Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

“Astounding,” he agreed. Affably.

“I had no idea you had links to this area, this city.”

“I didn’t either.”

“How are you really doing?”

The question was hardly casual. “Fine, as you see. And you? What brings you here?”

“Business, although an old school friend lives here and we enjoyed a reunion visit. I’d committed to assisting a former mentor from Lyon in a study of his, and am enjoying a visiting professorship on this beautiful campus.”

“In what subject, may I ask?”

“You may ask anything.” Her smile was more Da Vinci Code than Mona Lisa. “Psychology, of course. Herr Doktor Hugo Gruetzmeyer has a guest professorship here.” She stopped walking, not because he needed to. “Why are you here?”

Of course, he was currently pondering the existential meaning of that common query, but he couldn’t afford to seem needy with her, especially of information.

“An excellent place to recuperate. Lots of walking required.”

“On campus, or on the Strip?”

“Both,” he said.

“You seem … more stressed than when you left Zurich.”

“American life. We’re more stressed by nature than Europeans. The ‘save the world’ complex,’ I suppose you’d call it.”

She looked around so he had a chance to sum her up on his supposed turf. Cool, controlled, blond. The Hitchcock thriller movie femme fatale who seemed unapproachable, but who’d unravel at first contact with a stressed Hitchcock everyman who knew too much, or not enough.

She dressed, he realized in this American setting, like so many of the politically ultraconservative women pundits, high heels, short skirts, long blond hair. Barbie for the Tea Party set. This short-skirted suit was ivory linen over a familiar olive green silk camisole.

“You’re wearing part of the ensemble I bought you in Zurich,” Max noted, sounding pleased.

“Yes, thank you. You noticed.”

One thing not politically useful he’d learned in Zurich was that Revienne Schneider wore scraps of silk and lace, not bras. Very French.

“But,” she continued, “I found a fabulous new perfume at the Bellagio shops. Like it?” She brushed cheeks, leaving a comet trail of hair caressing his skin in her wake and a scent like walking into a wall of exquisite perfume flowers blooming in the south of France. This was a blend of jasmine and mimosa.

“I’d have to be a block of stone not to,” he answered.

He and Garry had endlessly discussed on their trek from Zurich to Belfast whether Revienne Schneider, his assigned shrink at the Alpine clinic, was friend or foe. Max still didn’t know. He did know Garry’s reaction to Max sleeping with Revienne while they were on the run. It unreeled in his brain like a film clip.

“You have no idea who Ms. Schneider really is or what her agenda was, or still might be. You were foolish, Max. That kind of sexual bravura got you and Sean tangled up with the IRA all those years ago when you were green and seventeen. You don’t need to act impulsively anymore.”

“Why are you on campus?” Revienne asked him, now confronting the apparent coincidence. “It’s insane we should run into one another a world away, like this.”

“Kismet, maybe?” He chose flirting over frankness.

She wet her already glossed lips. “I never expected to see you again.”

“Me neither.”

“That’s an odd expression.”

“Colloquial English, although you do that well, as you do everything well. I meant I didn’t expect to see you again either. What are we going to do about it?”

“You could enroll in my class.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“Identity and the Troubled Soul in the Modern Zeitgeist.”

“Sounds … mesmerizing. My legs don’t care to sit for long stretches in Spartan classroom accommodations, though.”

“A nice cushy leather banquette for dinner then,” she said.

“Delicious.”

“When?” she asked.

“This is Thursday. Saturday? Unless you’re otherwise engaged.”

“Not. And you?” she asked.

He did have a rather important engagement Friday night, but not Saturday. “Not.”

“Where shall I meet you?” she asked.

“I can’t pick you up?” He was surprised.

“You already have,” she said.

He shrugged. “The Eiffel Tower restaurant at the Paris Hotel.”

“What a very American place.”

“I am American.”

“And I am not.”

“Vive la différence.”

“It’s rather dangerous to take a Paris resident to an ersatz version of the city,” she pointed out.

“You already know I like danger. The view of the Bellagio fountains is particularly spectacular, and American.”

“The Bellagio.” She laughed merrily, something he’d never heard on their arduous escape from the Swiss clinic that perhaps was intended to imprison him.

“Yes,” he said. “Americans spring from all nationalities, and you can sample the best of each here in Las Vegas. I know Continental dining is late, but the earliest seating works best at the Paris. You can watch the sun set on the Strip from the corner table overlooking the fountains.”

“Very romantic, Mr. Randolph.” She was flirting back, but then an undercover agent would.

“I’m sure it’ll be a … memorable occasion. I’ll meet you at the private elevator in the Paris lobby at … six, say?”

She agreed and moved on through the hot, dappled shade created by the many trees. He watched her like a lovesick swain until she was out of sight, then quickly ducked into the nearest building to study the rosters of classes and instructors and the campus map on his cell phone. Amazing, what was on the Internet these days.

Revienne had just left that dreary seminar on existential angst. If he hurried, he could catch her partner in academic crime at his office, finishing up student appointments.

Max was “walking well.” And his vague excuse for being in Las Vegas and on this campus, walk therapy, was proving genuine. Max bolted up the stairs to the third-floor office, not knowing if the class called Motivation and Emotion could explain his momentary burst of energy. Obviously, Revienne’s incredibly un coincidental presence in Las Vegas either meant he was on the brink of a bracing duel of wits, or a love affair. Why not? He was fancy-free.

And so was Professor Gruetzmeyer free, at least after a lanky kid with a backpack slouched out of the professor’s office door and down the hall.

Max knocked on the ajar doorframe.

“You’re very late,” the man’s voice boomed from within.

When Max appeared around the door, he looked abashed to see a stranger. Excellent. It put the guy off balance.

“Professor Gruetzmeyer. How lucky to have found you in. I was on campus merely to explore the layout and ring up for an appointment.”

“At least you look ahead, young man.”

Since Professor Gruetzmeyer was only about fifteen years older than Max, he must be used to addressing younger students. He was a fit and youthful fifty, curly haired and missing the Freudian beard and mustache. He wore a dress shirt rolled up at the elbows and reading glasses perched on his strong nose, underlining his green eyes. Impressionable twenty-somethings might crush on him but he didn’t seem Revienne’s type.

“You’re late for enrolling in the summer program,” he was telling Max. “Are you returning for credits toward a degree?”

“Not at all, Professor. I’m a writer.” The moment he said it, Max knew in some deep well of experience that this was true. Or was it Gandolph who was the writer? “My name is Matt Butler.” Always pick a false first name that’s close enough to yours. You won’t jump if you hear someone call you by it. However, what had popped out was some Freudian port in a storm. Matt?