You think it's all flash and dash, don't you? This super-spy thing. It isn't really. It can be as boring as watching paint dry. For every mission where we get to go in and do something dangerous there are days and days of endless boredom that lead up to the actual big-time missions.

You think we have grunts to do all that stuff, don't you? Yea, of course we do, sometimes, but a lot of my time is spent in pursuits like phone tapping, watching just who goes in and out of foreign embassies, standing around at clubs and parties in tight dresses and high heels.

I spend a lot of time just waiting, often trying to fend off geeks who think I'm standing there hoping to get picked up. I can't tell you how many times some sweaty, just out of his teens, little jerk has sidled up to me with a drink and given me a pick-up line.

Here are some of my personal favourites:

That's a very nice dress. Wouldn't it look better on my bedroom floor?

Excuse me (panting) but you've accidentally taken my breath away.

As long as I have a face, you'll have a place to sit.

Is there a mirror in your pants? Cause I sure can see myself in them.

My favourite of all time was actually from Michael. I don't know what just made me recall that particular occasion, because I try not to think about how it was with us.

He actually had about a million pick-up lines. Not ones like those above. Subtle ones. Sexy ones. Drive you crazy ones. All lies. Probably learned them in Section.

Introduction to the Pick-up: Gigolo 101.

Anyway, one night I was doing dishes at his place and he sneaked up behind me, snaked his hand around my waist and said: Hi, baby. My name's Milk. And I can do your body good. I laughed so hard I almost peed myself. I don't think it was the reaction he wanted.

Back to the stakeouts. Last week I had to stand in a park for an hour freezing my proverbial ass off waiting for a paid informant to show up.

There I stood beside a tree watching people walk by with sizzling sausages and hot coffee while I stood there blowing on my hands, hoping that I could get my boots off my frozen feet when I went home later. Michael was across the park- yea, he has to do this crap, too, sometimes but he manages never to look like he's going to fall over sideways and croak.

Ever detached. Ever stoic. Ever Michael. Though lately I am beginning to question all that iron endurance, especially after that time we spent together in Canada. You'll have to go back in these pages to find out about that.

I still haven't figured it out. Why did I let myself sleep with him? It was like I had no control. I'm still terminally confused on the subject of him. I just know that he wants me back. He's determined and I'm still befuddled about it.

Back to business again here. Am I getting sidetracked, or what? Sorry. I don't seem to be able to organize my thoughts lately.

Or my life.

Spying is not all fun and games, I assure you. We've had very little " wet work" in the last month or so. Sometimes it's so tedious just sitting around it's hard to concentrate on the task.

Yea, I'd like to be diving into the Mediterranean Sea looking for a sunken ship full of nukes, but those adventures are few and far between.

Operatives are like anyone else. We're human. We get bored by the endless mundane chores. The boredom sucks, but it's all a part of the job.

So we find ways to make the time go faster.

Last week was when it happened. We started playing the game again. Maybe I should clarify this. It was actually about three years that Walter, Birkoff, myself and some of the other ops invented the game. Not So Trivial Pursuits.

Our Jedi quiz master, Benjamin Kruger joined in last year after he completed training. Ben's a genius so he got through basic a lot faster than I did. One year to my two.

Michael never approved of the game beyond the fact that we are a team and the team that plays and jokes together remains together in terms of morale. And we are a team for all intents and purposes. I mean, you can't watch each other's backs unless you have a sense of comradery. Michael never joined in with us before, though he could have, but I have to say this much for him: he always stood up for us if things got a little out of hand or if we got caught by Ops.

I only got back into the game recently. I figured: What the hell? I was tired of being Goody Two Shoes.

It was only last week that Michael asked if he might join us and play for the first time. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

Michael wanting to play Not So Trivial Pursuit. Who'd ever have thunk it?

It's not the real game of course. Not with the board and the cards and the little pies. It's a wagering game using crazy bets and questions that Kruger pulls out of his head. His head is a font of useless trivia. As you know from that mission I told you about before, he has total recall about almost everything. Section keeps him around for his incredible, photographic memory.

Information like what kind of gun Robert Culp used in " I Spy." I got asked that question once. Seriously. Who the heck is Robert Culp? I had never even seen that show. It was way before my time and Ben's, or so I'd have thought. I think the show had that Bill Cosby dude in it. I couldn't get the answer, so Birkoff challenged me, and I had to pay a forfeit which involved stealing and eating the flower off one of Madeline's cymbidium orchids. It made me puke for the whole night.

The forfeits can be simple or brutal. One forfeit an unfortunate operative had to pay was tying Operation's shoelaces together. He's since been cancelled. Not over that incident, I don't think.

But you never know. Ops wears slip-ons now.

