The song in this section is Sarah McLachlan's "Angel," which can be found on her album "Surfacing" as well as the "City of Angels" soundtrack.
 

Disclaimer: The character of Connor MacLeod and the Highlander premise belong to Davis/Panzer Productions.  I have only borrowed them for a time, and hopefully return them none the worse for wear.  The song "Angel" is the property of singer/songwriter extraordinaire Sarah McLachlan. And "The Man I Love" is pure, lovely Gershwin.

Andrew listened to the phone ring on the other end of the receiver, waiting for the dance to begin. He was beginning to tire of all this playing around. First, Guin's phone line had alternately been busy or had no one answering it, including the entire day on Sunday. Similarly, each evening so far this week he had either talked to her answering machine or heard a busy signal. For three days he had also been trying to reach her at work, and each time he rang she was in a meeting or otherwise unreachable. The odds against these amazing coincidences were impossibly high.

"ScotExports, Margaret speaking."

"May I speak to Guinevere Barnes, please."

"Who may I say is calling?"

Santa Claus, he thought irritably. Hey, it just might work. "Andrew Beaton."

"One moment." The lilting instrumental of the hold music grated on his already-worn nerves. "I'm sorry, Mr. Beaton, she's in a meeting. May I take a message?"

"No, thank you." Andrew replaced the receiver with a harsh snap. If I want to find out what's going on, I'll have to go there myself. Andrew waved to the two sales associates in his antique shop as he walked out the door. "I have some business to take care of," he called to them. "I'll be back in a little while."

The ScotExports building was one of the few modern structures in this part of the town, but a building known better to Andrew from its exterior than its interior. Like most of ScotExports' clients, he typically dealt with them over the phone -- although, he recalled as he pulled his Porsche into the parking lot, there was a well-maintained dress code in the building. He looked down at his jeans and white sneakers, the long-sleeved maroon silk shirt his only saving grace in the category of fashion. Tough, he thought defiantly as he headed for the building's entrance. It was a small enough company; the secretary should be able to point him directly to Guin. But he'd have to try a bit of a different strategy this time.

"Hello, sir," the secretary began, eyeing his casual dress suspiciously. "May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Guinevere Barnes."

"May I let her know who's here?"

Andrew frowned inwardly at the continuing skeptical look from the secretary. "Connor MacLeod. Giles MacCormick said I should talk to her."

Keeping one eye on him, the secretary dialed Guin's intercom. "Never heard of him," Guin mused aloud. "Giles must have forgotten to mention him. Send him in."

Guin looked up as the door opened moments later, then quickly focused back on her computer screen when she recognized the visitor. "Cheap trick, Andrew," she said frostily.

"You're accusing me of a cheap trick?" he asked incredulously, shutting the office door behind him. "Well how about not answering your phone and having your secretary lie for you?" He strode to her desk and leaned forward heavily, putting his face as close as possible to hers. "Why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not avoiding you..."

"What do you call this charade, then?" He eyed her harshly for a long moment, but she remained turned from him and focused on the computer screen. "No, let me guess. You're not interested anymore, so you figure if you ignore me long enough, I'll just go away. Is that it?"

"That's not what's going on..."

"Isn't it? You should have just told me, then you and I wouldn't have to play this game with your secretary. Is Giles in on this too?"

"That isn't it at all, Andrew." Guin's face curled itself into a frown, although she still refused eye contact.

"Well, what is it then?" Andrew waited impatiently for her answer. Several times she opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She shook her head and closed her eyes. "Fine," he said brusquely, pushing himself away from the desk. "Call me when the cat lets go of your tongue." Andrew turned on his heel and walked out stiffly, mildly slamming the door as he let himself out.

Guinevere clasped her hand over her mouth, trying to cull some form of strength from the deep breaths she was taking. The computer had settled into its screensaver, and she stared at the flying objects until the tears obscured her view.

The image of Andrew Beaton leaning over her desk and barking accusations haunted Guin the rest of the day. Each moment of the memory stung her repeatedly, like a scorpion wielding its poisonous tail. She was avoiding him, she'd credit him that much. But the why...you're all wrong about the why, Andrew. Guin wiped away another stray tear and sniffled. At least it's almost time to go home, I can cry in peace there.

"Guin, I..." The door swung open as Giles entered and stopped in mid-speech. "Are you all right?"

"Just not feeling good." Guin put on her best strong look. "Day's almost over, I'll be fine."

Giles looked at her doubtfully. "Go home."

"What? It's only 15 more minutes, Giles, I'll be fine..."

"If it's only 15 more minutes, then what's the difference, Guin? Go home. Get some rest. It looks like you could use it."

