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  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,” he whispered, donning his leather jacket, and she complied. He stuck his head cautiously out the door, looked around, then motioned for her to follow him out. Once in the hall, he pulled the room-service cart out of the linen closet and left it outside a neighboring guest room. Then he took her hand and they proceeded down the hall as if nothing had happened.

  Her heart was beating fast as they descended to the lobby in the guest elevator and he squeezed her hand in encouragement. As the doors opened, they stepped nonchalantly into the lobby and toward the revolving doors.

  “Uh-oh.” Before she even had a chance to notice what was wrong, MacLeod wrapped an arm around her shoulder and spun her around in the opposite direction. They started walking quickly out of the back of the lobby and into a corridor of meeting rooms. As they passed out of the lobby, Maral turned around and saw a flock of reporters at the door, anxious for a statement about the Palestinian walkout at the day’s negotiations, and Farid and his men valiantly holding them at bay.

  MacLeod ducked into a room labeled “Degas,” empty of people but set for a formal dinner, pulling Maral behind him. They hurried across the chandeliered room and through a small door at the back. They found themselves in a stark, utilitarian hallway surrounded by serving carts and metal shelving.

  “I’ve never been backstage before,” Maral whispered. “Where does this go?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” He looked right, then left, then right again.“C’mon, this way,” he said, starting down the corridor to the left. They’d only gone a couple of feet when a cadre of servers bearing trays of glassware for the Degas Room came toward them in formation, blocking the hallway. “Or not,” MacLeod said, quickly changing direction and hurrying back the other way, pulling Maral along in his wake.

  Not too far past the Degas Room, they found a metal door labeled “Sortie.” Maral moved to push on the exit bar, but MacLeod pulled her back. “Wait.” He looked around the door, checking for sirens or buzzers that might go off once they pushed the door on, but found none. “Okay, here goes.” He tensed himself for an alarm and together they pushed open the door. There was silence.

  They ran out into the night, into the alley behind the hotel. The Citroën was parked a couple of blocks away and they strolled leisurely to it, hand in hand, Maral giggling like a schoolgirl at their little taste of adventure. As they drove back past the hotel, surrounded by news vans with satellite transmitters on their roofs, she waved at it in triumph.

  When MacLeod heard that Maral had seen virtually nothing of Paris since her arrival, he regretted their grand adventure was taking place at night. There were so many things he would have loved to have shown her, he said—the rose window of Sainte-Chapelle at sunset, the gallery of the Impressionists at the Musée d’Orsay, the Bagatelle gardens in the Bois de Boulogne. Maybe someday. They had to content themselves with a moonlit ride up the elevator at the Eiffel Tower, but the look of delight on her face as she gazed out over the twinkling splendor of the City of Lights when they’d reached the top made up for it all. And the view of Notre-Dame from the deck of MacLeod’s barge, lit bright against the night sky, was better than any she could have hoped for. It was a long while before he could even coax her belowdecks. Had it been summer and the breeze off the Seine not so biting, she might have stayed there all night, gazing across the river at the wonders that man could create.

  Before he even snapped on the light, she could tell they were in a place uniquely his. It smelled of him, strong and masculine, yet as comforting as her father’s favorite sweater. Ali had had a scent like this, warm but powerful, a touch of spice that had slowly leaked away out of their apartment, out of her life in the months after his death. As the lights came on, she thought to herself “Of course”the room was a natural extension of the man. Both fit and spare, but at the same time comfortable and welcoming. There was beauty in the details, in the objets d’art from many lands adorning the spartan shelves to the simple but extremely tasteful furnishings, and they spoke volumes about their owner.

  “Home, sweet home,” MacLeod announced, helping her remove her coat. “Be it ever so humble…”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” she said. She moved to the porthole overlooking the Seine and watched a boatload of tourists drift past on a moonlight cruise, so close she could almost touch them. “How incredibly free you must feel here.” She turned back to him glowing with delight. “How I envy you.”

  “Well, there are still docking fees and taxes, but there is something about the water.” He walked past her and into the tiny galley area. “You hungry?”

  Now that she thought about it, “Famished. Is this what adventure does to you?”

  “I find that a little adventure stirs up all sorts of appetites.” She thought she could detect a delicious twinkle in his eye before his head disappeared into the small refrigerator beneath the counter. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

  As he rattled and clanged in the galley, Maral wandered around the barge, picking up hand-carved chess pieces, running a hand along the burnished chrome of an intricate piece of sculpture, trying to get a feel for this man Duncan MacLeod and how he chose to live. At the antique writing desk, she studied the few framed photos he kept there, and the stunning blonde who dominated them all.

  She felt his hand on her shoulder. “Château MacLeod, our very best year,” he said, handing her a crystal champagne flute of chilled water. “Dinner is served, madame.”

  “Who is she?” Maral asked, and she thought she might lose her breath at the bittersweet look that passed across his noble face. Whoever she was, God, how he still loved her.

  “That’s Tessa,” he said quietly. “She’s gone now.”

