He was lost.

Didn't know where he was, who he was, or...why... he was.

But onward he swam, clawing through the chilly ocean with cramped fingers. He kicked in as steady a rhythm as he could, gritting his teeth against the agonized objections of brutally abused flesh. The effort to fill his lungs became increasingly labored with each passing minute. What compelled him to keep going, he had no idea.

How long he'd been in the water--to say nothing of how he'd gotten there in the first place--were two more questions he couldn't answer. Whether he was heading toward land or further out to sea was similarly problematic. He thought he'd caught the sound of waves breaking against the short a short time ago, but he couldn't be sure. An intermittent ringing in his ears made it difficult to hear much of anything.

The crescent moon that hung overhead would have provided very little light under the best of circumstances. Conditions on this particular night were poor. Again and again, the silver sliver vanished behind a heavy blanket of clouds.

Without warning, the muscles in his right thigh convulsed. An involuntary gasp filled his mouth and throat with salty water. He gagged against the brackish taste.

A moment later, a second muscle spasm wracked his leg. It was as though two giant hands had grasped the limb and twisted, with vicious deliberateness, in opposite directions.

The searing intensity of the pain further loosened his already tenuous grip on consciousness. The bonds of self-discipline frayed to the breaking point. He finally succumbed, his exhausted body going limp. He sank beneath the cold, inky waves...

Images.

Of blood and brutality.

Of a weeping woman and a small, still child.

Of carnage and killing.

Of an angel with fair hair and sky-blue eyes.

A creature of light. Of life. Of...love.

He tried to move toward the exquisitely alluring female. She shook her head in rejection and started to turn away.

NO! something in his mind screamed. Instinct--utterly primal--took over.

He kicked savagely. Once. Twice. Three times. If the movement caused him further hurt, he was beyond feeling it.

He surfaced in an explosive rush, powered upward into the night air by an almost animalistic surge of adrenaline. His heart was hammering. His lungs seemed ready to burst. He exhaled on a sobbing gasp, then sucked in a long, shaky breath. His chest ached. His throat felt raw. Had there been anything left in his stomach, he probably would have heaved it up.

A snap of his head cleared away the sodden curtain of hair that covered his face. His vision was badly blurred. He blinked several times in rapid succession, finally getting his eyes to focus.

The clouds had parted, he registered with an odd sense of surprise as he treaded water, trying to re-gather his strength. A handful of stars twinkled against the pitch-dark sky like rhinestones scattered carelessly across a swatch of black velvet. Moonlight licked delicately at the undulating surface of the sea.

He was still lost.

Still...alone.

And then, suddenly, he saw it. A light, flickering in the distance.

Whether this small source of illumination had been there all along, silently awaiting his notice, was yet another question he couldn't answer. But one thing he knew with absolute certainty. As long as that solitary beacon kept shining, only death could stop him from reaching it.

******

Deirdre Alessi knew exactly where she was, who she was and why she was. What she didn't know on this barely-born day was whether she wanted to go on living.

She'd moved closer and closer to the brink during the past month. There was no one to hold her back. The creative force that might have tempered the impulse toward suicide had deserted her.

Despair--defined by an emptied heart and idled hands--had finally brought her to the edge of the abyss. It would be so easy to take the final, fatal step...

She'd left her bed after a few hours of restless slumber and gone padding out to her cottage's cozy little kitchen. There'd been no need to switch on the lights. She'd taken to leaving them burning while she tried to sleep. Sometimes, if she was lucky, they kept the monsters at bay.

But only sometimes.

Once in the kitchen, she'd pulled open the drawer to the right of the sink. She'd winced against the piercing squeak it made, briefly chiding herself for neglecting to oil it. Then she slowly removed the automatic pistol that had belonged to her husband, Vince.

"I hate guns," she'd told him when he'd broached the subject of her learning to shoot.

"No, you don't," he'd contradicted. "You hate what some people do with them."

She'd conceded his point, but not her basic position. "Then why would I want to--"

"It's not a matter of wanting, Dee. The world's a dangerous place. You need to be able to protect yourself."

"I thought that was your job." She'd stroked a teasing palm up his forearm, relishing the subtle tense and release of muscle and sinew. She'd still been very new to physical passion at the time; still discovering the heady power of her own sexuality.

Vince had looked at her for several seconds, his gaze so intense that her breath had clotted in her throat and her cheeks had started to burn. "It is," he'd finally said, capturing her hand as she'd tried to pull away. "But I may not always be around to do it."

The matte black automatic seemed colder and heavier than she remembered. Deirdre hefted the pistol experimentally, acutely conscious of the feel of the faintly textured metal against her skin.

"You're sure it won't just...go off?" she'd asked the first time she'd held it.

"With the safety on and no round in the first chamber?" Vince had given her one of his quick, crooked smiles. He'd seemed amused by her ignorance. And perhaps a little envious of the essential innocence from which it sprang. "Honey, you could use the damned thing as a hammer and nothing would happen."

Deirdre readied the pistol for firing. There was no hesitation in her movements. Her husband had taught her well. After a moment, she brought the gun up and pressed the muzzle against the vulnerable junction of her chin and throat.

And then she closed her eyes.

"Please..." she whispered, uncertain to whom--or for what--she was praying.

A moment later, she heard the "thud" of something falling against her front door.

**********

Time may heal all wounds, but it doesn't necessarily dull the cutting edge of recollection. Despite the passage of nearly a month, the memory of Michael's extraordinary gesture still sliced at Nikita's soul like a freshly sharpened scalpel.

Reviewing the incident and its possible implications while returning to Section following the completion of an unnecessarily ugly mission wasn't wise, but Nikita couldn't seem to stop herself. She needed to understand why Michael had done what he'd done.

She leaned back against the inner wall of the transport van with a weary sigh and closed her eyes. She shifted her position after a moment, wincing as a shaft of pain arrowed up from her left ankle. The sprain infuriated her for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that she wouldn't have been put in the position of having to make the jump that had caused it if the mission's leader had done his job correctly. If Michael had been running the team--

She slammed the brakes on this train of thought. Michael running the team had not been an option. He was off Ops-only-knew-where doing Ops-only-knew-what. Not quite in mandatory refusal, according to the few bits of scuttlebutt she'd managed to pick up. But emphatically on his own in the field.

Nikita adjusted her body for a second time, then began yet another mental review of what had happened the morning of her return from her Section-sanctioned "vacation."

That she'd rehearsed how she might handle her first post-leave face-to-face with Michael, she couldn't deny. Unfortunately, this preparation had done her very little good. Because despite all the scenarios she'd devised, she'd neglected to create one that started with a near-collision in the corridor outside one of Section's smaller workout rooms.

She remembered stammering out Michael's name and trying not to stare. He'd been dressed in a black tank top and draw-string pants. The latter had been loose fitting. The former had looked as though it had been spray-painted on.

His skin had been slick with sweat; his partially pulled-back hair soaking wet. There'd been a bruise blossoming on the right side of his face. His breathing had been deep and hard but ruthlessly controlled. She'd caught a fierce glint of satisfaction in his striking gray-green eyes before the familiar barriers had slammed into place.

He'd given her an assessing down-up look, his expression characteristically unrevealing. "You got some sun," he commented offhandedly, unslinging the towel he had draped around his neck and wiping his brow.

His coolness had helped restore her poise. She'd tilted her chin a notch, reminding herself of the decisions she'd made during her time off. "Funny how that happens when you spend two weeks at the beach," she'd retorted.