So that's what missing a question involves. Paying a forfeit to the person who does know the answer. You can challenge at any time. Of course if you're bluffing that you don't know the answer, but you do, and suck the challenger in, he pays the piper.

We like to bluff the hell out of each other.

Oh, if you're interested, Culp's character carried a Walther P38K, a short barrelled version of the German sidearm. Cosby used a Colt M1911A1. Somehow I can't imagine that. Dr. Huxtable shooting bad-asses instead of doling out Jello.

I think I just went off on a tangent again. Sorry.

So, this one boring day, Michael decides to play with us. There was me, him, Benjamin, Birky (on comm back at Section), and Chris Davenport all sitting in the back of a phony Brink's truck, as we had been doing for weeks.

We were all sick to damned death of each other.

Davenport is incredibly good at NSTP. A great player, especially with sports trivia. And he thinks of really fantastic forfeits. Totally sick and twisted forfeits. The man is a practical joke god.

Like I said, the day we started playing we were on this unending stake-out involving some Brinks trucks that had been hit by the Provisional Underground, some new and hardly improved faction of Red Cell. Brinks trucks were being looted in major cities to provide funds for terrorist fun and games. Not to bore you with the details, I'll just say that it was a tedious and fruitless assignment. One of many.

We were getting a little wacked out and tempers flared

I guess I should tell you a bit about how I was feeling at this point, with regards to Michael, especially after what had happened between us in Canada.

You know we went to bed together. I told myself in the weeks following that it was just a aberration. It happened because it happened. We were both a little shaken at the time.

I try not to analyse it and his Michaleness never mentioned it again so I figured that he'd forgotten about it, too. He kind of threw me for a loop by the way he acted when we got back, rather aloof and business like again. I figured that was for show, to get back into Maddie and Op's good graces, but I didn't know for sure, so it sort of pissed me off. Like you'd think he could have mentioned what we did together or called me on the phone or something.

I know I asked him not to talk about it or call, but you'd think--

And come to think of it, why should he worry about making impressions on anyone? He's George's little pet now.

I have thought about it often, that night in that cabin. It brought back a lot of feelings and memories I'd thought buried forever. Like how his body feels under my hands and how he kisses and the way that he moves and the things he says when he's inside me

Okay. I don't think I want to talk about that stuff anymore.

Back to the game. I'm not bad at it now. After three years, I'm okay. I'll admit that you can still get me on a lot of the sports stuff, but the literature and art questions, I'm getting better at.

Yea, I'm one well read and classy broad these days.

I discovered that Michael is a great player. His first question from Benjamin was a hard one. What was the name of the only member of ZZ Top with no beard?

I looked over at Michael. He had this very calm look on his face. Davenport grinned. " I'll challenge you on that one Michael."

" You think I don't know the answer, Chris? " he said in his soft, low voice.

" The only music you listen to is classical, man." Davenport said smugly. " I don't think you know this one."

I looked over at Michael's face. He looked at me. His green eyes were sparkling. I try not to look at him at length nowadays, so I turned my face away and fiddled with my cuticles.

" I listen to other music besides classical. "

" Oh, yea. He's really into country," Benjamin quipped. " I saw all the Merle Haggard CDs in his car."

That got a laugh.

Michael fixed Ben with an icy look. " Don't ever look in my car, Kruger."

" I never did, Michael. Anyway, your windows are smoked. It was a joke." Ben looked about to piss himself.

" He likes some rock music, " I said, with a grin. " The Beatles and the Who, I think."

That was true, but I knew for a fact that Michael wouldn't know Tube Steak Boogie from what the heck ever else those ZZ dudes sang. And he couldn't know their names. I didn't even know the beardless dude's name and I really like eighties music, even the crappy stuff. Like the Bangles and Culture Club.

I know you're thinking that the music of the eighties was all crap. I'll argue with you about that later. Just don't spread it around that I like Boy George or I'll be forced to go Wang Chung on your ass.

Michael smiled. That devastating smile. " What's the forfeit? "

I looked at Chris. There is an unwritten NSTP rule. One does not have to tell the forfeit to the other players. It can be written down and passed between the two players who are challenging each other.

I almost opened my mouth and told Michael of Chris's devious nature. Chris has been known to make people eat a whole box of laxatives before a mission or to streak through Op's aerie ( when he's not in it, thank God, because we don't really want him to put a total kibosh to the game).

I never said anything. I'd kind of like to see Michael streak naked through the aerie. Actually I'd rather like to see him strut real slow and naked through the aerie. That nonchalant, hip swaying strut he has. He looks great coming or going. Naked or clothed. Mmmmm. Yum.

Okay, I know what you're thinking, but he's still a hottie no matter what I've decided in regards to my feelings or lack thereof.

