Kiss me with the kisses of your mouth,
for your love is more wonderful than wine.
The oils of your body are fragrant.
The sound of your name is perfume.
No wonder the young women love you.
Take me with you-and we will run.

From the Songs of Solomon

I have been thinking about my life a lot lately. There is danger in that, thinking too much. I am almost certain that I love Michael. Before this last assignment he had been very good to me. It is a fault of mine, mistaking tenderness for love. I've had so little of either. Some of the things that he's said to me in the past months had seemed to my starving heart to go beyond the realms of friendship. Am I that pathetic? I sit here and bite my pen, wondering, wanting. I think some days that I will move on, put him behind me as Section requires. As, perhaps he requires.

I tell myself sometimes that I have put my feelings very neatly aside. Yet something always happens to draw us back together. Toe to toe on that abyss, our arms stretched out in need, yet neither of us willing to reach an inch. Neither of us saying what we really feel. I think th at he feels something for me, too and yet I don't know what stands in his way. Is it Section? Is it the memory of Elena and Adam? Or something deep inside himself that he cannot tell me about. I don't believe there is another woman, only those women he contacts through his duty to Section. I have tried to accept the torment of that. I wish that I could tell him how frustrated I am at being drawn in and pushed away. I should hate him for it, but I don't. I am like Jane Eyre with her Mr. Rochester. I will love him despite the past, despite the wife in the closet, regardless of the secrets that he keeps from me, even though my head tells me I shouldn't. I can only take pen in hand and pour out my heart here on these pages. Like Jane, I will start at the beginning, a long, long time ago.

When I was a little girl I had a doll, one of those rather pin-headed walking dolls that came up to my waist. She was from the church box at the soup kitchen. One of the nuns gave her to me on a icy, fall morning. I had fallen on the way and made holes in my corduroy pants and my mother had yanked me up by one arm and whooped me there on the street. The nuns must have felt sorry for me. I called the doll Mrs. Adelaide Jones. I thought it the most elegant name in the world. She was my pride and joy.

Mrs. Adelaide Jones was a bride doll. She had rather sparse, unkempt hair and the kid who had owned her before me had drawn on her eyebrows with blue pen that no amount of rubbing could get off. She still had her shoes though and that was important to me. They were white plastic with rosebuds on the tops. A bride could not get married without shoes. And she still had her white dress and veil, though they were threadbare and torn. I loved Mrs. Jones with all my heart. She was the beginning of a lifelong, secret fascination with brides and weddings.

My mother never married my father. I don't think she ever told me his name. Even though we a had a succession of men I was supposed to call stepfather, I'm quite sure that my mother always lived common law. When I was school aged I occasionally got invited to the homes of girls in my class. At least until their parents discovered that I was the daughter of the town's loose woman. Anyway, I remember one girl, Lindy Banks, whose parents had a lovely big picture of their own wedding on the piano. I used to love to climb up on the bench and gaze at it. Mrs. Banks was so pretty with her bouffant hair, kind of like Priscilla Presley. Her dress was breathtaking and Lindy Banks had the dress , the satin shoes and the Irish lace veil to play dress-up in. Her mother had six bridesmaids and they all had daffodil yellow dresses. I told myself then and there, that when I got married, that was what I'd have. An Irish lace veil and silken shoes.

I just have to laugh at that now. When I got married. Not, if. I was quite determined. After all Mrs. Adelaide Jones got married every day to Andy Gibb on my back porch. What was stopping me?

Well, as it happens, I've never even been to a wedding. So I was a little taken aback when Madeline informed me of my next assignment. A huge wedding sting. Thank goodness I didn't have the dubious honour of being the bride on this occasion. Anyway, they probably don't make those pretty, little bride shoes in size ten. I came into it as the maid of honour.

Section, when it's planning a wedding sting, spares no expense. It also spares nobody's broken heart as Michael can attest. I often wonder about his wedding. He has never told me how many people were there or how elaborate it was. I saw a picture of them once cutting their two tiered cake. They looked so blissful, he and Elena. So charming. I have tried not to ask him about it and he had offered nothing. I ponder about how much of his happiness in that picture was a lie. And how much of it was him wishing that it was real

Section had been planning this for a while. It was slightly different than the Michael mission. There were more players and the big culmination came with the wedding. The bride's name was Diana. She was a lovely girl with toasty freckles and silky light red hair. He smile was open and vivacious. She was very young, almost virginal in her aspect. I didn't know anything about her, what she did to come into Section. She didn't look like a criminal. I only knew her from the briefing that I was given at Section. Of course it was all a script. I had never seen her in person before she and her fiance, came to pick me up at Orly.