The door to the workout room had opened. An Asian man she'd never seen before had come limping out into the corridor. He'd looked both exhausted and exhilarated.

The stanger--who was in his mid-twenties and sported several elaborate tattoos--had scrutinized her for a moment or two, then glanced at Michael and said something in what she'd thought might be Japanese. Michael had smiled slightly and replied in the same tongue. His response had provoked a quick bark of laughter and what sounded like a question.

"Honto," Michael had returned. "s---te imasu."

There'd been another minute or so of talk, then a punctilious exchange of bows. The Asian man's obeisance had been inches deeper, seconds longer. "Domo arrigato gozaimasu," he'd said respectfully. "Kochira koso," Michael had replied. "Dewa raishuu."

"Hai, domo." After inclining his head a second time, the Asian man had hobbled off in the general direction of MedLab.

"Substation transfer?" she'd guessed once he'd moved out of earshot.

"Yes."

"And--?"

"And nothing, Nikita."

She'd experienced a flash of temper at the rebuff, but swiftly squelched it. Pressing for information had been stupid, she'd told herself. A breach of of Section etiquette, to say the least. She knew better.

"Forget I asked," she'd said after a moment.

One corner of Michael's mouth had kicked up. "If you'll forget I wouldn't answer."

It had taken her a few seconds to accept that she'd heard him correctly. Overcoming her sense of shock once she did had required a few more. Ditto, regaining the use of her vocal chords. "All right," she'd finally managed.

"Good."

Michael had held her gaze for the space of several heartbeats after they'd sealed their peculiar pact. Then he'd broken eye contact. She'd braced herself for an untruth. Or an evasion. Or an outright dismissal.

"I have some things of yours," he'd announced after a fractional pause.

She'd stiffened, suddenly very wary. "Some things of...mine?"

"Yes." He'd brought his eyes back to hers, his expression curiously abstracted. "If you have a moment to come to my office, I'll return them."

And then he'd walked away, his lethally graceful stride in sharp contrast to the limping gait his unidentified Asian sparring partner had employed a few minutes earlier.

She'd stared after him, galled by his apparent assumption that she was going to trail after him like an obedient puppy. Damn him, she'd fumed. Where the hell did he get off issuing an order--

Except he hadn't, she'd realized. Issued an order, that is. IF she had a moment to come to his office, he'd said. Not a gracious invitation, to be sure, but not a mentor-to-material edict, either. Lord knew, she'd received enough of the latter from Michael to know the difference between one of them and a...whatever.

She'd made his way to his office. While she hadn't broken any land-seed records in doing so, she hadn't taken the most circuitious route possible, either. She'd seen a pretty brunette--one of Birkoff's cyber-crew, she'd thought--making a hasty exit as she'd approached. The young woman had looked extremely flustered.

Small wonder. Nikita had found Michael standing in front of his computer, staring intently at the screen while he towelled his naked chest. Where the black tank top had disappeared to, she hadn't wanted to speculate. Nor had she wanted to examine whether it had been relief or regret she'd felt when she'd seen that he hadn't peeled off his workout pants, too. The possibility of his stripping down in public wasn't that far-fetched. For all his other reticences, Michael was--as far as she could determine--essentially devoid of physical inhibition.

"That's it," he'd said, indicating a package on the corner of his desk. The package had been rectangular, about the size of a shoebox. It had been neatly sealed with duct tape.

She'd crossed to the desk, nerves jangling. She'd flashed back on the "present" Michael had given her the night he'd subjected her to Section's version of a final exam. "Exactly what--"

She'd broken off as Birkoff had appeared in the doorway. He'd been bristling with irritation. "Look, Michael," he'd begun, charging in where a significant percentage of cold ops would fear to tread without a very explicit invitation. "I have no idea what you just did to Traci and I don't want you to tell me. Just don't do it again--okay? I've got enough personnel problems to contend with right now."

Michael had glanced up, his forehead slightly furrowed. "Traci?"

"The analyst who brought you the intel update on Cyrus."

Michael's expression had remained politely puzzled.

"Brown hair? Brown eyes? Seemed to be experiencing some kind of hormonal meltdown?" The young computer whiz had paused expectantly, then pulled a face. "Let me guess. You didn't even notice her."

"I was reviewing the schematics from the new security system. I'm sorry."

Birkoff had waved off the apology, exasperation giving way to sheepishness. "Don't be." He'd made another face, then heave a sigh. "I think I, uh, misread the situation."

"So whatever I did--?"

"You didn't. Not really. That's probably the problem."

Michael had nodded. But Nikita had gotten the distinct impression that he'd still failed to grasp the impact he'd obviously had on Traci. It was almost funny, she'd reflected. While Michael wasn't unaware of his appeal--how could he be, given Section's exploitation of it?--he sometimes seemed oblivious to the fact that he gave off a very high degree of sexual heat even when he wasn't on the job. She didn't doubt that he'd been stunned to know how frequently he figured in the less-than-ladylike discussions that took place in the women's shower room.

"Is that all?" he'd asked.

"About Traci? Yeah. FYI, the tactical on Vyslovik just got put on hold again."

"Another surveillance problem?"

"Their fault, not ours."

"And?" Michael had switched to full operative mode, focusing on Birkoff like a laser.

"My read is incompetence. They're not smart enough to fake being this stupid."

"Keep me current."

"Already taken care of." The younger man had turned his head and finally acknowledged that there was a third person present. "Hey, Nikita. Welcome back."

"Hi, Birkoff." She'd smiled with genuine affection, unoffended at having been ignored. It had been interesting to watch the interaction between the two men. While the dynamic hadn't been buddy-buddy, she'd sensed a new degree of ease. She'd wondered fleetingly about the reasons for it.

"Nice burn on the nose. Forgot to pack the zinc oxide, huh?"

"Well--"

"Birkoff!" someone down the corridor had yelled.

The younger man had rolled his eyes. "Gotta run. Talk to you later, okay?" He'd glanced at Michael. "Ops' visitors finally arrived. I figure you'll get a call in about five minutes. You might want to put on a shirt. They look like major Agency tight asses to me."

Nikita had taken her leave a few moments after Birkoff had hustled away. Whether her farewell had registered, she hadn't been sure. She'd walked down to Walter's area, taking the mysterious package from Michael's desk with her.

"Hey, Sugar!" Section's weapons master had put aside the gadget he'd been tinkering with an enveloped her in a hug. Then he'd stepped back and scrutinized her from top to toe. "Really caught some rays, didn't you."

"So everyone seems to think."

"Life's a beach...and then you dive."

"Snorkel, actually."

"Wanna show me your tan lines?"

"Can't." She'd leaned in, fluttering her lashes. "I don't have any."

"You're so bad, Nikita." He'd chuckled. "At least tell me that box you've got tucked under your arm is some hot little souvenir you brought back for me."

She'd set down the package. "It's from Michael."

"Yeah?" The temperature in the workspace had plummeted. "Well, take it back. I don't want anything from him."

"From Michael, for me," she'd quickly clarified.

"You accepted a gift from that--"

"It's not a gift! I ran into him outside one of the workout rooms a couple of minutes after I checked in and he said he had some stuff of mine he wanted to return. This--" she'd gestured "--is it."

"And you came to see me because you want the thing scanned for explosives before you start unwrapping?"

She'd groaned inwardly, feeling an all too familiar stab of guilt. She'd known she should have anticipated Walter's reaction. "I came to see you because I missed you while I was gone and I wanted to say hello."