I haven't forgotten everything I like about him. Amend that: Liked about him.

So to make a long story short, Michael took the forfeit, smiled and gave his answer: Frank Beard was ZZ Top's beardless drummer.

I guffawed. The guy with no beard is Frank Beard. That was too funny.

He was right. Chris's face kind of blanched. I tried to swallow down my choking noises. Mikey was either Kreskin or he had someone feeding him that info through his comm. I could hear Birkoff screaming with unmitigated glee back at Section. I still don't know what the forfeit was between Chris and Michael. They left it a private matter.

Chris looked ill.

So the game went on. My questions were pretty easy. What was the original name of the Supremes? The Primettes.

The name of the professor on Gilligan's Island? Roy Hinkley. The Skipper? Jonas Grumby.

Then Ben asked me, with this shit-eating grin on his face: " Which brothers in the NHL have scored the most points? "

I hate sports trivia and he knows it.

I thought that Chris would challenge me. He didn't. I guess he was too burned over Michael's getting the ZZ Top question right.

Michael challenged me.

I just stared at him, fixing him with a very dirty look. How dare you? my look said.

I dare, he replied, with a lift of one thick, curving black brow. Then he smiled this slow, lazy sexy smile. I double, freakin' damn dare you, that smile said.

I knew he didn't know dick about sports. But hockey? That was a real crap-shoot. He'd spent all those months in Canada. They live and breathe hockey there.

" What's the forfeit? " Ben asked.

" We'll make this private," I said quickly. Looks passed between Ben and Chris.

I didn't know what to write down as a forfeit. I decided to make him eat a live goldfish. I know that's bad and I apologise profusely to all animal lovers, but it was all I could come up with. I had to do it once and it really wasn't all that terrible. For me. Not the goldfish. Sort of like wiggly Sushi, if you will.

He sort of smiled when he read the note I passed him.

I read the note he passed to me.

He had used his usual bold, black printing. He has terrible penmanship for someone so educated. I looked at those words, all black and forceful like he is and my eyes widened.

" Three kisses. Where and when I want them." That's what it said.

Holy hell.

I just stared at him. If challenged, one has to take the forfeit unless it is totally inappropriate. Like oral sex, or something. No one ever tries that. Well, Herb Grainger did that once but he got fragged last year.

I showed it reluctantly to Ben. He showed it to Chris.

" Seems kosher to me, " said Ben. " Kisses have passed before."

Davenport grinned. " Yea. They have."

" When? " I disputed.

" When Albertson lost and had to kiss Gertrude on the third floor."

" Gertrude is a lab chimp!" I screamed. " That's different."

" You'd rather kiss Gertrude than Michael? "

" Yes. Perhaps I would." I crossed my arms over my chest. " She is a very nice monkey. She doesn't use as much tongue as he does."

He smiled at me. That dark angel smile.

" The forfeit stands," Ben said. " Take it or pay a double one, Nik. I'll let Chris decide."

" How about a whole box of Feen-a-mint gum, Niki? " Chris said.

I glared at Michael. " Specify what you mean by where? "

"Pardon?"

I leaned forward. " Where? As in physically?"

" As in on the body of person, you mean? " Michael returned serenely.

" Yes. As in on the flipping body of the person." I glared at him for being deliberately obtuse. He was not kissing me anywhere weird. On the body weird.

If he won.

He smiled again. " I meant where in the geographical sense. In a car. In a bar. On a plane. In a train. But we "

" That's fine, Dr. Freakin' Seus. " I scribbled on the paper and passed it to him.

Does not include in a bed. Or prone. Or below the neck. Horizontal? No way in heck. One kiss, I say. Only one kiss per day. Goddamn. And do not eat garlic, green eggs or ham...

He nodded and laughed. " Fine."

" The Sutter brothers," I said firmly. I gave him a lovely, warm facsimile of a smile.

" That's your final answer? " Ben said. He was grinning.

" Of course."

" What do you say, Michael? "

He gave his sweetest fake smile. He really can look like a darling when he wants to. " I say she's wrong. It's the Gretzky brothers."

I could hear Birkoff laughing.

" The Gretzky brothers. That's the final answer? " Ben asked.

" Is Gretzky the only name you know in hockey, Michael? " asked Chris, with a hooting noise.

Michael just smiled.

" Who wins? " I asked Ben.

Ben shrugged. " Sorry, Nik. Michael's right. Gretzky's brother scored one assist in his career. Wayne's scored more than any of the brother combinations. "

He just smiled at me. " I'll collect the first one tomorrow," he said softly. He was looking at my mouth.

My nipples turned hard as gumdrops at the look he gave me.

A predatory look. A hungry look. Sheesh.

I couldn't sleep that night thinking about it. And when I did sleep, I dreamed that he was leaping out like a panther and surprising me with kisses.

