Don't exactly know how to classify this. Kind of an episodic vignette, I guess, with at least one giant plot hole.

The "seed" for this whatever-it-is was planted when I started reading the rumors about LFN clones and Wild Monkey you-know-what. I started struggling to write something (my version of "I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid"), but ran into major POV problems and several RL news crises.

Finally got into gear after seeing the preview for CAT AND MOUSE (that is the title, right?) and decided to nail this sucker. It contains what you might call speculative spoilage. It does notjibe with a lot of the stuff I gather is supposedhappen on USA Network this Sunday. So--consider this a "could have been" scenario.

I'm not quite done writing (surprise). There maybe an NC-17 closer, if I can carry it off. The concept, overall, is pretty adult and edgy. I hope Birky fans with delicate sensibilities are not offended.

Betsy

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

Birkoff had been easy.

Eager, too, which had been no surprise.

A little awkward, as well. Nothing unexpected there, either.

But when all was said and done and the salient characteristics of the encounter analyzed...

He'd been easy. Sooooooo easy.

The phrase "taking candy from a baby" came to mind as the Alter sashayed away from Birkoff's quarters, the heels of her shoes clicking a staccato rhythm on the corridor's concrete floor. She laughed to herself, deliciously conscious of the shift of her hair against the nape of her neck and the caress of her clothing against her bare skin. Despite the throbbing ache of frustration between her thighs, she felt good.

Damned good.

She knew her handlers were going to ask her why she'd targeted Section's young computer whiz for seduction. Having sex with him hadn't been part of the profile. While it hadn't been expressly prohibited, it definitely hadn't been planned for. So why--?

"Why not?" she murmured with a trace of defiance, not particularly interested in dissecting her motives. Bedding Birkoff had been...mmmm...a whim. She'd seen an opportunity to scratch a nasty little itch of carnal curiosity and she'd taken it. Big fucking deal.

It certainly hadn't been an onerous task. Seymour was attractive in a geeky kind of way. Not especially adept as a lover, but undeniably appealing. To say nothing of enthusiastic.

Post-coitally grateful, too. At least, temporarily.

She wondered fleetingly how the Other would react if she discovered what had occurred. Would she feel anger? Shame?

Would she despise Birkoff for being so weak? So...easy?

A second laugh scrabbled up the Alter's throat. She swallowed it down, savoring the acidic tang of her amusement. Whether the Other learned the truth--or remained ignorant of it--didn't really matter. From this night on, her "friendship" with Birkoff would be tainted. What had happened would inevitably begin to gnaw away at him. He'd start by experiencing guilt about his inability to resist temptation. He'd end by seething with resentment against the instrument of his corruption.

Off-profile or not, her handlers would be pleased with the outcome.

The corridor split into two branches. The Alter went left, flashing a provocative smile at a passing male operative. His response was pathetically predictable. Not unlike young Seymour's.

"N-Nikita!" he'd stammered when she'd entered his quarters less than an hour ago. His voice had been a few notes higher than usual; his narrow face, slightly flushed. "You're back."

"Miss me?" she'd asked throatily, giving him a slow, top-to-toe look as he'd scrambled to his feet. He'd been clad in a tank top and baggy trousers. The top had been olive drab; the bottom, mud brown. Both articles of clothing had been rumpled.

"Uh--" the color in his cheeks had deepened "--sure."

"Same goes."

"You missed--" he'd blinked several times, like a person who'd just been handed a winning lottery ticket and couldn't quite accept that the numbers were real "--me?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"I...uh...huh."

"Surprised?"

A gulp. "Well--"

She'd strolled forward, making a point of trailing her fingers over several pieces of furniture as she moved. Marking the territory, in a sense.

"The first stage of your strategy's worked, Seymour," she'd declared dulcetly, pausing to stroke the contours of a TV monitor. Boys and their toys, she'd thought with a silent snicker. "How come you haven't taken advantage of it?"

"T-taken advantage--?" he'd echoed, wrinkling his brow. "I...I don't understand."

She'd come to a halt just within touching distance, but decided to defer reaching out. Better to make him wait, she'd told herself. Anticipation might not be the ultimate aphrodesiac, but it could be highly erotic when properly utilized.

"Haven't you ever heard that a woman's first 'no' isn't necessarily her final answer?" she'd teased. "Sometimes, it's just the starting point for negotiations."

"You--you never said 'no' to me," her prey had asserted tightly. His eyes had been shifting back and forth, as though he'd been assessing potential exit routes. She'd had to choke down a giggle. Brilliant as he was, Birkoff hadn't had the smarts to recognize that he was well and truly caught. There'd been no way out for him. "I mean, I never--"

"Really?" she'd drawled challengingly. It had been a gamble, of course. She hadn't known for certain whether the younger man had ever actually put the sexual moves on the Other. There'd been no record of him having done so in the intel to which she'd been given access. But something--instinct?--had told her that there had to have been at least one occasion when he'd acted on the desire he so clearly felt...

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

Birkoff had gone scarlet, signalling that there was a pass (undoubtedly incomplete) lurking in his personal history with the Other.

"Jesus, Nikita," he'd breathed, edging back a bit. She'd matched the retreat, keeping the gap between them very, very narrow. "That--that was a long time ago."

"Mmmm," she'd affirmed, pretending to know all about it. "And I'm growing old waiting for you to follow up."

"Follow...up?"

She'd raised her right hand. Birkoff had flinched. He'd fucking flinched, for God's sake! She'd experienced a wild urge to slap him, but had managed to restrain herself. Instead, she'd rapped her knuckles very lightly against his furrowed forehead.

"Opportunity's knocking, Seymour," she'd purred. "Answer the damned door!"

"But--" his Adam's apple had bobbed convulsively, like a cork on the surface of a storm-tossed sea "--what about M-Michael?"

"What about him?" she'd countered, willing herself to ignore the perverse thrill of pleasure the sound of the two-syllable name triggered within her. Her time with Michael would come soon enough, she'd assured herself. First the appetizer. Then the entree.

"Aren't you and he--?"

"Maybe." She'd shrugged. "On occasion." She'd shrugged again. "But this is about me and you, Birkoff. Unless--" she'd dropped her voice and nailed him with an up-from-under-the-lashes look "--you're proposing a little three-way pleasure?"

The question had very obviously shocked him. She supposed some might have considered his reaction cute. She, however, had found it rather puerile.

"Uh--" Another gulp. Another step back. She'd stayed with him. "Nikita. Uh--c'mon. I--I don't think--"

"Good," she'd cut in fiercely, grabbing a fistful of his tank top. A moment later, she'd kissed him, taking aggressive advantage of his partially opened lips. After a few shocked seconds, he'd begun to kiss her back. While his technique had left something to be desired--there'd been a moment when he'd seemed bent on taking out her tonsils with his tongue--she'd awarded him an A-plus for thoroughness.

Soooooo easy.

"G-g-good?" he'd gasped when she'd finally let him come up for air. His eyes had been glazed; his mouth, slack and moist.

"You're not thinking," she'd answered, referring to his earlier comment. She'd tangoed him back a few more feet. He'd stiffened in shock as the backs of his knees had hit the edge of his bed.

An instant later, he'd been flat on the mattress...at her mercy.

Tough shit for him that "mercy" was the Other's thing, not hers.

