“Why bother?” Skeeter said tiredly. “You’ve already decided I’m guilty. So just fire me and get it over with so I can put on some dry clothes and start looking for my friends again.”
Thirty seconds later, he was on his way, metaphoric pink slip in hand. Well, that was probably the shortest job on record. Sixty-nine minutes from hired to fired. He never had liked the idea of hauling luggage for a bunch of jackass tourists, anyway. Scrubbing toilets was dirtier, but at least more dignified than bowing and scraping and apologizing for being alive. And when the job was over, something, at least, was clean.
Which was more than he could say of himself at the moment. Mud covered his trousers, squelched from his wet shoes, and dripped with the trickling rainwater down one whole sleeve where he’d caught himself from a nasty fall, that last time through. Wonder what was in that lousy trunk, anyway? The way he acted, you’d’ve thought it was his heirloom china. God, tourists!
Maybe that idiot would do them all a favor and get himself nice and permanently lost in London? But that thought only brought the pain surging back. Skeeter blinked away wetness that had nothing to do with the rainwater dripping out of his hair, then speeded up. He had to get out of these wet, filthy clothes and hook up with the search teams again. Very few people knew this station the way Skeeter did. If he couldn’t find her . . .
He clenched his jaw muscles.
He had to find her.
Nothing else mattered at all.
Chapter Seven
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