"What did you wish to discuss, Nikita?"

She looked down at Michael. He was out like a light. She twisted her hair nervously. For some reason, she found it almost as hard to talk to Dr. Molbert about their sex life as about their past. (Go figure,) she thought wryly.

"Uh, well, doctor, it's like this." And she related the problem Michael had had earlier with her touching him 'down there.' She ducked her head in embarrassment. "We can't seem to get enough of each other. I think we're addicted."

Dr. Molbert smiled. "Mais, c'est naturelle!" he assured her. "You are both young. Your juices flow freely." He lifted her chin and looked at her with a more serious expression. "And he must feel an overwhelming need for the security of your embrace, am I right?"

"And I his," she admitted.

"So, the only problem, as I see it, is that right now it is very painful for him to exercise certain muscles. Is that right?

"Yes."

"Well, I believe the answer lies not in complete abstinence, but rather in more frequent, though less intense, 'activity.' Here is what I suggest. If he craves your touch, touch him. But do not wait until he is starved for it. Be extremely gentle with him. You do ALL the work, understand? He paused for a moment, then continued. " . . . I have just thought of something else that might help. One of the techniques developed by Dr. Lamaze teaches the laboring woman to use only one muscle while relaxing all others. I will bring you a copy of his book. With your 'encouragement', I'm sure he can learn this technique in no time," said Dr. Molbert, waggling his eyebrows at her.

(Groucho Marx without the cigar!) she thought, and put her hand to her mouth to protect her lip from the grin she could feel pulling on the stitches.

He patted her on the shoulder. "If things between you are as you say, I have a feeling you would be wise to learn Dr. Lamaze's technique yourself, cherie."

Her grin died. "When this is all over, I need to make an appointment to see you about that, doctor. I have an implant which is supposed to prevent pregnancy, but I think I may have had a miscarriage a month ago. I've never been pregnant before, so I'm not really sure that's what happened."

He turned all business then. "Have you had any discharge since then? Any pain? Any fever?"

"No. It was all over in a few hours. After a day or two I felt fine. But I still wonder . . . " The look on her face was wistful, even sad.

"This would not be the first time such an implant has failed, Nikita. I think it would be best if I examine you before you have any further relations. Just to be certain. Also, I may be able to tell you if that's what happened."

"I'm not sure I want to know," she whispered.

"That is your right," he conceded. "Just let me make sure everything is all right."

"Okay. When do you want to do the exam?"

"Now is as good a time as any, n'est ce pas? Just let me get Genevieve."

"Why?"

"Because it would be unprofessional and inappropriate for me to examine you without a woman present, to protect your reputation."

"Oh." Her reputation. If only there were anything left to protect.

It was as though he could read her thoughts. "Perhaps I cannot undo what has already happened, Madame, but I can prevent further harm."

"From a possible miscarriage?" she said, too quickly.

He took a long look at her. "Yes, of course. From a possible miscarriage."

* * * * *

Emil sat beside the bed, taking a quick peek from behind his newspaper every few minutes to make sure Michael was still asleep. He found himself reading the same paragraph over and over. His mind kept replaying the scene from yesterday - the automaton that killed with such precision. He found it difficult to reconcile that image with the man now lying here. The one who had cried in Nikita's arms like a heartbroken child not two hours ago.

Nikita lay on the narrow bed in Monique's room, her arms folded behind her head, her legs spread wide in a brazen display. To Dr. Molbert's consternation, she had become another person as soon as the door shut behind the three of them. She had quickly stripped, plopped herself down on the bed, and hooked her feet into the rungs of the footboard. The bruises on her body stood out in stark relief against her white skin. She appeared oblivious to her nudity, her position, or any discomfort he was currently inflicting. Her face was a blank, her eyes opaque. She was not here.

Molbert recognized all the signs. He had seen them often enough, and in girls much younger than Nikita. They had all been victims of sexual abuse from an early age. He and Genevieve exchanged glances. She had come to the same conclusion.

"Pauvre petite," she crooned, stroking Nikita's forehead. At first, there was no response. Then a single tear leaked from one eye and left a shining trail down her cheek. That was all. Genevieve wiped it away with her thumb. "It will be over soon, cherie," she murmured.

