THE FRENCH CONNECTION
Frankfurt, Germany: Friday 14 December 2029
"That alloy is susceptible to microscopic stress fractures under those conditions," Hans pointed out, and three of the others at the table nodded intently. Michelle sighed.
Kyle took a slow and thoughtful drink of beer. "What about a preceramic polymer coating?"
"Siloxane?" Kirstin suggested.
"Or maybe silicon nitride," Claude replied. "A binder would reduce void formation during manufacture, though the material would need reinfiltration."
"That can get expensive. Maybe, if we..." Kirstin started sketching a diagram on a cocktail napkin, only to have Michelle reach across the table and take it from her hands.
"Stop that," Michelle said sternly. "We've been designing this anti-grav engine for more than a year, and we work on it every single day. It's Friday night. We're in a bar. We have beer. There is music." She waved her hand behind her at the people the dance floor and the trio of musicians in the corner, who were pounding out a song from half a century ago while their singer wailed, "Don't touch me, please. I can not stand the way you tease!"
"On Monday," Michelle concluded, "we go back to the Research Center and we design the ship that will take us to the stars. But tonight, we have fun."
Kyle laughed and lifted his beer to her in salute. "Well said!" That had been his philosophy for many years. Enjoy now, and work another day.
Claude followed his example and saluted too, then set his empty mug down with a solid thump. "Tonight, we drink!"
"Tonight, we dance," Kirstin added, with a saucy smile and a twinkle in her eye. She offered her hand to Hans, and he stood with a quick bow and went with her to the dance floor.
Kyle offered his hand to Michelle, but she shook her head. "Not this song." He didn't ask her why, simply nodded and turned slightly to watch the dancers. Hans and Kirstin had traded partners already; it was that kind of dance and that kind of crowd: young, unattached, and frenetic. Their energy had an air of desperation, rather like the macabre balls during the years of the Black Death. He turned back to Michelle and Claude and joined their conversation about time-shift anomalies in the various Star Trek alternate universes—an engineer's idea of nerdvana. When the song ended, Kirstin and Hans came back with more beer and happily joined in.
Yet even the fascination of sci-fi occasionally paled. Kirstin was expounding on her theory that the gate at the City on the Edge of Forever was actually a Star Gate and the guardian was an ascended being, when the men abruptly stopped listening. A woman had walked into the bar.
No, not walked. This woman prowled. Above high-heeled sandals, black leather laces crisscrossed their way up ankle, calf, and knee. Bare thighs gleamed beneath a very short skirt of green, and a sleeveless vest of black leather with only two buttons exposed arms, midriff, and back, but just a tantalizing glimpse of breasts. Her left hand was at her shoulder, holding onto a dark green cape that floated behind her like water and shifted at every breath. Cloud cloth, they called it, the latest release from the Ephesus line. At the corner of each eye she had drawn the eye of Horus in black eyeliner, and her lips were the color of blood. So were her nails. Long, red tresses streamed down her back, and her only jewelry was a choker of green satin ribbon wound around her neck. She paused at the edge of the dance floor, a faint smile playing about her lips as she scanned the crowd.
"Looks like Cat Woman forgot her whip," Kirstin remarked and turned back to her drink.
Michelle punched Hans on the shoulder. "Breathe, man. Breathe." He nodded, but neither he nor Claude looked away.
They didn't need to. The woman was heading towards their table, apparently having found who she was looking for. The three men stood as she came near, and Michelle and Kirstin rolled their eyes at each other. Kyle took a step away from his chair and reminded himself to breathe.
"Philippe!" she exclaimed, her voice low and throaty and filled with the memory of silken nights and wanton days—and the promise of more to come.
"Serena," he greeted her, swallowing in a throat gone dry. To either side of him, he was vaguely aware of the dumbfounded expressions of his co-workers. Serena smiled, slowly, lusciously, then flowed into his arms. Her mouth tasted of brandy, and her hair felt like silk.
"Who the hell is Philippe?" he dimly heard Hans say. "And how does Kyle know her?"
"Extremely well, it seems," Michelle's voice said dryly.
Kyle (a.k.a. Methos a.k.a. Philippe Jarbeau a.k.a. more than a thousand other names) didn't respond. His tongue and lips were occupied, and his hands and arms and all his senses were filled with the delectably insatiable Serena.
Enjoy now, and work another day.
Perhaps he should change that to: Enjoy the night and the day. And another. Finally, on Tuesday morning, he said, "I have to go to work."