The hostility the iconoclastic older man had been exuding faded. A hint of shame had entered his expression, suggesting he recognized that his previous comment had gone over the line. "Gotcha," he'd finally said.

She'd batted a stray strand of hair off her face. Someday, she'd vowed, she'd find a way to make Walter stop blaming Michael for her 'cancellation.' "Do you have a knife?"

The weapons master had rallied, reverting to something close to his usual bantering manner. "Depends on what--or who--you want to cut."

"I'd like to open the box."

"You sure you wanna see what's inside?"

"Walter!"

"Okay, okay. I'm just trying to look out for your best interests."

He'd produced a switchblade. She'd sliced through the duct tape in four quick strokes. After handing the knife back, she'd lifted the top off the box. Inside the box she'd found about a dozen items. Similar in size and shape, each meticulously wrapped in white tissue paper.

"Somebody went to a lot of trouble," she'd heard her companion mutter as she'd gingerly extracted one of the packets. The instant her fingers had curled around it, she'd realized what had been restored to her. She'd started trembling.

They take everything, Jurgen had said when he'd brought her back to her new/old apartment after she'd completed her retraining. And she'd accepted his words as truth. She'd never dreamed--

"Well, Sugar? Whaddya got?"

She'd looked up, knowing there was no way she could mask the emotional turmoil she was feeling. "My old sunglasses."

"Your old sun--" Walter had halted in mid-word, plainly stunned. Then his clever mind had kicked into gear. Nikita had practically seen the wheels turning behind his wise, world-weary eyes. Finally he'd said in a voice shorn of all humor, "Jesus, Nikita. What the hell was Michael doing with your--"

**********

"Hey."

The unpleasantly insinuating salutation yanked Nikita out of the past and back into the present. She turned her head to the right and levelled a cool stare at the man whose mucho macho tactics had almost gotten her and two other operatives killed. Gellis, his name was. He'd transferred in from a European substation about three months ago. While he seemed to rate highly with Operations, she'd tagged him as a prime candidate for Abeyance.

"What?" she asked.

"Anybody ever tell you you've got some real sweet moves?"

Nikita allowed herself a moment to contemplate how much damage she could inflict on the man who'd just addressed her without exacerbating the injury to her ankle. Then she smiled. "Yeah," she drawled, her voice a mix of honey and hydrochloric acid. "There was one guy. He died a slow and painful death not too long afterward. Fatal accident in the field."

There was a snort from the operative on her left--contemptuous laughter, badly suppressed. Gellis flushed, but stayed focused.

"You take that attitude with Michael?" he demanded.

The van got very quiet, very quick.

"Well?" It was the verbal equivalent of a prod with a pointed stick. "Do you?"

"No," Nikita answered truthfully, closing her mind to the long list of attitudes she HAD taken with him. "I don't."

"And why's that?"

"Aside from the fact that he doesn't make stupid, sexist comments?"

Gellis' thin lips twisted. He had the kind of face that seemed attractive at first glance but got less appealing with each subsequent look. "Yeah."

"Because he's good at his job, Gellis. The best."

"Section's fair-haired Ops-in-Waiting."

Nikita's stomach tightened at the envy-suffused comment. She was well aware that Gellis' assessment of Michael's place in Section hierarchy was shared by most of their colleagues. Indeed, it was a very plausible scenario. And yet...

It was strange. Before her escape from Section, she, too, would have cited Michael as the most likely candidate to step into Operations' slot when the time came. But since her return, she'd found herself wondering whether it might not be Madeline's position for which he was being groomed.

She wouldn't wish that on her worst enemy, she thought, a chill prickling up her spine. And whatever Michael was to her...he certainly wasn't that.

"Chestnut, actually," she said.

"Huh?"

"Michael's hair isn't fair. It's chestnut." She flicked a disdainful glance at Gellis' shoulders. "It isn't full of dandruff, either."

There was another snort of amusement, even more contemptuous than the previous one. There were several shocked intakes of breath, too.

"You've got a smart mouth, Nikita."

"Mention it during debrief along with my sweet moves, why don't you? Operations loves post-mission color commentary."

Gellis sneered, something very ugly coming into his mud-brown eyes. "There're a lot of stories about you and Michael, you know."

Nikita's pulse snarled, but she kept her expression bland. "Madeline's talent for disseminating disinformation never fails to amaze me."

"Oh, really? Well, I've heard--"

"--that Michael gets extremely pissed when assholes discuss him behind his back?"

The source of this startling interpolation was Simon, the techie who'd handled on-site sequencing for their just-completed mission. His unilateral decision to instruct all team members to switch com channels had helped prevent a major debacle.

Gellis went rigid, then turned toward the van's computer console. "What did you say?"

"I'm sure you heard me, sir," came the insubordinate reply. "But if you'll stick your com link up your, uh, ear...I'll be happy to repeat it."

Nikita straightened, readying herself to intervene. She had no idea why Simon had elected to side with her (or was it with Michael?), but she wasn't going to let him suffer for his unexpected show of support. If Gellis was stupid enough to get physical--

Gellis WAS stupid, but not suicidal. A quick look around the van apparently clued him into the fact that if Seciton suddenly decided to hold a competition to pick the team leader most likely to be cancelled by his own operatives, he'd be the odds-on favorite to win.

"Okay," he growled. "Okay...fine." He turned back to Nikita. She could tell he was angry. She could also see he was a little bit afraid. She liked that.

"Yes?" she inquired dulcetly.

It took him a few seconds to spit it out, but he finally managed. "No offense meant."

She let him hang for a moment or two then said, "None taken."

"Good." He was foolish enough to smirk, evidently believing he'd somehow won the encounter.

"None taken by ME, that is," she'd amended, sticking in the verbal shiv without a shred of remorse. "I wouldn't presume to speak for Michael. But I'm sure you'll--ah--'hear' from him if he feels differently."

The remainder of the trip back to Section was completed in silence. Nikita blanked her brain as much as possible, staring fixedly at a point above the operative sitting across from her. She wondered idly how long it would take before Madeline got wind of what had happened and summoned her for a little chat.

Nobody said much of anything once they reached van access and started to exit. She did catch a quick wink of approval from one of her colleagues, though. And Simon gave her a lopsided grin as she moved by him. She nodded reassuringly, sensing he might be having a few misgivings about the wisdom of what he'd done.

Birkoff was waiting just inside the arrival corridor. His expression was grim. "Operations wants to see you, Nikita," he announced without preamble. "Right now."

"What about the debriefing?" Gellis demanded, elbowing his way in.

Birkoff didn't even glance at him. "Submit a report."

"But--"

"What's going on, Birkoff?" Nikita placed a hand on the young compuer whiz' arm, trying to control an escalating sense of alarm. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Birkoff locked eyes with her. "It's Michael," he said simply. "He's missing."

**********

"No doctor."

Deirdre stared incredulously at the mystery man whose unconscious body she had hauled in from her front porch nearly thirty-six hours ago and wondered how anyone could stonewall so effectively in such a soft--and sensual--voice. The dichotomy made her think of her late husband. Vince had talked quietly but hung very, very tough, too.

As a Green Beret turned U.S. Marshal, he'd BEEN very, very tough. But not, some atavistic instinct informed her, as tough as the stranger standing before her. No matter that he was battered, bruised and undoubtedly buck naked beneath the white bath towel he had knotted low on his lean hips. He was--was--

Deep. Damned near subterranean.

