Kit tossed his hands heavenward. "Good God, Margo. The Inquisition is nothing to be flippant about. You haven't seen one of their torture rooms. I have. And I have the scars to prove it. Would you like to see them?"

Slim jaw muscles tightened. She didn't say a word.

"And do you have any idea, kid, what gave me away? What got me arrested by those bastards?"

She shook her head.

"A mispronounced word, Margo. That was all. A mispronounced word. And I speak fluent medieval Spanish."

She swallowed; but she had a comeback. "You lived through it."

Kit sighed and pushed his plate away. He wasn't hungry any longer. "Fine. You want to get killed, feel free. Just don't ask me to help you do it. Now scram, before I lose my temper."

Margo didn't say another word. She just stalked out of Bronco Billy's and vanished into the bustle of Frontier Town. Kit muttered under his breath and glared at the passing crowds. just what was it about this kid that needled him so thoroughly? She was every damned bit as stubborn as Sarah and made him very nearly as crazy.

Maybe it was genetic. He never had been able to resist petite women with heart-shaped faces and freckles.

"Huh. Women."

He shook out his newspaper irritably and folded it over to a new section.

"Mr. Carson?"

"What?" he snapped, glaring up at a middle-aged man he'd never laid eyes on. Good God, can't a man eat his breakfast in peace?

"I'm sorry to interrupt..." The man's voice trailed off. "Er, I, that is- Excuse me. I'll come back later."

He was already in the process of stepping away from the table. Kit focused on the slim portfolio he carried, the carefully pressed suit, the expensive shoes ...

"Don't run away," Kit said with a lingering growl in his voice. "Sorry I snapped at you. I just finished a very unpleasant conversation, is all. Please, sit down."

And if you're a reporter, mister, you'll end up wearing what's left of my breakfast ....

"My name is Fisk, Harry Fisk.- He offered a business card, which gave Kit no real clues other than his office was in Miami. "I represent the management of TT-27, located in the Caribbean Basin. We're looking for a consultant..."

Kit heard him out: The job sounded intriguing. A lucrative, full-time consultantship, unlimited trips to a time he was pretty sure he'd never visited, as primary consultant to the Time Tours agent looking to develop a new gate destination, paid apartments at TT-27's finest luxury hotel.. .

It was a magnificent chance to escape Neo Edo's paperwork and the endless stream of raucous, thieving tourists. Kit scratched his chin and thought about it Leaving TT-86 meant leaving friends. And he did owe it to Jimmy and the other retired time scouts in his employment to look after them. He wouldn't sell out to just anyone.

"No," he decided, "I don't think so, Mr. Fisk. I have a hotel to run."

"We would be more than happy to install a full-time manager for the duration of your consultantship, Mr. Carson. Time Tours wants the best for this project."

Huh. Now there was a fat offer. Paradise for as long as he wanted to live in it and he kept his steady income, too. And somebody else did the paperwork. The image of Margo, her face pinched and white as she stood over his table staring him down, flashed through his mind.

Dammit, kid, stay out of my head.

Kit toyed with his cold eggs, scooting them back and forth on the plate with the tines of his fork. He'd been waiting for something like this for a long time.

"No," he found himself saying. "I appreciate the offer, really; but not just now"

Mr. Fisk's face fell-ludicrously. "I really wish you would reconsider, Mr. Carson."

Kit shrugged. "Ask me again in a week or so. We time scouts are a changeable lot."

Fisk tightened his lips imperceptibly. "Yes, so I've discovered. Well, you have my card, but my employers are most anxious to press ahead with this project and there are other retired time scouts on my list."

Kit nodded. "I expect there are. And I'm sure most of them need the job more than I do." He held out his hand. Fisk shook it, betraying grudging respect in his eyes.

"If you reconsider your position in the next two days, please let me know."

He had until Primary cycled to change his mind.

Kit didn't foresee that happening.

Mr. Fisk left him with his cold eggs.

"Huh. It was probably a scam, anyway," Kit muttered. "Too good to be true equals dubious in my book. Besides, who wants to live in the Bermuda Triangle?" He could do that by Jumping down La-La Land's unstable gate. He shove Fisk's business card into his pocket and tackled his cold breakfast, telling himself his decision had nothing to do with keeping track of that stupid little imp, Margo.

Sure it doesn't, Kit. And toadie frogs got wings.

He muttered into his scraggly mustache and finished his morning paper, determined not to think about Margo or her suicide mission. Why was it, Kit mourned silently, that all the real trouble in his life inevitably came skipping in on the coattails of some irresistibly pretty girl?

If word of this got around ...

Well, he'd just take his lumps and deal with the snickers. What Kit Carson did, or didn't do, was his own damned business. Yeah. Mine and the rest of La-La Land's. He signaled Bertie for a fresh cup of coffee and promptly fell to worrying about where Margo was going to find someone reputable enough to trust with her life. Maybe he could talk to Sergei or Leon or ...

No, he told himself, if you won't teach her yourself, do not try and line up somebody else for the job. Frankly, he couldn't think of a single time scout who'd be willing to try it, anyway.

Vastly relieved by that observation, Kit put Margo firmly out of mind.

Why, Margo wailed silently, does he have to be so beastly? She'd found a quiet spot under a vine-covered portico in Urbs Romae where she could sit with knees tucked under chin and indulge in a good, long cry.

Mom warned me ...

That only brought fresh misery and a new flood of angry tears. She wiped her cheek with the back of one fist and sniffed hugely. "I won't give up. Damn him, I won't. There just has to be someone else on this miserable station who'll teach me."

So far, she had struck out with everyone she'd approached, even the freelance guides like Malcolm Moore. At least most of them had been nicer about it than Kit Carson. Even a brusque "Get lost, brat" was kinder than gruesome images of people being tortured to death.

"I'll bet he doesn't have any lousy scars," she sniffed. "And Sam One-Eagle probably isn't any more real than, these stupid fake columns. He doesn't want me to be a scout, is all, so he's trying to scare me."

The thought of returning to Minnesota and the jeers ...

Never mind her father ....

Margo shivered and hugged her knees more tightly.

"Hell will freeze over first."

"Hell will freeze over before what?"

Margo jumped nearly out of her skin. The voice had spoken almost in her ear. She swung around and found a face peering at her through the vines. A male face. A gorgeous male face. Margo's personal-defense radar surged onto full-power alert. She'd had all she wanted of gorgeous men. But his winning smile was the friendliest thing she'd seen in two and a half days and after that miserable, gawdawful interview with Kit Carson ...

"Hey, what's wrong?" He'd noticed the tears. Whoever he was, he ducked under the vines and dug for a handkerchief. "Here, use mine."

Margo eyed him suspiciously, then accepted the hanky. "Thanks." She dried her face and blew her nose, then wadded up the handkerchief and offered it back.

"No, keep it. You look like you need it more than I do." He sat down cross-legged on the floor. "You're still a little drippy," he added with an attempt at a laugh.