’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘Seriously. I did have a brief liaison with an Arab boy. He was a refugee from Algeria during the troubles there.’ ‘You are...so cosmopolitan, Clare. All my relationships have been with English people. I don’t even have an Irish or Scottish scalp to my name.’ ‘You poor insular man.’ ‘Was your Arab boy really nice?’ ‘Yes, he was, but he was very chauvinist…’ Clare paused. ‘I don’t think they see it as chauvinism…’ ‘And,’ Clare interrupted and added in a delicious lie:’ overly fond. His hands were spread open and held out slightly from his body, a non-verbal sign of "I'm not looking for trouble". He was slightly under six feet tall with a wiry build and sandy blonde hair cut fairly short. He was dressed casually, jeans and a long sleeve flannel shirt under a windbreaker.The man stopped a comfortable distance away. Duncan raised an eyebrow. Strange. The feeling had not intensified. This man was NOT the immortal that Duncan had sensed."Duncan MacLeod?" Duncan Maclead of the. More

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