See Part One for Disclaimers.

- 2 -

The next few days were calm, which came as a huge surprise; anytime MacLeod steps off a plane, the excitement/trouble rating of a city goes up by twenty percent.  Add Amanda to the equation and it's more like forty-five.  But so far, there had been no evil Immortals, bank robbers, religious fanatics -- not even a rabid dog.  I was impressed.  I was also worried.  When things are going this smoothly, something bad of equal or greater proportion has to come up.  It's a law.

After a full week I was ready to start saying Hail Marys, but still things stayed calm.  Amanda seemed to be staying out of trouble (read: "just a little fun," which is burglary in Amanda-speak) and MacLeod seemed to be genuinely relaxing and enjoying himself, so I figured the good mood should go around: when Pierson invited me out for dinner, I accepted.

I spent about three hours carefully planning what I would wear and what makeup to use to achieve that calm, casual, "What, this old thing?" look.  I was rewarded by a (thankfully not too) surprised look on his face when I met him at the restaurant.  He stood up from the bench he had been waiting on with a smile, and I frowned a little, glancing at my watch in horror.  "I'm not late, am I?"

He looked at his feet, blushing faintly, then looked back at me with a slightly sheepish expression.  "No, I, ah . . . ."  He cleared his throat.  "I got here early."

I smiled; I couldn't help it.  Like I said, I'm pretty enough, but I'm no beauty, and I certainly never inspired a man to look so discomfited, let alone arrive early for a date.  I tried to find something to find something to say and failed, so I just looked at him and smiled.  He smiled back.

"Shall we?" he asked, motioning to the door.

The little restaurant was run by a friend of MacLeod's, a jovial little Parisian chef-cum-expert-on-love by the name of Maurice who completely embarrassed both of us, albeit in a not entirely unpleasant way, by gifting us with a full bottle of white wine, a violin-player, and an encouraging wink and smile, all on the house.  If I had thought that my blush in the car a week ago had been hot, my body succeeded in changing my mind.  Fortunately, Pierson looked just as humorously aghast as I did; the shared laughter alleviated any stress.  We talked over dinner and then talked even more on a walk in the park around the Eiffel Tower.  I definitely felt like I was sixteen, but it was such a light feeling, the first real relaxation I'd had in too long, that I didn't mind it in the least.

We stopped in front of the Tower and stood for a moment, gazing up at the magnificence of the structure, and I forgot all my troubles as I gazed up at it.  I'm funny that way; I'll look at something incredible made by a person or several people and my mind boggles at how the human mind can create such things.  I said as much and Pierson smiled down at me.  Our eyes locked and we shared a long, comfortably and completely silent moment.  I felt like I was floating on air.  I liked feeling like that; it didn't happen often and I didn't want it to end.

It didn't until morning.

I lay back languorously in the pillows on his bed, enjoying the stillness of morning and the warm feeling, inside and out, of waking with a man in my arms, and watched the sun creep its fingers over the windowsill.  Adam (it's sort of rude to keep calling a man by his last name after you've shared a night with him) was still asleep, his head cradled on my breasts, his breathing slow and even, his arms wrapped around my waist.  He stirred slightly and I smiled, running my fingers through his short-cropped hair and then down his neck to his shoulders.

Last night's ending had come as a surprise, albeit a welcome and pleasant one, to both of us, I think, but when he opened his eyes and looked up at me sleepily, it was obvious that it wasn't something he regretted.  "Good morning," I smiled down at him.

He smiled and kissed the tops of my breasts and then the hollow of my neck in response.  "Good morning," he murmured in between kisses.

I giggled, not feeling the least bit chagrined at the fact, and moved my hands in a light caress over his back and arms.  "I hope you don't have any early morning appointments you're missing."

He looked up at me, his eyes (definitely gray, a little part of my mind noted) glowing.  "The only appointment I have," he answered, his voice a soft, seductive growl, "is with you."

Last night, each of us exploring the other's desires, Adam had proven himself a very experienced and generous lover, knowing what I wanted before I knew it myself.  But this time surpassed last night, something which I would not have believed possible.  He had a way of being gentle and wildly passionate at the same time, answering every need in such a way that inspired me to try to match and even surpass him.  But more than anything else, he brought out a hunger in me I hadn't known existed and which, after him, I doubted could ever be truly sated again.  I could very easily fall in love with this man.  But, truth be told, I had known that long before we fell into his bed last night.

When we parted company, after a small breakfast which consisted mainly of smiles and more talking, I felt better than I had in months.  Actually, better than I had since before my divorce seven years ago.  Dick had been exactly that, and I knew for a fact after the amount of alimony I'd managed to get from him the feeling was mutual.  It had long ago stopped bothering me that he had preferred various women to myself, but I hadn't really felt completely comfortable with and trusting of a man since then.  With Adam I did and that was enough of a marvel and a relief that I was able to fully enjoy the drive back to the hotel.