  In those simple words, she could feel it—his grief, his loneliness. All the days he’d screamed at the earth to stop turning because it was empty and meaningless. All the nights he’d begged his heart to stop beating so he could be with her and stop the pain. And finally the acceptance, that he could go on in spite of the pain that would never leave, that somehow he had to go on. She could feel it, and in that moment she could feel their souls touch, both wounded, both lonely, both needing.

  And then she pulled away. Maybe she wasn’t ready after all.

  “Maral?”

  She moved to the table. “So what’s this I hear about dinner?” Then she stopped and stared at the feast he’d laid on. Chilled gazpacho, a full color wheel of patés, smoked goose, a delicate carpacho of Parmesaned greens and cold veal. “Duncan, you can’t tell me these were odds and ends you found in the back of the fridge,” she accused. “Did you make all this?”

  “Of course not, I’m not Superman.” He laughed. “White knight on even numbered days, gourmet chef on the odd ones. But I have friends.” He pulled her chair out with a flourish. “Shall we?”

  As they dined on their cold supper, she told him about the day that had finally led up to her call for help. How the Israeli foreign minister had pulled a key plank from the impending agreement, claiming that he was unaware of it and that his negotiators had had no authority to include it. About how Arafat had staged a walkout to bring what he called deception in front of the international press. How she hated the press, the posturing, the half-truths. It felt so good to have someone to talk to, honestly and without the negotiation games. And he had seemed willing
to listen to her talk all night if that’s what she needed.

  Later, after he’d lowered the lights on the barge a bit and started a cheery fire glowing in the fireplace, they sat on the sofa with pastry and strong dark coffee. Kicking off her shoes, she pulled her bare feet up under her and nestled back into the sofa’s soothing folds, luxuriating in the warmth of the fire, at peace for the first time in weeks. During a lull in the conversation, MacLeod reached out and took her left hand in his.

  “Tell me about him.” He softly rubbed her wedding ring with his thumb.

  She wanted to pull away again, then stopped. Something in his eyes, in his voice, in his encouraging smile reassured her. “His name was Ali. He was my student at Bir Zeit. Then the government closed the university, and he…”

  “Was no longer your student,” he finished for her after a moment. She smiled gratefully at his tact.

  “We married in ’89, during the Intifada. The Israelis called him an ‘instigator.’ During the first few years we were married, I think he spent more nights in an Israeli prison bed then he did in mine.”

  “Sometimes the reunions make it all worthwhile,” MacLeod said with understanding.

  She felt herself blush just a little, remembering, then went on. “When the military closed the schools in Ramallah, I taught children in our home. That was as close to rebellion as I got. That was Ali’s calling—war was man’s work.” She took a swig of her coffee and stared off into the fire. It was still so hard to face.

  “And then?” he prompted, gently, already knowing.

  “And then he went out one night three years ago and never came back. There was a disturbance. Some kids throwing rocks at some Israeli settlers got out of hand. Ali went to see if he could calm things down. I thought at first he’d been arrested again. And then I prayed to God that he’d been arrested again.” She looked down at her wedding band, still safely cradled in MacLeod’s hand. “It was a week before they even let me claim his body.” It was all so fresh. The waiting and wondering. The charnel house they called a morgue. She didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not now.

  He reached an arm around her shoulders and tenderly lay his hand against her face, guiding it to rest against his chest. God, he smelled so good. His chest was firm and strong, and she could feel his strength hold her up, bolster her own courage. She leaned against him that way for a long moment, reveling in the feeling of being cared for again. Then she pulled away, grateful, and sat up, peer to peer once more.

  MacLeod acknowledged the subtle change in their dynamic with an approving smile. “So then the professor became the ‘instigator.’ “

  “Mediator,” she stressed. “Someone has to stop it, Duncan. Someone has to make sure no more wives or mothers go through what I went through. Israeli or Palestinian. The killing has to stop. And if it has to fall to me to do it, I will. No matter what.”

  She stopped, uncomfortable. He was looking at her in a way she could only describe as wonder. The room had become unexpectedly warm. He reached out both his arms and as his hands drew nearer to her face, she closed her eyes and held her breath, hoping against hope he would touch her in the way she found she was suddenly longing to be touched. She felt his fingers brush her cheeks, then stroke her temples and she opened her eyes again to gaze into his soft brown ones. With slow, deliberate motions, he removed the graceful gazelles from her hair and she gave her head a toss, allowing the full glory of her mane to cascade around her face and beneath her shoulders to her waist. He dug his face and hands into her hair like a parched traveler at an oasis pool.

  She hated to break the moment, but she had to laugh out loud. He lifted his head. “What?”

  “You’ve been wanting to do that since the first moment you saw me.”

  “So?” he said a little sheepishly.

  “It’s all right, Duncan,” she said, “because I’ve been dying to do this.” She reached her arms up behind him and pulled off the fastener that bound back his hair. Then she ran her fingers slowly through his own glorious lion’s mane.

  The passion of his answering kiss drove her back against the leathery folds of the couch, and she responded with equal fervor. Her mouth hungered to taste all of his flavors. Cinnamon and musk and the smoke of ancient campfires exploded in her mouth and she savored each one. She threw back her head, daring his tongue to take her, needing to feel his kiss deep inside her.

