My dearest love,

Why do I write this? It is futile. You know it. I know it. There is no love in this place. It only whithers and dies. Nothing can live in this dark place. I can never give this letter to you, my Eve, my forbidden one. You are to be forgotten, so the rules say. So I have learned. So I tell myself this each time I think about you. And that is with each breath. Every beat of my heart.

My longing for you is insurmountable, a steep mountain of glass that I must climb. I fall and fall again from the edge of a sharp precipice, into a yawning, black abyss. My body craves you more than food, more than sleep. My mind is consumed by your image, the memory of your voice in my ear, your soft hair brushing my cheek, the feel of your love-slick skin against my mouth.

I watch you now through yearning eyes, my wild and wanton vine. You grow from a small fissure in the concrete prison. A thing of awesome beauty, strength, substance, you wind your way around these pillars of cold cement and sharpened steel.

Fragrant hair, flower eyes, coltish grace. Your smile enchants me, invites me. I know too well how your strong, supple body fits mine.

Your breasts were created for my hands. I feel us, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, sex to sex. I drank once like a drunken man from the sweet chalice you offered me. Now I find I cannot live without this sustenance.

My God, is this love? It seems too strong, too potent to be the vapid stuff of poets. This love is not flowers and perfume. It is pounding blood. Fire. Frenzy.

Does love hurt this deeply? Haunt me to my death? I am that last self-portrait of Vincent Van Gogh. All madness. All torment. Coloured in blood. Drenched in despair.

I must see you.

Come to me tonight, love. Wrap your beauty round me once more. Come tonight.

We will forget the world. I will whisper love words into your rain soft hair, steal your soul with avid kisses. Come, give yourself to me....

I read this love letter every night. It has never left my sight since I found it under the briefing table the day I went under it to find my shoes. That was about six weeks ago. Much has happened since. Why do I read it? Call it self-torture. I don't know. I guess I just like to pretend that Michael wrote it. That he wrote it to me. That it explains everything he is feeling, everything he has never told me.

I wish that I was the woman in this letter, this wild wanton vine. I really don't know how to go about finding the owner so I hang on to it, hoping one day that there might be a clue.

I haven't written in this pages in a long while. I've been in a blue funk for weeks. I go to work. I do my job. I come home on the Metro because my car is in the garage. Something to do with some valve. The garage mechanic is named Otto. It says so right on his overalls. And I know he's dicking with me. I know a little about cars, very little about these computer driven models; it can't take that long to order a valve. He keeps telling me they'll have the parts soon and then his piggy eyes lower to check my boobs out. I have to speak to Ops about a new car, but I haven't the nerve, so I remain calm and cope. Yesterday Ops gave me a dirty look because I was late. Yea, like I could have predicted that poor chick throwing herself on the train tracks. Probably because some cold, heartless guy left her.

I haven't spoken much to Michael after that fiasco of trying to help Marc. I told myself at the time that I went to such lengths only to avenge Angela's death and not because I am an immature fool. I'm surprised that Madeline even speaks to me now, since I lied to her about Marc's giving up the sub-station. She has actually been very nice lately, still offering tea and sympathy. What's up with her? I thought women her age were supposed to get progressively bitchier. Maybe she's getting laid. Maybe she's doing some handsome young stud.

God, maybe she's the vine in the letter. The long legged honeysuckle beauty. I never thought of that. Okay, so now I'm depressed.

Even Birkoff and Walter have been a little distant lately since I implicated them in that mess with Angela and Marc, though Walter is slowly coming around. If I take him enough baked goods he'll eat out of my hand. Then I can feel guilty for rising his cholesterol count.

I don't know if I like the fact that I owe Michael for my life once more. If I do owe him anything he has not indicated it yet. I don't think Michael's head or heart work that way. I wish that I could be less impetuous, more patient, more like him. Maybe that's why he doesn't seem to want me. We are just too different and he can see beyond the sexual attraction to the heart of the matter. The heart of the matter being that I'm just not worth the trouble.

I'm writing this in bed. I have settled with a cup of hot milk and plump pillows. The cold wind is blowing hard against the windows. Yesterday we had a light fall of snow. I watched as I walked home from the service station as the children made their way up and down the street with their Hallowe'en bags, warm, woolies covering their costumes. It was Michael's birthday yesterday. He had the day off. Some fluke? Or Section being humane? I didn't want him to know that Walter had blabbed, so I didn't say anything. He seemed to be unscathed about being on the wrong side of thirty. He went about as if it were business as usual. I think he's thirty-five or thirty six. It seems so much older than I am. Ten years must make a lot of difference in the way you think about life. Maybe at his age I'll care less about the superficial things.

He looks just about perfect. I think thirty-five is when a man is absolutely ripe for plucking. I think Harrison Ford was about that age when he made Star Wars. I have always thought thirty- five is a very nice age for a man. Michael has about ten gray hairs and the most adorable laugh lines.

I did a sketch of him for his birthday. I have been trying to hone my skills. It turned out to be pretty good likeness considering that I was working from a small surveillance shot that Walter gave me. I have made his eyes the softest jade colour. I love the little bump on his nose. I love his mouth. Like a cupid's bow, only more masculine of course. I picked a colour specifically for his lips from my chalk box. Light coral pink. Like the center of a conch shell.

One day I'm going to write and illustrate a children's book. Maybe a few. I'll live in my house in the country and I'll draw pretty pictures and send them off to my publisher in a manila envelope. Like Beatrix Potter. I heard that she was very happy living like that. One day I'll be like her. I'll go to the library and gather the children in a circle around me and read to them. I can't think of anything nicer. What a joke: Beatrix Potter with a Glock.

So Happy Birthday, Michael. I was thinking about you yesterday and wishing you happiness. I wish I could have been there to have given you a pinch to grow an inch.

Okay, get your mind out of the gutter.

When I am thirty I'll be happy. When you're in Section thirty is something to be celebrated not be distressed about. I mean I might not be able to become a super-model at such a grand old age, but I won't be dead either. And I don't think at thirty the biological clock will have stopped.

Today I pampered myself. I had the day free and no car so I walked in the park, breathing great gulps of snowy air, picked up croissants and coffee and indulged in the things I love. In the afternoon I just cocooned, reading with some candles lit around the room. Did you know I just read somewhere that perfumed candles cause lung cancer? Can they think of a better way to destroy me? Now I have to feel guilty every time I light a candle? I guess everything is going to kill you nowadays. I have burned a million of those things. They see me coming at the aroma therapy store. I like the Ylang Ylang ones best. The sea breeze ones are nice for a bath. Eucalyptus for colds is heavenly.