She'd pounced on the stunned cyber-whiz, dragging off his draw-string pants and the faintly dingy skivvies beneath. After hiking up the hem of her dress and deftly disposing of her one skimpy undergarment, she'd straddled his wiry body.

"Forget your brain, Birkoff," she'd crooned, sliding her hands beneath his tank top. The skin of his hairless chest had been smooth and warm against her avid palms. She'd felt him quiver at her caress. "Go...with your gonads."

He had, more or less. Probably the most accurate way to describe what happened next was that his gonads had gone, hauling the rest of him along for the ride.

Consummation had been quick. And pretty crude. To summarize:

She'd gotten him up.

She'd gotten him in.

She'd gotten him off--big-time.

While there had been precious little physical satisfaction on her side, the psychological pay-off had been potent. It had been an almost perfect mind fuck.

He'd sprawled there amid the wrecked bed linen, dazed and spent, as she'd methodically disengaged and clamored to her feet. She'd relished the sight of him. The super-cerebral Seymour Birkoff, screwed beyond speech. Ravished...beyond rationality.

Mmmm. What a treat.

He'd come to hate the Other for what had occurred, the Alter told herself, moistening her lips with a quick lick of her tongue. His fragile male ego would require it. The only way he'd be able to handle having been laid so low by a woman was to decide that that woman was a slut. Or worse.

Oh, yes. Her handlers were going to be thrilled by the results of her unscheduled diversion.

Her intention had been to swan out of Birkoff's quarters in silence. No point in post-coital conversation, she'd decided. Much more effective to let the younger man stew in his juices, so to speak.

Unfortunately, it had taken her longer than anticipated to retrieve her discarded panties. By the time she had, her victim had returned to the land of the minimally coherent.

"Nikita..." he'd managed to croak.

She'd been halfway to the door physically. All the way out of the building and onto her next destination psychologically. Nonetheless, she'd checked her step and turned back.

"Yeah?" she'd returned, grimacing inwardly.

Her sex partner had levered himself up on his elbows, the lower portion of his body modestly masked by a fortuitous drape of sheet.

"You...you're leaving?"

"Looks that way."

He'd blanched, plainly hurt. Which had been fine with her. She didn't give a damn about injured feelings. But there had been something else in his expression--confusion? suspicion?--that had made her wary. For all his deficiencies when it came to human interactions, Birkoff was not stupid. he...knew...the Other. She'd realized she needed to be careful.

"But--" he'd begun. "I mean, I--uh--it was--uh--you d-didn't--"

"No problem," she'd interrupted, flipping her hair back over her shoulders. She'd experienced a brief flash of surprise that he'd noticed she hadn't come. She'd assumed that he'd been too caught up in his own climax to care. Then she'd decided that it went back to the male ego thing. He'd probably fantasized about being the best she'd ever had.

"But--"

"Don't worry, Seymour," she'd interrupted again, giving him a small smile. "I won't tell. And I'll still respect you in the morning."

And with that, she'd pivoted and left.

Not the worst exit line on record, the Alter reflected as she rounded a corner. Although, if she had it to do over again--

************* "Hey, Sugar."

The gravelly-voiced greeting jerked the Alter out of her reverie, stopping her short. Pulse accelerating, she turned to her right.

The person who'd addressed her was an anomaly in a place in which conformity was the norm. Grey, pony-tailed hair. A bandanna-circled brow. He was garbed in a casual style that flashed back to another fashion eyes. His arms were laden with weaponry and his eyes held a fascinating brew of affection and world-weary intelligence.

For an unnerving moment, the Alter's mind blanked. She knew that she should know the man she was confronting. Knew that he mattered a great deal to the Other. But she couldn't quite--

His name abruptly slotted into place within an accessible portion of her brain. She disciplined herself not to show her relief.

"Hey, Walter," she responded, injecting a saucy lilt into her voice.

Section's weapons master gave her back a semi-lecherous grin, his gaze skimming over her.

"I thought you'd be out in the field at least another day," he commented.

"Things went faster than expected." The lie slid smoothly off her tongue. She wondered briefly what was being done with the absent Other, then dismissed the matter. Let her handlers handle that.

"Sped up the profile so you could get back to me, huh?"

"Mmmm..." She eyed the older man speculatively, a wicked tingle of temptation dancing through her. She'd taken Birkoff without specific orders, she mused. Maybe she should give Walter--

"Looking at a man that way can get you into big trouble, Nikita," the object of her contemplations declared. His voice was a little rougher than it had been. It also carried an edge of caution.

The Alter's finely honed sense of preservation kicked in. This was not a twenty-something cyber-geek she could lead around by the cock, she told herself firmly. Screwing him might very well damage another one of the relationships that were oh-so-important to the Other's survival. But the risk to her...

Unacceptable. Indulging in a wham-bam with Walter would provoke too many questions.

"Trouble?" she echoed, cooling her come-on manner. This was a game. All flirt and no actual fucking. She'd read the files. She'd seen the tapes. She understood the core truth about the Other's dealings with this man. And his with her. "Sounds like fun. Too bad I've got an appointment I can't break."

Walter studied her for several seconds. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied that they were back in their customary groove.

"Maybe next time," he suggested.

"Maybe."

She manufactured a smile. It was the "sweet" one this time. For all her practice, it still felt uncomfortable on her face. But she knew it was vital to employ it at this particular moment with this particular man. Birkoff, she'd befuddled with the Other's sexual allure. This best way of manipulating Walter was to use the Other's supposedly innocent, non-Section self.

The expression in the weapons master's clever eyes warmed.

Indeed, his entire manner seemed to soften.

Sooooo easy.

"You're a tease, Sugar," he growled, shifting the lethal burden he was toting and giving her a wink. It was obvious that as far as he was concerned, all was right with the world once again.

Fool, she thought venomously.

"And you're--" she took a step forward, leaned in, and kissed him lightly on his grizzled cheek "--a good man."

A moment later, she'd resumed her passage down the corridor. She put a little extra swing in her hips as she moved.

"You know what they say about good men, don't you?" Walter called after her.

The Alter didn't say anything. She was afraid she'd laugh out loud if she did. But, yeah. Sure. She knew.

Good men were hard to find, according to the sentimental cliche.

No problem, she chortled inwardly, pausing at a security checkpoint to punch in the necessary egress code. A "good man" was the last thing she was interested in putting her hands on.

But a hard one...

Mmmmm.

Maybe this time, she'd be easy.

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

The cello sobbed.

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, giving himself up to the exquisitely poignant sound flowing from the speakers of the loft's stereo system.

The passage to which he was listening always made him think of autumn.

Of ephemeral warmth and transitory beauty.

Of inevitable death, preceded by a final-- defiant--flash of life.

He'd played this particular recording many times since the coldblooded "murder" of Elena's husband and Adam's father. He'd used the music as a narcotic in the beginning. Then, as a form of self-torture. And now...

It had been transformed into a test. A test consisting of a single, yes-or-no question.

Would he feel anything when he heard it?

That he was destined to fail this test was something Michael accepted. His was a world of lose-lose scenarios. An environment in which one only rarely could opt for a "better" way rather than choose between the lesser of two evils.

To respond to the music was a sign of vulnerability. And vulnerability of any sort could get him--and, much more importantly, other people--killed.

To listen and remain unmoved...

That was a sign of weakness, too. Less overtly lethal in its potential consequences than surrendering to emotion, perhaps. But equally open to condemnation. Because indifference inflicted injuries that could make an execution seem like an act of mercy.

