Kit Carson just looked at her. He leaned against the door, crossed his ankles comfortably, and looked at her like she was the most recalcitrant, lame-brained child he’d ever encountered. It made her mad.
”Don’t smirk at me, you egotistical-!”
”Margo,” he formed a classic “T’ shape with his hands, “time out, remember? No insults, no temper tantrums. And I’m not smirking.”
”Huh. Could’a fooled me.” But she subsided. He was trying to be nice for a change; the least she could do was listen. “Okay, go on.”
”Skeeter Jackson has told you he’s a time scout, looking for a partner. True or false?”
”True.” She bit one fingernail, then folded her arms and tried not to fidget. “What of it?”
”He’s not a time scout. Never has been, never will be. Frankly, he’s neither crazy nor stupid and he knows his limits.”
Oh, no…
”Are you calling Mr. Jackson a liar?” she asked quietly.
His smile held a certain strained quality. “Yes. And before you say anything, I’d like to point out that liar’s not the worst thing he’s been called. Backstabbing cheat comes a little closer.”
”How dare you-”
”Shut up and listen!”
The indolent pose had vanished Margo shut up. She’d never heard such cold authority in anyone’s voice. He wasn’t angry just relentless. And Margo was scared.
After Billy Pandropolous …
”Skeeter Jackson is a con artist. A two-bit operator who makes his living fleecing tourists. If there’s a scam on the books, he’s used it. Currency exchange scams, luggage theft, pick pocketing, black-marketeering, you name it.”