*****************
"I thought you were going to handle Pearson's interview yourself," Operations commented as he entered the surveillance area that adjoined one of Section's white-tiled interrogation chambers about an hour later. His remark was directed at the striking brunette standing in front of the one-way glass that dominated one wall of the observation room.
"I am," Madeline answered serenely, her attention fixed on the action on the other side of the glass.
Operations moved to stand next to her, focusing on her aristocratic profile. His gaze strayed down the seductive line of her throat, then stroked back up.
He wondered, not for the first time, what had prompted her to cut her hair. The only explanation she'd offered was that she'd decided it was time for a change.
"How?" he drawled, marking the faintly shadowed hollow beneath her left ear with his eyes. He knew the scent of that small patch of skin. Had memorized its taste and texture. "Telepathically?"
Desire speared through him as he watched his chief strategist smile at the jibe. His response didn't surprise him. He was acutely aware that Madeline's smile was one of her most dangerous assets.
She could freeze a man with it.
Or flay him alive.
She could rouse a man to a fever pitch with the deliberate curving of her lips, too. Then drop him to his knees, begging.
Repeated exposure had innoculated the head of Section One against the effects of Madeline's smile to a certain extent. But he knew he wasn't immune to them. He wasn't certain that he'd elect to be, either, if he were ever given the option.
"Mr. Pearson is laboring under a serious misapprehension about how we conduct business here," came the calm response to his query. "I'm simply waiting for the right moment to correct him."
"Ah."
It made sense, he reflected ruefully. With Madeline, timing was all. She was a creature of infinite, often infuriating, patience. He'd learned the hard way that for her, "waiting" was not a passive activity.
"I also decided this would be a good opportunity to evaluate Wilson's technique," she added, still studying the psychodrama unfolding before her.
Operations slanted a glance through the one-way glass, watching the operative in question backhand the man he was interrogating with seemingly casual viciousness. The man's nose gushed scarlet.
"The direct approach," he observed dryly.
"He definitely favors brute force over finesse."
"Beyond acceptable parameters?"
Madeline angled her head a bit, considering.
"Given the proper supervision, I don't think so," she said judiciously. "There's no doubt that his apparent inability to calibrate certain aspects of his behavior limits his usefulness in a number of scenarios. But it could prove invaluable in quite a few others."
"In other words, there are situations in which having an enthusiastic sledgehammer at our disposal could be convenient."
"Precisely."
There was a long pause. Operations returned his gaze to the remarkable woman beside him. He made no effort to disguise his interest; no attempt to ameliorate the intensity of his scrutiny. This was a matter of pride. Whether that pride was the product of strength or weakness--or some perverse amalgam of both--was open to debate.
He and Madeline had resumed their sexual relationship about a month after Adrian's execution. Madeline had come to his private quarters one night, much as she'd come to them years before on the night she'd completed her hands-on training of Michael. On which occasion his reaction to her unexpected appearance had been more potently ambivalent was impossible to say.
They'd embraced.
Kissed.
Caressed.
And then:
"Why?" he'd challenged, capturing her hands and holding them still against his naked chest.
She'd lifted her chin in a lovely, liquid movement, staring him straight in the eye. He'd felt his heart constrict. Madeline's directness about sexual matters could be unnerving. It was also, in a peculiar way, the very essence of deviousness. A method of hiding the truth in plain sight, in a manner of speaking.
"Because you want it," she'd answered.
Given the fact that he'd been obviously, insistently erect, there'd been no point in denying the validity of her assertion. So he hadn't. But he hadn't let the issue drop, either.
"Not good enough," he'd told her.
Her long lashes had flicked down for an instant, then back up. An emotion he couldn't interpret had flashed across her features.
"Very well," she'd said steadily. "Because I want it, too."
He'd tightened his grip on her. She hadn't flinched at the time, but she'd left his quarters the following morning with bruises marring the smooth skin of her slender wrists. He'd caught sight of the ugly black and blue marks as she'd donned her clothing.
"How can I be sure that's the truth, Madeline?" he'd pressed. "That you're not telling me what you know I want to hear?"
She'd lifted her delicately arched brows, a hint of mockery appearing in her dark eyes. At which one of them this mockery was aimed was a question mark.
"You can't," she'd informed him.
He'd stared at her for a long, long time.
"So be it," he'd said harshly, then lowered his mouth to hers.
***************
"How was your meeting with Mr. Curtis?" Madeline finally queried, her gaze still locked on the interrogation procedure.
Operations thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers and rocked back on his heels. He expelled a long, frustrated sigh.
"Truthfully? He got more than he gave."
Silence.
"No 'I told you so,' Madeline?"
A brief sideward glance. "Would it serve any purpose?"
"Hardly."
"Well, then..."
There was a pause. Operations watched Wilson circle Pearson--who was strapped into a high-backed metal seat--like a hungry predator. The terrorist was hurting, he noted clinically. But he didn't appear at all intimidated. It would be interesting to see what Madeline had in store for him.
"You did warn me." The admission was difficult. Galling in more ways than he could explain. He'd mishandled an excruciatingly delicate situation and he knew it. He also knew--or, at least, very strongly suspected--that he'd been maneuvered into the mistakes he'd made. The riddle was, by whom?
"Yes," Section One's chief strategist concurred, her contralto voice as bland as unsalted butter. "I did."
A bitter bark of laughter erupted from Operations' throat. The response was classic Madeline. Classic!
"Next time, I'll listen," he promised.
"There may not be a next time."
The quietly spoken statement hung, threateningly, in the air. Operations looked left, conscious of a sudden tightening in his gut. Deep inside his pants pockets, his hands clenched into fists.
"Meaning what?" he asked sharply. "That there'll be no more warnings from you, or no more visits from Warren Curtis?"
Brown eyes met pale blue ones. Operations experienced an unpleasant frisson of emotion. He found himself remembering Adrian's cancellation and his insistence that the woman standing next to him carry it out. He also found himself recalling the violent death of Madeline's husband, Charles.
I never intended that she be the one to kill him, he insisted to himself.
"The latter, of course." Madeline's voice was unruffled. "Oversight seldom finds it necessary to cover the same territory twice."
He sucked in a short, sharp breath. There it was again. That...knowingness...about how Oversight operated. He'd been picking of traces of it since he'd become aware of the external interest in Michael.
Was it possible that Madeline--?
No.
He couldn't believe it.
Wouldn't believe it.
"Did Mr. Curtis seem surprised by Michael's inability to keep their appointment?" Madeline asked, returning her gaze to the interrogation once again.
Operations contemplated this question and its implications. Then he mentally reviewed his encounter with Oversight's liaison. No matter that the other man had been on his turf, subject to his terms. Within a minute of his arrival, Warren Curtis had put him on the defensive.
Precisely how this turnabout had been accomplished, Operations still couldn't explain. He only knew that it had happened and he was enraged by it.
"No," he replied brusquely. "He didn't."
"You think Michael informed him of the change of plans?"
"Actually--" he hesitated, glancing left again, wondering whether what he was about to say would be interpreted as symptomatic of paranoia-- "I think he anticipated it."
"Mr. Curtis?"
"Michael."
"Ah." Madeline's beautifully shaped lips twitched.
The anger Operations had been struggling to control broke into the open. The urge to lash out became very, very strong. For one savage instant, he wanted to grab the self-contained brunette standing next to him by the shoulders, shove her against the wall and...force...himself on her.
That Madeline had taken Michael into her bed for valentine training was something with which he'd managed to come to terms. It hadn't been easy, but he'd disciplined himself to recognize that her doing so had been necessary. Michael had required a very specialized form of instruction. Madeline had been the best qualified to administer it.
So, he could...accept...that there'd been a period of physical intimacy between his second in command and the extraordinary piece of material he'd recognized, almost from the start, had the capacity to succeed--perhaps even surpass--him. He could accept it because that period was over. Done with.
