Note: This story does not "build" on any of my previous Meg & Ben stories (with the possible exception of Cafe Blanc et Noir). It takes place after the episode "Flashback."
by Diana Read
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy!
It is the green-ey'd monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on...
William Shakespeare, Othello, Act III, Scene III
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The telephone call came midway through Monday morning during one of her busiest days, taking Meg Thatcher, RCMP Liaison Officer, completely by surprise. Mr. Talbot, the Consul-General of the Canadian Consulate in Chicago, was brief.
"Good morning, Inspector. I hope you're sitting down, because I've yet another task to pile on you. On Friday morning we're expecting a visitor who'll need an escort all day. He's going to inspect every room in our suite of offices, so I want you to handle this personally."
"Yes, sir." The visitor must be important, if Talbot wanted her to drop everything to show him around.
"Mr. Marchand is an architect who's going to look over our office with an eye to suggesting some much-needed renovations. Mercifully, we've just received funding for them from Ottawa. He'll spend Friday here, then fly back to his home office in Montreal and send us his report."
Marchand! There couldn't, there just couldn't, be two men named Marchand, both specialists in civic architecture, both from Montreal. Meg drew a long breath.
"When may I expect the full particulars of Mr. Marchand's visit?"
"Within half an hour. I'll have my assistant bring them round to your office."
When Ovitz, her secretary, dropped the Visitor Security Request form on her desk, Meg stared at it, transfixed: it was true. Michel Marchand, her ex-fiance, would be visiting the Consulate at the end of the week and she would be the one to take him through the office, making sure that he saw only what the Government of Canada thought he should see.
For the rest of the day, Meg resisted the temptation to let thoughts of Michel intrude on her workload. Fortunately, she had long ago learned to compartmentalize her thoughts: it was a survival technique essential to the highly competitive environment in which she worked. It wasn't until she left her office to drive home that she allowed herself to remember the past.
Michel. Funny to think they might have been married five years by now, if she hadn't broken off the engagement. There were times, even at this late date, when she wondered why she had. But then she would remember: Michel Marchand, the internationally known architect, the man who traveled so much that airline attendants called him by his first name and stocked his favorite champagne in the first-class compartment, was never in the same city for more than a week at a time. To have anything resembling a normal marriage, she would have had to give up her work to travel with him. And she had worked too hard and striven too long to do any such thing.
As she sat an intersection waiting for the light to change, Meg reflected that her commitment to her profession was the inevitable result of being brought up as the baby sister in a family of five children, the four oldest of whom were boys. Growing up in the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of her brothers had given her more than the ability to play ice hockey well and bear pain without crying: it had given her a sense that she had a part to play in the world's work, a space to fill in the grand design. Her particular work was to enforce the law and bring evildoers to justice, so that other people's rosy-faced children could play safely in their neighborhoods; so that hard-working young women could walk to their offices without fear; so that honest citizens could go about their daily round in full confidence that the law was protecting them. No, she couldn't be simply an appendage to a man, no matter how delightful he was. She couldn't follow Michel around from embassy to embassy, spending her mornings shopping for clothes to wear at meaningless dinner parties.
She had made the right decision, but it had been painful. For years afterward, she compared all the men she met with Michel and found them wanting--until she met Fraser. Hastily, she put that thought away. She didn't want to think of Fraser, because she knew her thoughts would go round and round in an endless loop. Fraser, she was beginning to think, was a lost cause.
Her life was busy and interesting, but she longed for someone to share it with. Most of her college friends were married by now, with children, and she knew from the few who hadn't married that they were as lonely as she. Once again, she wondered if she could have married Michel and stayed in Ottawa while he criss-crossed the world, airline by airline, to one world capital after another. But the idea of getting perhaps one weekend of Michel's time every two months hadn't appealed to her either. No, it was better that she'd ended the relationship.
Still, as she parked her car in the underground parking garage of her apartment building, she wondered: had Michel met and married someone else? And what was he like now?
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He was just the same: the impish grin, the gray eyes that lit with delight when he saw her. And just--she noticed as he straightened himself after bowing to her--as handsome. His hair was as smooth and black as she remembered, although the carefully trimmed short sideburns were new. The gray silk Pierre Cardin suit he was wearing clung to him as gracefully as water-sleekened fur to an otter.
"Meg, it's been too long! How are you?"
"You know Inspector Thatcher, then, Mr. Marchand?" Talbot sounded surprised.
"We played on the same softball team in Ottawa, years ago." Meg smiled sweetly at the Consul-General. "In fact, our team was at the top of the Young Professionals League for two years running."
