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 counselor 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: But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale:
The female of the species is more deadly than the male ... .
"Huh. Remind me never to get on your wrong side, young lady." The memory of those terrible days in Rome, searching for her, were almost more than he could bear. Margo's squeeze on his hand said a great deal more than her eyes, and they spoke of a pain and longing that hurt Malcolm like a physical blow. His faltering hopes began to regain their feet.
Sven Bailey had left Margo's luggage in the "lock-me-tight" mail bin outside each Resident's apartment. Malcolm unlocked the bin, rescuing Margo's cases, then opened his door and ushered her inside.
"You've redecorated! Wow! You actually have furniture!"
Malcolm shrugged. "A little money never hurts."
Margo laughed. "Don't be upset with me, Malcolm. I know it's my fault I nearly got us killed, but see. Something good did come of it." She swept a grand gesture at the room, nearly knocking over a lamp. "Whoops! Sorry."
That was his Margo, all right. But would she be his Margo?
"I, uh, had a little something, I, uh, that is ..."
"Malcolm," she took both his hands in her own, "what is it? It's me. The addle-brained brat you had to rescue off a Portuguese witch-burning pyre. You're actually shaking! What's wrong?"
He stared into those bottomless green eyes, filled now with worry and even the beginnings of fear. When she reached up and brushed her lips across his, he felt something inside his soul melt. If she said no ...
"It's okay, Malcolm. Whatever it is. Just tell me."
No more stalling, he thought grimly. Then he fumbled in a pocket for the little velvet box. "I, uh, went uptime for a little vacation, had this made for you."
She opened the box curiously, then went absolutely white.
"Malcolm?" Her voice wavered. So did those luminous green eyes.
"Will you?" he whispered.
An agony of indecision passed across her heart-shaped face, causing Malcolm's heart to cease beating.
"Malcolm, you know my heart-my whole soul's set on scouting," she whispered. "You, you wouldn't object?"
He cleared his throat. "Only unless you objected to my coming along."
Her eyes widened. "But"
"I thought it was high time I got over being a coward."
Margo was suddenly in his arms, crying and kissing him at the same time. "Don't ever say that! Do you hear me, Malcolm Moore? Never, ever say that!"
An Irish alley-cat glare he knew so well transformed her adorable, heart-shaped face as the eyebrows dove together and green eyes smoldered. "He does, does he? Am I the only one on this station who didn't know I was getting married?"
Malcolm rubbed his nose in embarrassment. "Well, uh, you know La-La Land."
"Do I ever." But the look in her eyes softened. "Margo Moore. I like the sound of that."
The sound of his name linked with hers did strange things to Malcolm's blood chemistry. The light in the room dimmed. "So ... How's Denver sound for the honeymoon? I've got tickets ... ."
Margo's kisses were enough to drive a sane man over the brink. When they came up for air, Margo breathed against his lips, "Sounds perfect. Now stop stalling, Malcolm Moore, and take me to bed!"
He carried her there, long dress trailing, without another word spoken. He was afraid the brutal violations she had suffered at the hands of those damnable Portuguese traders would somehow raise a barrier between them that neither could overcome. But the softness and passion he remembered so well from Rome redoubled in the silence of his bedroom, sending Malcolm nearly out of his mind with the need to touch and cuddle and bring joy where she had suffered so much pain. After their loving came to a shuddering, reluctant end, Margo cried again, nearly as hard as she had that terrible day in Rome. But this time instead of running, she clung to him and let him comfort her with silly, nonsensical words meant to reassure. Evidently they did, because she fell asleep cradled against the hollow of his shoulder, tear trails streaking her cheeks and his bare skin. Malcolm kissed her hair and marveled, wondering if she would ever trust enough to share her mind as she had come to trust sharing her body.
The ring glittering softly on her left hand gave him, hope. It was a start, anyway. Just as this joining had been. Malcolm lay awake, languorous and wondering, for hours, just holding her while she slept. When she finally woke, their second coming together was even sweeter than the first. And this time, as she drifted off once more against his chest, the words he had longed to hear came like a sigh in the darkness.
"I love you, Malcolm Moore. Hold me..."
And so he did.
CHAPTER NINE
"His name is Chuck," the voice on the other end of the phone said. "Chuck Farley."
Skeeter had no idea who the caller was, but they had his undivided attention. "Yes? What about him?"
"He came through Primary alone. Without a tour group. He's wearing a money belt he didn't declare through ATF. Right now, he's asking around at the hotels for the best time periods to visit."
The line went dead before Skeeter could ask who the caller was, why they'd called him, or how they'd obtained this juicy tidbit of information. Was Goldie setting him up? Or the ATF? Or was this legit? He hadn't forgotten Ianira's strange intensity on the subject of who was going to win this bet.
Maybe he possessed more allies than he'd realized.
Skeeter decided to hunt up Mr. Farley and see for himself what this lone uptimer might be up to. And if that money belt were for real ... then Skeeter might just win his wager in one fell swoop. All it would take was a little finesse on his part. The question was, which scheme to use in the initial approach? Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Skeeter set out to do a little snooping of his own.