Highlander - Donna Lettow [3]
“One moment, Monsieur.” MacLeod looked around the bistro, jammed with the well-to-do of Paris as well as a number of well-heeled tourists, all having a late lunch. Tessa had always said it was never hard to tell the two apart.
MacLeod had his own favorite restaurants in St. Germain. Café de Flore was one, where he and Sartre had argued ’til all hours, until finally the proprietor had bolted the door and gone home to bed, locking them inside until morning. And there was no counting the number of times Hemingway had stuck MacLeod with the check at Les Deux Magots. He still frequented them both, as much for the memories as the food. But the young upstart Chez Nous had recently received glowing reviews and a surprise two stars from the Guide Michelin and become The In Place to dine. It was just like Constantine to choose it—the Immortal curator could so rarely be pried out of his museum, the only restaurants he knew were ones he’d read about. “Is a table inside acceptable to Monsieur?”
“A table outside would be preferable to Monsieur.”
“Right this way.” He followed the maître d’ to a small table on the patio near the entrance, which boasted a fine view of the busy boulevard. “Monsieur Constantine has not yet arrived,” the maître d’ informed him, handing him a menu and wine list before departing.
That was not like Marcus Constantine. MacLeod checked his watch—twenty minutes late. Not like Constantine at all. Although nearly a score of centuries had passed, Constantine still conducted his life the way he must have commanded the great legions of Rome, with discipline, punctuality, and a meticulous attention to detail. It had won an empire for Rome, but it sometimes made Constantine a pain to work with. Pity the poor museum archivist twenty minutes late for a staff meeting—at one point in Constantine’s life, that offense would have merited flogging. Today, perhaps only a stern talking to. Still, MacLeod didn’t envy Constantine’s staff.
But now it was the General’s turn to be late. MacLeod’s first thought was of a chance encounter with another Immortal. Marcus Constantine may have taken himself out of the Immortal Game, but that didn’t mean the Game wouldn’t inevitably catch up with him. It was a part of being Immortal, like eating and breathing, that at any time another of your kind could challenge you for your head. But MacLeod didn’t dwell on the possibility for long. It was more likely he’d been delayed by a traffic accident or a student demonstration, much more common in Metropolitan Paris than the occasional beheading.
The wine steward appeared by MacLeod’s side, hovering in officious silence while he scanned the wine list. Arriving before Constantine meant that for once he got to choose the wine. Constantine’s taste in wine tended to run to sweet, cloying vintages or wines aged practically to vinegar. While these may have been the height of fashion in Nero’s day, MacLeod’s tastes had been cultivated in far more civilized times. A quick glance at the menu told him Chez Nous specialized in the cooking of the south of France. Perfect. “L’Hermitage from Chavi. The 1990 if you have it.” A proper wine for Provencal cooking.
While he waited for the wine, and for Constantine, to arrive, MacLeod watched the crowds go by along the boulevard, past the galleries and designer boutiques. He found himself, almost without thinking, naming where the obvious tourists had come from. The middle-aged couple in the matching brown coats and sensible shoes? German. The elderly man and woman? French, but not Parisian. Probably up from the South. It was a game he and Tessa would play for hours over coffee at a café or while strolling along the Seine. The only rule was you had to guess before hearing them speak. The two young lovers, no more than eighteen either of them, were too easy—English, his football jersey gave them away. Three blond women window-shopping at the jewelers across the way were more difficult. Obviously sisters, probably Scandinavian … Norwegian?
The woman walking past them caught his immediate attention. Her