Dark. Not in looks, but spirit.

Extremely dangerous, too.

Only, not to her. At least, not...intentionally.

Deirdre had no idea how she'd arrived at this conclusion. But since she had, she felt inexplicably compelled to behave in accordance with it.

"Why not?" she asked for the fifth--or was it the fiftieth?--time.

"I'm fine."

"If you're fine, I'm the Virgin Mary."

A smile ghosted around the corners of her visitor's mouth. His lower lip was split and swollen. He'd sustained at least one blow to the face during the systematic beating (beatings?) he'd obviously been given.

"Recovering, then."

She grimaced. If only her telephone had been working when she'd found him! she thought. Had a wind storm earlier in the week not disrupted her service, she would have rung the local authorities and told them--

Or would she?

At the very least, the mottled ligature marks on the man's wrists and ankles would have caused her to debate the wisdom of revealing his presence in her home. She'd seen such marks before. They suggested a lot of ugly scenarios, including several in which dialing 911 might end up getting her visitor--and maybe her--killed.

"You could have internal injuries," she pointed out.

The man shook his head. His reddish-brown hair, curling damply from the shower he'd insisted on taking, rippled with the movement.

Deirde's fingers tingled at the sight. Not with the desire to touch. She'd already done that. No, what she felt was the urge to draw. The artistic impulse had been reborn within her almost as soon as she'd laid eyes on this stranger. She wanted to capture every strong line and subtle nuance of his face and physique on paper. To delve beneath his controlled surface with a sketching pencil and delineate the secrets of what she intuitively recognized as a very complicated soul.

And maybe that was the real reason why she was responding to this risk-laden situation in such a foolhardy way. For the first time in nearly three years, she was experiencing the desire to drawn from life...not from memory. The shock of it seemed to have scrambled some of the key circuits in her brain.

"I doubt it," her unwitting source of inspiration said in response to her comment about internal injuries.

"And this unlicensed medical opinion is based on what?" she countered edgily. "Your previous experience with torture?"

There was a long silence.

"I don't know," the hazel-eyed enigma who'd steadfastly maintained that he had no idea who he was or what had been done to him eventually answered. But something in his tone suggested he wasn't going to discount the possibility.

Deirdre moistened her lips. She didn't doubt for an instant that the man she was looking at could tell her black was white and persuade her to believe it. Yet she didn't think that he was lying about losing his memory. He had a nasty lump on the back of his skull. She'd also noticed several needle tracks on the inner part of his left arm. Drugs, she'd grimly surmised, and not self-administered.

"You're probably concussed," she said after a few seconds, reviewing her meager store of information about head trauma. The phrase 'subdural hematoma' echoed ominously through her mind. "Do you have a headache? Double vision? Ringing in the ears?"

Another flickering smile. Another itch-twith urge to grab a pen or pen or pastel crayon.

"A small one. No. Not anymore."

She mentally translated the first part of this laconic response to mean that he felt as though someone was trying to pulverize his brain with a sledgehammer. "Are you still opposed to taking anything stronger than aspirin?"

"Yes." The answer was immediate, unequivocal and not unexpected. Whoever he was, he'd demonstrated an almost frightening ability to withstand pain since regaining consciousness. If he failed to remember his past, he might consider a future as a professional masochist. "But I would welcome an offer of something to wear."

Deirdre felt her cheeks flame. It was the curse of being a fair-skinned redhead. Vince had frequently told her that one of the many pleasures of making love to her with the lights on was watching the way she blushed all over.

While it wasn't correct to say that she'd forgotten her visitor's barely dressed state, his manner had made in strangely easy to become accustomed to it. He was even less self-conscious about his near-nudity than the models she'd drawn for life studies in art school. He wasn't indifferent to his body, by any means. Indifference did not produce the kind of tempered muscularity he possessed. But he did seem curiously detached from his physicality.

"Of course," she said, hoping she didn't sound as breathless to her mystery man as she did to herself. "I--I have a box of things in the closet in the other room. They...they belonged to my husband."

"Thank you."

"He, uh, wore a lot of black." Why she felt the need to offer this irrelevant piece of personal trivia , she couldn't imagine. It had simply slipped out.

"Anything will be fine, Mrs. Alessi."

It was the first time he'd addressed her by name and it jolted her to hear him do so. She'd identified herself shortly after he'd come to, but she hadn't really expected the information to register.

"Deirdre," she corrected quickly. "Please. Call me Deirdre."

He did as she'd bidden, his accent lending a seductive freshness to the familiar syllables.

"Do you have any thoughts about what I should call you?"

He seemed surprised that she'd asked. "Do you think a name's necessary?"

"Well, since you're going to be around for awhile--" She stopped, staring at him. Comprehension didn't dawn; it slugged her between the eyes. "You asked for the clothes so you could get dressed and leave?"

He didn't deny it. "You've been very kind. I have no desire to repay that kindness by dragging you further into my life. Whatever...that life may prove to be."

"So you're just going to walk out."

"It seems to be the wisest course."

"And then what? Assuming you don't keel over on my front porch again, of course. Or reopen that gash on your leg and bleed to death."

He studied her intently for what seemed like a very long time. Although his expression was calm, she could feel the tension in him. "I'm not sure," he finally replied, his gray-green eyes bleak.

"Then stay here for a few days and figure out. Rest. Regroup. Recover! I'll stop nagging you about seeing a doctor. And I won't say anything to anyone about your being here."

More silence. More scrutiny. And then, simply: "Why?"

"Why...what?"

"Why are you willing to do this?"

It was the jackpot question. Unfortunately, Deirdre wasn't sure she understood her motivations sufficiently to pay it off. But she knew she had to offer some response. Despite his allusion to her kindness, her guest didn't strike her as an indiviual who put much--if any--faith in other people's charity.

A cop? she wondered suddenly. His interrogatory tendencies suggested it was a possibility. But what about the accent? And the unconsciously autocratic manner?

He definitely wasn't with the FBI. Not with that hair.

Interpol? she speculated. Or something a little--no, make that a LOT--more covert?

"Deirdre?"

She met his penetrating gaze and tried to formulate an explanation. "I won't pretend I think you're some ordinary citizen who had an unfortunate accident at sea and needs my help," she said slowly. "You're obviously in trouble. Serious trouble. But...I don't think it's your fault."

He lifted his brows, clearly inviting her to explain this remarkable leap of logic.

Deirdre sighed, wishing she were better at putting her reasoning into words. If she could draw him a picture...

"Look." She spread her ringless, slender-fingered hands. "I'm not saying I'm classifying you as some kind of...of innocent. Frankly, I'll bet you can be dangerous as hell if you're pushed to it. But I just don't get the...um...impression...that you're one of the bad guys."

The chestnut-haired stranger subjected her to another lengthy perusal. She felt as though he was analyzing her clear down to her DNA.

"You've had experience with...the bad guys." It wasn't a question.

Her throat closed up. She felt a sudden congestion in the bridge of her nose. For a moment, she thought she might be on the verge of tears.

Her eyes stayed dry.

"Oh, yes," she affirmed in a small, tight voice. "I have."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." She squared her shoulders, wordlessly communicating that she considered the subject closed. "Now. Are you going to stay?"

He hesitated. She doubted it was something he did very often. Finally he said, "For the time being."