"I have finished," said Dr. Molbert, pulling off his gloves. "You may get dressed now, Nikita. When you are ready, we will have a little talk."

She still said nothing -- only stood up and put on the flannel gown Genevieve had loaned her.

"Thank you, Genevieve," the doctor said. "I appreciate your assistance. As soon as I consult with Nikita, I will be down for that bowl of soup you promised me."

* * * * *

"Is everything all right?" She still wouldn't look at him directly. He cleared his throat.

"Yes and no. There is some scarring, but I believe it is of long standing. Am I correct?"

She nodded dumbly. Tears trickled down her face.

"Well, within those parameters, I would say that it is still possible for you to conceive and bear a child -- once the device is removed, of course." He hesitated, then asked as delicately as he knew how. "I have never seen one quite like it. May I ask . . . was it developed by the same company that has provided the experimental antibiotic?"

"Yes."

"I see. Well, when you feel ready, I can remove it. Not today, of course. You have been through enough today. But later."

She nodded again. "I'd like that. But I need to talk to Michael about it. Later."

"Je comprends."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Still asleep, I see," said Dr. Molbert as he and Nikita reentered the bedroom. Emil rose from his chair and folded his paper.

"Oui. I'm going to have my supper, Molbert, unless you need me for anything else right now?"

"No, I'll join you in a moment."

Emil left the room and Dr. Molbert checked on Michael one more time while Nikita got back in bed. Genevieve knocked, then entered with a tray. She carried it over and set it in Nikita's lap.

"This smells wonderful, Madame." Nikita picked up the spoon and dipped it into the golden broth. "Mmmn, it tastes as good as it smells," she sighed.

"Genevieve's chicken soup is well-known among my patients. I swear, it has cured several of them when I had given up hope."

"Oh pooh, Molbert! You are such a flirt! Get out of here. Emil will eat it all if you don't hurry." At her threat, he hurried out the door. They heard him call to Emil on his way downstairs, "Save me some, old man, or I'll start charging you for all these extra housecalls!"

The two women exchanged amused grins as Nikita spooned up more of the rich broth. "I always like to soak my bread in my soup," suggested Genevieve. Nikita broke several small pieces off the French roll and dropped them into the bowl. Michael stirred and took a deep breath. His eyes opened and he looked around groggily. Genevieve went over to his side of the bed. Bending over him, she passed her hand over his forehead. He focused on her.

"Cher bebe, what you smell is my delicious chicken soup. Nikita is going to give you some now." She propped another pillow behind his head and placed a towel under his chin. His stubble scratched her hand. "And after that, Emil is going to shave you. You are turning into a porcupine," she teased.

He turned his head to face Nikita. She was slurping a noodle into her mouth. The corners of his lips quirked up. She shot him a sidelong glance, then dipped the spoon once more and held it to his lips.

"Open wide, like a little bird," she ordered. His lips parted obediently.

"Well," said Genevieve. "I'll leave you alone now to enjoy your supper. Emil will be up in a little while. Call us if you need anything before then."

Nikita nodded as she spooned more soup into Michael. One for him, one for her - until the bowl was empty. She sopped up the last drops with a crust of bread and popped it into his mouth. He chewed solemnly, his eyes never leaving her face. She wiped his chin with the towel, then touched her lips lightly to his. "For dessert," she whispered. He breathed in the smell of her. Against his will, his lids fluttered closed.

* * * * *

There was a light knock on the door. Emil entered, carrying a bowl of hot water and shaving gear. He set them down on the bedside table and took the tray from Nikita's lap. "I'll take this back downstairs after I finish shaving him." He looked over at Michael. "I don't want to disturb him. Perhaps we should wait."

"No, it's all right," said Nikita. "In fact, you'll have an easier time of it if you do it while he's asleep. He doesn't like to shave. He'd never admit it, but I think it irritates his skin."

"Many men have that problem," Emil replied. "Especially when one has a heavy beard and a fair complexion, as he does. But, there is no help for it," he sighed as he began to lather Michael's face.