Her fiance was a young man named Benjamin Balthasar. He was the son of Radic Balthasar, one of the most sought after men in Europe. He deals in the weapons of germ and chemical warfare. He has made a very tidy living at it and has always stayed one step ahead of the law. His son was an innocent.

Ben's father had done him the questionable favour of sheltering him at exclusive boarding schools. He knew nothing of his father's crimes or of his bride's duplicity. He was wide-eyed, eager to please and boyish. I liked him at first meeting, how he clung to Diana's hand shyly, kissing her cheek when he thought I wasn't looking. Ben, was just a young man deeply in love with a pretty girl. I couldn't swallow the fact that Ben would be the one hurt in all this. Diana, I was not sure about.

The invited guests to the wedding three days away, read like a who's who of terrorists from throughout Europe. The so-called radical elite. Section hoped to round them up at the wedding. Playing the bride's older sister was fun actually. I've never had a little sister and Diana seemed to be rather sweet and genuine, or was at least good at acting that way. We shopped and dined and partied like we'd done it all our lives. She and Benjamin had met at school in England, all arranged by section a year before. She had recently met her future in-laws and they adored her. The huge wedding was planned with no sparing of money or detail by our wealthy father. Our father was played by an older agent of British extraction. His cover was that of a man who bankrolled terrorism in Ireland. Such a lovely family Diana and I come from.

I was looking forward to it all, in a strange way, until the wedding planner showed up three days before the wedding. He was to be played by a rather effeminate looking operative from Paris that I know only slightly. He often steps in the play the part of fashion designers, disco owners or society mavens. I was expecting thin, limp-wristed and slightly balding. I got something completely different. For some reason I was not informed of the change until it was upon me.

The replacement operative only appeared to be light in his Gucci loafers. I knew otherwise. The whirling dervish with red streaked hair and a ponytail extension , tight leather pants and silk leopard print Versace shirt open to the belly button was none other than Michael. He had replaced Christophe, the victim of a gall bladder attack, at the last minute. It would be a disaster. How was I going to get through this without laughing my head off ?

" My goodness, Nikki," whispered Ben in my ear. " Get a load of him."

" Yes. He's interesting alright." I clenched my teeth together as he breezed into the ballroom of the chateau Section had rented. This was like some ghastly joke. And to think for three days I'd been almost able to put him from my mind and have some pleasure. He breezed in, downed a glass of champagne and pronounced it flat, kissed Diana on both cheeks, held her at arm's length and told her she was fabulous. " But stay out of the sun, darling. Skin like yours burns and we can't have you looking like a pickled beet on your big day, can we?"

Diana shook her head in dismay and introduced Ben. Michael, or Christophe made a huge fuss over him. Then he told the unfortunate boy that he had pimples. I wanted to smack him. Michael is a lot of things, but not insensitive. Poor Ben could say very little. His face was now beet red making the small amount of acne seem worse. He had obviously never run into a peculiar gay wedding planner before and this was a little overwhelming.

I was last to be introduced. He looked me up and down. " Rather tall, aren't you, darling? I mean, for models, tall is good, yes. And you could be a model with those gorgeous cheekbones and those thrusting breasts, but sweetheart-- ." He walked around me slowly with his hand cupping his jaw. He was making tsk, tsk sounds. As he slowly passed and I caught a glimpse of his rear-end in the tight leather pants. Rather awe-inspiring, I thought. I wanted to kick him right there on his gorgeous ass. " You're going to tower over Diana and the other girls. " I am imagining a very tall swan among a flock of baby ducks." I frowned at him. Was he actually enjoying this? I have never credited Michael with a sense of fun " You'll have to get some flats. Ballet slippers. I think they make those in your size."

