Killing Time Read online

  A low, warm hum of pleasure, little more than a sigh, sounded in her throat. Of course she had noticed—several times—how attractive he was, but except for that one slip of the tongue she thought she’d been successful in keeping her thoughts to herself. Either his low-key persona had misled her about his self-confidence and boldness, or she had been as transparent as water in her appreciation.

  She ended the kiss as leisurely as he had prolonged it, only gradually pulling away. His eyes were heavy-lidded, intent; her own lids felt heavy.

  “Do you think a kiss will keep me here?” she asked, her voice low.

  He chuckled as he straightened. “No, but I damn sure wanted to know how you taste just in case you do split.”

  Split? He thought she would split? She didn’t know if he was making a really lewd, disgusting reference, or if he thought she might not survive her assignment, and a laser attack did somewhat look as if the victim had been split open. Either way—

  He burst out laughing. “If you could see your face . . .”

  “Then my eyes would have to be on stems.”

  “Split means ‘to leave,’ ” he explained, still laughing as he went out the door.

  Nikita sat at the table, wondering how many other times she had missed the meaning of slang expressions, and if he thought she was a complete idiot. Then she laughed softly to herself, because who cared? He knew why she wasn’t familiar with all the slang he used. Some of it, yes, but not all. He had probably been laughing at her all day.

  She didn’t want any more soup, so she carried hers to the sink and copied what he had done: dump the food down the drain, turn on the water, then flip a switch that caused an awful grinding sound. When the quality of the sound changed, became a bit smoother, she turned off that switch and then the water.

  He probably had one of those automated dish-cleaning machines that were common in this century, but she didn’t want to push her luck. Until she saw him operate it, she would leave well enough alone. Instead, rummaging under the sink, she found a plastic bottle labeled “dishwashing detergent” and washed the dishes by hand, using a small, stiff-bristled brush that seemed to be there for just that purpose. Then she found a clean kitchen towel and spread it out on the countertop, putting the dishes upside down on it to dry.

  Domestic duties taken care of, she decided to take advantage of his absence by thoroughly examining his home. If he had thought she would be too polite to pass up this opportunity to inspect an early-twenty-first-century house, then his expectations were far divorced from reality.

  She started with the little alcove in back, where two white machines took up all the space. She thought she knew what they were, and by reading the various selections, she deduced she was correct. The machine that had such selections as “Quick Wash” had to be the “washing machine,” which had been used for wet cleaning. No one in her time ever used water for cleaning clothing. The other machine, then, was the drying machine. She opened both and looked inside. The washing machine was half full of socks and underwear, dry, so she assumed they needed washing and she quickly closed that lid. The drying machine was full of towels, and they were dry, so they had just as obviously already been wet-washed.

  She pulled one towel out and smelled it; there was a delicious, faintly lemon scent to the fabric. A tag caught her attention and she read it, surprised to find that the towel was one hundred percent cotton. Cotton! Did he know what a fortune these were worth? No, of course he didn’t. Only the very wealthy, the very very wealthy, could afford clothes made from any natural fiber. Cotton, silk, wool, linen—they were more precious than diamonds. Almost all clothing in her time was synthetic; certainly everything she owned was.

  The towel reminded her of the bathing apparatus in the motel. She had worked out how to use it, and though part of her was scandalized at the idea of using water to clean herself, she had greatly enjoyed the sensation of warm water cascading over her. Knox had the same arrangement in his bathroom, and after a day spent in these clothes, plus a lot of time out in the hot weather, she needed to bathe. Pity she didn’t have her clean clothes to change into yet, but right now she’d be satisfied to wash off the old sweat and grime.

  Putting thought into action, she hurried into the bathroom and locked the door, then stripped off her clothes. One of the advantages of the synthetic material was that if you were caught out in the rain, it dried very fast, within minutes. She quickly washed out her underwear and shirt, then hung them to dry before turning on the shower. She would have washed all her clothes, but doing the chore by hand seemed rather daunting. If Knox didn’t bring her suitcase back with him, though, she would have to wash her clothes tonight before she went to bed.

  After wrapping a towel around her head to keep her hair dry, she stepped under the warm water and sighed with bliss. Her time might be best in terms of convenience, but this time was definitely best in some things, a water bath being one of them. A plentiful supply of cotton towels was another. Oh, and paper! she thought, almost salivating at the idea of taking some paper back with her—assuming she didn’t get killed, assuming SAR was sent with replacement links so she could go home, assuming a lot of other factors went in her favor.

  The thought of home dimmed her delight in the shower. She couldn’t let herself think that she might not be able to get home. She had family, friends, a job she loved. She was close to her parents and to her younger sister, Fair; her younger brother, Connor, had confounded everyone two years ago by giving up his wild bachelor days for married life, and he and his wife had promptly produced a fat, adorable baby boy whom she doted on. She couldn’t imagine never getting to see Jemi’s dimpled little face again, or listen to his infectious laugh. She had to go home, or she wouldn’t be able to bear it.

  Clean and smelling of an herbal-scented soap, she turned off the water and dried herself with the towel she’d wrapped around her head. On the vanity were a few items and she inspected them, recognizing a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste—the tube said “toothpaste” on it, so there wasn’t much chance of guessing wrong on that one—and a razor for shaving. Men still used razors in her time; it was another one of those objects that worked. In her time, though, toothbrushes hadn’t been used for about a century; antiviral drugs had wiped out tooth decay in the modernized world, and mouthwashes broke down the sticky material that got on teeth, dissolving it.

  She found a bottle of moisturizer—unscented—and smoothed it over her skin, then got dressed. Her underwear and shirt were dry, and felt much better now that they’d been freshened. Comfortable and relaxed, she resumed her exploration of the house.

  In the main room, the living room, were a couple of comfortable chairs and a large leather couch, plus a much larger video screen than any she’d seen before in this time. The one in the motel room had been small compared to this one. The floor was covered with a carpet that didn’t look as if it had seen much traffic. There were a couple of lamps, some small tables, and at the other end of the room was a desk with one of the large, primitive computers and another small video screen. There were also books, all of them paper copies, and her hand trembled with excitement as she picked one up and flipped through the pages.

  Did these people realize how lucky they were, that they had so very many books printed on paper? One of the great tragedies of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries was that so much of their music, their books, their culture, had been recorded on computer discs that hadn’t stood up to time very well. Within two generations, the discs had deteriorated and most of the data was lost. Some of it could be re-created, of course; songs could be sung by other singers. But those original recordings were gone, never to be recovered. Manuscripts, research . . . so much of it lost. Paper seemed so very fragile, but there were fragments of paper hundreds of years old, proving that, with care, it was a viable medium for information.

  She turned on his computer, and waited an interminable amount of time while it whirred and clicked before finally beco