. She's helped unkink me a whole lot. But I like being in your arms better." Without warning, those smoldering eyes filled with tears and she threw her arms around him. "God, I've missed you! My head aches with everything that horrid school stuffs into it! I want you to hold me and tell me I'll get through this."
"Hey, what happened to my little fire eater?"
Wetness soaked through his shirt. "She got lonely."
Had any uptime boys comforted her during that loneliness? Malcolm hoped not. "My place is this way," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her. "We, uh, have a lot to talk about."
"Yeah?" She brightened and sniffed back tears. "Like what?"
"Oh, lots of stuff." They caught an elevator for Malcolm's floor. "Goldie and Skeeter are in the middle of a wager, for one. Whichever of them scams the most in a month—and Goldie can't use her knowledge of rare coins and gems—gets to stay in La-La Land. The other one has to leave."
Margo's eyes widened. "You're kidding? That's a serious wager!" Then she grinned, evilly. "Any way we can help Skeeter?"
"I thought you hated him!"
Margo laughed, green eyes wicked as any imp newly-arrived from Hell's own furnace. "I do. But Goldie deserves worse than what we gave her. Lots worse." The steel in her voice reminded Malcolm of his favorite poet:
Wagers of Sin Page 16
