Highlander - Donna Lettow [4]
MacLeod took a sip. “Delicious,” he said, and the sommellier filled both his glass and the one at Constantine’s empty place before departing. MacLeod scanned the passing crowds again for another glimpse of that woman. But she was gone.
The maître d’ stepped into his line of sight. “Duncan MacLeod?” he asked, and MacLeod nodded. “There is a call for you.” He handed MacLeod a portable phone and returned to his post.
“MacLeod.”
“Ah, Duncan, thank goodness I caught you,” said the voice on the other end.
“Marcus, where are you?”
“I am so sorry, Duncan, but there’s been a slight emergency at the museum. I won’t be able to meet you for lunch.” Constantine’s voice was apologetic.
“Come on, Marcus, what kind of ‘emergency’ can there be at an antiquities museum?”
“You’d be surprised. At the moment I’m tied up to my ears in red tape.”
MacLeod laughed. “Now there’s a pretty image.”
“Funny,” he heard Constantine say. “Can you meet me at the museum just after closing?”
“Sure, I suppose,” MacLeod began, “but what about—”
“Perfect! Have to run, Duncan. See you at five.” Constantine hung up before MacLeod could finish.
Great. He’d been stood up. It certainly wasn’t the first time, but on the rare occasions it had happened in the past, the person standing him up had usually been a bit more … shapely than Marcus Constantine. He took a drink from his glass. At least the wine was good. He looked around for the maître d’ to return the phone and found him at his podium near the entrance.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” the maître d’ said in a practiced monotone to another patron as MacLeod set down the phone, “but without a reservation, I cannot seat you. C’est impossible,” and MacLeod realized he was addressing the same remarkable Arab woman he’d seen on the street.
“You’re sure there is nothing you can do?” she asked, her French a bit hesitant but her voice as smooth and rich as her skin. She slipped the maître d’ a wad of francs.
He handed them back to her in a huff. “No, Madame,” he said firmly, then walked away. MacLeod wondered if he’d been offended by the amount or by the thought of being bribed by a woman. Obviously disappointed, the woman put the money into a jacket pocket and turned to leave.
“I think I can help,” MacLeod found himself saying almost before he realized it.
She stopped and turned to him, her dark eyes taking in his finely chiseled features, his well-kempt ponytail, his body so obviously fit and muscular beneath the tailored blazer. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled, clearly liking what she saw. “Yes?”
“I …” Under the full power of her smile, he nearly found himself tongue-tied. Four hundred years of experience stripped away and for a solitary instant he was once again Duncan MacLeod the Chieftain’s son, pretty good with a sword but shy and awkward around the lassies. But only for an instant, then Duncan MacLeod the charmer kicked into action. “My lunch appointment just canceled and I’ve got a fantastic Hermitage that’d be a shame to waste. Care to join me?”
“What if I told you I didn’t drink?” He could tell she was interested, testing him.
“What if I confessed that was only a ruse so I might have the pleasure of your company?” He turned on his own thousandwatt smile and watched her reserve start to melt.
“Well …”
“I’ll be the perfect gentleman. Scout’s honor.”
“I’m sure you will,” she relented, unable to resist those eyes. With a quick glance back toward the street, she