Really wild kisses with hot, wet tongues and moaning and stuff. Those kisses where he seems to just lose himself and his eyes get all glassy and heavy lidded and he gets me up against the door or the wall and then falls to his knees and starts kissing my tummy...

Had I specified: No tongues? I don't think I did. Was that a Freudian omission?

And when I got to work the next day Chris Davenport was wearing full make-up, a leather mini-skirt and a pair of over the knee high-heeled boots. Size 16 for the skirt and the boots, I'd say. I guess he was paying Michael's challenge. Even Operations mustered a smile over a totally bald man with a goatee dressed as a woman.

I think it was payback for the time Michael had to dress up as Madeline. Chris had laughed his guts out and then saved the surveillance tapes. Michaela seemed even less of a woman than Chris considering how pretty he is as a man. Those legs in panty hose. Too muscled and masculine. My God. He looked like Andy Capp's wife. Or one of those lady weight lifters.

He'd look great in a kilt, though.

And so I waited with trepidation, and I will admit, anticipation, for the first kiss I owed him.

The first of three of them.

The first one came at the end of the following day. We didn't play NSTP in the Brink's van that day. It just so happened that no one really felt like it. We all feared Michael's winning again after that and Chris was a little bitchy cause he couldn't get his mascara off and his feet hurt.

And then it turned out that the thing went down with the terrorists and we ended up pretty busy.

We were all exhausted that night when we got back to Section. Instead of feeling relief that the stakeout was over I was wondering when the kiss was going to come and nursing a slightly sprained wrist I got during the mission.

I headed off for the women's locker room and took a shower. Maybe he'd forgotten about it.

He hadn't. When I came out, my hair wet and no makeup on, he was standing with his hip against the wall waiting for me.

" Hi," he said, looking up at me with those green eyes. I have to admit that I was thinking about him while I showered.

He has these new pants for the missions. They're leather motorcycle pants, not tight but sleek fitting, and they look really good on him. They look a lot sexier than the spandex ones. I was also thinking about how he looked when he stripped off his jacket in the hallway and walked towards the men's showers in those leather pants and his black tee-shirt.

He looked so good from the back. If People had any brains Michael would be on the cover of the magazine as Sexiest man alive. They wouldn't even have to put his face on the cover.

Not that they'd know who he is, seeing as he's supposed to be dead, but--

" Hi, Michael." I managed to say it with a calm demeanor. " What time is it? "

" 11:45."

Fifteen minutes and I'd be home free. Something told me that was not going to be the case.

" I'll walk you to debrief."

" I'll go myself. I was just about to go up to meds and get my wrist strapped."

" You didn't tell me you'd been hurt."

" It wasn't anything really. While I was lowering down on the rope I shifted and banged my left wrist and my knee on the wall. Didn't interfere with my job if that's what you're worried about."

" I wasn't worried about that." He was staring at me like I was laying across a glass slide and he was the mad scientist. I hate it when he gives me those probing looks. Like he has mental telepathy or something.

Maybe he does. How else would he have known those answers? I grilled Birkoff and he insisted that he wasn't feeding Michael any answers. He seemed affronted.

" How is it? "

" The wrist? Stiff. Not too bad. My knee looks like hell. I bruise easily. "

He took my hand and gently turned it over. The wrist was a little swollen and scraped, but it would be fine after Advil and a cold pack.

I felt awkward having him hold my hand like that. My hands were all rough as I'd forgotten my lotion and my nails were all chewed and raggedy again. Having him touch me made my gut ache and I didn't know why.

Then he looked at me and then lifted my hand to his mouth. He pressed his beautiful, warm pink lips just to the place inside my wrist where my pulse beat.

It was beating like crazy, my stupid heart. I could feel it in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thumpety thump. I looked at his bent head, at that vulnerable place at the back of his neck. His hair curls in baby curls there. Impervious to his hate of them. So soft and exposed and sweet. His shoulders seemed so powerful in contrast, the fabric of his tee shirt stretching over the impressive musculature.

I wanted to touch him. To lay my palm against smooth, soft skin. To finger those little curls. To press my mouth against the knot at the top of his spine...

I just closed my eyes and sighed. A raw, rather ragged sigh.

Then he pulled his head away and smiled. " Kiss, number one, I guess."

I hadn't thought of that.

Damn. I was going to say that it likely didn't count. I'd said no kissing below the neck and the hand was below the neck.

I could call him on a challenge violation and get the whole thing cancelled.

Maybe, I'd let it stand.

Is that crazy, or what? I don't know why in the hell I was disappointed that he didn't give me a mouth kiss.

Or at least a little lick on the wrist. Like he wanted to taste my skin or something. He used to like to do that.