What he found almost intolerable was the realization that although the sexual ties between the two had been severed, the psychological ones had grown in strength and complexity over the years. Michael and Madeline were in synch in ways he knew he and she could never, ever be.
At a very primitive level, he envied Michael that linkage. Yet, in a strange and terrible way, he pitied him because of it, too.
"You find this amusing?" he demanded through gritted teeth.
"Not at all," Madeline coolly denied. "But in this particular instance, I will say I told you so. Repeatedly."
Operations muttered a curse. Inside the white-tiled interrogation room, Wilson had just punched Pearson in the stomach. Vomit dribbled from the terrorist's abuse-bloodied lips.
"If Michael accepts Oversight--" he began.
*************
"You'll deal with it," Madeline cut him off with surgical precision. "We'll deal with it."
Another pause. Then:
"Curtis asked to speak with you."
"Did he?"
"And with...Nikita."
"That was to be expected."
"I fobbed him off on--"
The door to the observation room hissed open, admitting Walter and Warren Curtis. Section's ponytailed weapons master was grinning broadly. Oversight's faultlessly groomed emissary was smiling, too.
What the--? Operations wondered, shaken by the apparent affinity between the two men.
"Madeline," Curtis said, moving forward. His voice was plummy, with a touch of British boarding school.
The brunette turned, smiling. It was a smile Operations wasn't certain he'd ever seen.
"Mr. Curtis," she replied, extending her hand with aristocratic grace.
Curtis took her hand and shook it. Something about his manner made it clear that he would have preferred to salute it with a kiss.
"It's been a long time."
"Three years."
"Geneva."
"And before that, Washington."
"You were of great assistance on that occasion."
"You were in great need of great assistance, as I recall."
"Indeed," Curtis confirmed, chuckling. He glanced toward the one-way glass, then lifted his brows. "Ah. Ethan Pearson, I see."
Operations shot a questioning look at Walter. Walter gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, wordlessly communicating that the visitor from Oversight had not learned the identity of Section's latest "guest" from him.
"Yes," Madeline affirmed. She studied the interrogation scene, her eyes narrowing. "And if you don't mind--"
"Of course not," Curtis immediately assured her. His smooth assumption of control angered Operations. "Would you object if I observed?"
"Please." Madeline reached forward and clicked a switch on the small control panel beneath the one-way glass, activating an audio feed from the other room.
"--brown-eyed bitch," Pearson spat.
Smack! Wilson backhanded him once again.
"My cue." Madeline declared with a hint of irony. "Excuse me, gentlemen."
Operations and the other two men watched with varying degrees of fascination as she exited the observation room. A few seconds later, the door to the interrogation chamber door swung open and she walked in. It seemed to Operations that she was emphasizing the natural sway of her hips.
"Thank you, Wilson," she said, dismissing the operative with a polite nod. She might have been speaking to a servant. "I'll see you in my office later."
Wilson nodded, glared menacingly at the brutalized terrorist, then stalked out.
"So, Mr. Pearson," Madeline began as soon as the door shut. "I gather you've been having a rather unpleasant morning."
Pearson smiled defiantly. Wilson had broken one of his teeth.
"You think I don't understand?" he demanded, the words distorted by his puffed lips. "That I don't know exactly how this works? Good cop, bad cop. Oldest f---ing game in the book! You send in some bastard to beat the s---out of me, then you show up...all promises and perfume"
"A very cogent assessment," Section One's mistress of mind games congratulated him. "Except for one very salient factor."
"What the f---'s that?"
"The bastard I sent in to beat the s---out of you was the good cop."
***************
"Th-that was the s-stupidest thing I've ever s-s-seen!" Nikita sputtered, trying to put a cork in the giggles that insisted on bubbling up her throat.
"But you laughed all the way through it," Ben pointed out dryly.
"True," she admitted, hanging her head. Her long blond hair swung forward, curtaining both sides of her face. She took a deep breath, finally managing to control her hilarity. After a moment, she lifted her head and flipped her hair back out of the way. "And I'm soooooo ashamed."
"Oh, yes," the companion returned, chuckling. He draped a friendly arm around her shoulders. "I can tell."
She eased closer, enjoyed the brush of Ben's lanky body against hers as they began strolling away from the movie theater where they'd just spent two side-splitting hours. She enjoyed the sheltering weight of his embrace, too. It made her feel...cherished.
A little more than two weeks had passed since their first after-class encounter. During that period, they'd "gone out for coffee" two more times, had dinner at a downtown bistro (Dutch treat, at her insistence) and attended a concert at the university auditorium.
Ben had been the one who'd tossed out the idea of seeing a film on this Saturday night. She'd happily seconded the notion. But when he'd casually inquired about her cinematic preferences, she'd blanked. It had stunned her to realize that she couldn't remember the last time she'd gone to a first-run movie. She vaguely recollected having been taken to some feature-length cartoons when she was a kid, but that was about it.
"I like comedies," she'd finally said, hoping that she was masking the distress whe was experiencing. "I'm not really into, uh, action stuff." If truth be told, she'd caught snippets of a few bang-bang, boom-boom blockbusters on television and been appalled. The concept of racking up body counts for 'entertainment' had struck her as obscene. As for the technical errors--forget it! "And I'm not much for tearjerkers. I don't like films where you start caring about people and they die."
Ben had given her an odd look. "I'm not a big fan of people dying, either," he'd acknowledged. "What about romances? You know--boy meets girl, boy messes up and loses girl, boy gets girl back and everybody lives happily ever after."
She'd hesitated, recognizing that there was a subtext to his query. While she and Ben had not yet become lovers, their relationship had progressed beyond platonic friendship. They'd touched and teased. Kissed and cuddled. Sexual awareness hummed between them like a low-level electrical current.
Ben had been the one to take the physical initiative. But he hadn't been aggressive about it. And he'd wordlessly conveyed that how far they went and how quickly they got there was up to her.
Although Nikita was deeply grateful for his sexual forebearance, there was a part of her that wished he'd take the decision out of her hands. She didn't want to be forced. But she knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that she wouldn't have minded being actively seduced.
"Romances..." she'd repeated, testing the syllables. "They're okay, I guess. Still. What I'd really like to find is a movie that'll make me laugh out loud."
Which they had. The motion picture they'd just seen had been absurd to the point of idiocy in many ways. It had also been irresistibly hilarious. She'd started giggling so hard at one point that she'd had trouble catching her breath. She'd also coming embarrassingly close to wetting her underpants.
Ben had enjoyed the movie, too. While his overall response had been more restrained than hers, he'd cracked up during several scenes.
She liked his laugh, Nikita reflected as they walked along in companionable silence. It was easy. Open. With a wonderful quality of warmth to it.
Had she ever heard Michael laugh? she asked herself, frowning a little. Really, truly...laugh? She didn't think so. She could recall having seen him smile in what had looked like genuine amusement at the raillery of a cold op named Chuck. And she vividly remembered the astonishingly innocent chortles of disbelief he'd given at several junctures during a nerve-wracking period of drug-induced amnesia. But she couldn't--
Stop it! she demanded, derailing her train of thought with a quick shake of her head. Just...stop it!
"Something wrong, Nikita?" Ben asked.
"No," she swiftly denied. "Not at all. Everything's fine."
She grimaced inwardly at the adjective, vowing to banish it from her non-Section vocabulary. Every time she said it, she thought of Michael.
She still haven't had a chance to follow up on their post-Kirilov mission conversation. Despite the face that the covert world in which they operated had been remarkably peaceful during the past two-plus weeks, he'd been out-of-pocket on a variety of unspecified assignments. Even Birkoff had had trouble keeping track of where Section's top op was--never mind what he was supposed to be doing.