Guin smiled wanly. "Thanks, Giles. And thanks for not asking."

Giles grinned. "Didn't think I'd actually get points for that, but you're welcome. Now go home."

Amazing the difference a few minutes can make, Guin thought as she wheeled easily through the pre-rush-hour traffic after changing her clothes and leaving work. Even in this small town, there were enough nine-to-fivers -- and enough narrow streets -- to make the drive home a hassle. She turned into the drive behind Beardsley's Bed & Breakfast and pulled into one of the parking slots in what had once been the stableyard. Once there, however, she didn't get out of the car. Her inner voice had been chittering all kinds of negative possibilities about Andrew since their ride on Saturday, but at the moment it was singing a totally different tune. Right now, she had the overwhelming urge to drive over to his estate. Damned guilt, she chided herself. If I'm home early now, then he won't even be there when I arrive. Still, without hesitation she turned the engine and steered back down the drive.

Guin's nerves gnawed at her as she drove. With each passing kilometer her stomach grew tighter. She knew she'd have to admit her reasons for avoiding Andrew, and she could just picture the look on his face when she told him. He'll think I'm an idiot, she told herself. And then he'll do exactly what I fear the most -- he'll dump me.

The cobalt blue range rover was parked squarely in front of the house, its paneling dripping. In another moment Andrew appeared, holding a sprayer attached to a hose leading from the house. He had changed from his delicate silk shirt into a grey sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Guin shivered as she watched him dispassionately eye her approaching Volvo wagon. The same gaze was transferred to her as she stepped out of the car and shut the door.

"Hello," he said coldly, spraying down the side of the range rover. "What can I do for you, Ms. Barnes?"

I have no clue. My inner voices told me to come here, and so I just followed along...Yeah, right, he'd buy that one. "I wanted to talk," Guin said quietly, nearly failing to find her voice. She cleared her throat mildly.

Andrew remained expressionless. "Ah, I see you found your tongue." He turned the spray nozzle to one side and buffed the door with the chamois he held in his other hand.

"Andrew, I have been avoiding you, but it's not what you think," she said in a desperate tone. "I swear it's not." Tears sprung to her eyes and bile rose in her throat. I'm either going to cry or throw up. Makes for a great impression, she told herself sarcastically.

He turned toward her, cocking one eyebrow in dubious inquiry. "Then what is it, Guinevere?" he asked.

Guin felt herself melting under his scrutiny. Tears threatened to burst into a flood, while her stomach took a sickening lurch. God damned guilty conscience, she swore at herself angrily, closing her eyes to try to steady her emotions. Bad enough I get the guilt, but then I always get the shakes that go with it.

Suddenly a spray of water dashed across her cotton jumpsuit. "Don't faint on me now, I want to hear this," Andrew said mischievously, then doused her again.

Guin narrowed her eyes and strode forward angrily, forgetting her nerves for the moment. "Why you..." she sputtered. Andrew turned the handle again and sprayed Guin full-force, stopping the woman in her tracks. She froze on the lawn, water dripping from her nose and chin, panting furiously. If looks could kill, Andrew mused, I'd be headless. Slowly Guin lifted her hand, motioning for Andrew to hand the sprayer to her. He shook his head with a playful grin, and she advanced one step, then two. Finally she made a leap for him, turning the nozzle in his hand and soaking him. Knocked off-balance by the attack, Andrew landed with a thud in the grass, laughing in surprise. Guin stood for a moment in shocked silence, then tossed the sprayer aside to sputter in the grass, her eyes welling with tears.

"Guin, come here," Andrew called to her, turning serious as he watched the expression on her face. She stared at him, but remained motionless. Picking himself up off the grass, he turned the water off, then walked over to stand in front of her. "Are you okay?" he asked softly. She shook her head slowly, looking down. "I'm sorry, Guin, I shouldn't have done that. Let's get you dried off, okay?" Guin shook her head vehemently. When Andrew lifted her chin and found rivulets of tears streaming down her face, his Scottish guilt kicked into overdrive. "Guin, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, I was only trying to break the tension..."

Guin reached up and put one finger to his lips. "Shhhh." She took a deep breath and swallowed hard, but smiled through her tears. "You almost made me forget why I came." She stroked his face, which was still stricken with guilt and worry. "We need to talk."

Andrew nodded. Placing one arm around her, he led her to the front porch and settled her on the top step. John came out the front door and stopped at the sight. "John, do me a favor and grab us a couple of towels, would you?" Andrew asked his son. Eyeing them curiously, John gave a nod and headed back into the house. Andrew seated himself next to Guin and pushed the wet hair back from her face. "Talk to me."

