They were home. The house loomed out of the darkness as Nikita stopped the car a few feet from the porch steps.

"Why don't you drive on into the barn?"

She had her excuse ready. "There's too much junk to carry. I don't feel like making more than one trip. Here. Take the eggs." She handed him a wire basket filled with big brown eggs fresh from under Genevieve's hens. They were still warm, with the stray pinfeather or two stuck to them with chicken dung.

He took the basket without further comment. He knew what she was thinking. She was still worried about his injuries. And he had to admit that the drive had taken more out of him than he had expected. He had been quietly gathering his strength for the walk from the barn, even though it wasn't far. He opened the car door and levered himself out. At least she had granted him the dignity of that simple exercise. She was studiously ignoring him as she gathered more packages from the back of the Rover. He went slowly up the steps, holding onto the railing with one hand. It wouldn't do to trip and drop the eggs. That would be too much of an admission of weakness.

He unlocked the front door and held it open. While waiting for her to join him, he breathed in the familiar old-house smell that had attracted him to this place a couple of years ago. It was a mixture of polished wood, chimney smoke, and dried herbs. Hundreds of years of family life - of cooking and cleaning and washing - of noisy children and harried young parents and patient elderly grandparents - all had left an indelible mark on this structure. It was the mark of permanence, and he longed for it - not just for himself but for Nikita. He knew she felt it too. At first, he had been so angry that she had "renovated" the upstairs, but now he realized that she had left her own imprint in this place, adding yet another layer to the patina of time.

She accidentally brushed against him as she squeezed past carrying two large brown paper bags filled with Genevieve's good cooking -- the remainder of the pork roast, a baked chicken, several casseroles, and of course, one of her apple tartes. Not the one made by Nikita. That one had been sent to the unwitting Dr. Molbert. (May he rest in peace.)

At the feathery touch of her thigh against his jeans, he very nearly dropped the basket of eggs after all. God, but he wanted her right now. The stab of desire actually made him weak in the knees. He tried to ignore his reaction, but she must have heard him gasp, because she turned around and grinned back at him before turning the corner into the kitchen. He followed her. (I have no more self-control than a dog who sniffs after a bitch in heat!) When he entered the kitchen, she was standing with her back to the counter, waiting.

"Put down the eggs first," she warned, as he stood there devouring her with his eyes.

He set them down with exaggerated care, then moved closer. He imagined he could smell her hunger for him. He stood as close as he could get, pressing against her full length. He reached down and cupped her through her jeans. She moaned and thrust her pelvis toward him. He lowered the zipper just enough to tuck his fingers inside. She wasn't wearing any panties. He removed his hand and looked at the shining moisture coating his fingertips. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. It hadn't been his imagination after all.

Nikita watched his nostrils flare as he breathed in her scent. His lips parted slightly, and she put her hand around the back of his neck and drew him toward her, flicking her tongue into his mouth. He sucked on it like a baby on the teat. She felt an answering tug deep down in her belly. Her left leg crept up and rubbed against his thigh, pulling him even harder against her. His erection was fierce. She could feel the heat of it even through his pants.

He ground into her harder, saying with his body what he couldn't articulate.

"Not here," she panted, pushing him back. "You're not well enough yet to lift me up. Let's go to bed and finish this."

He shook his head in denial. His pupils were completed dilated. "No . . ."

"Yes," she insisted. "Think of something else - something disgusting. Like . . . like . . . She stopped. She couldn't think of anything disgusting enough to affect him. He was desensitized from so many years in Section. She took another tack. "Think of something funny! Like Dr. Molbert eating my tarte!"

To her relief, he backed off. He turned his head to the side and closed his eyes, breathing raggedly. He pressed his hand to his side and bent over slightly, trying to ease the pull on his wounds from the hot weight in his groin. She didn't dare touch him, not even for support. Finally, he regained control and straightened up. When he spoke, his voice was still hoarse, but his eyes were bright with humor.

"I believe that would fall under both categories, Nikita."

* * * * *

"Feeling better now?"

"Um hum." His breath tickled her neck. She rubbed his back in long slow strokes, and he burrowed his head deeper into the hollow of her shoulder. His stubble felt like fine steel wool. She relished the contrast with the smooth skin under her hand. She pressed his lower back gently, careful to avoid the still tender wound in his left flank. Instead, she swept her hand down to cup his buttocks. He flattened against her from right thigh to breast. As hard as he had been just a few minutes ago, he was that soft against her now. She looked down. His right hand was splayed across her left breast, his fingers delicately massaging her flesh. It reminded her of a starfish she had once seen in a seaport aquarium, perched on a rock, holding itself in place with tiny movements of its arms as it constantly adjusted to the shifting current. As she watched his fingers, she felt tiny echoing ripples deep inside, as her inner muscles still contracted sporadically in the aftermath!

of her ecstasy.

They slept.

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

The phone woke them up at 6:30 the next morning. Michael picked it up on the second ring.

"Oui." Nikita pricked up her ears at the flat tone of his voice. She could tell he expected to hear his code name from the person on the other end of the line. She placed her hand on his shoulder. It was like touching a block of wood. Then, she felt him relax. He lay back and handed her the phone.

"Genevieve. For you."

"Good morning, Madame!" She had tried to sound alert, but Genevieve Beaullieu wasn't fooled.

"Chouette, why are you still in bed? Life is too short to sleep it away!" Then she chuckled. "But perhaps you were not sleeping, eh? Tell Michel I said he owes me a new headboard!"

Nikita could Emil laughing in the background. She was relieved Genevieve couldn't see her blush. "I'll tell him, Madame." She glanced at Michael. He was drowsing again. She admired the play of muscles in his abdomen as he breathed. Her eyes focused on his belly button, and she had a sudden impulse to flick her tongue over it. But Genevieve was still talking.

" . . . so I told Monsieur Boudreaux we would be delighted to accept his invitation to the ceremony at the National Museum next week. Is that all right with you?"

"With us?" Nikita wondered why Genevieve and Emil needed her permission to attend. Surely, she didn't mean . . ."

"Madame, you must realize it would not be prudent for me and Michael to call attention to ourselves, especially at a public ceremony. I am so happy that you and Emil are going to receive the recognition you deserve for returning the collection to the people of France. But as for us, we've already gotten our reward. From both of you."

There was a pause on the other end. She heard a sniffle from Genevieve. "Oui, cherie, you are right, of course. I only wished to show how grateful we are . . ."

"And you have. You have given us something more precious than any medal. You have taken us into your home - and your hearts. Don't you know how much that means to Michael and me?

Genevieve blew her nose into her handkerchief. "Oh, but you break my heart, cherie, when you talk like that."

Nikita heard two definite smooching sounds. "Can you hear those? They are my kisses for you today. Give Michel one of them for me, eh?"

"I'll do that, Madame."

"Bon. A bientot, chouette."

Nikita reached over Michael to put the phone down on the bedside table.

"You'll do what?" he whispered, putting his arm around her.

She kissed him. "That. It's from Genevieve. She sent us each one over the phone. She said to be sure and give you yours."

"What else did she say?" He looked at her intently. She should have known he was listening. She grazed his chest with her fingernails. He took in a breath and held it.

"She said you owe her a new headboard." She licked her lips, then lowered her mouth to his nipple. He arched under her, spreading his legs to accommodate his burgeoning erection.

"How much would it cost?" he rasped. "Allowing for inflation?"

She grinned wickedly down at him. "Quite a lot, I think. I've noticed lately that inflation is on the rise. Haven't you noticed that?" She ground her pelvis into his and felt him leap under her.

"Yesss," he hissed.

They abandoned all pretense of conversation then. She indulged the fantasy she had had earlier, alternately fluttering her tongue in and around his navel, then blowing gently on the dampness she had created. With every lick, every puff of air, he hardened more. She rolled off to one side in order to admire her work. She held her hand above his groin, waggled her palm in silent encouragement, and he watched in amazement as a thick column of flesh rose from between his thighs, lengthening in increments as it reached out to touch her. She kept moving the goal. If only, like a snake, he could shed his too-small skin and keep on growing!