Michel's grin showed a flash of white teeth against his tan. She could see that he was taking her hint that she didn't want the rest of the Consulate to know what their relationship once had been. She liked to keep her private life just that--private.
"Well, we'd better go in," Talbot said. "Inspector, Mr. Marchand...after you."
The meeting went on until ten-thirty, when there was a break. After checking with Ovitz to find out whether she had any urgent telephone calls, Meg made her way to the table that held the coffee.
"Meg!"
She turned. "Michel, I can't believe this! It's good to see you."
"I didn't know you were here." Michel looked around, evidently to make sure that no one was standing within earshot. "If I had..."
Meg looked up at him, raised her eyebrows. "If you had...?"
"I would have asked you to show me around Chicago this weekend. I've never been here, except for layovers at O'Hare. And I'm not due back in Montreal until Monday morning."
She glanced at the fourth finger of his left hand: it was innocent of jewelry.
"It would be nice to see something of the city." His voice was low, his gaze locked with hers. He gave the impression of being ready to die of disappointment if she turned him down.
Meg turned to pour more coffee into her cup. "So, Michel, you never married?"
"I keep meaning to." He grinned engagingly. " It's always on my list of New Year's resolutions, but somehow I never seem to get around to it."
She could not repress a grin of her own. "Now, why is that?"
"I don't know, Meg. I was hoping that you could tell me the answer to that question."
"I'm not sure I can."
"It's time to go back into the meeting. So, Meg, yes or no?"
"Certainly, Michel. I'd be delighted to show you around Chicago this weekend."
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"The Inspector wants to see all three of us in her office before lunch."
Constable Benton Fraser looked up from the report he was writing, glanced at his watch, and rose from his desk. "Very well, Mr. Ovitz." He knew the Inspector's working lunch was scheduled for noon, and it was already ten minutes to twelve.
He entered the office, Turnbull and Ovitz behind him. Inspector Thatcher was standing beside her desk, arms folded, talking to the tall, dark man standing beside her. Fraser assumed that the man was the visiting architect, Michel Marchand.
"Good morning, gentlemen."
"Good morning," they answered in unison. Fraser saw a smile beginning to lift the corners of his superior officer's mouth. Why was she in such a good mood today?
Inspector Thatcher turned to the man standing beside her.
"Michel, these gentlemen are Constable Fraser, Constable Turnbull, and Mr. Ovitz, my assistant. They'll be happy to assist you in any way you require during your visit."
Fraser and Turnbull bowed politely. Ovitz smiled and nodded.
"How do you do?" Marchand acknowledged each in turn. "I'm looking forward to working with you."
"Please let us know if there's anything we can do for you, sir." Fraser bowed, then indicated to the others that it was time to leave.
Outside the Inspector's office, Ovitz stopped. "Look, Fraser, I've got a dentist appointment scheduled for today. Can you possibly cover the desk for me until I get back? You don't have to do anything except answer the phone, and I'll be back at one-thirty."
"Certainly, Mr. Ovitz."
Answering the telephones was not one of his favorite tasks, but Ovitz would not be long. Dutifully, Fraser answered the incoming calls in English or French, as appropriate, and wrote down the messages. He had just begun to calculate his chances of taking a late lunch at the cafeteria down the street from the Consulate when Marchand suddenly appeared.
"Good afternoon, Constable...Fraser, is it?"
"Yes, sir." Fraser rose in deference to the visitor, then sat down again. "May I help you, sir?"
"Yes, please. Can you make some reservations for me? I'll need several."
"Certainly, Mr. Marchand. What kind of reservations?"
Fraser wrote each down on the steno pad as Marchand described what he wanted. "I'd like reservations for two for lunch tomorrow at the restaurant Cassis. Then I'd like reservations for two for a carriage ride around the park. There's a company you can call that has rides leaving from Michigan Avenue and Huron Street. Then, I'd like reservations for two at Bistro 110 at eight o'clock tomorrow night--"
Marchand stopped mid-sentence and cast a speculative eye in the direction of Inspector Thatcher's office. Fraser waited patiently, pen poised above the writing tablet.
"On second thought, Constable, make that a dinner reservation for two at eight tomorrow evening at the Seasons restaurant. That's at my hotel, the Four Seasons. And order champagne delivered to my room at nine-thirty p.m. Here's the number."
He passed his hotel key to Fraser, who noted the number and wrote it down. "Will there be anything else, sir?"
