Her name is Denise Devereaux. She is short and model slender. The embodiment of the expression petite. Her eyes are deep, moss green and her lips can only be described as a perfect cupid's bow. She smokes those long French cigarettes and leaves carmine red lipstick on the filter. She only comes up to his shoulder. He kind of lopes his arm over her and dangles his hand down over her pert little breast. She has a yappy, pocket sized dog with long brown hair which she dotes on. Sometimes the dog snaps at Michael in a jealous rage. Did I say that I hate Denise? The dog's okay.

I hate Section, too. Well, that is nothing new. It's just that I presume they are trying to torture me with this new mission. Why couldn't Michael's chauffeur, body guard be one of the male operatives? Why did they have to pick me? I'd rather be in Kosovo dodging bullets than doing this mission in Paris. And why couldn't the car be one of those stretch limos instead of this bullet proof Mercedes? I can hear every word they say to each other sitting in the back seat. If Michael, or Gervais as he is being called, calls her 'ma petite choux' one more time I'm going to spit up my lunch. I don't understand much French, but I don't need the Larousse dictionary to get a handle on exactly what's being said back there. It ain't about cabbages.

I guess that's what's really getting to me. It isn't driving them around to this hotel and that, this party and that, all the while trying to pilot on the wrong side of the road with these demented French taxi drivers. I can handle all that. Behind me I can hear her scraping those long red nails up his thigh. And he's giving her that husky little chuckle as he kisses her neck. The dog is yelping. And she's whimpering and giggling. I almost ran over a pedestrian when I was peering into the rearview mirror at them. Thank goodness we finally got to her apartment or I could be in real trouble. I hate to say that I was pleased on that particular night when he came out fifteen minutes later, glowering because he hadn't been asked to stay. As it was, I wanted to say something flip to him, like: " Over so soon, M. Gervais? Are we losing our stamina? Or did Mitsou bite you? " I can't say that personal stuff to him because of the chance that Devereaux' men have surveillance on us. I must act like the ever loyal employee. Any way Michael more than made up for his little setback a few nights ago.

I waited on the street in the limo for two hours. I can only imagine what they did up there. He came back to the car looking rather worn out, his hair damp, his tie hanging out of his pocket. He told me to drive to the apartment. He reeked of her perfume. Chanel #5. I have never liked that perfume. I could even smell it on myself. And I did not want to smell of their tryst.

I'm still a little put out with Michael for what he said about me yesterday. He is pretending to be a mega-rich arms dealer out of Brussels. The man he is impersonating is well known as a playboy. Gervais Montreau actually had a female chauffeur before Section brought him in, so good, old Maddie felt that I was right for the job. Denise's grand-father is in the business of selling military weapons to terrorists. He funds his operation by laundering money from drugs and prostitution and Section has finally found his weakness, Denise. She just got over a failed affair and is vulnerable. The usual scenario. Of course Michael, as Gervais, must seduce her and get into grand-daddy's good graces. Nothing he hasn't done a million times. Anyway they've been dating for a few weeks. When she asked Michael why he had a female bodyguard/ chauffeur he told her that I was as tall as he, strong enough to look out after him and too dumb to learn French so he could basically speak freely in front of me. Big and dumb. Well, thank you Michael, I thought, and you just have a nice freakin'day, too. After he said it, in French, and it sounds a lot worse in French, he looked into the rear view mirror and winked. Denise didn't see because she was busy reapplying the lipstick that she'd rubbed all over Michael's face and collar.

I know that I sound petty and jealous. I'm striving not to be. I have become very immune to this of late. It is part of Michael's job to use and seduce women and I am attempting to understand. Usually I feel sorry for them, these women he can make fall for him with smiles and soulful looks and smouldering kisses. But I don't normally have to be right in the room while he makes love to them. And Michael doesn't seem to be the least bothered about my seeing him in action. We don't talk when we get back to the apartment. I know that it's a matter of security for the mission. It's the same every night. He says good night and goes to his huge room on one side of the apartment, while I go to my little one behind the kitchen. I lay in the rather lumpy bed, watching French television and think about him kissing Denise's pouty lips and try to get the pictures out of my head. One night I dreamed it was me in the Valentino dress and the fur coat going to the opera and to the Ritz. I was laughing up into his breathtaking face and he was telling me what a beauty I was. With the things I dream no wonder I'm tired and grouchy in the morning.

Denise had a fitting today at the house of Chloe. She talked Michael into coming. I grinned, choking back a snort, when he agreed. Somehow Michael sitting in a silk covered, spindly chair in a house of couture looking at a woman trying on dresses does not quite compute. He's far better equipped to be kicking some bad guy where it hurts. He looked wonderful today, though, the consummate Lothario, in his Armani suit, his hair swept rather severely back from his face. He doesn't have that prison pallor we all suffer from at Section. Yesterday he spent the day on the French Riviera, on some Greek tycoon's yacht. His skin now has a lovely, golden tan. The tan makes his eyes seem brighter than their usual smoky green and there are more red and gold lights in his dark chestnut hair.