She seemed hypnotized by the sight of him, as the rabbit is transfixed by the cobra's swaying dance. But she had never been easy prey. With palpable effort, she broke free from the spell. "Don't move," she rasped. "I'll be right back." She backed away from the bed, her hand still outstretched toward him. He tracked her every move. Reaching behind her with one hand, she opened the dresser drawer and fished around inside until she found what she needed. She held up a length of blue ribbon and stalked toward him. He held his breath as she carefully tied it in a bow around the base of his thick stalk. The loops of the bow spread over his groin. She lifted one of the dangling ends and passed it lightly over his knob. A couple of gentle swipes and a fountain of milk began to pulse upward, splashing all over the bow. He gripped the sheets and hung on for dear life.

Nikita watched him avidly. There was an invisible erotic bond between them. When he came, she did too, even though he hadn't touched her. After it was over, she untied the bow. Kneeling directly over him, she ran the length of sodden ribbon between her legs, anointing herself. She waited for what she knew was coming. His neck arched, his mouth opened in a silent cry, and one final spasm racked his frame. A few drops of thick cream oozed from the slit in his knob. She licked them off. At the feel of her tongue, he turned his face to the side and bit down hard on the pillowcase.

"You made me come, too," she panted in his ear. "Feel what you did." She guided his other hand to her crotch. He turned to face her. His eyes were unfocused. As she watched, he fell asleep again with his fingers still inside her. She removed his hand and kissed it, then went to take a shower. Dr. Molbert would be pleased that they were following his prescription so faithfully.

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

It was a beautiful day. While she showered, Nikita thought of ways for the two of them to spend it. She decided on a picnic. Fresh air and sunshine - just the ticket. Where to go, though? She'd have to ask Michael. He was more familiar with the area. And, that way she could let him set the pace and the distance.

She had finished drying herself and was standing nude in front of the mirror, combing out her hair. She would let the sun dry it for her. The door to the bathroom opened a crack, and he peeked in. She smiled at his reflection. He opened the door wider and walked up behind her. He put his arms around her waist and sniffed her hair appreciatively.

"You smell good."

She leaned back against him. Something hard poked the cleft in her buttocks. She wriggled slightly. It grew.

"Michael, are you trying to tell me something?"

"Um hum," he murmured, pressing butterfly kisses on the nape of her neck.

"You know, Michael, you've never been this good about taking your medicine before."

"It never tasted this good before."

She laughed. "I'd hate to see you overdose!"

"That isn't possible, Nikita."

"Lucky for you!"

"And you."

She had to agree. She was as fond of Dr. Molbert's "prescription" as Michael was. She almost regretted the dirty trick Genevieve had played on the doctor.

"Michael?"

"Yes," he whispered sibilantly into her ear as he nibbled on the lobe.

"I think I'll make another tarte. If it comes out okay, I'll take it over to Dr. Molbert."

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her in the mirror. His eyes were wide.

"I think that would be a mistake."

She glared at him. "I could do it, you know. I just need a bit more practice."

"In that case, we'd better make a trip to the village. I don't think we have enough flour."

"I thought you had bought a 20 lb. bag just last week."

"I did."

She slapped his hands away from her waist and rounded on him, hands on hips.

"You're really funny, you know that?"

He pondered that for a moment. "I don't think anyone's ever told me that before."

She melted against him. Stroking his back, she murmured, "Shame on them."

* * * * *

"Do you want to stop for a minute?" She turned to look back at him. He started to shake his head, then thought better of it. "Yes." They had only been walking for a quarter of an hour, but he already had a stitch in his side. He propped his bottom against a large rock and tried to catch his breath. Nikita joined him.

"Here." She passed him a bottle of water. He took a long drink, then handed it back. She took a handkerchief out of her hip pocket and wet it down.

"Look at me." He turned to face her. She wiped his face with it, then wadded it up against the back of his neck. Immediately he felt better. He hadn't realized he had gotten overheated.

"You know, we could stop right here."

He shook his head. "It isn't far. Just the other side of those trees." He stepped away from the rock. She held out her hand. "I wan-na hold your ha-a-and!" she sang exuberantly. Their hands were roughly the same size, although her fingers were more slender. She threaded them loosely through his. He felt -- connected. That was the word. It wasn't the same as when they made love. That was passion. This was friendship.

They ambled along, stopping every few minutes for Nikita to admire this flower, or that insect, or to pick up some small stone that caught her eye because of its unusual shape or color. The moment they entered the grove of trees lining the creek, Michael sighed with relief. Nikita preferred warmth and sun, but he had always sought out cool, shady places.

They dropped their backpacks and stretched out on the mossy bank. Nikita removed her shoes and socks.

"It's still too cold," he said.

"On a warm day like this? You're kidding, right?"

"No. It's spring-fed. It will be summer before you can swim in it without turning blue."

"That's what YOU say. I think I'll give it a try anyhow, if you don't mind," she retorted, determined to have her own way.

"Suit yourself."

She rolled up her pants legs and stepped into the water. He was right, of course, but she would never admit it. Her toes cramped. She looked down. They were purple.

"It's not too bad. Why don't you join me?"

He examined her through half-closed eyes. Her chin stuck out, and her bottom lip was quivering.

"No, but thank you." (So stubborn. Still. Always.) He closed his eyes again, mildly amused.

His refusal to take the bait only fueled her desire for retaliation. She looked around for something . . . (Ah hah! That should do.) She waded across the creek and picked up a child's toy wooden sailboat that bobbed against the opposite bank. She filled it with icy water and casually strolled back to where he lay. She held it over him and poured the water slowly over his crotch. It didn't take but a moment to penetrate. Her stunt backfired, though. As far as he was concerned, since she was the one who had tried to freeze it off, she was the one who was going to thaw it out. It didn't take him but a moment to penetrate either.

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

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. My braguette's almost dry."

She wrapped her hand around him again and replied in a sexy whisper. "Your 'baguette'? I never heard it called that before, but yeah, I guess it is a kind of French loaf."

"Not baguette, Nikita. Braguette. The English word is - um - 'fly'?"

"Oh. My mistake." She tickled the underside of him, and he groaned out, "I for-give you! Ahh!"

"Just like that?" she teased, pressing her thumb into that sweet spot at the base of his sac.

"Ungh . . ." His involuntary grunt was all the confirmation she needed.

"I don't know, Michael, this is sure beginning to look like a French loaf to me. The more I knead it, the more it rises. See?"

He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. The sweet ache was becoming so intense that he was starting to hyperventilate. He grabbed her hand and forced it against himself, right where he needed it - over and over again on that same spot. She didn't protest, just let him set the pace, as she had all day. He raced toward the summit, pulling her along with him. At the last, he strained up into her palm, holding her thumb right over his opening, and she could feel the hot juice bubbling up beneath it. Still, he refused to let go. She coaxed him to lift one knee, and she slid her other hand underneath, raking his buttock lightly with her nails. That finished him. He jerked her hand away, while in the same instant a gush of fluid pulsed out of him. With every pulse, his whole body convulsed.. By the time it was over, he lay curled on his side, his knees drawn up. Nikita spooned against his back. He was shaking from reaction. She kissed the nape of his neck!

His hair curled damply there, and she lifted it up to allow the cool breeze to dry his skin. He sighed deeply and slept.

* * * * *

When he woke, it was late afternoon. Nikita was reading a book and eating a banana. She heard him stir and glanced up from the page.

"Want a banana?"

He yawned and stretched, then sat up slowly. He felt wrung out, but in a very pleasant way. Relaxed. For the first time in a while. He felt hungry, too.

"Is there anything else to eat?"

"Sure." She pulled a sandwich out of her backpack. "It's chicken salad. OK with you?"

"Fine." He unwrapped it and wolfed it down in four bites. She smiled at him approvingly. "Want another?" He thought about it. "Yes." The second one went down the same way. So did an apple and a wedge of cheddar, and six oreos. Followed by a large carton of milk. Finally, he lay back and rubbed his stomach absently. Nikita put down her book and crawled over to him. She leaned over and wiped off his milk mustache with her thumb.

"Michael, when I said I was sorry, I didn't just mean about the cold water."

"For what else, then?"

"For getting you involved in this whole thing with Genevieve and Emil. I've had a lot of time to think, the past ten days. I realize now that you weren't ready to deal with some of the issues this situation brought up."

