The first time he met the woman was in a hotel bar.
"You look familiar," were the first words out of her mouth as she sat down next to him without even asking.
"You probably have me confused with someone else," he said amiably. "Apparently I have one of those faces. Happens all the time."
"Yeah. You're probably right."
Perhaps it was because the lighting in these places was usually pretty bad that she didn't recognize him. Or perhaps it was his petty attempt at a disguise that he wore not really believing it would fool the press that seemed to dog him everywhere—the fact that he was wearing glasses that night and his eyes and his hair were a dark, run-of-the-mill brown. Perhaps it was a combination of the two.
The fact was, if she knew him, she didn't let on. And by the next morning, he was pretty sure she hadn't known him.
The woman was tall, blond, and curvy, what they call a classic beauty—blue-green eyes with a perpetually know-it-all look in them and sensuous painted lips. She might have been in her mid-twenties. She might have been in her mid-thirties. There was no way for him to tell with someone who was so clearly colony-born, like himself. In any case, he was attracted to her instantly. Whether it was her blunt humor that reminded him of himself at that moment, or something else, he couldn't quite say. Nor did he feel he needed to.
"So, what are you in for?" she quipped. "Business or pleasure? I'd guess business just by looking at you."
"Is it really that obvious? I'm here as a speaker at the convention. In fact, I should be running over my notes as we speak." She nodded in understanding, and he returned the favor: "Yourself?"
"Business, like you—"
"What kind? If you don't mind my asking."
"I'm an attorney, actually. Corporate attorney."
"Not on this colony?"
"No. To tell the truth, this is the first time I've been to the colonies in years. I've been stuck on Earth, but, alas, there's hardly any time for sight-seeing now that I'm here. You know lawyers," she said sardonically; "married to their job . . ."
"Speaking of which, are you? Married. I mean, I just ask out of curiosity . . ."
"Divorced," she said simply. She didn't seem to mind his forward way of asking. "I think he was only after my family's money. Which opens a whole new can of worms—"
"You must have saved a bundle on attorney fees."
"Yeah, just like that. That's the killer."
They talked for some time about this and that. She couldn't say who she was representing, as it seemed to be a large corporation and the case was sensitive. He understood perfectly. Nor did he feel comfortable telling her much more about his professional life than that he worked in construction; there were too many women who tried to take advantage of him once they learned his identity. On mundane subjects, though, they agreed it was eerie how many points of commonality there seemed to be between them. The same taste in music and literature, the same views on child-rearing though neither of them had any, the same interests in history, even if they didn't entirely see eye to eye on its interpretation.
After several drinks, they noted the time. "But, you've got a big day tomorrow," she said, and left the invitation hanging.
But he had all morning to prepare. And besides, he worked better under pressure.
"By the way," she said as she closed her purse after leaving a tip, "I didn't catch your name."
He lied and told her it was Trowa Barton.
"Sam Al—" she said, extending a hand.
The name sounded vaguely familiar; he figured he must have seen it in the news once before.
She invited him to her room and he spent the night in her arms. His schedule these days didn't leave much time for relationships, but even then he had to say it was some of the best sex he ever had. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, but though they had only just met that night under the dim lights of the hotel bar, he felt like he had known her his entire life.
When morning came he had to force himself out the door. He offered to show her around town later, but did not think she would actually take him up on it. He didn't think twice about her passing remark he reminded her of her father, as she kissed him a final time. It wasn't the first time a woman had told him something similar.
Back in his own room, he washed the brown out of his hair, removed his contacts, put on a fresh suit and tie, and rehearsed his speech in front of the mirror. Feeling reinvigorated, he headed off for the convention.
He met his old war pals Relena Darlian and Dorothy Catalonia, spoke to the attendees alongside them, and afterwards posed for pictures and produced some witty sound bites. Then, after he had managed to slip away from the press, a business associate of his flagged him down.
"I was hoping I'd have a chance to get you away from the cameras," he said. "I want you to meet the attorney who's going to be handling the new resource satellite acquisition. She just came up from our Bahrain office."
The associate waved to someone in the crowd. And when the person whose attention the man had been trying to get came over, Quatre was shocked to see it was the same woman from last night.
The coincidence was awkward, but he smiled anyway. The woman's cheerful and composed expression, however, fell when she saw him.
"Quatre Winner. It's a pleasure," he said flatly as he extended his hand. He wished he could apologize for lying about his identity and explain, but maybe there would be time later. For now he had to pretend they hadn't met before. "I'm told we're going to be seeing a lot more of you at our L4 offices from now on, Mrs . . ."
"Al—" she repeated the name she had given him last night. "Samar Al—"
"Oh, I'm sorry," said the business associate, noticing their stiffness. "This is the first time you've actually met in person, isn't it? I guess since she's still using her husband's name you couldn't be expected to recognize her."
She glanced at him sideways in horror, but the man went on obliviously.
"But perhaps her maiden name would ring a bell. Master Quatre, meet Ms. Samar Winner. I believe she's one of your sisters."