Now that would be a switch.
”I think,” Malcolm grinned, “this calls for a celebration.”
Kit broke out champagne from his private stock and poured bubbly, then handed over a glass. “How about a toast?”
Malcolm waited expectantly.
Kit lifted his glass. “To the best damn time scouts in La La Land. Partner.” He slid over a signed document giving Malcolm and Margo each a third-share interest in the land Kit had bought from Goldie Morran. Malcolm just gaped.
”You earned it. We all did. Hope you don’t mind paying Kynan Rhys Gower out of our joint profits?”
Malcolm’s eyes misted. “Hear, hear. I’d say that’s a bargain any day of the week.” They touched glasses with a musical clink.
”Now, partner,” Kit grinned, “about that story you were going to tell me… the one about Caligula’s murder and Claudius’ ascension to the Principate of Rome.”
”Oh, no,” Malcolm laughed. “First you have to spill the beans about what really happened when you spent the night hiding under Queen Victoria’s bed.”
Kit grinned. “I never compromise a lady. You first.” No one, Malcolm chuckled, could bamboozle and flummox his way out of the truth like a time scout. At last, La-La Land was back to normal. Thank God. Malcolm settled back in one of Kit’s chairs and started spinning the tallest tale he could concoct about that day in Rome five years previously-and two thousand years in the past-and made himself a silent promise.
If Margo could risk it, so could he. Malcolm Moore and Margo Smith, Time Scouts …
It had a nice ring to it.