The next few days were equally blissful, which should have told me right away that bad luck was just around the corner.  As it was, I had a gnawing feeling at the pit of my stomach four days later that had nothing to do with the breakfast I'd missed at Adam's when he got called into HQ for an update on his research.  I wasn't tremendously surprised when Murphy's Law decided to finally kick in as soon as I walked into the hotel.

To give Amanda credit, I almost didn't recognize her when she approached me, but when she grabbed my arm and stealthily lowered her sunglasses an inch, my reaction probably gave me away.  I groaned.  "What are you doing here?"

"I need your help."  She frowned.  "Where were you last night? I kept trying to call you . . . ?" This time my reaction definitely gave me away.  She stared at me for a full three seconds and then broke into a grin.  I scowled at her and she twinkled unrepentantly.  "Anyone I know?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes, as a matter of fact, it is."  I figured she and MacLeod would figure it out anyway if they saw us together, but I wouldn't go any further than that; I wasn't in the mood for girl talk.  "Now.  What are you doing here?"

"I told you," she said.  "I need your help."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and pulled her towards a screened alcove.  "Remember that little talk we had about how close an eye the Tribunal was keeping on Watchers?" I said.  "Well, you showing up in my hotel to talk to me is not exactly conducive to me keeping a low profile!"

Amanda scowled.  "Well, I'm sorry!  But I  do need your help!"

I sighed heartily.  "Okay.  What is it?"

"I need to -- ah -- liberate something."

I stared at her.  "You're kidding."

She shifted her feet a little.  "No."

"Let me get this straight," I said, resisting the urge to shout by making my voice very quiet.  "You want me to help you  steal something?!"

"It's not stealing!" she insisted indignantly.  "It's just that they have something important to me and I need to get it back."

To quote Luke Skywalker, I was starting to get a very bad feeling about this.  "Why me?" I wondered aloud, then added, "Why don't you get MacLeod to help you with this?"

Amanda shook her head.  "MacLeod is a very busy man; I can't bother him with this."

"He said no, didn't he?"

"Well . . . ."  Amanda twisted one edge of the scarf she had wrapped around her head and neck.

I sighed.  "And the next person you turn to for help is me . . . .  Why does that scare me?"

Amanda is very shark-like in a way: she can sense when someone is weakening.  "You're the only one I trust, de Sousa."  I gave her my best 'Yeah, right' look and she frowned.  "Okay, other than MacLeod, but you know what I mean!  Look, I really can't do this on my own.  I need someone to help me.  It's important!"

I groaned.  I guess Adam really had loosened me up last night and this morning because I found myself actually clearing my schedule mentally.  "What is it and where is it?"

Amanda's face lit up like a Christmas tree.  I'd pay to know how she does that; it works every time.  "Oh, de Sousa, you are the best!" She grabbed my arms gratefully -- and didn't answer the question.  I pointed that out and she made a little throw-away gesture.  "Oh, right.  It's a painting in a, ah, personal collection."

The bad feeling came back with a vengeance.  "Whose personal collection?" I also had a feeling I didn't want to know the answer to that.  I was right.  "What?!!" I exclaimed when she told me.  "Jeez, Amanda, why don't you just shoot me?!  It would be much easier!"

She gave me a suffering, innocent look and I nearly throttled her.  "Come on, Kathryn -- they'll never miss it!  It's not even hanging somewhere."

"Why do you want this painting anyway?"

Amanda looked sincere, for once.  "It belonged to a teacher of mine.  It was supposed to go to me when she died, but . . . ."  She cleared her throat and looked away.  "Anyway, I want it back.  It's the last thing I have of hers."

I frowned.  "Are we talking about Rebecca here?"

She looked at me in surprise.  "I didn't know you knew about Rebecca."

I raised an eyebrow.  "Well, I had to have something to read on the plane."

Amanda stared at me for a moment and then smiled.  Apparently, she thought I was kidding.  "So what do you say? Will you help me?" she asked finally.

I rolled my eyes, shook my head, and for some insane reason which has escaped me forever-after, I agreed.  Needless to say, I was regretting it before we even reached the building, let alone climbed it.  Which brings us back to where I started the story -- dangling about sixty feet above very solid ground from the wall of the British Embassy.  Yah.  My thoughts exactly.

I looked up at Amanda as she reached the top and extended a hand to help me over the ledge onto the flat roof.  "Tell me again why we're doing this," I muttered.

She frowned at me.  "I told you already.  Now, come on!" She started towards the roof door, then turned to whisper fiercely as my heel scraped on the gravel.  "And be quiet!"

I scowled at her.  "Sorry, I'm kind of new at this."