Serena stretched, in the only way she could, with her toes pointed and her arms over her head. Her movements tightened the green satin ribbon that outlined each breast and wound once about her throat. Her green eyes blinked lazily. "Why?"
"I'm the lead engineer on a project. We need to finish by spring, and my team needs me."
She pouted prettily. "I need you."
Methos leaned over and lightly traced a finger down the bridge of her nose, across her lips, pausing on the lower one long enough for her to open her mouth and swirl the tip of her tongue across his finger. He moved on, following the curve of her chin and skimming across the delicate skin of her throat, ending in the hollow where her heartbeat showed. His fingertip caught in the ribbon and twisted it tight just for a moment, and she drew in a sharp hiss of breath. On his finger moved, sliding in a straight line between her breasts and onto the softer skin below. Then lower, and lower, more and more slowly, then lower still...
Her eyes were closed now, her breathing shallow, and her creamy skin flushed. "Philippe..."
"Time for work," he said cheerfully and got off the bed.
"Philippe!"
He held up two shirts. "What do you think? Maroon or green?" She didn't answer, pouting not so prettily now, so he finished dressing without her help. "I'll be back around five," he told her, with one hand on the doorknob.
"I want to see where you work," she announced.
He'd been expecting her to protest his exit, but he hadn't expected to hear that. "It's a research lab. Lots of computers, equipment, machines…"
For once, her smile was amused instead of enticing. "Yes. For designing anti-grav engines using dark-energy. I know. My company is one of the Research Center's sponsors."
"Your company?"
"Kerametal."
Kerametal, the company that made the preceramic polymer coating he'd suggested on Friday night. Kerametal, the company for innovative technology in materials engineering, and the company that Michelle and Hans were both hoping to get jobs with once the project was done. Methos came back over and sat on the edge of the bed.
"I'm not just a pretty face with a gorgeous body, you know," Serena informed him, then stretched once again to remind him just how gorgeous her body was.
"Clearly," he agreed, while still enjoying the show.
"I'll go home for some clothes then meet you after lunch at the Research Center. Yes?"
"Yes," he agreed again.
"One more thing before you leave for work, Philippe."
"Yes?" She didn't answer, and he finally dragged his gaze back to her face.
"Untie me."
At the center, conversations stopped when he entered a room. Methos had expected that. Calling in "sick" on Monday had given the rumor mill plenty of time and even more material. He'd also expected the sly grins, ribald comments, and clandestine questions from the men. He rather enjoyed the speculative glances and smiles from the women. They hadn't had much interest in Kyle Winston, polite yet boring Canadian engineer, before. But, they were obviously thinking, if a Cat Woman without a whip is willing to fall into his arms—and spend three days and nights in his bed— there must be more to this fellow than meets the eye.
So true.
Methos got through the morning with bland smiles and a frequently repeated explanation: "We were in theater together at university. Philippe was my name in a play."
So not true.
After lunch, Methos met Serena in the lobby. She'd donned the sensible outfit of a business woman and pulled her hair into a neat braid coiled at the base of her neck. She was even wearing horn-rimmed glasses.
And, Methos was willing to bet a month's salary, underneath it all she was wearing exotic and expensive lingerie that could only be purchased by appointment in a private boutique in Berlin.
Or perhaps she was wearing nothing at all.
He looked up from his speculative perusal, only to met her amused and knowing eyes. "Dr. Winston," she greeted him politely. "I believe you will be showing me your facilities?"
"I'd be delighted."
It was in the machine shop, between the drill press and the water abrasion tank, that she popped the question. "Will you go into space with me?"
"Space?" Someday, yes, he wanted to. That was why he'd started working here, so that in the future he could see new worlds. But that was a long-term goal; this generation of anti-grav engines was good only for moon launches. Mars and the moons of Jupiter were still a few years away. The stars were farther still. "I'm an engineer, not an astronaut."
"Nor am I. But they do sell seats."
"Right. For how many million?"
"Seventy-two. I can get us tickets."
"Right." She said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow in challenge. Methos ran his hand through his hair and said, "You want to spend one hundred forty-four million to go up in a space ship, orbit the moon, and then come back down."
"Yes."
"Lot of money to look out the window."
"Oh, we wouldn't be spending all the time looking out the window."
"Ah."
"Think of it, Philippe," she said, stepping closer to him and laying one hand on his chest, just above his heart. "All that money will help fund the project, while you and I can have a private adventure."
"Mmm."
She smiled up at him through dark lashes then whispered the most seductive words of all: "It will be new."
Continued in "Reborn", where in the MacLeods go a-wandering