I just thought of a psycho come-on line just for Michael. " Hi. I'm Michael. Do you mind if I lick your tummy? "

" I think you just wasted that kiss." I made myself sound smug. He'd just showered and his hair was damp. He smelled like that spicy soap he uses.

He lifted his eyes. They were very green, very sexy, but there were dark shadows beneath them, as if he'd spent sleepless nights lately.

I imagined him at home alone in that huge bed of his. The sheets twisted around his long naked body, one brawny arm hugging his pillow.

That pillow could have been me.

God, I have to stop this.

He was speaking again. " I don't think that kiss was a waste. Nothing I do with you could ever be wasted, Ni-ki-ta. Call that one the prelude to the big one. And it will be a big one. You'll want it, too. "

What a line. I had this vision of him looking at me, crooking his index finger in that gesture that says: Get over here. I saw myself walking towards him like I was being pulled by an invisible cord. He says: " Hey, Nikita, I got you to come with one finger. Imagine what I could do with my whole body."

I hate you, Michael. I hate you, hate you, hate you.

" You will remember," he said in a husky whisper.

I yanked my hand back, wincing.

" Yea, tell yourself that, My-Name-is-Milk-boy," I muttered under my breath as I walked away from him. " I don't want anything from you. And I just remembered what a jerk you can be. "

I flipped back my hair and walked away from him.

Funniest thing: My wrist wasn't hurting all that much anymore, but my skin was burning there on that sensitive spot at my wrist.

Jeez. And my legs were all mushy.

The second kiss came the next day at Section. That was a mistake in itself. He knew what they'd told us and I'd been getting funny looks from Madeline all that day.

What the hell do they want? I have to work with the guy. I have to speak with him and see him. Why don't they just transfer one of us? Get it the hell over with. I'm trying my best. Can't they see that I don't care about him any more?

Well, I don't.

Anyway, the stupid kiss. You're waiting to hear about it. Michael and I were walking down the hall to talk to someone downstairs in data. We were alone in a secluded hallway.

I was thinking about it. As I had been doing all day. When would he do it? When would he kiss me? Where would he kiss me this time?

I mean body-wise.

Would he worry that we were being watched? He didn't seem to be concerned about that at all. He was humming under his breath. I wanted to slap him. I hate hummers. I always get behind hummers in line at the grocery store. They always seem to be old men in plaid coats humming Strangers in the Night.

" Are you humming Sinatra? "

" No. ZZ Top."

I frowned at him.

His lip quirked. The hidden dimple flashed." Chopin, actually. I was thinking about something I was thinking about last night."

" Don't tax yourself, Michael," I teased. " All that thinking about thinking "

" I was thinking about a lot of things last night. I never really accepted it before that day. But that day I knew."

" What day? Accepted what?"

He stopped and faced me. He looked quite incredibly handsome. He was wearing a green sweater beneath his jacket. The shade exactly echoed his eyes. Normally he does not wear colours. I swallowed and clutched the discs I was carrying to my chest.

" I was remembering the day I knew I was in love with you. I was remembering how I didn't want to be in love, but I was. It was hard to accept."

Okay. I think my heart was somewhere in my pants by that time.

" Why? Cause I was unacceptable? Not good enough, right? "

" No, the opposite, actually."

He went on, quite comfortable, it seemed, in revealing this nonsense. " I knew all about the lust. Well, I'd always felt that. I think I felt that lust the first time I saw you in that short black dress all cleaned up and despising the hell out of me. I hated doing that to you. "

I did despise him then. But there had been that pull even then. That gossamer cord as strong as steel.

" You did not hate doing that to me. Leaving me there alone to kill. You got a real rise out of that." I remembered how I had felt. I'd actually thought he'd come to care for me. That he was my friend. That I had a protector... perhaps a love to call my own.

Stupid little girl.

" I did hate it," he argued softly.

"I was terrified. I'd been inches from death and I'd just killed someone... I remember the way you looked at me in the limo," I said. " I wanted to kill you, too. You looked so- so-depraved and detached. "

" What does that mean?'

" I don't know. You often look like that. It's just how I thought of you then. Like you found it fun to bite someone hard on the jugular and walk away to leave them bleed slowly."

" I remember that I just wanted you to brush your stupid bangs out of your eyes so you wouldn't run into a wall."

I snorted." Those bangs were pretty stupid."

" They helped you hide. We all have to hide something in Section."

I tried not to smile.

" I was glad you made it, but I was feeling a little dejected, I think. I knew at that moment you didn't need me. That you'd be okay without me."

I remembered nothing of the kind. I just remembered being terrified. And mortified about wishing and hoping and then believing that he had liked me. And even knowing that he was making fun of me, still being weirdly aroused by him.

