Zealot Read Free

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 offered MacLeod
     her hand, and he escorted her to his table. As they passed the maître d’, she smiled her most demure smile and gave him a
     little wave, startling the maître d’. “Arrogant little bigot,” MacLeod heard her mutter under her breath in Arabic as he ushered
     her to Constantine’s place.
    MacLeod looked back at the maître d’. “Don’t mind him. He’s French,” he said in Arabic. Then he switched to English, playing
     a hunch. “I’m sure he’s like that with everyone.”
    The woman sighed as she settled into her chair. “Maybe some days I’m just more paranoid than others.” Then she looked up at
     MacLeod with new appreciation, realizing he’d tricked her into answering him in English as well. “So, you know a little Arabic,
     Mr.… ?”
    “MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod. A little. And your English is impeccable, Miss,” he noticed a gold band on her finger, “Mrs.… ?”
    “
Doctor
Amina,” she stressed. “I’m … no longer married. And you may call me Maral.” The “r” rumbled in the back of her throat like
     a contented cat’s.
    “Maral,” he echoed. He liked the way that felt.
    The waiter approached their table and rattled off the day’s specials. Maral ordered “just a salade nicoise.” The waiter waited
     patiently for MacLeod to order, but MacLeod was admiring Maral’s hair. It was thick and long, caught in simple but elegant
     combs up onto her head, where it shone black as burnished jet in the Parisian sunlight. He had a sudden urge to reach out
     and gently remove the combs, to watch the hair cascade around her shoulders … “Duncan?” He loved the way she pronounced his
     name. “Doon-can?” Maral reached up and touched her hair self-consciously. “Were you planning on having any
food
with your wine?”
    “Right. Food.” MacLeod covered quickly.