For the first few days after he resigned from the Service, Mac was at odds with himself.   He exercised a lot, running, thinking, meditating through the katas he had been working on for centuries and which had long since become second nature.  What to do with his life now?  Could he really trust Mawdsley?  He had kept watch on Bond, hovering around his hotel, his senses alert just in case Kuyler should reappear, but he had not felt the slightest hint of Immortal presence.

          He had half-expected Bond to seek him out once he was out of the hospital, but after checking into Paris headquarters one last time, the agent finally headed out of town in his sleek, black Astin Martin.  Mac followed him at a careful distance all the way to the coast and watched as the car was loaded onto the ferry north to England.  He headed back to Paris feeling a little out of sorts until he realized the cause of his irritation, when he had to smile at his own folly.  He had almost wanted Bond to come after him.  The man was a kindred spirit, someone who knew violence, who lived with it, but who refused to let it define who he was.  He would have liked to have known him better.  They might have eventually become friends, someone he could trust to watch his back.

          Except for the whole Immortality thing.

          Well, he wished the man well, and hoped he was careful.  Mortal lives were short enough without deliberately flirting with disaster.

          He spent the next week putting the finishing touches on the final paper he had been preparing for his thesis.  It had been in the works for almost a year, on and off.  He had deliberately extended the time of completion because he had not wanted to fulfill all his degree requirements, needing the cover of his student identity.  But now there was no need, and he felt almost sad as he climbed the steps to the faculty offices housing the History Department.

          He supposed he should call his clansman and former teacher, Connor MacLeod.  He could set up a Paris branch of MacLeod and Ellenstein Antiques, as they had discussed many times.   If it were feasible to find a position, he would enjoy teaching, but his current documented age, experience and education made that a difficult task.

          The heavy oak door into Professor Gabriel Weis’ office required some pushing, and he found the man with his nose buried in an art catalogue.  Mac cleared his throat.

          “Duncan!” the man beamed at him, pulling his feet off the corner of his desk to the floor.  “I was so delighted when you called.  I had begun to wonder if you were ever going to finish that thesis.”

          Mac handed him a thick envelope.  “It’s all here.  I made a few revisions from the last version, but I think you’ll be pleased with them.”

          The professor plopped the envelope onto his desk without opening it.  “I was pleased with the last two versions you gave me.  I don’t know why you insisted on continuing to revise your work.  I think it is publishable as is.  But then I’ve told you that a half-dozen times.  I’ve rarely seen a thesis with such a wealth of original material, rich detail and insightful analysis.”  He chuckled, pushing his reading glasses up on top of his head and gesturing for Mac to sit.  “Sit!  Talk to me.  Tell me what you plan to do now.”

          Mac moved some books and papers off of the battered wooden chair in front of Prof. Weis’ desk, and sat.  “I’m not really sure.  I could contact a cousin of mine who has an antique business in New York City, see if I could open a branch here.  I could do some consulting on finding and authenticating ancient weapons and armor.  But what I would really like to do is teach.”  Mac smiled, raising an eyebrow in question.

          “Hmm.  Well, you know I’m here on a grant, Duncan, and I will be headed back to the States in another year.  But…” he sat forward, fingering the catalogue he had been examining.  “You know one of my strongest interests is in Japanese art, and its influence on French painting, and you seem to have some marvelous contacts in Japan.  You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?” he queried, and smiled at Duncan’s slight nod.  “Hmm.”  The professor stared off into space, his busy fingers now pulling at his lower lip.  “Give me a little time to work on it,” he mused.  “Of course, the stipend would hardly be enough to live on…”

          “They rarely are,” Mac smiled.  “Don’t worry about that,” he assured the professor.  “I’ll manage somehow.”

          They discussed the possibilities for a few more minutes, then Mac excused himself, walking back down the hall, his steps echoing against the hard walls and polished floors.  It was a genuinely warm Spring afternoon, but he still felt chilled, tucking his hands inside the pockets of his long coat.  He was carrying his ancient katana again, and felt quite ambivalent about that.  It was a pain to always have to worry about the blade being discovered, but it lessened the constant tension that was a part of the everyday existence of being perpetually hunted.

          He didn’t want to go back to his empty apartment, but he’d already gone for a run, and it was too early for dinner.  There was a good bookstore a few blocks away, though.  He pushed through the building’s outer doors, his hand sliding over a paper flyer pasted to the window.  He almost tore it off, and stopped to push it back into place.