The recording came to an end. As the plangent echo of the final notes faded away, the stereo clicked off. Silence fell on the loft, thick as a funeral pall.

Michael opened his eyes, releasing the air from his lungs in a long, disciplined exhalation. After a moment, he rose from the chair in which he'd been sitting and stretched. His expression was consciously blanked. His thoughts, carefully barriered.

He glanced around, assessing his latest Section-sanctioned residence with a familiar sense of detachment. He didn't think of the loft as home. It was simply...occupied territory.

The furnishing were few, but very fine. He'd selected everything himself, expending considerable money in the process. Yet there wasn't an item in the place that he wasn't prepared to abandon without a second glance, should circumstances require it.

He'd gotten rid of the television on which he'd once watched tapes of the innocent boy he'd sired under orders in a marriage based on lies. The home videos were gone, too. Likewise, the birthday present he'd purchased knowing he'd never had a chance to give it.

Michael took a deep breath, making no effort to fight the sudden wave of pain that washed through him. Adam was a fact of life. A fact of love. A fact of...loss.

Deal with it, he told himself.

He'd recently reversed his decision not to receive Section's surveillance reports on Elena and her half-orphaned son. His reasons for doing so were complicated. Among them, a desire to thwart Madeline's on-going effort to burrow inside his psyche. That she realized this, he had no doubt. But as long as he knew that she knew that he knew...

Michael felt his mouth twist. Dealing with Section's Mistress of Mind Games was always a matter of mazes and mirrors. Of double-crosses and deceptions.

There had been moments during the past fifteen years when he'd actually thought he'd understood Madeline. In some ways, those had been the most shocking moments of his life. He wondered, sometimes, whether the shock went both ways.

Section's intel was not the only information on Adam and Elena he was getting, of course. He had his own resources and he had no qualms about exploiting them.

Whether those who thought they controlled him were fully cognizant of his out-of-channel activities, he couldn't say. He had always proceeded on the assumption that they were. It was part of the game.

Let Michael think we're not aware of what he's doing, he could imagine Operations saying. We can tighten the leash when we need to.

So they could. But what if he decided he'd rather choke, than come to heel?

Michael moved toward the kitchen area at the far end of the loft, vaguely registering the soft squeaking of the polished wooden boards beneath his bare feet. The sound had annoyed him at first. Then he'd realized that low-tech though it was, the squeaking actually provided him with a no-fail intruder alert system.

He remembered reading that the warlords of Japan's shogunate era had installed pressure-sensitive floors in their feudal castles to warn them against sneak attacks and would-be assassins. "Nightingale floors," they'd been nicknamed. The song they'd sung had been one of impending betrayal and bloody revenge.

Michael opened the kitchen's small refrigerator, studied its contents for several seconds, then shut the door without extracting anything. He toyed briefly with the notion of ordering food in; even more briefly, with the idea of going out to eat. Neither option had much appeal.

Without warning, memory assailed him.

Not hungry, Mommy, he heard Adam insist. Sweet-tempered though he was, the little boy had a stubborn streak. He'd come out of the womb gifted with the ability to smile sunnily while demanding his own way.

You have to clean your plate, Elena's voice responded.

Why? It was one of Adam's favorite words. His three-letter key to unlocking the secrets of the universe. Daddy didn't.

God.

Michael's gut roiled. He tasted bile.

Daddy didn't.

Don't do as Daddy, Adam, he thought fiercely, his hands clenching of their own volition. Don't...ever...do as Daddy did. Or didn't.

Daddy's a bad man.

Be as different from him as you possibly can.

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

Michael swallowed hard, trying to clear the bitter flavors of grief and guilt from his mouth.

Adam.

Oh...Adam.

Get over it, Operations had ordered him.

Get over it, or else.

If the "or else" had involved only him, the endgame would have been simple. He wasn't afraid of cancellation. He had been on intimate terms with death for nearly all his adult life.

Unfortunately, he had not achieved this intimacy in isolation. Although he'd stuggled to hold himself aloof from other people, there'd been moments when he'd let down. Reached out. And each time he'd done so, he'd given Section another tool that could be used against him.

His sister and her family.

Simone.

Adam and Elena.

Hostages all, to his ill-starred fortune.

The damaged.

The dead.

The deceived and the deserted.

And then there was Nikita.

Nikita.

The innocent he'd trained to kill.

The killer he'd tried to set free.

The light in his darkness.

The love of his life.

Nikita.

If she fails, you fail, Operations had decreed near the end of her training period.

The quietly spoken statement had struck him like a thunderbolt, searing to the very core of what he'd told himself was a burned-out soul. Michael knew that the head of Section One had uttered it intending to make him reconsider his recommendation against Nikita's cancellation. But instead of prompting him to reject his rebellious trainee in the name of self-preservation, Operation's words had forced himself to confront a truth he'd done all he could to avoid.

Nikita wasn't simply his responsibility. Somehow, some way, she'd become his raison d'etre. If she fell, for whatever reason, he would go down with her.

Michael moved from the refrigerator to the stove. There was a kettle sitting on the back left burner. He checked to be certain it held sufficient water, then lit the gas beneath it.

Turning to his right, he opened a cabinet. He took out a plain porcelain bowl and a battered tin box containing a custom-blend of imported green tea. With almost ritualistic precision, he set both items down on the kitchen counter.

Michael traced the narrow rim of the starkly elegant tea bowl with the tip of his left index finger. There was a tiny nick in glazing. A flaw, he supposed many would say. He thought otherwise.

If she fails, you fail.

He'd found himself wondering in recent days whether Operations might have given Nikita a similar ultimatum regarding him. Now that he'd finally crawled out of the morass of self-pity he'd allowed himself to wallow in after his "murder" in Elena's hospital room, he couldn't help but question the motivation behind some of his former material's actions.

The unsolicited visit she'd made to his loft after the killing of young Lazlo Brevich rang true with him. That, he would swear, had been her move, not Section's. So, too, her decision to stand guard over him when he'd done everything but paint a bull's-eye on his back.

But her capture during the final phase of the Brevich mission...

No accident, that. No unforeseen twist of fate or unfortunate mistake in the field. Nikita had meant to be taken.

Which scenario was worse? he asked himself. That Nikita had perceived there was a last-ditch chance to haul him back from the brink of self-destruction and seized upon it, off-profile and without permission? Or that she'd connived to place herself in mortal danger at Operations' behest with the same objective in mind?

Either way, she'd deliberately put her life at risk to save his. After all he'd done to her--the wounds he'd inflicted, the lies he'd told, the efforts he'd made to shut her out and shove her away--she'd been willing to die for him.

It was the irony of ironies, of course. Because if she had died, he would have, too.

He hoped--prayed--that the reverse was not true. The possibility that Nikita might have persuaded herself that she needed him as desperately as he needed her was intolerable. Not simply because he was unworthy of her regard. But because it wasn't true.

Where he was weak, Nikita was strong.

Where he took, she gave.

Where he caused harm, she healed.

She could survive without him.

If this was lesson she had not yet learned, he would find a way to teach her. And once taught, he would make certain it was never forgotten.

***********

This was not to say that surviving on her own wouldn't cost her. It would. But only if she elected to foot the bill. And knowing Nikita as he did, Michael was certain she'd long-ago decided that there were some fates worse than death--some tabs, she would absolutely refuse to pay.

