AU

---

Michel Samuelle was unhappy, This was not an unusual occurrence. Ever since his mother died two years ago, he had not truly been happy. One would think that an ambassador's son would live an exciting life, and Michel would be the first to admit that he had been to many interesting places and had seen many wonderful things in his short twelve years. However, since his mother's death, he rarely saw his father and, moving from country to country, Michel found it difficult to make friends. This had not mattered when his mother was alive. She was his sunshine, making every day bright and cheerful. Now Michel was depressed and moody, and he didn't mind if his father's servants knew it.

"Please, Monsieur Samuelle," pleaded his driver. "Your father told me to bring you on the beach to play. I must drive him to a luncheon in twenty minutes. I will be back to retrieve you in four hours."

"I told you, I don't want to play. I'm too old. Besides, with whom am I to play? And with what?" He gestured to the empty beachfront where the limousine was parked.

"It is a nice day," said the driver desperately. "You can swim—or build cabins in the sand."

"You mean 'castles,' not 'cabins,' Michel corrected him snidely. They were speaking English, as his father required that they speak the native language of whichever country they were in. Michel had an amazing acuity for languages, and didn't mind showing off at the expense of others.

"All right, build castles, but I really must leave," pled the driver.

"Just go," said Michel dispiritedly.

"Here is your lunch," the driver said, relieved, setting down a picnic hamper. "There is a drying towel here as well."

"Fine."

Not wanting to prolong the moment, the limousine driver returned to the vehicle and quickly pulled out of sight.

Michel stared dejectedly at the basket then, after a few minutes, sat beside it to stare blank-faced at the sea. He was so intent in his self-pity that he didn't notice the presence of a small elfin-like creature until she plopped down beside him.

"G'day," she greeted him with a sunny smile. "My name's Nikita. What's yours?"

She looked to be about six or seven years old, with long, tangled hair and scrawny arms and legs bursting through a dress that was at least two sizes too small.

"Where did you come from?" Michel asked, looking around.

The child pointed vaguely down the beach, where Michel could barely make out a row of tumble-down houses, hovels, really, about half a kilometer away.

"Who is watching you?" he persisted. "Where is your mother?" Baby-sitting was the last thing on his agenda.

"Mum's sleeping it off," Nikita replied matter-of-factly. "I'm watching myself. I do it all the time. Is that food in there?" she asked, eying the picnic hamper intently.

Michel had planned to stage a hunger-strike over what he considered to be his abandonment, but the girl was obviously not well fed. He opened the hamper and began to unpack its contents. He spread a linen cloth on the sand, and placed a basket of fruit, a paring knife, a platter of cheeses and crackers, and a bottle of wine and stemmed glass upon it.

Nikita gazed adoringly at the fruit, but looked shyly at Michel from beneath white-blonde lashes, awaiting his permission. He peeled a banana and handed it to her. He gaped at the way she shoved the fruit in her mouth—it was as if she hadn't eaten in weeks. He started to peel an apple for her, but decided she probably wouldn't mind a little peeling. She didn't, and she ate the core and seeds as well. She handed him the stem, sat back on her heels, a feral gleam in her eyes, waiting to see what came next.

Michel set the platter of cheeses in front of her, and Nikita gasped in wonder. She took a bite of everything, sometimes finishing off the morsel, sometimes wrinkling her nose and handing the uneaten portion to Michel. The crackers disappeared in a heartbeat.

A slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, Michel uncorked the bottle of wine, and poured a glass for Nikita. However, when she smelled it, she jumped up and backed away as though she had been stung.

"No!" she cried vehemently. "No booze!"

Michel was astonished. He would never have categorized a good Cabernet as "booze" but, as the wine obviously upset the child, he obligingly emptied the glass into the sand and recorked the bottle.

He reached back into the fruit basket and began to peel an orange for them to share. As she took a section from him, she asked again, "What's your name?"

"Michel," he answered, amused at her serious tone.

Then she giggled. "Michelle is a girls' name!" she taunted.

Michel didn't bother to explain her error. "You can call me Michael." As he handed her another section of the orange, he considered informing her that Nikita was a man's name, but decided he didn't want to make her mad. He wanted to hear her giggle again.

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

"Do you know how to swim?" Nikita asked Michael, glancing longingly at the sea.

"Of course."

Nikita looked at Michael's navy bathing trunks, gathered her courage, and jumped in with both feet. "Could you teach me?"

"Now?" he asked, caught off guard. "You're not even wearing a bathing costume."

She shrugged. "Don't have one."

Michael looked appraisingly at her dress. It was so threadbare that two or three good waves would probably tear it apart.

"How about tomorrow?" he bargained, inspired. "I'll bring you something to wear, and we'll have our first lesson."

"Truly, Michael?" Nikita's wide blue eyes grew moist. She jumped into his arms and hugged him fiercely.

Mon Dieu, he thought. What have I gotten myself into?

* * *

Michael tried to explain what an ambassador was, and why his father was so important. He brushed his dark curls out of his eyes and looked at Nikita in exasperation as she continued to fail to care. Traveling all over the world meant nothing to someone who had never stepped foot outside of Sydney, Australia, and had no knowledge of any place other than her current neighborhood. She explained loftily to Michael that she and her mother moved a lot, too, but Michael couldn't get her to grasp that being a diplomat and running away from bill collectors were hardly the same thing.

He told her about the pandas he had seen in China. She told him about the koalas she saw nearly every day in the eucalyptus grove behind her house. He told her about the canals in Venice—she didn't see why anyone would want to row a boat to get to someplace when they had perfectly good legs to walk on. He described the ancient ruins in Greece; she told him about the current state of disrepair her house was in. Michael gave up.

Nikita taught Michael how to skip stones, something he had never tried before and turned out to be quite proficient at. They finished off the basket of fruit, and they staged a mini-war, throwing cherry pits at each other and laughing. When Michael tried to ask Nikita about her home life and her family, she skirted the issue and told him instead about crazy Walter, the old man who walked the beach with a metal detector looking for buried treasure.

"Sometimes he gives me peanuts or raisins," Nikita said wistfully, scanning the beach with sky blue eyes. Her voice got softer, almost a whisper, and Michael leaned closer. "Sometimes, I pretend he's my grandpa, and he let's me come live with him."

"Is it that bad at home?" Michael persisted.

Nikita looked at him quizzically. "Walter's not really my grandpa," she explained patiently, "so it doesn't really matter, does it?"

Michael turned his face away and pretended to contemplate the ocean, his grey-green eyes darkening with anger at Nikita's mother. After a few moments, he felt a small hand creep into his. He held on tightly as the afternoon sun dropped lower in the sky.

* * *

It was just after eight o'clock, and Michael was finishing his Geometry homework. His tutor had picked up on his dour mood this morning, and had let him off relatively easily—no Chemistry or Latin tonight.