We were eye too eye. Sometimes I slouch to make myself smaller when I have high heels. Today I wanted to be taller. He was not going to get away with this. The sadist. How could he tell the poor boy he had pimples? I'll bet my life that Michael has never had a pimple. He's probably had this aura of self-possession, that perfect un-marred angel's face all of his life. And big feet. Well, I'd look pretty dumb with tiny ones. I drew myself up with great dignity and threw my head back

I thought of the gorgeous hot pink, strappy silk shoes with the four inch heels that I might never wear again. Michael, you destroyer of dreams. I didn't mind the nice boobs comment too much, surprisingly. I have always wondered if he likes my figure.

" You are quite beautiful, Nikita. Has anyone ever told you that?" He met my eyes. His were twinkling.

" Perhaps."

He looked me up and down again. Diana and Ben were lost in themselves. He reached one beautifully formed hand to touch the necklace that was cradled between my breasts. It was the blue heart shaped one he had given me for Josephine's birthday. I don't wear it at Section. It is too precious.

" Pretty. Not expensive, but tasteful, " he said. I think this was the first time he'd seen me wear it. Had that bothered him, I wondered?

" A gift from an admirer?" His eyes gleamed with some expression I couldn't read. I could feel his fingers on my chest and damn if my nipples didn't get hard. I really hated myself at that moment. Hated my stupid body for its betrayal.

" The man who gave it to me is a real jerk. He likes to string me along." That probably wasn't fair. I am too serious for games and I didn't know where this little game was going, but I decided that two could play.

" But you wear it anyway. Interesting. Things aren't always what they seem, are they, dear Niki? Give him time. Maybe he has his reasons. Maybe you have yours. "

I glared at him. Then I blushed. Michael could be imaginative as hell. But he could be a little twisted, too. Being at section too long tends to do that to a person.

What was this? This teasing. I knew he was playing a role, but why was he saying things that he couldn't say to me in his real persona. Telling me I was beautiful. Touching me.

He never said anything to me later when the mission was over. Why didn't he just say something? What is he waiting for? I was thinking. A little voice inside my head always answers the question. Maybe he's waiting for you, Nikita. For you to say something. For you to tell him how you feel.

No. I tell myself, remembering the way he treated me when I came back to Section at his urging. This reticence on his part isn't my fault. Or is it? There was that little matter with Jurgen. I was trying to open up his eyes, to make him jealous. God, I can be a fool . . . Thinking about it gives me a headache now even as I sit and write this. I want to grab his shoulders and shake him, tell him I don't want all these stupid little flirtatious clues that lead nowhere. I want him to just tell me what he wants and then kiss me. Until I can't see straight. Until we fall into bed togther. Lost in our lust. That's all. We can work out the details when we can breathe and think and move again.

In Section it may be too much to ask. Even for him.

God, I'm pathetic. I guess I should get back to the story. You won't believe it. But then, in a world where Fabio can get hit on the head by a goose while riding on a roller coaster at the opening of an amusement park, anything can happen. By the way, the goose died. Fabio survived. Had to be something to do with the hair.

" I want to tell you something?' He crooked his finger and drew me closer. His lips were very close to my ear. I could feel the prickle of his fashionable beard stubble against my ear lobe, the warmth of his skin. His breath was warm. My nipples were still aching. You're right. I am pitiable.

" If I wasn't gay I could go for a chick like you." He gave a husky little chuckle.

" If you weren't gay I'd kick your ass, Christophe."

" Ouch! Naughty, naughty. Who do you think you are, darling? That sassy Xena, Warrior Princess. Kicking asses, indeed. You're a big marshmallow. Nice and gooey in the center. I can tell. And don't frown, Princess. It makes very unattractive little lines. And we don't want those, do we, darling?" With one long finger he traced a path between my eyes and tweaked my nose. He grinned at me, then sailed off leaving me seething. Marshmallow. Well, he had me pegged right for that.

" Come on, Ben. We'll go over to Pink Lime and see Joseef. He can do wonders with a boy who eats too many french fries. I love them, myself. But they go right to my love handles. I think I'll get a facial. Joseef is to die for." Michael led a bewildered Ben away. Love handles?

I decided that my beloved Michael was a lot more amenable with a gun. How the hell was I going to get through this? Two more days, I told myself. Here I am at a wedding in a gorgeous chateau, in the south of France with the man think that I think I love, the man I dream about, the man I long to have as my lover. And he is flitting around in silk pretending to be a gay so we can knowingly destroy a young man's life in order to capture a raft load of international criminals. And he is teasing me unmercifully. An interesting change of pace, yes. But hardly romantic. Next thing they'd spring on me would be Mick Schtoppel as the justice of the peace. " Hey baby, we gather together in the name of John Travolta to join this swingin' couple. Can you dig it?"

