Page 77 of Flirting with Forever

“For the night?” Jeanne said. “It doesn’t work like that here.”

“Don’t fret, Miss Turner. I’m very resourceful.”

“So, you’re not going to go. You’ll stay?”

“Jesus, Jeanne.” Cam looked to see if Jacket was nearby, but he seemed to have disappeared into the studio. “He can stay or he can go. I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

Peter clapped his hands together. “There you have it. A prettier invitation a man could not desire.”

The elevator dinged, and Cam pressed the security button. When the door slid open, she leaned in and pressed 1. “Bye.”

Peter made a courtly bow and stepped through the door.

Jeanne giggled again. “You know who he reminds me of? Cary Grant.”

Cam smacked her forehead. “Christ,” she muttered, then barked “No!” at Peter when she caught him eyeing the buttons. “Don’t touch anything. Just get out when the door opens.”

Jeanne called, “Wait!” as the doors drifted closed and lunged to get an arm in, but Cam blocked it.

“Now what?” Cam demanded when the Down button went dark. “Were you planning to ask him to the prom?”

“Your key,” Jeanne said, crossing her arms. “He’s got it.”

Thirty-two

Jeanne waved at the Carnegie’s night guard and made her way down the long hallway. Eight o’clock on a Thursday, and she hadn’t even logged on. If she were going to pass biology and get a degree, she had better stop being the backstop for every weird problem her boss couldn’t field, get her ass in that chair, and start the virtual frog dissection.

She opened the door that led to the administrative wing. When she got to the office door, she stopped. A narrow strip of light was visible along the carpet.

Jeanne hadn’t left the lights on, and even if she had left them on, she knew they still should be off. To save energy, the lights worked on movement. When you turned a light on, it stayed on as long as there was movement in the room. After ten minutes of no movement, it went off.

Slowly Jeanne angled herself to look in the door’s side window.

A tall, skinny bald man stood, slightly dazed, peering at Cam’s books and rubbing his head, and the fact that he seemed to be nursing a broken nose would have been far more interesting to Jeanne if he hadn’t also been wearing puffy wool culottes and the second Adam Ant shirt she’d seen in the last three hours.

“No. Freaking. Way.”

Thirty-three

Peter saw the shadow cross his table and looked up.

“‘Rage Against the Machine’? A bold sentiment, Mertons, for a man clawing his way to the top of the Time-jump Accountants’ Guild.” He shoved a chair open with his foot and gestured toward it, then, turning to the coffeehouse’s publican, called, “Barkeep, one of these marvelous coffees for my friend.”

“Dammit, Peter, the Guild is going to be furious,” Mertons said, wiping his glasses on his shirt. “You’ve gone too far.”

Peter looked at the sticklike legs extending from the shiny blue drawers his friend was wearing. “Your calves are admirable, to be sure, but next time might I suggest slightly longer hose? Either that or a considerably warmer cloak—especially in this weather.” He nodded toward the rain sheeting down beyond the shop window that framed the dark street.

“This is no time for a joke. They’ve already issued a condemnation.”

“I reel from the blow. Speaking of blows, I hope mine did not importune you too much. It seemed the most expedient path at the time.”

Mertons grunted and brushed several drops of water from his brow. Peter hadn’t expected to see him quite so soon, though he’d already decided Mertons’s arrival would not change his plan.

“You have no idea the power they wield,” Mertons continued. “Would you care to be reborn as an Assyrian slave? Or perhaps one of the soldiers in the Second Punic War? Or here?” Mertons gave his outfit a look of mild disgust, and when Peter didn’t respond, he added, “You’ll never paint again. And they can ensure you remember that you did. Peter, they can ensure you remember everything…forever.”

Peter felt the budding of a small fear. He didn’t know the full extent of the Guild’s power, though he had heard they had a tendency toward vindictiveness when crossed. While he would sacrifice any happiness his own future might hold, there was one thing he would not risk. “Can they touch Ursula?” he asked hesitantly.

The accountant collapsed into the chair beside him and sighed. For a long moment he said nothing.