He opened the tin box. The astringent-herbal scent of the green tea teased his nostrils. He savored the distinctive odor as he measured out a spoonful of the shredded leaves.

On the stove, the kettle simmered softly.

Hostages to fortune...

Nikita had them, too.

Head the list with every innocent she'd ever met, including Adam and Elena.

Add a lot of not-so-innocents.

Section operatives she barely knew.

Section operative she held close to her heart.

Birkoff.

Walter.

Himself.

Michael closed the tea box with less than steady fingers. His vision wavered for an instant.

He had the wherewithal to end his relationship with Nikita. It was within his power to do the unforgivable, to drive her away--once and for all.

He didn't have the guts to do it.

He'd warned her that anyone who got close to him was destined to suffer. He'd cited chapter and verse, reminding her of things she'd seen with her own eyes. She'd responded with talk of choices, practically offering her heart on the palm of her hand.

There was a part of him--a loathsome, shameful part of him--that hated her for her steadfast refusal to turn away from him. Didn't she understand that caring for him demeaned her? Didn't she understand that she couldn't be the woman he wanted--needed--her to be if she surrendered herself to him?

Was it possible to imagine a scenario in which Nikita neither gave in to--nor up on--him? he wondered painfully. Perhaps. Just...perhaps. But only if the two of them were allowed to try to come to terms without interference. And that, he knew to the marrow of his bones, was not going to happen.

The manipulations were already under way. Nothing overt, but he could see the signs. Decipher the code. Section--read Operations--obviously had decided that it would be more efficient to put Nikita and him together rather than to pull them apart.

They were to be run as a team, at least for the time being. Control one, control the other.

If she fails, you fail.

And vice--viciously--versa, he had no doubt Operations assumed.

Precisely where Madeline stood vis-a-vis this new strategy, Michael wasn't sure. She'd nudged him toward Nikita--and Nikita towards him--a number of times in the past. But experience had taught him that the directions in which Madeline appeared to push people were not necessarily the ones in which she wanted them to go.

Was Nikita conscious of how she--how they--where being played? Again, he couldn't be certain.

There'd been a time when even a hint that Section wanted them coupled probably would have prompted her to flee from him as far and as fast as she possibly could. But now--

The kettle began to whistle, slicing through Michael's turbulent reflections like a knife. A split second later, the security intercom buzzed.

He turned off the stove, then responded to the summons from the outside world.

It was Nikita, asking to be let in.

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

She wanted him and she was going to have him.

But first, she had to remember how to breathe.

She hadn't expected it, the Alter reluctantly admitted, trying not to stare too blatantly at the sensual, self-contained man standing before her. She'd thought the intensive intel she'd been given--the mega-byte psych files, the multi-hour surveillance tapes--had innoculated her against Michael's undeniable appeal. She'd never imagined he'd affect her so profoundly when she finally met him in the flesh.

He was her adversary, she reminded herself sternly. A target, to be taken down and torn apart. And yet...

He aroused in her the most voracious desire she'd ever experienced.

Oh, yes. She would have him. And not just for her handlers and the mission. For herself.

"Nikita," he greeted her with what his files said was characteristic courtesy.

The sound of the Other's name on his lips galled the Alter in ways she couldn't begin to define. It hadn't bothered her a whit to be called "Nikita" by Birkoff or Walter. If truth be told, she'd found it rather amusing. But to be labelled with those three alien syllables by this man...

She hated it.

He'd uttered the name so carefully, she mused venomously. As though he doubted he was worthy of speaking it aloud and didn't want to soil it.

When she was finished with him, he'd spit it out like a curse.

The Alter kick-started her respiratory system, consciously forcing the air from her lungs. Her heart was hammering. She could feel the blood pulsing in the tips of her fingers and toes. The throbbing ache between her thighs was back, soliciting satisfaction far more urgently than before.

"Michael," she finally returned, her gaze straying around the loft. At first glance, it was a study in austerity. Vaguely suggestive of hair shirts and self-flagellation. But on more careful consideration...

There was nothing cheap about the spartan decor, she acknowledged. Nothing inharmonious or out of place. It did not welcome, exactly. But its disciplined simplicity might seduce a few intuitive souls into lingering.

"You were in the field," he commented.

"Yeah," she affirmed, returning her gaze to his.

It was then that she caught a glimpse of what had brought her to this place. To this elegant, enigmatic man.

The beast, she'd privately dubbed it. The dark, desperate craving the Other had no idea existed because her mentor had taken such pains to shield her from it.

Such a self-centered child, Nikita could be where Michael was concerned. So heedlessly blind to the power she wielded over a man who could have--should have--been her master.

"Unfeeling," she'd called him on more than one occasion.

Unfeeling.

Christ. If only she knew!

The Alter swallowed, resisting the urge to run her tongue over her suddenly parched lips. Tiny prickles of excitement skittered through her nervous system.

Tonight, she'd unleashed the beast and she'd urge him to ravage. To...rape. What's more, she would relish every bruising, brutal moment.

She would scratch.

She would scream.

In the end, she would succumb.

And Michael would finally break, shattering beyond repair.

The loss of his self-control would be devastating enough. His failure to rein in his physical impulses would drive him right to the brink. But it would be the destruction of his faith in the Other's "innocence" that would push him beyond the point of no return.

The "light" in Michael's darkness would not simply be dimmed during the next few hours. It would be completely snuffed out.

"The mission went well?" he queried, his eyes sliding away from hers. She saw his nostrils flare and wondered if he'd caught the scent of her carnal intentions.

"It's over," she replied with a casual shrug, gauging the physical gap between them. She debated whether to narrow it, then decided to stay where she was. Better to make no move at this early stage, than the wrong one.

There was a pause. It was plain that Michael wanted to know more; equally obvious, that he was not going to permit himself to press. Which was just as well. The Other's current mission was a mystery to the Alter. A "No Need to Know," according to her handlers. She didn't want to be forced into spinning lies that might eventually trip her up.

Michael shifted his weight. While the adjustment of his stance was very small, it registered within the Alter like an earthquake. A moment later, his lips parted on a slow release of breath.

"Why are you here, Nikita?" His green-gray eyes delved deep into her blue ones.

The directness knocked her off balance for an instant, but she recovered quickly. She ran through a lot of different answers, ranging from the coy to the crude. She finally opted for the ultimate deception--the never-fail, knife-to-the-heart.

She told him the truth.

"I'm here because I want to be."

He blinked once. The Alter sensed the beast stir and stretch.

"It could be...dangerous."

She let her lips curl. Rubbed the tips of her fingers lightly against the sleek fabric of her form-fitting dress. When Michael's eyes flicked down, for just an instant, she knew the beast was well and truly awake.

"Tell me something in our lives that isn't, Michael," she countered, tilting her chin up a notch. "Neither one of us is likely to be picked as the poster child for a 'Play Safe' campaign."

"This is...play...for you?"

Something about his pronunciation of the word "play" caused her throat to clog with a messy combination of arousal and uneasiness. For the first time, the Alter's confidence in the outcome of this encounter faltered. So, too, her conviction that she knew which one of them was the prey; which one, the predator.

Was it possible--? she asked herself, thinking back to the unanticipated potency of her initial reaction with a jitter of fear.

No, she swiftly decided.

It couldn't be. Gaming her would serve no purpose.

"Not necessarily," she hedged, taking refuge in flirtation.

Michael regarded her silently for several seconds, his expression impossible to decipher.