"Yes, please reserve a table for two at The Cafe--that's also a restaurant at the Four Seasons--for the champagne brunch at eleven o'clock Sunday morning. And then I'd like reservations for two for a boat ride on Sunday afternoon, leaving from the Michigan Avenue Bridge. I might as well see something of the architecture, while I'm here."
He smiled in man-to-man camaraderie at Fraser, who permitted himself a small smile in return.
"I'll be walking around the office the rest of the afternoon, Constable. So if you could let me know your progress at the end of the day, I'd appreciate it."
"Certainly, sir," Fraser said, and reached for the telephone directory yellow pages before Marchand had even left the room.
He had just completed his task when Ovitz returned, carrying a paper bag. "Here, Fraser, I got you a sandwich. I got one for myself, too, but I won't be able to eat it until the anesthetic wears off."
"Thank you, Mr. Ovitz." Fraser bit into the sandwich, then looked at Ovitz, who seemed bursting to say something. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
"Guess what I heard on my way back upstairs," Ovitz said. He leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "You know that guy Marchand who's here today?"
Fraser nodded.
"Well," Ovitz said, "he and Inspector Thatcher used to be engaged!"
"What! Mr. Ovitz, are you sure?"
"Sure as I'm sitting here." Ovitz looked triumphant. "One of the secretaries told me--her aunt was going to be a bridesmaid at their wedding. Except that they called off their engagement five years ago."
"Mr. Ovitz, you should not gossip. I trust you won't mention this to anyone else."
"Oh, no. Of course not." Ovitz looked crestfallen at this frosty reception of his interesting news. "Well, thanks for covering for me, Fraser. I owe you."
"You're welcome, Mr. Ovitz."
Fraser went back to his office, sick at heart. All the reservations he'd made for Marchand took on a new and sinister meaning. No, on second thought, make that dinner at my hotel, the Four Seasons...and order champagne to be delivered to my room at nine-thirty...
Oh, it was unbearable! This out-of-town visitor, this tall, dark, suave architect from Montreal, was going to wine and dine the Inspector, and then...no! He could not allow his imagination to go any further.
Sitting down heavily at his desk, staring at the perfectly aligned blotter and pen set, Fraser realized that this situation was his own fault. If he hadn't been so cautious, this would never have happened. He had thought there was plenty of time in which to make plain to Inspector Thatcher his interest in her: the fact that she was his superior officer had stymied him. He didn't want to seem to be harassing her, and yet--the Consulate was the only place he ever saw her, aside from the occasional official function elsewhere in the city. He had no idea what she did outside of working hours, or what her interests might be. All he knew for certain was that she hated perfume and had achieved a stat of 1.3 Earned Runs on Average over thirty games. He'd been racking his brains for some time, trying to think of a way to ask her out that wouldn't seem too presumptuous, and yet would be obvious enough to let her know that he wanted their acquaintance to progress.
Having decided to ask her to go riding with him, he was trying to work up the nerve to do so. The time that he, the Inspector, and Detective Vecchio had saved Chicago from nuclear disaster and rescued the members of the RCMP Musical Ride still shone in his memory. He remembered how, knowing that they were both in danger of being killed at any minute, he had dared to kiss her--and she'd responded in a way that could only be described as highly satisfactory. How could she have forgotten that? And later, when he'd galloped up to her and she'd jumped on to the back of his horse...that ride down the hill had been one of the best times of his life. The danger was over, she was sitting on the horse behind him with her arms laced around his chest, they were safe, and all was right with the world. Had the Inspector forgotten that, too--that half-hour foretaste of heaven?
He felt as if a steel-gloved hand were squeezing his heart. He stared at the wood grain surface of his desk, noticing even in the depths of his misery that it needed a good polishing. He wanted Meg Thatcher and she was now receding even further from his grasp. She infuriated him, intrigued him, aroused him: how many mornings had he awakened from dreams that she had at last declared her love and come gladly into his arms?
There were many things he wanted to ask her, many things he would have liked to say: was she ever as homesick as he sometimes was, had she enjoyed her days at the RCMP Depot Division Training Centre in Regina as much as he had, did she like fishing? He wanted to ask her whether she had a taste for art, and what kind of music she listened to in her spare time.
And now she was about to slip away from him, into the arms of this Marchand person. No doubt Monsieur Marchand was a very nice man, but at this moment all Fraser wanted was to challenge him to a duel. Preferably with swords. No, not swords, staves. No, violence was the resort of fools: why had men been endowed with wits unless they were meant to use them?