"Finit," declared Emil ten minutes later. He placed the shaving bowl on the tray and left the room. Nikita brushed the back of her hand over Michael's smooth skin and held it up to her nose, inhaling the fresh scent of shaving soap and him. She lay down beside him, cheek to cheek. Instinctively, he snuggled up to her. She drifted into a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

Downstairs, Emil and Genevieve spent a quiet evening discussing the events of the past two days.

"I must open the shop tomorrow," she said, "or the villagers will be coming here to see what is wrong." Today had been Monday, and her business was closed on Sunday and Monday. She did a lot of business on Saturday, since it was market day.

"You are right," replied Emil. "We don't want to arouse anyone's curiosity. I had better come up with a story why their vehicle is still here. Perhaps the young newly-weds have decided to stay for a few days?"

Genevieve sniffed. "And who would believe that story, old man? Did you ever hear of newly-weds choosing to spend time with two old people? Better to hide it in the abandoned warehouse until they are able to leave."

"Bien," he agreed. "I'll drive it out there early tomorrow morning, before everyone is out and about. And when the time comes, we can take them home at night."

"Since I won't be here during the day, you will have to sit with him whenever she leaves the room," Genevieve continued, getting up from her chair. "I can do it in the evenings after supper. It shouldn't be too difficult. I know her. She will not want to be away from him for very long."

"And just how do you know that?"

Genevieve bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

"I am a woman, remember?"

He put his arms around her waist and leered up at her. "You know how forgetful I am becoming, cherie. Let's go to bed and refresh my memory."

She giggled like a young girl. Hand in hand, they climbed the stairs. They stopped outside the door to Albert's room and listened. All was quiet. "Bien," nodded Genevieve in satisfaction. Emil whispered in her ear. "Just like when Albert and Monique were babies, eh cherie? You couldn't rest well until they were asleep." Her eyes twinkled. "It wasn't only the children who kept me awake, old man, as you well know," she whispered back. He opened the door to their bedroom.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

For the rest of the week, Michael stayed in bed under three watchful pair of eyes. Every morning and evening Dr. Molbert came for a brief visit. By Friday the wounds were healing nicely. The four of them stood just outside the bedroom door, discussing his progress.

"You have all been doing an excellent job," he complimented his assistants. "If you would like a job at the clinic, just let me know," he teased.

"Humph!" snorted Genevieve and Emil. But Molbert could tell they were flattered.

"I can tell he's beginning to feel better," interjected Nikita. "He keeps insisting he's ready to go home."

"Oui," verified Emil. He paused, then added thoughtfully, "But I think perhaps he is trying to avoid any further 'interrogation', eh?"

He had sat with Michael for an hour or more at a time the past few days, and the younger man had been singularly uncommunicative. That hadn't stopped Emil from talking, though. He could tell Michael was listening, no matter how hard he tried to tune Emil out. So, he recounted some of his and Genevieve's wartime experiences -- particularly those the two couples might have in common. He even told of his agony over being unable to protect Genevieve from the Colonel. He had never shared this with anyone, although Genevieve had always known how he felt. That was one reason he loved her so. When he had finished, he saw Michael's hand was fisted at his side. Emil had leaned over and covered it with his own. He sat there in silence until that hand slowly unclenched beneath his, like the petals of a flower opening in the warmth of the sun. He had risen, then, and poured a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the table. He had held the glass to Michael's lips, and the younger man had drunk it down in three or four huge gulps -- the salt from his tears mingling with the sweetness of the fresh-squeezed fruit.

"Emil?" Genevieve's voice recalled him to the present.

"Eh?"

"Dr. Molbert just said he thinks Michel might be able to sit in a chair for a short time tomorrow, if we don't let him overdo it. Isn't that good news?"

"Mais oui! That is very good news indeed. I will bring in my chess set and we can have a game. Nikita has told me he plays quite well. It has been a long while since I had an opponent worthy of my skill."

"Now you go too far!" replied Dr. Molbert in an angry whisper. "I have beaten you twice lately, you old goat!"

"Yes, but that was when I was sick with the influenza!" shouted Emil. "I had a high fever. If my brain had not been frying like a crepe in a pan, you wouldn't have stood a chance in hell!"