Anyway I have decided that I need a fireplace. I hate not having one. I'll bet Michael has a nice fire going now. I hope he isn't with anyone now, though I hate as much the thought that he spent his birthday alone. His fireplace is gas, but it's huge and warm. I can see myself sitting on the rug in front of the hearth. My back is cradled in the notch of his thighs and I tip my head back so he can kiss me with wine scented lips. I can see the flames flicker in the green depths of his eyes.

I have to stop thinking this stuff before I go to sleep.

Anyway, I spent most of the day dressed in flannel pyjamas and socks. I ate soup and those little peeled and bagged carrots for dinner. Then I worked on my sketches and listened to Sarah McLachlan's new CD, The Mirrorball. By ten I was sleepy so I left my sketch book on the kitchen counter and went off to bed to write this. Now, I am going to sleep. My eyes won't stay open a second longer.

********

A lot has happened since I wrote last. Michael has lied to me again. I'm okay with it. Before you chastise me for saying that, I will explain.

Maybe lie's just too strong a word. He has had to use me again. Maybe that is too strong, too. He had to keep me in the dark for matters of security. I suspected something was up and I am cool with it. I am waiting for Michael to come back and get me, let me in on the details. I know he will come back if he isn't dead. I know he is not dead. God would not do that, even to me.

I know now that he's in love with me. There is no doubt in my mind. Okay, there's a little doubt because I don't know for sure. He didn't look me in the eye and say: I'm in love with you. That would be hard for either one of us to do, given the way that we are. But I know something he doesn't know that I know.

Did that make sense?

I know that it can't be casual for us any more. There can be no more skirting the issue. It has to be all or nothing. But who is going to be the one to make the declaration? And how slow or fast do we proceed? I'm for fast. Like, real fast. I know he wants to be slow and cautious, to stick his toe in the water. I want to dive head first into the deep end. Take the plunge.

But can it be the way it was in England again? Can we just lose ourselves in each other once in a while on a mission and then go back to business as usual? I told myself I could do the casual sex thing. But I love him too much to be blas‚.

I'm worried about using much light so bear with me. I will start at the beginning, when Michael came to my bedroom that cold November morning two days ago.

I could feel him even before I heard his footfall on the wood. Feel the chill from his woolen coat. The hard rasp of his breath. I could smell him. I could feel his eyes devouring me. I was glad that I was on my stomach and not on my back drooling or something. Grinding my teeth like I sometimes do. I reached for the gun and aimed it at him anyway. Just so he'd know that as a good agent I sleep prepared.

The look he gave me after he told me we were getting out, made me shiver. I love when he looks at me like that. Like he wants to kiss me. At least that's what I imagined it was.

And he told me we were getting out. He did not ask. Okay, I guess that was high handed of him in a way. But it was not offensive to me at all, surprisingly. It's kind of nice to have Michael take the dominant role, if it doesn't get to be a habit. Once in a while, he can do it and I'll follow him anywhere. He knows that I will.

I mean, wouldn't you? If you were laying there sound asleep and the most perfectly gorgeous creature on the face of the earth came in and told you to come with him, you'd go. I mean unless an equally gorgeous creature was asleep beside you.

That settled I followed his order to get dressed like I was going to the office and to pack a duffle with outdoor clothes. Warm layers, he said. It'll be cold. Bring a hat and gloves, he told me. And long underwear. No need for a nightgown.

He wanted me naked? I almost did this happy dance until I realised that he just wanted me to pack light. Leave the girl stuff like makeup at home, too. Where the hell were we going? He'd explain.

I got back, dressed in my new black pant suit, to find that he had removed his gloves and was looking through my sketch book. I felt the blush creep right up my neck.

He grinned sheepishly at me. " Am I wearing lipstick here?" he asked.

" No," I gulped. " You really look like that. You are actually too pretty for a man." I grabbed the book away quite childishly and held it behind my back. He was smiling at me. Oh, I'm so glad the naked ones are not in this particular book..

" It's really good. Have you had training?"

" What do you think? That I went to art school for delinquents."

" You're very good, Nikita. I'm serious."

" Yea, well, thanks. I'm self taught. I'll ask you to my first one woman show. Do you want coffee? You told me you'd explain."

" There isn't time for coffee. We'll pick some up later."

" So, are you leaving because you lost out on the promotion to Zalman?" I was busy pouring milk into the sink so it wouldn't go bad. Just to say to him: I know this isn't real. I know I'm coming back.

" You've heard about that," Michael said, softly.

" Everybody has heard, Michael. We're all sorry. Working for Zalman is going to suck. I mean how did he get to be Op's fair haired boy? This isn't because you went up against him for me again is it? About cancelling me over the Craychek mission? " I could barely look into his eyes so I said it while I tied up the trash bag to dispose of when we left. I was not coming back to a reeky apartment.

" I don't know. That could be part of it. "

I just nodded. I was secretly glad that Michael wasn't moving up. I dreaded it. But I didn't like the creepy Zalman either. What the hell kind of name was that? I don't like his Adam's apple either. Bobbing up and down like a yoyo. My eyes tend to be drawn to Adam's apples. I'm glad Michael doesn't have a big outie. I really love Michael's neck, especially nibbling it. Running my tongue and lips down over his smoothly muscled throat, scraping over the stubble. Kissing Zalman's skinny neck would be gross. I'm surprised Zalman doesn't have big British teeth to go with that Adam's apple thing. One would expect fangs and drool.

That's who he looks like! I thought.

" Basil Rathbone!" I didn't mean to say it out loud.

" Pardon?" Michael said. " Can we get this show on the road, please? "

" Yea. I just have to go and get my bag off the bed." I rushed off, surreptitiously shoving my pen, journal and the love letter into it. I was not leaving without them.

I did not for a minute believe that I was running away with him. He was far to smart to just chuck everything, to steal highly sensitive material from Section on a whim. Whether it was for love or being pissed off. That was not Michael. This was deeper than that.

I had a few theories. A few options.

I could say no and tattle on him. Make myself look good to Ops and Maddie. That would throw them for a loop, wouldn't it? I'll bet the old silver fox would drop dead away of shock.