Michael had run tactical for the one mission she'd had since the Kirilov retrieval. He hadn't been scheduled to, but last-minute intel had mandated the use of someone with his unique combination of language and technical skills. He'd been patched in from Ops-only-knew-where to talk her and another female operative through a very delicate scenario.
Nikita had had Michael "in her ear" many times before, of course. But there'd been something weirdly...erotic...about this particular episode. Although she'd carried out her part of the assignment flawlessly--she'd even garnered a compliment on her performance from Madeline during debriefing--her former trainer's seductive murmur had caused her to lose focus several times. She'd later discovered that her partner had had a similar problem.
"How do you do it, Nikita?" the other woman had asked during transport back to Section.
"Do...what?" she'd countered warily.
"Keep your mind on the job when you've got Michael talking to you? This was my first time with him. I'd heard he gave, uh, great com link, if you know what I mean. But, God! When he said 'reconnaissance,' I just about came. I'd almost rather have Birkoff calling the shots. Even Edgar. He's a fascistic bastard, but at least he doesn't make you forget to breathe."
"Well..." She'd squirmed in her seat, hoping her face didn't look as flushed as it felt.
"Hey, is the rumor true?"
Her heart had skipped a beat. "R-rumor?" she'd repeated, bracing herself for any number of embarrassingly intimate questions.
"That Michael might be getting out of Section."
"I--" Her throat had constricted. She'd had to force the rest of her response out. "--have no idea."
**************
Nikita sighed, her thoughts inevitably shifting back to the unsettling interview she'd had with Warren Curtis. Whether the Q-and-A session had helped or hurt Michael in terms of his chances of getting a formal recruitment offer from Oversight, she honestly couldn't say.
Whether some significance should be attached to the fact that Oversight's liaison man had chosen to conduct their meeting in Michael's office was another nagging question mark. But there was no denying that she'd experienced a nasty jolt when she'd walked in and seen the silver-haired official sitting behind Michael's desk.
Curtis had risen to his feet at her entrance, greeting her with mannered, but very mannerly, charm. He'd waited for her to seat herself before settling back into Michael's chair. After a moment or two of silence, he'd made his opening move.
"You don't like seeing me sitting here, do you, Nikita?" he'd asked.
"It's not up to me to like or dislike," she'd parried politely, folding her hands in her lap like a well-bred school girl. Operations had been the one who'd informed her that Oversight's representative wished to speak with her privately. He'd also told her that she was to give the gentlemen her full cooperation. "But it's not what I'm used to."
Curtis had smiled. "No, I don't imagine it is. You and Michael are unusually close, I gather."
"He was my trainer. My...mentor."
"And your lover, on occasion."
She controlled the urge to stiffen her back at this assertion.
"You've seen the Armel surveillance tapes?" she'd countered, infusing the question with just a touch of contempt.
Curtis had not taken offense. In fact, he'd seemed rather amused. "I'm not a voyeur, my dear."
"Mmm," she'd responded neutrally, silently noting that he hadn't answered her question. Which probably was only fair, since she'd more or less side-stepped his. She'd glanced around. The reality that the small, concrete-walled room in which she was sitting might soon be assigned to someone other than Michael had chilled her to the marrow. After a moment, she'd brought her gaze back to Curtis and bluntly inquired, "Are we being monitored?"
Another smile. Then, quietly, a smooth recitation of the code she knew temporarily deactivated surveillance in the office.
"I'm impressed," she'd said.
"I sincerely doubt that," Curtis had returned. A brief pause. Then: "Did Adrian use Michael as a lever against you?"
She'd taken a deep, desperate breath, disciplining herself to maintain eye contact. It hadn't been until afterward that she'd realized how closely she'd patterned her behavior on Michael's. Rebellious student though she'd been, he'd managed to school her very, very well.
"Yes," she'd answered flatly. "Adrian threatened to have him killed and arranged for a demonstration to prove she could have her threat carried out."
"So the things you did-- the prevaricating, the manipulating--were to keep him safe."
"Yes."
"There was no desire to pay him back for his...ill-usage...of you over the years?"
She'd glared at him, hating him for what he was suggesting. Hating herself because she'd known that more than a few of her past actions had been heedlessly predicated on the need to "get" Michael.
"I was acting under orders from Operations."
"Of course," Curtis had said amiably. "And later, acting under orders from the same person, Michael betrayed you to Section."
"That's his version of what happened."
"Michael's, you mean?"
"Yes."
"You don't view what he did as betrayal, then?"
She'd flashed back on the confrontation she and Michael had had in her apartment. Remembered the self-loathing she'd felt as she'd deceived him. Asked herself--for what seemed like the millionth time--how frequently Michael had experienced the same debilitating emotion as he'd fought to keep her alive.
"I left him no choice," she'd told Warren Curtis through clenched teeth.
The older man had lifted his brows. "He could have lied to Operations."
"And then Operations would have cancelled him."
"Which would have made it impossible for him to protect you in the aftermath of whatever disaster he knew you were intent on bringing down on yourself."
She'd flushed violently. Had Michael admitted--? she'd wondered, feeling slightly sick. Or was Curtis simply guessing about his long-term motives?
After a few overwrought seconds she'd answered, "Yes."
"Mmm."
"Operations was testing him," she'd spat, not bothering to temper the hostility she felt toward the leader of Section One.
"Paul does seem to have a penchant for that," Curtis had observed. He'd smiled a third time, not very pleasantly. "A pity he learns so little from it. Or that he fails to realize how educational the process has been for Michael."
The final sentence had shocked her. She'd never considered Section's treatment of Michael from that perspective. Which, she'd conceded later, had been incredibly stupid of her. She'd seen, over and over and over again, how her former trainer turned situations to his advantage. Why had she never contemplated the possibility that he might channel Section's abuse of him to his own ends?
"Something to think about, eh?" the man from Oversight had queried, sounding remarkably pleased with himself.
She'd nodded once, unable to trust her voice.
Curtis had drummed his long, lean fingers on the top of Michael's immaculately tidy desk for several moments. Then, almost casually, he'd said, "Tell me, Nikita. What would you do if you were free of Section?"
What would she--
"I don't know," she'd answered, her voice tight. It had been the truth.
"Do you think you'd be capable of surviving?"
"Surviving, yes. More than that..."
Curtis had inclined his head. "At the risk of sounding condescending, you are a remarkably self-aware young woman."
She'd almost laughed in his distinguished face.
"Which isn't to say you don't have a great deal to learn about yourself," her inquisitor had added with exquisite timing. Had the comment come from Madeline, she would have assumed the intention was to wound. From Curtis, it seemed meant to...warn. And, in a strange way, to encourage her in the pursuit of self-knowledge. "What about Michael?"
"What...what about him?"
"How do you think he'd fare if he were free of Section?"
She'd looked away, suddenly unable to sustain his penetrating gaze.
"I...I can't tell you," she'd said slowly, scarcely able to hear herself above the thudding of her heart. "I've n-never really seen Michael outside of--"
"Nikita?" Ben's voice, quiet but concerned, yanked her back to the present. She glanced around, startled to find that they'd come to a halt in front of a brightly-lit bookstore-cum-cafe. "Are you sure you're okay?"
***********
"I'm really sorry," Nikita said for the third time several minutes later as she seated herself at a small table in the bookstore's coffee bar.
"Enough apologies," Ben said, easing her chair into position. He then moved around the table and seated himself. "You have things on your mind. I understand."
"Still..." She pulled a face, recalling the 'M-chip' idea she'd had two weeks back. What had happened to the concept, 'Out of sight, out of mind?' she wondered. A few fleeting glimpses aside, she hadn't seen Michael since the conclusion of the Kirilov mission. So why couldn't she keep him out of her head?
He'd even started turning up in her dreams again. He'd been largely absent from them during the nightmarish aftermath of the Adrian episode. But as soon as her schedule had lightened...