There was a sharp rap on his bedroom door. "Enter," Michael responded, expecting to see one of the maids coming in to turn down his bed.

"Did you enjoy yourself today, son?" an unanticipated voice inquired.

"Father," said Michael, turning around in his chair.

"I'm sorry I couldn't spend any time with you today," Jacques Samuelle began. He was a tall man with fair hair and dark eyes. "You know how it is in my line of work. There are meetings after meetings, and dinners after dinners. It is even worse when you are the ‘new kid on the block.'" He smiled. Michael didn't.

An awkward silence passed. The ambassador began again. "Marcel informs me that you were not fond of the beach. Perhaps tomorrow you would rather go to the museums?"

"Oh, no, sir," Michael responded quickly. "I rather enjoyed the beach. I made some friends today," he embellished.

"Good, good," Jacques answered, somewhat surprised. His reticent son did not make friends easily. "Then perhaps you would like to return to the beach tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir. If it's not a problem, sir."

"No problem at all," his father replied with forced joviality. Another chore marked off his To Do list. "I'll inform Marcel."

"Good night, Father," Michael said dismissively, turning back to his homework.

"Well, yes. Good night to you too, son," the ambassador replied, and quickly left the room.

When his father had gone, Michael rummaged through his bureau for an XL t-shirt and some drawstring shorts that Nikita could wear at the beach tomorrow. He was really looking forward to their swimming lesson. He couldn't have explained why. All he knew was that he liked being with Nikita. She had brought the sunshine back into his life.

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

"Keep kicking," Michael commanded. "Face in the water."

Gamely, Nikita kicked and blew bubbles as Michael towed her around in the shallow water. Every so often he let go of her hands, and she would panic, sputter, and stand up. This time she managed to keep kicking and found, much to her delight, that she was moving under her own power.

"You're doing it, Nikita! You're swimming!" Michael yelled in encouragement. Soon however, she had to take a breath, and stopped kicking to stand up. "You did great," he said, giving her a hug. "We'll work on breathing next time."

Her teeth chattering, Nikita let herself be led to shore where thick Turkish towels awaited her and Michael. The drawstring shorts had been abandoned, as they had floated off of her as soon as she had stretched out in the water. Michael's t-shirt was extra large, though, and came below her knees. It actually covered more of her than her dress did, so her modesty was intact.

They sat on their towels on the beach, and Michael teased her by putting the picnic hamper between them but not opening it. Nikita waited patiently. True, she had not eaten since Michael had fed her yesterday, but she had gone longer than 24 hours without food before. Finally, Michael opened the hamper, setting forth the same feast as the day before with one notable exception. Instead of wine, he brought out two bottles of Pepsi and a bottle opener. Nikita's eyes grew wide with delight. She rarely got to drinks soda, let alone a whole bottle.

The embassy cook, Vizcano, was bowled over by Michael's request for pop instead of wine. She had had to make a special trip to the market to meet his demands. Michael had also noted which of the cheeses Nikita had preferred, and ordered that their amount, as well as the number of crackers, be doubled. First no wine, then no brie. What was next, thought Vizcano with distaste, franks and beans? She debated about telling Michael's father about his bizarre change in eating habits, then decided it was not worth incurring the wrath of Michael. He was, for the most part, a quiet and polite boy, but his temper was already legendary when things did not go his way.

* * *

Sated after their meal, Michael and Nikita lay back on their towels and watched the clouds overhead. Michael grew drowsy and, within minutes, was fast asleep. Nikita waited to make sure he was not moving, then carefully edged away from her towel. She stepped behind Michael and stripped off his now dry t-shirt and slipped back into her hated dress. She cautiously returned to Michael's towel and curled up beside him, letting herself fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Michael was dreaming of his sister. An infant when their mother died, his father had allowed his sister and brother-in-law, Josephine and René Dian, to adopt Martine and raise her as their own. The childless couple was thrilled—Michael was furious. He took this as a sign of how important his children were to his father, and reacted accordingly. He distanced himself from the ambassador, and his heart had grown cold.

Somehow, in his dream, Martine grew into a seven-year old girl with silver-blonde hair and huge blue eyes, and her name was now Nikita. She had found a warm spot in his heart, and he would protect and take care of her the way he had been unable to do for Martine.

After a bit, Michael became aware of a weight pressing down on his chest. He opened his eyes to find Nikita curled against him, her head over his heart. He smiled, feeling very brotherly, and stroked her long, blonde hair. He took a closer look at the arm flung across his chest and frowned. There were bruises on her upper arms that hadn't been there yesterday. Bruises shaped like finger marks. His expression hardened.

Nikita grew restless. She started moaning in her sleep, then whispering, "I'm sorry, Mum. Please. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I'm sorry." A tear slid down her cheek. Michael held her closely and murmured comforting words in French.

"Shh, shh, ma fille précieuse. Je suis ici. Rien ne peut tu faire du mal. Je tu protégerai.''

(Shh, shh, my precious one. I am here. Nothing can harm you. I will protect you.)

Nikita sat up in panic, struggling to be free of Michael's strong embrace. "No! Let me go!" she whimpered, eyes unfocused.

"Nikita!" Michael voiced loudly, trying to wake her up. "Nikita, it's me. It's Michael."

Understanding slowly dawned in her eyes, and she threw her arms around him and cried into his shoulder. He patted her back and stroked her hair, waiting for the storm to pass.

* * *

Nikita refused to talk about her dream, to explain the new bruises (there were old ones as well, Michael noted), or to come home with him.

Michael stood. "Then at least let me walk you home," he offered, hoping she would capitulate.

"Can't. Mum would see you and think I'm giving it away for free and she couldn't make any money that way."

Michael was shocked. He knew that Nikita was being physically abused. He intended to speak to her mother about that. He had calculated that being a diplomat's son would carry some weight. Now to find out the she was being sexually abused! Pimped by her own mother! It was too much to take in. He sat down heavily.

"Are you okay?" the child asked, concerned.

Am *I* okay? Michael mused, still stunned. No, I'm not okay. This is the worst thing I've ever heard of in my life.

"I'm fine," he answered her dully.

"I really need to go," Nikita said, casting anxious looks over her shoulder in the direction of her house. "Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Absolutely," answered Michael with conviction. With the police and Child Protective Services.

Nikita smiled brilliantly then, and kissed him on the cheek. "See ya!" she called over her shoulder as she loped down the beach.

"See ya," echoed Michael in a whisper.

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

"Military school?" Michael repeated in total disbelief.

"Naturally, you would enter school as a commissioned officer," his father explained dismissively.

"But why now? I mean, why tomorrow?" His head was still spinning.