I could assume that Ops is in on this and go along. Like a lamb to the slaughter. The bugger might be testing me again and forcing Michael into doing this. Ops knows I would go with Michael. That I would never turn him in. I would not put such crap past him.

Would Michael do that? Test me? I wondered about it there in my kitchen for half a second.

I don't think so. I figured that if was patient, he would tell me what was happening. I might be forced to think on my feet and figure it out what was going on for myself. That might be the test. My resiliency under pressure, maybe?

I looked at him in the car on the way to work. His gloves hands seemed tense on the wheel." Has this got anything to do with the Tajikistan mission where you went missing? That Isolde chick? It was all left very hush-hush."

He stared ahead at the road.

" Does it?"

" Yes, it does. That's all I can say." His jaw was working.

" So much for an explanation. You've been seeing a lot of her? "

' I have seen her a few times. In a professional capacity."

Thank you for clarifying that. " She won't be where we're going? I won't come if that's the case."

" I don't recall giving you an option."

" There is always an option. I can tattle on you to Ops. I can tell him you're kidnapping me. Are you kidnapping me? " I love those kidnapping type books. You know the ones, sexy desperado abducts unsuspecting woman who falls hard for him. Of course he always turns out to be a former abused orphan who was innocent of any crime.

" No, Kita, I'm not kidnapping you. And she won't be there."

I was off in Nikita's dreamland. " Okay. Good."

" Why good, Kita?"

" Because three's a crowd." I want you all to myself. I didn't add that.

He pulled the car through the Section parkade entrance, placing his palm on the Security monitor. The gate swooshed open, admitting us. " This isn't a lark, Nikita. You have to do what I tell you. Trust me. Are you prepared for anything? If not--"

" You have to kill me?" I teased as I got out of the car. He came around to my side. It wasn't all that funny. "I am prepared. So prepared I will knock your socks off with my preparedness, Michael. But I want to know something. Do you trust me? Are you bringing me along because you know you can trust me? "

" You are the only person I have ever been able to trust."

His face came very close to mine and then he did something I would never have expected. He hooked his finger under my chin, tilted my head back and kissed me on the mouth. Not a burning, lingering kiss, but a delightful one. I just kind of stared at him when it was over, my heart pounding.

I knew for sure that something was up. He wanted someone to know about us. Public displays of affection are unknown in Michael's world.

He took my hand as we walked through the lot. I know that was going to show up on the surveillance tapes. Who was trying to give a message to here? He gave my fingers a squeeze. I wished he could have held my hand for longer. What ever reason he did it, it made me feel a lot better about things. Michael's parking spot is much closer to the elevator than mine. The perks of his level.

It wasn't hard to steal the field router. I'm not going to bore you with the details of that. The thing looked like something out of The Man From Uncle. It was cumbersome. Not high tech looking at all. But to Section it is apparently of great importance. It scrambles signals, both outgoing and incoming. That's the gist of it. I hate all that techie stuff.

Man toys. A giant, powerful remote control so that the menfolk can used it to at will switch off the Romance channel to the Testosterone channel. Men like to have control of the remote. This is just a bigger version. For spies. The most controlling men of all.

I did felt bad about deceiving Walter to get it. Walter is like a father to me. I could only tell myself that this was important and that Michael would somehow keep Walter safe, too. And if this was a real escape, if somehow I was going to wake up from a bad dream and find myself on a deserted stretch of hot, sandy beach with Michael by my side, I wanted Walter to remember me fondly and wish us well. Even if we had to use him to do it, I knew somehow that he'd approve.

Michael came striding into Walter's space and started the act. I had to tear myself away from staring at him to get the router and slip it into the bag. As a precaution Michael had disabled the security cameras in the area before coming in the room.

I almost laughed when Walter quipped that going on the mission with Michael was going to be a drag. All I could do was give him a warm look.

" What are you lookin' at, Sugar? "

" Just the best part of my day," I said. He replied with his usual dirty old man stuff, but I knew. He knows I love him. And he loves me, too. I gave him one last long look and then left before I could start to blubber and spoil it all.

Brown corduroy? Brown brushed cotton-suede pants. Okay. Nice. Very nice. And I can dig Michael in a turtleneck, any day. I felt good in my escape clothes. More like me. I tugged my favorite Roots Canada poor boy hat a little lower on my ears. Aussies always laugh at the Roots thing. Down there that means to shag. To rut. To root. I will not say that I wear it because of that, but it gives me a private giggle. I love wearing men's clothes. They are more comfortable. Even men's jeans are good on my body type. I've got boy's hips and wide shoulders. Men's jeans are cheaper and made better. They don't have those hip bulges. They ride better. I didn't feel sexy in the thick warm layers, but I knew I wouldn't be cold. I wished I knew where we were going. I went to open the passenger door of the ugly rented moving van. We were to be going into a ritzy suburb pretending to be a lost storage company delivering some antiques.

" You drive," Michael said to me. " I'll ride shotgun."

" Cool. I've never driven one of these. Hang on for wild ride, Mr. Toad." I grinned thinking of the operatives in the back. There were no cushy seats like in the mission van. They'd be flopping in the back like rag dolls.

" I think you have a decidedly sadistic streak," Michael said after I took the second corner a little too fast. " Slow down. We don't want the local cops onto us."

" Is this thing bugged?"

" No. It's clean." He was fiddling with the router. We talked about Zalman again. About the pitfalls of Section and trying to get anywhere there.

" Why do you need me for this, Michael? "

He was quite for a while. I know he was staring at me. I chanced a glance at him.

" I don't need you. I want you." He said it softly, huskily.

I lost it for a second. Looked at him too long. We hit a patch of ice and it took me a second to get the moving truck under control. He gave me the raised eyebrow. I know I had this huge grin on my face. I wanted to sing. I wanted to shout. He wants me! Yea, yea, yea!

I won't bore you with the botched mission. I'll just say that I loved the way Zalman's voice raised about three octaves when Michael scrambled everything and told him there was no one home. The guy was freaking out. " Michael? What are you doing? Michael? What's going on? " And Michael was just so cool. Loving it.

And such a gentleman. Opening the door for me. Turning to give me hand up the hill as we walked away. That kind of clued me in to things. I mean the other ops could have chased us. They didn't seem to be in too big of a hurry. I suspected right then that it had all had something to do with Zalmon. Did he have something to do with that woman, Isolde?

Who else knew about it? Was Michael acting alone? Was he defying Ops in some way? Is that why he seemed so serious? So worried.