Deciding this was as definite a commitment as she was going to get from him, Deirdre didn't push. She returned instead to the issue that had started them down the path to this point. "Shall we get back to what I'm supposed to call you?"

A shrug. "Anything you like."

"You want me to pick--"

She halted abruptly, the image of one of the world's best-known works of art flashing across her mind's eye. A male. Nude. Carved from marble. Warm flesh, immortalized in cold stone.

The name David trembled on the tip of her tongue. The realization that she might be called upon to explain her selection made her swallow it whole. She didn't want to embarrass herself. Or him--if such a thing were possible.

Two more names quickly presented themselves. One of them was Angelo. The other was...

"Michael," she announced. "Unless you have an objection, I'll call you Michael."

**********

Operations took a final draw on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray on his desk. The gesture revealed a frightening degree of repressed anger. "What do you know about Michael's current assignment, Nikita?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Madeline repeated sharply.

Nikita aborted an impulse to squirm in her seat. She took a steadying breath and set about refining her previous response. "I've heard some gossip about his being on a detached mission. He went out nearly two weeks ago. I was in Prague then, if you'll recall."

"Did he leave you a message?"

The question hurt. It shouldn't have, but it did.

"Like what? 'Off on top secret assignment. Hope to see you soon. Love, Michael'?"

It was a singularly dangerous tack to take. She recognized that as she was saying the words, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

"Have you been in contact with him since he left?" It was Madeline again.

"No."

"Not even indirectly?"

"No!" Nikita watched as Operations and Madeline exchanged glances. She couldn't tell whether they believed her. There was nothing she could do if they didn't. She cleared her throat. "Birkoff said he's missing."

Operations nodded.

"You're assuming he's...dead?" She had to force the final word out.

"We're assuming nothing at this point."

"You have some indication he's alive?"

"Absent conclusive evidence to the contrary, that scenario remains open."

Nikita's tolerance for Section-speak--never very high--evaporated."'Conclusive evidence' being what, Madeline? A corpse?"

"It would be the optimum in this kind of situation, yes."

"I would have though getting Michael back intact would be the optimum! Or is this another instance of an operative being expendable once Section's objective is achieved?"

Operations leaned forward, his expression fierce. "Section doesn't make a practice of squandering its assets, as you should have learned long before this. And we do NOT have closure in this particular case."

Nikita felt herself pale as the implications of this last sentence sank in. For Michael to fail to complete a job Section had given him to do...

"What happened?"

No response.

"Please." She was willing to beg. To hell with how it might end up being used against her. "Tell me."

Another exchange of looks. Madeline gave a barely perceptible nod; part affirmation, part acquiescence. Returning his focus to Nikita, Operations said, "Without going into specifics, the mission we're talking about originated at the highest levels. Very, very sensitive. It involves a combination of hard data retrieval and intelligence acquisition. Sterile execution scenario."

"So--?"

"Michael was sent in alone, deep cover. No back-up. Deniability mandated detached performance until completion. About forty-eight hours, we received back-channel confirmation that the retrieval had been affectuated. Almost immediately following that, there was an unanticipated strike against the target."

"Unanticipated by whom?"

A flash of cold, killing anger streaked through Ops' pale eyes. "Section was misled about certain details relating to the individuals--and organizations--involved."

Nikita frowned, trying to peel down to the core meaning of this statement. There was some...nuance...she wasn't getting. Finally she asked, "Was Michael taken during this 'unanticipated' strike?"

"That's something else we don't know."

"Well, dammit, what DO we know?" Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered shock at her instinctive choice of pronoun.

"We know what you've been told. That Michael is missing. He may be dead. He may be alive and in hostile hands. He may be alive and at liberty, but unable--or unwilling--to follow contact protocol."

One word in this rapid-fire litany caught Nikita by the throat. "Un-unwilling?" she stammered. Dear God in Heaven. Did they actually think--

"You're off active operative status, Nikita," Operations concluded flatly. "And you're on close quarters stand-by until this matter is resolved."

*****

Nikita stalked into Madeline's office a short time later. "You don't really believe it, do you?"

The older woman did not seem at all surprised by her entrance or her attitude. "That Michael may be using this situation to try to free himself from Section?"

"Yes."

Madeline folded her hands on top of her desk. "What I 'believe' isn't the point, Nikita. It's my job to assess probabilities."

"But of all the people in Section--"

"--Michael is undoubtedly the most capable of formulating an escape plan and successfully executing it."

Nikita approached the idea as though it were a primed grenade and might blow up in her face at any second. Michael. Escaping Section. She couldn't deny he had the necessary skills. And the single-mindedness. Still...

"He wouldn't."

"You're certain of that?"

"I'm not certain about anything where Michael's concerned! But the concept of his--" she broke off, shaking her head. "No, Madeline. He wouldn't...betray...Section like that."

"Not even if he felt Section had betrayed him?"

Nikita stiffened, shocked by the query. She thought of Simone. And of Michael's son. And then, a little sickly, of herself and Jurgen. "Does he?"

Madeline took a disturbingly long time to respond. "I honestly can't say," she finally conceded, a hint of sadness shadowing her elegant features.

"But you'll admit he has reason to."

"Perhaps."

"PERHAPS?"

"Michael's reasoning about issues of loyalty and betrayal is not necessarily the same as mine, Nikita. Nor yours, for that matter."

Nikita fiddled with a strand of hair, contemplating what had just been said. Then a hideously plausible scenario occurred to her. "Was this mission a set-up?"

Something dangerous moved through the depths of Madeline's dark gaze. "Of Michael, specifically?"

"Yes."

"No."

That she'd be a fool to discount the possibility that she'd just been lied to went without saying. Yet Nikita's instinct was to believe the denial. She pushed again for information. "Of Section, then?"

"That's being determined." Madeline's tone was icy. Implacable. An echo of the frigid fury that had appeared in Operation's eyes.

"I...see."

"I would certainly hope so."

There was a pause. Nikita shifted her stance, trying to take some weight off her injured ankle. Finally she asked, "Is there anything I can do, Madeline? I heard Operations' order, but--" she gestured "--I can't just sit around and twiddle my thumbs."

"Of course not." It was plain Madeline had anticipated this. "Work with Birkoff. Your insights into Michael may be useful to him."

There had been a time when Nikita would have demanded to know exactly what Madeline was implying with this last comment. That time had past. "Fine," she said simply.

"Anything else?"

"No." There was, of course, but this obviously wasn't the moment to say so.

"Good. See MadLab about the ankle when you leave here. Minor injuries can become major problems if they're ignored. I'd also like a full report on your van conversation with Gellis before tomorrow morning."

Recognizing dissmissal, Nikita turned away. She took two steps toward the door then stopped and pivoted back. Section's chief strategist was already engrossed in something on her computer screen.

"Madeline?"

"Mmm?"

She took a deep breath, wondering whether she was about to make a monumental mistake. She decided it really didn't matter. She simply had to articulate what seemed to her to be the bottom-line truth in this situation. "If Michael made up his mind to break with Section, he wouldn't do it in the middle of a mission."

Madeline looked up, brows arched, expression very attentive. "You think not?"

"He'd do it afterward. Once there was closure. He wouldn't abandon something he'd started and...run off He'd do the job, Madeline. Whatever it took, he'd complete the assignment or he'd die trying. He'd regard anything else..." Nikita paused, remembering the statement made by the Red Cell commander who'd caged and tortured her "...as dishonorable."

**********

"May I help?"

