Highlander - Donna Lettow [44]
As the sun went down, there was a knock on her hotel room door. She got up quickly from her perch near the window and moved toward the door. A voice called out, “Room service!”
Oh. “I didn’t call for room service,” she answered, disappointed.
“No, no, madame,” the voice outside protested in Pakistani-flavored French. “You put in your order about three hours ago. The kitchen has been backed up.”
Three hours ago? She threw the door open. In a crisp waiter’s uniform and fake mustache, Duncan MacLeod stood behind a room-service cart covered in white linen. “Room service!” he announced with a bright smile and a wave of his hand over the contents of the cart, inclining his head to one side a bit to indicate the security men posted down the hall by the elevators.
Maral gestured for him to enter, managing to keep from laughing until she’d closed and locked the door behind him. “What are you doing?”
“You ordered a rescue, madame,” he said in his outrageous fake accent. “Here at the Hôtel Lutétia, we aim to please. Would you like that rescue for here or to go?”
“To go? You mean, out of the hotel?” She knew that’s what she had asked for, but she hadn’t actually dreamed it possible.
“Well, technically, it wouldn’t be much of a rescue if we just stayed here,” he said, resuming his normal, charming voice.
“But how?”
He lifted the linen skirt around the room service cart and indicated the empty platform below with an expansive gesture. “One getaway vehicle, at your service.”
“You think of everything, don’t you?”
“I try,” he said with a modest shrug. “What do you say, game for a little adventure?”
She was torn. A good little girl would stay in her room alone, safe, secure, content to watch the pigeons. But she was so tired of being everyone’s good little girl. A little adventure … One look at his face—caring, inviting—and her decision was made. “I should leave Assad a note, tell him not to worry.” She pulled hotel stationery and a pen from the desk, scribbling as she talked. “I get a wake-up call at six-thirty in the morning. Usually no one tries to contact me until then, but just in case, I’ll let him know I’m with you.” She propped the note up on the pillows of her enormous bed and grabbed her coat and purse from a nearby chair.
MacLeod had taken the food and service items from the cart, so it would appear he had left her with her dinner. Only the metal plate covers remained to be returned to the kitchen. “Ready?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
“As I’ll ever be,” she answered, as he helped her into the cart. She curled up in a fetal position on the low shelf, clutching coat and purse to her, and he lowered the linen cloth back down to cover her. She could see nothing but the shadows of his legs through the cloth as he began to push the cart from the room.
They rumbled down the hallway and then stopped, at the service elevator she guessed. “Garcon,” she heard a man say in accented French. One of the security guards. She held her breath. “When will you bring our food?”
When MacLeod spoke, it was in his odd, vaguely Pakistani accent, and she bit her lip so as not to laugh. “I do not know, monsieur, but I will go down immediately and ask the chef.” The elevator arrived, and he pushed the cart in. “Bonsoir! Bonsoir!” he piped cheerfully to the guards as the doors closed.
The elevator moved briefly, then stopped. The doors opened, and she felt the cart rumble out onto another floor, then a stop, a start, then a stop and some rustling sounds. She waited for what seemed like several minutes, afraid to speak, afraid even to breathe too loudly, lest she give them away. Then the linen skirt flipped up and MacLeod was helping her out of the cart.
The cheesy mustache and waiter’s uniform were gone, replaced by a tight pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged the contours of his chest. “Where are we?” she whispered.
“Fifth-floor linen closet. I wasn’t really going to wheel you down the Boulevard Raspail. Put on your coat,