"Gentlemen, please calm down," said Nikita soothingly.

"Yes, you old fools," added Genevieve. "If you're not careful you'll wake him up, and then we'll have to sit on him to keep him in bed until tomorrow!" Her own voice had been none too quiet, but she didn't seem to notice that.

On the other side of the door, Michael jerked half-awake. Were his parents arguing again? Sometimes he wished they would divorce. But of course they would never do that. As the son of converts, his father had been raised according to the strictest tenets of the Catholic faith . . . As the shouting subsided, he drifted back to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Monday morning. This was their fourth chess game. Emil had won the other three. The first time they played, Michael had fallen asleep in the chair after half a dozen moves. The second time, he had lasted until the end of the game, but with no apparent plan of attack or defense. The third time, Sunday afternoon, Emil had begun to fear he might have to accept a draw. But Michael had been unable to sustain his focus after more than an hour. He had slept long and hard after that game.

Today was different.

"It is a beautiful day, is it not? And to think, the TV predicted storms. Those people don't know what they're talking about."

Michael didn't bother to reply. Emil had been trying to distract him with inane chatter for the past five minutes. He was mildly amused by the older man's heavy-handed attempts. But there was nothing heavy-handed about his chess game. He had the gift of strategy, there was no doubt about that. It would be interesting to see how he would play . . . .

"Have you ever played 'Go?'" he asked softly.

"'Go?' Non, " Emil replied. "Qu'est ce qu'il y a? Is it similar to chess?"

"It is and it isn't," answered Michael cryptically.

Emil chuckled. "It is and it isn't? You mean like I eat but I don't eat? I walk but I don't walk? I shit but I don't shit?"

Michael smiled broadly for the first time since Emil had known him. "Exactement." He was silent for another few moments. "Will you accept a draw?"

"A draw!" shouted Emil. "Jamais - never!" He looked down at the board, then up at Michael's face. He narrowed his eyes and shook his finger at him. "You think you can intimidate me, don't you? This is chess, not bouree. We don't bluff in this game!"

Michael stared back at him, unperturbed. The pupils of his eyes dilated suddenly, until black filled the center of each iris. Emil saw it happen. (Just like Genevieve's cat Maurice, when he is about to pounce on his toy mouse,) thought Emil with a shadow of unease. (Perhaps I had better re-examine my position.)

He perused the board, determined to find some weakness in his plan of attack - some hole in his defense. Both appeared secure. He put his hand on his white rook. (And now for the pincer movement!) he thought gleefully.

"I would advise against it," said Michael.

"Well, I choose not to take your advice," replied Emil snidely. "I hope you are not offended?"

"Not at all."

Emil moved the rook. "Check!" (Now let's see what you have to say to that!)

"Checkmate in five moves."

Only now did he see it. The black king's pawn. Too late, unfortunately.

He shook his head, then toppled his king. Looking up at Michael, he grinned hugely.

"Enfin! I never thought I would see this day! You have made me a very happy man, Michel!"

Michael raised his eyebrows.

"I have finally found my successor. This set has been passed down from village champion to village champion for the past 200 years. Until today, no one has beaten me as you have." And he got up, put his arms around Michael, and kissed him on both cheeks. He stood back and patted the younger man's shoulders. "Now, teach me this 'Go.'"

Michael sat, stunned, as Emil hugged and kissed him. When the older man backed away, he swayed toward him, as though drawn by a magnet. But it was too late. Or was it? Emil saw the yearning in his eyes and grabbed him again in a bear hug. He stood there for a moment, waiting. The younger man's arms crept around his shoulders as he leaned into Emil's embrace. Emil patted him on the back this time and grumbled in his ear. "Eh bien, mon fils, you have decided you deserve a hug from this old man after all, oui?"

Just then the door opened and Genevieve entered with a tray.

"Genevieve! You will not believe it! I have been defeated!"

'Grace a Dieu!" she responded. "And none too soon. You were becoming more insufferable each day!" She turned to Michael, beaming. "No one in the village except Molbert has had the temerity to challenge him since 1998! I can't thank you enough, Michel. Merci, merci beaucoup, cher! Now sit down again and have your lunch."