Fraser sat up straight in his chair, feeling hope rise in his heart. All was not lost yet. The duel would indeed take place, but it would involve brains, not brawn. And I have the advantage, he thought with satisfaction, because I know that the duel is on and he doesn't.
Not very chivalrous, perhaps, but all was fair in love and war. And this, by God, was war.
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The tour of the Consulate offices lasted until six, at which time Meg looked at her watch. "Have you seen everything you need to see, Michel? Mr. Talbot's dinner starts here at eight, and drinks will be served at seven-thirty. We just have time to go home and change clothes. I'll meet you back here."
"All right, cherie. I'll look forward to seeing you."
A few minutes after seven, Meg parked her car in its usual spot in the underground spaces reserved for Consulate personnel, then made her way upstairs. As the occasion was only semi-formal she was wearing the same black cocktail dress she'd worn the night Fraser asked her out for coffee last winter. As always, when the thought of Fraser entered her mind she sighed with exasperation. Although he apparently had now fully recovered his memory following the concussion caused by the traffic accident, he gave no sign that the two of them had shared anything beyond the normal daily interaction of people who worked in the same office. And yet, before the accident, he'd assured her that he hadn't been able to forget that for a brief space of time, in a situation where death seemed to be stalking them, he'd kissed her.
And it hadn't been a beginner's kiss, either. She'd been kissed by experts, and Fraser outclassed them all. He had great stamina, too, she remembered: he'd prolonged the kiss far beyond the time she would have thought that a normal person could go without breathing. Oh, the whole thing was too irritating! She couldn't ask him out, because it would look as if she were abusing the power of her position as his superior officer; he couldn't ask her out because it would look as if he were trying to curry favor. And they couldn't pursue their acquaintance away from the office--although in days gone by she'd known people who managed to do that successfully--because Fraser didn't seem to engage in any activities where they could accidentally encounter each other. As far as she could tell, he spent all of his spare time with Detective Vecchio at the 27th District Station.
Too much time had gone by since the kiss on top of the train. What had seemed to be a window of opportunity now appeared to be slammed shut. As she entered the elevator that would take her up to the consulate reception rooms, Meg remembered that she was the one who had instructed Fraser to forget that kiss. But she hadn't meant it, of course. Didn't he know it was her duty to tell him that he was supposed to forget what had passed between them, and his duty to ignore her instructions? Fraser was so literal-minded it was ridiculous.
Well, perhaps it was time to acknowledge that Fraser just wasn't for her. She admired him more than any man she'd ever met, even more than the lovable old RCMP Superintendent from Moose Jaw who had taught her how to drink her fellow police officers under the table and play a mean hand of poker, but there it was: she might admire Fraser, she might long for him, but he showed no sign of wanting to get to know her better.
As she entered the room Michel hurried forward. "Meg, how lovely you look." He bent down to kiss her cheek and for an instant it was like old times: she'd forgotten how feminine and cherished he could make her feel. "Guess what," he said, taking her arm and leading her over to another corner of the room. "I asked Constable Fraser to check the seating arrangements at the dinner table, and to move my place card next to yours."
"Very enterprising of you," she said, smiling. Someone handed her a drink. "Thank you," she said absently, and then stared. "Constable Fraser, have you been pressed into service as a waiter?"
"Good evening, ma'am. I volunteered to help out tonight, as the Consulate is somewhat short- staffed owing to the 'flu that's going around."
Funny, she hadn't heard that there was 'flu going around. "Very well. Carry on, then."
"Ah, Constable." Michel placed a hand on Fraser's sleeve. "Were you successful in doing what I asked?"
Fraser looked regretful. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, I'm afraid I wasn't. As I was adjusting the place cards, Mrs. Talbot came in and wanted to know what I was doing. I didn't want to tell her the truth, but on the other hand I couldn't lie. You understand, sir, I'm sure."
"Oh, quite." Michel shrugged. "Well, anyway, Meg, if we can't sit together during the dinner, let's go out for a drink afterwards, shall we? The minute it's over."
"Fine, Michel, thanks." Out of the corner of her eye, Meg noticed Fraser backing away, and gave him full marks for tact.
"Meg, before we go in...something's been driving me crazy all afternoon. Why haven't we kept in touch all these years?"
"Oh, Michel, you know the answer to that. It would have hurt too much. I couldn't be just friends with you, not after..." she looked up helplessly, not wanting to finish the sentence. His eyes were serious, but understanding.
"I suppose you're right, but all the same, I regret that we didn't at least write or call occasionally."
It turned out that Michel was seated so far down the table that private conversation was impossible. Secure in the knowledge that they were spending most of the following day together, Meg considered her current state of mind in the intervals of replying politely to the conversation of the people on each side of her.