          Mac was halfway down the steps when he slowed, then paused and walked back up the steps to read the rest of the announcement.  He pulled the piece of paper off the glass, read it again, then folded it and put it in his pocket.

          He paced outside the Art Department building for at least five minutes, berating himself for 400 times a fool.  It seemed that no amount of heartache was sufficient to keep him from repeatedly making an idiot of himself.

          With a gusty sigh, he trudged up the steps, giving in to the inevitability of his own nature.  He had long ago decided he would rather live with heartache than not feel at all.  Besides, it didn’t seem to matter what he consciously decided anyway, his subconscious would drive him towards and sometimes straight over that steep cliff.

          The Art Department gallery, currently housing the end-of-year Senior Show, was softly lit, with a background in muted earth colors.  The large space was cordoned off into smaller areas with space dividers, and the paintings, multi-media pieces and sculptures were artfully spotlighted, drawing the eye from one piece to the next.

          There were only a few people in the gallery and Mac strolled through without directly encountering anyone.  Most of the work seemed a little immature and unsubtle.  Some had sparks of brilliance, needing a little more time to mature into a flame.  He noted that Andre Charpin’s multi-media work was featured as “superior”.   The young man’s efforts left Mac unmoved, but they had a certain hard-edged sophistication that might sell.

          He located a drawing by Tessa Noel, finding it poignant and lovely.  It was a simple pencil sketch of a woman watching her young child at play.  She had managed to capture the mother’s protective pride in only a few lines.  Her multimedia piece was interesting, a shadowbox montage of faces cut from magazines, newspapers and photographs, treated and textured, making young faces look old and the old look luminously youthful.

          He reached the center of the big room and came upon what appeared to be the centerpiece of the exhibit – a sculpture bathed in a warm spotlight.  Two smooth, idealized human torsos.  One male, one female.  Almost touching.  Reaching, but not connecting.  There was an underlying tension and tragedy in the arched back of the female figure, such longing in the straining shoulders and chest of the male figure.  He stepped closer, and reached out to run a finger over the smooth clay, the skin so well defined that he almost expected it to be warm to the touch.

          Inamorata, the label said.  By Tessa Noel.  The faculty show rating was noted as “Excellent.” 

          Mac realized he had been holding his breath.  He had not been wrong.  There was something wonderfully passionate about the woman, an inner light that had drawn him like a moth to a flame.  He swallowed to relieve the dryness in his throat and shook his head, counseling himself to calm and objectivity.

          Each display had a set of comment cards which could be left in a small box beside the work.  He looked at a few of the completed cards for the sculpture, all of them effusively complementary.  Well, at least he would have the privilege of watching this fine artist grow and mature from afar.  Maybe even anonymously help her along he way.  He wanted to own this piece, not just because it was beautiful, because it moved him, but because it was something she had touched, had created with her own hands.  Perhaps he could make anonymous inquires through a gallery.  He picked up a blank card, wrote his own message on it and dropped it in the box.

          He stepped back and took a final long look at the sculpture that spoke to him as few had in his long life.  At last, with a deep, slightly unsteady breath and a shift of his shoulders to adjust the heavy weight of the blade in his coat, he turned and left without looking back.

          She visited at least once a day, wandering through the gallery, anonymously watching visitors inspect her work.  It was fascinating and thrilling, and she had been a little stunned ever since her sculpture had become the featured piece of the exhibit.  Andre had been congratulatory, but his praise had a slightly resentful edge to it, as though for the first time he saw her as a real artist, an equal, even a competitor, and was uncomfortable with the concept.

          It had led to a coolness between them that Tessa couldn’t bring herself to regret.  He now treated her with just a touch of disdain, his bruised ego having taken too many blows at her hands.  Tessa was both guilty and rather relieved, even though she was sure she could have handled it better.  She had never intended to hurt Andre.  She shook herself out of her sad reverie and turned her attention to the patrons of the gallery.

          Right now, there was a distinguished looking man with a walking cane giving her sculpture a thorough appraisal, even picking up one of the comment cards and reading it.  When he smiled sadly and shook his head at what he read, she approached, wondering what he found amusing.

          “Good afternoon,” she greeted him in English.  There was something very American about him.  Something in the warm, gray-blue eyes or the thick black hair  with just a touch of silver at the temples.

          “Hello, there.”  His roughly bearded faced was wreathed in a smile.  “I just bet you’re Miss Tessa Noel, aren’t you?” he greeted her like an old friend.  When she nodded, he gestured to the sculpture.  “This is really quite something, you know.”