There was an informal rehearsal the next day in the magnificent rose garden of the chateau where the wedding ceremony would be held. I walked out toward the rose garden. The dew had soaked my shoes so I slipped them off and dug my bare toes in the grass. It was cool and lovely. I raised my face to the sun and felt the warm summer breeze on my cheeks, lifting my hair and the silk of my skirt. Under other circumstances this would be the most heavenly place for a wedding. Tomorrow there would be swarms of men in black with guns and a helicopter whirring over our heads. I shuddered thinking about it Ben's life ruined. I was lost in my thoughts until a voice, too disturbingly high pitched and frantic not to be that of Michael's alter ego calling me. " Niki sweetie-pie, are you going to lollygag all day?"

Sweetie-pie. Oh, yuck. Please, never call me sweetie-pie again, Michael. It is not you.

" What are you doing out there, Tatiana? Communing with your minions."

" The only faery out here is you, Christophe." My head was aching again. Who was this nasty fellow? One day I'm going to ask him just who he based this portrayal on? Joan Rivers? Or Beelzebub? Maybe a frightening combination of the two.

I nodded, sighed deeply and walked back across the lawn to join them. I was still mad at him. And I have to admit, slightly entranced, wondering what he would do next. M. Christophe was dressed more conservatively in a grey silk Armani suit and a blue shirt. He seemed to have forgotten about me and was now complaining bitterly over the colour of the tablecloths and the music. " You can't use Wedding March. It is ridiculously passé," he ranted, eyes wide and arms flying. " That dreaded, done-to-death dirge has been used over and over again. For God's sake. Give me Diana Ross and the Supremes. Anything but that mawkish tripe!"

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the erupting giggles. Had he heard this stuff at his own Section wedding or had he stayed up last night thumbing through the IN Style Wedding issue while watching Martin Short in Father of The Bride? If we ever get to be very close in our old age I'm going to bring this back to haunt you, Michael. We will laugh about it when we are in bed late at night, snug in each other's withered old arms.

It seemed like hours before we came to the staging of the wedding itself. Christophe had very explicit ideas. He expressed them with little regard to anyone's sensibilities then apologised profusely after with darlings and sweeties, and of course not meaning it at all. I watched him thinking, he is totally out of control, the exact opposite of my Michael. The self-possessed poster boy. He is really enjoying this. Being aloud to say anything he likes because he's playing an eccentric. Answering to no one. Of course he was under instruction. Everything had to be arranged according to plan. Even the ceremony. Diana and Ben were to recite passages from the Songs of Solomon. The recitations were in fact his father's idea. Balthazar considered himself somewhat of a romantic despite the fact that he kills and maims with biological weapons of destruction. Certain phrases were to be the cues for Birkoff to send in the other operatives. Poor Ben couldn't seem to remember his lines. He was afraid of disappointing his father, his bride. He had to be able to do it for the rehearsal that night. Michael had the boy near tears. I decided that it wouldn't be inappropriate to step in and suggest that we break for coffee.

" We have to get it right,' Michael told me imperiously.

" They are so tired."

" Then you and I will take their place and show Benjamin how it's done." He dared me to argue with a direct look from those smoky blue- green eyes. " Stand across from me, Nikita." He shooed the bride and groom off with a limp-wristed wave of his hand. They sat down gratefully to watch. " Listen, Ben. You just have to take it slower. Take a deep breath. I know the words are odd. I mean I don't want to squeeze dates or climb fig trees either --" He looked at me and I swear he was going to laugh. He found his famous composure quickly. " Look, Ben. These are beautiful old words. You don't take them in the literal sense. You feel them. They are about love. And love is beautiful any way you say it. You just have to believe what you're saying."

I stepped up onto the dais beneath the bower of white roses and pink clematis. I stood there in my bare feet. He was so much taller than me. He set down the book of poems. He took my hand in both of his, the hands that I love, his strong, rough textured fingers curling around mine. Mine were shaking a little. Michael smiled reassuringly at me. " You don't have to say anything, my sweet. This is just so Benjamin can get the idea."