"What issues?" he whispered.

She twisted a lock of his hair in her fingers. "Oh, like maybe my getting hurt, or your having to psych yourself into 'mission mode' again. Or even your having to let Genevieve and Emil into our private lives. Issues like those."

He regarded her solemnly. Then lifted his hand to her chin and pulled her toward him for a kiss. His lips lingered sweetly on hers - rubbing gently side to side, then drawing her bottom lip into his mouth briefly. "I love you," he whispered. She wrapped her arms around him and put her head on his shoulder. He smiled dreamily, content with the feel of her in his arms.

"Are you ready to go back now?" he murmured.

"Mmmnn," she replied. It sounded like she was purring.

* * * * *

The sun was low in the sky - a big burnt orange globe - by the time they arrived at the house. The temperature had fallen, and the air was fresh with the smell of spring clover and mint. They lingered on the porch for a few minutes, watching the sunset. Nikita felt sheltered in his arms, and she turned her face into his shirt and inhaled deeply. Sunshine-dried cotton, citrus aftershave, and the musky scent of a supremely healthy male body.

"Let's go to bed early, Michael. After a nice hot bubble bath."

He murmured in her ear. "Do you need to relax tonight?"

She grinned back at him. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Arm in arm they entered the house and climbed the stairs.

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

For the rest of the week, they kept to the same routine as that first day home. After a leisurely breakfast, they would set out for the creek. By the third day, Michael was able to walk all the way there without stopping to rest. By the end of the week, they were wandering farther afield, then circling back to have their usual picnic under the trees. Every afternoon they made love, then took a nap. Nikita had abandoned her attempts to wade in the creek, but she loved to squat down on the bank and watch the minnows swim in tiny schools. She would sprinkle breadcrumbs or cookie crumbs over the water, just to observe the disintegration of the water ballet as they competed for food. When it was all gone, they would again become one organism, whirling and turning with perfect precision. She was fascinated by this transformation.

Michael preferred to read, or to draw. The latter was one talent of his that she hadn't known about. One afternoon while watching the fish, she realized he was watching her. He had one of her sketchpads in his lap. She peeked over his shoulder and saw herself through his eyes for the first time. It was quite a revelation. That day they had reached a level of such sweet intimacy in their loveplay that even the memory of it could arouse them.

After a leisurely walk home, they would have a simple supper of an omelet or one of Genevieve's casseroles, then bathe together. One night, Michael played for her. They were in the loft. She lay on the Oriental rug in front of the hearth, drying her hair by the warmth of the fire. She wore only a towel. Michael wore only his cello. It wasn't long before his solo became a duet.

The only difference in their weekly routine was that Genevieve didn't call at 6:30 every morning. Nikita was grateful. As much as she was coming to love the older woman, she and Michael still needed their own space - their own time to recover. (Who knows? Maybe she and Emil are doing the same thing we are!), she thought as Michael's hands began to explore new territory early one morning. She smiled at the recollection of that other morning when she and Michael had heard the older couple making love. Then her mind went blank as Michael's tongue followed the trail blazed by his hands. She grated out,

"You know, Michael, . . . Ohh! Right there! . . . you should have been born in the 19th century."

"Why?" Her question so intrigued him that he momentarily called a halt to his activities.

"Because . . . that was the age of the great explorers. If you had been with Sir Richard Burton, I'm convinced he would have found the source of the Nile much sooner than he did."

"What makes you say that?" he asked, as he lazily continued his investigation. She wriggled under his hand, panting slightly.

"Be . . be . . . because I think you've just discovered . . . a new . . . Ah! . . . a new . . . ."

"Mountain range?" He cupped his hands over her breasts, then suckled her erect nipples. "Rain forest?" His fingers combed through the tangled curls of her mound. "River?" He lapped at her liquid heat.

"YES!

* * * * *

Later that morning, Emil called.

"He wants to talk to you," Nikita said, handing the phone to Michael.

"Michel, comment ça va?"

"Ça va bien, merci," he replied absently to what he considered merely a polite formality from Emil.

"Vraiment, mon ami? - Truly, my friend?"

" . . . ça va mieux - better," he amended.

"That is good. I am very pleased. Perhaps you would care for a game of this 'Go' that you were explaining to me? Genevieve has gone to visit her sister for the day, and I am a free man. I flatter myself that you might not mind a few hours of my company. Oh, and before I forget, Molbert asked about you yesterday. He wants to check your wounds within the next few days. If you like, I can have him pay us a brief visit while you are here --to kill the proverbial two birds."

"That would be fine. What time would you prefer?"

"Come to lunch. Molbert will make it a point to see you then, even if he has to cancel an appointment."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he would never miss an opportunity to eat Genevieve's Quiche Lorraine. She baked one this morning before she left."

"All right. I'll be there at 12:00."

"Bon! Bon! A bientot, Michel!"

"A bientot, Emil." He put down the phone.

"What did he want?" asked Nikita.

"He wants to play 'Go.'"

"And . . .?" He could tell she wasn't about to leave it at that.

"And Dr. Molbert wants to check my progress."

"And . . .?"

"And he has invited me and the doctor to lunch. Genevieve is gone for the day, and he's lonely, I think."

"If Genevieve's gone, who's going to cook lunch for all of you?"

(Mon Dieu, her curiosity is insatiable, even about trivialities!)

"She baked a Quiche Lorraine before she left," he answered patiently.

Her eyes sparkled. "I thought 'real men' didn't eat quiche!"

He pulled her against him and kissed her.

"Real Frenchmen do."

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

Nikita wasn't quite sure what to do with herself. It seemed like she had been attached to Michael at the hip - and not just figuratively - for the past couple of months. It was kind of hard to believe that he had left without her. That was a big step for him - a very big one. It made her happy to think he was overcoming his fears, but it did leave her at loose ends all of a sudden. Well, she had better think of something, or she was going to be bored all day. Life in Section had been a lot of things, most of them awful, but it had never been boring!

She looked around the loft. The horse caught her eye. She hadn't paid it much attention lately. Maybe she had even been avoiding it -- now that she knew its history, she would never again see it in quite the same innocent light. But, it was still beautiful. She stroked its mane. She smiled as she remembered "riding to Camelot." Maybe they'd go for another ride soon. When Michael was ready. She realized that the saddle still hung over the straight-backed chair in the corner. She carried it over and hoisted it back onto the horse. She cinched it and straightened out the stirrups. They were getting pretty tarnished. If she could find some silver polish, she'd brighten them up. She draped the reins over the pommel of the saddle. There. It was ready to ride. She put her foot down on the back of the rocker, then released it. She stepped aside and watched it rock, back and forth, in a lazy canter. She never even noticed the delicate 'J' engraved on the heel panel o!

f each silver stirrup.

* * * * *

Emil was slicing cucumbers and tomatoes while the quiche warmed in the oven. On the old record player, Jacques Brel belted out a favorite of his - "Marieke". He sang along with the scratchy recording,

"Aye, Marieke, Marieke,

Il y a longtemps entre les tours de Bruges et Gant,

Aye Marieke, Marieke,

Reviens le temps quands tu m'aimais de Bruges et Gant!"

"Aye, Marieke, Marieke,

It's a long time since we met between the towers of Bruges and Gant.

Aye, Marieke, Marieke,

Bring back the time when you loved me . . ."

All at once, he was aware of someone watching him. He turned around.

"I knocked, but you didn't hear me."

"Ah Michel! Bienvenue!" He advanced on Michael, chef's knife in one hand, tomato juice dripping from the other. The younger man backed up a step and turned to the side, his hands extended slightly. Emil recognized the stance. He looked down at the knife and cackled,

"Eh, mon ami, you thought perhaps I was going to slice you up for my salade?" He put the large knife down on the table behind him and wiped the juice off his hands. When he turned around again, Michael had come right up behind him. Emil embraced him heartily, and to his gratification, Michael returned the gesture . He pulled away and clapped Michael on the arm in approval.

"Bien! Bien! You ARE better than when I last gave you a hug! I am very happy to see that."

He was rewarded by a shy smile from his guest. His eyes were mild today - a clear green. He seemed relaxed.

"So, you too have escaped the clutches of la jolie femme for the day. How is Nikita, may I ask?"

"Fine."