Like now.

That's all I've ever been charmed by. The fact that he makes me want to jump his bones.

" I was debating about kissing you then. Right then."

" I'd have kicked you in the balls."

I was suddenly thinking about how he'd looked with his sullen, debauched angel's face and his long hair. I only loved him for his frightening beauty. Only his masculine allure. Look what he does to me now when I know that I don't love him.

" You looked like a vampire in a black silk shirt sitting in the back of that limo. I hated you." I tried to walk away from him but he look my arm above the elbow.

" Do you remember that October when I lost Adam? "

" Do I remember? I remember everything. Not the same way as you seem to recall things, but I do, Michael. I have not lost my memory. Are you still on this brainwash kick? "

" Yes. Maybe I am. I don't know what you remember about the past and what you don't, Kita.."

" I have not forgotten anything. I remember every minute in that house. For the most part it was hell for both of us."

" But there were moments that were good."

I stared at him. " Maybe some."

" You loved him, too."

" I loved Adam. I did love him."

Strange. I even felt detached now from that dear little boy. And yet I recalled exactly how holding his wiggly little body had made me want to cry back then. And how I felt so devastated later when he was gone. I just couldn't seem to feel it now.

Why couldn't I feel anything of Adam now?

" I'd have fallen to pieces if you hadn't been with me, Kita."

" I doubt that, Michael."

" You're the only reason I didn't kill myself."

God.

I just stared at him. He rarely ever mentioned that time in his life during the days when we were lovers. That horrible time. His loss. He'd almost never mentioned Adam, yet he'd dreamed about him often. I know. I heard him. Crying in his sleep for his son. The nightmare had never left him. " Do you want to know when I knew for sure that I loved you? "

If indeed he had loved me. He's really incapable of true love, I think. He just convinces himself he wants something and calls it love. God only knows why he wanted me.

" Do you want to know? "

" Not really, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

" It was that night Adam woke up from the dream. I was holding him against my chest and I could feel his little heart hammering in fear. He was all warm and sleepy and I was hugging him and thinking about how I was going to lose him. That I could never hold him again like that. That for the rest of my life my arms would be clutching at nothing. Empty. And that Adam would wake in the night and I'd never be able to comfort him again."

I eyed him and nodded.

I remembered that night. I had kissed Adam goodnight and yet I had so longed to kiss Michael as well. I'd been so enamoured of him. He'd been so beautiful. You cannot imagine how handsome he looked. In soft hand knit sweaters and jeans and after years of unremitting black, he'd been dressed in colours. Against the jewel toned walls of his home, he was stunningly perfect. Like the prince in a fairy tale.

I never saw him look so perfect or seem as imperfectly human as he had in that sunny house.

" I was lost, Kita," he said softly. " So lost. Every minute that went by I lost a little more of my son, of my life."

" Yes."

" And then you leaned in and kissed my son on the cheek. And you put your hand on my arm. Just for a second and I looked in your eyes and I knew that you loved him, too. That you were as lonely and afraid as I was."

I bit my lip. I tried to think of something smug to say and I couldn't. I looked at the floor.

" And I knew. That moment, I knew." He took a deep breath. " I knew that I might not ever get over Adam, but that I had someone to turn to. I wasn't completely alone. I know I pushed you away and yet ... yet, you were always there for me. I knew then that I loved you. That you, like Adam, had become an integral part of me and that if I had to lose you too, I would die. "

There seemed to be tears shimmering behind his eyes.

I was trying to think about poor Elena and where she fit into all this. Trying to think of some way that I could make him the bad guy again.

He was the bad guy. The thief of hearts. The master manipulator. Wasn't he?

I could feel him staring at me. Those glittering, jade green eyes were burning holes through me.

" Thank you, Nikita."

Then I felt him bend toward me. His hand slid up my arm to tunnel itself beneath my hair.

Here it comes, I thought. The kiss. I closed my eyes. My lips parted for him. My breath caught somewhere in my chest.

I could feel his warm breath feather my hair.

And then he pressed his lips softly, sweetly to my cheek, just at the level of my ear.

I thought I heard him whisper that he loved me, but at that moment someone came down the hall and sent me springing away from him guiltily.

" I guess that was two," he said.

" Yea," I said, walking away from him. " One left. So far I'm not impressed. "

Oh, that was cold, I thought. I was sorry I said it in a way.

I looked back. I could not help doing it.

He was just standing there. He didn't seem upset at all. He just gave me a lopsided little grin and shrugged.

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

I woke up with a start, well before my alarm, thinking that this was going to be a big day. I couldn't remember why. I hadn't done this in ages, woken up with a sense of excitement, thinking that I wanted to bounce out of bed.

I knew for damned sure Santa wasn't coming to town.

