Chapter 2

He took a step forward, planning a suitably crisp reply to the fat git’s total

absence of human civility, let alone any nod to political correctness. The chef

glared back and balled his fists. So that’s how it goes. The sniping was

over. Curtis took a deep breath and wondered who would put the bits of him back

in the van and get him home after the inevitable pummelling.

A

punch came out of nowhere, at least that was how it seemed. The one thing

Curtis knew was that neither he nor the fat git had thrown it. Curtis stared,

astounded, as a fist landed on the chef’s jaw. It was like a movie: he watched

each step like it was in slow motion. The fist hit the nose–the sound of

slapped flesh and crunched bone followed a fraction afterwards–then the chef’s

head twisted sharply back and to the side. His eyes were full of angry shock

and his mouth gaped wide, his cheek crushed flat on the side of the blow.

Curtis even imagined the soundtrack swelling into a cymbal crash as the man’s

knees buckled and he slumped back against the side of the van. Slowly, he slid

down to the ground.

“Sonofabitch!”

came a man’s curse. Curtis whirled to see a stranger grimacing and cradling his

right wrist in his left hand. He caught Curtis’ gaze and grinned ruefully.

“Haven’t hit a guy for a long time, I’m obviously outta practice.” He had an

American accent, with a very slight southern drawl.

Curtis

stared at him. “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?”

The

man did a double-take. “What d’you thinkI’m doing?” He nodded sharply

at the chef, currently wheezing against the passenger door. Blood dripped into

his hand, which he cradled at his nose, and dribbled on down his white uniform.

“Shutting up that sewer-mouthed sonofabitch, that’s what.”

Curtis

did a quick scope out of the area. The other staff had rather miraculously

vanished at the first sign of trouble, though Curtis suspected that if the chef

had been less of a turd, they might have stayed around to help out. Instead, he

was pretty sure they thought the pig deserved everything he got. But whether

that meant being beaten up by some weird Transatlantic stranger…

Curtis

peered back at the stranger. He didn’t look like one of the porters or kitchen

staff. Rather incongruously, he was dressed in smart suit trousers, pristine

white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a silk waistcoat. Curtis

looked quickly at the man’s shoes, because for him, that was the real mark of a

person. And then he laughed aloud.

The

man frowned at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Cowboy

boots,” Curtis said, his words shaky through the laughter. “You’re dressed like

posh totty but you’re wearing cowboy boots!” They were smart ones, mind you, in

supple, expensive-looking black leather with attractive stitching on the top.

But they weren’t exactly what you’d usually accessorise with smart evening

wear. Like Curtis would know…but, still.

“Posh

totty?”

Curtis

shrugged. “Usually refers to girls, but I think you qualify as well. Means

smart looking, expensive clothes, usually a posh voice…” And cute, cute, cute

his mind cackled in the background.

The

man frowned again, glanced down at himself and then laughed. “These clothes

ain’t my usual look. I play piano in the dining room and I’m on call for a

business lunch event. They like me to wear full costume even for rehearsal.”

“Boots

and all?”

For

the first time, wariness flickered in the man’s eyes. “You have some kinda

fixation. The boots are definitely mine, my pride and joy. Where I go, they

go.” He bent quickly and gracefully at the knees and scooped something up off

the ground behind him. “This, too.”

A

cowboy hat. A cowboy hat? Curtis watched the man perch it back on his

head–where Curtis had to admit it looked like it had belonged since birth–and

wondered what part of the time travel universe he’d stepped into. He snuck a more

searching look over the man himself, rather than his clothes. He was a couple

of inches taller than Curtis but much more strongly built. Broad shoulders

hinted at a lot of power in his arms and long, lean back. His skin was the kind

of white that looked good tanned, compared to Curtis’ naturally darker tone. He

was clean-shaven with wide grey eyes, and his dark blond hair curled down over

his ears. It all framed strong, not traditionally handsome features. His mouth

was perhaps too wide, his nose bent in the middle as if he made a habit of

punching chefs on the nose and a couple of them had got a return blow in. And

so when had Curtis become a casting scout for Calvin Klein? He shook himself

for getting carried away. But it was a striking face regardless, and Curtis

felt a small frisson of excitement run down his spine. Jesus, get a grip!

But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex, proper sex that was, with

another human being, not just wanking off to a magazine so he didn’t forget

what other things his dick was hanging there for. Now he was eyeing up a stranger

in a seedy back yard at half past eight in the morning.