Deirdre started violently at the quiet question, scraping a knuckle against the grater she'd been using to shred parmesan cheese. Skin broke. Blood welled.

"M-Michael!" she exclaimed, turning from the counter to face him. It was as though he'd materialized from thin air. She hadn't heard a sound.

He'd donned the clothes--an old sweatshirt and wash-softened black jeans--she'd given him. The former was a bit loose. The latter fit more snugly on him than they had on Vince.

He'd found something to use to tie his hair back from his face. The style, which evoked memories of the Samurai warriors portrayed in some of the Japanese woodblocks she'd studied in art school, underscored the strength of his features.

The shock he'd given her succumbed to a more seductive emotion. Lord, she wanted to draw him! She wouldn't need to ask him to pose, either. His image was engraved on her brain. Tonight, after he went to sleep, she'd bring out one of her sketchbooks and--

"You've hurt yourself," he said, moving forward.

"Wha--?" She took an involuntary step back, stopping when she bumped up against the edge of the counter. He checked himself at the same time, halting just within touching distance. He did not reach out to her.

"Your hand." He nodded. If her retreat had offended him, he didn't show it. But then again, he didn't show much of anything. "It's bleeding."

"Oh. That." Deirdre felt herself begin to color. "It's nothing. really." She lifted the lacerated knuckle to her lips and sucked, staunching the ooze of blood. She showed him the results saying, "See? All better."

"You're certain?"

She resisted the urge to point out how fundamentally absurd it was for a man with his injuries to be fussing over someone else's cut finger. "Positive."

There was a short pause. Deirdre watched as her unlikely house guest looked around the kitchen. His perusal was quick but not casual. She'd seen her husband scope out new surroundings in precisely the same way.

"I apologize for startling you," the man she'd dubbed Michael said, returning his gaze to hers. Dollars to doughnuts, he could shut those changeable gray-green eyes of his and detail the layout of he room in which they were standing as though he were staring at a photograph of it. "It wasn't my intention."

"I'm sure it wasn't." She flashed a smile, struggling to regain her composure. "Sneaking up on your hostess isn't proper form, after all."

Michael blinked once, clearly caught offguard by her teasing tone. Then his mouth quirked. "I suppose not."

"You might trying making some noise when you walk." She glanced down. She'd given him several pairs of Vince's old athletic shoes to try on. He'd picked the most battered ones. "How would you feel about hobnail boots?"

"Belling me might be easier on your floors."

It was Deirdre's turn to blink. The deadpan humor was completely unexpected. As for the imagery evoked by the "belling" suggestion...

The implied comparison to a cat was very apt, she acknowledged as a distinctly feminine kind of awareness jittered through her nervous system. Only this man was no mouse-chasing house pet. A jungle-bred predator was more like it.

"I'll take the idea under advisement," she promised.

"Good." He relaxed his stance a little, but made no effort to close the distance between them. "In the meantime, may I help with dinner?"

He might not be able to recall who he was, but he definitely hadn't forgotten his manners. Deirdre was intrigued by the almost academic propriety of his English--"may" rather than the more colloquial "can." She wondered briefly how many languages "Michael" spoke. Although she'd chosen not to mention it, she'd heard him mumble in at least five different ones while she'd attempted to rouse him back to consciousness.

"I don't suppose you're having flashbacks about being a Cordon Bleu chef?" she asked.

The flippant question hit a nerve. Although his self-control was such that he hid this fact very, very well, Deirdre had an artist's eye for detail and she caught the subtle but revealing alterations in posture and expression. Her mystery man apparently had been flashing back on something...and it hadn't been pleasant.

"I'm afraid not."

She considered pressing the matter, then decided to follow his cue. She wasn't at all certain she wanted to know what he'd started remembering. While she didn't believe that ignorance was bliss, there were times when it was safer than the alternative.

"I didn't think I'd get that lucky," she quipped. Sidestepping, she turned toward the refrigerator. "You could cut up some things for a salad, if you'd like. There're knives in the drawer--" she waved a hand-- "by the sink."

She was reaching into the crisper when a piercingly familiar squeeeeek made her freeze. No, she thought, her stomach clenching. Oh, God. No.

She straightened and pivoted back toward Michael. It was too late. He already had the automatic pistol out. His connection with it seemed almost...organic. Deirdre knew in a flash that when she conjured up images of him in the future, it would be difficult to picture him unarmed.

"I guess you've handled one of those before," she observed after a few tense moments, striving to keep her tone light.

"So--" the clip was ejected, inspected, and slammed back into place in what seemed like a single heartbeat "--it would appear."

His tone sent shivers up her spine. Likewise, the unthinking fluidity over his movements. The expression in his eyes when he looked squarely into hers was even more chilling. Deirdre knew he was putting the ugliest possible interpretation on his just-discovered facility. But why? Why was he so prepared to assume the worst about himself?

"It's called muscle memory," she offered, dredging up a piece of information she'd gleaned from a medical text she'd once skimmed as part of a class on human physiology. "The brain may not consciously recall how to do something, but the body remembers. Dancers rely on it. And athletes. It's why people can get back on a bicycle after years and years and still be able to--"

"I don't think it's been years and years since I used a gun."

"Well, probably not," she conceded, recognizing that she was up against a mindset far more fixed than her own. "But that doesn't mean there aren't a lot of, uh, legitimate reasons you might be familiar with firearms."

"It doesn't mean there aren't a great many illicit ones, either."

Point taken. How could it not be? The man was determined to warn her against himself. And yet--

She trusted him, she realized. Not unconditionally. She'd never be able to trust anyone that way again. But for reasons she couldn't explain, she was prepared to put her life in this man's hands.

"Look." She matched his stony stare as well as she could. "My husband could've had his memory blitzed but he still would have been able to field strip and rebuild an M-16 in the dark while hanging upside down from a shower rod and whistling the overture from Don Giovanni. That wouldn't have made him a...a...villain. Vince was in the military. Then law enforcement. Handling guns was more than second nature to him. It was like breathing."

Michael regarded her silently for several seconds. "You think I might be a soldier? Or a police officer?"

"It's possible," she hedged. "There are all kinds of military people. And...cops."

Interestingly, he let her evasiveness slide. "What kind was your husband?"

"What kind--?"

"Of cop."

Deirdre lifted her chin. "One of the best."

"This--" a glance at the gun "--was his?"

She nodded.

"Do you know how to use it?"

"Well enough."

He did not ask well enough for what. He simply studied her for a few more seconds, then smoothly reversed the pistol and extended it to her, butt first.

"Thank you." She clicked the safety back on, trying to mimic the professionalism of his movements. She sensed Michael was deeply ambivalent about disarming himself, and she suspected he'd have no qualms about reclaiming the weapon if she demonstrated the slightest hint of clumsiness.

"You mentioned something about where I might find a knife?" he said after a moment, reverting to the role of impeccably polite house guest.

She set down the automatic and summoned up her gracious hostess manner. "To the left of the sink. I'll get the vegetables out of the fridge."

****

Without or without a Cordon Bleu background, the man definitely knew what to do with a well-honed blade.

Deirdre had suspected he would.

**********

"Breathing down my neck isn't going to help, Nikita," Birkoff snapped, glaring at the computer screen in front of him. For reasons he hadn't chosen to explain--and no one apparently had had the nerve to inquire into--he'd abandoned his usual work space and set himself up in Michael's office.