"I was making tea when you arrived," he eventually said. "Would you like some?"

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

The pale green brew didn't have much flavor in the Alter's opinion. And what little it did have, she didn't find very pleasant. Still, she drained the delicate bowl Michael gave her in a few greedy gulps.

"More?" he asked.

There was a thread of amusement in the question. That--and the abrupt realization that he'd barely begun to sip at his own tea--made her stiffen.

Was he toying with her?

"No," she refused, forcing herself to meeting his compelling hazel eyes. She saw nothing untoward in this. At least, nothing she thought was untoward. "Thank you."

The Alter deposited her emptied tea bowl on the kitchen counter. After taking another judicious drink from his, Michael followed suit. She watched him run the tip of one finger around the rim of the bowl.

She would have him touch her just like that, she decided, her heart skipping a beat. As though making the slightest bit of contact with her allowed him to blot out everything else in the universe.

She would have his hands...everywhere.

His mouth, too.

She would have him chart her body, inch by naked--

"Why do you want to be here?"

The Alter felt herself flush. There'd been more than a foot between them when she'd put down her tea bowl, she thought distractedly. Now that distance was a few scant inches.

Had he moved?

Had she?

Had they both--?

Michael lifted his left hand very slowly. His eyes were locked on hers. After a breathless increment of time--a second? a minute? an entire goddamned hour?--he traced the curve of her right cheek with the same fingertip he'd used to caress the rim of the tea bowl.

She rocked back on her heels, wondering if her legs were going to give way beneath her. She thought she heard something squeak.

"Nikita?"

The Alter sucked in a steadying breath, searching for an answer. Again, she settled for the truth. But not the whole truth. Which would, she knew, end up causing far more damage than a full, flat-out lie.

"I want to be here because you are, Michael," she told him.

She saw the beast rise up. Saw it ruthlessly yanked down. Understood that while the will holding the beast in check was very, very strong, it was not invincible.

Michael would have withdrawn his hand had she not reached up and wrapped her fingers around his wrist like a manacle. She felt him jolt at her touch. His unguarded response did a great deal to restore her sense of equilibrium.

It was only a matter of time...

"You shouldn't," he said, his accent a trifle thicker than it had been the previous time he'd spoken.

"Shouldn't what?" She began to pull his hand downward, relishing the reckless jump of his pulse beneath her fingers. "Want?"

"Be here."

"Why not?"

A hesitation. Then, flatly, "Operations."

The Alter gawked for an instant, genuinely stunned by this reply. Then she remembered the role she was playing.

"O-Operations?" she managed, infusing the name with a touch of distaste.

"He'll use this."

"'This,' meaning...us? Being together?"

"Yes." The affirmation was bitter.

The Alter guided his hand down to her breasts, covering it with her own and pressing it flat. The warmth of his palm seemed to brand her skin. Her nipples contracted into tight little rosettes, budding provocatively against the thin fabric of her dress.

"Are you afraid, Michael?"

His throat worked. His long, clever fingers flexed once against her resilient feminine flesh, then went slack.

"Yes." But it was the confession of a brave man, not a coward.

"I'm not." Her blood was thrumming wildly through her veins. The skin of her inner thighs felt slick and hot.

"You...should be."

Beware the beast, Nikita, he was trying to say.

Except Nikita wasn't there to hear the warning.

The Alter urged Michael's hand lower.

Down the line of her well-toned torso...

Over her flat belly...

"Why?" she challenged, rocking her pelvis forward in a movement that was as old as Eve.

Michael's hand curved.

Cupped.

The Alter caught her breath. Her entire body clenched.

The heel of his palm pressed against petalled secrets of her feminine core.

Pleasure spasmed through her.

God.

The pressure moderated for a dizzying moment, then returned.

Another spasm, this one infinitely more powerful than the first.

Oh...God

The Alter almost came apart, right then and there.

"I'll hurt you." Michael's voice was harsh. Was he threatening? Promising? Offering a simple statement of fact?

"If you do--" she dug her nails into his wantoning hand, straining with her hips "--I'll hurt you back."

He went absolutely still, his eyes turning a strangely opaque shade of steel-sheened green beneath his partially lowered lashes. The rest of his features tightened, their innate sensuality acquiring a faintly feral cast.

Yes, the Alter thought, an elemental shiver of excitement coursing through her. Oh, yes.

She surged up on her toes, vaguely registering the sound of more squeaking. Then she kissed him.

Hard.

Hot.

Square on the mouth.

His lips remained stubbornly closed for the first few seconds, then opened so abruptly that her head spun. The thrumming in her blood became thunder.

The kiss deepened. Darkened. It was as much about pillage and plunder as pleasuring.

Michael's tongue slid over hers in a sinuous evocation of a more intimate mating. The Alter heard someone moan. Somewhere in the dim recessed of her sensation-hazed brain she realized that this "someone" was her.

How long the kiss went on, she never knew. But it was not long enough. Like a junkie with a jones for the ultimate rush, she needed more. Much, much more.

She would have it all from him, she told herself, rubbing her body against the rigid proof of his arousal. She would sample every one of his sexual skills, then begin peeling down to the atavistic instincts and appetities she knew he kept locked away within himself.

She'd watched the tapes from the Armel mission. She'd seen how he'd held back.

There would be no restraint tonight. No...protectiveness. She would permit him the fulfillment of his most primitive fantasies. But in using her body to gratify his basest desires, he would deem himself utterly--irreparably--dishonored.

And at the heart of that dishonor would be the Other.

"I want you," the Alter whispered huskily, staring up into the handsome face the tormented man she'd been commissioned to destroy. His lower lip was bleeding. She didn't remember biting it, but faint taste of copper-salt on her tongue made it clear that she must have. The next time she marked him, she'd make a point to savor the experience. "And you...want...me.

Michael leaned in, angling his head. At first, she thought he intended to kiss her again. Instead, he nuzzled his bloodied mouth through the tangle of her hair to murmur in her ear.

"No," he denied softly, the icy hardness of his voice at frightening odds with the gentle fan of his warm breath against her quivering skin. "I want the woman you're pretending to be."

************ Birkoff didn't wake up feeling guilty about what he'd done.

What he did was crawl off his mattress at the crack of dawn after a miserably sleepless night and contemplate the wreckage of a life he'd allowed to spin heinously out of control.

He'd had sex with Nikita.

Mindless.

Meaningless.

Sex.

He knuckled his bloodshot eyes, feeling queasy. He wondered vaguely whether he was going to puke again. He'd been horribly sick a couple of hours earlier, barely managing to make it into his small bathroom before he'd thrown up what had seemed like everything he'd eaten in the past week.

His gorge rose, the threat of nausea slithering through the pit of his belly like a greasy snake. He told himself nastily that another round of hanging his head into the toilet and heaving was no more than he deserved.

His stomach resettled, at least for the moment.

Sex with Nikita.

What in hell had he been thinking?

His memory instantly kicked into replay mode.

Forget your brain, Birkoff, Nikita had urged after giving him a long, lewd, lay-me-down-and-do-me-baby smooch that had damned near blown the back off his head off. Go with your gonads.

He groaned, kicking aside the clothes he'd worn the night before. He'd shucked them off shortly after Nikita had taken her leave, unable to bear their filthy feel any longer. He'd stripped the bed, too, deciding that he was going to give the sheets to Housekeeping for incineration.

Go...with your gonads.