"Still, nothing," Ben had answered firmly, reaching across the table and clasping her left hand with his right. Their fingers interlaced. Their palms kissed. "If it's something you want to talk about, please talk. If it's something you just want--or need--to think about, go ahead and do that."
She tilted her head, studying her companion intently for several seconds. He was so...good, she thought. So kind. Not a doormat, by any means. Not a man who used his "sensitivity" to score psychological points, either. But a genuinely caring person.
And he cared about her. She could see it in his eyes. Hear it in his voice. Feel it in the lingering tenderness of his kisses.
It astonished her that she--she!--could attract the interest of a man like Benjamin Aiken. She kept waiting for what she sensed was blossoming between them to wither or turn ugly. She kept expecting the worst. Yet for more than two wonderful weeks, her expectations had repeatedly been proven wrong.
"Supposing I did go ahead and think," she said, letting one corner of her mouth curl upward. "Stressful though that might be for me. What would you do while I was busy cogitating?"
"Oh--" He began to massage the fragile skin of her inner wrist, the amber flecks in his brown eyes turning to molten gold. "--I don't know. Stare at you, maybe. Indulge in prurient male fantasies."
Nikita laughed, a delicious jitter of response dancing up her arm. "Sounds stimulating."
"You have no idea."
"I might." She gave him a flirty look. "I've been doing some extra reading in Plato's Republic. The part about the three principles and the three corresponding pleasures?"
"Lovers of wisdom versus lovers of honor versus lovers of gain."
"Ummm-hmmm." Her stomach fluttered at the word lovers.
"You know, Nikita, if you were taking my course for credit, I might think you were trying to impress me to get a better grade."
"But since I'm not?"
"Well--"
"Are you two ready to order?" an adenoidal voice interrupted. Its source was a twenty-something male with acne-pocked cheeks and a scraggly goatee.
Ben's fingers relaxed. Nikita withdrew her hand, feeling her cheeks heat. She gave the young man a dazzling smile, wondering fleetingly if his terrible sense of timing might indicate that he was a distant relative of one Seymour Birkoff.
"I'll have a hot chocolate, please," she requested. "Extra whipped cream."
The waiter gulped loudly, staring at her mouth. After a moment, he dragged his gaze up to her eyes. He looked as though he'd been slammed in the head with a two-by-four.
"Hu-huh?"
"Hot chocolate," she enunciated. "Extra whipped cream."
"Extra whipped cream," he repeated, bobbing his head. "Yeah. Definitely. Lots of it." More head-bobbing. Another glance at her mouth. Then he turned away.
"Uh--" Ben cleared his throat, giving Nikita a droll look. "Excuse me?"
The waiter turned back. "Yeah?"
"I'd like to order, too, please."
A frown. As though someone other than the beautiful blonde with the big blue eyes wishing to place an order was an alien concept.
"Uh...okay," the young man finally allowed. "That's cool."
"Green tea."
"Hey, good choice! Excellent anti-oxidents!" The sincerity of this compliment was undercut by the fact that the waiter delivered it while eyeballing Nikita with lustful adoration. "And extra whipped cream. I won't forget. I'll make it fresh."
"Thank you," Nikita told him.
"You're welcome," she was fervently assured. "Totally."
"You're a dangerous woman, Ms. Lewis," Ben informed her after their hapless server stumbled away. "That smile of yours should be registered as a lethal weapon."
A woman with your looks, who can kill--
Shut up, Michael! Nikita silently commanded.
"Actually, it is," she confided aloud.
"You probably ruined that kid for life, you know."
She laughed. "I doubt that."
"I don't. And I don't doubt he'll forget my tea, either."
****
The waiter did forget Ben's tea.
But in his favor, he not only mounded Nikita's hot chocolate with about a half-cup of freshly whipped cream, he also sprinkled the whipped cream with chocolate shavings and topped it off with a glistening maraschino cherry. What's more, when he returned to the table to deliver Ben's tea, he brought a bowl of whipped cream, just in case his definition of "extra" hadn't been lavish enough.
"Told you," Ben said after the young man finally allowed himself to be shooed away.
"So you did," Nikita concurred, taking a careful drink of the hot chocolate. Depite her best efforts to avoid it, she felt a smear of cream settle on her upper lip. She licked it off.
"Thank God the kid didn't stick around long enough to see that. Ben's tone was teasing. The expression in his eyes was not.
Nikita fluttered her lashes. "Just wait, Dr. Aiken. There's more."
"Don't I know it."
The next thirty minutes or so were delightful. Full of flirtation and laughter. The giddiness Nikita had experienced in the wake of their first "coffee date" suffused her.
She was in the middle of relating a droll story based on something Walter had once told her when she realized that she'd lost Ben's attention. He was staring off in the distance, his gaze unfocused. His mobile mouth was pressed into a thin line.
"Ben?" she asked, leaning forward. Section-honed instincts snapped to alert. She could practically feel the first kick of adrenaline pumping into her system. "Is something wrong?"
He looked at her. Flashed a crooked smile of apology.
"Sorry," he replied. "I think that, uh, genuinely artifical 'golden-flavored oil' you talked me into getting on our popcorn at the movie isn't mixing to well with the, uh, anti-oxidents in my tea. Would you excuse me for a minute?"
"Oh." She nodded. "Sure. Are you--"
"I'll be fine, Nikita. Don't worry."
Fine, she thought as he rose from his chair and headed toward the men's restroom. I'm really starting to hate that word!
Sighing, she batted a lock of hair back over her shoulder. Then she took another sip of her now-lukewarm chocolate. The memory of the infatuated waiter tickled her. She smiled.
A few moments later, she began to look around. She'd never been in this particular establishment before, although she'd gathered that Ben was a regular patron.
It was a nice place, she reflected. Very civilized. And sitting in the midst of the niceness and the civilization, she could almost forget that there was a Section--
No.
Oh, no.
Nikita froze, her eyes locking onto a shockingly familiar figure. She blinked once, twice, telling herself she must be hallucinating. But she wasn't.
Standing at the 'Assistance' desk in the front of the store, leafing through a book with an air of scholarly engrossment, was Michael.
*************
"What are you doing here?" Nikita demanded in a harsh undertone a few moments later. She was trembling with anger and a terrible sense of violation. That she'd lost the expectation of privacy since her involuntary induction into Section was something she'd come to terms with. But this--!
Damn, Michael, she thought. Damn him!
Michael gently closed the oversized volume he'd been examining, his fingers lingering briefly on the cover. Something about Japanese woodblock prints, a small corner of her fulminating brain noted. The text appeared to be written in Japanese.
She hadn't known he read Japanese.
Michael met her furious gaze evenly. He didn't seem surprised by her approach or her emotional upset. His coolness fueled her temper.
"Picking up some books," he answered quietly.
Her palm itched with the urge to slap him. Did he honestly believe she was that big a fool? she wondered bitterly. Did he think she'd learned nothing--nothing!--from the lies he told her over the years?
"Oh, puh-leeze," she said, her tone scornful. "Admit it, Michael. You're spying on me. Is it time for Section's annual personnel review? Or did you take it upon yourself to check up on your ex-material?"
Her former trainer studied her silently, the silver in his eyes turning to steel. An odd feeling of apprehension suddenly jittered up Nikita's spine.
She'd misjudged him before, she conceded as the silence lengthened. Was it possible--
No!
Not this time.
Michael turning up here couldn't be coincidence she argued to herself. There was only one logical explanation for it. He'd been following her.
Her...and Ben.
"I noticed you when I walked in a few minutes ago," Michael replied, his manner still calm and controlled. "I don't deny I watched you and your friend. But if I'd had you under surveillance--Section-sanctioned or otherwise--, I wouldn't have allowed you to see me."
Nikita took a deep breath, her uneasiness about the conclusion to which she'd leapt escalating. Still, she clung to her initial assumption and snapped, "Not unless you wanted to make a point."