I usually wait for them by the car, but the sun was shining and there are so many sidewalk cafes in Paris. They had left me with Mitsou and she had to do her business. There are a million dogs on the streets of Paris and they all have business to do. I was wearing a pinstriped black pantsuit with an ankle length coat, a French cuffed white shirt and tie. My hair was sweaty under my hat and perspiration was running down under my breasts. I went over to a cafe and bought a bottle of Coke. I took off my hat and coat and walked down the street, looking in the shop windows. Beside the House of Chloe was a small antique store. I stopped to look at the things in the window. I bent closer. In a puddle of velvet was the sweetest pendant, an heart shaped cloisonne locket, enamelled in tones of lapis blue.

"What are you doing?"

I jumped about three feet. I almost said his real name. Mitsou growled at him. He was alone. He had taken his jacket off, too. His neck looked very smooth and tanned against his open white collar. He'd just ran his fingers through his hair. " Nothing," I stammered. It's quite unfair that this man can look so good even when he's rumpled. " Are you ready?"

" I came out for a breather, She's looking at shoes." He rolled his eyes.

" Oh," I stammered. " I was bored. I can go back to the car. I'll wait there."

" What caught your eye?" Michael asked. It was the most he'd said to me in days. He was eying my Coke rather longingly. The sun was so hot for April. I offered him the bottle making a show of wiping the rim off on my shirt tail. He took it gratefully, tipped his head back and swallowed. I could see his Adam's apple bobbing. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and smiled. I told him to finish it. Something about that smile and I wasn't thirsty any longer. Not for Coke at least.

I remembered his question. " I just noticed that necklace. It's pretty. I like blue."

" You never wear jewellery."

I didn't think he noticed things like that. " Neither do you. Besides people don't buy themselves jewellery. It's inherited or they get it as a gift. And there's no one to give me gifts." I felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. I pretended that the sun was in my eyes." It's pointless anyway. Jewellery just gets lost. " I hope I sounded indifferent.

He stared at me for a long moment in that way he has. Devouring my profile. I almost believe that he thinks I can't tell. I can always tell when he is looking at me. It makes me wonder what he's thinking about. It always makes me wish . . ." You can have the rest of the afternoon off. I'll find my own way back."

I shrugged. So why should he be the only one having a holiday in Paris. I handed him the dog. Mitsou reacted by nipping his finger. I asked him if I should check with his office in Belgium. Michael shook his head. " Have a nice afternoon. I'll see you tomorrow."

Tomorrow. I suppose that means he was getting lucky again. I decided I'd have a sumptuous dinner at some tiny cafe‚ and then I'd take a long hot bath in his tub instead of using that rusty little shower I've been allotted. I'd have some hot tea and curl up with a book and some music. I wouldn't even think about him. Not for a minute. I watched him cross the street. He looked better than a man ought to look walking away. His shoulders are so wide, his waist and hips narrow. He has this way of walking. Kind of an loose hipped , sexy stroll that anyone else would look really absurd trying to copy. I wish I could tell you that your walk does crazy things to my stomach, Michael.

I went for dinner at a little bistro. The young waiter flirted with me outrageously. I felt attractive, desirable again. I left him a generous tip. On a whim I stopped at the little antique shop. The little blue locket was gone. I was staring at the empty spot on the velvet when the owner came out to lock up. I asked him about the necklace. " I sold it just this afternoon," he told me with a smile " Pretty, eh?"

" Very."

" A man bought it. He said the colour reminded him of his lover's eyes. Love is so beautiful."

" Yes. It is beautiful." I bade him good night and walked the short distance to the apartment. I bathed, read and listened to music. At nine p.m. the cell phone's ring awoke me from a restless slumber. " Josephine. It is time."

We came back from Paris last week. The mission was success and Operations is happy for now. Things have been slow. A lot of down time lately. I have been reading and working on my sculpture and sketching. I have been trying not to be melancholy about my life. I think I am doing well at keeping myself occupied. I didn't expect the knock on my door late Sunday night. My hands were dirty with clay and I looked a mess. It was probably Mick wanting to talk.

"Michael." I think I blushed.

" May I come in?"

" Of course. Is this section business."

" Not really." He glanced at a the nude male form I was sculpting. He didn't comment. " I wanted to give you something I can only stay a minute. I'm on standby." He put a small box on the counter. " I know I don't tell you often that I appreciate the work you do, 'Kita. It's been five years since you became my material."

I stared at him in surprise. " Has it?"

" Five years ago Josephine was born."

I laughed at that sentiment. How ridiculous. He seemed quite serious. " Who gave me that code name?"

" I gave it to you. You were mine to name, " His voice was soft, rather husky, I imagined. " There was this girl I knew when I was a boy. Her name was Josephine. She was feisty and smart. She could do anything the boys did. Better, even. She wore her hair in long blonde braids down her back. I used to like to pull them. She'd smack me for it. It was as good as a kiss to me. You know how boys are. I called her Jo. You reminded me of her." He smiled and for once the smile reached those misty-green eyes. " Open it. Think of it as a gift from a friend. "

Well, that put this token into perspective, I thought. That's what we are now, I suppose. It is one way to look at our strange relationship. I was embarrassed that my hands shook. I opened the box. Inside on the satin lay the blue cloisonne locket. I could only gape at it, my heart hammering. I didn't know what to say. I was thinking about what the shop owner had said. The words echoed around and around in my head. I looked up at him. I know there were tears in my eyes.

He leaned over and pressed his lips to one cheek and then the other, as is the European custom. Not a lover's kiss. The kiss of a friend.

" Happy Birthday, Josephine," he whispered.

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