"I...I don't know where to start." She looked over at him, then shook her head and blushed. "I'm just so stupid."

Andrew was about to respond when the front door opened. Still eyeing them strangely, John leaned out, tossed a pair of towels to his father and went back in the house. Andrew set one towel across Guin's back, using the ends to rub her hair. "You're not stupid. Talk to me."

"I've been avoiding you..."

"So I've noticed." Guin glanced up sharply at him, and Andrew fell silent.

"I've been avoiding you because I'm afraid." She sighed and gazed at her hands clasped between her knees. "And I'm afraid because..." she shook her head. "This is just so dumb, I can't say it."

"Of course you can," Andrew said, wrapping his arms around her from behind and pressing his cheek to hers. "See, you don't even have to look at me. Just say it."

Guin closed her eyes and pressed herself back into his warmth. "I'm afraid that you're going to disappoint me."

"Hmmmm?" he quizzed in her ear. "How so?"

Guin hurried to continue before her nerves could stop her. "You're just so...so perfect. Part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know, find out you're not. The other part is waiting for you to find something in me that you dislike, something that will drive you away from me. So I've been pulling away before either can happen." She sighed. "I know, it's silly, it's irrational...and it's what I've done all my life. I'm terrified of getting to know people most of the time. I'm always waiting for them to find the bad in me."

Andrew reached up with one hand and smoothed back her hair. "So you're waiting for me to find out you're not perfect." She nodded. "I already know that. None of us are." Andrew pulled her tightly against him. "Especially not me. So what happens when the other shoe drops and you find out I'm not perfect?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think I've ever stuck around that long. Guess it depends on how it compares to my imperfections."

Then you're not the only one who's afraid, Andrew thought, closing his eyes. Right now, terror is striking the heart of Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Aloud he said, "I'm sure we'll be fine."

Guin nodded. "It just scares me that I'm already falling in love with you."

Love is for poets. The words he spoke to Rachel reverberated in his mind. "Me too," he whispered in her ear.

"What do you love about me?" she challenged. "What makes me attractive?"

Andrew could sense that she wasn't just being playful -- she really needed to hear it. He searched for the right words. "You feel," he said finally. "You sense everything all the way down into your soul, every pain and every joy." He paused, debating how much to reveal. "That's something I haven't allowed myself to do in a long time. You're re-awakening it in me."

"And you like being protective of me."

"Yes, that too." Andrew smiled. "Your turn."

Guin bit her lower lip, deep in thought. "You listen to me. Really, really listen, not like you're thinking up the next thing to say or trying to find something to one-up me with. Even when I just ramble on and on and on." She smiled faintly. "I guess we can only hope that by the time I'm old and grey and blathering, you'll be old and grey and deaf."

Andrew swallowed hard. "Yeah, I guess so."

"And I promise, you'll find out I really do have a sense of humor and I'm not always such a whiner." She laughed at herself.

"You're not a whiner." He kissed her temple. "And I promise to let you know if you're bothering me. Unless, of course, I want you to bother me," he added with a devilish laugh. She smiled, turning a light shade of red. "But that means you have to tell me when I'm bothering you," Andrew continued seriously, "without fear. I'm nothing to be afraid of. I promise. So if you ever have a question, just ask me. I may not always have the best explanations, but I'll do the best I can." And hopefully some things will not have to be explained for a while.

Guin nodded. "I think I can do that."

"Would you like to join us for dinner? I have some of my world-famous haggis that should be done about now."

Guin turned to look at his face. "You're kidding."

"I never kid about haggis." Well, almost never, he thought. Only when it came to one Spanish peacock of a teacher. "Okay, you don't have to eat the haggis. But come to dinner anyway. Please?"

"What I should do is go home, change clothes and go to bed. It's been a long week already."

"You could do all that here," he said wickedly.

Guin laughed. "Somehow I don't think I'd be getting much sleep then."

"No, I don't think so," he responded, kissing her neck. "But I have to keep asking, just in case. You know that."

"Yep. I know. And someday you may actually get an answer you like." She sighed. "And as much as I don't want to move, I really should go, Andrew. I'm sorry."

"I understand." Andrew stood on the step, offering his hand to Guin. She took it, and they walked down the steps together.

"I love you," she told him, turning to look in his face.

"Me too." Leaning down, Andrew gave Guin a long kiss. "When will I be able to see you again?"

"This week's hectic. Saturday, maybe?"

"You're going to make me wait that long, Guin? That's torture. I'm going to have to demand another kiss for that." Andrew leaned in for another kiss, which Guin giggled through.

"You're silly. Saturday. Let's make it good, then. Any ideas?"

"Yeah," he said with a smile. "Dinner. Dancing. I know a great place for it. Sound good to you?"

