Rising Storm

one I travel under.' She handed him the passport. 'See, that's me, too.' She offered him a brilliant smile. 'I explained all that to the Massachusetts DMV and they said no. They said I had to take off my makeup and rinse the dye out of my hair and use my birth name. The federal government,' Wendy said loudly, 'was willing to accept me as I am, but not Massachusetts. But really, a federal document supersedes a state document,' she said confidently.

He looked up at her, comparing the pictures from the license and the passport with what he saw. 'It does seem to be you,' he said.

Wendy smiled and nodded. He began comparing signatures. Fortunately Carolyn's handwriting and her own were very similar, hers being slightly neater.

'This handwriting is a little different,' the clerk said, pointing to the license.

Wendy nodded. 'They made me write it three times. It has to be legible, they said.' She scrunched up her face and felt one of the brow rings loosen. 'So are we all right, or what?' she asked, suddenly impatient.

The young man hesitated, still. 'How long did you want to rent the car for?'

'Ten days,' Wendy said without hesitation.

That way, if John didn't want to help her, she could get it back here easily enough. She supposed that she could lose herself in a city this size. Hell, she thought, maybe I can start up a Christian goth-rock band.

The young man made his decision and processed her request, sold her insurance.

'Very wise, miss.' And had her sign the rental agreement.

Wendy had bought a wrist brace when out shopping with Snog and it supplied the requisite messiness to make her handwriting an almost perfect copy of Carolyn's. Certainly it brought a look of relief to the clerk's face.

She stopped at the bank window to change her U.S. money into Brazilian currency, and remembered to buy some guaranies for when she entered Paraguay. Within ten minutes, a map on the seat beside her, she was on her way.

I hope John won't be mad, she thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

RED SEAL BASE, ANTARCTICA

Kurt Viemeister swaggered through the bland corridors of the base's living quarters to find Clea Bennet's door open. Putting his hands on either side of the doorway, he leaned in and looked around, pleasantly conscious of the way his broad sculpted shoulders and thick-muscled arms rippled beneath the thin T-shirt.

The room was just like a generous ten-by-fourteen cubicle, painted off-white, with a full bed, bookcase, cheap desk with an uncomfortable chair, bedside table, bureau, and a first-rate computer. Space was at a surprising premium in the base; armoring against the Antarctic was almost as much trouble as guarding against the environment of the moon.

Clea was packing.

'Going somewhere?' he asked, half humorously. As if there was anywhere to go.

'Yes,' she said, coming out of the tiny bathroom. 'Kushner, Locke, and I are going seal hunting.' Clea gave him a sidelong smile. 'In a manner of speaking.'

'What about our work?' Kurt snapped, straightening.

The I-950 turned a cool look on the self-styled superman.

'Hey, Kurt, why don't you say that a little louder, I don't think Tricker heard you.

Or, you could wear a T-shirt that says 'I break the rules, please punish me.' '

Clea raised one sardonic brow at him as she crossed the room to take something from her bureau drawer. 'If you want me to work with you it wouldn't hurt you to ask for my assistance. Officially.' She gave him a very false smile. 'I suspect Tricker thinks I want to be your groupie.'

Viemeister frowned. 'I will speak to him now, this hour. I don't want you wasting your time fooling around with dumb animals.'

Serena had been right; Viemeister was ridiculously lacking in social skills, and laughably unaware of it. The man was convinced that it was his choice entirely that people left him alone. He was equally convinced that if he wanted someone's company he could charm them into liking him.

Fat chance! Clea thought. Viemeister had brains and good looks— but then, so did a very bright Doberman. Apparently he's never tested that I-am-charming-when-I-want-to-be theory.

She turned to him with a slight smile. 'Kurt, I'm going stir-crazy down here. I want to see some sky.' She tilted her head toward him. 'Okay?'

'I didn't even know you were interested in pinnipeds,' he said sullenly.

The I-950 laughed. 'I'm interested in everything. Especially wringing concessions from Tricker. It amuses me.'

Frowning, Viemeister took a deep breath and crossed his massive arms over his swollen chest.

Is that for my benefit? she wondered.

'I don't like Tricker,' he announced.

'Big surprise there,' Clea said. 'I doubt he'd win a popularity contest hereabouts.

If you don't like him it should please you that I enjoy torturing him.'

Kurt snorted. 'I suppose it should. But it concerns me that you claim to be going stir-crazy. It is a weakness, and you should fight any weakness in your character.'

'It's a state of mind, and I'll do what I like.'

The I-950 gave him a hard look and watched him lift his head, like a bull scenting a challenger. She smiled and looked away, a dimple in her cheek. 'I'll be back in a week,' she said. 'You're just jealous because I'm getting to do something different.'

His stance and expression softened slightly. 'Perhaps I'm jealous that you're going to be out on the ice with two other men.'

Clea laughed and went to embrace him, chuckling as his arms wrapped around

her. She leaned back and looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. Yes, she was definitely developing a sense of humor.

'You have to have seen these guys,' she said. 'Kushner is a potato with legs and Locke looks like the mummy of Ramses the Second walking.' She poked him in the chest, perhaps a little too hard, but he was such a jerk. 'I've made my choice, and that ought to tell you something about my taste in men.'

This time he laughed, and something in the way of it was intended to remind her she'd been a virgin until she met him.

'Exactly,' she purred.

Clea pushed herself off from his chest, forcing him to let her go, though he obviously didn't want to. Arching a brow, she asked, 'Weren't you going to go ask Tricker to allow you my services?' She smiled wickedly.

'I can't dissuade you?'

'Uh-uh.'

'Then I may as well go.' He turned on his heel and walked out without another word.

Clea snorted, knowing he heard her because she knew exactly how to direct sound to her intended hearer. She knew he'd been deliberately ambiguous, assuming that she'd wonder if he'd even bother to ask Tricker for her assistance in his work.

As if he'd risk alienating her. Poor Kurt was a very lonely boy and she'd made a point of filling his off-hours with lots of rigorous exercise and stimulating conversation. What ha considered stimulating conversation anyway, which alternated between talking about how wonderful he was, his absurd