"As we've already discussed, your tutors can do no more for you here. It is time for you to go away to school with other boys. Learn social skills." Michael made no answering comment, as one did not seem to be required. His father cut to the chase. "You're spoiled, Michel. You lack discipline. Culver Military Academy is the best school in Europe. You should feel honored to matriculate there."

"When do I leave?" Michael asked, resigned. He knew that once his father had made up his mind, there was no changing it.

"Your flight to Tokyo leaves at 0630."

"So early?" Michael asked in despair. He would not be able to say good-bye to Nikita—not even get a message to her.

"You'll get used to rising at dawn, son," the ambassador pronounced, completely misunderstanding Michael's dilemma. "Your bags are packed. I suggest you make an early night of it."

"Yes, sir," Michael capitulated, wheels turning 100kms per minute. If he could get Marcel to drive him to the beach, he might be able to find Nikita's home and tell her where he was going.

* * *

Nikita was home alone, nursing a sore back which had recently received a beating for her failure to do her chores. It was useless to explain to her mother that she couldn't iron clothes when the electricity had been shut off and there was no heat from the iron. She sat in the closet which doubled as her bedroom, reading her favorite book, Heidi, by candlelight. She had mostly taught herself to read, with a few nudges from a kind neighbor, who had given her the book when she moved away. Nikita was determined to go to the Alps someday, and fall in love with a goatherd named Michael—er, Peter. Now where had that thought come from? She knew she had a teensy crush on Michael, just as she knew he thought of her as a sister. Oh, well. She would see him tomorrow. She turned the page.

* * *

Michael was walking along the beach, peering at the row of houses where Nikita had said that she lived. Very few had lights on, and his courage dimmed when he considered knocking door to door. As he stood contemplating his next move, he suddenly heard a low gravelly voice behind him.

"Looking for someone special, kid?"

He turned, and encountered a man who fit perfectly Nikita's description of "Crazy Walter," from the ponytail and bandana to the bare feet and metal detector. Good manners won out over momentary terror, and Michael extended his hand. "Michael Samuelle. You must be Walter. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

Walter disregarded the outstretched hand, and peered deeply into Michael's dark green eyes. Michael felt as though Walter were looking down into his very soul. He shivered.

"You're Nikita's friend." Walter pronounced.

"Yes, sir," Michael sighed in relief. "I have to leave the country suddenly, and I wanted to say good-bye."

"I'll give her the message."

"I'd really like to see her," Michael stated, growing a bit impatient. Marcel would not wait forever without informing his father of his late-night assignation.

"Can't be done."

"Why not?" asked Michael, exasperated.

"I'll give her the message," Walter repeated, and started back down the beach in the direction from which he had come.

Trusting Crazy Walter to carry a message about as far as he could throw him, Michael ran after him. "Wait! Please!" The old man stopped and waited for Michael, who pulled a dark bundle from under his windcheater. It was a black t-shirt, with the words À la Vie! in white script. It was the shirt Nikita had worn earlier during her swimming lesson. "Could you please make sure that she gets this?" he implored. "It's very important."

Walter looked steadily at Michael again before he nodded slowly. "Yair, kid. She'll get it."

"Thank you," said Michael, relieved. He offered his hand again, and this time Walter took it. When Walter walked away, Michael climbed back into the limo and headed back to the embassy and out of Nikita's life.

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

Roberta Wirth was on the wagon for the moment, and working as a dishwasher at Pedro's Prawns. Nikita was getting regular meals now, and going to school on a fairly regular basis. She had a school uniform—one that she could grow into—purchased from a local thrift store, and shoes that really fit. She also had a "new" set of play clothes that she was to change into immediately upon returning from school so as not to soil her uniform. They did not own a washer and dryer, and trips to the Laundromat were infrequent at best.

Nikita did not tell her mother that the other school children teased her mercilessly about her height, her thrift-store clothes, and her inability to do sums. Her teacher liked her determination and quiet manner, and gave her special treatment and tutoring, which did not endear her to the other students. They would surround her after school, taunting her and making fun of her name as she walked home. Some days, when she just couldn't take the pressure, she went to the beach instead. She always stuffed her precious cargo under her blouse so she could look at it while dreaming on the sand.

À la Vie! "To Life!" Michael had told her. She stroked the white script on the black shirt and thought about Michael often. She had had her eighth birthday in February—she wondered if anyone had given him a party when he had turned 13 last October. She wondered if he still remembered her.

* * *

Military school hadn't taught Michael discipline so much as it taught him how to circumvent it. Obedient by nature, he now saw rebellion as a challenge, and worked very hard to buck the system without getting caught or getting punished. His partners in crime were the Birkoff twins, Seymour and Jason. Canadians whose father was also a diplomat, they were open and fun-loving, and not beyond pulling a great prank just for the heck of it. Their favorite trick was to stand in for each other in certain classes. Seymour was the maths and physics whiz, while Jason excelled at the arts and languages. Their professors had no idea that each twin was receiving a completely lopsided education.

It was February now, and Michael had been away at school for two years. He decided it was time to really shake things up. The stink-bombs in the Underground had been inspired. Phone pages at Heathrow for Seymour Butts were sophomoric. He decided that on his fifteenth birthday, October 31st, he would stage the blow-put of all pranks. One that required special handling. Something that mandated planning and delicate timing. He would have to think this one through before consulting the Birkoffs and his other best friend, Helmut Volker.

* * *

Nikita was awakened suddenly by a horrible sound, one that she hadn't heard in over a year. Her mother was singing. Loudly. Badly. And in tandem with a raucous male voice. Her mother was drunk. Swiftly, she climbed out of the bed she had been sharing with Roberta and took sanctuary in her closet. She gathered Michael's shirt to her face and prayed that this man was too drunk to notice that Roberta had a daughter. Most of them were. Her mother and Nikita's newest "Uncle" were undressing on the way to the bedroom, and bumping into furniture and laughing. They finally made it to the bedroom, where Nikita sat in terror.

After listening to the grunting, animalistic sounds she had learned to associate with grown-ups coupling, she heard first one, then two distinct snores. She cautiously opened the closet door and edged her way to the kitchen. Dressed in her play clothes, Nikita stuffed Michael's shirt deep into a burlap bag. She followed this with a wedge of cheese, a hunk of bread, a bread knife, and a thermos of water. She also took a $5 note from the man's wallet she found in his trousers that were crumpled in a heap on the kitchen floor. Closing the front door behind her, she quickly made her way down to the beach. She didn't know how long she would have to stay there, and she wanted to be prepared.

* * *

Two days later she was sitting cross-legged on the beach, chatting away with Crazy Walter, and eating a handful of peanuts. She wished for a Pepsi to wash them down with, but she knew that was an era long gone past. Her mother hadn't bothered to look for her yet, so she and Walter just sat, looking at the grey-green sea before them.