"It's been a long time since I've done that. You have a deal, Mr. Beaton."

"Be here at six, I'll take it from there." He combed her still-damp hair back with his fingers. "Drive safely."

"I will." Guin slid into the driver's seat, and Andrew shut the door behind her. Watching her car back down the drive, he could hear Ramirez's words in his head: "You must leave her, Highlander." Not this time, you stupid haggis. This time, I'm staying.

The circular room in Russell Nash's new York apartment had housed the artifacts of Connor MacLeod's four-and-a-half centuries of life. It was a place Connor had been able to sit, contemplate, and be himself, and had been his favorite room. When he had abandoned the Russell Nash identity to move to Scotland as Andrew Beaton, he had brought the collection with him. Sometimes he still considered adding a replica of that room onto the house, rather than dealing with the setup he suffered now in his home office. Unable to leave everything sitting in the open, as he sometimes entertained clients here, Andrew had carefully situated the six cabinets in the office so that, when all were fully opened, they covered the wallspace with his personal effects, but could just as easily be shut and locked to hide these items away.

Tonight, the cabinets were open, their contents dimly illuminated by sparse track lighting. Andrew put his feet on the edge of his wide oak desk as he leaned back in his chair. He situated his katana across his lap and lost himself in the rhythmic swish of the sharpening stone as it keened the blade. The sword was more a part of him than any other item in the room; he had carried it with him for most of his lifetime, since the death of his first teacher, Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, who had carried it before him. When the blade had been destroyed just a few scant years ago, he had reforged it himself, with the help of overly-curious archaeologist Alex Johnson. Andrew sighed heavily as he picked up the sword to polish it, the light catching and playing on its metallic surface. Alex. Just who I need to be thinking about.

Alex Johnson had been a world-renown archaeologist working for the New York Museum of Ancient History when she had stumbled upon a finding that pulled her into Connor MacLeod's universe. They had fallen in love, gotten married, and moved to Scotland with his son John, purchasing this house together. At first, all was well. Soon enough, however, Alex became restless, longing to go back to the proactive archaeological studies she loved. Andrew did not stand in her way, but made every effort to visit her on her digs. While she tried to be appreciative of his accommodating nature, Andrew couldn't help but notice her growing disinterest in his visits. Finally she came to him with the news he hadn't wanted to hear: she was falling in love with one of her fellow archaeologists, and she wanted a divorce. Seeing no other options open to him, Andrew had let her go; she sold him her half of the house and exited his life. Now and again he heard from her; she seemed happy, and he did not begrudge her that, but it still pained him. In the end, it was not his Immortality, but the more mundane elements of ambition and boredom that had driven them apart. It dawned on Andrew now that he was testing Guin for the boredom factor first, before the Immortality issue even came up. It's better that way, he thought.

Andrew had just given the katana one last buff and set it on the desk when the phone rang. "Beaton residence."

"Hello Andrew."

"Guin." A smile spread across his face as he turned on the tiny ornate lamp that graced his desk, squinting as the bright light invaded his eyes. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"I just wanted to make sure we were still on for tomorrow night."

"Of course we are." Andrew's fingers traced the delicate patterns on the lampshade. "Did you think I'd back out?" he teased.

"No," she replied, tauntingly obstinate. "But I was wondering what I should wear, as you haven't told me where we're going."

"More dressy than the movies, less dressy than the party where we met. Good enough?"

"Okay," she said slowly, thinking. "A skirt?"

"If you'd like."

"You're no help," she laughed. "Then I guess I'll have to be honest, I didn't really have a good reason to call. I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Oh?" Andrews eyebrows shot up as he leaned back in the chair.

"Yeah," she replied softly, turning shy. "It sounds crazy...I just talked to you two days ago, and I miss you already. Guess it must be love."

"Guess so." Andrew shifted uneasily at the confession.

"I suppose I should let you go...I'll see you tomorrow. Six, wasn't it?"

"Six o'clock. Be here or I leave without you."

Guin laughed. "Then I'd have to go chase you down. I don't think the Volvo could keep up with your Porsche, sweetheart, but I'd certainly try. Have a good night, Andrew."

"I will. You too." Andrew hung up the phone, then reached over and switched off the lamp, leaving him in semi-darkness. Picking up his katana, he stood up and headed for the stairs to bed.

Guinevere fidgeted as she rang the doorbell of Andrew's house. This was, after all, the first time they'd actually gone out together, to a public place. With little to go on from Andrew, she had selected her long-sleeved denim dress that came down to the top of her black granny-style boots. She straightened the collar nervously and smoothed over the princess seams that accentuated her figure.