Okay. Okay! Shit. So he hadn't been "thinking" at all. Except, maybe, with his cock and that had--what? An I.Q. of minus fifty points?

He staggered into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Stood under the scalding gush for a good ten minutes, trying to get clean. Finally switched from steaming hot water to freezing cold and felt himself shrivel into a pathetic cocktail weenie.

Too bad he hadn't had a bucket of ice to dump down his crotch last night.

What had Nikita been thinking? he asked himself for the zillionth time. What could have possessed her to behave as she had? To do what she'd done?

The word "possessed" send an unpleasant frisson of emotion up Birkoff's spine. What if she'd been drugged? he questioned uneasily. Or under orders? What if...

What if the whole thing had been another one of Section's goddamned, rip-people's-guts-out, tests?

He stepped out of the shower, snatched a towel from the rack on the wall, and began to rub himself dry. Part of him wanted to beat something--preferably his skull--to a bloody pulp. Another part wanted to break down and cry like a little kid.

If it had been a test, he was ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent sure he'd failed it.

And if it hadn't been...

He'd fucked up.

Oh, he could argue that Nikita had started it. That she'd come on to him like a slut. No. Worse than that. Like some kind of will-sapping succubus. But the fact remained, he'd gone along with everything she'd done.

He'd fucked up.

Birkoff returned to the other room and got dressed. Then, forcing himself to ignore the voice inside his head that was screaming for him to find a deep, dark corner in which to curl up and hide, he went out to confront the consequences of his inexcusable actions.

You can handle this, he told himself as he trudged down the corrider. His feet felt as though they were encased in lead boots. He tried not to hug the wall too obviously. You can handle this.

He wondered wretchedly whether he'd feel differently about last night if he could persuade himself that he'd been able to provide Nikita with a few seconds of physical pleasure. Maybe if he could comfort himself with the notion that he'd at least been a considerate lover rather than a selfish, rutting--

"Hey, Birkoff!" a familiar male voice hailed. "How's it hangin'?"

***********

Birkoff stopped dead in his tracks, slammed by a stormy mix of anger and shame. He turned, glaring accusingly at the denim-clad iconoclast who'd uttered the jocular greeting.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he demanded rawly.

Walter furrowed his brow and frowned, clearly taken aback by this abusive reaction.

"'Mean?'" he drawled after a moment or two, scratching the side of his neck. "It isn't supposed to 'mean' anything. Just a little early morning banter between friends."

Birkoff took a deep breath, battling for control. Asshole, he berated himself. You...asshole.

He'd wrecked one friendship. A couple more words and he'd wreck a second. He couldn't afford to do that.

"Oh," he finally managed.

There was a long pause. Then:

"Problem, kid?" Section's weapons guru asked quietly.

Birkoff's throat closed up. He felt pressure build behind the bridge of his nose. He gave a jerky nod, not trusting himself to speak.

"Wanna talk?"

"I--uh--" He swallowed hard, disciplining himself not the break eye contact. "I can't, Walter. It's, uh, personal."

The older man's brows shot up, disappearing beneath the bandanna that circled his head.

"What?" he probed, an ill-advised edge of humor entering his voice. "You got the clap?"

Birkoff's stomach flip-flopped. "The cl--" He choked. "No! Jesus. No!"

"Somebody pregnant?"

Birkoff opened and shut his mouth several times, infuriated to the point of incoherence. And then, without warning, his rage fizzled. It was replaced by a horrified flash of realization.

"Oh, God," he whispered, feeling the blood drain out of his cheeks. The sex he'd had with Nikita hadn't just been mindless and meaningless and lousy for her. It had been completely unprotected. "Oh, God, I hope not."

"Seymour--" Walter began, his manner turning dead serious.

"I can't talk about it, Walter," Birkoff interrupted fiercely, clenching and unclenching his hands. The temptation to unburden himself was very, very powerful, but he knew it was imperative he resist. "Please. Don't ask me to. I've made a mistake. A big one. Huge. That's all I can say."

"But--"

"I know you want to help. And I appreciate it. Really." He looked at the older man, pleading for understanding. "But this is my mess. It's up to me to clean it up. If--if I can."

Walter remained silent for several moments. Then he nodded, his expression solemn.

"Gotcha."

Birkoff nearly collapsed with relief. "Thanks."

There was another pause.

"It's probably not as bad as you think," Walter eventually offered. His tone was gentle. Supportive, not patronizing.

Birkoff smiled bleakly, grateful for the older man's compassion. No, he silently concurred. It probably wasn't as bad as he though. Odds were, it was worse.

"And even if it is, you'll survive."

The sincerity he heard in this comment shook Birkoff to the core. He was accustomed to there being a "teacher-to-pupil" subtext to almost everything Walter said to him. But now...

The tone was man-to-man. He was being treated as an equal.

"You think?" he asked, wishing he wasn't so desperate for reassurance.

"I know."

"Well--"

"Yo, Birkoff!"

The breathless salutation came from behind him. He recognized the nasal voice as belonging to one of the newest members of his tech team.

Now what? he wondered grimly, pivoting around.

"Yeah, Denny?"

Denny was a gawky guy with a shock of orange-red hair. Skinny as a soda straw, he never seemed to know what to do with his hands except when he was working at a computer keyboard.

"Cripes, man," he whined, gesturing awkwardly. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Birkoff stiffened. The skin on the back of his neck prickled.

"Why?"

"Madeline wants to see you."

Birkoff glanced nervously at Walter. Walter shook his head, clearly indicating that he was in the dark about the reason for La Belle Dame's summons.

"Madeline?" Birkoff repeated, giving Denny the full-bore stare.

"Yeah." The red-haired tech began to root around in his left ear with the tip of his left index finger. "She said something about wanting to talk to you...uh...about last night."

*****

That Madeline pretty much got what Madeline wanted where Section personnel was concerned went without saying. But when it came to the issue of how quickly she got it...

Birkoff took the long route to her office. He didn't dawdle, exactly. But he sure as hell didn't rush.

"You can handle this," he muttered, rounding a corner. "You can--"

The mantra died in his throat as he realized where he was.

Oh...shit.

Three more steps and he'd be standing on the spot where he'd brandished a loaded gun at Operation less than two weeks ago.

"DIE, YOU BASTARD!" he'd bellowed, demonstrating that when it came to assassination, he was a hopeless amateur. Professional killers didn't make a practice of announcing their intentions to their would-be targets.

That he'd thought he was defending himself against potential cancellation at the hands of a cold op called Felix was beside the point.

As for Operations' reaction to his paranoid display...

The son of a bitch hadn't checked his stride. Hadn't so much as blinked for God's sake!

"Sorry to disappoint," the silver-haired leader of Section One had answered, the glint in his ice-blue eyes causing Birkoff's sphincter muscles to pucker to the point of pain. "But I have other plans."

Other plans...

Birkoff still shuddered to think of what they might be.

Shuddered to think how they might impact on him.

He dipped his head and scurried down the hallway. He didn't care that he was running like a frightened rat.

"You can handle this." If he said it enough times, he might start to believe it. You...can...handle...this.

He reached Madeline's lair a few moments later. His armpits were damp and he was breathing in short, sharp snatches. He tapped in the access code with something less than his usual keyboard panache.

The door slid open on an electronic sigh. Squaring his shoulders, Birkoff stepped inside.

"Ah, Mr. Birkoff," Section's chief strategist greeted him with a charming smile. "So glad you could join us."