No doubt about it, seeing Michel again like this was bringing back all sorts of memories. They had met, as she told Talbot, on the softball team that played on weekends in Ottawa. She'd been twenty-eight then, a hard-working, serious RCMP officer determined to make something of herself. And until she met Michel, she'd had no serious male interest in her life since her student days in Paris. Michel had reminded her of something she'd forgotten, that she was feminine and desirable.
And that was a fact of which she needed constant reminding. As the dark-haired, quiet, "adopted" girl in a family of boisterous blond boys, she'd had to become a tomboy to fit in. Wanting to be accepted, she'd embraced every casual utterance of her older brothers as if it were her own: the ability to pitch a no-hitter was a skill to be sought after, perfume and flirtatious looks were womanly wiles to be scorned. She hadn't even realized she was pretty until her junior year abroad, when Gaston, her fellow art student at the Sorbonne, had fallen head over heels in love with her. He also, in the interest of passing the exam requirement for painting the human body, persuaded her that it was her duty as his girlfriend to pose for him in the altogether. The ensuing embarrassment had caused Meg to grab the next Air Canada flight home to Vancouver. How naive she had been! At the thought that there might still be people in Paris who remembered l'affaire Gaston, Meg broke out in a cold sweat. Quickly, she reached for her water glass.
"More ice water, ma'am?" Fraser suddenly appeared at her elbow, holding a pitcher.
"Yes, thank you, Constable." She frowned. "Fraser, shouldn't you be checking the security arrangements?"
"Certainly, ma'am, if you wish me to."
"I do wish you to, Fraser. Please see to it immediately."
There was something amiss here. Meg frowned again: she didn't believe this feeble story about a 'flu epidemic. Why was Fraser waiting tables tonight? The last time he'd pretended to be a waiter he had been actively engaged in foiling a plot to assassinate a NAFTA trade representative. Was it possible that he'd heard of another plot? Was there something he was keeping from her? Damn the man, if he'd heard of something like that, it was his duty to let her, his superior officer, know about it. Viciously, she stabbed the steak on her plate as if it were an evildoer deserving of punishment.
Raising her eyes, she caught Michel looking at her with concern. She forced a smile, giving him a small wave of her hand to let him know all was well.
At last, dinner was over. She rose from the table, smiled at her partners on each side, and walked toward the door to wait for Michel to join her.
He strode up to her with flattering swiftness. "Cherie, at last! Have you got your car, or shall I have Constable Fraser get us a taxi? Where would you like to go?"
"I think--" Meg began, and then the lights went out.
The air resounded with squeaks of annoyance or excitement as people dropped things, jostled each other, or deliberately brushed against people they would have refrained from touching had the lights been on.
"Fraser, where are you?" Meg felt her way along the wall, trying to find the entrance to the room.
"Inspector, are you all right? Please calm down, everyone, the situation is under investigation. Thank you all for your cooperation."
Fraser, as efficient as ever, was in the room with a large flashlight, helping people through the door. In the outer reception room, two or three of the staff were lighting candles so that the guests could find their coats. Mr. and Mrs. Talbot stood by the door, apologizing to the departing visitors. "So good of you to come...yes, no doubt something to do with the Chicago electrical system...thank you for being so patient...nice to see you again...come back soon."
As soon as the visitors had left, Meg turned to Michel. "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to see what the problem is. Why don't you go ahead to your hotel and wait for me? I'll call you if I can get away."
"Ah, Meg...do you really have to stay? The lights may come back on by themselves. What can you possibly do?"
"I have a feeling that I need to discuss this with my staff, Michel. I'm sorry. I'll be in touch."
"All right, then." He kissed her cheek, then followed Fraser and his flashlight out into the street.
When Fraser reentered the building, Meg was waiting for him. "And now, Constable, I'd like an explanation, please. Just what the hell is going on?"
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"I'm glad you thought of this, cherie," Michel said as they left the restaurant after lunch on Saturday and hailed a taxi for the journey to the carriage stand. "It's a beautiful day and a carriage ride sounds so peaceful and old-fashioned. We can take our time and really talk."
Meg smiled. "It's been years since I've done anything like this."
Her spirits rose: spending time with Michel was turning out to be even more pleasant than she'd anticipated. The consultation with Fraser the previous evening had not gone well. When she asked him why the lights had gone out, he had treated her to his blankest stare and said, "Lack of electricity, ma'am." And when she'd asked, "Why are you playing waiter tonight, Fraser? Did someone threaten to assassinate Mr. Talbot? Or Mr. Marchand? Or anyone else?" he'd looked the picture of injured innocence as he replied, " I thought it would be in the national interest for me to cancel my plans for the evening and do everything I could to make Mr. Talbot's dinner a success."
