”Now,” Carson said. His face had closed into an unreadable mask. “You’re serious about time scouting, are you? Who jilted you, little girl?”
”Huh? What do you mean, who jilted me?” Her bewildered question opened the door to as scathing an insult as Margo had ever received.
”Well, clearly you’re bent on suicide.”
Margo opened her mouth several times, aghast that nothing suitable would come out in the way of a retort.
Kit Carson grinned-nastily. “Honey, whoever he was-or she was-they weren’t worth it. My advice is get over the broken heart, go back home, and get a safe little job as a finance banker or a construction worker or something. Forget time scouting.”
Margo knocked back the bourbon angrily. How dare he…
She sucked air and coughed. Damn, damn, damn …
”I wasn’t jilted by anybody,” she gritted. “And I’m not suicidal.”
”Uh-huh. Then you’re crazy. Or just plain stupid.”
Margo bit down on her temper. “Why? I know it’s a dangerous profession. Wanting to scout doesn’t make me a loon or a fool. Lots of people do it and I’m not the first woman to take on a dangerous job.”
Carson poured a refill for himself. “You’re not drinking your wine.”
”No,” she grated. “I’m not.” She held out the empty bourbon glass. He held her gaze for a moment, then splashed liquid fire and waited until she’d choked it down.
”Okay,” Carson said, in the manner of a history teacher warming to a lecture, “for the moment, let’s rule out stupid. After all, you did have the sense to look for an experienced teacher.”
Margo was sure she was being subtly put down, but couldn’t nail down why. Something in the glint of those cynical eyes …
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