"Move that board, old man, before I knock it off the table!" she threatened. Emil swiftly lifted the board out of harm's way as she set the tray in front of Michael. He looked up at her. A slight frown creased his brow.

"Where's Nikita?"

"She's in the kitchen. I am trying teach her how to make a tender tarte crust. But I must tell you, Michel, I do not have much hope. Her touch lacks . . . shall I say . . . a certain delicatesse?" She does not so much caress the dough as beat it into submission. Oh, I tell you, I am martyred."

What happened next made all her exasperation with Nikita worthwhile. Michael took her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a feathery-light kiss. Still holding it, he looked up at her with an enigmatic smile. "You are not alone, Madame. She martyred me the moment I met her."

Then he turned his attention to the plate in front of him. A thick slice of pork roast, stuffed with garlic and peppers. Fresh haricot verts - sweet, crisp green beans marinated with tomatoes in viniagrette. New potatoes still in their skins, dotted with homemade butter and parsley just picked from the pot outside the kitchen door.

"Where is my dessert?" he teased.

"Where do you think?" growled Genevieve. "If you are lucky, she hasn't dropped it on the floor and stepped on it yet."

"From what you've said, perhaps it would be better for all concerned if she did," he retorted, spearing a green bean and crunching it between strong white teeth. Genevieve slapped him lightly with the napkin before tucking it under his chin. "Betis!" she chided.

"Genevieve!" Nikita wailed from downstairs.

"Mon dieu!" sighed the older woman. "What more can I do?" "I'm coming chouette!" she called back. "Courage," she mumbled to herself as she left the room.

Emil sat back and watched Michael devour everything on his plate. (I must give credit where it's due. That Molbert may not be up to my standards as a chess player, but he certainly knows his business. Who would have believed this one would be sitting here gorging himself on Genevieve's pork roast a mere week after such a serious wound?)

"A glass of wine, perhaps?" he suggested with a grin. "To cleanse the palate?"

Michael's lips quirked into a slight smile of contentment. Emil had never seen him so relaxed.

"Why not?" he replied.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

In the kitchen, Nikita stood looking at Genevieve with tears of frustration in her eyes. Genevieve peered at the crust sitting in the middle of the tarte plate. It looked like a rubber ball - rather gray in color. As she watched, Nikita tried to flatten and stretch it over the bottom of the pan. But as soon as she released it, it sprang back into its original shape.

"You see!" Nikita shrieked. Then she took several deep breaths and said with forced calm. "Obviously, Madame, there is something wrong with your recipe."

Genevieve's eyes widened in outrage. Her mouth dropped open, but she could not utter a word. Her arm reached for the rolling pin on the table, and Nikita decided that a strategic retreat was in order. She ducked around the other side of the table and hightailed it upstairs.

Michael was explaining the basic elements of 'Go' to Emil when the door to the bedroom burst open and Nikita rushed in, breathless. She closed it behind her and leaned with her back to it, holding desperately onto the handle.

"Hi guys," she said in an overly-cheerful tone.

Michael and Emil looked at one another, then turned to face her.

"Hello," said Michael casually. "Is my dessert ready yet?"

Emil choked on his wine.

She glared at the two of them. "She told you, didn't she? Well, did she also tell you that there's a flaw in her recipe?"

Emil gasped. "Surely you did not tell her that? Did you?"

She nodded once, jerkily.

He shook his head. "Well, chere, you had better be prepared to hold onto that doorknob for a good long time - several hours at least. Because if she lays her hand on you, you'll need the attentions of Molbert again."

"She's after me with a rolling pin," said Nikita in a aggrieved tone.

Michael's eyes were bright with humor. "Disarm her," he suggested.

"And just how do I do that without hurting her?" Nikita ground out.

"Apologize."

"Arggh!" She lifted her hands off the knob and advanced toward Michael, evidently intent on throttling him.

(That was an error in strategy,) he thought wryly.

No sooner had Nikita released her hold on the doorknob than Genevieve jerked the door open and stood there, brandishing the rolling pin. Nikita turned around.

"Oohhh . . .," she moaned in a low voice, all the while backing up until she nearly sat on Michael. He stopped her with his hands on either side of her waist and murmured, "Apologize. Now."