Now, as they stepped out of the taxi to where the horse and carriage were waiting, she accepted Michel's hand as he helped her up to the carriage behind the driver. She settled into her seat as he went around the front of the carriage to pay the driver for their excursion. As she looked around with pleasure, Michel climbed into the seat beside her.
"We have to wait a few minutes for the substitute driver, Meg. This one has been called back to the head office. Do you mind?"
"Not at all."
"Great. Tell me, Meg, have you missed me at all since we broke off the engagement? I can't tell you how often you've been in my thoughts."
Michel leaned closer to hear her answer, and so engrossed were they that they failed to notice that the other driver had come on and started the horse on its journey. Mildly surprised to find that the carriage was moving, Meg shrugged and turned back to Michel. "You know, for years I've compared other men to you and found them wanting."
Michel's eyes were alight with interest. "All of them, cherie?"
"Well..." Meg shrugged, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to go into details, either. "About ninety-five percent of them, I'd say."
Michel slipped an arm around her. "You can't imagine how happy it makes me to hear you say that. You can't imagine how happy I am altogether, to be with you like this."
He gazed at her with a tender expression, then hooked his finger under her chin, drawing her closer. Their lips had just met when suddenly the horse broke into a gallop, flinging them apart abruptly. Meg gasped.
"For God's sake, driver! Be more careful, will you?" Michel sounded annoyed.
The motion of the carriage slowed as the driver turned round. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Marchand, the horse was startled. Good afternoon, Inspector."
"Fraser! What the hell--"
"Constable, I must say I'm surprised to see you here."
"Well, actually, it's not so surprising, Mr. Marchand. You see, when I called at noon to confirm your reservation, I learned that your ride was going to be canceled owing to a shortage of staff. The driver of this carriage had to take over for another driver on the other side of the park. I didn't want you and the Inspector to be deprived of your excursion, so I offered to take over. After all, I am a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and used to handling horses."
Was there just a hint of pride in Fraser's tone as he finished his explanation? Meg was thunderstruck. Eccentricity was Fraser's ruling characteristic, to be sure, but this was over the limit even for him. For a moment she considered giving him one of the tongue-lashings for which she was famous, but thought better of it. It would hardly do to appear before Michel as a tart-tongued virago. She would deal with Fraser later. "Constable," she said in a dulcet tone, "would you please go on driving, since you've volunteered for the job? We don't want to spend the whole thirty minutes just sitting here, do we?"
"Of course not, ma'am." Fraser tugged politely at the rim of his top hat, smiled, and turned around.
The rest of the ride was uneventful, but the spell had been broken. Every time she and Michel became engrossed in each other, the horse would shy at something in the street and break into a gallop. The sound of Fraser cajoling the animal into better behavior would then drown out their conversation, to the point that Meg gave up trying to talk to Michel and simply sat back to enjoy the ride.
After Michel had helped her down from the carriage, Meg said, "While you're getting a taxi, I just want a word with Constable Fraser."
Michel nodded and went off down the street. Meg turned to Fraser, still sitting in front of the carriage and regarding her with mild interest.
"Fraser, why was there a shortage of drivers? Another 'flu epidemic, I suppose?"
"Well, ma'am, it is possible that the driver's aunt was suddenly taken ill."
Meg fixed him with a gimlet stare. "No, she wasn't."
Fraser's eyes slid away from hers, then back again. "No," he agreed. "She wasn't."
"Then why--"
"Meg, here's our cab! Come quickly, cherie!"
"You're going to explain this to me later, Constable." Meg turned on her heel and walked over to Michel, who was holding the door of the taxi open for her. Truly, if she hadn't had something else to occupy her thoughts at the moment, she would have begun to wonder whether Fraser had toppled right over the edge into lunacy.
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Sitting across from Michel in the Seasons restaurant, Meg relaxed. The lighting was dim, the sound of violins muted but sweet. The thick carpet that deadened the waiters' footfalls, the starched and shining linen on the table, the crystal wine glasses sparkling in the light cast by the single candle flame, all combined to create an atmosphere of quiet luxury and good taste.
"This is lovely, Michel. I'm so glad you asked me to have dinner with you tonight."
Michel appeared to drag his eyes with reluctance from her cleavage--really, the slinky red silk sheath was worth every cent she'd paid for it--and raised his wine glass to her.