"What will she do without you, do you think?"

Another brief smile passed across Michael's features. "I suspect she will get into trouble."

Emil nodded in agreement. "You know her well, I see. Yes, that one was born for trouble. I could see it in her eyes the first time I met her. Fortunately, I have experience in that department myself, so I am able to advise you if you should ask. We must join forces, mon ami, if we are to survive being loved by such as they."

"You appear to have survived for quite a long time."

"Mais oui, but that is only because I have great cunning and fortitude. Believe me, it has been a challenge at times. Check the quiche, eh? It should be hot. I am expecting Molbert any moment, and I have to finish the salade."

Michael picked up a potholder and opened the oven door. The delicious aroma of melted cheese, shallots and garlic wafted through the kitchen. As he was carrying it to the table, Dr. Molbert gave a perfunctory knock on the door and stepped into the kitchen. He sniffed appreciatively.

"Ah, mes amis, j'ai faim aujourd-hui. Allons manger tout de suite! - Let's eat right away!"

"Sit down, Molbert, and pour us some wine. We need to drink at least three glasses to counteract the effects of the eggs and cream and butter on our poor arteries."

"It wouldn't hurt to walk a few miles this afternoon, you old reprobate. One cannot expect wine to work miracles!"

"Mais, pourquoi pas - why not? Did not our Holy Savior's first miracle involve wine? - And a wedding, I might add." He cast a sidelong glance at Michael, but the other's expression was bland. His blatant hint appeared to have fallen on deaf ears.

Michael tasted the quiche. It melted on his tongue and warmed his heart. This was one of the comfort foods of his childhood. It had been a long time . . . He took another bite, washing it down with the wine. He was content to listen as Emil and the doctor continued to argue the benefits of wine versus exercise in reducing cholesterol. His thoughts drifted . . . ("Michael, you really should get more exercise. You're always under so much stress at work, sitting in meetings or at a computer all day. Why don't you go for a run? You could push Adam in that new jogging stroller I bought last week...")

"Michel? Ça va bien?" Emil's hand was on his wrist. When had he put it there? They were looking at him strangely.

"Oui." He resumed eating. He would have to be more careful.

"Michel." Now it was Dr. Molbert. Why couldn't they leave him alone?

"Yes?"

The doctor looked at him intently. "The quiche is very good, is it not?"

"Delicious." He took another bite. Tried to swallow.

Without warning, it all came rushing up into his throat - a mixture of eggs and wine and cheese and . . . he clapped his hand to his mouth and rushed over to the sink.

* * * * *

"Idiot! Could you not look at him and tell that this was about to happen? Why did you encourage him to take another bite?"

The two of them were arguing over his head as he continued to heave the bitter contents of his stomach into the kitchen sink. For some reason, he was fascinated with the colors - the red and yellow splashed across the white porcelain reminded him of an abstract he had once considered buying for his loft. He wished they would shut up. Suddenly, they did. Relief. He rested his forehead against the edge of the sink and took a couple of deep breaths. That was better. He heard the water running as someone turned on the faucet. A cold rag was pressed to the back of his neck.

"Michel. Let me wipe your face."

He raised up on his elbows and lifted his head a bit. The doctor's face swam into view. He closed his eyes, slightly dizzy from trying to focus at such close range. He felt the damp cloth pass over his face, wiping away the cold sweat that had broken out from the violent retching.

"Here. Rinse your mouth."

He opened his eyes. A glass of water. It smelled of lemon. He swirled it around, then spit into the sink. He was suddenly thirsty. He drained the rest of the glass.

"That's good. Now come sit down."

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

"Can you tell us what happened just now?" Dr. Molbert prompted.

(Why can't you let it rest?)

"Because, mon ami, it is time to admit that you have a little problem here, n'est ce pas?" The doctor pinched together his thumb and forefinger in that universal gesture for 'just a little bit.'

Michael froze. (Did he read my thoughts? Or did I say it out loud?) "It's my problem. I'll fix it."

"Well, I hate to be the one to break the news, but this isn't just your problem, and from what I've been told, you haven't been able to fix it yet."

"What did she tell you?"

"No more than I have just seen for myself."

"May I have another glass of water?"

"In a moment. Tell me first, what were you thinking about just before this happened?"

"I don't remember."

The doctor shook his head. "Putain, que tu as la tete dure!"

A giggle bubbled out of his throat. He tried to stifle it with his hand, but it kept coming, as insistent as that other eruption of a few moments ago.

Emil started to get out of his chair, but Doctor Molbert stopped him with a look.

"What do you find so amusing?" he asked.

Michael shook his head, tears of laughter - or something else - rolling down his cheeks. Finally, he regained some semblance of control and wiped his streaming eyes.

"My mother used to tell me that. . . ." he hiccuped.

"Were you thinking of her, perhaps?"

The laughter stopped. His gaze slid off to the side. "Not really. The quiche - it was my favorite dish as a child . . . . it was very comforting."

"Comforting?"

"Yes. You know, if I had had a bad day at school, or lost a fight, things like that. I remember once, my cat was run over." His voice became a whisper. "I cried a long time . . . . she brought a tray to my room and sat with me while I ate." He swallowed painfully.

"May I have another glass of water?"

At Dr. Molbert's nod, Emil rose and returned with a clean glass and a bottle of Perrier. Michael watched the bubbles fizz in the glass, then picked it up and drained it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then set the glass carefully on the table. He sat silently for more than five minutes - hoping against hope that they would leave him alone. Instead, the doctor asked another question.

"And were you remembering this incident when you began to feel ill?"

He shook his head. "No. It happened so fast, I almost couldn't . . ." His eyes narrowed, then widened, as the scene came back to him full force, like a slap in the face. Emil reached across the table and placed a hand on his arm. It felt steady - warm. He concentrated on that reassuring touch.

"You were talking about exercise - to lower cholesterol. Elena thought I needed to get more exercise, because I sat at a computer all day." Another snort of bitter laughter. "She suggested I take Adam with me when I went jogging - you know, in one of those special strollers."

He paused. They waited.

"She's dead now. They're all dead. Except Nikita."

"Yes, we know. She told us."

He stared at them. Nodded in acceptance.

"And when you think of them, how do you feel?"

"Feel? I don't."

"You don't feel? How is that possible, mon ami?"

Time passed. More silence.

"Practice."

Dr. Molbert almost couldn't credit what he was seeing. It was as though an unseen hand had wiped all expression from Michael's face. The man sitting across the table from him now was completely devoid of emotion. It was almost inhuman. The doctor looked at Emil. The older man shrugged. "I could have told you, Molbert, but you wouldn't have believed me, eh?"

He shook his head. "Non, Emil, I would not. One has to see something like this to believe it."

He stared at Michael. The other man regarded him calmly.

"Michel, you may have learned to hide your feelings from others - and from yourself - by wearing this mask we see here now. But those feelings exist, and they WILL have their way. You have blocked one path. They have simply found another."

He thought for a moment. Dr. Molbert was right, of course.

"Control is essential in my line of work. I cannot afford to . . . people die." His voice trailed off.

" So you do whatever it takes." At the doctor's words he nodded vigorously. Maybe they did understand.

"But sometimes they die anyway, eh?" Dr. Molbert pressed his advantage relentlessly. The pain sliced into Michael's gut like Emil's carving knife. There was a time, before Nikita, when his armor had been impenetrable. But no longer. He gasped - tried to speak, but nothing would come out. He began to shiver.

"Are you cold?"

"I feel . . . frozen."

"Frozen - how?" The doctor realized he wasn't just talking about how he felt in this moment, but how he felt before the attack.

"Cold. Paralyzed. Trapped. Like in those nightmares, where the monster is coming, but you can't move. You can't run . . . and it's coming closer, and closer, and there's no one to save you . . . ."

"So your body does what it has to do to relieve the stress. And that helps, does it not?"

"Yes," he released a long sigh.

The doctor patted him on the back. "Bon. Tres bon, Michel. We will be finished with our little discussion in a moment. I just want to give you something to think about. Have you noticed that these incidents occur just when you are feeling safe? Like today, for example. Here we sat, all talking comfortably about a rather trivial matter, when all of a sudden you left us. Are there any other such examples you can remember? You don't have to tell us about them unless you want to, but if you can recognize a pattern, I think it will help you to have some control over them." ('Control' - Will he take the bait? I wonder.)