Something--disillusionment? disgust? dismay?--flashed through the depths of Michael's eyes. Then he adjusted his stance, just a bit. A sudden shiver of awareness coursed through Nikita's body. A uniquely feminine kind of fear merged with her previous apprehensivenes.
She'd seen her one-time mentor use his sexuality to intimidate others on occasion, of course. But until this moment, he'd never really targetted her for this primal form of domination.
"I have other ways of making points with you, Nikita," he murmured, his voice like a velvet-sheathed blade. The subtext of his remark that she'd do well to contemplate the fact that he'd spared her exposure to these ways many, many times over the years.
That Michael had used his seductive powers to bend her to his will in certain situations couldn't be denied. But she couldn't claim he'd ever employed them in a bid to break her to the mold required of every other operative in Section.
And he could have done it. Particularly during her training. There wasn't a doubt in Nikita's mind that Michael could have taken her soul along with her body anytime during those two hellish years. He could have snapped her psyche as easily as he could have snapped her neck if he'd elected to do so.
Even now...
Nikita's nostrils flared on a shuddering release of breath. She was still trembling, but it had nothing to do with anger. She swallowed convulsively, flexing and unflexing her fingers, scrambling to regain her self-control.
And then Michael's appearance registered with her. Not the fact that he was the same place at the same time as she. But, rather, how he...looked.
This was not the Michael she thought she knew, she realized with a visceral jolt of emotion.
Start with the fact that his hair was wind-ruffled to the point of wildness and he was making to effort to restore it to order. To look at that sensual tangle of cinnamon-colored curls was to want to touch.
Then there was his attire. Undercover missions aside, Nikita had never seen Michael in anything but immaculately tailored black. Yet here he stood, clad in form-fitting caramel-colored cords, a battered but still-beautiful brown leather jacket, and a snug fitting cotton turtleneck. The turtleneck, partially visible through the unsipped front of the jacket, bore several brownish splotches.
"What's that from?" she blurted out, indicating the stains. They looked...Lord. The only thing she could think of was dried blood.
Michael glanced down at himself. She had the feeling he was surprised to see the discolorations. Small wonder. Her former trainer was as fastidious as a cat when it came to his personal grooming. Which wasn't to suggest that he was vain. For all that he was aware of his physical appeal to members of both sexes, she'd discovered that he was essentially indifferent to--and disconcertingly objective about--his appearance. Aside from a few instances when it had been part of a mission profile, she'd never seen him preen.
Still, he was meticulous in his habits. If truth be told, she sometimes thought his aversion to untidiness bordered on the pathological.
"Oil paint," he answered.
"Oil...paint?"
"Burnt umber, I think."
It took her a moment or two to process the implications of this response.
"You--" she swallowed again "--you paint?"
He nodded, averting his eyes for an instant. In that instant, Nikita knew that he painted as he did so many other things: superlatively. She also knew that he had a passion for it. A passion he obviously felt he couldn't--or was it shouldn't?--share with her.
He'd told her the truth. He hadn't been spying on her. His being here, now, was purely a matter of chance.
"M-Michael," she began tremulously. "I d-didn't--"
***********
"Sorry this took so long, Michael," a cheerful male voice interrupted. Its source was a chunkily-built man who sported wire-rimmed glasses and a retreating hairline. He set a stack of books on the Assistance desk, favoring Nikita with a quick, curious look. "Our new stockboy has his own system for organizing the will-call orders. I think it's called alphabet roulette."
"No problem, David," Michael replied with characteristic courtesy. "And I'll take this, too."
"This" was the volume on Japanese woodblocks.
David grinned, obviously pleased. "I figured. I know you have a weakness for--uh--what's the word again?"
"Ukiyoe."
"Right." He looked at Nikita again, offering her a tentative smile. "You came in with Ben Aiken, didn't you?"
Nikita felt herself color. She slanted a glance at Michael. He met her gaze steadily, his expression impossible to decipher. If he hadn't known her companion's name before, he knew it now.
"Yeah," she affirmed after a tiny hestitation, returning the book dealer's smile.
"You really should meet Ben, Michael," David commented offhandedly. Nikita's stomach lurched at the suggestion. "He teaches philosophy at the university. I think you two would hit it off."
"Mmm," Michael said neutrally.
The book dealer waited a beat, his eyes shifting from Michael to Nikita and back again. Nikita spent a second wondering what he was thinking, then abruptly decided that she didn't really want to know.
"Well," he eventually said, clearing his throat. "Let me put the woodblock book on your account and get the other stuff bagged. It'll just take a minute."
"Thank you."
David pivoted away, then check himself and pivoted back. "Oh. That reminds me. How does it look for your coming to brunch tomorrow?"
Nikita's jaw went slack with astonishment. She managed to steel it before her mouth dropped open.
Brunch? This...civilian...was asking Section's top op about having brunch?
"Good," Michael answered agreeably. "But I can't guarantee--"
"I know the drill," David interrupted with an easy chuckle. "You get a tip that an Old Master's about to come on the market and you're off. No sweat. FYI, Barbara Welch will not be there. Emily's still mortified about what happened with her the last time you came over. She'd like a chance to apologize in person."
"No need."
"She thinks there is. So I'd take it as a major favor it you'd show up tomorrow and let her grovel. And hold off on calling her by her first name while she's going through her 'I'm sorry' routine, okay? She told me there's something about the way you say Emily that makes her lose her concentration."
Michael's lips quirked with what Nikita took to be genuine amusement. "I'll do my best."
"Great! I'll be right back."
"Who's Emily?" she asked as the rotund bookseller moved out of earshot.
"David's wife."
"And...Barbara Welch?" As if she couldn't guess.
Michael gave her a very direct look. "A woman Emily thought might appeal to me."
There was something provocative around his pronunciation of the name, Nikita acknowledged, trying to sustain his gaze. She found she couldn't. She dipped her head, staring blindly at the floor. Her chest felt tight, as though it had been strapped with bands of steel. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
Without warning, her brain replayed a snippet of her interview with Warren Curtis.
What about Michael? the liaison from Oversight had asked her.
What...what about him? she'd countered, uncertain what he'd been attempting to discover.
How do you think he'd fare if he were free of Section?
I...I can't tell you, she'd admitted painfully. I've never really seen Michael outside of Section...
Well, now she had, she thought. For better or for worse, she'd just been smacked in the face by the fact that there was a side to Michael she'd never imagined existed. He had...well, if not friends, precisely, then certainly solid acquaintances who accepted his cover story as a matter of course.
He had a life outside of Section.
A life in which he apparently created as well as appreciated art. A life in which ordinary people casually invited to brunch and tried to fix him up with ordinary women. A life in which--
She hated it, Nikita realized with a rush of anguish. She hated that somehow, some way, Michael had carved out this small oasis of...normalcy...for himself. She envied what he'd evidently been able to achieve more than she could articulate.
To see him like this was almost unendurable. To be confronted with proof positive of how completely he'd divided himself in order to survive in Section...
God.
Oh, God.
She lifted her head, not caring that the turmoil she was feeling must be starkly written on every feature of her face. Michael's eyes met hers for a single, searing moment of communion, then slid right to focus on something--or was it someone?--behind her.
"Michael--?" she whispered.
"There you are, Nikita," Ben Aiken said. "I thought I'd lost you."
************
Ben never found out why what he'd thought was a harmless bit of hyperbole misfired so badly. But no sooner did he finish uttering the words "I thought I'd lost you" then he realized that he'd somehow stuck his foot in his mouth.
No. Not just his foot. His leg. He'd jammed his leg in his mouth, clear up to the knee.
