His eyes were searching hers, not the hypnotic green eyes of a cat, but the clear blue eyes he was born with. Changeling, she thought, how will I ever know the real colors of you?
During the silence of that searching moment, the waiter-cum-chef appeared beside Temple, wafting heavy pasta dishes in front of them both. Steam curled up in waves, like heat from a chill wet street. It was a curtain, a tissue of illusion between them, but it would soon cool and dissipate. Did anyone really want to see too clearly?
The magician of the menu announced a roller coaster of Italian syllables, the name of each creation.
Temple sampled her dish, surprised by the perfect yet elusive taste. "And yours?" she asked Max.
"As sublime as he said. Chefs are the most eccentric of geniuses."
"No, just temperamental. We aren't used to that, so we think it's eccentric. Tell me about your life . . . before."
They concentrated on eating, while Max doled out details between bites. It added up to a lifestyle Temple could only imagine.
"The first eight years, when I was young and foolish, it was like living in a computer-game world designed just for me. I was like the Little Prince to them, in peril, but also invaluable. I traveled in Europe, free of charge. My interest in magic was heaven-sent for my new role. I saw and studied with the best magicians the Continent had to offer I traveled off-Continent, eastward. I was taught . . . everything I wanted to know and a great deal that I didn't know enough to want to know."
That was when Temple's expression had grown skeptical.
"Yes, even that. I had my Mata Haris. I was a blank slate, possessed by guilt and vengeance. They shaped me into a perfect weapon."
"Did you kill people?"
"The whole point was to keep people from being killed. I saved hundreds, I know, from bomb plots and hijackings and more personal mayhem. What I learned and passed on might have resulted in people's deaths. But these were people who'd be facing death penalties if they were caught."
"Should you be talking about this here?" The table was so tiny that their faces practically met over their empty plates, but still, Temple thought.
"Too noisy, too small. Besides, I'm wearing a powerful listening device; I'd hear anyone who said anything suspicious, or who was suspiciously quiet. Instead they're all discussing the best preschool in Manhattan and their post-Christmas cruise. Hardly matters of international interest."
"You're wired?"
"I'm used to listening in two directions at once."
"I guess. Tell more about the Mata Haris."
Max couldn't keep from grinning. "Pretty heady for a teenager. It took my mind off my dead cousin and the pretty colleen who had divided us. I had a field day, and then AIDS began creeping in from Africa, and I grew up and discovered that I was a kind of plague carrier myself, and lonely besides. The glamour was gone. I was no longer coddled, but expected to earn back the investment in me. It wasn't a game, after all, but life and death. My life and death too. I was cut off from everything I had known, my family, my country, my culture. I became what was necessary, a magical mystery machine, remote from everything and everybody, playing a role. Those were my monkish years, and a good thing too, or I'd have never passed those Minnesota AIDS tests."
Temple shivered. "What a weird, empty, excessive life."
"They sent me to the U.S. on sabbatical, figuring I was about to crack from the strain. I did, but not in the way they were worried about."
"I was the crack?"
He nodded. "Want dessert?"
"No, I couldn't--"
"We'll share," he decreed.
Max was very good at decreeing, the Little Prince grown up.
The surly chef appeared to collect their plates and promised to return with "some" dessert. Of some sort.
Temple threw up her hands. "I'm beginning to think mystery menus are natural."
"Only in New York. What else do you want to know?"
"More about the Mata Hari types."
"And yet you are the soul of discretion on one lone ex-priest."
"I don't have exotic bedroom habits."
"You remember."
"That is not your problem, Max. My memory."
"No. My problem is what it always was, the moment I decided that the IRA had to pay for my cousin's death." He absently moved the empty drinking glasses aside, though that would no doubt infuriate the waiter/chef. "You know those two thugs who accosted you? The ones whose rap sheets I brought up on the computer at Gandalf's house?"
She nodded.
"I've been trying to track them down. They were known around Vegas, but they haven't been seen since. My out-of-state sources come up blank. I don't think they'll ever hurt anyone again."
"They're dead?"
"And buried out in the Mojave, I'd bet. Whatever is going on in Las Vegas, someone wants a lid kept on it, at any cost. Do you feel safer?"
"That those men are dead?" Temple looked around, but no one was wearing a spy trench coat. "I don't think so. I don't need them dead. I hope you didn't--"
"No. Execution is not my specialty. Information is."
"Max, that's, ummph, so cold."
He nodded.
An entity appeared between them, naming, and landed as softly as a chocolate UFO on the tabletop. Drizzles of white chocolate and raspberry sauce latticed the central core of white-and-dark-chocolate-checkerboarded cheesecake.
"I can't believe," Temple said, "that we're going to eat this exquisite gazebo of chocolate and discuss what we're discussing."
"We're not." Max's clenched fist on the table relaxed suddenly. Temple hadn't noticed it before, but as his fingers parted she spied a small black-velvet box beneath them.
"You said no magic." Her tone was accusatory, but just barely.
"No magic. I had it in my coat pocket and brought it out while you were distracted by Mata Haris."
Well, what woman, no matter how thoroughly modern, no matter how un-Mata Hari-like, is going to ignore a small square jewelry box?
Temple's icy fingers edged it to her side of the tiny table, then she pressed the catch so the lid flipped up.
The lighting in this nameless (to her) restaurant left as much to be desired as the specifics of the menu, if not the skills of the chef.
Still, a ring is a ring and hard to mistake. But it was not just a ring. It was a free-form flow of pink gold guarding a low-profile opal of incredible fire and subtlety. Diamonds stood guard, flashing their own more obvious fire.
"Max, this is exquisite, but what is it?"
He understood that she wasn't asking about the ring's components, but its meaning, to him, to her.
"A friendship ring?" Mischievous. "A pre-engagement ring?" Testing. "A what-the-hell, it's-gorgeous, I'll-grab-it-and-let-the-guy-think-what-he-likes ring?" Cynical. "It's my ring, to you. I hope you like it. I hope you'll wear it. I hope it means we have a future." Bottom line.