She motioned for me to be silent as she picked the lock (very quickly, I was rather chagrined to notice) and then slipped on a pair of infrared goggles, presumably to scan for lasers.  When she took them off and started down the stairs, she smoothed her hair down.  I shook my head and held back a sigh.  When I had cut my hair, Amanda had let hers start growing again; last year, when mine was still shoulder-length, she had made it a point to keep hers as short as possible.  It almost felt like sibling rivalry . . . which is actually a rather frightening thought.

Once inside, Amanda practically glided through the security system, leaving me with a sinking feeling that my part in this escapade was either purely for her amusement (which wouldn't have been unlikely) or because there was something ahead that even Amanda was nervous about trying.  It was the latter.  Big surprise.

I managed to not strangle her when she told me what she wanted me to do, but it wasn't easy.  "Are you  insane?"

"It's not as hard as it looks," she answered.  "You just pull yourself along, I do the same on my rope, we grab the painting and go back the way we came."

"Right," I said.  "And if either of us falls, all we have to worry about is a few alarms and an electrified floor!  As I pointed out earlier, Amanda dear, one of us, namely  me, can actually  die!"

"You're worrying too much, de Sousa; it'll be a piece of cake.  Trust me."

If I hadn't been sure there were alarms set into the walls, I would have banged my head against one.  I contented myself with a groan.  "I must be out of my mind," I repeated for the fifth time that night.  It was becoming a litany.  But nevertheless, barely two minutes later I was taking a position on one side of the painting, feet wrapped securely around the rope I was attached to, while Amanda set herself up in a similar position across from me.

It was a wide piece, probably about three feet across and two feet in height, but not an artist I recognized (nor admired, to be honest), though I had no doubt, mainly from the glint in Amanda's eyes as she surveyed it and the other contents of the room, that it was extremely expensive.  It did not, however, look like anything Rebecca Horne ever would have possessed.

A little alarm bell slowly gained volume in my head as we maneuvered the painting off the wall.  I let out the breath I'd been holding when no one came crashing into the vault, demanding to know what we were doing, and focused a contemplative gaze on my accomplice's face.  Suspicion is an ugly thing, but this was Amanda; with her anything is possible.

"Tell me something," I said, following her lead and slowly inching back down the rope.  "How did you know so much about this security system?"

Amanda cleared her throat a little.  The alarm bell's volume went up another notch.  "I, ah, set it up."

I stopped mid-slide and stared at her.  "You what?" It was slowly coming back to me that she had worked as a security systems advisor for about a year, the closest Amanda had ever come to a steady, not to mention legitimate, job.  "For the Embassy?"  She nodded and my eyes narrowed.  I was starting to get very irritated.  "Then why didn't you just ask the Ambassador for this thing back?"

"Well, we had a little, ah, disagreement when we parted company . . . ."

"Really.  He counted the silverware after you left, did he?"

Amanda glared at me.  "That's not fair."

I glared right back; scaling that wall was not on my list of all-time favorite experiences.  "Isn't it?  I think deserve a straight answer, Amanda."

Amanda had her 'innocent' look firmly in place; I wasn't buying it.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I want the truth and I want it  now."

"Look, can I answer you after we get out of here?" Amanda started to move down the rope again.  I stayed where I was.  Her scowl deepened.  "De Sousa, the longer we argue about this, the bigger the chance of us getting caught!"

"Tough."  I didn't look forward to explaining to my superiors why I had been helping Amanda steal a painting from the British Embassy, but I was pissed enough to be willing to risk it.  "Talk or I drop my end of the painting right now."

Amanda opened her mouth, took a long look at my face, and sighed.  "As soon as we get out of the vault, okay?"  I pressed my lips into a thin line and she scowled.  "I promise!"

I nodded and we shimmied along the rope back to the safe, non-electrified ground outside the vault.  Amanda briskly set down the painting and sliced the canvas along the edges of the frame, then rolled it into a tube and slid it into a carry-case she had slung behind her shoulders.  "Okay," I said when she straightened.  "Now, why is this painting so important to you?  Why is it in the British Ambassador's vault?  Why did you need my help to get it?  And why didn't you tell me all this right from the beginning?"

She looked at me and sighed.  "It's a long story.  How about I tell it when we get to the car?"  I stretched a hand towards where she had earlier spotted a laser-beam and she gasped, motioning frantically for me to stop.  "Okay, okay!  I need the painting as leverage against him."

"Him, who?"

Amanda shuffled her feet.  "The Ambassador."

My eyebrows shot up.  "Why?"

"It's his favorite painting and he has something important to me."

I stared at her coldly.  "Another heirloom?"

Amanda took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  "No," she said slowly.  "A friend."

The sinking feeling was back again.  "Which friend?"

Amanda looked at me and there was real fear in her eyes.  "Duncan."

Next Part

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