"Are you positive about that identification, Ms. Morran?"
Skeeter's official station identification photo appeared briefly on screen, grinning at the audience. The caption read "Unemployed Confidence Artist." Skeeter saw red-several seething shades of it.
The camera cut back to the Commons and Goldie's moment of triumph. Her eyes glittered like evil jewels. "Well, no, I couldn't swear to it, but as you know, Skeeter and I have made a rather substantial wager, so I've been at some pains to keep track of his movements. I'm afraid I wouldn't do Station Security much good as a prosecution witness, but it certainly did look like him. Of course," she laughed lightly, "we get so many scoundrels through, and so many of them look alike ..."
The rest of the report was nothing more than innuendo and slander, none of it provable and every word of it calculated to wreck any chance he had at conning a single tourist watching that broadcast out of so much as a wooden nickel. Skeeter closed his fists in the semidarkness of his apartment. Report his injury? Hell would freeze first. He'd win this wager and kick that purple-haired harpy from here to-
Skeeter punched savagely at the channel changer. His apartment flooded with soothing music and slowly shifting vistas taped both downtime as well as uptime. He'd deal with that pissed-off gladiator as best he could, on his own. Nothing was goin to sour this wager. Not even Lupus Mortiferus and his-fifty goddamned golden aurii.
He found the nearly fatal knife and closed his hand around the hilt. Skeeter Jackson wasn't a trained fighter, he hadn't been old enough when "rescued" by an astonished time scout-but he knew a trick or two. Lupus Mortiferus might just be in for as big a surprise as Goldie Morran. He flipped the knife angrily across the room, so that it landed point-first in the soft wallboard. Nice throwing blade. Bastard. That knife was not an ancient design. Either he'd stolen it ... or someone was helping him.
Skeeter meant to find out which. And, if someone were helping him, who. The sooner he found out, the better. Neutralizing that gladiator had become imperative.
Unlike most Mongols, who learned early to place a very low value indeed on human life, Skeeter Jackson valued his most highly. He did not plan to die at the hands of a disgruntled downtimer who went around cutting out the tongues of the poor wretches he owned and gutting people for sport and coin.
Stranded as he was between the two worlds that had molded him, Skeeter Jackson listened to music in his darkened apartment, endured the thumping pain in his neck, and wrestled with the decision over whether or not to kill the gladiator outright by some devious method, or scheme some way to send him back where he belonged-permanently.
It was a measure of how deeply those two worlds tugged at him that he had not resolved the question by the time he nodded off to sleep in the early hours of the morning.
Malcolm joined Margo as she emerged from the shower, aglow in a healthy, sexy way that made his insides turn to gelatin. He managed to find his voice and keep it steady. "You always did look great in skin, Margo."
Margo just beamed and winked, then adjusted her towel invitingly to dry her back.
Malcolm groaned and seized the towel, but managed to dry her back as gently as he might a frightened fawn. "Been doing your homework, then?" He couldn't believe how husky his voice sounded.
Margo started to laugh. "You bet! Every free moment I get outside of classes. You wouldn't believe the nickname some of my friends have given me."
"Oh?" Malcolm asked, raising one brow to hide the knot of fear that some of those friends might be young and masculine enough to capture her attention.
"Yes. Mad Margo. That's what they call me. I don't go to parties or overnighters or field trips-unless they're related to something important I'm studying, and I positively never go out on a date."
"Sure about that?" Malcolm half-teased.
Green eyes that a man could get lost in turned upward and met his, quite suddenly serious and dark. "Never." She squeezed his hand. "Do you honestly think all those little boys who swill beer and brag about their conquests could possibly interest me? After what we've been through, Malcolm? It'd take an act of God, maybe more-to pry us apart."
Malcolm dropped the towel and kissed her tenderly. It didn't stay tender long. When they finally broke apart, panting and on fire, Malcolm managed, "Well. I see."
Margo's eyes laughed again, the green sparkle back where it belonged. "Just wanted to convince you, is all."
Malcolm ran the tip of his tongue over swollen lips, then grinned. "Good!" But when he bent for another go-round, Margo laughingly danced away, causing his mind and gut actual pain.
"Oh, no. I'm squeaky clean. I'd like to stay that way for at least another hour, Mr. Moore!" Then she darted into the bedroom they shared and emerged less than two minutes later, clad in very chic black jeans, a sweater that would've made an old man's eyes pop, and dark, soft boots. Malcolm realized with a jolt that her clothing had Paris stamped all over it. She didn't flaunt herself in trendy, gaudy colors but stuck by well made items that would be in style forever. "All right," she said, fluffing her hair as it dried-hair that looked like a Parisian salon had styled it "you mentioned something about lunch?"
"Mmmm. Yes. I did, at that. Very well, Margo, gentleman it shall be-for now!"
He wriggled his brows wickedly. Margo laughed, secure of him. They left the apartment and found the corridor to the nearest elevator shaft. They moved easily, hands locked. The air between them sizzled with unseen but palpable heat. When they stepped into the elevator, Margo said huskily, "Your place or mine? After lunch?"
Malcolm couldn't hold back the jolt of need that went though him, but he retained enough presence of mind to recall that Margo, while nominally on vacation, needed to spend some educational time outside Malcolm's bed. Or couch. Or dining room floor. Or...
He sighed. "Neither just yet. There's someone I think you ought to meet."
Green, expressive eyes went suddenly suspicious. "Who?"
Malcolm chuckled and tickled her chin. "Margo Smith, are you turning jealous on me? Anyway, you'll like her. Just trust me on this one. She lived here already, but hadn't set up her shop yet when you first came to La-La Land. But she's well worth meeting. Trust me."
"Okay, I'm game. So after lunch, show me!"
For a moment Margo sounded exactly as she had just a few short months ago. Nice to know not everything had grown up quite yet. He didn't ever want that part of her to change. "I'll show you, all right," he chuckled. "But before lunch. I insist."
Margo pouted while Malcolm punched the button for Commons. The elevator whirred obediently upward. Malcolm steered her into the Little Agora District, vastly different from the genuine Agora's golden era. For one thing, there were no tethered or caged animals waiting to be purchased and ridden or eaten. For another, neither Socrates nor his pupils were anywhere to be seen. Instead, there was one particular booth positively jammed with customers. Other booth vendors looked at the crowded one with expressions that ran the gamut from rage to deep sorrow. Malcolm drew Margo straight toward the jam-packed booth.
Of course.
"Are you sure whoever this is wont mind interrupting her sales? She's got a ton of business there."
Malcolm grinned. "She'll thank us. Trust me."
He shoved and elbowed his way through the crowd with shocking rudeness, until Margo found herself staring at the most exotically beautiful woman she had ever seen. Her eyes, black as velvet, were far older than the early twenties she seemed to be. Even as Margo stared, wondering what it was that was so compelling about her, the woman broke into an exquisite, somehow ancient smile. "Malcolm! Welcome!"