The words 'Run for your life' had never meant so much. Tamara had heard them a thousand times in everyday conversation, read them a thousand more in books and online. They were clichéd, over-used.
They had never made more sense than they did right now.
It was all a joke. Sort of. It was Eric's fault that Tamara had started watching "Highlander" on television. She loved the movie, but she hadn't even been aware of the television show until he'd pointed it out. That had been before they'd even met, a suggestion from a friend three thousand miles away in California.
That friendship and shared interest had drawn them closer to one another, and ultimately led to their meeting at a convention, starting up a long-distance romance, then a move across country for her, and eventually here, to Paris.
It was silly, she'd argued, to spend so much money on a trip for no reason. She wanted to see Paris, of course, and who wouldn't, but she was more used to skimping and saving for vacations. Eric made good money, and he was generous in sharing what he had, but the plane tickets had literally taken her breath away.
Now she couldn't catch her breath at all.
They'd been behaving like tourists shouldn't in the City of Light. They picnicked on a bank of the Seine, and had nothing but wine, bread and Brie. They'd spent three days in the Louvre alone, not really debating the merits of the artwork, just admiring. Eric had tugged her toward the railing of the Eiffel tower, whispering in her ear about tangos and trouble, but the disapproving glare of the tour guide stifled laughter into muffled giggles, and the dance never came to pass.
Her heart pounded in her throat, breath roaring in her ears as she raced along the concrete, not daring to look behind her. She knew he was there, just a few steps back. Her knees were giving out, and he hadn't even broken a sweat.
Tamara had noticed him yesterday, and Eric teased her about not being enough for her. He was tall and painfully handsome, the sort who looked as if he'd just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. Of course, this was Paris. Weren't all the men beautiful? Smooth, café au lait skin, black hair cut close to the scalp above his ears, but soft enough just at a glance that she wanted to touch it to see if it really felt like velvet. He was impeccably dressed, of course, and had the body of an athlete. Or a model. She couldn't see his eyes, but she knew that they'd be as gorgeous as he.
Though Eric laughed, she could tell that he felt a little threatened, and so she'd purposefully ignored the stranger. She'd tried, at least, but every time she looked away from Eric, every time she glanced up for a second, he was there. By the flower shop, at the fountain.
"He's following us," she'd insisted when they crossed a busy intersection, only to have him cross after them a moment later.
"Don't flatter yourself," Eric teased.
"I'm not flattering myself. It's creepy."
Eric slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close against his side. "That's what you have me for, huh? To protect you from creeps?"
Eric could always find a way to make her feel better.
Only now, Eric couldn't help at all. Tamara rocketed past an alleyway, skidded to a halt fifty feet past, and doubled back on herself. He was there, almost close enough to touch her when she darted out of reach and ran as fast as tiring legs would carry her. He wasn't far behind. She heard him swear, then heard his footsteps, echoing in odd syncopation with hers.
Tamara hadn't slept well and had taken her time in getting out of bed and getting into the shower. Eric was dressed and washed before she'd first skimmed an eyelid open, but he smiled, and shook his head, patient, not scolding.
They'd missed their bus tour because she'd been so slow, leaning lazily against the shower wall with hot water streaming down over her shoulders, hair plastered against her head. "I'll make it up to you," she promised.
Eric shook his head. "We'll just do Notre Dame today instead of tomorrow. There'll be another tour."
Tamara overturned a frail-looking table and pounded on. The flower pot that had so artfully decorated the center shattered, scattering terracotta shards and soil across the alleyway. Tamara dared one backward glance, only to see her pursuer vault the mess without hesitation. Damn!
Standing on the steps of the cathedral, Tamara leaned against Eric's side, and laughed, shrugging helplessly. "This is so bizarre. This is supposed to be the backdrop for some fantastic scene on t.v., not real, Eric. I mean, are we really here?"
Eric nodded, and pulled her close to his side again. "We're really here, and it's really real." He let her go, and stepped down a step so that he had to look up at her, grinning ear to ear. "Know what else?"
"What?"
"I have something I want to ask."