I continued to follow him through the snow to find the highway. He didn't say a word to me, just trudged on. Was this how it was going to be? After about a half hour of walking and not talking much I picked up a nice sized snowball and threw it. Right at the back of his head.

He gasped and stopped moving. He turned and glared at me.

I shrugged. " I have always wanted to do that," I said. " Test the Lady Clairol theory."

" What the hell is that?" He brushed snow off his neck. He didn't look mad, just surprised. A good sign.

" Lady Clairol chicks. In the commercials, when I was a kid, they always did things to their boyfriends, lovers, whatever. You know, sprayed the boyfriend in the face with the hose while they were washing the car, threw snow down the back of his neck, ambushed him, or something. Cause they had nice hair, they were allowed to be playful, I guess."

" I guess I missed those. I think I was in Section by then. And what did he do? To retaliate?" He picked snow out of his collar. God, he was so beautiful at that moment. His eyes reflecting the clear blue of the sky.

" Retaliate. Uh, kiss her. Or twirl her around. Or throw her in the snow and jump her bones... well, throw her in the snow anyway. Who knows what happened after the minute was over."

" We don't have time for that at the moment, though it sounds inviting. It's another ten minutes to the road."

" Okay." I was pleased, strangely. It sounded inviting? Oh, yea. Almost as good as " I want you."

" No more snowballs, Kita. I'll wash your face. I used to do that to my sister."

I caught up with him. " So tell me about your sister."

Surprisingly he did. We talked until the laid off landscaper in the ancient truck came and picked us up. He even smiled at my impromptu impersonation of Claudette Colbert in that old movie, It Happened One Night. Only my jeans and woolie socks didn't have quite the same impact.

The landscaper who picked us up was nice. From what French I could pick up they were talking about gardens and plants. Michael told him something that surprised me, that he had a place not far and that he was trying to get it fixed up. The garden was overgrown, especially the vines. Honeysuckle, he said, how do you prune that without losing the flower? The gardener said he was lucky to have one. A rarity in this part of the world because it liked a warmer climate.

Honeysuckle. I kept thinking about that letter. The vine imagery. Wrap your honeysuckle beauty around me. I drifted off between the two men, lulled by my tiredness and the soothing sound of Michael's voice. I woke up later, my head cradled on Michael's shoulder. We said out goodbyes to Andre, the landscaper, who gave us his card in case Michael wanted him to come and have a look at the ancient, overgrown garden.

We began to walk again, for a long way down a gravel road and then off a path. It seemed like two hours of walking before we came to the house. It was now late afternoon. The sun was going down. We had been travelling since seven that morning.

" Here we are, " he said finally.

I could see a house, a stone farmhouse perched on a small hill, surrounded by snow covered trees. It was breathtaking, like a landscape painting. Michael quickened his pace.

" This is it?" I said, breathless.

" Yes."

" It's lovely, Michael."

He led me to the old stone building, pulling open the outside shutters to allow us some light. It would be dark before five. He looked at the place with such reverence. Like it was part of him. I have never known Michael to look so absorbed, so pleased, except perhaps when he was with Adam.

He opened the door and let me in. The place was cold and smelled a little mouldy. It needed a lot of work but it was charming in its simplicity, its antiquity. He set down his pack in the small area that served as a kitchen. " There's rudimentary plumbing. The chemical toilet's in a room in the garage and there's a laundry sink. No shower yet."

Sponge baths? Okay. I like that. I peered into the garage. A black Yukon was parked there. " You own this place, Michael?"

" Yes. It's mine." He explained that he had discovered it doing aerial reconnaissance, that he had bought it some time ago and the land surrounding it. I listened, enthralled with the fact that he seemed so relaxed in this place. He began to build a fire in the stove with a deftness born of practice and joy in the simple task.

" I'd like to see it in summer. You said something about a vine? An overgrown garden? "

" Yes. On the south wall. A honeysuckle drapes over the back door. Along with some withered grapes. I thought you were asleep in the truck."

" I guess I was in and out."

" It's tangled with roses and other creepers. It's pretty. The wildness is what I liked best about the place. It's like time just stopped here."

" I wish time could stop, Michael." I didn't mean to speak the words aloud. We stood there for a long time staring at each other, until a loud popping from the kindling in the stove broke the spell we seemed to be under.

He wiped his hands on the sueded pants. " The only electricity is on that wall for now. It's just a portable generator."

" So the stereo works?"

" After a fashion."

I hunkered down. " It looks ancient. My mom had a turntable." I thumbed through the albums. Fleetwood Mac: Rumours. I used to want to be Stevie Nicks when I was four. My mother loved that album. Bad Company. Jimi Hendrix. The Who. Steely Dan. Elton John's Madman Across the Water. Adore that album. Especially the title cut and that line: There's a boat on the reef with a broken back, I can see it very well.... Gerry Rafferty: City to City. I love that song, Baker Street. And some romantic, melancholy French folk singer who had been popular here in Europe in the sixties.

" Where did you get these?"

" Estate sale." He was unloading his pack. It contained a can of Danish bacon, cheddar cheese and some coffee.

I laughed. " Why do I have a hard time imagining that? You pulling up to a tag sale." I can see the woman running the sale now. He'd smile at her and she'd melt: Here, you gorgeous hunk of male, take everything. Two bucks.

" I used to go with Elena sometimes. She'd find some good stuff. He mother was in the antiques business. I needed something here that I could afford to lose if anyone broke in. I got the stereo and the records for about twenty bucks."

" Good deal. This is all the stuff Bobbie listened to. Except the French stuff. Got any Pet Shop Boys?"

" Who? I don't know them." he said.

" That's the answer I was looking for." I answered, laughing. I put the French girl's album on the turntable. She had a sweet, sad voice. It was a song about picking violets or something. What is it with the garden imagery and the French? I turned. He was busy chopping up onions and potatoes that he had gotten from a bin by the stove.

" You seem awfully proficient at that. I thought your speciality was grilled cheese." I sat down in one of the chairs and removed my hat. The chopping block was far too low for him. He looked a little hunched over. The air in the room was still frigid so he had left his coat on while he worked.

" There's a lot you don't know about me. Maybe it's time you learned." His voice was soft, husky, his accent more distinct since he'd been speaking French so recently to Andre. " I make a mean potato soup. Are you hungry, Kita?"

For more than soup. " Yes. I am ravenous. My belly is touching my backbone."