Guin heard the doorknob turn, and was surprised to see John when the door opened. "C'mon in," he invited. "Dad's trying to finish getting ready, he'll be down in a minute."

"Oh. Okay." Guin hesitantly entered behind him. John motioned for her to keep following, past the sunken living room and down a short hallway to the den.

"You can wait in here with me, if you want. He'll find us." John sat down and returned his attention to the TV, which was picking up a baseball game.

"Who's winning?" Guin asked, taking a seat next to John on the sofa.

"The Mets. It's tape-delayed, but better than nothing. You like baseball?"

"Yeah, I do." Guin leaned forward and rested her chin in her hand, deciding to lose herself in the game until Andrew arrived. The loud crack of a bat and the distant view of a ball flying over the outfield wall elicited cheers from Guin and John.

"What? What did I miss?" Andrew said, fiddling with his tie as he entered the room.

"Home run, Dad. It was awesome!"

"Hi Guin." Andrew leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Standing up, she took the tie ends from his hands and fixed the knot at his throat.

"Better?" she said, giving it a snug tug.

"Much. Thank you." Andrew reached over and ruffled John's hair. "You be good. Don't slouch in front of the TV all night, and go to bed at a decent hour. Is your homework done?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Chores?"

"Yes."

"All right. Now remember, you gotta tell me who wins."

"Will you go already?" John waved his hand, shooing them out.

Andrew laughed, holding out his arm for Guin to take. "Shall we?"

A silence fell over them as they got in the Porsche and started down the road. Andrew slid a cassette into the player to break the uneasy quiet, filling the car with the sounds of Gershwin. After a few seconds, a lilting voice from the seat next to him joined in: "Maybe I shall meet him Sunday, maybe Monday, maybe not; still I'm sure to meet him one day, maybe Tuesday will be my good news day..." Andrew cast a surprised glance at Guin, and she stopped singing.

"No," he protested, "keep going, please."

Guin smiled, embarrassed. "I sing to everything."

"You like Gershwin?"

"I love Gershwin. And big band music. Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller...I grew up listening to that stuff."

"Really? Those are old tastes."

"My parents are older. My dad was in the armed forces during Korea, in fact."

So was I, Andrew thought, but said nothing.

"I love all kinds of music, but I have a really big soft spot for the stuff I grew up with." Guin fell silent, and the gentle strains of music filled the space between them. Shortly they pulled into the gravel car park behind the Soaring Eagle Inn and Tavern. Guin raised an eyebrow. "I've heard about this place."

"Good things, I hope," Andrew said, stepping out of the car and moving to the passenger's side to hold the door open for her.

"Great things, actually." She took his hand and they made their way inside, where they were seated at an intimate table near the wooden dance floor. With Guin's permission, Andrew took the liberty of ordering the house special -- broiled lamb chops -- for the both of them.

"No haggis?" she teased.

"I trust no one's haggis but my own," he grinned back. Grabbing one of her hands, he toyed with her fingers. When she pulled her hand away, he grabbed the other one to play with. This continued until Guin was giggling helplessly.

"You're so weird."

"You sound like my son."

"No, I didn't say you were a geek, I said you were weird." She stuck out her tongue playfully.

"So..." he began, still tugging at her fingers, "tell me more about your family. You said your parents were older," he prompted.

Guin sighed wearily. "I'm the youngest of four girls, the baby really, by 10 years." She looked away from him, glancing around the room. "I don't usually talk about them much."

"You don't get along?"

"It's not really that..." she said, her eyes still drifting around the room, "more that we just don't have all that much in common. They're all married with kids. And we have different lives and different ambitions. I've only just begun to feel like I'm an adult with them. It's taken a while for me to feel like I've come into my own, to feel like a grown person with opinions that count for something." Finally she returned his gaze. "What about you?"

It was Andrew's turn to look away. "I'm an only child. My parents died some time ago." Distracting themselves, the pair watched as a group stepped up to the dance floor, accompanied by a piper and fiddler. Andrew watched Guin's longing gaze and tapping fingers as the dancers spun through several reels, new dancers stepping into the places of those who had had their fill. "Would you like to dance?"

Guin shook her head. "I can't."

"I bet I can teach you. Come on." He stood up and offered her his hand.

"I'm no good at stuff like that. I'd be tripping over my own feet in a second."

"I'll show you. We'll start off slow, then once you get up to speed, we'll join them. Come on." Andrew picked up her hand and lifted her from her seat. Reluctantly she followed him to the edge of the dance floor.

As promised, Andrew showed her the steps in slow motion, then faster as she caught on. "Join us," encouraged a woman from the circle between songs, grasping Guin's hand. With Andrew already stepping up to the floor, she could not refuse the invitation. Several songs later, Guin dizzily pulled Andrew from the dance floor.