Tamara could still remember that feeling, that skip in her heartbeat, like she might hiccup. She was holding her breath, and she knew Eric could tell. He bent his head, grinning at his shoes, and Tamara poked him in the shoulder. "C'mon, you're killing me."
He was enjoying the torture. He was being slow on purpose, as he took one of her hands, then reached into his pocket with the other. Inch by inch, grin getting impossibly wider.
"Excuse me."
His voice was as beautiful as the rest of him. Tamara knew who'd spoken before the words had fully registered, before she turned around to meet his eyes. Amber. They were the color of rich honey, almost golden. He smiled.
"I don't mean to interrupt," he said, and shared that smile with Eric as well, "but I thought you looked familiar." His speech was accented, but Tamara couldn't place it. Somewhere in the Caribbean, perhaps.
Eric was at her side, his own smile polite if a little forced. "We're not French," he supplied helpfully.
The stranger laughed. "No, no, and neither am I. You're American, right? California, I think."
Eric's smile got a little less polite. "Yeah, but I don't think we've met."
The stranger's smile remained, and he shook his head. "No, we haven't. We flew over together, I think. From the U.S." He reached inside his jacket, drawing a business card case from a pocket inside. It opened with a crisp sound, and he thumbed an ivory card free with a certain flair.
He offered it to Tamara, who'd taken it with fingers gone numb. "I'm Baron Duvall." He tapped the card, careful not to knock it out of her fingers.
Color touched her cheeks, and she broke off her study of him to read the card. Baron Duvall, Photographer.
"What can we do for you, Mr. Duvall?" Eric's hand was warm against Tamara's back.
"Baron," he said, sliding the card case away. "Please."
"All right. Baron. Which flight was this again?"
Baron chuckled. "Los Angeles to London, London to Charles de Gaulle. It was a long flight and faces blur, I'm not surprised you don't remember me. I make a living by spotting people, however, and I never forget a face. Especially not one as beautiful as yours," he told Tamara.
Eric's smile was gone. "Sorry we don't remember you. Nice to meet you again. If you'll excuse us?"
"I'd like to take your picture," he'd said. "The two of you, the happy couple."
Tamara blushed again. Eric frowned. "Not interested."
"I'd pay you for the privilege, and it wouldn't take more than a moment of your time."
"We're really not . . ."
"I am," Tamara interjected, and both men turned their attention to her. She smiled at Baron, and then turned to Eric and smiled a little more. "C'mon, Eric. It won't hurt. It's just a picture. Just one picture? Please?"
"We have our own cameras. Our own cameras," Eric repeated, "and six rolls of film already. No offense," he offered Baron, who nodded charitably, "but we don't need another picture."
Tamara had been disappointed. She could remember that clearly. She'd been flattered, and Eric was insulted. "Then take mine."
"Tamara . . ."
"It's just a picture," she insisted.
And Baron agreed. "Absolutely. Just a picture. A few more francs to spend. It won't take a moment," he said again, and turned to gesture toward a car, waiting just down the street. "My equipment's there. We'll take the picture on the bridge, here? Overlooking the water." He turned and started down the steps as if the matter were resolved.
Tamara followed, leaving Eric to close his mouth and follow.
A cat darted out of an open doorway to Tamara's left, tripping her and sending her tumbling. In the instant she'd stopped running, every joint began to ache. For a moment, she considered giving up then and there.
In the next, she looked over her shoulder and saw Baron bearing down on her again. The urge to give up was gone as quickly as it had been born. She shoved herself clumsily to her feet and staggered out of the reach of grasping fingers with only an inch to spare.
The end of the alleyway was a blessing, and that goal fueled her with a new fire. She could make it that far, and then she'd choose the next mark. She would have to choose quickly, though. Baron was too close.
The alley opened out onto a bridge. Rather, it opened onto a downhill slope that disappeared beneath a bridge arcing over the river. Déjà vu nearly blinded Tamara for a moment, the feeling that she had been here before, seen it before. The moment was gone with the next heartbeat, and she pushed for the shelter of the bridge. Like an outstretched arm, it seemed to offer her consolation.