Us?

Us?!?!?

Us, as in--

Oh, yes.

Of course.

Birkoff understood that he should have anticipated it. Given all he knew about how Section worked, he'd been a fucking fool--in every sense of the phrase--not to have realized that what had happened between him and Nikita last night would lead to this.

There was a third person in Madeline's office.

Someone who'd plainly been waiting for him to arrive.

That third person was Michael.

***********

The session with Madeline was humiliating in the extreme for Birkoff. He relieved it in his nightmares for years afterward.

Yet as bad as it was for him, he knew it had been worse for the man he'd once genuinely believed was impervious to emotional hurt.

Why Section's chief strategist had opted to debrief him and Michael at the same time, he couldn't say. But the calculated cruelty of the decision made his flesh crawl.

He felt exhausted to the point of illness by the time Madeline finally informed them they were dismissed. This, despite the extraordinary fact--or perhaps because of it?--that Michael had run interference for him throughout the entire interview.

He hadn't understood what was happening at first. If truth be told, Michael's unanticipated presence in Madeline's office had reduced him to a state of pee-in-his-pants terror. But as the fear had eased up, as he'd adjusted to the notion that he was not going to be cancelled, he'd begun to comprehend the true nature of what was going on.

Far from collaborating in Madeline's efforts to dissect his behavior of the previous night, Michael had repeatedly deflected her efforts to insert the knife. In a weird way, the cold op had acted as though he--Birkoff--was the injured party.

Birkoff slanted an uneasy glance at Michael's chiselled profile as they rose to leave, searching for some clue about what he was thinking. He found none. Michael's compelling features were composed, impossible to read.

You can trust me, he'd told Michael once.

If you betray me, I'll kill you, had come the unequivocal reply.

The statement had hurt, although Birkoff had struggled not to show it. That Michael had apparently believed the only way to secure his "loyalty" was to put a knife to his throat...

That's...why you can trust me, he'd answered.

He wondered if Michael would ever trust him again.

For one insane instant, Birkoff considered apologizing for what he'd done the night before. Or, at least, for what he thought he'd done. Unfortunately, he had the distinct feeling that this was one of those situations where an "I'm sorry" was likely to make things worse than they already were.

Still...

The door to Madeline's lair whispered shut. He was alone with Michael in the corrider. Well, no. Probably not alone. Chances were, somebody was watching. Or listening. Or both.

Screw that, Birkoff thought suddenly. He had to say something.

He cleared his throat.

"So," he began. "That--uh--wasn't really--uh--Nikita last night."

"No," Michael returned calmly, beginning to walk. "It wasn't."

Birkoff trailed after him, horribly uncertain about the wisdom of what he was doing but unable to stop himself.

"Do I want to know who--or, uh, what--she was?" he asked after a few moments, bringing up a matter Madeline, no doubt deliberately, had left unresolved.

Michael kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. "It's not important."

Birkoff stumbled, but managed not to end up sprawled flat on his face.

Not important?

Not important?

He sucked in a steadying breath. Well,actually, maybe it wasn't, he acknowledged grimly. She--whoever, whatever she had been--was gone. Disposed of. Permanently.

She's of no further use to us, Madeline had serenely announced, deftly sidestepping the issue of what purposes "she" had already served.

The logical follow-up questions--Did Michael know who or what the faux Nikita had been? Had he been aware that he was dealing with an imposter all along?--trembled on the tip of the computer whiz's tongue. But he swallowed them down, thinking about the surveillance tape from Michael's loft Madeline had played during the debriefing.

Shaming though it was for him to admit, he'd gotten turned on by some of what he'd seen. He recognized that his response had been pretty sick and plenty twisted, given the circumstances. But that didn't mean he could deny what he'd felt.

For the first time, Birkoff regretted his decision not to watch the bedroom surveillance from the Armel mission. He'd monitored Michael operating in seduction mode with a fairly significant number of women over the years. But he'd never seen him with Nikita. Because of this, he had no--uh--standard by which to judge last night's performance.

Assuming it had been a performance, which he wasn't at all sure he should.

Oh, there was no doubt that Michael had eventually realized the truth--if "truth" was the correct word--about the beautiful blue-eyed blonde who'd come to call on him. Although how he'd summoned the fortitude to do what he'd done once he had...

Birkoff frowned. Exactly when had Michael figured out what was going on? he asked himself. He'd said some extremely revealing things in the early part of the surveillance tape. Indeed, he'd seemed downright...vulnerable.

Michael getting physically naked with a mark--female or male--, Birkoff could easily accept. Heck. he'd witnessed it happen enough times! But Michael baring his soul to a target?

Birkoff chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering how Nikita--the real Nikita--would react if she were shown the surveillance tape from the loft. Would she confront Michael? And if she did, what would he--

Shit! he thought suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt.

Forget the surveillance tape from the loft. What about the one from his quarters? What if Madeline gave Nikita a look at that?

"Oh, God," he groaned, his stomach cramping painfully. "What am I going to tell her?"

Michael checked his step and pivoted back. He seemed mildly surprised by the question.

"Nikita, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing."

Birkoff choked. He'd come to terms with the older man's stone-cold response when he'd practically grovelled for help in dealing with the Felix matter. But this?

"'Nothing?'" he repeated furiously, glaring through his tinted lenses. "Jesus Christ, Michael! I had sex with her!"

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

Had Michael taken out a gun and shot him through the head right then and there, Birkoff probably would have considered it justifiable homicide. Or, more accurately, a mercy killing.

I had sex with her!

"Her"--meaning Nikita.

Of all the things to have said.

Of all the people to have said it to!

No.

He hadn't "said" it.

He'd practically yelled it at the top of his lungs.

As luck--or something--would have it, Birkoff no sooner got finished lobbing his ill-advised verbal grenade than a pair of cold ops appeared around the corner about five yards up the corridor. It was obvious from their avidly interested expressions that they'd heard what he'd said.

Michael glanced over his shoulder at them. That was all. Just...glanced. But a split second later, the two operatives turned on their booted heels and beat a hasty retreat back the way they'd come.

Michael returned his green-gray gaze to Birkoff. The computer genius quailed inwardly, figuring he was well and truly doomed.

"You were saying?" the man who'd been Nikita's mentor prompted calmly.

Birkoff swallowed convulsively, praying that he was not going to upchuck all over Michael's impeccably polished shoes. His palms were sweaty. His knees felt as wobbly as semi-set Jell-o.

"O-okay," he stammered, carefully pitching his voice for his companion's ears only. He didn't think the two operatives who'd made such a quick exit would have the nerve to linger around the corner, trying to listen in, but he didn't want to take any chances. "So the sex wasn't with her. With Nikita, I mean. But--"

"Do you make a practice of informing Nikita when you have intimate relations with other women?"

"Hu-huh?"

Michael repeated the question, his diction very precise.

Birkoff felt himself flush. Not just his face. This was a full-body blush of potentially terminal mortification. He couldn't believe that Michael--Michael!--had asked what he'd just asked.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was a little surprised that the older man seemed so sanguinely accepting of the idea that last night's unfortunate encounter hadn't been his first go-round with the opposite sex. Birkoff was bitterly aware that more than a few members of the cold op cadre assumed that he was some kind of cyber-monk. If he heard one more snide crack about joysticks and hard drives--

"No," he somehow got out. "Of course I don't."

"Then why tell her in this case?"