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

Michael stood calmly before his father in the study of their mansion in Sydney. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, his face a blank mask. He was ready to take whatever punishment was meted out.

"Expelled!" the ambassador exclaimed again. "My son. From one of the finest schools in England. And all for the sake of a practical joke!" He stared at Michael in disbelief, his face red with anger. "Pourquoi dans l'enfer feriez-vous que vous avez fait? What the hell were you thinking?"

"It was just a prank, Father. No harm was meant," Michael answered calmly. He knew when his father lapsed into his native French that he was beyond furious.

Trembling with rage, Jacques watched his son. No reaction. None at all. Michel truly didn't care that he had brought such dishonor to the Samuelle name. The ambassador made up his mind.

"I wash my hands of you," he pronounced. "You are going back to Marseilles to live with your Aunt Josephine and Uncle René. I will make the necessary arrangements. Hopefully, when you are sixteen, I can still pull some strings and get you into a decent university."

Michael continued to appraise him calmly. Jacques was surprised to notice how much Michel had grown—they stood nearly eye-to-eye now.

"You are to remain at the embassy until further notice. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"That will be all," his father said, dismissing him.

Michael blinked, turned abruptly on his heel executing a perfect about-face, and exited the room.

* * *

It was ten o'clock when Michael met the taxi outside the gate at the foot of the driveway. He gave the driver directions to the beach (he hoped he remembered them correctly), and sat back in the seat to wait. He was gratified to find that his memory served him true, and he jumped out of the taxi and started jogging toward Nikita's house. Then he stopped. The house was gone. All of the houses were gone. He ran to the spot were he thought they had been. Yes, this was the right place. The eucalyptus grove was still there, as were the foundations of several of the houses. But the houses themselves, and their inhabitants, had disappeared.

Michael walked slowly back to the waiting taxi. He was too late. He had been gone too long. Oh, this was ridiculous. Nikita was just a kid when he left. She probably didn't even remember him. A gravelly voice startled him out of his rêverie. "Looking for someone special, kid?"

"Walter!" he exclaimed, turning around. "It's Nikita. Her house is gone."

"They're all gone, kid. But Nikita wasn't living there when they got torn down."

"She moved?" Michael asked, heart sinking. "Do you know where?"

"No idea. Child Protective Services came and took her away one day. She never came back."

"So she's a ward of the state?"

"Dunno. May be living in a kids' home, maybe fostered, may be back with the bitch who birthed her. Think she moved to the States, though."

"What was here mother's name?"

Walter considered Michael a few minutes before answering. "Roberta Wirth."

"And her father?" Michael persisted.

Walter shrugged.

Michael was devastated. Finding Nikita would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack. In desperation, he pulled a pencil and piece of paper out of his pocket. "If you find out where she is, please let me know at this address," he said, writing down Josephine's address in Marseilles. He handed the paper to Walter, who glanced at it carelessly before slipping it in his pocket.

"Sure, kid," he responded. "No problemo."

"Thank you, Walter," Michael said, not feeling reassured in the least.

Michael climbed back into the taxi and headed back to the embassy with an odd feeling in his gut that he would see Nikita again.

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

Michael hated living with his aunt and uncle. They refused to let him tell Martine that he was her brother, though the physical resemblance between them was remarkable. Both had dark chestnut curls and grey-green eyes that changed color with their mood. Even at age five, Martine had noticed the similarity and commented on it, but was told that "Michel was a very close cousin." They also refused, despite his constant requests, to call him Michael. "Michel is a good French name," they told him. He should be proud of his heritage.

As soon as he was able, Michael entered the Sorbonne, where he studied Art and Art History. He actually had a very acute business sense, and ultimately planned to open art galleries all over the world. His father, who had planned on Michael becoming an engineer or a chemist, did not blink when he was informed of his son's chosen path. He knew Michel was doing this to spite him. Michael graduated with an advanced degree and, although the younger man visited his father at his new residence in Turkey, the Samuelles never really reconciled.

* * *

Of all the places she had lived, Nikita preferred Sunny Day Nursery the best. At fifteen, she was the oldest child there, but she loved taking care of the little ones, and the sisters were grateful for the extra help. Although she declined to speak of them, the sisters knew that Nikita often had nightmares, for she would cry out in her sleep. Sometimes she would ask for Michael, who they assumed was a sibling from whom she had been separated. She didn't let her conscious self think of her nine years at Roberta's house, or her three years off-and-on in the foster care system. Some of the foster homes were okay—not really loving, but a safe place to sleep where she was well fed. Some were worse than living with Roberta, and it was these she got in trouble for running away from. She had lived at other children's homes, but Sunny Day was the first place where Nikita actually felt "at home."

It came with great surprise, then, and much dismay, when the sisters told her it was time for her to leave them. She was to be given the job as au pair to a diplomat and his wife, who had recently come to inhabit the embassy of the French ambassador to Australia. They had twins who were three years old who spoke no English, and Nikita was to be their nanny and teacher. Nikita didn't want to leave what had become her first real home, but Sister Adrian pointed out what a wonderful opportunity this was for her. She would be exposed to a new language, to new cultures, and would be living in the lap of luxury. Nikita thought of Michael then, and realized it must have been his father who was the former ambassador, and that Michael had lived in that very house. She acquiesced.

* * *

At twenty-two, Michael opened his first gallery. It was located in Marseilles, as he wanted the Samuelle name to mean something in the place of his birth. Many of the works on display were his own, as he did not yet have the capital to invest in other artisans or pieces of art. Fortunately, Michael was very talented both as a painter and a sculptor, and his opening drew rave reviews. He was greatly relieved, as were his two other investors, Seymour and Jason Birkoff.

After being expelled from Culver, the Birkoff brothers eschewed higher education in favor of traveling around the world on their trust funds. Fortunately, these were considerable, and the Birkoffs had ample cash available to invest in Samuelle's, more than Michael did, actually. They had great faith in Michael as both an artist and a businessman, and they knew their money was wisely invested.

* * *

Nikita could never have predicted how much fun she would have had as an au pair. The twins, Georges and Lisette, were adorable, and Madame Fanning was like a mother to her. Immediately after Nikita arrived, Madame Fanning ("you must call me Lisa") took her shopping for a whole new wardrobe. Nikita thought that she would be wearing a uniform, but Lisa pooh-poohed that idea and bought her every outfit a fifteen-year old girl could possible want. She got jeans (that were long enough), blouses (with sleeves the right length), skirts (both modest and "fun"), and sweaters (that were actually warm). She bought serviceable flannel pyjamas, as well as nightgowns that felt like silk. And underwear that had never been worn by anyone else!

