“No escargot,” he added. “It’s disgusting.”
“So said the man whose people eat the contents of a sheep’s belly,” I replied.
Brodie requested a table in the corner with a window out onto the Rue Neuve and full view of the entrance to the restaurant.
It was, of course, a habit from his time with the MET in London, the ability to see everyone who entered the hotel or restaurant.
“Ye have the appetite of a grown man,” he commented as I ate a piece of fresh baked bread, my third after a meal of roastchicken—escargot was not offered for the evening. I sat back with my glass of wine.
“It’s climbing out of third-story windows,” I replied. “I’ve heard that scientists are now saying that exercise can create quite an appetite.”
The only thing missing was dessert. Chocolate perhaps.
When he would have made another comment, he looked past me, then set his wineglass to the table.
“Alex has arrived.” He nodded toward the entrance to the dining room. Then that dark gaze narrowed.
I turned and saw what had caused that reaction.
Alex Sinclair was not alone. He was accompanied by a tall man with thick brown hair and a blue gaze as sharp as glass that swept the room, then reached our table.
I looked over at Brodie. He was equally surprised.
“Munro?”
Thirteen
I pickedup the subtle nod between the two longtime friends. Some sort of silent message that passed between them.
“Mr. Munro,” Brodie acknowledged. “Good of ye to join us.”
There was then a greeting to Alex Sinclair, as if the two men simply joined us for supper.
Alex continued the charade. “It has been some time, Mr. and Mrs. Brodie.”
Friends greeting friends. Obviously for the benefit of others in the dining room. Some had looked up, but others simply continued on with their meal.
“Have you eaten?” I inquired of them, playing my part.
“Not yet,” Alex replied. “Business to attend to.”
Business that I was most anxious to hear about.
A waiter appeared and recited the evening’s dinner fare. Munro gave his order, as any gentleman might.
I had known him for several years as my great-aunt’s manager of her estates. He was most usually a man of few words. But I was aware that, like Brodie, he watched everyone and everything about him.
No doubt, very much like Brodie, things learned on the streets as young boys, both without family and left to survive on their own. And, like Brodie, very much a Scot.
However, I was very aware that, also like Brodie, there was that other side to the man. That side of him that had insured a young woman traveling on her own was capable of protecting herself.
He had given me the blade that folded several years before, along with lessons on how to use it. I had practiced the moves he taught me for weeks before departing.
“I have perhaps taught her too well. I pity the person she encounters,” he had announced.
At which my great-aunt replied,“Excellent. Well done. I shall worry only a little about her.”
And I had set off in the company of others from England, quite safe...there was that little side adventure I had undertaken to the Isle of Crete with our travel guide, where I had encountered another Scot.