Michael looked at him. "I used to work with someone who could learn a thing or two from your technique, doctor. She tried many times, but I gave her nothing." He smiled with satisfaction at the thought of Madeline's frustration.

Dr. Molbert nodded in understanding. "I suspect that took a great deal of courage. Just as what you have given me today has taken a great deal of courage. I salute you, mon ami."

"Now, I am very interested in this game that you are planning to introduce to Emil. May I observe?"

"Of course."

Emil spoke up. "Molbert, did you not want to examine his wounds?"

The doctor put his arm around Michael's shoulder. "I believe I just did. Is that not so, Michel?"

"Yes."

"But, just to make sure, why don't you let me see the others. Drop your pants and lift up your shirt for me, eh?"

"Here in the kitchen?" squeaked Emil.

"And why not? Are you expecting company from any of the village women?"

"You know better than that, cretin! Genevieve would make sausage of me if she ever suspected such a thing!"

"Eh bien, then what is the harm? Come, Michel, let's get this over with."

* * * * *

"Well, everything appears to be healing very well. You still have some tenderness, I can tell, but not too bad, eh?"

"No."

"Have you been following my prescription?" He winked.

Michael blushed and nodded.

"Enough of your teasing, Molbert! Leave the boy alone. I am ready to play."

"He is no boy, Emil, although to someone as long in the tooth as you, he might seem so." He said to Michael, "If it were in my power, I would . . . . but as the poet said, 'the moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on , Nor all thy piety nor wit, Shall lure it back to cancel half a line . . .'"

"Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it," Michael finished the quatrain.

"Vraiment. Now, let us begin the game, shall we?"

"Enfin - at last!" cried Emil.

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

Three hours later --

"Emil, I really must leave now. My nurse just called again to complain that I have left her to deal with les malades imagineres who visit my office every Friday afternoon to fill me in on the gory details of every pet a` croché(crooked fart) they have suffered from during the week. If I do not rescue her soon, she has threatened to give them my private telephone number!"

"So? What is preventing you from leaving, Molbert? Are your feet nailed to the floor?"

"You know very well that I cannot leave now! I have never seen anything like this before, and I may never see it again."

Michael sat back and sighed. The mood was broken. It was not possible to continue. He accepted the inevitable tristesse which followed a rupture in the flow of the game. It was comparable to what he felt at the conclusion of a successful Valentine mission - a sense of incompleteness.

"It is over now," he said.

"But we have not finished the game," protested Emil.

"I know. This game can never be complete."

They thought about what he had said. Emil nodded. Dr. Molbert spoke first. "I apologize, Michel, I did not know."

He replied graciously. "No matter. We will begin another game in a few days. After we have mourned this one."

"Just so," said Emil.

* * * * *

He stopped at the chocolaterie on the way home. Beside him on the seat was a white cardboard box tied with a red bow. Inside were a dozen strawberries coated in dark chocolate. She would devour them in one sitting, no doubt. Unless he took preventive measures. His mind occupied itself with possible strategies as he drove slowly back to the farm.

She was waiting in the rocking chair on the porch when he drove up. Her hair was piled haphazardly atop her head. She wore overalls, and her feet were bare. One leg was thrown over the arm of the rocker, and she pumped it back and forth in the air. She was reading something - he wasn't close enough to make out the title. He would have to sketch her in this pose. Later. Right now, he just sat in the car and let her vitality seep into his pores.

Nikita heard the car approaching, but she was so interested in what she was reading that she kept on until she heard the engine stop. She bookmarked her place and looked up. He was staring a hole right through her. (It's a wonder the car window doesn't melt from the heat!)

She smiled lazily, stretched and stood up. She came down the steps and opened the car door. He held out the box. When she reached for it, his hand trapped hers. He lifted it to his lips and brushed her knuckles slowly. The intensity of his gaze never wavered. She felt a thrill wash over her at his touch.

"What's this?" she asked, slightly flustered.

He gave her the box. "Un petit cadeau - a little gift, from your first, your only, true love," he quoted her verbatim from their first Valentine mission together - when they had been Peter and Sage.

She came closer. "Till death do us part," she replied. This time, there was no barb hidden in her words. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She nearly dropped the box. As they finally separated, she whispered, "I hope what's in the box is half as tasty as you are, my sweet baboo."

"I think you'll be pleased," he murmured. "Why don't you go inside and open it while I park the car?"

"Mmm, that's a very good idea. I'll be waiting."

She was as good as her word. By the time he came inside, two of the strawberries were already missing. She had telltale dabs of chocolate at the corners of her mouth. He dispatched those with two swipes of his tongue.

"Delicieuse," he agreed.

* * * * *

"Michael, are you trying to distract me?" she asked an hour later. They were on the couch in the living room.

"Yes. Is it working?"

"Oh yeah, it's working."

"Good."

"WHY are you trying to distract me?"

"Because I only bought a dozen fraises chocolates. They'll all be eaten up by morning unless I satisfy your sweet tooth in other ways."

She punched him on the arm. "So, this is only because you were too cheap to buy two dozen?"

His heavy-lidded gaze gave the lie to that explanation. He rubbed against her. "There might be another reason, I suppose. What do you think?"

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him again. "I don't want to think right now. I just want to feel you inside me."

He groaned and surged up against her. She unzipped him and he slid home.

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

"Michael?"

"Mmph?"

"Wake up. I want to talk."

He rolled over and nuzzled her under the jaw. "What about?"

"While we were at Genevieve and Emil's, I had Dr. Molbert give me a gynecological exam."

He pulled away and stared at her. Terror was etched on his face. "Is something wrong?" he whispered hoarsely.

"No, no, there's nothing wrong," she drew him to her again. He melted into her embrace, loose-limbed with relief. She continued.

"Michael, I want to have the implant removed."

A different kind of terror nearly suffocated him. She felt him stiffen again. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. "You want a child."

"Yes. I mean, I want the possibility of a child. It doesn't have to be right now.

He pulled back and looked her in the eye. "Then why not leave it in place for a while longer? Until we're ready."

She hesitated. "Because - there could be complications. When Dr. Molbert examined me, he found some old scarring. He said that shouldn't affect my ability to have a baby. But there was something else. At first, I told him I didn't want to know, but I couldn't help asking him a few days later. The difficulty I experienced last month was probably a very early miscarriage. I don't want that to happen again, Michael. He said that the chances were remote, but I think if it happened once . . . Anyway, I'd rather use some other form of protection - something less . . . damaging.

He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. "It's your body, Nikita. This is your decision to make."

For so long, her body had been Section's to control, and Michael had been the enforcer of that control. She knew how difficult it was for him to relinquish it now, especially when he was so afraid that something bad would happen to her, or to another child. His statement was a reaffirmation of his love for her.

She cupped his chin in her hand. Pulling him closer, she kissed him. "Thank you."

"Nikita? Had the implant caused the old scarring as well?"

"No." She shuddered in his arms. He didn't ask any more questions - only held her and rocked her until the trembling stopped. After a while, he realized she had fallen asleep. He continued to hold her against him as he concentrated on controlling the fear that coursed through him. Exhausted by his efforts, he drifted off again.

* * * * *

Nikita woke to bright sunlight. It was nearly ten o'clock! She jabbed Michael with her elbows as she bolted out of bed. He grunted in surprise, then opened his eyes. "What is it?"

She smiled down at him. "Come on, Michael, up and at 'em. I'm going to make crepes for breakfast - or lunch - or whatever the heck you call it at this time of day."

He sat up and grabbed her around the hips, planting a kiss on her belly button. "Are you sure you want to leave just yet?"

But, she pushed him away this time. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm hungry."

He accepted the rebuff with good grace. "Fine. I'll get a shower while you cook. Don't forget to butter the pan before you pour the batter."

* * * * *

When he came downstairs twenty minutes later, she had the coffee made, the table set, and was flipping the last of the crepes onto his plate. He couldn't help but smile. She had served the crepes with strawberries. Chocolate-covered strawberries. There were three on each plate. He glanced up at her. Her tongue flicked at the corners of her mouth. Licking away the evidence.