The children learned English rapidly, although with more than a touch of Nikita's Aussie twang. She learned some remedial French as well: Bon jour. Comment allez-vous? Je suis parfait. Ma nom est Nikita. Quel est votre nom? She taught the twins their colors—red, yellow, blue, green, orange, purple, black and white. They taught them back to her in French--rouge, jaune, bleu, vert, orange, pourpre, noir and blanc. The children howled with laughter at her accent.

Two years flew by, and at seventeen, Nikita was asked to make a life-altering decision. The ambassador was being transferred back to Marseilles. Nikita could come with them and continue as their nanny, with pay, or stay in Sydney and look for another job. Lisa Fanning assured her that she would give Nikita the best of references if she decided to stay. Nikita asked her if she could give them an answer in the morning.

She didn't know anyone in France. On the other hand, she really had no friends in Sydney. In France she had a guaranteed job. In Sydney she was on her own. Again. Her French sucked. But the Fannings spoke English. Nikita forced herself to face the biggest stumbling-block to her decision—what if he comes back and he can't find me because I'm not here? She made herself say it out loud. "What if Michael comes to Sydney, and he can't find me because I'm in France?" She smiled at the absurdity of the situation. She hadn't seen Michael in ten years. They had only been together for two days. Why would he ever come back? For her??

Nikita made her decision.

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

Michael made his first million dollars before he was twenty-five. He had opened galleries in Marseilles, Paris, London, New York, Los Angeles, and Tokyo. It was from this last gallery that he had just returned to the Marseilles gallery, and was feeling extremely jet-lagged, as well as gratified. He would be thirty next month, and he would be a millionaire several times over. The money was a bonus, no doubt, and he wouldn't give it back, but Michael enjoyed working for the sheer pleasure of what he did. He had excellent taste, and an eye for the most exquisite treasures in the world. He still painted when he could, and his collection of beach scenes was famous all over the world. Many of these paintings featured a small girl with long, white-blonde hair wearing a long black T-shirt. Michael would never acknowledge who she was—his daughter? Childhood sweetheart? Muse? Whoever she was, Michael wasn't telling, and the mystery only added to the allure of his paintings.

* * *

Down the street, Gray Wellman was having difficulty with one of his new models. Surely she knew that the beaches in France were topless? So why, then, was she so determined not to remove the top of her bikini?

"I told you," Nikita said, facing Gray firmly, "I don't do nude shots. It's in my contract."

"But this isn't nude," the photographer protested. "You are still wearing your panties."

"It's the same thing," Nikita maintained stubbornly.

Gray ran his fingers through his ash blond hair. He looked at Nikita appraisingly. She was old, as far as models went. At least 24, which is why she was probably doing print work instead of hitting the runway scene. Still, her legs were incredible, and those eyes. So blue you could fall right into them.

"Let's take a break," he said wearily. "I need to reload, anyway."

Nikita stepped out from under the bright lights and donned a light robe. She wasn't so sure this was a good idea after all. Her manager told her that Gray was one of the best, but he didn't tell her about the skimpy clothes she would be wearing. Ever since her "discovery" three years ago at an embassy party, she had done mostly print work, but generally hair, make-up and skincare ads for women's magazines. Nikita was not comfortable with displaying her body, and her manager, Mick Schtoppel, had never insisted.

Gray was wracking his brain for a way to get Nikita to loosen up. She probably didn't do coke, and she had adamantly refused the glass of wine he had offered earlier. Maybe he could slip something in her soft-drink.

* * *

"So, Michael, what's next on the agenda?" his office manager inquired. Michael hated Perry Bauer with a passion but he had to admit, the man was good at what he did. Michael chose to ignore the rumors about Perry's private life, as long as no hint as scandal touched Samuelle's.

"You know I'll be going to San Francisco at the end of the next month, but first I need to visit my father in Turkey." The ambassador's health had been in rapid decline in the last six months, and Michael felt obligated to pay him what could be a final visit.

"Right," said Bauer. "I'll book your flight for the end of the week."

"Thank you," said Michael quietly, stifling a yawn. He needed to retire to his loft and catch up on some sleep. Business could wait until morning. He turned to go.

"Oh, just one other thing." Damnez-le! thought Michael. Almost made it.

"The private investigator you hired called. It seems that he has found a Roberta Wirth in San Francisco. She emigrated from Australia about 10-15 years ago."

Michael's heart beat faster. It's just a name, he told himself. She could be anyone.

"Thank you," he answered calmly. "I assume his number is on my desk?"

When Bauer answered in the affirmative, Michael told him that he would handle it in the morning, and left the gallery.

* * *

Nikita was still wearing the bikini, but now she was modeling hats. Big, floppy, silly hats. This was fun, she realized, mugging for the camera. She turned this way and that, bending the brims forward and back. She couldn't stop giggling. Gray didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to be amused by the whole thing, and very, very pleased. Until Nikita threw up. It happened so fast neither one of them had time to react. She just fell to her knees and started vomiting. The room started spinning. She had never felt so sick. She couldn't even raise her eyes to look at Gray. Which was just as well, because he was furious. He had wasted two whole rolls of film on those freaking hats until the drugs made her relaxed enough to take off her bra, and then she had to start puking everywhere.

"I think we're finished here," he said coldly. "Get dressed and go home." He packed up his bags and left the studio. Nikita lay on the floor for a full thirty minutes before she could sit up and then crawl over to the dressing room. When she came out, she looked at Gray's studio. What a mess. She wrinkled her nose. Oh, well—it wasn't like she was ever going to work with him again!

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

When Michael's hired car pulled into the embassy driveway, the first thing he noticed was that his father had company. He was a little perturbed. He had been very specific about his travel plans. The butler let him in the door, and showed him into the drawing room. When his father spotted him, he turned to his guests and announced, "And this is my son, Michel, whom I have been telling you about." He spoke in French, so Michael did the same. He stepped forward to greet him.

"Bonjour, Père. Vous avez bonne mine aujourd'hui."

"Ah, but looks can be deceiving, can they not?" The ambassador gestured to his guests. "Michel, I would like for you to meet my neighbors, Estrella and Elena Vacek."

Michael saw before him one of the loveliest creatures he had ever seen. She was petite, with warm doe-eyes and long, black hair. When she spoke, Michael swore he heard music.

"Good day, Michel," said the enchantress. "Your father has been telling us all about you. He is very proud of his son, the famous art dealer." She spoke in English, her accent British, her diction flawless.

"You can call me Michael," were the only words that came to mind.

"Michael, then," said her mother. "I hope we can persuade you to join us for dinner one evening during your visit."

Michael turned to look at Elena's mother, and saw in her regal beauty what Elena would look like in twenty years. "I would be delighted," he responded, flashing perfect white teeth in a genuine smile.

