Is There Something You Want to Tell Me?

Is There Something You Want to Tell Me? by CJ Carter Why did she accept his offer? This was crazy. Tessa Noel couldn't believe that she agreed to go over to that strange man's apartment for dinner. Even while she was standing at his door, she was ambivalent about being here, but there was something about this Duncan MacLeod that intrigued her. The apartment house he’d chosen to live in was unexceptional, and in a middle-class neighborhood that was situated on the fringe of the more Bohemian section of Paris. Although the unadorned hallway outside the apartment had been recently painted an awful shade of canary yellow, the unmistakable smell of mildew penetrated the paint fumes and spoke of the building’s age. The apartment door opened. There he was. His smile was intoxicating. While it held a confidence that bordered on the arrogant, it also had the childlike innocence of wanting to please. "Hi," he said in an accent that sounded not-quite British and not-quite American. His informality made him seem more like a boy than a man. "Please, come in." “Thank you,” Tessa said in her melded Belgian/French accent before she crossed the threshold. Duncan closed the door behind her. They both hesitated for a minute, evaluating each other. Duncan was a little nervous, and tried not to stare. From the moment he had seen her earlier that day, he had known that she was the one he wanted to spend the next four or five decades with. She had an exuberance not unlike that of a filly running free on the plains. Her blonde hair actually added to, instead of detracting from, her obvious intelligence. He would say that she had an old soul, that is, if he believed in that sort of thing. This was one woman it was going to be difficult to keep secrets from. Tessa's impression of Duncan was improving. This afternoon, when he jumped into her tour boat, looking a lot like a prison escapee—unshaved, out of breath, eyes darting around—her immediate thought was a hope that he wouldn't hurt her or any of the tourists. Then he flashed a cocky smile at her and his eyes danced. It hardly seemed possible that the man in the blazer and turtle-neck now standing in front of her was the same person. He certainly did scrub up well! Duncan realized that the first impression he'd made by jumping into her boat was less than stellar. Having had many relationships in his life, he knew that although it might be difficult, he could still win the heart of the beautiful tour guide. This one would definitely be worth the effort. She had courage. She was here, after all. It had been quite some time since Duncan found it necessary to woo. Women usually tried to get his attention. His taut body and chiseled face topped with a mane of dark hair that he usually tied in a pony-tail often served as the perfect lure to catch the gaze of any woman, and some men, within sight of him. His easy confidence, dashing smile, broad intellect, and a 2 mysterious touch of danger made him seem like the perfect hero more at home in a swashbuckling movie or a romance novel than walking the streets of a city. He wasn't impressed by the people who were magnetically attracted to him, however. Something more was required to make him interested. Tessa was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. There was something about Duncan that gave her a sense of foreboding. But what could it hurt to have dinner with the man? She was already here. She started to take off her dark blue mackintosh, which prompted Duncan to stop staring. "Here, let me," he said before helping her off with her coat. He gestured toward the living space, "Please, make yourself comfortable." "Thank you," she replied, and wandered into the apartment while Duncan was busy hanging her coat in the entry closet. Now that he wasn't being watched himself, he took this moment to actually appraise his dinner companion's looks. She wore an interesting dress. It was dark blue and black, and seemed both provocative and conservative. It accentuated her form without drawing attention to it. Everything about her body seemed like it had been designed to fit his. Everything about her manner gave the impression that she could be any kind of woman that she wanted to be, or needed to be, and still be true to herself. Every woman he had ever desired was right there in front of him, all wrapped up in a package named Tessa Noel. Tessa could feel his eyes on her. She almost expected it. Men will be boys, sometimes. Her shoes clacked on the hardwood floor. She noticed that except for a few area rugs, the floors were just plain, well-polished, wood. She was thankful for that, for although the heels on her shoes weren't too high, they were high enough to make walking on thick carpet a little uncomfortable. The apartment was basically a great room. To her right was a dining table in front of a kitchen; a bathroom and what was probably a bedroom were at the far right end of the long expanse that was faced with windows on one side, and by what looked like prints on the opposite wall sections. To the left, a sofa, two chairs, and a coffee table, all antiques, made up the appointments for what would pass as the living area. They were nice pieces; the kind she might buy once she became successful and had a little money to pamper herself with. The walls on this end of the apartment were dominated by a densely packed bookcase, while the few open spaces remaining were adorned with various blade weapons and coats of arms. While it was obscenely masculine, it was also well balanced. It suited him. Whoever he was, Duncan MacLeod obviously had some money, aesthetics, and taste. "Have you been here long?" she asked. "I'm sorry, what?" "Have you been in Paris long?" "Can I get you something to drink?" Duncan asked as he walked toward the free-standing bar. "No. Just some ice water, please." "Right away." Duncan walked to a portable bar that was between the door and the kitchen opening. As Duncan was preparing Tessa's water and a scotch for himself, Duncan continued, "I don't visit Paris as often as I used to. I do like the city a lot." As he hands Tessa her water, "Thank you. Then you don't live here?" "No. Right now I'm thinking about moving to America and starting an antique store." "Antiques?" "That's why I'm in Paris. I'm looking for worthwhile pieces." "Any luck?" 3 "Some. Listen, do you mind if we go into the kitchen? I still have to put some things together." Tessa nodded agreement, and followed Duncan into the kitchen, her heels still announcing every step she made. It was curious that Duncan was able to walk so quietly even though the heels of his shoes looked to be at least as hard as hers. Despite this tiny distraction, she couldn't help the thought that this man might be inclined to help her with her career if... She forced herself to stop it. She'd made a promise to herself years ago that she was going to make it as an artist solely by being better. As tempting as he was, she wasn't looking for a benefactor. "What are you making?" "Haggis," he said, in his truest Scottish accent. "What?" Tessa asked incredulously. She had tried haggis once, and never again wanted to repeat the experience. "I'm kidding. I wouldn't do something like that to you. I don't much care for it, myself." "So, what are we having?" "I wasn't sure what you'd like. I have some veal scaloppini finishing up in the oven. On the stove we have some penne in the pot and paella in the pan there. I still have to put the salad together." "It sounds wonderful. It smells wonderful, too. Can I help with something?" One of the three sinks in the cooking island was filled with ice, and on it was a bowl of garden vegetables from which Duncan removed a head of romaine lettuce and started tearing off leaves to line a wood salad bowl. "Thank you, I think I've got it covered." Tessa wished he'd let her help with something. At least it would offer a distraction from the usual life-story, resume-laden conversation that generally filled the time during a first date. Since she was on his home turf, she might as well stay on the offensive, "Tell me, how did a dashing Scotsman get interested in antiques?" Duncan liked that she didn't ask him where he was originally from, like so many other women did when they couldn’t immediately place his accent. She had put together the clues. "It's a habit I picked up when I started traveling a lot. I like the history of the pieces. They make me feel connected to their time." "What did you do before you started collecting?" "A little bit of everything." Duncan pulled a whisk out of a drawer and gave the vinaigrette sitting a small bowl on the counter a quick stir before pouring it on the completed salad.

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