He leaned over and kissed her. Chocolate breath.

"You got a head start."

She grinned lazily. "Don't worry. You'll catch me."

* * * * *

If she said so herself, the crepes were pretty good. Genevieve's persistence was finally beginning to show some result. She glanced across the table. Michael was really chowing down! He had rolled a crepe around each strawberry, and she could see the melted chocolate oozing from one end as he stuffed the other end into his mouth. His eyes closed as he chewed slowly. The look on his face was familiar, for some reason. When had she seen it before? Oh yeah, last night just after they had . . . Honestly, sometimes, he was so FRENCH.

She took another bite. She preferred to keep her food separate. A bite of crepe. A bite of strawberry. Yum. A sip of coffee. Ahh.

The phone rang. Michael's eyes popped open. He swallowed quickly. "I'll get it."

She nodded. Her mouth was too full to talk. She watched as he answered and spoke in rapid French to the caller. From his tone, she could tell it was either Genevieve or Emil. He listened for a few more moments, then handed her the phone.

"Chouette, comment ça va ce matin?"

"Fine, Genevieve. How was your visit with your sister?"

"Oh, she is an old prude. I tell you, she would have done well as the Mother Superior in a convent. Unfortunately, she did not heed the call. But, what can one do? One does not choose one's family - except in a few fortunate circumstances, of course. Speaking of which, how is my other son today? I hear from Emil that they had an interesting afternoon with Dr. Molbert."

"He's fine too, Genevieve. I think yesterday's visit agreed with him. By the way, your crepe recipe seems to have agreed with him also. He's just finished eating three of them stuffed with strawberries."

"Who made them, cherie?"

"I did! Ask him if you don't believe me," she protested.

"Let me talk to him."

From the expression on Nikita's face as she handed him the phone, Michael could guess what Genevieve had said.

"She made the crepes," he said without preface. Then he broke into a broad smile. "Oui, d'accord. We will be coming into the village this afternoon on another matter anyway. I'll bring it with me then. Au revoir."

As he hung up, Nikita asked. "What will you bring to her?"

"Cash. She said now I owe her twice - for cooking lessons as well as for the headboard. She'll only take cash. So the tax collector can't trace it."

Nikita shook her head in amusement. "She's really a character, Michael. Is she typical of the older generation of French women?"

He pondered that question. "I don't really know. I never knew any old people when I was growing up."

"What about your grandparents?"

He hesitated. "They died before I was born."

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

She didn't press him further. Frankly, she was surprised he had admitted even this much about his family. She decided to change the subject.

"You told Genevieve we would be coming into the village later on another matter. What was that about?"

He pulled her to him and kissed her gently. "I thought you would want to meet with Dr. Molbert as soon as possible. I made an appointment for you before I came down to breakfast. He's expecting us at 1:00 this afternoon."

Her eyes filled with tears. She hugged him tightly. "Je t'aime, Michel."

"I love you too." He nibbled on her earlobe. "It's only 11:30. We have plenty of time."

She could feel a familiar insistent pressure against her lower belly. She reached down with her hand and rubbed her palm over the protrusion in his pants. She met increasing resistance. He moaned her name and flattened himself into her hand. She felt herself tighten, then release deep inside, and a trickle of warmth dampened her panties. It never ceased to amaze her how quickly he could arouse her. She was ready for him right now.

"Michael . . .?" she whispered.

His eyes burned her. "Yes?"

"Can women be premature ejaculators?"

His eyes glazed, and he thrust his hand inside the waistband of her underwear. His fingers flicked over her slick, swollen nub, then he cupped her mound. He gave a harsh gasp as this evidence of her desire for him nearly sent him over the edge. He rasped out his answer.

"It doesn't matter how fast you are, Ni-ki-ta. I can always CATCH YOU!" His last two words came out in a forced grunt as he pushed against her so violently that she staggered back against the table. He looked at her wild-eyed, then swept the empty plates onto the floor. She scooted back onto the table and bent her knees. They frantically unzipped one another, and he took her right there. She grunted each time she felt him slide in and out, in and out, a little deeper each time. He was absolutely silent, focusing all his energy between his thighs. He had certainly mastered Dr. Lamaze's technique. As his own climax approached, she was already spasming around his shaft. At the last, he strained deep inside her, plank-stiff, as she twisted under him, wringing every drop of semen from his body. She could feel the scorching liquid being expressed in one, two, three violent contractions of his penis. He collapsed on top of her. His face and hands were slick with sweat !

And so were hers.

"Ooff!" she husked out. He lifted himself on his elbows. "Did I hurt you?"

She grinned up at him, her face flushed. "I'll live. A really LONG time, I hope!"

* * * * *

By 1:00, they were sitting in Dr. Molbert's office, awaiting his return from lunch. Nikita glanced over at Michael. His mask was firmly in place. That was all right - she knew what lay beneath it. She took his hand and kissed it. He squeezed hers in gratitude. She tucked a stray curl behind his ear.

Thirty minutes later, they were still waiting. Nikita looked anxiously at Michael. His mask was beginning to slip. Frankly, he looked like he was ready to throttle Dr. Molbert.

"He won't be long, I'm sure."

"If he doesn't' arrive soon, I'll . . . ."

She laughed softly. "You'll what . . . cancel him?"

He took a deep breath. Then another. He shook his head ruefully, then gave her a glimmer of a smile. "No. He's still sole source in one vital area."

"Good for him," she replied.

The doctor breezed in the door a few minutes later, unaware of his close call. "Bonjour, mes amis! Bienvenue - welcome to my inner sanctum," he said as he escorted them into his private office. "Unless it's an emergency, hold my calls until further notice," he instructed his nurse, who had risen as soon as he came in and was holding a medical chart for him to sign. She sighed dramatically, threw up her hands, and retreated to her desk, muttering imprecations.

He closed the door behind them and directed them to two leather armchairs facing his desk. Seating himself, he folded his hands behind his head and tilted back in his chair. He smiled at them kindly.

"Eh maintenant, how may I be of service?"

Nikita looked at Michael. Michael looked at him. He looked at the two of them. Time passed. Finally, he spoke. "Mais enfin, do you perhaps labor under the delusion that I am psychic?"

Michael rejoined tersely. "Not at all. If you were psychic, you would have known that I was ready to . . ."

"Michael . . . " Nikita grabbed his hand, which he had unconsciously clenched. She smiled reassuringly at Dr. Molbert, who did not appear concerned in the least about this impending eruption. He leaned forward and smiled at Michael disarmingly.

"I would have known that you were ready to cause me grievous bodily harm, eh mon ami? And why? Because you are afraid for your Nikita. Do not underestimate my abilities, Michel. Remember yesterday."

Nikita felt the change in Michael's demeanor immediately. Contrary to her expectation, he relaxed - obviously relinquishing control to Dr. Molbert. She stared at him in disbelief. What had happened yesterday to bring about this change?

The doctor continued. "Now, why don't you admit it - you feel better already, eh?"

"Yes."

"You know you can trust me. Correct?"

"Yes."

"Bon. Now let us get down to business." He looked at Nikita. "So, Nikita, you have decided?"

She nodded. "As soon as possible, doctor."

"Eh bien, then why don't we do it this afternoon? It won't take long - no more than ten minutes or so. You will have a bit of discomfort because of the way it is attached, but that won't last more than a couple of hours. You can resume relations as soon as you feel the urge."

"I'll be needing birth control pills," interjected Nikita. The doctor nodded, already taking out his prescription pad. "Certainement. There is no need to rush into anything. I caution you, however, that the pill is not 100% foolproof either."

"Yes, we know," said Michael. "I intend to use a condom also."

Nikita didn't say anything. That's what he thought! She hated those things. Her stepfather had always made her . . . she shook her head to block out the memory. . . . And, since they had both tested STD-negative, she saw no need for one.

* * * * *

A half-hour later, they were on their way to the Beaullieus' house. Michael had withdrawn enough cash to satisfy Genevieve three times over.

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

" . . . eight hundred, nine hundred, one thousand francs. C'est assez - is that enough?"

Michael placed the last bill in Genevieve's open palm. For once, she couldn't think of a thing to say. She hadn't really expected him to PAY her - it was all a little joke. But now, he was about to have the last laugh. Just look at him - he was enjoying himself immensely. She could tell from that bland look on his face. Well, she would soon wipe that off.