Kiss number three. The last one.

I lay there for a long time in my flannelette sheets thinking about how warm and cozy I was. God made flannel sheets to tell women that they didn't need men to keep them warm in bed.

I got up out of bed and started to rifle through my closet. What could I wear? Something spectacular and trendy?

Something dowdy to turn him off cold.

How about the gray pleated skirt and boat-neck sweater combination? Michael had told me once, one of the few times he'd ever commented on my clothing, that the outfit made me look like I ought to be on a hill singing the Sound of Music. I should wear that ill-fitting, ugly thing so he'd leave me the hell alone.

That was what I wanted, wasn't it? For him to just forget this.

And stop telling me he loved me. And stop looking at me that way.

Jeez, those other two kisses had been a let-down. A kiss on the wrist and a peck on the cheek. Hardly seductive.

Why only three?

He could have asked for five. Or a week's worth. Did he really think he could win me with three?

He had such a high opinion of himself.

I tried on three outfits before I decided on an Armani suit in cream cashmere. It was very sexy. I thought about wearing it without the blouse but the thought of that wool rubbing on my boobs all day was a little creepy.

I walked naked to the bathroom, looking at the stark white walls. God, what the hell was I thinking when I did that?

I showered, shaved my legs, washed and blew my hair dry. I put on three layers of antiperspirant. I went to put on my make-up and discovered a zit on my chin.

Perfect.

I arranged my hair into a lovely twist and let some tendrils dangle in what I hoped was a careless way. I flossed. Water-picked. Tongue scraped and brushed. I gargled with Scope. Then I applied Revlon kiss-proof lipstick, the stuff Cindy Crawford swears won't come off if you kiss someone.

I looked fine. A little tired maybe.

Did I have any Clorets?

I sighed and walked to the bedroom closet debating heel heights.

It's a dilemma I have to admit. The three inch heeled boots look good, but they'd make me top him by an inch or so. I didn't want to be taller than him. Maybe I'd wear slides and when he kissed me, just step out of them.

Oh, subtle.

Like I want him to think I care. You're a nutcase, Nikita Wirth. You belong in the Planter's Hall of Fame. You don't know what the hell you want.

My head was aching. I lifted a hand to my temple.

No. No. No. He was not going to do this to me.

I rushed back into the bedroom and stripped off the perfect suit, throwing it on the floor. I slipped into embroidered denim jeans and a peasant blouse. Funky old clothes. I combed my hair straight and scrubbed off the lipstick.

Maybe I'd have Caesar salad for lunch. And garlic bread.

" So there, Michael," I whispered, yanking my sheepskin coat on. " See if I care to impress you.'

I got called into Madeline's office that morning.

She looked up from her computer. " How are you today?"

" Fine. Sprained wrist."

" The x-ray said that you have a hairline crack."

" Really? Wow. It's not that bad today."

" You'll have to work here at Section with Birkoff today. You were booked for reconnaissance in Brussels with Michael."

Reconnaissance today with Michael. I was thinking how close I had come to--

Damn.

The kiss.

" Nikita? " Madeline was saying.

I started. " Yea? What? Excuse me? "

" You have your mind on something else? "

" Nope. Not really"

She gave me that hard smile. " You're off the mission. Does that bother you? "

I smiled. " Um, no. Why should it? "

" Just curious."

" Okay. "

" Maybe you need some chamber therapy. For the bruises. " she mused. " How long has it been? "

I knew how long it had been. I really didn't want to get in the tube today. I ain't Michael Jackson. That sensory deprivation thing gives me the willies.

I worked all day with Birkoff, wondering when Michael and the rest were coming back in. I think Birkoff was getting sick of my asking if the van had turned up yet. By ten-fifteen that evening he was packing up to go. The van still wasn't back yet and I had long since finished my work. Why the hell was I hanging around?

Not waiting for him and the kiss.

" What are you so worried about?" Birkoff asked me. " Go home. Get some sleep."

I snapped at him. " I'm not worried about anything."

" Seems like you want to see somebody. Um, some kissing French fool, maybe? "

" I don't want to see anybody. I just want to get it over with. And if you bring that up kissing fool thing up again, you'll be very sorry, my little friend. I'll tell him about it and he can decide who rearranges your Munchkin face. "

" Sure you want to get it over with, Nik. You want to get it on." Seymour pushed his glasses up his nose." Why's it you cheated ?"

" What?" I yelled. " I cheated? "

" You didn't cheat so much as lose on purpose. You knew Gretzky was the answer. It was in a game last week."

" It was not."

" Was."

I could feel my cheeks flame. " I forgot."

" Yea, sure."

" I did." Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. You and Birkoff will never know, will you, dear reader?