"To old times, cherie--and to renewed friendship."
Meg smiled and clinked her wine glass against his. Their eyes met and locked in a gaze that seemed filled with meaning, a gaze that seemed to go on forever...until a quiet cough at her elbow made Meg glance upward.
"Fraser!"
She and Michel gaped. Fraser, immaculate in his dress reds, stood before them, clasping an enormous bouquet of roses to his chest. He appeared completely composed.
"Excuse me for interrupting, Inspector...and Mr. Marchand, sir. These flowers were delivered to your office this afternoon, ma'am, so I wanted to bring them to you as soon as possible. Roses are highly perishable, you realize, so you might want to consider--"
"Thank you, Constable," Meg said faintly, accepting the bouquet Fraser held out to her.
"I'm sorry I couldn't get here earlier," Fraser went on.
"I'm not," Michel muttered.
Meg searched in the bouquet for a card. There wasn't one. "Michel, did you send me these? But why didn't you send them to my apartment instead?"
Michel's mouth opened and shut helplessly. He glanced at Fraser, who wore an expression of polite interest. In the small hush a silvery feminine voice from the table behind them spoke.
"Look at the Mountie!"
"Ooh...wish he'd mount me!" said an answering voice, also feminine.
Fraser gasped, stared straight ahead, and turned scarlet. Meg restrained an impulse to say, "Red suits you, Fraser." She didn't want to prolong this situation beyond what was absolutely necessary.
"Thank you, Michel." Meg bestowed a tender glance on him. Turning to Fraser, she said in a tone that she hoped was polite but firmly dismissive. "And thank you, Constable."
Fraser bowed to each of them in turn and withdrew. Audible sighs from the table behind them followed him out of the room.
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An hour later, Meg glanced around the sitting room of Michel's suite in the Four Seasons, thinking that it could be described by no other word than opulent. Such luxuries would have been a normal part of her life, if she'd married Michel. Inwardly, she smiled: as much as she enjoyed fine food and clothes and furniture, she could live without them. And had, for months at a time, before she'd traded field work for a desk at RCMP Headquarters eight years ago.
Michel came back into the sitting room, looking harassed. "I thought you might like a drink, so I ordered room service. I can't think why they're taking so long about it."
"Oh, that's all right. What would you like to do tomorrow?"
"I was thinking of a cruise along the river, past some of the architecture for which Chicago is so famous. But as far as I'm concerned, cherie," Michel said, moving closer, "Chicago is chiefly notable for being the place where you live."
"Well, there are all sorts of buildings that would interest you. For example, there's the Sears Tower, the Rookery, the Chicago Public Library..."
The smile Michel gave her said: "You could be discussing the effect of acid rain on Arctic vegetation and I still wouldn't take you seriously, because all I can think of is making love to you as soon as possible." Meg watched him as he approached her with That Look in his eye. Dear Michel: did he really think she was going to fall into bed with him when she hadn't seen him for five whole years?
"Cherie," he said, drawing her into his arms and nuzzling her neck. "I don't want to discuss architecture, unless it concerns your own personal construction, which I find magnificent..."
Irritated at being reduced from a person to a sex object, Meg was thinking up a sarcastic reply when a knock sounded on the door of the suite.
"At last, the champagne." Michel released her and went to open the door.
"Ah, Mr. Marchand, here's your champagne," Fraser said, advancing into the room with a silver ice bucket from which protruded a long-necked bottle. "If you'll just sign here for the charge to be added to the room--"
"My GOD!" Michel's cry of rage was so loud Meg covered her ears. Turning to her, he demanded, "Are we dead? Are we, in fact, in hell? Why is this Mountie haunting us?"
Meg turned to Fraser. "Fraser, what are you doing here?"
"Well, it's really quite simple, Inspector," Fraser said, addressing her with the air of one relieved to find himself talking to a rational audience. "You remember explaining to me that I wouldn't get a pay raise this year because of budget cuts in the Government? Well, as you know, life in Chicago is quite expensive and the cost of food for my wolf keeps going up, so I've taken a part-time job at this hotel to increase my income."
"Constable Fraser, I demand to know the name of your superior officer so I can report you for stalking, harassment, loitering with intent, and conspiracy to commit general mayhem." Michel spoke in a low, intense voice but his eyes shot out sparks. He looked prepared to pounce on Fraser and pummel him, the minute Meg gave the word.