"I'm going to be sick if we don't stop," she laughed, throwing her arms around him in an embrace.

"Well, we don't want that, do we?" he said, his eyes shining. "Besides, it seems our meal has arrived."

The meal passed quietly, the pair communicating through stolen glances as they continued to watch the dancers and listen to the music. Guin sighed as she put down her fork for the last time. "Very good," she commented.

"Always is." He smiled over at her. "I haven't been here in a while. It used to be one of my favorite places, I just haven't found an excuse to come lately."

"Well, we'll definitely have to do this again." She smiled. "Especially now that I can dance at least a few steps." Andrew met her eyes, raised his eyebrows and returned her smile. God, that man can smile! she thought with wonder.

Andrew's eyes linked with hers again and again as conversation turned for another two hours, ranging from the likes of Shakespeare and theater to baseball and soccer. Guin was enthralled to find they really did have a lot in common, outside of Andrew's admitted enjoyment of pro wrestling. She liked listening to him, and appreciated that he really listened to her as well. Nearly as noticeable and interesting to her, however, was Andrew's body language: he faced her, leaning in toward her; while not always meeting her gaze, his eyes never strayed far from her face; one hand was always touching her -- forearm, wrist, hand -- drawing them closer together. And then there was his smile and laugh -- again and again she was graced with their presence. Although she was not quite sure what to make of these attentions, at the moment she didn't care; she was enjoying it while it lasted. Finally Guin cast a glance around the busy tavern room.

"Looks like they're filling up," she remarked. "Think we should give them their table back?"

A trace of disappointment crossed Andrew's face. "Do you want to leave?"

Guin turned a light shade of red. "Well, I..."

"Well, actually, I think you're right," Andrew interrupted, leaving a generous tip on the table, standing up and offering her his hand with a smile. "Time for a change of scenery."

The parking lot was cold and dark compared to the light and warmth of the establishment. Andrew put an arm around Guin's shoulders as they walked out to the Porsche. A few feet from the car, however, Andrew stopped in his tracks. Looking slowly from side to side in the near-darkness, he pushed her behind him and slid his right hand inside his trenchcoat. "Who's there?" he called out, his voice more vicious than she'd ever heard it.

A lithe, feminine figure stepped into one of the rare pools of light. "Andrew, is it really you?"

Andrew's shoulders slumped in relief. "Ceirdwyn! You scared the hell out of me for a minute." He reached behind him and brought Guin forward in his embrace. "Guin, this is an old friend of mine, Ceirdwyn. Ceirdwyn, this is Guin."

"Hi," the raven-haired beauty piped up, coming forward to offer a hand to Guin. "Pleasure to meet you."

"It's a pleasure," Guin responded, her tone flat despite an attempt to make it friendly.

"You scoundrel, it's been too long," Ceirdwyn said, refocusing her attention on Andrew. "I wasn't expecting the likes of you around here."

"It has been too long," he agreed heartily. "And how is Jack?"

"The puppy is fine. Growing bigger and becoming more of a pain in the butt every day. You'll have to bring John out to wear him out." She smiled. "In fact, the three of you should come out for dinner some night. I'd love to entertain you all."

Sure, I'll call you, we'll make plans. I'm sure that won't be a problem, will it, Guin?" he hugged her a little tighter.

"Uh, no, I'm sure it won't," Guin responded, unable to shake the absurd animosity that was gripping her.

"Great. I'll be waiting for your call. Have a good evening." Ceirdwyn strode past them and walked toward the inn. Andrew seated Guin in the Porsche, then slid into the driver's side, settling himself in with a sigh. At least she remembered my name, he thought thankfully.

"So how long have you known her?" Guin asked, failing to be nonchalant.

Andrew threw her a surprised look. "Are you jealous?" he asked, a wry smile curling the corners of his mouth.

Guin turned her head to look out the side window. "She is awfully pretty."

He laughed gently as he put the keys in the ignition. "And what are you?" he taunted playfully.

"Pretty damned ordinary," Guin muttered under her breath, gritting her teeth against waves of unwelcome emotion.

She had spoken softly, but not softly enough. Andrew reached over, picked up her hand and brought it to his lips for a brief kiss. "Pretty extraordinary if you ask me." She coyly turned to face him, finding herself under the scrutiny of his dark eyes. He offered her a spirit-lifting smile before starting the car and heading toward home.

"How'd you know she was there?" Andrew was glad for the darkness that hid his uneasiness at Guin's question.

"Sometimes I have...I guess you could call it a 'sixth sense' about people."

