He appeared to accept the lie. She’d sooner have died than admit she’d sold almost everything she owned-and very nearly a good bit more-to raise the price of a downtime ticket onto TT-86. Margo eyed the hole in the floor with a slight chill of misgiving. Well, adventure was what she was here for, wasn’t it?
”So where’s this bar?” she demanded, turning her back on the watery chasm. “I have business with Mr. Carson.”
Malcolm Moore eyed her for one heartbeat longer than he should have-did he suspect anything? ATF had accepted her faked ID without a second glance then he shrugged and jerked his head. “It’s down this way, in Urbs Romae. The Roman City,” he translated, assuming she wouldn’t know the meaning of “urbs.”
Margo muttered, “I know where the word urban comes from.” It was very nearly the only Latin she knew, but she knew that.
The corners of his eyes crinkled nicely when he smiled. Margo decided Malcolm Moore didn’t remind her of any of the men she’d known, after all. “Come on. I’ll show you where it is. It’s a little tricky to spot.”
She followed, hauling a suitcase that weighed more by the moment. When she had trouble keeping up, he glanced around and slowed his pace slightly to match hers.
”Are you by any chance planning to visit London? Or Denver?”
”Why?
He grimaced expressively. “Just hoping. I’m looking for a client for one of the upcoming tours. We freelancers have to hustle for a job.”
”Oh. No, I wasn’t planning a tour. Sorry.”
”Don’t mention it.” His eyes, however, remained bright with unspoken curiosity. Just how often did Kit Carson get visitors? If the world’s most famous time scout turned out to be a cranky recluse …Given the difficulty she’d had ferreting out recent information on him, he probably was. Well, coping with her father ought to have been training enough to deal with any ill-tempered male ego. That training had gotten her out of New York alive, hadn’t it?