* * *

Roberta Wirth was getting paranoid. She was sure she was being followed, although she had no idea why. The other day, she could have sworn someone even took her picture. This was really creeping her out. She decided against going to the police, though, having spent too many nights on the wrong side of the bars when she was still a "working-girl." But she had been sober for five years now, with a respectable job as a maid at the Howard Johnson. She hoped whoever was following her around was getting well paid for it. Her life, as she saw it, was dull, dull, dull.

* * *

Michael rarely left Elena's side. She had a PhD in Art History, so they had plenty to talk about. She, like Michael, had lived all over the world, and they compared notes and laughed. On the fourth and final day of his visit, he wasn't entirely surprised when his father called him into his study and asked him what his intentions were toward Elena Vacek. "She's very young," his father warned, "only twenty-two, and has led a very sheltered life. It's true that her mother and I would be pleased if there a union between you, but first you must ask her father's permission."

"That's a bit premature, don't you think, Father?" said Michael, smiling. "Elena and I are friends. It is true I would like to get to know her better, but I am not in any way prepared for marriage!"

His father reflected for a moment, then said quietly, "Michel, I'm dying. I will probably not live another six months. It is my fervent hope to see you settled down with a wife and family—someone to carry on the family name. Think of it as a dying man's request."

Michael looked at the old man before him. He knew he had "dishonored" the family name, at least in his father's eyes, many times. It wouldn't hurt anything to talk to Salla Vacek, would it? Mentally crossing his fingers, Michael promised his father what he wanted to hear.

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

Nikita's agency thought it was important that she be seen at major events, and in the company of famous personages. That was the only reason she was going out with the famous British actor, Alec Chandler, she reminded herself. Over and over. They were to be seen together at the opening of the latest Samuelle's in San Francisco. Nikita's flight had been two days early, but she took most of that time to rest, vowing to explore the sights of the city another time.

Right now, she was getting ready for her "date," with the help of the agency's wardrobe, hair, and make-up departments. She approved of the dress—a long sleeveless navy sheath with a high neck and low back. She wore matching jeweled ballet slippers—Alec Chandler was tall, but they wanted him to tower over her 5'10" frame. Her hair was pulled up and back, and cascaded down her neck in riotous curls. Simple silver jewelry completed the outfit. Nothing she wore was to take the attention away from the real celebrity, Alec Chandler.

The limousine picked her up at the designated time, and she rode to the exclusive hotel wear she was to meet Alec Chandler for the first time. Stop calling him "Alec Chandler!" she scolded herself as she walked through the lounge. His name is Alec, and he's a human being just like everyone else.

Right. The god stood before her, resplendent in black Armani, a cocktail in his hand and fawning females gathered around him. His press agent finally recognized and brought her over to meet him. "Nikita, this is Alec Chandler. Alec—Nikita." They shook hands and Nikita murmured something she hoped passed for "How do you do?" Alec raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. "Delighted, I'm sure," he answered, shooting her his world famous smile.

"May I get you something from the bar?" he offered. Nikita refused politely. Introductions and cocktail hour behind them, they exited the hotel and entered the waiting limo. Hoards of cameramen were standing outside, jockeying for position to get the best shot of the couple together.

Nikita was so nervous. What should she say? How should she act? Chandler answered her questions immediately. "Well, that's over," he pronounced. He sat back in his seat, lit a cigarette, and poured himself a drink from the mini-bar. He opened a newspaper, completely ignoring her. What an ass! thought Nikita. She hoped he would at least have the courtesy to pretend to like her at the opening.

* * *

Perry Bauer was wringing his hands nervously. He had never presided at a Grand Opening before, but Jacques Samuelle's sudden death made Michael unavailable. As the date had already been chosen, and everything else was in place, Michael had told his people to go on without him.

Samuelle's would again be showing Michael's collection of beach scenes. Perry knew how popular these were, and had arranged for major press coverage. He gently steered every celebrity he recognized in that general direction. He saw Alec Chandler enter with a beautiful blonde on his arm, and paved the way toward the beach scenes, two glasses of vintage champagne in his hands. Nikita refused the proffered glass politely, but Alec accepted and drained his glass in one gulp. With all the liquor he had put away in the limousine, Nikita was surprised he was still standing.

She wandered over to the beach scenes and glanced at the ones with the little girl. Lead. Her feet were made of lead. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. Mistaking her shock for rapture, Perry sidled up next to her. "Breathtaking, aren't they? And all the more mysterious because of the little girl."

Nikita finally regained her power of speech, though she still could not move. "Who is the artist?" she whispered.

"Why, Monsieur Samuelle himself," Bauer stated proudly.

Nikita grabbed his arm and held it in a viselike grip. "His first name. What is his first name?"

"M-Michael," he answered warily. This woman was obviously unwell.

"Where is he? Where does he live?" Nikita gasped. Her head was reeling.

"He's away on personal business at the moment, but his home office is in Marseilles."

Nikita fainted.

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

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you.

"He was a good man."

"Yes. Thank you."

"We're so sorry."

"Thank you for coming."

The litany droned on and on. Michael had no idea his father had this many friends. Of course, as a diplomat, he would have many mourners, but most of those present seemed to genuinely miss the ambassador. Estrella Vacek's grief was evident, as was that of her daughter. Michael looked at Elena closely. She was definitely not wearing well under the strain of the funeral. In fact, she looked rather ill.

He began to walk toward her when he was intercepted by her father, Salla. The man was grim-faced, and pulled Michael roughly aside. "Your father was a good man, no?" he queried. Michael agreed that he was. "The kind of man who keeps his promises, yes?" Again, Michael answered in the affirmative. Then Vacek smiled cunningly. "It is like father, like son, is it not?

"I believe I am a man of my word—yes," answered Michael.

"Then you will marry my daughter, and give your child a name."

Michael was stunned speechless. He did some quick calculations. If Salla knew Elena was pregnant, then she must have been so when Michael met her two months ago. Obviously, she had told Salla that he was the father. No wonder Salla had agreed so readily to their "pre-engagement" arrangement.

"I'd like to speak to Elena for a moment, if you don't mind," he said, shrugging off business and personal acquaintances of his father to go in search of the girl. He found her in the back garden, near the Olympic-sized swimming pool. He walked up behind her and came directly to the point.

"You told your father that I was the father of your unborn child." Elena didn't speak or turn around, but he could tell by her shaking shoulders that she was weeping. "I had to," she whispered. "I'll never see Jamie again, and my father wants his grandson to be legitimate.

"Do you know that he expects me to marry you?" Michael asked impatiently.

Elena turned around then. "Would that be so horrible, Michael?" she countered. "I thought you liked me."

"I do like you. But I never planned on getting married to you!" He cried in exasperation.

"Then why did you talk to my father? Why did you agree to become pre-engaged?" she said, sorrow evident in her voice. He didn't want her. He didn't want her at all.