"Non, ce n'est pas assez - no, it isn't enough," she retorted. He raised his eyebrows, then reached again for his pocket. She put her hand out to stop him. "Not money, Monsieur Michel - you won't get off that easily."

"Then what?" he asked.

She played her hole card. "Le mariage," she announced emphatically.

His lips quirked. He looked at Emil. The other man was staring at Genevieve as though she had lost her mind.

"Forgive me, Madame, but I thought you were already married."

"Not me, you betis! YOU! And that one!" She pointed to Nikita. Then she shook her finger in Michael's face. "If you are going to break my bed, at least you are going to do it with the blessing of the Church!" She challenged him with a look.

He stared back at her in silence. She waited him out. He nodded, then turned to Nikita. "You heard her, cherie. As you know, I always pay my debts." Nikita blushed, remembering how much she had enjoyed his last "installment payment."

"Madame . . . " she implored Genevieve. "I am not sure . . . ." Genevieve cut her off with a wave of her hand.

"Don't you dare tell me you're not sure you love him, chouette. I have eyes in my head - and ears too. And as for any other doubts you have - well, welcome to real life. This old man and I have been married for fifty years, and there are times . . .to illustrate . . . an old woman was asked if she had ever thought of divorcing her husband of many years. She replied, "Divorce, non, mais murder, yes!" Then her expression softened. She held out her hand to Emil. "But I can tell you, chere, that it is still worth the trouble. Even after fifty years." Emil kissed her hand and grinned slyly at her. He said to Michael, "Observe the master, mon ami, and learn from my example." Genevieve rolled her eyes at Nikita.

"So?" Michael looked at her, his eyebrows raised.

She placed her hands on her hips and frowned at him in mock annoyance. "You call that a proposal, Michael Samuelle?"

Emil gave a cry. They turned to him anxiously. Genevieve grabbed his shoulders. "What is it?" she asked fearfully. "Are you all right, vieux homme?" He sank down in a chair, patting her hand reassuringly, although his face was very white. "Oui, cherie. It was just the shock. I will be all right."

"What shock?" she asked frantically. He looked up at her. "Until this moment, I did not know his full name. You and Nikita have always introduced him as just "Michael" or "Michel."

"That is true," replied Genevieve thoughtfully. She looked at Nikita. "That first night, I remember you said, 'just call me Nikita.' And then, when you introduced him, you said only, 'this is Michael.' It was obvious you did not wish to share any further information with us, so I respected your wishes. I thought you would tell us eventually - when you felt comfortable enough. So, I haven't asked again."

She sat down beside Emil. "So, mon mari, what is all this fuss about Michel's last name, eh?"

Michael was preternaturally still. His hands were clasped loosely, his legs slightly spread for balance. Nikita knew that body language as well as she knew her own face in the mirror. He was prepared. For what, she didn't know. Did he?

Emil looked up at him. He could hardly bear the intensity of Michael's gaze. "I have wondered whom you remind me of. Several times, I thought I recognized a certain look in your eye - some gesture, your stride. Even now, the way you stand before me - waiting. But until I heard your last name, complete recognition eluded me."

"You knew my father."

Emil nodded. "Jean-Louis Samuelle."

"Yes."

"I lost track of him after the war. I thought perhaps he had died. To tell you the truth, I was afraid to find out. He was so young. He had lost so much. Once he had killed all the Boches he could, what was there left for him in this life?"

"My mother. My sister. Me. For a time. His work . . . always."

They were all looking at him. He felt . . . he didn't know what he felt. He would have to deal with that later. When it was safe. It wasn't safe yet. Not yet. With an almost physical effort, he shoved the rage back in its box. Visualized nailing the box shut. He took a deep breath. Consciously relaxed his hands. That was better. But please, please, don't let them ask him any more questions right now.

Nikita could feel the waves of anxiety emanating from him from all the way across the room. She sensed his struggle to regain control of his emotions. She knew that Emil held the key to Michael's past - to his true role in Section. He held the key, but if he opened the door before Michael was ready, it could prove disastrous for all of them.

"Emil." He turned to face her. Her eyes were pleading with him to let the matter drop for now. He nodded once in understanding.

"Genevieve," he said solemnly, "I think it is time for a toast. If you get the glasses, I'll open the champagne."

He rose and, in passing, touched Nikita briefly on the shoulder. She placed her hand over his and smiled in gratitude. Behind Emil, she could see Michael. He looked -- alone. In two long strides she had reached his side and linked her arm in his. He inched closer until his entire length brushed against her. She didn't think he was even aware he had done it. She cast a sidelong glance at him. He appeared calmer now. Emil pressed glasses of champagne into their hands, and he and Genevieve raised their own glasses.

"A` l'amour!"

"A` l'amour," she and Michael repeated in unison, raising their glasses in turn to the older couple.

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

"Do you want to call Father Philippe, or shall I?"

"Please . . . not now . . . tomorrow," he mumbled, rubbing his cheek against her left breast.

She cradled him to her and massaged the nape of his neck, trying to smooth out the knots. The only light in the room was the soft yellow glow from the bedside lamp, but he squinted as though even that was too bright.

(There's no doubt about it. He has a killer headache.) "Roll over on your back."

He groaned in protest as he shifted position. She passed her hand over his eyes, coaxing his lids shut. He gave a sigh of relief at the resulting darkness. She leaned over him and circled his temples with her thumbs, then pressed down hard on the acupressure point just above each eyebrow. She held the pressure for nearly a minute. He moaned softly but didn't try to push her hand away. When she released, she could see the white imprints on his skin flush deep red. She waited a minute, then asked, "Any better?"

There was no answer. He was asleep.

"Tomorrow, Michael," she whispered and kissed him lightly on the chin. He gave a tiny reflexive smile.

* * * * *

At four am she was awakened by his nightmare. It caught her by surprise. He hadn't had one for nearly two months. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that it would have been a miracle if he HADN'T had a nightmare. First, the visit with Dr. Molbert. Then, Genevieve's cornering him about marriage. Finally, Emil's recollection. "Michael." She stroked his arm repeatedly. He arched his neck and began to keen softly. "Michel," she tried again. He stilled immediately. "Wake up, my sweet baboo," she murmured, continuing to stroke his arms and chest. He gave a deep gasp, then his eyes opened wide, locking on hers.

"Shhh. It's over now. I'll be back in a minute."

She got up and went into the bathroom. He could hear the water running in the sink. A minute later she was back with a cold wet washcloth. She wiped his face. He was so thirsty he opened his mouth a little, hoping a few drops would trickle down his throat. Was disappointed as she moved the cloth down and away. He closed his eyes against the light. Too bright. His head was pounding again. He felt the mattress shift as she stood up again. (Where . . ?) But before he could complete that thought, she was holding a glass to his lips. He sucked down the cool liquid, almost choking in his eagerness. She was saying something . . . what?

"Michael? Don't drink it all yet. Take these Tylenol first."

He opened his eyes and saw that she was holding out two tablets. He took them and threw them into the back of his throat, chasing them down with the rest of the water. He lay back.

"You'll feel better soon," she promised.

(Soon. . .) he promised himself.

* * * * *

They slept late the next morning. It was raining heavily. Nikita raised the window and leaned out, catching a few drops on her tongue. The air smelled of wet rich earth and spring grass. A stiff breeze blew into the room, billowing the white sheers on either side of the window. She looked back at the bed. Michael was stirring at last. He stretched his arms above his head and arched his back. His toes wriggled like live bait on a hook. So tempting to a big grouper. On impulse, she tiptoed over to the foot of the bed and tickled the bottom of one foot. He jerked it away. She tickled the other one. He lashed out with it, just missing her jaw. (Serves me right!) she admitted ruefully. But a minute later she was at it again. "Itsy bitsy spider," she hummed, as her fingers walked over the hair on his legs, all the way up to his inner thighs, then higher. His hand snaked out and captured hers, pressing it against the sweet ache that had brought him to full consciousness. He was swollen tight as a tick.

"You're awake," she whispered.

"Very," he rasped, arching his hips up into her hand.

"Do you want to call Father Philippe, or shall I?" she repeated her question from the night before.