" Where do you come up with those sayings? "

" I don't know. I pick them up. And I do like potato soup. Can I help? "

He tossed me the canned bacon. " Sure. Open this. Then get a can of milk from the pantry near the garage."

I went off to find the pantry. It was well insulated against the cold. There were several shelves of canned goods and other supplies. Lots of candles, too. Even a couple of bottles of wine. I thought about being alone with him as I scanned the shelf for the canned milk, about lighting candles and sitting before a fire, talking. It was exciting and as usual, intimidating. Where did we go from here? Would he make love to me again?

" Did you get lost," he called.

I came back in with the milk. " You've stayed here a lot, Michael? "

" No. Just a few times. I've been here recently to stock the supplies."

I thought about the brand new vehicle in the garage, about the well stocked supply shelves and the new generator. Section had a stake in this. I was certain of it. Was it really his house? What was going to happen here in the next few days. Since we were alone I hoped he would tell me everything but he seemed disinterested in talking. He appeared to be having a good time just preparing our simple dinner.

It was dark by the time the soup was done. We ate the creamy, delicious soup out of metal camp style bowls with some French bread he had packed and some of the Parmesan cheese, sliced off in little pieces. I was starving. He seemed to like the fact that I'm a hearty eater. I bit my tongue against asking him what was happening here once more.

After dinner he filled two large pots with water and set them on the stove for washing the dishes. He seemed very busy, bringing in wood, stoking the fire. He said he didn't need my help, that I should make myself comfortable. I sat there staring at the flames, imagining things. Wondering who had lived here before, what they had done here when the house was new. I imagined myself in a hot bath, one of those tin hip baths placed in front of the fire, filled with big buckets of water heated on the stove. I imagined him in a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He was washing my back with smooth, languid strokes. Then he was kissing me. He interrupted my reverie when he came in with the wood. I smiled at him as he put another log in the stove. I don't think he has ever looked more handsome than that evening. There is just something about Michael in candlelight. They say it makes the average person look better.

Michael looks quite unreal, almost unworldly in his beauty. The firelight made his eyes a deeper jade, lit the planes of his face, heightened the mysterious shadows. His hair and long lashes seemed darker, but sparkling with gold. His lips, seemed even more sculpted, such a gorgeous, dusky pink.

He seemed almost shy, troubled about something and maybe trying too hard to make everything seem right. Somewhere inside me I was thinking that maybe I should be angry with him because he had left me in the dark about what was going on. I wasn't mad. I was enjoying just being here, being alone with him. Maybe that was why he had brought me here. So he could be with me, keep me safe from the world. From whatever was happening at Section.

" How long can we stay here, Michael?" I asked. I know I sounded hopeful.

" I don't know. Let's not talk about the future. Let's just enjoy this while we can."

That sounded good, I thought. But his voice was so very sad. It was drafty despite the fire's glow. I wrapped my arms around my shoulders. He finished with the fire and sat down on the wooden settee beside me. He seemed unsure of himself. Before he could flit off again, I decided to do something totally out of character to trap him. I sighed, said how chilly I was because I'd had trouble keeping one of the windows shut. I stretched, shifted my hips so that I was on my back, and settled my head on his hard thigh. I gave a small smile of satisfaction when he sort of pulled back a little with uncertainty. I didn't take it as aversion, more like uncertainty. Like he wanted it, but that he was nervous maybe.

I almost purred in contentment when he pulled down blanket and wrapped it over my shoulder. He said he'd go to town the next day for a latch. I could feel the tenseness start to leave his muscles as I lay there. His hand felt so good on my shoulder, at first a tentative weight and then he relaxed and began to massage my shoulder through the blanket, ever so slightly.

" I like being here with you, Michael." I couldn't suppress a yawn. My eyes were so heavy. All that walking, the potato soup, the warm fire, all contributing to my lassitude.

He sighed. " I like being here with you, too. Maybe we should think of going to bed, getting some sleep."

Sleep? I didn't really want to sleep. I imagined the big bed in the loft. A little lumpy maybe, but a bed. I imagined climbing the stairs. I imagined removing each other's clothes, slowly, deliberately

Okay, I know it was too cold to remove each other's clothes slowly. Maybe we'd just do it fast. Pop buttons, burst zippers, throw our boots over the railing and dive stark naked under the covers.

Body heat.

" There's hot water there for you. There's a basin over on the table. Wash up. I'm going to see if I can wedge that window closed." He pushed me up and off him. I got up, watched him put on his coat and go out again. Sighing, I found my bag, took care of nature in the makeshift water closet got out my toothbrush, washed my face and hands and brushed my teeth. He had no mirrors in the place. I wondered how I looked. Probably wind burned. My cheeks were stinging a little. I put some hand lotion on them and went back to the fire. The banging on the shutters stopped and I could hear his boots making crunchy sounds in the snow.

He came back in and gave me that uncertain look again. " I put fresh water there for you, Michael."

" Thanks." I could hear him getting his stuff, splashing around, brushing his teeth. It seemed to intimate, listening to him make his ablutions. I kept imagining him naked, though I know he was fully clothed and would very likely remain that way. What were we going to do up there in that bed together? I hoped he wasn't going to suggest that one of us sleep down by the fire, though it would be warmer.

" Ready?" he asked. His eyes skittered from mine.

" Sure," I said.

" Grab a candle. No light up there yet. And watch your head. There's a support pole up there. I have decapitated myself on it once or twice."

" Thanks." We went up the stairs slowly, holding our candles. I wished I'd gone up first. I couldn't keep my eyes off his delectable butt in the sueded pants. My heart was hammering by the time we got up there. He sat down on the left side of the bed, me on the other. We just sat there, stiff, not speaking. I ran my hands over my face, up into my hair. It was awkward. Tremendously so. To be sitting on that bed back to back, wondering what the other was thinking.

" Okay, Michael. What happens now ? Where do we go from here?" I meant that minute. Do we make love? Do we go for it because we are here alone and there is this bed and it's cold and we want each other?

" I guess we take it slowly, think carefully about things. Just take it minute to minute."

A very Michael like answer. " Why don't we just go for it? Just throw caution to the wind, Michael. Be wild like that honeysuckle vine go where ever we want. Pretend this day is our last."

" Kita," he sighed , " This day might very well be our last."

Why did he have to say that? I know that it's the truth. Why must he be such a pragmatist?