"I wasn't planning to," she answered quietly, crossing to what had been a pristinely organized desk. It was now strewn with printouts, electronic equiment and sugar-laden snacks. She cleared away some of the debris and set down a ham and cheese sandwich. "I brought you something decent to eat."

Birkoff looked up from his monitor. He was pasty-pale and there were shadows beneath his red-rimmed eyes. He'd been working for more than forty-eight hours straight. "Oh. Thanks."

A few seconds ticked by.

"Anything?"

The computer whiz glanced down, clearly reluctant to answer.

"Birkoff?"

He sighed wearily, then tapped on his keyboard. Nikita moved around the desk and peered over his shoulder. There was a map on the monitor. Birkoff pointed at it.

"Somebody reported finding a body--here--about thirty minutes ago. Since we don't have a confirmed scenario on what happened to Michael, we're doing a multiple-area search. Essentially scanning world-wide. But if he went down during the aggression, this locale is within the primary grid."

Bile rose in Nikita's throat. "Is there any ID?"

Birkoff shoved his glasses up and knuckled his eyes. "Male. Caucasian. Definitely not a natural death. That's all." He lowered his hands. His wire rims dropped back into place. "We can't reach out directly, but Operations is yanking strings to pass somebody in the back door. There'll be a forensics specialist on the way within an hour."

"And this specialist will be able to--" She couldn't go any further.

"Yeah."

"Is that all you've got?"

Birkoff clicked off the map and expelled another sigh. "What I've got is way too much intel on the one hand and not nearly enough on the other. The biggest variable I'm trying to factor in is Michael himself."

"I...don't understand."

"Let's just say, not all the information that might help me figure out what happened to him is in Section's databases." Birkoff typed in a long sequence, scowling as he scrolling through the file he'd brought up. He seemed to become more frustrated with each passing second. "But I'm going to get closure on this. No matter how long it takes..."

"You're going to find him."

Birkoff reacted as though she'd slapped him across the face. He went rigid, then slowly turned around. His eyes flicked back and forth, back and forth. "You have a problem with that?"

Nikita hesitated, acutely conscious of the possibility that this conversation was being monitored. Birkoff seemed to divine the direction of her thoughts. "Don't worry," he said flatly. "We're clear."

She believed him. Almost. Section had destroyed her capacity for putting total faith in anybody about anything. But after a moment, she shoved aside her residual doubts and broached a subject that could get one of both of them cancelled. "You know Operations and Madeline think it's possible Michael's using this situation as a cover for an escape."

"Yeah." The affirmation came slowly. Birkoff seemed surprised by--and wary of--the tack she was taking. "I also know there's no way it's a valid scenario."

"That's what I think, too."

"So?"

"So...what if we're wrong, Birkoff? What if Operations and Madeline have it right? And what if--" she paused, then chopped straight to the core "--you end up being the only thing between Michael and freedom."

The younger man stared at her silently for ten, maybe fifteen, seconds. Then, very deliberately, he swung back to his computer and cleared the screen. He took a deep breath, like a diver preparing for a hundred meter plunge. Then he began to type.

NIKITA, ARE YOU THE--

Nikita reached over and slapped the delete key before he completed the phrase. She was shaking violently. "H-how--?" she choked.

"I hacked into Michael's computer a few weeks after your supposed cancellation." Birkoff raked his fingers back through his hair, his expression strangely defiant. "I found that message in an encrypted file and traced the com links. Then I started checking equipment records. There was a notation about a missing PDA in one of the logs."

"'Was'?"

"Yeah. It isn't there anymore. Neither are Michael's initials on the sign-out. I blew two weeks' worth of data so the deletion wouldn't be obvious."

Nikita's knees wobbled. She sat down on the edge of the desk, struggling to come to grips with the revelation she'd just received. After a few tremulous seconds she asked, "Did you tell him?"

"And give him more to worry about?"

"You mean, the possibility that you'd report what you found to Operations and Madeline?" Seeing Birkoff recoil in shock at this suggestion, she hastened to add, "I know you wouldn't, Birkoff. But Michael might--I mean, the way Section--"

"You don't get it, do you?" Birkoff interrupted, suddenly looking older than his years. The kid brother aura he often exuded was gone. In its place was a hardness Nikita had never sensed from him. Or, if she had, she'd elected to ignore it. "The second I figured out what happened and didn't pass it along, I put myself at risk. Michael would have recognized that if I'd said anything to him. He would have recognized it, and he would've started figuring ways to keep my head off the block if the axe ever came down."

"He would have tried to protect you."

"Exactly."

Nikita clenched and unclenched her fingers. "What about Walter?"

"What about him?"

"Did you say anything--?"

"No. He's not that good an actor."

"Not that good--"

"C'mon, Nikita!" Birkoff cut in, clearly impatient with her obtuseness. "You've seen how he is around Michael. He was a lot worse while you were...gone. If I'd given him a hint about what really happened--"

The penny dropped. "He would have started behaving differently."

"Yeah. And Madeline would have started looking for reasons why."

"So you kept quiet and let Michael take the abuse."

"Michael takes a lot of things from a lot of people, in case you hadn't noticed." The younger man shook his head. "But if you ask me, it's nothing compared to what he dishes out to himself."

Nikita closed her eyes for a moment. She'd heard a few stories about Michael's behavior following her supposed cancellation. She still found them hard to credit. Machine Man...breaking down? The operative whose stone-cold effectiveness following the apparent death of his wife had become part of Section lore acting like a suicidal rookie?

"You never messaged him back, did you."

She opened her eyes, staring straight ahead. "No," she said. And he'd never reproached for it, either.

"He would have helped you if you had."

The certainty in Birkoff's voice shook her. She stared at him, searching for the source of it. "Helped me? How?"

A shrug. "The same way he helped Lisa Fanning, probably."

"Lisa Fanning?" The name was bitter on her tongue. Nikita swallowed hard, remembering things she'd tried to put out of her mind. "What did Michael do for her?"

"Siphoned a million dollars out of one of husband's offshore accounts and made sure she got it." The young computer whiz paused, an odd smile flitting across his face. "It took me nearly a month to trace the money. Gail was the one who nailed down the last couple transfers. She said Michael knew some scams even she hadn't heard about. I...I had to tell Madeline. What she did with the information, I don't know."

Nikita chewed her lower lip, trying to fit the pieces together. "Why?" she murmured. "Why would he--?"

"Because that's who he is, Nikita. And that's how he survives."

**********

He'd gone through her things.

Deirdre came to this realization early in the fifth evening after Michael's precipitous arrival on her front porch. Her response to it was...complicated.

She'd driven into town that afternoon to buy supplies and pick up her mail. Her suggestion that her guest might come along had been politely rejected. Before she'd had a chance to reformulate her arguments about why it might be a good idea, Michael had asked whether she'd object to his using her computer to check the 'Net while she was gone. Check it for what, he hadn't specified. Nor had he explained his apparent confidence in his cyber-skills.

She'd granted him the permission he'd sought, but warned that even though her phone service had been restored, it wasn't one-hundred percent dependable. She'd also mentioned that the computer set-up had been her husband's. Although she'd gone on-line a half-dozen times since her release from the hospital, she'd limited herself to skimming news reports and lurking on a few message boards.

Her trip into town had been uneventful. She wasn't a stranger to the area. The cabin in which she was living had been in her family for three generations. The locals knew her history. There'd been a few awkward greetings as she'd gone about her errands, but mostly she'd been left alone. While she'd picked up no information directly relating to her mysterious visitor, she had overheard an unpleasant snippet of gossip about a badly mangled body washing up on the beach two towns over.