"I'm his superior officer, Michel." Meg heaved a sigh. Clearly, she would have some explaining to do. "Constable," she said, fixing Fraser with another gimlet gaze, "will you kindly wait for me downstairs in the lobby? I'll be there presently."
Fraser bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
Meg watched him go, then turned to Michel to face the music.
****************************************************************************
Fraser was waiting for her in the hotel's beautifully appointed lobby on the seventh floor. When she stepped out of the elevator, he turned from looking through the windows at the night and came forward to meet her.
"All right, Constable. First you can get a taxi to take us to the Consulate, since I left my car there this afternoon. And then I'll see you in my office."
Neither of them spoke in the taxi, Meg because she was too deep in thought and Fraser because presumably he didn't want to bring down her wrath on his head any sooner than necessary.
In her office, Meg didn't bother to sit down, merely folded her arms, leaned back against her desk, and began. "I understand from Mr. Marchand that he had reserved a table for two tomorrow for brunch at the hotel and a boat ride."
"Yes, ma'am." Fraser looked straight back at her, unflinching.
"Well, you don't have to pretend to have a part-time job at either place, Constable, because I'm not showing up for either occasion."
That got his attention. His expression did not change, but a look of intense interest came into his eyes.
"Fraser, why did you ruin my weekend?"
"I didn't ruin it, ma'am."
"Yes, you did."
"I did? Good."
"Good? What do you mean good, you impertinent--"
"He's not the right one for you, ma'am."
"Indeed. And do you have any suggestions as to who the right one might be?"
"Yes. And I would be glad to explain my theories to you if you'd go riding with me. I know a very good stable, just outside the city, and we could--"
"All right."
His face lit up and he smiled in the way she loved, the dimples at the corners of his mouth so deep that the sight made her heart do funny little dance steps in her chest. Even before Michel had said accusingly, after Fraser left the suite, "That Mountie's in love with you," she'd known the truth. Fraser was jealous. And if he was sufficiently jealous of Michel to go to these extremes, it could only mean one thing.
And she had also realized, when she saw him bringing the champagne in, that it wasn't going to work with Michel. She liked Michel, had once loved him; but those days were gone. If she hadn't met Fraser, she might have fanned the embers of her feelings for Michel to a new blaze, but that was out of the question now.
She loved Fraser, eccentric as he was. If asked to explain her feelings for him, she would have shrugged, for how could one explain love? As nearly as she could define it to herself, he touched a chord in her no one else ever had. There was something wild in him that could be neither tamed nor beaten by the mean streets of Chicago: something about him that spoke of the purity of the frozen white North, of clear blue lakes and fragrant forests of fir and spruce: of silver-scaled salmon racing through clean-running rivers; of life lived in harmony with nature. This was a man who could take care of himself in any environment, and who moreover would have been able to do so in any century. And although his habitual reserve hid it like snow covering the warming earth of spring, she sensed a great warmth in Fraser: enough to keep a woman happy for the rest of her life.
He was regarding her with what looked like anxiety. "Inspector? About tomorrow?"
"Oh, yes." She roused herself. "I'll pick you up after lunch."
******************************************************************************
The sun lay warm across their backs, the wind blew through their hair, the horses cantered smoothly through the fading light of an October afternoon. And she looked happy: in fact, he'd never seen her quite so...human.
He signaled that they should slow the horses from a canter to a walk, and Meg nodded. Gradually, the movement of the horses slowed to the point where they could ride close together and exchange a remark or two.
"We'd better let the horses rest, Ben."
"Sure enough."
He dismounted, then helped Meg down. She slid off her horse, took the reins in her hand, tethered the horse to a sapling.
"Okay now?" he asked.
"Yes, thanks. You know, Ben, I was just remembering..." Meg looked up at him and laughed. "If you'd been five minutes later with that champagne last night, you might have found us in the Jacuzzi."
He studied her face, decided to call her bluff. "No, I wouldn't."
"How can you be so sure?" She flung the challenge at him like a gauntlet.
"Because." He moved quickly to take her in his arms. "Because of this."
Her soft lips parted under the pressure of his mouth and she wrapped her arms around him more tightly. He sighed with pleasure, conscious that their bodies fit together as well as if such embraces happened all the time. Eventually, he pulled away, looked into her eyes. "Are you going to make me do sentry duty for kissing you like this?"
Meg considered for a moment. "Not if you do it again."
Never one to go against the wishes of his superior officer, Fraser did it again.
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*Copyright January 1997 by Diana Read on all original story content. Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications, or any other copyright holders for DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce for anything other than personal reading use without written consent of the author. Comments welcome at scribe@his.com.