The ring glittering softly on her left hand gave him, hope. It was a start, anyway. Just as this joining had been. Malcolm lay awake, languorous and wondering, for hours, just holding her while she slept. When she finally woke, their second coming together was even sweeter than the first. And this time, as she drifted off once more against his chest, the words he had longed to hear came like a sigh in the darkness.

"I love you, Malcolm Moore. Hold me..."

And so he did.

CHAPTER NINE

"His name is Chuck," the voice on the other end of the phone said. "Chuck Farley."

Skeeter had no idea who the caller was, but they had his undivided attention. "Yes? What about him?"

"He came through Primary alone. Without a tour group. He's wearing a money belt he didn't declare through ATF. Right now, he's asking around at the hotels for the best time periods to visit."

The line went dead before Skeeter could ask who the caller was, why they'd called him, or how they'd obtained this juicy tidbit of information. Was Goldie setting him up? Or the ATF? Or was this legit? He hadn't forgotten Ianira's strange intensity on the subject of who was going to win this bet.

Maybe he possessed more allies than he'd realized.

Skeeter decided to hunt up Mr. Farley and see for himself what this lone uptimer might be up to. And if that money belt were for real ... then Skeeter might just win his wager in one fell swoop. All it would take was a little finesse on his part. The question was, which scheme to use in the initial approach? Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Skeeter set out to do a little snooping of his own.

Scouting the territory in advance, Yesukai had taught him, was key to any victory. He'd find out what Chuck Farley was up to and use that to craft his plans to deprive the gentleman of that well-filled, undeclared money belt. Skeeter grinned and headed toward the Commons with a jaunty whistle.

"Undeclared? You're sure" Goldie's voice came out sharp, excited.

"Positive. I saw it under his shirt when he went to the can. And it's fat. Could be thousands tucked into that thing."

Golden dreams floated before Goldie's eyes, like sugar plums and gallant Nutcracker princes, along with visions of Skeeter in handcuffs, hauled kicking and protesting through Primary by Montgomery Wilkes while she waved bye-bye like a sweet little grandmother.

"What's his name and where is he now?"

The voice on the other end chuckled. "Calls himself Chuck Farley. He's hotel hopping, asking questions. Like what gates are the best to visit. Doesn't seem to have any particular destination in mind. Thought that was a might odd, so I started asking around. Time Tours says he doesn't have a ticket through any of their gates and none of the little companies have him booked through the state-owned gates, either."

"Well, well. Thank you very much, indeed."

Goldie hung up the phone thoughtfully. Either they had a speculator on their hands, intent on making an illegal fortune, or they'd stumbled across a rich fool looking for a thrill. No telling, until she had the chance to chitchat him personally. Whichever the case, she intended for that money belt and its delightfully undeclared contents to end up in her possession. Idiot. Chuck Farley had no idea that he'd just stepped into Goldie Morran's parlor. And like the nice, gentle spider she was, she set about weaving her silken webs of deceit to pull in this fat little fly all for herself.

Skeeter stood in the shadows of a fake marble column across from the Epicurean Delight, watching a slim, nondescript fellow with dark hair and unremarkable eyes read the posted menu. Chuck Farley wasn't much to look at, but the trained eye revealed the unmistakable presence of that money belt the anonymous tipster had telephoned about. Skeeter was about to step out into the open to join him in "perusing" the menu when Kit Carson, Malcolm Moore, and-of all people-Margo Smith showed up, chatting animatedly. Skeeter swore under his breath and kept to the shadows. Margo sported an enormous diamond on her left ring finger. Huh. What she sees in that guide is beyond me. Malcolm Moore was even more nondescript than Chuck Farley, with a notorious string of bad luck dogging him, to boot.

Of course, he'd been a little more prosperous lately. Some scheme he and Kit had going-and the fact that Skeeter couldn't get the real dope on it was driving him crazy. Nonetheless, he kept a tight rein on his curiosity. Skeeter was even more curious than the next 'eighty-sixer, but he steered far clear of anything connected with Kit Carson. Yesukai had taught him well--Skeeter knew when he was outgunned. The clever warrior chose his prey with care. Glory was one thing; stupidity quite another. Five years in Yesukai's yurt had more than taught Skeeter the difference.

The group paused outside the Delight, exchanging polite words with Farley as they glanced over the menu. Come on, go inside, already, before he decides to take a seat.

Farley nodded courteously in return and joined the long line of uptime patrons waiting for a table. Unless one were a Resident, tables at the Delight were difficult to come by. Reservations were booked weeks in advance and long waits were the norm. But Residents always found a spot at one of the "reserved" tables

Arley Eisenstein held for 'eighty-sixers. Skeeter's mouth watered. The scents wafting out of the world-famous restaurant tantalized the senses, but Skeeter didn't have the kind of money to foot the bill for a meal at the Delight, not even when he wasn't saving every scrap of cash he owned to win a wager like this one.

Of course, he had conned his way in a time or two, getting some trusting uptimer with more money than sense to buy him a gourmet meal. But that didn't happen often, and the fact that Skeeter was ravenously hungry only made matters worse. Voices from waiting patrons floated across the Commons, making it impossible to hear what Kit Carson and his party were saying. Skeeter hugged his impatience to himself. If they would just go in, he could wander over and find a reason to strike up a conversation with Chuck Farley.

A downtimer Skeeter recognized as the Welsh bowman who'd come through that unstable gate from the Battle of Orleans a few months back pushed a wheeled dustbin past, then paused and exclaimed aloud. Margo hugged him, laughing and asking questions Skeeter couldn't quite hear. When she showed off the ring on her hand, the Welshman made deep, deferential bows to both Kit and Malcolm.

Kynan Rhys Gower was one of the very few downtimers Skeeter didn't feel comfortable around. For one thing, the man had pledged some sort of medieval oath of fealty to Kit, which made his business very much Kit's business-and therefore very much not Skeeter's. For another, the Welshman looked murderous every time he glanced in Skeeter's direction. Skeeter had no idea what he'd done to antagonize the man, having never recalled even speaking directly with him, but then, the Welshman's temper had manifested itself in decidedly odd ways since his arrival. He was unpredictable, at the least.

At times, he'd bordered on certifiable-like the time he'd attacked Kit with nothing but a croquet mallet, bent on murder.

Skeeter crossed both arms over his chest and slumped against the column. Great: An impromptu welcome home party right in front of my rich little mark. Talk about luck... Maybe Malcolm Moore's was contagious? Skeeter certainly hadn't had much luck bringing any of his schemes to fruition since challenging Goldie to this stupid bet. What was I thinking, anyway? Everyone knows it's impossible to beat Goldie at anything. If anyone's certifiable, it's me. Still, the challenge she'd thrown down had stung his pride. He hadn't really had a choice and he knew it. Probably she'd known, too, blast her for the backstabbing harpy she was. At least Brian Hendrickson's records proved Goldie's lead a small one. A couple of good scams and he'd be ahead. Well ahead.