I flopped backward on the bed. He turned and looked at me, then leaned toward me, his weight braced on one elbow.. I just felt something snap. Like my dreams just went up in smoke. I started to cry. Like a fool.

" Don't do this, Kita. Please don't cry."

" I'm sorry. It's weak of me."

" No. It's not weak."

I covered my face with my hands. He pulled them away gently, locking his hands around my wrists. I met his eyes. They were so full of sorrow.

" I You don't know " I gulped back a big sob. " This is so hard. Sometimes I just wish "

" I do know." He traced the path of a tear down the side of my face to my ear. " I do know, Kita."

" I want it to be different. I can't even dare to hope that maybe someday I can come here with you again and see that garden in bloom. I want to know-- I want to know what it's like to be happy. To not have to pretend. To not have to take happiness in snatches like a thief in the night. "

" I do, too."

" I forgot to tell you something."

" What, Kita."

" Happy Birthday. I was thinking of you. Make a wish when you blow out the candles. Okay? But don't tell me what it is, Michael, cause I need it to come true."

He smiled down at me, then blew out the candles. He lay down on the bed, pulling me against him. We lay there like that for a long time until it got too cold. Then we silently rose and slipped almost fully clothes beneath the cold sheets. We lay there not speaking, both, I am certain, quite aware of each other's thoughts.

When I awoke he was gone. I had been dreaming about him, such nice dreams. I had slept very peacefully even though the cold had awakened me a few times. We had spent most of the night with our bodies spooned together, fighting the chill. If I ever came back here again I decided that I was bringing him flannelette sheets and a down duvet as a housewarming gift.

I waited a moment before I dressed. I thought that perhaps he had gone for more wood. My watch was beside the bed on the night stand. I checked it, unable to believe that it was almost noon. I slipped on my pants and went downstairs barefoot. Somehow I had lost my wooly socks in the bed. That always happens. I'd check later.

" Michael?" I called. He wasn't there. The stove was almost cold. Had he gone to town for that latch, just leaving me to sleep? I wish he'd woken me up. I could have tried my hand at breakfast.

There was note on the counter. I picked it up and read it, my heart pounding.

Kita, love:

I hope you are okay. I hope you find this. I have gone into town. I may not return, if Zalman is on to us and if things run on schedule. You were right. We have reason to believe that Zalman is Red Cell. There may be others working with him in Section. I will explain further when I can. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you everything. Sometimes Paul is an ass with his idea of subterfuge. It was hard enough to convince him that you are loyal and to let me have you here with me. Eat this note. Okay. ( I was grinning here)

Until you see me, you must trust no one. I expect they will come to find you soon. Stay there. Use the router. There is a cellar near the garage. I will try to give you time. I have left you some guns in the cellar. Be careful, Kita. If he comes give yourself up. It is better that way. Know that I will move heaven and earth to find you if I don't get back in time.

Kita, if this does not work out, if something happens to me, be strong. If we are together again know we will come back here. I want you to see that honeysuckle bloom in spring. It reminds me of you. Strong and sweet and beautiful. Yours, Michael.

I clutched the letter in my hand. No quite as eloquent as the one he did not send to me but the sentiments were the same. I am the honeysuckle vine. Does this mean what I want it to mean? If it does, why am I so scared? Why do I feel like I'm about to go in for a root canal?

Scared as I was about the implications of the love letter and Michael's being in very grave danger I know I had the most shameless, silly grin on my face. I prayed that Operations wouldn't do anything to make Michael suffer needlessly. I imagined them dragging him back to Section, all a ruse to frame Zalman.

Just then I heard the vehicle pull up and the crunch of boots. I grabbed the notes and my bag and dove for the cellar. I took a deep breath and forced myself down into the cold dankness, in my bare feet yet. Lord I am stupid. You'd think I would have put my shoes on.

I hate the dark. I always sleep with a nightlight if I am alone, a very old habit. I also hate rodents and spiders. Oh, I do hate spiders. It is quite ridiculous for a woman my age to hate them so. I could hear them clumping around up stairs. " Look for the router," one of them said. " Zalman wants it."

Oh, shit. I took a deep breath, hoping that they had gone upstairs. I managed to push open the trap door and get the router from the trencher Michael had placed it in. My heart was tripping when I finally had it in my hand. How the hell did it work again? I could hear them up there.

" Zalman's got him in the white room now. Michael's not giving them anything to work with. She's not here."

In the white room. Oh, my God. Was Ops actually letting the bastard torture Michael now? Don't tell me they still weren't sure. Were there other moles they wanted drawn out? I managed as I thought that to get the router working.

" I'd lay odds that he'll die before he'll give her up. Why the hell would they run away togther?"

" Ever seen her?"

"She's nothing but a whore. A man like Michael could have any broad he wants and believe me I've seen some of 'em. Tell Zalman that we're picking up a signal. Twenty miles north of here. Let's go."

I rested my head against the rough wooden wall and curled my frozen toes underneath me.

God, maybe they're right. Maybe I'm not worthy of him. I just kept thinking that as tears coursed down my cheeks, clutching that letter he'd written. God, Michael, don't die for me. Even if this is a set-up, Ops might let him die. It was distinctly possible.

I was freezing. I wanted to light the stove but I couldn't because the smoke from the chimney would warn them. The operatives had been gone for several hours, but it was a good hour before I felt safe enough to come out of the cellar. My body was shuddering with the cold and maybe an excess of emotion. I kept thinking about Michael in the white room, what Zalman may have done to him. Would Ops allow Michael to die just so that he could flush out a Red Cell mole or two? One his best operatives?

An obedient operative. Once true blue, loyal to the core. Reliable. Did that still apply? What is Michael now? An operative who has of late become distracted. By pain. By loss. And maybe, if I was right, by falling in love. An operative who was having trouble following orders because he was protecting someone else. Someone who screwed up all the time.

Oh, God, what have I done to you, Michael? You once told me that loving you, caring about you was dangerous. People who loved you died or were hurt. I don't think that's true. Maybe I should have been the one warning you off me. You are the one who is going to suffer here.

I am sitting up in the loft under the comforter writing this. I have one candle. I'm afraid the they might come up the hill and see it flicker through the sheer curtains that cover the window, but I want to write down my thoughts before I can mull them over too much, start making justifications. I do that. I lose my resolve.