"Wow. The only man with women's intuition," she laughed.

Andrew laughed back, glad that she was taking his explanation at face value. "If that's what you want to call it, sure."

"And..." She paused long enough that he cast her a sideways glance.

"And what?" he asked. "C'mon, don't be afraid."

"What were you reaching for in your coat?"

Thank God for small miracles, Andrew thought, pulling something small and metallic out of his inside pocket and handing it to Guin.

"Mace?" she asked incredulously, staring first at the can, then at Andrew.

"Can't be too careful," he answered, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. Never thought that would come in handy. Not this way, anyway. "Okay," he said, changing the subject, "you have two choices when we get back to my house. You can get in your car and go home, or you can stay for a while and watch movies. Now, I'm voting for the second one, but you can say whatever you want."

She glanced at him, then silently stared at her hands in her lap. Finally she ventured, "I really shouldn't stay..."

"I'll make it tempting," he said enticingly. "I have several great movies in my library. Casablanca? You can't say no to that, can you?" As she grimaced and turned her head from side to side, bordering on turning him down, he took her hand and added seriously, "I don't want this evening to end just yet. I'll be good, I promise."

She sighed. "Casablanca, you say?" She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Mmm hmm. Take it or leave it." Take it, he thought vehemently. Take it, take it, take it.

"Could be fun," she responded, mockingly noncommittal, as they pulled down the drive to his house. "Okay, I'm game."

Much to Andrew's surprise, the downstairs was dark. Escorting Guin to the den and flipping on the lights, he said, "I'm going to check on John -- I'll be right back."

Having taken little real notice of the room before, Guin looked around the den with interest. It was a large, airy room divided into cozy nooks: one for the sofa and television; one for a computer and desk setup, currently covered with John's schoolbooks; one with floor pillows in front of two wingback chairs facing the fireplace. The far wall was made of translucent windows, partially veiled from outside view by plants and bushes. Next to this wall was a black grand piano, several photographs displayed along its top. Most were of Andrew and John, although one in the middle was of Andrew, an infant and a beautiful woman with curly blonde hair. Andrew's contented smile warmed her, and she gently picked up the picture frame.

"That's Brenda." The voice from behind startled Guin, but she managed to hold onto the picture frame. Andrew had removed his jacket and tie, and loosened the collar of his shirt. He moved in behind her, but made no attempt to take the picture away from her.

"It's a sweet picture -- that's John, then? You look happy." She fingered the frame lovingly before carefully placing it back on the piano.

"We were happy." The edge in his voice made Guin want to shudder.

"You've aged well," she remarked, looking over the pictures. "Not that you're old now," she added apologetically, "but...well, you haven't changed much over the years."

"Mmmm," he shrugged noncommittally. "The camera can lie well." He turned back toward the television. "John's upstairs listening to music on his headphones, so we won't be bothering him. So are we settling on Casablanca?" He looked at her expectantly.

"Yeah, sounds good," she said, following him over to the sofa. She sat down nervously in the center of it as he fiddled with the VCR and turned down some of the lights. Taking up the remote control, he seated himself next to her and pressed the "on" button.

I saw this when it first came out, he reminisced. Gone With the Wind too. A lot of the silent pictures before that. We've come a long way with technology since then, but I can't say that the movies we make now are better.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"Hmm?" Andrew snapped from his recollections to look at her, head cocked to one side.

Guin couldn't help but laugh. "You were lost there for a minute. Penny for your thoughts."

He smiled back self-consciously. "I was just thinking how old this film is. And how it's better than a lot of the ones made now."

"Sometimes age is much less of a factor than what's inside. Some subjects are timeless."

He nodded in agreement and leaned back into the corner of the sofa. "True. Very true." Andrew tugged at her sleeve and pulled her into his embrace, her back settled against his chest, his arms encircling her. She breathed out a tired sigh and relaxed against him as he ran his fingers lightly through her hair.

Guin opened her eyes and stared at the room, trying to orient herself. Where the hell am I? Her eye was caught by a movement on her lap. Well no wonder my legs are asleep, she thought, gently shifting under the weight of a lanky black cat. The feline stood up, stretched and walked away, eyeing Guin in irritation and plucking its claws on the denim of her skirt as it moved further down the sofa. "Sorry," Guin whispered at the form, now turning in a circle before settling down to sleep again at the end of the sofa. Growing more fully awake, Guin realized she was in Andrew's den -- and that he was still behind her, his arms still around her. You make a lumpy bed, hon, she thought, smiling at her own joke. Guin tried to pull herself upright, but his hold was like a steel vise. Geemeny Christmas, she swore to herself, I'm pinned in. The thought caused a brief wave of panic, but she soon calmed herself. Once he's awake, he'll let go, she assured herself. She turned slightly in his grasp, trying to loosen his hold; instead, he pulled her tighter to him. Damn. "Andrew," she whispered near his ear, to no avail. "Andrew," she said a bit louder, reaching up and tugging at his sleeve.