The picture had been nothing out of the ordinary. Eric, his arms around her waist, his head bowed against hers, with the river as the backdrop. It would make a nice postcard, Tamara thought.
Baron had been quick about it, too, promising that he only wanted that moment, and then he would let them go about their business a few francs richer. If they would follow him to the car, he would pay them in an instant.
"Sit, sit," he invited when the car doors were opened. He left the back open, and lifted the handle on the front on the passenger side. "I just need to get my wallet."
Eric caught her by the wrist just as she was taking Baron up on the invitation. "Don't," he warned.
"Don't what? You're being completely paranoid, Eric. It's just a car. Relax."
"I'm relaxed," he lied. "I just don't want you to sit in the car. Please."
Tamara's brow furrowed, and she leaned forward a little, tugging at the collar of his shirt. "Why? Do you think he's going to steal me? Kidnap me right out from under your nose?" She stood tiptoe and stole a kiss. "He's not a bad guy."
"He was following us."
"I thought he was following us," she clarified. "I was probably wrong."
Baron stepped around the passenger door. "Here we are . . ." He unzipped a leather portfolio. "Your payment."
She should have seen it coming. She could see it, in hindsight. Had seen it over and again. The little twist in his smile, the way his fingers brushed over that leather, a caress.
There was a sound, and something flew from the case. It wasn't loud, and Tamara hadn't seen where it went until it was too late.
Until the color drained out of Eric's cheeks, and he dropped to his knees in front of her, a hand clutching at the shirt over his heart. He glanced down at his white-knuckled hand, then up at her again, loss and bewilderment tangled together on his face.
"Eric? Eric!" She cupped her hands to both sides of his face, met his eye. "What? What's *wrong*? Oh God. Eric, oh God!"
He hadn't answered. He leaned against her briefly, and then he toppled sideways, into the still-open door of the car before he collapsed. Then Baron was there, lifting him as easily as if he were a child.
"Move," he commanded Tamara, and she moved, letting him put Eric in the back seat. He was shaking his head, his lips were moving, but she couldn't hear his voice. She couldn't reach him around Baron's side.
And then he went still. Just like that. He hadn't made a sound, hadn't cried out at all. Hadn't even said her name.
Now he was gone.
She must have been in shock. Eric couldn't be, he wasn't, dead, was he? Like that? So suddenly? There was no blood, no warning? She backed away from Baron and the car a few numb steps.
It had to be shock that made everything move so slowly. The motorcycle that swerved to avoid her, the way Baron stood, all long lines of grace, and turned to face her. Turned and smiled.
Cobblestones bumped at the soles of her shoes as she flew, stealing backward glances as if she needed to reassure herself that she was being followed. She didn't need reassuring. She needed an escape.
Facing forward again, déjà vu struck again. There were boats on the river, as there should be, some in motion, others moored. There was a barge, though, too familiar for comfort. She should remember it, did remember it somehow. She'd seen it before, she knew, but she had never been to Paris . . .
And now there was a figure on the duck, just emerging. Tall, lean and dark-haired. He stooped to adjust a tarp, to tuck a corner into place and a ponytail slipped forward, fell over his shoulder.
Duncan. Impossible.
An escape.
"Hey! *Hey*!" Added incentive to run a little faster, this new stranger. It was a stranger who had led her here in the first place, but there was no time to think about that now. Baron couldn't kill her in plain sight of someone else.
The man straightened, turning to seek out the source of the shouts. Something in the way he moved, the way he stepped to the edge of the barge. Like Duncan MacLeod. But Duncan wasn't real . . .
Real enough to step off the deck and onto the street. Real enough, apparently, to start toward her, dark eyebrows knit together.
Real enough to make Baron stop in his tracks. She glanced behind herself once more as she ran, and nearly tripped. Baron was no longer chasing. He'd stopped, and now backed in the direction he'd chased her for so long, away from her. Was that wary glance for Tamara?
Or for her rescuer. She turned back just in time to stop short of a collision. Out of breath and bone-weary she looked up to see his face.
And fainted dead away.