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!"
Margo felt herself shrink in stature and confidence. While she'd been off at college, alone, Malcolm had been free to ...
"Ianira, this is Margo. She is Kit Carson's granddaughter and the woman I plan to marry."
Another dazzling smile appeared, this time directed disconcertingly toward Margo. "I am honored to meet you, Margo," she said softly. "Malcolm is a twice-lucky man." The dark eyes seemed to pierce her very soul. "And he will take away the pain in your heart, as well, I think," she said in an even softer voice. "He will make you forget your childhood and bring you much happiness." Margo stared, unable to figure out how she could know, unless someone of the few who did know had gossiped. Which in La-La Land would be entirely in character, except the only people who knew were her father, her grandfather, and Malcolm Moore.
When she glanced around for Malcolm, she realized with a jolt that every "customer" at the booth was busy either writing furiously, holding out a tape recorder, or fiddling with the focus on a handheld vidcam. Sudden fury swept her; she made a grab at and barely hung onto her temper at the intrusion into her privacy. Margo took a deep breath, then deliberately turned back to Ianira. Margo found a smile far back in those dark eyes, a smile which understood her anger and the reasons for it. "Thank you," she said slowly, still rather confused, because she was certain neither Kit Carson nor Malcolm Moore would have told anyone. And she was utterly certain her father had never set the first toe on TT-86's floor. Ianira's return smile this time was every bit as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's, yet reminded her of graceful white statuary recovered from lost millennia to stand, naked or artfully draped, in vast, marble museums.
Malcolm said quietly, "Ianira Cassondra came to TT-86 a few years ago. Through the Philosophers' Gate."
"You're a downtimer, then? I hadn't guessed," she added, as Ianira nodded slightly. "Your English is fabulous.
A brief smile like sunlight on cloud tops passed over Ianira's face. "You are too kind."
Nervous, Margo focused her attention on the actual booth and its contents. Exquisitely embroidered cotton and linen gowns similar to the one Ianira wore were neatly folded up amidst dress pins, hair decorations, lovely scarves, tiny bottles of God only knew what, piles of various kinds of stones and crystals-with a select few hanging on cords to catch the light-charms of some kind which looked extremely ancient, carved carefully from stone, wood, or precious gems, even little sewn velvet bags closed by drawstrings, with tiny cards on them which read, "Happiness," "Wealth," "Love," "Health," "Children" in fake "Greek-looking" letters. There were even incense sticks, expensive little burners for them, and peeking out here and there, CDs with titles like Aphrodite's Secret: The Sacred Music of Olympus.
And, topping it all off, extraordinary jewelry of an extremely ancient design, all of which looked real, and from the prices could've been.
"You have quite a booth," Margo said, hearing the hesitation in her own voice.
Ianira laughed softly, a sound like trickling, dancing water. "Yes, it is a bit ... different."