He'd spotted Nikita with the auburn-haired stranger almost as soon as he'd exited the bookstore's men's room. He'd stopped dead in his tracks, shocked by the electricity he'd sensed flowing back and forth between them. Not matter that there'd been no physical contact. These two people--his Nikita and a man whose name he didn't know but whose face seemed naggingly familiar--were linked at a very elemental level. They were inside each other's heads. Under each other's skins.
Opposite as dark and light in a way, yet obviously and inextricably bound.
Interdependent.
Two of a kind, he'd thought with a sudden hollowness in his belly.
For a moment, Benjamin Aiken had been tempted to turn on his heel and walk away. He wasn't a coward. But he'd learned over the years that a man had to pick his fights. And considering the losing battle in which he was already engaged...
Oddly, it was the looming spector of defeat in the latter struggle that made him decide against abandoning the field.
That, and the fact that he'd fallen in love with Nikita Lewis.
"B-Ben!" she exclaimed, spinning to face him. Her cheeks were pale. Her sky-colored eyes, dangerously bright.
What the hell had the son of a bitch in brown been saying to her?
"I--uh--" he hesitated, fearing that anything he chose to say might exacerbate what every instinct he had told him was a very volatile situation.
"You must be Ben Aiken," the mystery man inserted in smoothly accented English, extending his hand. An instant before, he'd seemed as shocked off balance as Nikita. But he'd recovered his social equilibrium with almost frightening swiftness. "I'm Michael--"
The word sangfroid--literally, cold blood--flitted through Ben's mind. Then he got a good look at the other man's eyes and revised his snap assessment. Because what he saw in the depths of those penetrating hazel eyes was heat. It was layered beneath ice and iron, but it was there.
"Uh...how do you do." He noted that Michael Whatever-the-heck-he'd-said-his-last-name-was apparently didn't subscribe to the crush-the-other-guy's-fingers school of handshaking. His grip was firm, but not intended to hurt.
"I'm sorry if you thought I'd deserted you, Ben," Nikita said, slipping her right arm through his left. As much as Ben liked the contact, he couldn't help feeling that she was grabbing hold of him to make a point. Still. he wasn't about to shrug off her touch. A man took the openings he was offered and made the most of them. "But when I caught sight of Michael--well, it's been awhile since he and I--uh--"
"Nikita and I have some clients in common," Michael picked up suavely.
Damn. Ben grimaced inwardly. They work together.
He wouldn't be surprised to learn they did other things together--had more than "clients" in common--as well, he reflected bitterly. Their body language had communicated a remarkably degree of intimacy.
And yet...
Nikita was standing by his side, holding his arm. She was with him.
"You're in security, too, Michael?" he asked after a moment. Might as well find out a few things about the competition.
The other man smiled, seemingly unfazed by the wariness Ben knew he hadn't been able to filter out of his voice.
"I'm an art dealer," he said easily. "Nikita's overseen the delivery of a number of purchases I've brokered. She's also demonstrated the weaknesses of several supposedly fail-safe alarm systems."
"I...see." Ben glanced at Nikita. She met his gaze limpidly, leaving him more than a little confused. The sexual current he'd felt was completely gone. "I didn't--"
"All set, Michael," a vaguely familiar male voice announced briskly. Ben turned slightly, recognizing the speaker as the manager of the book store. Daniel Something. No. Wait. Not Daniel--
"Thank you, David," Michael said, accepting a handled shopping bag.
"Anything to enlarge the profit margin," the balding merchant returned with a grin. Then he looked at Ben. "'Evening, Dr. Aiken. Funny thing. I just mentioned to Michael a couple of minutes ago that I thought you two would hit it off if you ever had a chance to meet. And what do you know? You have."
**********
It could have been worse, Nikita assured herself about twenty-five minutes later as Ben drove her to the apartment complex where she lived. When all was said and done, the bookstore encounter with Michael could have been much, much worse.
Of course, things would have been much, much better had the encounter never occurred. But since it had...
She swallowed a sigh, letting her shoulder slump. Her mind leap-frogged back to the time Michael had shown up at her apartment without warning and run into Gray Wellman. To say that her then-mentor's behavior on that occasion had been problematic was to understate the case to a laughable degree. From the Gallic cheek-kiss of greeting he'd more or less forced upon her to his lunatic assertion that he and she were family, the entire episode had been a nightmare. Cringe-worthy in the extreme.
At least he hadn't touched her this time, she mused, crossing her legs. Those few seconds when he'd turned on the sexual juice aside, he'd made no effort to capitalize on the undeniable physical connection between them.
Indeed, he'd been remarkably forebearing in the face of what she now conceded had been a wrongful accusation. While she didn't think that she'd been totally unreasonable in jumping to the conclusion she had--the notion that Michael might have been surveilling her for Section has hardly farfetched!--she was willing to admit that she'd overreacted. Her frustration about her inability to keep her former trainer out of her thoughts had primed her for emotional detonation. And when she'd blown up...
He'd handled it. Coolly. Quietly. Calmly. Never once pointing out that their unplanned face-to-face represented a violation of his privacy as well as hers.
He'd supported her cover story with extraordinary deftness, too, she acknowledged uncomfortably. So deftly had he dovetailed his cover with hers that it suggested he might have pre-planned his remarks.
Might have pre-planned? she mocked. This was Michael! Of course he'd worked out a connectice web of falsehoods in advance. The man was always looking ahead. Always considering contingencies. Where others (herself included) were constantly surprised into having to improvise, he rehearsed for the unexpected!
Nikita surpressed another sigh and uncrossed her legs. She rubbed her palms against her coat, continuing to remember.
He'd been...pleasant...toward Ben. Not overly so. There'd been no immediate buddy-bonding. Instant intimacy wasn't Michael's style under the best of circumstances. But there'd been none of the dog-in-the-manager attitude he'd exhibited around Gray, either.
Bizarre as it sounded, she'd gotten the distinct impression that her former trainer had liked her philosophy professor. Approved of him, even.
And Ben had seemed to like him back. Oh, sure, she'd detected some flashes of male territoriality in his initial response to Michael, but after the first few minutes...
"Interesting man, your Michael," Ben commented, flicking on his turn signal.
"He's not my Michael." The correction was out before she could censor it. Gee, Nikita, she berated herself. Could you sound any more defensive?
"Mmm," her companion responded. "Is he an artist as well as a dealer?"
She stiffened, alarmed. "Why do you ask that?"
"The stains on his shirt looked like paint."
"Oh." She forced herself to relax. "Yes. He, uh, uses oils."
"Is he any good?"
"I...I don't know. Michael's never showed me his work."
"Ah."
The single syllable was knowing. And replete with relief. It was plain that Ben had interpreted her previous statement to mean that she and Michael were not very close.
Which they weren't, she told herself, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. When things were peeled down to the nittiest of the gritty, she and Michael could best be described as intimate strangers.
But it hurt. It hurt to confront the truth about how little she actually knew about the man who'd basically remade her life.
About the man who'd basically remade...her.
***********
"I finally remembered where I knew him from," Ben remarked.
Nikita's heart skipped a beat. Earlier suspicions reasserted themselves with nasty effect.
"Oh?" she replied, managing to keep her voice within its normal register. She studied her companion's chiselled profile anxiously. "You'd seen M-Michael before tonight?"
A nod. "I've been driving myself nuts trying to figure out why he looked so familiar. It just came to me. It was...mmm, about two weeks ago. I spotted him in the bookstore. He was looking for something in the philosophy section."
The volume by Francis Bacon, Nikita realized, biting her lower lip. Ben must have seen Michael when he'd been buying the book he'd given to Walter to give to her!
She'd never even bothered to thank him for his gift, she recalled with a sudden pang of distress. Not that she thought he'd be receptive to an expression of gratitude. She knew how Michael reacted to kind words and compliments, especially when they came from her. Still. She should have endured the predictable blank stare and said...something. Maybe she could have pried a "You're welcome" out of him. Even at his most stubbornly non-responsive, Michael was exquisitely polite.