If truth be told, she'd returned from her outing braced to find her cottage deserted. The emotions she'd experienced when she'd discovered that Michael hadn't left had temporarily blinded her to what he'd been up to during her absence.

There was something...revealing...about the way he'd conducted his search, Deirdre later reflected. That he could have done so without leaving any trace of his activities had he set his mind to it, she didn't doubt. But he hadn't. She'd spotted at least a half-dozen indications of his violation of her privacy. They were the kinds of things she couldn't shrug off as accidental disarrangements of her property. Yet they were subtle enough to leave her the option of choosing to overlook them without seeming oblivious to her surroundings.

She might have kept silent had it not been for her sketchbooks. Michael had seemed to take special pains to let her know he'd looked at them. That meant he'd leafed through countless drawings related to her past. It also meant he'd seen his own image over and over and over again.

They were lingering at the kitchen table over after-supper cups of coffee when she finally raised the subject. "So," she said calmly, "what did you think of my work?"

Michael's hazel eyes glinted emerald for an instant. Then he smiled, just a little. "You have a remarkable talent. But I don't imagine all your subjects appreciate how you use it."

He had a knack for saying things that could be interpreted a multitude of ways. His remarks were polite on the surface, but provocative as all get-out underneath. Whether this was intentional was difficult to determine.

"I draw what I see," she replied.

"Some people might think you see too much."

Deirdre shifted in her chair, plucking a bit of lint off the old pullover she was wearing. She'd never liked discussing the hows and whys of her art. It was her belief that if what she put down on paper didn't speak to people, no amount of blathering was going to help.

"I probably should have asked before I started sketching you."

"Were you afraid I'd say no?"

"I...I suppose that was part of it." She eyed him curiously, uncertain of his tone. "Would you have?"

He rubbed his chin. He'd left his hair loose this evening. It waved gently about his face. He'd hooked it back behind his ears several times during dinner, unwittingly betraying annoyance at the stubbornly curling strands. She'd found the gesture oddly amusing.

"I don't know," he eventually admitted.

"You'd make a good model."

He seemed genuinely startled by the comment. "Would I?"

Deirdre cocked her head, conscious of the silken movement of her own hair against her neck. Had another man asked this question, she might have thought he was fishing for flattery. Or, heaven help them, trying to initiate a flirtation. But with "Michael"...

"You don't fidget when you sit," she replied wryly. Which wasn't to say sitting was something he seemed inclined to do. He'd spent many hours exercising during the past few days, pushing himself to exhaustion and beyond. But each time he'd taken a break, he'd settled into statue-like stillness. She'd found it both intriguing and unnerving. "That's a big plus."

"Did your husband fidget?"

She wasn't surprised by the shift of conversational focus. Her house guest didn't like to talk about himself. She'd initially thought his reluctance stemmed from the awkwardness of his amnesiac condition. But she'd come to the conclusion it went a lot deeper than that.

"Sometimes," she said. "Vince said posing made him feel self-conscious."

"What about the little girl in your sketches?"

"Sara." She invoked the name softly, like a prayer.

"Your...daughter?"

"Yes." Deirdre took a deep breath, then exhaled it on a slow sigh. "She wasn't much on sitting still, either, but she adored the idea of being Mommy's model."

There was a long pause.

"You speak about both of them in the past tense," Michael finally observed.

"That's because they're both gone."

"Gone?"

She looked him straight in the eye. She'd known it would come to this. And now it was time for him to learn that whatever darkness he held locked within him, it was nothing compared to hers.

"Yes," she answered steadily. "I killed them."

**********

"Do you think he's dead?"

Madeline set down the scissors she'd been using to trim the fragile foliage of her newest bonsai and turned. Her movements were graceful and unhurried. "That seems the most probable scenario at this point," she acknowledged, then moved to her desk and seated herself.

Nikita's hands fisted of their own accord. She crossed to stand directly opposite Madeline. "Would you care?" she demanded, her voice low and harsh. "Aside from the fact that it would mean the loss of a valuable organizational asset, would Michael's death matter one damned bit to you?"

The question netted her several singularly unpleasant seconds of what she'd come to think of as the patented Section stare. Then something extraordinary happened. Madeline suddenly veiled her eyes with her lashes and averted her gaze.

"Yes, Nikita." The affirmation was soft, almost whispered. "It would."

Nikita caught her breath. She wasn't sure what sort of answer she'd expected in response to her deliberately goading question, but she was certain that it hadn't been the one she'd just received.

She'd always sensed an unusual degree of intimacy between Madeline and Michael. But the exact source and nature of the bond was something about which she'd tried hard not to speculate. Too much curiosity had seemed...ill-advised.

She'd seen Madeline treat Michael with appalling and obviously calculated psychological cruelty more times than she cared to count over the years. Yet she'd also caught her regarding him with something very much like tenderness on several occasions. The disturbing thing was, she'd gotten the impression that Michael had more difficulting dealing with Madeline's infrequent flashes of kindness than with her--

"What about you?"

Nikita stiffened, berating herself for allowing the older woman's uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability to undermine her own defenses. Now, more than ever, she needed to be on her guard.

"What--" she paused, steeling herself "--about me?"

Section's chief strategist said nothing for several seconds. She didn't really need to. A slight narrowing of her artfully accentuated brown eyes communicated volumes.

"You and Michael have achieved an unusual degree of professional understanding," she finally commented. She might have been remarking on the weather. "You make a formidable team. One of the best we have. On the personal side--"

"This is Section. There is no 'personal side.'"

Another barren stare. Another brutalizing silence.

Nikita adjusted her stance, balancing herself for a psychological attack. In the back of her mind she heard Michael's voice, quietly telling her that he couldn't protect her anymore. He'd demonstrated otherwise after the fact, of course. But right now, she had to protect herself.

"There's something I think you should see," Madeline abruptly declared, leaning forward and tapping out a sequence on the keyboard of her computer. She turned the monitor screen to face Nikita.

A frisson of alarm skittered up Nikita's spine. She could only imagine what might be coming. Surveillance tapes of the painful encounters she'd had with Michael in the days immediately following her return to Section? Or perhaps, God help them both, of that transcendently passionate night they'd shared before he'd brought her back?

"Madeline--"

"Be quiet and watch."

The tap-tap-tap of a few more keys produced a frozen digital image. It showed Michael and Madeline squared off in Madeline's old office. A time code in the lower right hand corner of the screen indicated a late-night hour. It also proclaimed to Nikita that she was about to view something which had taken place several months after her arrival in Section.

The image sprang to life.

"--difficulties with our new recruit," the on-screen Madeline observed.

"Nikita," Michael amended, his pronunciation lending an exotic gloss to the simple trio of syllables. Nikita's pulse fluttered in response.

"Then why--" Michael broke off the question before completing it. A faint tightening of his features indicated that he recognized how dangerously revealing the aborted inquiry had been.

"--was her recruitment sanctioned?" There was a subtle touch of reproof in Madeline's voice. "A woman with her looks? Who can kill in cold blood?"

Nikita's stomach knotted as she recognied the words.

A woman with her looks...

...who could kill in cold blood.

Dear Lord. Madeline had been quoting Michael to himself!

She'd known Section had kept tabs on her training, of course. What she'd never really considered was the possibility that it had been Michael's performance--not hers--which had been the primary focus of the scrutiny.

"And if she can't?"