          She smiled, not certain what was meant by the Americanism.  “Thank you, I think,” she teased gently, then pointed to the card he was holding.  “I’m sure not everyone agrees with you, though.  You seemed to find that comment amusing.”

          He looked at the card in his hand then up to her, a curiously speculative look in his eye.  “Oh, the person who wrote this thought very highly of the piece, I think.  And,” he added, cocking his head, “very highly of the artist who made it.”  He handed her the card.

          Tessa was flustered at the stranger’s close scrutiny, so she deliberately turned her focus to the card.

          She felt her face grow hot, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest.  “When…Did you see…?”

          The American nodded his head towards the door.  “He just left.  If you run, you might…”

          Tessa didn’t hear the rest.  She practically flew down the hall and slammed open the doors to the building, almost tumbling down the steps before she stopped, looking up and down the street, but saw no sign of Duncan MacLeod.  Her hands balled into fists and she wanted to scream in frustration.

          “You know, if you head towards St. Germain, my guess is he might be going that direction.”

          Tessa turned in surprise.  The American had followed her out and was standing at the top of the steps, leaning heavily on his cane.

          “How would you know?” Tessa had to ask.

          The man grinned and winked at her.  “I am an observant kind of fella.”  Tessa was even more mystified.  “Well?” he asked.  Finally, he raised a hand and gave a little ‘shooing’ motion.  “Go on,” he urged.

          And Tessa turned, walking fast, sometimes almost running towards the river, her eyes scanning the crowd ahead.  After a block and a half, her heart almost stopped.  He was easy to spot, actually, even on a crowded Paris sidewalk.  He moved with a grace and strength that drew the eye, his dark coat billowing slightly behind him.

          She was out of breath, but she pulled in a lungful of air.  “Duncan!” she called, even though she was still half a block away.  She knew it was futile to expect to be heard over the street noise and traffic, but the man stopped instantly, his eyes scanning the crowd.

          She hurried on, pushing past a group of students and squeezing by a woman pushing a baby stroller.  “Duncan!” she called again when he seemed to give up and start to walk on.  His head turned, and he spotted her.

          A wide-eyed look of joy and surprise flash across his face, almost instantly erased and replaced by neutral friendliness.  Slowly she walked up to him, stopping about four feet away, but he didn’t move.  Foot traffic passed by and around them, unnoticed.

          “You came,” Tessa blurted out, then blushed at the obvious statement.

          He nodded, started to speak, but had to clear his throat.  “Congratulations,” he said, his voice sounding a little rough.  “I think your sculpture stole the show.  I left you a note,” he added.

          Tessa looked down to her hand, realizing she still carried the card Duncan had left, now crumpled and sweaty.  She held it up, flattening it out as best she could.  “I saw,” she again stated the obvious.  There was an awkward moment of silence.

          “Duncan…”

          “Tessa…”

          They both spoke simultaneously, then laughed, each gesturing for the other to continue.

          Duncan shook his head and turned, his eyes scanning the crowd, the shops, looking anywhere but at her.  “Tessa,” he began again, “We shouldn’t do this.  The minute I first saw you, I…” he turned his gaze finally to her face.  “Let’s just say my timing was off,” he smiled.  He held out a hand, suddenly looking very distant and formal. “I really do wish you and Andre all the happiness in the world.”  He waited expectantly.

          Tessa ignored the offer of a handshake.  Her whole body was thrumming.  All she could see were those eyes.  Whatever words he might be saying, those eyes could not lie, not to her.  She shook her head, and saw confusion cross his face, then had to laugh, confusing the man even more.  She felt positively giddy.  “Oh, Duncan, I wish Andre all the best, too.  He’s a good man and a good artist, but he’s not the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.” 

          Duncan’s wide brown eyes blinked slowly a couple of times. 

          “Did you hear me?” Tessa asked impatiently, stepping closer.  Everything important in life suddenly seemed so obvious to her, she didn’t understand why he wasn’t reacting.  “I’m not marrying Andre,” she finally said slowly.

          “You’re…not engaged?” Duncan asked, his dark brows furrowed together and he cocked his head a little as two bright spots of color appeared on his high cheekbones.  Tessa had a sudden urge to try to capture that face on paper or in clay, wondering if she could do it justice. 