  He tried to balance himself on his elbows and knees, sparing her body the brunt of his weight, but she pulled him down on top of her, her agile hands massaging deep into the muscles of his back pulling him closer, closer, wanting to feel him against every pore of her skin. It had been so long, too long since she’d allowed anyone to come near her. Now, even the thin cloth of his T-shirt was more than she could bear between them, and she began to draw it awkwardly off over his head.

  With a hand, he stopped her. He stood up from the sofa, moving closer to the warmth of the fireplace, and she joined him there. He pulled the T-shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and suddenly they were like a single creature, all arms and legs, fingers and hands, helping, hindering, until all barriers of clothing were removed.

  They both glowed golden in the firelight. She stood in awe of him. Like Michaelangelo’s David, Rodin’s lovers, every muscle taut and articulated, sculpted from God’s own blue-prints. God, how she needed him. Her breasts felt heavy and tipped with flame and she longed for him to quench the fire, and, as if privy to the secrets of her mind, he did. She gasped as she felt his mouth upon her, and with her nails she traced the sinews of his thighs to the tight ridges of his belly.

  When he released her—her heart wanted to scream No!—he took her hand in his, starting to lead her toward his bed in the bow of the barge.

  “No,” she said, her voice awash with passion. She had to see him in the dancing light of the fire, watch as the flames played along his magnificent features as they made love. “Here.” She knelt to the floor and drew him down on top of her.

  Chapter Ten

  Paris: The Present

  MacLeod came awake before he actually opened his eyes. He could tell from the damp chill against his skin that dawn had not arrived yet, but the noises from outside—the chattering of the birds, the roar of passing trucks, the creaking and rocking of the barge as a towboat went past on the river—told him it was not far away. He opened his eyes to find that, indeed, the rosy fingers of dawn had yet to find their way into the barge. He tried to remember when they’d finally made it to the bed. Not that long ago. He rolled over with a fond smile, replaying in his mind the night just spent, and reached out to kiss Maral awake.

  She wasn’t there.

  MacLeod sat upright in the empty bed, completely awake now. “Maral?” he called out into the predawn gloom filling the barge. He was answered by the sound of the shower coming on.

  Relieved, he looked at the clock. Four in the morning. No wonder he felt like he hadn’t slept. But there were definitely some things in this life worth losing sleep for. He could still smell her scent on his pillow, on his body. He slipped out of bed, out from beneath the downy warmth of the duvet, and the damp cold of the morning air hit his naked body with a shiver. He padded across the barge to the bathroom.

  MacLeod stood in the bathroom doorway for a long minute, watching her through the glass doors of the shower, watching her body dance under the jets of water, before sliding open the door and slipping into the shower behind her. He picked up a bar of soap and slid it down her back. “Can I help?”

  She turned toward him with a start. “Duncan. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  The cascade of water against them was blood hot and he could feel his body come to life in the fiery jets. He kissed her gently on the lips, then began to lather her shoulders, letting his hands roam down her back in large soapy circles. Beneath his firm hands he could feel her muscles relax.

  “Hmmm, very nice,” she purred. “Do you make house calls?”

  He allowed his hands to roam fart
her, swirling lather down her spine, across and under her tightly rounded rear. He left one hand there, pressing her close against him while he kissed her again as the pulsating jets rinsed the soap from her back. All of a sudden, the barge lurched a bit to one side and Maral pulled away, startled, then the boat righted itself and resumed its gentle rocking motion. “What was that?” she wondered.

  “Probably just got caught in something’s wake. Happens all the time. Nothing to worry about.” He slipped an arm around her waist and turned her around. “Other side.” He pulled her close, her slick back against his dripping chest, and she could feel every inch of him press against her, skin to skin, as he soaped her belly and allowed the hot stream of water to sweep the soap away in rivers down her legs.

  Slowly, his soapy hands circled upward, lathering her chest, spiraling up her breasts. Feeling a little devilish, he paid special attention to the hollow between her breasts where he’d discovered she was so very ticklish. Laughing, she pulled away from his slippery embrace. “Duncan, if you keep this up, I’ll never leave.”

  “That’s the plan,” he said, running the soapy bar down her nose.

  “No!” she protested, wiping the soap from her nose. “I have to get back to the hotel before six-thirty. Some of us have to work today.”

  Sadly, he knew she was right. While he could be content to dally in the shower with her all day, much more important matters—at least in the grand scheme of things—awaited Maral. “Okay, Cinderella, you finish up here.” He handed her the soap. “I’ll start some coffee, and we’ll get you back before you turn into a pumpkin. I promise.”

  He slipped from the shower and grabbed a towel from a nearby bar. He buried his face in the thirsty terry cloth as he walked from the bathroom toward the galley, then tousled it through his damp hair.

  “Good morning, Mr. MacLeod.”

  There, waiting patiently on his sofa in dark suit and Arab headdress, Farid. Assad and two more of Farid’s goons were ranged about the barge, their pistols drawn and trained on MacLeod.