Sometime in the future ...

"Hello."

"Welcome home." I closed my book, and smiled at the picture he made: his jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened at the neck, the funny little glasses he used now for reading. My heart still quickened when I saw him. He was just as handsome as the first day we met in Section, but the old Michael would never have looked that ... human.

Before I had only guessed at this Michael. Now I knew him as well as he knew me. As only two people could, living in each other's pockets. God help us both. There were no more mysteries. No more secrets. But hopefully, there was still some magic. I liked to think that there was.

I left the couch, sidestepped the little cars and abandoned dolls on the rug without looking, as I walked across the room to give him a proper greeting. He met me half-way.

My nose bumped against his glasses when we kissed. Michael swore, pulled back, stuffed them in his pocket. "I forget."

"It's okay. You're entitled. With so many weighty things on your mind. For a retired man." I kissed him again to take the sting out of my words.

He grunted, throwing his portfolio and jacket on the coffee table. "Just like you, I suppose. You leave the life ..."

"But the life comes back to haunt you. So what happened?"

"Let's not talk of it. It's not important. Right now ..." One brown eyebrow lifted. "Where are the grandkids?"

"With Walter ..."

_"Mon Dieu._ I thought it was too quiet around the house. Last time they played with Walter, they came home with a bomb. Set off all the smoke alarms."

"Just a little one. Hardly more than a ..."

"And what do we tell Michelle when she comes back to pick them up at the end of the summer? That we let them do things we never let their mother do? You spoil them, Nikita." Michael's brows drew together. "They are menaces. They were supposed to be asleep. That bomb. They interrupted us."

"Ah, poor baby. The real complaint at last." I patted his cheek, then undid the knot of his tie. "Don't worry. I told Walter. No ka-boom's this time. Not one incendiary gizmo. And Lani's there. She'll make sure that Walter toes the line. Now we have the house to ourselves. All evening long. There's nobody else here."

"Nobody?"

"Just you and me. You're in trouble now. Come with me." I slowly pulled both ends of the silk so that he bent towards me. Rewarded him for his forbearance. Of course, it was kind of like a reward for both of us. After a long moment, I said, "You still smell like airplane. And tobacco. Snowy Owl ... Hmm. Let me think. Meeting with Adrian again? That woman. How could she still be alive? She's ninety-something if she's a day. She must have a portrait of Dorian Gray tucked somewhere."

Michael only smiled, and pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around my waist. Sniffed my hair. "And you. Like vanilla ... and cinnamon. Cloves? And ..?" He caught my wrist, smelled it before pressing a kiss on my pulse, which skittered like a teenager's at his touch. "What have you been up to? Baking again? Wonderful." The liar. He managed a smile, but I saw the consternation flash across his eyes before it disappeared again.

I bit my lip, swallowed a laugh. I was a lousy cook. I had three specialties: leathery, charred, or runny. It didn't matter what the recipe was. Things always turned out the same way. Michael thought he was protecting my feelings, but I knew where his hidden caches of antacids were. Every last one. Well, I hadn't killed him with my cooking. Not yet. Thank God for take-out and microwaves. Poor man. Could I tease him any longer? "No. No baking this time. You're off the hook. Now come with me to the bathroom. We have to do something about that airplane smell."

##

I waited for him there. Impatient. A little frustrated. There was no hurrying him. There never was. It drove me nuts. I bent over the tub, checked the water once more. Reshuffled the candles so the lighting would be perfect. Maybe another candle? I was reaching for the matches when the door opened at last.

Michael stepped over the threshold. He wore the pine green robe I'd given him. It outlined him like wrapping on a Christmas present that I could hardly wait to rip open. I held out my arms, but he walked past me to the tub.

He stirred the water, then sniffed his finger. "Ah. The mystery is solved. This is where the spices are from. The tub looks like a witch's brew."

"But missing the two key ingredients." I gave him a little push, but he resisted. Through his silk robe, the long straight muscles of his back felt as hard as a boulder. And equally unmovable.

"Not yet," he said. Michael reached into one pocket of his robe, and pulled out a bottle, then two glasses from the other pocket. He poured the wine, handed one to me. He raised his glass so that the light sparkled on the wine like topaz caught inside liquid rubies. "To us. Every day, another gift."