          She shook her head, no longer trusting her voice.  He reached out to her and she cupped the back of his hand as it touched her face, a broad thumb gently tracing the line of her cheek.  His hand was cold, shaking a little, and he swallowed hard, looking a little lost.  When he hesitated, she stepped in close until she could feel the fine gabardine of his coat, could see the slight shadow of a heavy beard that probably had to be shaved frequently.  The warmth of his solid body was enticing, the softness of his mouth irresistible and she leaned closer still.  She had never been so aggressive before, but then never before had she wanted anything, anyone, quite so much.

          “I’m not engaged,” she whispered, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath, could smell lingering traces of coffee and aftershave.  “Not to Andre.  Not to anyone.” She moved her mouth to his, but he backed off slightly, looking startled and a little uncertain.  She froze for a second, her heart stopping in fear that she had just made a world-class fool of herself, until Duncan’s whole face warmed, wreathed in an amazed, delighted smile, and he leaned down and kissed her.

          Oh, yes.  Arms folded around her, their bodies found all the nice places they fitted together like yin and yang, and gentle, sweet lips pressed against her own, then his mouth opened slightly, and hers responded and it was more than a kiss, and her whole body blossomed with a new heat source that started deep inside and radiated outward.  No one had ever kissed her like that.  He pulled back too soon, long before she wanted to stop. But he had moved his hands to her head, and held her there, staring deep into her eyes, searching for something.

          “Are you sure, Tessa?  Because…”

          She giggled, and then blushed because giggling was something only done by little girls and she did not feel at all like a little girl, not with her breasts straining and tight, her body buzzing with energy and her heart ready to explode with this unexpected, glorious sense of life’s possibilities.  She nodded.  “Oh, yes, Duncan.  I don’t think I’ve ever been this sure of anything.”

          His eyes glittered in the Spring sunshine and he took a long, unsteady breath.  She watched him, moved by how seriously he took her declaration.  Most men would have immediately launched into casual sexual banter, but Duncan just pulled her in for a long, gentle embrace.  “Okay,” he whispered, his voice a little unsteady.  “Okay,” he whispered again.

          James Bond sat outside ‘M’s office, having spent the last ten minutes catching up on office gossip with Moneypenny.  He was restless, ready for action.  They always insisted he take too much time off after some minor injury, and this had been no exception.  The stitches had come out of his back almost two days ago, and his boredom quotient had long since been exceeded.  He had passed the time voraciously reading papers and going over the various reports he had been able to dig up on Duncan MacLeod and his activities.  Yes, he had promised Mawdsley he wouldn’t go after the man, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t passively gather information.  And of course there was the fact that MacLeod had followed him all the way to the borders of France.  Bond felt that bit of presumption gave him a little leeway on his promise.  The man was good.  Bond hadn’t spotted him until they had been loading his car onto the ferry across the channel.  The fact that anyone had followed him for so long without being detected bothered him…a lot.

          So far, nothing of particular interest had been turned up, except what wasn’t in the files. 
Lots of brief affairs but no long-term relationships.  No family except some distant cousin in New York, who had just as enigmatic a background as MacLeod‘s.  And now, according to some discreet inquiries he had made in Paris, the man was finishing up the requirements for his graduate studies.  All perfectly respectable.  Perfectly harmless.

          So why did the man work out with a sword every day, as his informants reported?  Why did he keep multiple bank accounts in various cities across Europe?

          The light above ‘M’s door went on and Moneypenny interrupted his reverie to nod him into the inner sanctum of the head of MI6.  No doubt the old man would have some new and perilous adventure for him to tackle, and the mystery of Duncan MacLeod would have to wait for another day.

          Life took on a decidedly surreal quality.  It reminded Mac of a time back in, oh, the 1700’s, after the ship he was on had wrecked off the coast of Japan.  He had tied himself to a wooden spar and floated for days, fending off sharks, dying of thirst, then reviving.  Eventually he had lapsed into a kind of hallucinogenic haze, reliving the best and worst moments of his 200-odd years.  That was the only feeling he could compare to his current state of mind. 

          Tessa Noel.  Beautiful, vibrant, gifted, funny, sexy Tessa Noel.  It all seemed far too good to be true, especially when she looked at him with that bright-eyed adoration on her face, laughed so easily at his lame jokes, talked so passionately about her art, about Paris, about life in general.  They walked and talked all afternoon and into the evening, and he would have been happy just to look at her, to watch the way she used her hands, the way her soft hair constantly escaped all her attempts to tie it back, floating in gentle tendrils around her face.

