"Linda Evans - Time Scout 5 - License Invoked" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Linda)

"Madam, please return to your seat," she said. She was British, blond,
and solid, with the sort of no-nonsense manner one associated with
school prefects and hall monitors.

"I just had to speak to Miss Kenmare," Elizabeth said, trying to sound
friendly but just as firm and not at all lunatic. She didn't want the
woman to put her into the category of insane fan. Elizabeth knew
perfectly well that airlines now carried plastic straps they used as
handcuffs for passengers who proved themselves dangerous. She'd never
hear the end of it back in the office if she spent the flight tied up.

"I'm sorry, but that's not possible," the flight attendant said, with a
practiced mix of steel and cordiality. At this moment, the other cabin
staff woke up to the intruder among them, and began to move towards
her. "Please return to your seat at once."

The green-headed singer turned idly to see who was leaning over her.
Without interest, she went back to her drink, her magazine, and her
stereo headset, without saying a word. The blond woman looked from
Kenmare to Elizabeth with her lips pressed together in exasperation.
Elizabeth suddenly thought it was better to retreat than explain.

"I'm so terribly sorry," she said. "I thought it would be all right."
She turned on her heel and marched with dignity toward the back of the
plane. A better opportunity would come along later.

***

"Oh, God, not you again," Fionna Kenmare said in an amused whinny, when
Elizabeth reappeared next to her an hour later. With her slim, blunt-
tipped fingers, she picked up a cocktail napkin, one with a ring in the
center from where her drink had been resting, pulled a pen out of her
pocket, and signed it. "I'm after giving you points for the Lord's own
tenacity, lady dear." She extended it to Elizabeth, who reached for it
automatically, then was outraged at herself and at the ego of the woman
who assumed she had stormed the barricades for an autograph.
Reasserting her professional persona, Elizabeth summoned up the words
of a protective cantrip her gran had taught her as a child, hoping it
would come out sounding like embarrassed gratitude. It would at the
very least alert her if something happened to Kenmare. All she needed
to do was touch the other's skin. . . .

As soon as her fingertips closed on the damp morsel of paper, the First
Class attendants abandoned the caviar cart and champagne bottles, and
converged upon Elizabeth.

"Madam!" the British woman exclaimed.

Distracted, Elizabeth sprang upright, still holding onto the seatback.
The attendants, accustomed to dealing with intruders, expertly pried