I nodded, remembering Mrs. Adelaide Jones and the million and six weddings to Barry Gibb, the tawny haired man of my dreams, on the back porch. It was such a long time ago. This might be the closest I ever came to living the fantasy. I felt a million miles away from everything, in a magical place where there was only Michael and me. I looked at the aggravating, frustrating man beneath the strange clothes. The wind was stirring his hair. His cheeks were slightly flushed as I knew mine were. He was splendid. Beautiful. I wished that he were really and truly mine. I thought of the line from the Songs of Solomon: " Take me with you- and we will run."

Michael was still looking into my eyes when he spoke the lines. Perfectly. He knew them by heart. I hoped he had learned them for the encrypted codes and not for his wedding to Elena. Or Simone. I wanted him to have uttered them only for me:

" My love, you are as beautiful as the green fields of Tirzah,
as fair as Jerusalem, as awesome as an army with great banners.
Turn your eyes away from me
for they overwhelm me.

How beautiful you are! How lovely you are!
You are love in all its delights!
Your figure is like a palm tree
and your breast are like clusters of dates.
I am thinking I shall climb the palm tree
and take hold of the branches

Your breasts will be as soft as grapes,
your breath as fragrant as apples,
and your kiss like spiced wine,
flowing smoothly,
stirring the sleeper's lips to speak.

Rise, my love, my lovely one, and come away with me . . ."

He broke off. His eyes had never left mine throughout the recitation. His hands had been warm and steady over my trembling ones. I only have to think about the warm caress of his accented voice, the gleam in his eyes that I hoped was a mirror to my own craving, the small suddenly shy smile and shrug he gave when it was over to start me crying. I don't know how I kept myself from crying then. I know that I couldn't keep my eyes off him that night at the briefing. Operations kept frowning at me.

Michael stopped me that afternoon as we departed the briefing room to go back to the chateau. He said nothing of the ancient words of love he had spoken to me that morning. He didn't apologise for his teasing. He asked only if I had seen any anomalies. Was Diana doing her job? Had she fallen in love with Ben? Did I think that anything could happen that might affect the mission? Business as usual. I don't know if I answered him truthfully. I didn't tell him that in my secret romantic heart I hoped that she had fallen for him and they would make a run for it.

Before the wedding, I was nervous. I twisted the bouquet around and round in my hands. Michael approached me. He was wearing a morning coat, a brocade vest and stock tie with a pink rose on the lapel of the jacket. He was quite spectacular, a heartbreaker. Like he'd stepped out of a historical romance novel.

" So," I said, rather breathless at his beauty. " Joseef is good."

" Very. And you look very nice yourself, my sweet. Are you ready?"

" No. Not really. I've never been to a wedding before. I'm nervous."

He looked at me, surprised, I think. " It'll be okay. Save me the first dance."

I knew there would be none of that. No congratulations. No throwing of the bouquet. No dancing, but I'd play his little game if he wanted me to. " Can I keep the shoes on?" I held up my foot in the lovely satin shoes.

" Yea, Kita. You can keep the shoes on. That would be kinda kinky." He grinned at me rather cheekily. I got the impression I was talking to Michael and not Christophe. I think I was still flushing as he walked away.

As it turned out, they did not run. Diana did her job. Unlike me, she is a superlative operative. Her heart, if she has one, is in her assignments and not with that of the young man who was unfortunate enough to be born the son of an evil man. I watched them leading Ben away from the wreckage that had been his wedding. I wanted to comfort him but I was swept up in the action doing the job I reluctantly do. We have not been advised of his progress. I presume that we are expected not to care. I see Diana from time to time flirting with the other operatives and I can't help but see her as cold and calculating. I don't want her as a friend.

Michael has never mentioned the words that he spoke to me under that romantic wedding bower. He has been busy of late. Our contact has only been in passing. He is excruciatingly polite. Sometimes I watch him walk down the corridors in that unapproachable, solitary way he has. As usual he has left me once more bewildered, utterly confused. If only he could tell me. If he only wants my friendship, I can leave it at that. At least I can try.

Michael, you seem almost comfortable in your loneliness. You wear it like a warm, thick coat. It's as if loneliness is better than nothing. You can allow yourself only glimpses of joy.

I tell myself this and yet I think of your green eyes burning into mine with a fierce and possessive light. The conviction in your voice as you recited the words: " Rise, my love, my lovely one and come away with me. . ."

You have only to ask.

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