"What really snagged my attention was that there was a very attractive redhead trying to catch his eye," Ben went on, chuckling. "He was oblivious."
"I'm sure he noticed her," Nikita countered dryly. And she was. Michael, she'd learned the hard way, noticed just about everything. He also had an ego-shattering knack of tripping up those who thought otherwise.
"Well, you know him better than I do. But from where I was standing, he seemed completely unaware of the interest he'd stirred up. I also got the distinct impression the redhead could have stripped down to her skvvies and he wouldn't have blinked."
Nikita was startled into giving an edgy laugh. Lord! If only Ben realized how much could be read into Michael failing to bat an eyelash!
She considered the scenario the man sitting to her left had just described. She found it all too credible. Michael was acutely conscious of the effect he had on women. And on men, for that matter. Given Section's ruthless exploitation of his sexuality, how could he not be?
But he also had a maddening habit of behaving as though his appeal was something he could switch on and off at will. He appeared to regard himself as...as...neuter unless he was consciously operating in valentine mode. And there were moments when his obtuse attitude so infuriated her that--
Stop it! Nikita ordered herself. Just stop it! What's wrong with you? You're here with Ben and all you can do is think about Michael!
Almost as bad: That the man she was with seemed to be doing a lot of thinking about Michael, too.
Ben brought his car to a halt by the curb in front of her building. After turning off the engine and setting the brake, he undid his seatbelt and got out. Then he walked around to the passenger's side and opened her door. Nikita followed his movements carefully, admiring the easy economy of his stride.
They walked slowly to the entrance of her apartment complex, their steps in perfect synch. The night air was cool and crisp. A crescent moon smiled down on them for a star-spangled sky.
"So," Ben said, coming to a stop a few feet in front of the door. He turned to face her.
"So," she returned, turning to face him.
"I had a good time tonight."
"Me, too."
"I--" his gaze flicked from her eyes to her mouth and back again "--liked listening to you laugh."
A soft flush of pleasure suffused Nikita. "It was more fun when you joined in."
Ben smiled crookedly. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." She smiled back.
There was a pause. A breeze toyed with Nikita's hair, sending a lock of it fluttering across her face. Before she could bat the errant strands away, Ben lifted his right hand and brushed them back behind her left ear. While his touch was gentle, his fingertips were cold. Which of these qualities sent a shiver running through her, she wasn't sure. Perhaps it was a blend of both.
Slowly, very slowly, Ben slid his hand down and around, cupping her nape. Her pulse began to flutter with anticipation. A quicksilver prickle danced along her nerve endings, just beneath the surface of her skin.
Yes, she thought.
Oh, yes. Please.
The caress began tenderly. A teasing brush of mouth against mouth. But it soon escalated in intensity. Encircling Ben's neck with her arms, Nikita gave herself up to the honeyed rush of sensation it evoked. She wanted this, she told herself. She wanted...this man.
She parted her lips in answer to the coaxing of Ben's tongue. He angled his head a few degrees and deepened the kiss. Her breath caught briefly in her throat, then released in a sigh of satisfaction to marry with his.
How long the kiss lasted, Nikita could never calculate. It wasn't something to be measured in moments or minutes. But it was of sufficient duration to leave them both slightly unsteady when they finally eased apart.
"Would you like to come up?" she invited huskily, gazing up at Ben's face with wide eyes. "Have a cup of coffee or...something else?"
**********
Ben wanted to say yes. To the coming up. To the coffee. To the "something else." Nikita could read it in his dark, deep-set eyes.
But then she saw his expression change. His features tightened. He turned his head slightly, glancing away from her. The movement created an odd combination of shadows on his face, underscoring the angled prominence of his cheekbones.
Her mind darted back to the look Ben had gotten right before he'd excused himself to go to the bookstore's restroom. She frowned, anxiety arrowing through her.
"Ben?" she questioned, placing a hand on his forearm. "Are you all right?"
He brought his gaze back to hers. "I'm fine."
Fine.
God! Of all the four-letter words in the English language...
Maybe it wasn't just Michael. Maybe this refusal to admit to any kind of physical weakness was a male thing. Like leaving the toilet seat up. Or refusing to ask for directions. Then again, maybe it was her. Maybe she was a magnet for men who couldn't tell the truth about how they felt!
"You don't look fine," she declared. Which wasn't really accurate. His features were relaxed again. He looked...okay.
Okay. Okay! He looked fine.
Ben sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You're going to force me to confess, huh?"
Nikita stiffened. A dozen possibilities--each one more awful than the one before it--slammed through her brain. And for one hideous instant, she found herself thinking about Carla.
Carla, the woman she'd cherished as a friend. Regarded as the sister she'd never had, but always wanted.
Carla, who'd deceived her from the moment they'd met.
Carla, who was stone cold dead from a single bullet to the skull.
"C-confess?" she repeated, conscious that she'd shifted her body and assumed a defensive stance.
"I have a sensitive stomach."
Huh?
"Ex-excuse me?"
"An ulcer," Ben clarified, grimacing. He seemed extremely uncomfortable. "I have an...ulcer."
"An ulcer." A wild surge of relief left Nikita a little weak in the knees. "Is that--" she stopped herself before she said the word all. An ulcer might seem like a minor thing to her, but it obviously was a big deal to Ben. "Why didn't you say something before?"
"Why? Because it's not exactly the sort of thing a man wants to announce to a woman he's attracted to, Nikita! It sounds--" a second grimace "--wimpy."
A laugh tickled at the back of Nikita's throat. She swallowed it down, recognizing that she was dealing with something very, very fragile. Namely, the male ego.
"You think it's more, um, manly to suffer in silence," she finally said.
Ben eyed her balefully. "Are the members of your sex born knowing how to make the members of mine feel like absolutely idiots or is it something you get together and practice?"
There was another tickle at the back of her throat. This time, Nikita let the laugh out. She couldn't help it. A moment later, Bill joined in.
She'd told him the truth before they'd kissed. Sharing a laugh was more fun than savoring it alone.
"I'm sorry," she eventually apologized, her lips still twitching. "That suffering in silence comment was, um--"
"Don't even consider saying 'a low blow.'"
"Never." She fluttered her lashes innocently. "I was thinking more along the lines of 'hitting below the belt.'"
Ben smiled. So did she. And then they both laughed again.
"I have milk upstairs," she offered after a couple of seconds. At least, she hoped she did. She vaguely recalled chug-a-lugging out of a nearly full carton when she'd gotten home the previous evening. Surely she couldn't have emptied it. "That's all right for ulcers, isn't it?"
"Definitely." Ben reached out and stroked the curve of her cheek. "But would you mind if I asked for a rain check?"
The tenderness of his touch helped mitigate the disappointment Nikita felt. It also helped shore up her always vulnerable self-esteem. This was a temporary deferral, not a permament rejection.
"Of course not," she assured him.
He studied her silently for several moments, then lowered his hand. "I'm booked solid with appointments Monday after class," he said. "But what about Tuesday night?"
"What about it?" She told herself not to get her hopes up.
"How does dinner at my place sound?"
Nikita's pulse gave a hop-skip-jump of delight.
"It sounds wonderful," she answered honestly. Then, not wanting to seem too eager, she added with a teasing lilt, "The question is, how will it taste?"
**********
Sunday was a get-things-done day for Nikita. She ran a dozen errands, washed several loads of laundry, cleaned, read two weeks' worth of philosophy class assignments, and tried on nearly every piece of clothing she owned in an effort to decide what she'd wear to Ben's place Tuesday night.
Her phone remained silent. No calls. Not even a wrong number or an annoying pitch from a telemarketer.
She attempted--with mixed results--to refrain from thinking about Michael. But the memory of the encounter in the bookstore kept replaying in her mind. Try though she might to avoid it, she repeatedly found herself reviewing the things she'd discovered about her former trainer during that brief out-of-Section interlude.