"Because I promised my father I would," Michael answered flatly. Elena sat down on a stone bench, her face in her hands, the tears flowing freely. Michael looked up at the sky. The sky was clear and bright today, the color of Nikita's eyes. He pondered. Would marriage to Elena be so horrible? They did have a lot in common, they got along well, and she would be an asset to his galleries. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Nikita was gone. There was no point in waiting for her. She was gone, and he would never see her again.

"Are you a Catholic?" asked Michael.

Elena turned to him, confused, but nodded in the affirmative.

"We'll have the wedding in Marseilles. Very small—immediate family only. I'll get a special license so we can be married by the end of the week." Elena's jaw dropped. Michael continued. "My business is in Marseilles, so that's where we will reside. We can live in my loft or, if that doesn't suit you, we can buy a house."

"W-Why are you doing this?" Elena choked out.

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "We want my son to be legitimate, don't we?"

* * *

Mick Schtoppel was not pleased when Nikita told him she would be moving to the States permanently. He told her that all of the really famous models lived in France. She countered by reminding him that her present employer, l'Éclat, had a studio in San Francisco, and had no problem with Nikita living in the city. It didn't take long for Nikita to pack her personal belongings, sell her flat, and move the States. She had held onto very few keepsakes over the years—her childhood experiences had taught her to travel light. She held Michael's shirt in her hand for the longest time. She had owned it for over 17 years, and it was only thing that she had never traveled without. She dropped it on the pile of clothes to be donated to chariity, but within seconds had picked it back up and crammed it in her carry-on. Now she was ready to leave.

On her 25th birthday in February, l'Éclat kicked off their new eyewear campaign. Nikita's baby blues were featured everywhere—from billboards to magazines to bus stops. A total face shot appeared in several women's magazines, with her name, NIKITA, splashed in bold letters across the bottom.

* * *

It was one of these magazines that her mother saw when emptying the trash cans at the Howard Johnson. It was the name that caught her attention—at first she didn't recognize the face that she hadn't seen in over 15 years. Then she took a closer look at the eyes, and her heart stopped. She would never forget those eyes. Well, how about that. Her kid was a model. A famous model. Probably making big bucks. It might be worth it to make a few phone calls to this l'Éclat place. Her neighbor, Simone, had done some modeling. Maybe she would know how Roberta could reach Nikita. It was definitely time for a mother-daughter reunion.

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

Michael was irritated. It wasn't Perry Bauer's fault—the airline had just screwed up. That's why he was flying coach from Vancouver to Los Angeles instead of First Class. He scowled at the lack of leg room, and at the miserly salted peanuts that the airline considered to be worthy of the title "snack." He couldn't even find any decent reading material, like Forbes or the Wall Street Journal. Only USA Today and some women's magazines. He tilted his chair back and was not surprised to find that he had reclined about one inch. He was definitely writing to the president of the airline.

He sighed and looked out the window. The opening in Vancouver had been a great success. That was a plus. Kate Quinn, the manager of the Los Angeles gallery, reported that the expansion was going well, and she only needed his approval on a few documents. That shouldn't require more than a couple of hours. He could probably work in a round of golf.

He thought of Elena for the first time since he had left Marseilles. Marriage to her had not been "horrible," but he didn't know if he would classify it as a success, either. He was a kind and considerate lover, and that seemed to satisfy her. Never a "player," Michael had definitely not saved himself for marriage, and he knew how to please a woman. He had only had two rules—never sleep with a married woman, and never get emotionally involved. Unfortunately, rule number two seemed to apply to his wife. He was fond of her, but he didn't love her. Now seven months pregnant, she was moody and irritable, and Michael was away from the new house as much as possible. Giving her free-reign to decorate had been a stroke of genius. It gave her something to do, and it kept her mind off of Michael. It wasn't fair. He must try to be a better husband to Elena. He had offered himself up for the role—he had not been forced into it.

One of the stories on the front of a magazine caught his eye: "What To Expect When You're Expecting." Thinking he might try to relate better to Elena, to see things from her perspective, he flipped the magazine open. And froze. The page he opened to was an ad for l'Éclat eyewear. The model was a beautiful blonde, with unforgettable eyes. Named Nikita.

Michael loosened his tie. He couldn't breathe. He stared at the page in wonder, running his thumb over the model's brow. God, she was beautiful. And alive. And healthy. And well. He flipped to the photo credits page and entered the details into his PDA. He gently tore the page with Nikita's picture out of the magazine and, handling it lovingly, placed it in his briefcase. He searched the other magazines in the pocket in front of him, and was rewarded with two more ads, all different. These he placed with the first, after verifying the photographer's credits. He never did read the article for Elena.

* * *

Nikita was having fun. She and another agency model, Carla, were drinking espresso on Fisherman's Wharf. Carla was a lovely Hispanic model, with thick, curly hair, whose lips were the envy of housewives everywhere. The two of them together were a striking pair, and they giggled when passersby would stop and stare or take their picture. Carla had attended a function in New York with Alec Chandler the weekend before, and the two of them were comparing notes.

"He was all over me the minute the limo door shut," Carla related, shivering in disgust. Nikita was impressed.

"He wouldn't say two words to me," she confided. "He just emptied the mini-bar and then had to hold on to me to make it in to the gallery. He was acting like such a pig."

"He is a pig," confirmed Carla. "A pig in a pretty package." The two of them gathered their thoughts. "But what a pretty package!" they bemoaned simultaneously, and began laughing hysterically.

* * *

L'Éclat refused to give Michael any information about the photographer who had shot Nikita's photos, let alone any information on Nikita herself. Michael understood their motives, and was somewhat glad at the way they fiercely protected their models, but he was frustrated. Nikita was out there somewhere, and he had to find her. He left his business card with his address in Marseilles, and was assured that it would be forwarded to Nikita's agent.

Six weeks later he received an 8"X10" glossy photo, with a computer-generated signature reading "À la Vie! Nikita."

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

The private detective Michael had hired, Marco O'Brien, had turned up scant information on Roberta Wirth before she came to the United States. She had immigrated roughly 15 years ago to Los Angeles before settling in San Francisco ten years ago. She had been in and out of jail on several misdemeanor charges, then sobered up five years ago and had been working in housekeeping at Howard Johnson's ever since. The file O'Brien sent contained several photos of a dark-haired woman, none of which bore any resemblance to Nikita. Michael would have to meet with this Roberta in person.

* * *

"You're going to California now?" said Elena in stunned disbelief. "You were just there six weeks ago, and the baby could come at any time."

"It can't be helped," Michael said evasively, avoiding her eyes. She sensed there was something different about him since he had returned from Los Angeles, and it frightened her. Hell. It frightened him. "There's a situation in San Francisco that requires my immediate attention. You know I wouldn't leave you now if it weren't so important."