"I APOLOGIZE!" she blurted out.

Genevieve stopped. She looked to Emil while pointing her weapon at Nikita. "Did she tell you what she said? About my tarte crust? The same tarte crust that has won first prize for the past five years at the village festival?"

Emil had tears of laughter in his eyes, but he didn't dare crack a smile. He put on a sad face. If he was lucky, she'd think he was crying in sympathy. "Oui, she admitted it," he said in a tragic tone. "I couldn't believe it myself, cherie. And after all we have done for her."

Behind Nikita, Michael watched Emil's performance. It was worthy of the Cannes Film Festival. And that last comment - so subtle in its reminder of who had done what for whom. He could well understand how Emil had been such a successful operative with the Resistance. He had a real flair for subversion. He would indeed be a formidable opponent at 'Go.'

Genevieve regarded Emil in silence. Then she lowered the rolling pin to her side. "Well, she did apologize," she mumbled. Turning to Nikita, she sighed and said, "Come on, cherie, let's give it one more try."

Michael shoved Nikita forward. "Go," he whispered. The two women left the room arm in arm.

"Pooh yi!" Emil exclaimed, shaking his head, " I think I need another glass of wine." He refilled his own glass, then tilted the bottle toward Michael's. Michael shook his head and placed his hand over the top of his glass. "One is enough, thank you."

"Suit yourself." After a few minutes of companionable silence, he ventured a question that had been on his mind a lot this past week.

"How did you meet her?"

As soon as he asked it, he wished he could take it back. The silence thickened. He didn't dare look Michael in the eye. So, he looked out the window. And sipped his wine. And waited. (It really is a beautiful day - warm for this time of year. It will soon be time to plant the tomatoes.)

"She was my material."

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Your material."

"Yes."

"Not a person."

Silence.

Emil sighed. He uncorked the wine bottle and, before Michael could protest, poured them each a full glass. He nodded to Michael. "Drink it." Michael lifted the glass and drained it in two swallows. It rattled as he put it down on the table. He released it with exaggerated care and put his hands in his lap. Out of sight.

Emil took a healthy swig of his own, then said, "But she's not 'material' any longer, eh?"

Michael's lips tilted up slightly at the corners. "No."

"So. What is the problem?"

More silence.

"Ahh, I see. That IS the problem. As long as she was a tool, you could continue to use her as a tool. Now that she is a person, you are finding it impossible to reconcile that necessity with your love for her. Well, I have news for you, Michel. You are not the only one to ever face that dilemma."

"I know." It was a thread of sound.

"So what do you plan to do about it?" Emil asked matter-of-factly.

"He's already done it."

Neither of them had heard her come in. How much had she heard? She walked over and stood behind Michael. She draped her arms over his and held his hands in hers. She could feel him shaking. She bent down and nuzzled him just under his left ear. He closed his eyes. Emil could see teardrops shimmering on his eyelashes.

Nikita looked across at Emil. "Michael needs to rest. Would you leave us alone, Emil?"

* * * * *

"I think you're beginning to get the hang of this technique, Michael," she murmured. He lay on his back. A pillow was propped under his buttocks for support, lifting him to her.

"Relax. That's right," she encouraged as he tried to focus all his attention on that one throbbing muscle between his legs. He felt her take the weight of him in her hands. His own hands were wrapped around the rungs of the headboard. Every few seconds Nikita could hear a slight creak as he pulled mightily on them. It was a wonder they weren't bent completely out of shape. But, this seemed to displace his urge to tighten his stomach muscles, thus sparing his wounds. She bent to her work. Stroking. Blowing gently. Licking. Sucking. She rubbed him against her own arousal, delighting in the slick heat she had created. At the point of contact, her curls tickled his tip. His shaft jerked in her hand, and both he and the iron bars groaned in reaction. She backed off, panting.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Some. But I don't mmminnnd!" His voice was a long low moan.

"Do you want to try again?"

"Ye -sss" he hissed between clenched teeth.