She'd learned that he painted.
That he had items in his personal wardrobe which weren't basic black.
That he ate...brunch.
That he apparently wasn't jealous about finding her in the company of another man.
Which wasn't to imply that she wanted him to be jealous Nikita insisted to herself as she walked through Section's command and control area on Monday morning. She very definitely did not. Because Michael being jealous was--was--
She glanced up toward Operation's glassed-in office. What she saw made her check her stride. Operations was staring down at her. He was frowning. Whether it was a "good" frown--as in, "Ah, Nikita, the answer to my problems"--or a "bad" one--as in "Ah, Nikita, the bane of my existence!"--she couldn't tell.
Standing to his right, apparently engrossed in reading something on a data panel, was Michael. He was back to flawless operative form. Polished. Professional. Not a hair out of place. His compelling face bore no expression at all.
Nikita forced herself to walk on, uncomfortably conscious of the thudding of her heart and the thrumming of her blood.
Their--hers and Michael's--situations could very easily have been reversed, she reflected as she turned down the corridor that led to Madeline's domain. She could have strolled in someplace and found him enjoying coffee and conversation with another woman.
So what if Barbara What's-her-Face hadn't "appealed" to him? His non-Section acquaintances undoubtedly had scores of attractive, available females panting to be flung in his path. A man like Michael--handsome, heterosexual, as well-to-to as he was well-bred--could have his pick.
Which was no problem for her.
No. Problem. At. All.
Six months ago, it might have been. She was willing to admit that. But hellish though it had been, her removal from Michael's sphere of influence had given her a chance to develop some emotional perspective on what they had.
And didn't have.
She'd spoken the truth when she'd told Ben that there was a man for whom she had feelings. She'd also spoken the truth when she'd told him that she'd realized she had to move on...despite those feelings. She did need to determine what was important to her.
And given the very real possibility that the life-and-death circumstances which had brought her and Michael together might soon be altered beyond all recognition...
Her hands fisted. A chill of despair shivered through her.
What happens if he accepts the offer? she'd asked Birkoff and Walter. If he tells Oversight--yes?
Michael gets out of Section, the young computer whiz had answered bluntly. He's free.
Nikita came to a stop in front of Madeline's office. She took a steadying break, then squared her shoulders. Whether what she was about to do was very smart or very stupid or something in between, she wasn't sure. But she'd made up her mind it had to be done.
She tapped in the request-for-admission code. A moment later, the metal doors slid open with an automated swoosh. Taking another deep breath, she stepped onto what she privately thought was the most dangerous piece of turf in Section One.
"Good morning, Nikita," Madeline greeted her pleasantly. She was seated behind her desk, her gaze fixed on her computer screen. If she was in any way surprised by this unscheduled visit, she gave no sign of it. Indeed, something in her manner suggest that she'd been expecting it.
Then again, something in her manner always suggested that she had advance knowledge of what was going to occur.
"Good morning, Madeline." Nikita walked down the steps from the door. "Do you have a few minutes?"
The older woman took a few seconds to type in a sequence on her keyboard then looked up.
"More than a few, if you require them," she replied, indicating the chair across the desk from her with a graceful but imperious gesture. She'd had a manicure, Nikita noticed. Her neatly trimmed nails were buffed to an expensive-looking gloss. "You've caught me between crises."
"Things have seemed unusually the past few weeks," Nikita commented, seating herself. She took care to keep her posture formal. While there were times when slumping served a purpose, this was not one of them.
"Mmm. I can't decide whether it's the calm before the storm or something more ominous."
"I don't suppose you've considered the possibility the world situation might be...improving?"
Madline mulled this semi-sarcastic inquiry for a bit, seeming to weigh her answer to it very carefully. Eventually she smiled serenely and said, "Actually, no."
"Ask an idiotic question..."
"Not idiotic. Idealistic."
"Which is probably worse, from Section's point of view."
"That depends." The brunette steepled her perfectly groomed fingers, her brown-eyed gaze steady. "But I doubt you came here to discuss...philosophy."
"No," Nikita acknowledged. "At least, not directly." She paused, formulating precisely what she wanted--needed--to ask. Disciplining herself to meet Madeline's scrutiny she said, "You've told me several times that Section doesn't necessarily object to outside relationships."
"True. Although I've also stressed that such relationships must be subordinated to Section's demands."
"I understand that. Generally. What I'm trying to figure out are the...specifics...of the subordination. I mean, I've met a man--"
"Benjamin Aiken. Yes. We know."
Blindsided by this chilly assertion, Nikita gaped.
"H-how--?" she began, unable to disguise her shock.
And then she knew. A familiar name rose to her lips.
Embittered and angry, she spat it out.
***********
"Michael?" Madeline arched her brows in delicate inquiry. She swiveled her chair to the right, clicking on another console. Nikita watched her type something and input it. The computer screen blanked for a split second, then blossomed with lines and lines of data.
Section One's mistress of mind games skimmed through the information, frowning ever so slightly.
"No," she eventually said, shaking her head. "Your connection with Dr. Aiken was picked up about ten days ago by random surveillance."
"R-random surveillance?" She suddenly remembered Eric, the young watcher who'd tempted her with the possibility of escape from Section.
Fool, she berated herself. You...fool.
The brunette entered another request on the keyboard. The written data on the screen gave way to a digital image. Nikita's stomach knotted as she identified it as a picture of herself and Ben entering the downtown bistro where they'd had dinner.
"Everyone Class Two and higher is subject to RS on occasion," the older woman explained. Her tone was blase. "Given your end game actions in the Adrian episode, I'm sure you can understand why we've felt it necesary to target you more frequently than the norm."
"Given my end game actions, I'm surprised Section hasn't reinstalled the Candid Camera gear in my apartment and hung a tracking device around my neck," Nikita retorted, stung.
Madeline smiled thinly. "Perhaps we've decided you require more subtle handling."
"You'd categorize doubling my mission frequency for more than four months in a row as 'subtle'?"
"Considering that you're still with us and back on normal rotation, yes."
Nikita sucked in a breath, stunned by this sledgehammer riposte. Was Madeline threatening her? she wondered, shifting in her chair. Or...was her remark intended as a warning?
"Madeline--"
"I gather Michael is aware of your involvement with Dr. Aiken?"
It took Nikita a moment to process this undoubtedly calculated switch in conversational direction. As she did so, she realized the difficult, perhaps even dangerous, position in which she'd unwittingly placed her former mentor.
"He, uh, saw us together," she allowed, desperately searching for a way to ameliorate the damage she knew she'd done. If only she'd kept her mouth shut! "Saturday night. Ben and I were having cofee at a bookstore cafe. Michael just, uh, happened in. He was picking up some books he'd ordered. It was--it was purely coincidence, our being in the same place at the same time."
"He approached you?"
"I--" she squirmed "--approached him."
"Ah."
Nikita flushed hotly at the smug comprehension in the single-syllable observation. It was obvious that Madeline had deduced precisely what she'd thought when she'd spotted Michael and precisely how she'd reacted.
"Michael met Ben," she concluded awkwardly. "But only for a few minutes. He, uh, told Ben we knew each other professionally. That I'd handled security arrangements for some of his, uh, art transactions."
"Oh, I'm sure Michael's explanation of your connection was very credible," Madeline declared, typing on her keyboard again. She scrolled quickly through several pages of information, then closed the file and turned back to Nikita. Her lips curved. Nikita found herself thinking of dead canaries and clotted cream. "No doubt his explanation of why he failed to follow procedure and report his encounter with you and Dr. Aiken will be equally believable."
Nikita surged forward in her seat, her anxiety level spiking. "It was no big deal, Madeline! He--he probably didn't think it mattered."
"A definite misjudgment on his part."
The statement rocked her.
"I--I d-don't--"