I thought of that kiss Michael gave me in the parking lot. I thought at first that he was doing it strictly so that Zalman would think that we were in love. But there was something more in that kiss, something about the way that he tipped my chin up and met my eyes. Something that scares me now. Confuses me. One minute I am soaring with joy that he returns my feelings, the next I am falling back into despair, fearful of this huge change. This step I have to take. The decisions I have to make. Sometimes it's easier to pretend. To fake. It really is. Now I have to be real.

I don't think I know how to handle anyone actually loving me back. It is too much to contemplate sometimes. I don't know if I love myself yet. I don't think that I do. I have been too long hating myself. Hating my life. I don't know how it will feel to let happiness and hope in. This unrequited love I have had for Michael has been my crutch, my companion. Now I have to face up to who I am.

I will really know now if I have been right all along. If everyone has been right. I'm not good enough for him.

I dressed in Michael's socks and slipped his extra tee-shirt under my sweater. I went to sit under the loft stairs to wait. The moon was huge full, the trees casting long, blue shadows across the snow. I was thinking of Michael again, playing with the gun clip.

I was thinking: I am so tired and cold. I want to sleep. I want to get out of this mess. I just want a helicopter. Jack's helicopter to land here. I want Michael to come running over the snow and carry me back. I want him to carry me back in his arms and tell me beautiful lies. That we will live happily ever after.

I was in the middle of those shots when I saw them. Five ops, maybe six in black mission gear. A second later the bullets shattered the glass, whizzing past my ear. I rolled to my side and managed to fire off a few rounds.

I shot the two who burst in through the front door as I fell to my back. The other two had their guns trained on me before I could raise and fire. And then they were dead, shot by Zalman.

I was looked into Zalman's flat, dead eyes. He was giving me that jackal's grin, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his skinny neck. I wanted to kill him. Watch him die a slow agonising death.

" Hello, my beauty. And how are we today? "

Okay. He didn't say, " Hello, my beauty."

I just thought that was kind of appropriate for the creepy villain of the story. Kind of like that witch from the Wizard of Oz or that dude that ties Nell to the railway tracks. And I felt like poor little Nell at that moment.

" Hello, Nikita," he said. He kicked my gun away, sent it spinning across the room. His gun was trained at my face. I fully expected him to kill me, but not until he had toyed with me for a while. Pecked at me a little with his sharp little beak. He did resemble a bird of prey with that aquiline nose. Zalman smiled again.

I lay there looking up at him. He's very tall, taller than Michael, but much less solid. Looks like a good stiff wind could blow him over.

" How did you find me?"

" Michael gave you up." He smiled. " It didn't take long. Seems you're not all that important to him. Just a piece of ass, I'd say. Rather nice ass though. Did you have fun here? How many times did you too do it? Generate a little body heat? How many times did you fuck him, darling? "

Okay. That hurt. Oh, God. And I didn't even have the pleasure of doing that. I thought about Michael's having given me up. It hurt. In light of what I had been thinking about today it was like a knife in my heart. Even though I know that Michael gave me up because it was time to give me up. And not because of anything Zalman might have said or did. Nasty boy, Zalman, I thought. You ought to be dressed in a tail coat and a top hat twisting a skinny little mustache now.

" You killed your team."

" Not my team." He smirked at me.

" You're Red Cell, aren't you?"

" Very good, Nikita. Brilliant deductive reasoning. Learn that is Spy 101, did you? Took you long enough. They still don't know about me at Section. So sorry, by the way."

" Sorry for what?"

" That I've ruined the little honeymoon. Rather cold here, though. And so primitive. Have the two of you been playing house? Why didn't you lovebirds run off to the sun? " He started to laugh at his lame little joke. I could feel the sweat pool in my arm pits. I hoped I stunk. " It's over, Nikita." He got down on one knee, bent over me. I could smell his cologne mixing with the scent of my fear. I was petrified. This guy was demented. One step down from a street rapist.

It was overpowering. I averted my head, tried not to breath, feeling what ever was in my stomach rise up and choke me. His thin lips were very close to my ear. I could feel his hot breath on my skin. Oh, Michael, Michael. I kept thinking of my lover's scent, the feel of his hands, slightly rough skinned, so gentle and yet demanding. " Where's the field router? "

I could feel Zalman's hand on the skin of my midriff. His hands are smaller, the fingers thin, the palms smooth and moist. " I've been wanting to know what you feel like. Wondering why a man like Michael would give up everything for you. You must be good, Nikita. Tell me, what are you good at?" His hand slid higher up my side.

He whispered something totally obscene in my ear. I will not write it down.

His fingers found the router. He smiled at me. He held up the thing like a trophy. " Oh, good hiding place, luv. Tell me something. What is it that convinces you and Michael that this is all worth fighting for? Dying for? "

" People like you."

He laughed. " Good answer. The Section answer. Do you know where your lover is at this moment? He is strapped to a chair. I don't think he has the strength to hold his head up. I have only to give the word and he is a dead man. Tell me love, will you miss him all that much? Do you think I can help you forget him? "

I closed my eyes. His hand was on my breast now. Pinching. Pawing. Michael. Help me.

" Do you know, darling. This router is an amazing thing. When I turn this on they'll know that I've located you. Should take them a little more than an hour to get here. That should give us plenty of time, don't you think? What do you say, love? Where's the bedroom. I've never liked doing it on the floor like dogs." He held the gun to my throat and lowered his mouth to mine, kissing me. I averted my face, felt his teeth scrape my cheek, felt his mouth moist and hot on my neck, the gun so very cold.

Michael. Come for me.

You know he did come for me. Otherwise I couldn't have written this.

I remember vaguely the moment the ops and Michael came in to pull him off me and the four ops I thought were dead sprang to their feet. The guns that Michael had left me had contained some sort of undetectable blanks. It didn't strike me until later that I couldn't have defended myself if had come down to it. All I could think about at the time was that those four other ops had laid there pretending to be dead while Zalman said those vile things. Would they have let him rape me? Had they been in radio contact with Section at the time?

I have no doubt they would have let him rape me. I think that's why I slapped Zalman so hard. The fear, not so much as to hurt him.

I was so ashamed, so beaten that I could hardly look at Michael after the ops led Zaman out. Michael looked ill, bone weary. I'm sure he'd been strapped to that chair all night, not allowed to sleep. His eyes were unreadable. We said nothing to each other. He didn't touch me. We were about to leave when I remembered my pack with journal and the letter in it. I went back to get them while Michael waited by the door. He stood aside as I exited, then carefully shut the weathered door.