She moistened her hands and began to slide them over and around his knob. It would be best to bring him to completion quickly now. She could tell he was beginning to lose his concentration, and she didn't want those injured muscles and tendons to get more involved in this than they already were. He began to tighten one buttock, then the other, twisting slightly under her massaging fingers.

"Stop that," she said, "or you'll tear something."

"I can't stop now," he panted. "Help me. Hurry."

"Lift up a little, she instructed and slid her palms under him, cupping his cheeks. She lifted one, then the other in an alternating rhythm. His erection swayed gently from side to side, like a telephone pole in a high wind. She lowered herself slowly onto him, taking care to brace her weight on her knees. He began to keen softly as he felt her folds envelop him. His hands clenched again, and Nikita saw the headboard rungs bend outward. He gave a deep straining grunt and bucked up off the mattress as he spurted hot and heavy into her. Any pain was swept away in the wave of ecstasy. She felt herself clench rhythmically around him, sucking - pulling - milking his essence. When he went limp under her, she rolled off to the side and lay there, still feeling tiny sporadic contractions. He let his arms drop to his sides, palms up, utterly spent. They fell into dreamless sleep.

When she woke, the first thing Nikita noticed was that she was cold. They had been too far gone in post-coital lethargy to even pull up the covers. Michael was still out of it, and he was shivering slightly. She checked his bandages to make sure everything was okay, then pulled the blanket over him. He sighed and nestled his head into her shoulder.

(I really should get up and take a hot bath.) She tucked him in tighter and stood up. She looked again at the headboard. Oops. Two of the bars were now in the shape of parentheses. There was no way Emil and Genevieve could miss this telltale evidence of their passion. As a temporary measure, she propped several pillows against the headboard. As soon as she could, she'd have to find something to use as a lever.

As she soaked in the old-fashioned metal tub, she reflected on the past week. She was almost completely recovered from the beating she had suffered, and Michael was so much better that Dr. Molbert was planning to take out the stitches tomorrow. After that, he had said they could go home. As grateful as she was to Emil and Genevieve, she was really looking forward to being truly alone with Michael.

Meanwhile, Dr. Boudreaux was coming over tomorrow afternoon to inspect the items they had recovered. She could hardly wait to find out the history of the collection. She hoped he would be able to determine whom it had belonged to and from whom it had been stolen. She was still daydreaming when there was a knock on the bathroom door.

"Nikita?" It was Michael.

"Come in, my sweet baboo," she called out. The door opened, and he stood there, wrapped in the blanket. His hair was sleep-tousled, with auburn curls falling in his face and tumbling down the back of his neck. He looked good enough to eat.

"I woke up and you were gone," he said softly, still uncomfortable with his need for her presence.

"Well, I'm right here," she smiled. "Why don't you join me?"

"Do you think it would be all right?" He pointed to the bandages around his middle.

"Probably not until the stitches are out," she conceded. "But if you'll give me a minute I'll dry off and give you a sponge bath. Have a seat." She pointed to the toilet.

She pulled the plug and stepped out of the tub, drying herself with a fluffy white towel. She threw on an old shirt of Emil's. It fell to her thighs, covering the basics. It wouldn't do to get Michael all excited again this soon.

She filled the sink with warm water, soaped a rag, and began to bathe him. He closed his eyes and submitted meekly to her instructions. "Lift your arm. Bend forward. Give me your foot. Here. Wash it yourself." He smiled at that last. She wasn't taking any chances. She dried him and draped a towel around his hips. There went his last hope.

Smelling of Genevieve's lily-of-the-valley soap, they tiptoed back into the bedroom. They could hear the old couple downstairs, arguing affectionately as they often did.

"Look what you did," said Nikita, whisking away the pillows.

"Next time I'll push them back together," he responded casually.

On impulse, she solemnly mimicked his standard response to Operations. "It's my problem. I'll fix it."

He looked at her open-mouthed for a moment, then grinned. "I'm sure you know who he was referring to."