"And may there be many more." I clinked my glass against his, then rubbed the bellies of the glasses together before drinking. Tonight just like all the other nights. "You remembered. Our anniversary."

He slanted his head, assenting. "Of course. I remember ... everything. Do you?"

It was a reasonable question. A reasonable worry on his part; one, I think, that never left him. There were still foggy patches, here and there. But he'd been my lifeline to a long slow climb back. As if I could ever forget him! I suppose that even strong men are allowed their foolishness from time to time.

His gaze looked more gray than green right now, clouded with concern, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little more. How many of those wrinkles had I given him? How much of that gray now scattered among his auburn hair? I probably never fit his profile for me. I sincerely hoped not.

I set down my glass on the counter, moved closer to him. "Of course, I remember. Our first real night together. The bath afterwards."

"More like intermission," he murmured.

"More like," I agreed, untying his belt and slowly pushing his robe open until it hung by a miracle on his broad shoulders. I pressed my lips to his heartbeat, felt it thud, then quicken. "I remember the day I came back to you. The look on your face. The day we made commitment. The evening we made Michele. Do you ... remember?" My hand stroked, repeated the pattern until his breath hitched.

His eyes closed. "I think ... I do."

"You only think?! ... Michael." I found myself sputtering. Indignant, I jerked away. Removed my hand. How could he forget? The nerve. Must be his estrogen deficiency again. Men.

Michael's lips parted in a half-smile. "It might come back to me if you remind me. Call it back for me. Enchant me. Like you always do."

"Always?" I unbent a little, let him kiss my neck, the secret place behind my ear.

"Always ... My enchantress," he breathed against my cheek before he moved south to more interesting territory.

Very interesting. I didn't recall that place, but evidently he did, evoking brand-new sensations, each more wonderful than the last. Hard to concentrate right now. Hard to think. The bathroom was misty with fragrant steam, humid with our desire.

"I don't know," I said, leaning back to improve his access. I slid to the floor with him. Felt the thick rug underneath me, his heat above me. "I wouldn't want to give you any false memories. Plant any suggestions."

"How about this one?" he growled as I opened to him. But by then, I couldn't find the words to answer him. So I did the best I could.

##

I sat up, Michael murmuring his protest. Air washed up my side, made the sweat cool. "The bath water. It's cold. We let it grow cold."

"No, we didn't. We never have." His hand swept my belly and lower where I was still moist with sweat and loving. Embers stirred with his next caress. "It's never cold. With you, it gets hotter all the time. How can that be? ... You must be a witch."

I wiggled my fingers at him as if I were trying to mesmerize him. "Hmm. Maybe I am. Maybe I am a witch. Maybe you better watch out."

"I do. Believe me, I do. What are you doing now?" He laughed softly, caught my fingers. Kissed them. Pulled me to him.

When I finally freed my lips, I said, "Casting a spell. Making some voodoo on you. Abracadabra. Ha HA! ... Oh."

Clearly Michael knew a little magic of his own, increasing the pitch and volume of his marvelous ... incantation. His eyes tipped at the corners like they always did when he was amused by something I'd done, or triumphant when he'd gain the upperhand. And right now, I was definitely in his hands. Captive. Completely. He leaned closer, his words brushing my ear. "Come then. Cast another spell."

My eyes fluttered close, my body willingly followed the soft whispered suggestions, the hard demands. Beneath us, the bathroom rug became a magic carpet, taking me, taking both of us on a ride through the stars, then to the verge of the universe where the air was thin. How else could I explain my short harsh breaths, the fitful pounding of his chest under mine? I grew lighter, my skin disappearing, then my body dissolving into the elements around me, into Michael. Pulse to pulse, plasma to plasma. A shooting star streaked through me, and we became ... infinite.

"Come, Nikita. Make magic ... with me."

He didn't need to ask me twice.

###

Author's Note:

Vanilla, cinnamon, and cloves are aphrodisiacs first noted in the Far East ... if the pillow books weren't enough, I suppose. ;-D

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