Jack Dawson was flying the helicopter. As we walked toward it he leapt out and came to give me one of his big bear hugs. I nearly cried. It felt so good to have his arms around me. Michael watched from the edge of the clearing. If he seemed uncomfortable with our closeness he did not show it.

Zalman is dead now. He betrayed Red Cell, gave the locations of the close circuit cameras he had planted around Section along with the names of a few rogue operatives who were working for him.

I heard later that he and Isolde had been lovers once. The romance had failed. Gee, I wonder why? She had known Michael a long time ago and contacted him about Zalman's being a double agent. I was told nothing of Michael's past connection with her. I didn't want to know anything more.

I was given a few days off. I spent it doing nothing, writing a little, trying to read some of the pile of books I have not managed to get to. I didn't read the love letter again. I almost threw it away, but in the end I couldn't because it is all I really have of his heart that is tangible. It is folded neatly away in my sock drawer.

I was called into Ops office the day before my block of downtime. He was pleased with me. Said I'd gotten Zalman to admit he was Red Cell, that Oversight was pleased, too. He was amazed at my resiliency, the way I had figured things out. I had to understand though, that I couldn't be let in on it for matters of security. Only Michael could be trusted. Not even Madeline knew. I think she's rather miffed at him. I hope so.

I was about to leave his office when he called me back. " Michael tells me you've had some car trouble. How old is the Porsche? "

" I don't know. It was used when I got it." I could care less about the car. Riding the metro was nice. I read or sketched.

" An Operative needs a reliable vehicle. Tell Madeline. She'll take you car shopping." He gave me a toothy smile. He is trying to stop smoking and is chewing juicy fruit. " What sort of car do you fancy?"

I stared at him. My goodness, a reward. " I fancy a Volvo station wagon with two car seats in the back."

I turned my back on him and shut the door. Before I left Section for the day I went to Walter and told him that I wanted to see Michael's interrogation tape. I knew it had been making the rounds. I knew they had all watched it on a live feed like a boxing match on cable. Walter protested but gave in. I watched it, heard the disgusting things that Zalman said to him with my own ears, watched him suffer in mute agony. As I watched I felt tears rained down my cheeks. I handed it back to Walter. He told me that it would be destroyed.

Michael is a good operative. He should never have had to suffer that indignity.

It would happen again. It would keep happening if I was allowed to be his weakness. I knew that too well.

Today I went to the park again. I took my sketch book and pencils, sitting on the bench on the south side of the lake. It was warmer now and the snow had melted away. All that was left were a few dirty piles. The noontime light was perfect. I started to draw a little girl and her mother who were busy feeding the few hardy ducks who had stayed for the winter. The mother also had a small baby in a stroller. The baby had one of those soft fleece hats with little ears and an animal face on it. After a time the girl got curious and walked over to speak to me. She was about five with long brown pigtails and clear green eyes.

" My mother says that I can talk to you. As long as I'm not bothering you."

" No, not at all. It's always good to ask." I waved at her mother and she smiled.

" Are you colouring? " she asked.

" Yes. I suppose I am."

" I like to colour, too. My name is Vanessa. Is that me and Gabriel? "

" Hello, Vanessa. My name is Nikita. Yes, it is you."

" I like that. Do you think I might take it home with me? " I nodded. " May I see some of your other pictures? "

I put the sketch book into her small hands. She placed it on her lap like a picture book, spending a lot of time at each page. Who is this? she would ask. Walter. Why does an old man have a ponytail? And who is this? That is my mom. Her name is Bobbie. She got to the pages with Michael.

" Is this your husband? "

" No."

" But there are lots of pictures of him."

" Yes. There are a lot. His name is Michael. "

" Did you have a fight ?"

" Maybe a misunderstanding. I'm not quite sure." I found myself grinning at her.

" Do you love him?" She met my eyes with her green ones, expecting an answer. An honest one.

" Oh, yes. I love him. Very much." I gave her a smile. The little snoop.

" Then why is he all by himself? "

" What do you mean? "

She leaned over and pointed across my chest. " Over there." She leaned a little further, her pigtails trailing over my lap. " Hi, Michael!" She waved her hand and called out in a loud voice. " Nikita loves you again. So come on over."

Oh, my gawd. I felt the blush rise up from my toes.

Michael rose off the bench where he'd been quietly sitting. He was wearing blue jeans, a cream coloured turtleneck and that buttery, suede leather jacket. " Hello."

" Hello,' said the gregarious Vanessa. " I am looking at all the pictures of you, Michael."

" Are you? " He gave her his most perfect smile. The one that shatters female hearts. Mine included. " Did she show you that one of me in lipstick? "

She studied his face as if to find traces of lipstick on that sculpted mouth. " My daddy sometimes has lipstick on when Mommy kisses him."

" That must be when it happens." He looked at me for a long moment. At my mouth.

Vanessa's mother came at that moment to get her. She apologised for her talkative child and then cooed over the sketch I had given her, leading the little girl off by the hand with a promise of a pretzel if she behaved.

I closed the sketchbook on my lap.

" How are you, Kita?" he said softly. He sat down on the bench.

" Fine. I've had a few days to rest." I packed away my pencils.

He nodded. Why is it so awkward with us at times? Will it always be this way? " I was wondering if you'd have dinner with me tonight. "

My hands shook a little on the book. Dinner. A date. I took a deep breath. Can I do this? I know it cannot be casual. It can never be casual with us. Does he understand that? Is he prepared for it?

Oh, God, why am I such a slow top? Of course he's prepared for it. Preparing me for it has been what he's done for years. I have only learned now just how very much he understands that it cannot be casual between us. And why he has never offered me false promises. That letter spoke volumes about his longing and his desperation. He wants me as badly as I want him. He is just more honest with himself. That is how it had always been.

I don't know what he is saying to me by asking me out? Is he ready to defy them? To defy them and be with me? If we are careful, maybe it can work. Maybe, if our luck holds, we can make it work.

" If you're busy " He was brushing invisible flecks of dust off his jacket.

" No." I turned my head to look at him. He was shaking a little. Nervous. It made me want to cry.

" I'll cook something. I owe you a dinner. You can bring the wine. I'll leave the choice up to you. I think you know more about some things than I do. " That made him grin.

I stood up. He did too. " I'll see you at seven? " I said.

I started to back away from him. He was looking at me, that shy smile on his handsome face.

" Seven. See you then, Kita."

" Yes, Michael," I said softly. " I'll see you then."

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