She stepped closer and cradled his face in her hands. "Am I still your problem, Michael?" Then she kissed him. He groaned and pulled her tightly against him. "You'll always be my problem, Nikita. And my salvation." He buried his face in her hair, intoxicated by the scent of her. Between them, the towel lifted, tentlike, as his ridgepole deployed.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The next morning Dr. Molbert arrived earlier than usual. "I have a surgery scheduled for 7:00 am at the hospital," he explained. This didn't bother Emil and Genevieve, since they both rose with the chickens. Unfortunately for Dr. Molbert, it didn't occur to any of them that awakening Michael out of a sound sleep by clipping stitches out of his back might have unpleasant consequences.

* * * * *

"Should we call the hospital and let them know you'll be late for surgery this morning?" asked Emil.

Dr. Molbert nodded painfully. "Oui. Tell them to send the patient home. I'll reschedule later." His neck felt as though he had been in a car crash. (Who ever heard of getting "le whiplash" while removing stitches!)

Genevieve and Nikita hovered over him solicitously. "How about a hot towel for your neck?" suggested Genevieve. Nikita agreed. "That always helps me after he's thrown me."

The doctor looked at her with a shocked expression. "And does he make a habit of "throwing" you, Madame?"

She grinned wryly. "I'd say he throws me about as often as I throw him. Isn't that right, Michael?"

He sat on the bed, his knees drawn up, his face buried in his crossed arms. He didn't answer. Nikita went over and sat beside him. She put her arm around his shoulders and whispered in his ear for a few minutes. He lifted his head and scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Turning to the others, he said in a hoarse whisper,

"Please forgive me, Doctor. Sometimes lately my reflexes outstrip my control. Je regrette . . . " he choked and buried his face in his arms again. Nikita rubbed his back.

"It's okay, Michael. I'm sure Dr. Molbert understands now that it probably wasn't the wisest thing to sneak up on you like that. Don't you, doctor?" she prompted.

"I certainly do," he grumbled. Then relenting, he came over to Michael and put his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Do not concern yourself, mon fils. She is quite right, of course. And I shall be fine, I'm sure, after a day or two." He turned to Emil and Genevieve and said in a wheedling tone, "I would recover more quickly if I could take home with me a pot of your bouillabaisse, Genevieve."

"You beggar!" she cried, joining in the group's attempt to jolly Michael out of his distraught state. "You know just how much you can get away with, don't you."

"Oui." He didn't even attempt to deny it. Then he added brusquely. "All right, Monsieur Michel. How about if you let me finish what I started, eh?"

Michael lifted his head and looked at him. He was once more in control of himself.

"Of course," he said, then rolled over on his stomach.

* * * * *

"Fini," said the doctor in another few minutes. "You can sit up now."

"How does he look, doctor," asked Nikita. The two of them were now facing Dr. Molbert. He addressed himself to Michael.

"Everything looks good. You are still healing, so don't exert yourself -- especially by attempting to 'throw' anyone. And for heaven's sake, don't let her throw you either!" he teased. "Listen to your body. Allow yourself to rest every day - as often as you feel the need. Sleep as much as you can." He bent toward the two of them and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "And make love at least once a day. It floods the system with endorphins - a natural painkiller and antidepressant."

Emil elbowed Genevieve and commented in a stage whisper, "That must be why your arthritis is always better the morning after, cherie!"

"And why you are always in such a good mood," she retorted.

Nikita squeezed Michael's hand. "You heard him. Doctor's orders." Turning to Dr. Molbert, she quipped, "I'll make it my personal business to see that he follows your instructions to the letter, doctor. It's the least we can do to thank you for your efforts, isn't it, Michael?"

He flushed. "Yes."

Dr. Molbert stood up. "Well, I think I'll go back home and lie down with a heating pad for the rest of the day. Emil, you can bring me the bouillabaisse when you post the mail this evening."

Emil shook his head, grinning. "Anything you say, Molbert. Anything you say."

"And how would you like a big slice of apple tarte for dessert?" asked Genevieve.

"Apple tarte? You know I never turn down your apple tarte!" exclaimed Molbert. "How kind of you, Genevieve, to share it with me."

"Oh, it will be my pleasure, Molbert, believe me," replied Genevieve, eagerly. (She looks so innocent,), thought Emil. (One would never suspect her sadistic tendencies.)

Nikita glanced over at Michael. He stared back at her unblinking. But if she looked closely, she could see the tiny smile that lifted the corners of his mouth.