" Are you gonna wait for him? "

" No. Why would I wait for him? " I grabbed my coat. " I'm going home."

" I could kiss you, if you want," he called after me.

I will not repeat what I said to him.

I didn't go home. I went to a 24 hour coffee shop not far from my building. I was thinking how Michael and I had come here late one night ravenous after hours of wild, monkey you know what. We'd consumed enough food to make a pig sick. And chocolate sundaes with whipped cream and Maraschino cherries, too. I remember how I demonstrated my ability to tie a knot in a cherry stem without taking it out of my mouth.

He was most impressed.

God, I think I'll croak of embarrassment here and now.

The waitress asked me if I was still going with that gorgeous green eyed man. I just shook my head and kind of blushed. " We're just friends now. It didn't work out."

" Too bad," she said. " He looked like a keeper. He still comes in here all alone now, honey. Did you know that? "

" Um. No."

" I don't think he has a girlfriend. Maybe if you called him--"

I shook my head and ordered a donut and my favourite hot chocolate with a mound of marshmallow cream and sipped it while I read the fashion section of the paper. The only people in the place were the waitress and an old man.

God, I thought, I'm pathetic. I checked my watch. 11:59. I was looking at two days downtime. I should have been glad.

I heard the bells over the door jingle and I didn't even look up. Just some other pathetic night crawler.

Someone stopped by the table. " Nothing else, thanks. Just the cheque."

" Hi. Mind if I sit down? "

I looked up. He was standing there in his long, black wool coat. His cheeks were a little pink from the cold, his hair ruffled by the wind.

" Hi, Michael." My heart went thunk.

He nodded at the seat. " May I? "

" Permission granted.. Sit down. Did you just get back? "

" A little while ago. I tried to catch you in the underground parking lot." He had that fresh showered look about him. All shiny and warm.

" Sorry. I guess I was wearing my CD headset. Was there something you wanted? I was just going to leave." I hoped that I sounded cooler than I felt.

" I guess it's too late. Three kisses. Three days. That was the deal. Right? "

" Yea, well, you win some and you lose some. I really do have to go, Michael."

" Yes. I guess Big Brother is still watching."

What ever that meant.

I stood up. He stood, too.

" I'll walk you out to your car," he said.

" No need."

" I want to."

I nodded, tossed a few bills on the table and let him follow me out. The waitress gave me a happy wink as we left.

He walked me the few feet to the car. It was cold and my hair was whipping around my face. I took a big gulp of night air and fished for the keys in my pocket.

I was thinking about that big kiss. What would it have been like?

" I guess I have to stop this, " he said.

I looked at him. " Stop what? "

" Making a fool of myself. A nuisance. Whatever it is I can't seem to stop myself from doing whenever I see you. I guess I have to get real. Isn't that what you told me, Kita ?"

" That sounds like something I might tell you."

" I just don't know how to give you up." He touched the corner of my mouth with his finger. "You have a little bit of cream. Right there."

I licked my lip. He seemed to swallow hard.

He shrugged his impossibly wide shoulders. " I guess I should go home before I say anything else I'll regret. Enjoy your downtime, Kita."

I nodded. " Bye."

He turned and started to walk away.

I watched him, walking towards his black car.

It was the weirdest thing. He passed under the street light and I remembered. Like pictures in slo-mo. Like a series of picture postcards on a rack.

I remembered kissing him right there. Throwing my arms around his neck. He'd laughed at my exuberance. He'd seemed so pleased.

We'd been happy.

At least I thought we were happy. As happy as people like us could be. I could almost feel him picking me up so that I was on my toes, so that my body melded with his. I could feel his lips so warm and soft under mine.

And I don't know why I did what I did next.

I ran after him. I grabbed him by the coat sleeve and pushed him against his car. He just stared at me. His face registered pure shock. I pressed my mouth against his warm lips and felt his arms go around my back. He let me kiss him. He let me take the lead, but he wasn't wimpy either.

And he tasted so damned good. Just like remembered. I could still feel the scrape of his beard and the hardness of his jaw and chin.

I can still taste him in my mouth. Now, even now.

He didn't stop me when I broke it off and pulled away. I was sort of disappointed by that. I kind of stood there, moving away from him, distancing myself physically but not really wanting to, rocking on my heels. I could feel tears trickling down my cheeks. I didn't wipe them away either.

I wanted to feel them.

To feel...

He started to speak. I stopped him. Held up my hand.

" Don't ask me why I'm doing this," I said, shaking my head. " I don't know yet."

" Okay."

He got into his car.

" I knew the answer," I whispered. I didn't think he'd heard me.

He rolled the car window down. " To what?"

" The Gretzky thing. "

" You did? "

" Yea. I did. I think I did. Something made me I- I wanted to lose the game."

He just smiled.

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