Chapter 3

(Paris, France - 1962)

Deirdre hummed to herself as she zigzagged back and forth across the cluttered street. Stalls sold merchandise of all types and descriptions to the early evening shoppers. She stopped occasionally to inspect one item or another but nothing really drew her interest.

As she turned from what a vendor claimed was an authentic seventeenth century lute that Deirdre knew was no more than ten years old she bumped into a man.

"Excuse me," she apologized at the same time as the man said exactly the same words. Then she was looking at a changed but still familiar face.

"Mon Dieu! Deirdre?"

"Georges! How lovely to see you mon ami."

"And you Deirdre." The one time Resistance agent cocked his head and studied the Irishwoman. "But how is it that you have not changed a bit? You are still as lovely and young as you were the last time I saw you nearly twenty years ago."

Deirdre laughed. "Why Georges you charmer!" She tucked her arm inside his. "Flattery will get you everywhere you know."

He gave a deep chuckle. "I hope so my Deirdre, I hope so."

The two former comrades in arms spent a lovely afternoon together. They shopped, they walked, they visited places that had been familiar to them twenty and shook their heads at how Paris had changed and yet remained the same.

A little cafe stood where once the Kit Kat Club had been located. Georges ushered the Irishwoman into a chair and ordered for them. They dined on a thick rich stew accompanied by a loaf of hot crusty bread and a hearty red Vin de Bourgogne. Both gave the food the attention it deserved. Finally they pushed their chairs back. The waiter brought them each a cafe-au-lait and they relaxed and began to catch up.

Inevitably Duncan's name arose. Neither of them had seen the Highlander since the war. Georges fixed Deirdre with an inquiring look and asked the question that he had wondered about for twenty years.

"Deirdre, how did you and Duncan happen to become friends?"

The Irish bard thought carefully. Obviously the truth would not be an option here. Yet at the same time she hated lying to Georges. They had only met twice but she had appreciated his dedication to the fight against the Nazis and his loyalty to Duncan, his friend. Also, she admitted to herself with a smile only she could see, she had enjoyed how he had seemed to be smitten with her but had remained the perfect gentleman even as his eyes had devoured her in the Kit Kat Club that night. So she skirted the truth.

"We met in Italy before the War." That was certainly true although she carefully avoided saying it was several centuries before World War 2. "We were both expatriates, Duncan from Scotland and me from Ireland. A mutual friend introduced us." Once again true, although she was NOT going to tell who that friend was and certainly not the full circumstances of that meeting. "We met several other times in different places. Eventually we became friends."

The Frenchman nodded. He seemed to be considering what he wanted to say next. He considered so long that the silence became slightly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat twice. His eyes avoided her as he finally asked what he had really wanted to know.

"Deirdre, this is none of my business and I cannot believe I am even thinking about asking this. You are someone I met briefly twenty years ago and you were then working to save my beloved country from the Boche. But I wondered then, and I do now. He was a very good friend was Duncan and I do not want to feel that I am intruding into a relationship between him and someone I came to greatly admire in a short time."

Deirdre suppressed the smile that threatened to break the spell of the moment. Sweet, sweet Georges was nothing like the dashing French seducer of legend. He was honest and straightforward with his heart on his sleeve. The once Irish princess could deflect the most subtle or the most blatant of passes when it suited her. But her heart went out to this former Freedom Fighter who showed how attracted he still was to her after all these years.

She reached across the table and took his hand in hers.

"Mon vieux, if you are asking if Duncan and I have ever been a couple the answer is 'No'. He is an attractive man and perhaps we have been closer than platonic friends before." Her green eyes twinkled. "A lady does not confess such things." The teasing left her voice. "But I assure you of one thing. There are no ghosts at this table with us. I have only eyes tonight for one man. I have thought of you too over the years my Georges. And tonight I hope that we can take back that night so long ago when we were younger and I could feel your attraction to me."

She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. The twinkle was gone now, replaced by a deeper glow in her green eyes. For she did want this man and he wanted her too. Not in a sudden burst of lust but in a slow simmer of something that had started twenty years ago.

Fingers crept across the table and touched. The waiter, who had seen many couples lost in each other over the years, delivered the bill with perfect aplomb. Without their gazes loosing contact both the graying Frenchman and the redheaded Immortal stood. Francs were tossed on the table without regard to the fact that the amount sufficed for four times what they owed.

"May I invite you to my apartment?"

"You have an apartment here?"

"I keep it for when I am in Paris." Deirdre smiled. "I suggest it because I have something there I think would be appropriate for this occasion."

"Champagne?" a matching smile tugged at Georges' lips.

"That too," replied Deirdre.

Evening had fallen across the City of Lights. It didn't take long tore ach Bridget's apartment, on the top floor of an old building. Nothing inside was old, although everything had a comfortable lived-in look. Deirdre slung open wrought iron and stained glass doors that led out to a private balcony.

"Wait here my Georges. I will be right back."

The Frenchman stepped out on the balcony. Paris, his beloved Paris, was laid out before him. Lights twinkled as he picked out landmarks. There was a clicking on the wood floor behind him. He turned and his jaw dropped.

"I thought this outfit would be right. I saved it for a special occasion and now that occasion is here."

Deirdre stood there. Soft light from the city flooded over her. She wore a black corset along with what could have indeed been the same black nylons and heels that Georges had seen her wearing two decades ago in the kit Kat Club. She carried a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.

She handed him the bottle. He popped the cork and poured for them.

"I do seem to remember that outfit," Georges smiled. "In fact it has been the subject of many a happy dream over the years."

"I'm glad."

Georges set the bottle down besides the thick carpet that lay by the French doors. The pair encircled their arms and drank.

"Absent comrades," Georges said softly.

"Absent comrades," agreed Deirdre.

Glasses were emptied. They dropped from the duo's hands to the rug. Deirdre's arms wound around Georges' neck and she stood on her toes. Their lips met. This time they clung, tasting each other. Deirdre's mouth opened. The kiss, which began so gently, became deep. Moans came from both of them; moans speaking of a passion that had long been waited on.