          They walked along the river, they sat outside at a café, they wandered through a bookstore, then finally Duncan suggested they go to dinner, and he listened to Tessa talk about her family, her sister and mother and father, how much they loved and supported her even if they didn’t understand her drive to become an artist.  As they stepped outside at last, practically chased away by annoyed waiters, it had started to rain.  He wanted to take his coat off and throw it over her shoulders, but the 600 year old Japanese katana tucked away inside made that impractical.

          It was also an unwelcome and chilling reminder of the insurmountable barrier between them.  He whistled up a cab over Tessa’s protest that she could easily walk home, then escorted her to the door of her building.

          “Come in?” she urged.  The evening chill had made her nose and cheeks slightly red, and she was rubbing her arms to keep warm.

          “It’s late,” he noted.  “And I doubt your roommates would appreciate it.” 

          “Duncan,” she leaned towards him, putting her hand on his chest.  “Did I say something wrong?  If so, I certainly didn’t mean to.”

          “What do you mean?” he asked, but he knew exactly what she meant.  He could feel all his weakened barriers struggling back into place, all the reasons this was a bad idea floating to the surface.

          “I just…you suddenly seem a thousand miles away.”

          The urge to hold her was too strong to resist, so he folded his arms around her and pulled her close, warming her with his own body.  “Tessa, there are things about me that get in the way of a relationship with anyone, and I just don’t want to hurt you.”  Or to be hurt again.

          “Is this about the international spy thing?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled by his coat, but he could hear the smile in her voice.  “What if I promise not to reveal any state secrets?”  She tilted her head up, her eyes bright with humor.  But she was trying a little too hard, as though she feared if they parted, she would never see him again.

          “No,” he whispered, touching her face.  “I quit that job.  Too many secrets to keep.”

          “So,” she laughed nervously, “If you talk in your sleep, I’ll just ignore you.  Problem solved.”  She rose up on her toes a little until they were eye-to-eye.  He loved her height and her vitality.  A strong, but wonderfully feminine creature who seemed to fit his arms the way a custom made blade fit his hand. “Do you talk in your sleep?” she asked.

          It was as blatant an invitation as he was likely to get, and judging from the high color on her cheeks, she was embarrassed at her own forwardness.  There was nothing to do but kiss her.  She tasted of brandy, smelled clean, lightly floral, like French soap, felt warm and soft, and when she opened her mouth to his, his body reminded him of how very long it had been since he had last made love to someone who stirred his soul as this woman did.  He deepened the kiss, pulling her close, wishing there weren’t so many clothes between them, but her hands were in his hair and she was pulling him to her at least as hard as he was holding her.

          His body was almost shaking with need for more, and he pressed her up against the side of the building, his hands roaming over the gentle curves of a supple body.  Her hands went under his coat, and he froze. 

          “What is it?” she asked, slightly out of breath.  Her hair was tumbling around her face, her lips swollen, red and moist.

          “Oh, Tessa,” he took her hands away from his coat and pulled them together, kissing her knuckles.  “I wish…”

          “What?!” 

          He felt like he was frozen in time and space.  Unable to go forward, unable to go back.  “I think we need to take this slow,” he equivocated.  “You just ended another serious relationship.  I don’t want to have you do something now you would be sorry for later.”

          “Duncan!” she put both her hands on his face.  “I want this!  I won’t regret it, I promise you.”

          He stepped back with a dry laugh, catching one of her hands and squeezing it.  “I know more about regret than you can possibly imagine, and believe me, a little caution now could save unbearable heartbreak later on.”  His words rang discordantly in his own ears.  He suspected whatever happened now, he had already lost his heart to Tessa Noel, and that it was far too late for caution – at least for him.  But maybe not too late for her.

          She pursed her lips and glared at him for a second.  “The last thing I need is another man deciding what’s best for me, Duncan MacLeod.  Do you think for one minute that I don’t know my own mind, my own heart?”

          “Of  course not, but…”

          “Then are you hesitating because you aren’t sure about your own feelings?”

          “Not at all, but there are things about me…”  He stopped when she put a finger on his lips.

          “No.  I don’t know what happened to you before, and I don’t know what will happen tomorrow.  I just know what I want, right now.”  She opened the door to her building and held out her hand, waiting.

          He had to smile.  An irresistible force and an immovable object, for certain.  Except that he was deeply moved, and she was utterly irresistible.