"Your interrogation technique is excellent."

"Thank you. I learned from an expert," she purred, lifting her hand away and blowing on the moisture seeping through his briefs.

"Who's going to call, Michael?" She smoothed her hands down his flanks, inside the waistband, and cupped his buttocks. He planted his feet and lifted his hips. His underwear folded down with one flick of her wrists. She lowered herself onto him and squeezed with her inner muscles, rotating her pelvis at the same time. That did it. He grunted out his answer in perfect counterpoint to his powerful thrusts, one word for every burst of scorching liquid leaving his body.

"We . . . can . . . visit . . . him . . . together . . ."

"When?" She gave one last twist-and-squeeze, unwilling to settle for anything less than total victory this time.

"Ungh . . . NOW!" he cried out helplessly as the final spasm hit him hard.

She collapsed onto his chest, laughing breathlessly. "I . . . I think this afternoon will be . . . soon enough, Michael."

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

Father Philippe had been struggling with his homily for two days. If an author suffered from "writer's block," his audience was usually sympathetic. But God help the parish priest whose Sunday sermon was less than riveting! So, here he was, in the middle of the third week of Lent, searching his mind and soul for something new to say to villagers who had heard every variation possible on the central Lenten theme of repentance, every year at this time, for their entire lives.

He was debating whether to allow himself a second glass of wine when the phone rang.

"Bonjour Mon Pere. Ici . . . "

He would know that voice anywhere. "Bonjour, Michel," he interrupted. "Comment ça va, mon fils? Et Nikita?"

There was a slight hesitation, as though Michael were taken aback by his instant recognition. (Does he not realize the deep impression he made on me? Or is it simply that he is unprepared to make polite conversation?)

Actually, he was right on both counts. As for the first, Michael had been so exhausted, so emotionally distraught, at their first meeting, that he had been beyond caring about whatever impression he made. His memories of it were blurred. What was dream - what was reality? Had he confessed? Been absolved? His impressions were infantile in nature, involving touch rather than sight and sound. The warm pressure of the priest's hands on his head, the wool fabric of the cassock tickling his nose, the tears that scalded his cheeks. And others - too painful to face yet.

Concerning his ability to make polite conversation, although Michael was a master at using his voice as an instrument either of seduction or command, his natural reticence held sway in so-called "normal" situations.

" Ça va - fine," he replied. The priest waited. More silence, punctuated by a soft grunt as though someone had prodded him to continue. "We need to speak with you, Father. This afternoon, if possible."

"But of course, mon fils." Sudden inspiration. "Why don't you come to dinner this evening? I will have the cook prepare something special for us."

"That isn't necessary."

"I know it isn't necessary. It would be my pleasure to see you both again."

He could sense more hesitation. He caught snatches of a whispered conversation.

"We'd be delighted, Father." It was Nikita this time. He chuckled to himself. Trust her to have the last word.

"Excellent!" he replied. "Come for an aperitif at 5:00. A` bientot."

He was already planning the menu as he hung up the phone. He looked at his watch. He would work for another hour on his homily, then have a nice long nap. He had a feeling it would be a late night.

* * * * *

"Michael? Are you ready? It's almost 4 o'clock." She was in the bathroom, just finishing up the French braid that now hung nearly to her waist. She heard a muffled "clunk" from the loft. She secured the braid with a woven elastic band, then went to investigate. He was zipping his cello into its weatherproof case.

"How thoughtful - I'm sure Father Philippe will enjoy hearing you play."

He paused and looked at her, then back at the cello. "Oh. Perhaps." He picked up the case and walked toward her. She knew then that the priest was not the audience he had in mind.

He barely said a word the whole way to Bienville. The cello was propped against the back seat, the seat belt strap around the neck of the case. Like a third passenger, quietly enjoying the ride. Waiting for someone else to start the conversation.

She stretched her arm across the back of the seat and feathered the hair curling over his collar. A faint smile tilted the corners of his lips, and he leaned back into her caress. After shifting gears, his hand drifted toward her thigh.

(Staking out his territory. He thinks.) She experienced a sense of deep satisfaction. And, she remembered with some amusement Genevieve's quick rejoinder to him about predator and prey. It did indeed depend on one's point of view.

"Is something funny?" he asked. She realized she was smiling broadly.

"Yes," she replied. He waited expectantly, but she didn't elaborate. (Two can play his game.)

He removed his hand to shift into a lower gear. She covered it with hers, then guided it back where she wanted it. He squeezed her thigh gently. "Touché," he murmured.

* * * * *

They pulled up in front of the church a few minutes before five. Father Philippe waved to them from the courtyard. "I'll meet you in the church, mes amis." As they stepped into the cool, dark nave, the side door opened. The priest stood there, briefly spotlighted by a shaft of late afternoon sunlight. The door closed behind him and he hurried toward them. Smiling broadly, he kissed Nikita on both cheeks, then turned to Michael. "Et toi, Michel?" he invited, his arms outstretched. Michael stepped forward into his embrace. Father Philippe hugged him in perfect silence for a few moments, then whispered something in his ear. Michael nodded and stepped back.

"Thank you, Father. We'll be back in a little while."

Nikita looked questioningly at him.

"There's something I have to do first. Will you come with me?"

She turned to Father Philippe. "I apologize, Father, but . . ."

"Not at all, my child. Michel and I understand one another. I will be waiting for you here." He escorted them to the front door.

Michael touched her arm. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

He opened the car door and lifted out the cello and a folding chair. "Could you please carry this?" he asked, holding out the chair.

Without a word, she tucked it under one arm and led the way to the cemetery. She unfolded it at the foot of Adam's and Elena's graves. He unzipped the case and laid it on the ground, then sat down and began to rosin the bow. Nikita stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders. He continued the ritual preparation - tightening the bow, then gently plucking the strings to test the tuning. Finally, he took a deep breath and began to play. She had never heard the melody before, but it reminded her of a lullaby. She closed her eyes and swayed gently in time to the music. At first, she thought that soft vibration she felt - the faint hum she heard, were resonating from the cello. But no. He was singing, so softly that she could barely make out the words. She leaned closer. It was indeed a lullaby.

Slumber, my darling, thy mother is near,
Guarding thy dreams from all terror and fear.
Sunlight has passed, and the twilight is gone.
Slumber, my darling, the night's coming on.
Slumber, my darling, the birds are at rest,
Wandering dews by the flowers are caressed,
Slumber my darling, I'll wrap thee up warm,
Pray that the angels will shield thee from harm.
Slumber, my darling, the morn's blushing ray
Brings to the world the glad tidings of day.
Fill the dark morn with thy dreamy delight.
Slumber, thy mother will guard thee tonight.

His voice didn't falter until the last line. Nikita repeated it with him - joining in his farewell. The last sound died away as he lifted the bow from the strings. She rested her chin on the top of his head and put her arms around him. He gave a deep sigh, as though a weight had just been lifted. He tilted his head back, and she pressed her lips lightly to the damp curls on his temple.

"Are you ready now?" she asked.

"It's time," he replied softly. He stood up. She folded the chair while he put away the cello. He stepped over to the headstones and put his hand on each in turn. "Good-bye, Elena. Good-bye, Adam. Daddy loves you." When he turned back to Nikita, his expression was completely open. His love for her shone clear and bright.

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

When they reentered the church, Father Philippe was kneeling in prayer in front of the stand of votive candles. Nikita touched him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes and smiled at them. He pointed to the two candles directly in front. "You know, Michel, although I am a priest, I too sometimes have doubts. But, when I lit these a few moments ago in remembrance of your wife and son, I heard a child whispering in my ear - as if he were telling me a secret. He said, "Tell my daddy to let God love him."

Nikita's eyes flooded with tears as her mind flashed back to the Armel mission, in which she had pretended to be psychic to entrap that terrorist. Michael had the same look on his face now as Armel had had when the son he believed dead had "spoken" to him through her. With one difference. This was the real thing.

Father Philippe rose and took them each by the arm. "Now come, mes amis, let us share a meal and discuss what has brought you here this evening." As they reached the door, Michael stopped and stared back at the flickering candles. "Remember, Michel," said the priest, "They may burn only for a few hours, but the true light is eternal."