Birkoff opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut without saying anything. Michael had a good point, he decided. Still. He couldn't help feeling that there was something...off...about his reasoning.

"I thought it was with her," he finally said, trying to explain his impulse toward confession. His throat was tight. He tilted his chin a few degrees, looking Michael squarely in the eyes. "Don't you get it? I...wanted...it to be her."

An expression Birkoff couldn't put a name to flickered across the older man's strongly modeled features. He felt a tremor of fear, but willed himself not to glance away. He'd done what he'd done. He wasn't going to wuss out about it.

"'Wanted'--past tense?" Michael questioned after a few moments of tense silence.

The three-word inquiry rocked Birkoff down to his socks. He wasn't certain what had motivated it. The possibility that Michael might be jealous of him boggled his mind, but he couldn't totally discount it. He'd seen how possessive Michael could be of his former material. At the same time, he couldn't help thinking that the other man might--just might--be trying to protect him from rejection by the real Nikita.

The blue-eyed blonde he had not had sex with last night.

"Yeah," he conceded slowly. If he'd ever had a chance for a romantic relationship with Nikita, which he profoundly doubted he had, last night had ruined it beyond all hope of reclamation. "But--God, Michael! What do you want me to say?" He spread his hands. "Nikita's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. Plus, she's got heart. From the very beginning, she treated me like an actual guy--not some geek. And I--well--"

He hesitated, battered by a welter of contradictory feelings. Michael did nothing to encourage him to continue. Indeed, he seemed utterly unmoved by what had been said. Birkoff didn't know what this lack of reaction signified. Was Michael cool with what he was hearing? Or was this just the calm before the killer storm?

"All right," he resumed, telling himself that he had to see things through. "Yeah. I fantasized about her. And when she came to my quarters last night and came on to me--"

He paused again, grimacing. Images from the tape Madeline had played flashed through his brain. God! He had been such a...a...jerk!

"It started out like a dream," he concluded painfully, no longer able to sustain Michael's unwavering gaze. He ducked his head, staring down at the floor. "It turned out to be a nightmare."

There was a long silence. Finally, Birkoff scraped together sufficient courage to look up again. The compassionate understanding he saw in the other man's hazel eyes stunned him. It also emboldened him to return to his initial question: What was he going to tell Nikita?

"What if she finds out on her own, Michael?" he implored. "I mean, supposing Madeline decides to show her that damned surveillance video? Don't you think I should--"

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

Birkoff broke off, his breath jamming in his throat as a knockout blonde with sky-colored eyes came breezing around the corner of the corridor. She was clad in basic black and moved with kick-butt confidence. Despite her dark garb, she was a radiant presence.

"Hey, Birkoff," she greeted him, her rosy lips curving into a sassy smile.

"Hey...Nikita." He hoped he didn't sound as weird to her as he did to himself.

The blonde slowed, her clear gaze shifting from him to the man he was standing with. Her smile softened. A faint flush blossomed on her cream-skinned cheeks.

"Hullo, Michael," she said, her voice dropping a note or two.

"Nikita," came the quietly caressing reply.

There was an exchange of looks. It lasted no more than a second or two, but it made the atmosphere in the hallway hum. And the strength of the connection it suggested...

Put it this way: Seymour Birkoff strongly suspected that if he spontaneously combusted while Nikita and Michael were eyeing each other, neither of them would pay the slightest bit of heed. They'd undoubted mourn his fiery demise afterward, but they'd honestly have no recollection of it happening.

"You, uh, have an appointment with Madeline or something?" he eventually asked, firmly telling himself he was only imagining that the temperature in the corridor had shot up ten degrees.

The blonde started slightly, like someone reluctantly waking from a delicious dream. She turned toward him, her mouth quirking. The color in her face had intensified.

"I'm supposed to see her," she answered a bit throatily. "Although I don't know about what. I've already debriefed."

"Huh."

Fair eyebrows arched, communicating concern. "Are you okay, Birkoff?"

"Me?" His pulse scrambled. He swiftly manufactured a grin. It felt as phony as the cliched three-dollar bill. "Oh, yeah. Sure. Just fine."

"Mmmm." Blue eyes flicked toward hazel ones, apparently seeking--and receiving--reassurance that all was as it should be. "Well, much as I'd love to stick around and chat, I'd probably better go. It wouldn't do to keep you-know-who waiting. See you both later."

"That is her, right?" Birkoff asked in an undertone as he watched the blonde walk away. Every instinct he had told him it was, but he no longer trusted his instincts. "The...real...her?"

"Yes."

The intensity with which this affirmation was uttered yanked Birkoff's gaze back to Michael. The other man's changeable eyes were fixed on the blonde's supply back. His expression was...was...

Birkoff gulped, slammed by a sudden realization. It put a horrifying gloss on the episode in Madeline's office.

"You...you weren't sure she was still alive, were you?" he whispered, feeling more than a little sick. Heaven help him, he'd been so tangled up in his own neurotic emotions that he'd never stopped to consider the full implications of there being a "second" Nikita.

Michael glanced at him. For one stark instant, his normally shuttered expression was utterly--awfully--open. Then the barriers slammed back into place.

"No," he confirmed with gut-wrenching simplicity.

"And last night?" The question slipped out of its own accord, fueled by shock. "With the, uh, other one? You--you didn't know she was--I mean, when she first showed up, you thought--"

The young cyber-whiz's voice tailed off into nothingness as the recklessness of what he was doing sank in. To say that he'd just intruded on what should have been No Trespass territory was to understate the case.

Michael turned his head and stared down the hall. Birkoff had the sense he was conjuring up the image of the sunshine-haired beauty who'd just disappeared into Madeline's lair.

Section's top operative sighed very softly. Then, equally softly, he replied, "You're not the only one who 'wanted' last night, Birkoff."

***********

"Won't you come into my parlor," said the spider to the fly...

For reasons she suspected just about anyone in Section would understand, Nikita frequently found herself silently reciting that line of verse when she entered Madeline's office.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked, walking down the stairs from the sliding door. She occasionally wondered about those entrance steps. There was speculation in certain quarters that Madeline had had them installed for amusement purposes--specifically, to watch people trip up on them.

"I did," Section's chief strategist affirmed, glancing up from a computer panel and offering a pleasant smile. "Please. Come in and sit down."

"I ran into Birkoff on my way in," Nikita commented, doing as she'd been bidden.

"Did you?"

"Is he...all right?"

"He's had a bit of a shock."

"A shock?" Nikita shifted, uneasy about the choice of word. "From you?"

"In a manner of speaking."

In a manner of speaking?

Madeline-ese for "yes," Nikita decided.

"So, when I saw him--?" she queried, trying not to sound too interested.

"He was coming from here. As was Michael."

First score to the Mistress of Mind Games, Nikita acknowledged, her wariness escalating. Her fault, really. It had been a mistake not to mention running into Michael as well as Birkoff.

Of course, Michael hadn't looked as though he'd been slammed upside the skull with a two-by-four. But then again, Michael never looked...

"Did you give him a bit of a shock, too, Madeline?" Nikita inquired, unable to prevent an edge of tension from entering her voice.

"Why don't you judge for yourself?" the other woman suggested mildly, clicking on the view screen to her left.

Nikita frowned as what clearly was a surveillance image of Birkoff's private quarters materialized on the monitor. The young computer genius was sprawled in a chair, apparently engrossed in thought.