"Hmm?" He opened one eye and looked at her, still half-asleep. She laughed.

"Wake up and let me go before you suffocate me," she said, although his grip had already loosened enough for her to wriggle away.

"Sorry." His face was empty, and he looked away. Guin touched his chin and turned his face back to hers.

"You okay?" she asked cautiously. He nodded but didn't lift his eyes to her for several moments. The concern on her face made him smile, and he stroked her cheek in reassurance.

"I'm fine. You want something to eat?"

Guin glanced at her watch. Holy cow, is it eight already? "Uh, yeah, sure."

John bounded down the stairs as Andrew lined up the ingredients for blueberry pancakes and Guin settled herself at the table. The boy stopped cold, then looked at his dad and wiggled his eyebrows. Andrew returned a stern look. Noticing that Guin had seen this little exchange, he added, "you shouldn't be thinking like that at your age."

"You should be thinking like that at yours," John retorted.

Andrew waved a wooden spoon at him. "You listen to me, young man. You don't talk to me like that. Do you understand?" Guin's blood ran cold at the tone of his voice and the scowl on his face.

"Yes sir." Subdued, John sat down at the table. "Sorry."

"That's better." Andrew turned back around, but called over his shoulder, "besides, how would you know what I'm supposed to think at my age?"

John laughed. "Just guessing, that's all." He smiled at Guin. "Good morning."

"Good morning," she responded cheerily, happy that the tension was broken.

"Didn't expect to find you here." His smile broadened.

"John..." the warning came from across the room.

"Oh, leave him be, Andrew," Guin laughed. "I didn't expect to be here either," she told John. "We fell asleep during the movie. And your dad makes an awfully lumpy pillow."

"Guin!" Andrew admonished, but laughed in spite of himself. "What is this, pick on Andrew day?"

Guin and John looked at each other, then simultaneously responded: "Yes!"

Andrew shook his head. "Here I am making you all breakfast, and this is how you treat me. Children will be children, I suppose."

"Hey now..." Guin started, giving him the evil eye.

"Just calling it like I see it," he responded, turning to arch his eyebrows and give her a wicked look.

"Guess we better be nice to him," John interrupted their banter. "Never know what might be in those pancakes."

"Nothing that I wouldn't eat myself," Andrew assured them, plunking down plates with the first fruit of his endeavors. "Now eat, before those mouths of yours get you into more trouble."

Guin excused herself right after breakfast, much to Andrew's chagrin, stating that she had errands to run. Andrew and John stood on the porch, watching her drive away and waving. Andrew glanced over at his son. "What do you think?"

"About Guin?" he asked. Andrew nodded. "I like her." John shrugged. "Doesn't matter what I think, Dad. And I think it's pretty obvious how you feel about her."

Andrew smiled. "Yeah, I guess it is." Andrew's eyes tracked out to the distance, a clouded look passing over his face.

"What's the matter, Dad?"

Andrew shook his head and shifted his gaze to his son. "I've been having those dreams again."

Unabashedly John threw his arms around his father, and they hugged for a long moment before heading back into the house.

"Okay...all right, all right...I'll be over Saturday after my meeting...that's only two days from now, for God's sake...yes, I promise, besides, we're just staying in, right?...I think I ought to get back to work, Andrew." Guin rolled her eyes as Giles walked into her office. "Yes, I really need to get back to work. Bye Andrew... Bye...Yes, I said bye...Will you get off the phone?...I'll call you when I get home. Bye." Guin hung up the handset and looked sheepishly at her boss.

"I'm going to start docking the time you're on the phone with him." Giles winked at her with a smile as he sat down on the edge of the desk.

"Hey, he's a client," Guin responded coyly.

"As if you were talking business."

"Well...okay, you got me there." She smiled broadly. "But I have been doing my work." Guin held up a computer disk. "The Maksimov presentation is ready, and so is my speech. Let's just hope my Russian isn't too rusty. I'll be practicing up until the meeting Saturday, though, brushing up. I think I actually miss the language."

"Well, if we get this account, you'll have lots of practice." Giles leaned over and patted her shoulder. "You're a real gift to us, Guin. I have a feeling this account is going to be your ticket upward. Which is why I'm glad to see you so happy too, you deserve it." Giles stood up. "Don't let Andrew give you any shit -- tell him he'll have to answer to me."

Guin laughed. "I will."