Elena pressed her lips together and said nothing as Michael continued to pack. She knew arguing with him wouldn't do either of them any good, and it seemed to be upsetting the baby.

* * *

Roberta's neighbor, Simone, was a petite Asian beauty and a former model for l'Éclat. Unfortunately, her fondness for cocaine had interfered with both her flawless skin and her work ethic, and she had been discharged two years prior. However, she still had friends in the office, and she was schmoozing one of them now.

"God, Gail, how long has it been?" she gushed. "I've really missed you guys."

"I missed you too, Simone," the receptionist answered sincerely. She and Simone had gone out to lunch together a few times, and Gail was shocked when she found out why Simone had been let go.

"Hey, I'm trying to find a buddy—someone who transferred to this office not too long ago. The new eye girl, Nikita?"

"Oh, yeah," said Gail, smiling broadly. "I love her. She is just the nicest woman. And so beautiful. But she never talks down to me, you know, the way *some* of them do," indicating the wall of the office which was plastered with magazine covers of agency models.

"Yeah, she's great," enthused Simone. "We were supposed to get together for dinner, but I lost her phone number. Do you think you could get it for me?"

"You know I can't do that, but I can give her a message," Gail said helpfully, picking up her pad and pencil.

"No, I don't want to leave a message. I don't want her to know I lost her number," Simone rolled her eyes and grinned. "She already thinks I'm a big enough doofus as it is."

"Well, you know I can't give out any personal information about the models—"

"To the general public, I know, but this is me, Gail. You know me."

Gail wavered for a moment, then said, "I guess it would be all right if you have her phone number, seeing as you're friends and all."

"Thanks, babe," said Simone, winking, as Gail pulled up Nikita's file.

* * *

Michael was on his way to the airport when his cell phone rang. He didn't recognize the number, so he let his voice mail pick it up. His number rang twice more in rapid succession. Finally, he answered the fourth call. It's was the hospital. Elena was in labor. Merde he swore under his breath.

He leaned forward to speak to the driver. "Luc, prenez-moi au Sainte l'hôpital de Mary. Vite." The driver obediently turned the car around and quickly headed toward the hospital. Michael barely arrived in time to see Elena push. Everything happened so fast. One minute he was putting on his mask and gown, the next, they were thrusting a small, wailing infant into his arms. He was fascinated. They had already decided to name him Adam Salla Jacques. Michael didn't know anything about Jamie, but he thought that the baby looked exactly like Elena. He placed the infant in the crook of her arm and took a seat at the head of the bed. "He's beautiful, Elena," he told her sincerely. "Just like his mother." Elena smiled weakly at this, and dropped off into an exhausted sleep.

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

Nikita tossed the mail on her kitchen counter as she pushed the door shut with the heel of her shoe. She kicked off said shoe, then its mate, and wandered into the kitchen, luxuriating in the feel of the cool tile against her warm toes. She pulled a Pepsi out of the fridge, and stepped down into the living room and draped her long body gracefully across the couch. She picked up the unopened pop can and held it to her head, sighing. Today had been filled with meetings and contract negotiations, and Nikita was fighting a raging headache. She wasn't happy when her phone rang. She considered letting the machine pick it up before remembering she had promised Carla a dinner date. Rolling over on her belly, she picked up the phone from the end table and placed it to her ear.

"Hullo?" she said expectantly. Nothing. Not even the sound of heavy breathing. Shrugging her shoulders, Nikita snapped the cell shut, sat up and popped open her Pepsi, taking several large gulps. The phone rang again. "Hullo?" Silence again. "Is anyone there?" This time she heard a nervous cough, and waited patiently for the other party to speak.

"Nik?" The female voice was deep—not low and husky, like Nikita's, but hard and rough from too many cigarettes and too much whiskey.

"Who's calling?" she asked, gooseflesh appearing on her arms. She knew that voice from somewhere. It couldn't be—

"Nik? It's uh, it's Roberta."

How on earth had her mother gotten this number, and why would she be calling after fifteen years? Still, she had to be sure.

"Mum?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes, Nik," the voice on the other end of the line sighed in relief. "It's your mother." A few, stunned moments of silence passed while neither woman spoke. Then Roberta began in a rush of words. "I know it seems weird hearing from me after all this time, but I want you to know, baby, I never stopped looking for you. Ever since they took you away from me. I've been trying to find you and bring you back home," she improvised.

"M-Mama?" Nikita choked out, her eyes filling with tears. Her mother loved her. She never gave her away, no matter what all those agency people had told her.

"Yes, baby girl. It's Mama, and we'll be together again real soon. I'm living right here in the city. Can you imagine? I couldn't believe it when I saw you in that magazine. Baby, you looked like a fairy princess. I was so proud of you. I just had to find you and tell you that."

"Where are you?" asked Nikita tearfully. "When can I see you?"

"Oh, you can't come to my neighborhood," Roberta said, setting the wheels in motion. "It wouldn't be safe. I'm scared to death myself half the time, and I've lived here for years," she added, forcing a laugh. "Where do you live, and I'll come you your place?"

Nikita dutifully recited her address and, after exchanging more endearments with her mother, hung up her phone.

Michael may still see her as a little child, but her mother accepted her for who she really was, and she loved her. She had said so.

* * *

"Are you sure they've made contact?" Michael persisted. Detective Marco O'Brien again answered in the affirmative. He consulted his notes.

"On 10 May Roberta Wirth took a taxi to 412 Plaza Drive. The taxi was met by and paid for by the l'Éclat model known as Nikita. They went to dinner at One Water Street, and returned to Plaza Drive at 8:45 pm. Mrs. Wirth was put into a taxi and returned home. They have met at Nikita's residence three times since then, on 13 May, 17 May, and 22 May. Each time Ms. Wirth left Nikita's apartment she was carrying bags of what appeared to be clothing and other gift items."

"She's scamming her," Michael surmised shrewdly.

"It appears so," confirmed the detective. "Nikita opened a joint checking account at Wells Fargo Bank in the names of Roberta and Nikita Wirth on 4 June, with a beginning balance of $5000. The account now has an overdraft of $128.52." He flipped his notepad over. "Nikita has also purchased a used car for her mother, as well as a television, a VCR, and a microwave."

"Nikita needs to be loved by her mother. She may feel like she has to buy this love, but she is not stupid. She is being conned big time, and part of her probably knows it." Michael narrowed his eyes. "From what you've told me, Roberta is not that clever. She has to have someone helping her. See what you can dig up," he instructed the detective.

He handed O'Brien their prearranged fee, then left the restaurant where their meeting had taken place. He was about eight blocks from Plaza Drive now. The temptation to see her was overwhelming, but he fought it. Nikita had forgotten him and moved on with her life. He would try to protect her interests, but he could not interfere in her personal life, especially as he had a wife and son of his own back in Marseilles. He summoned his driver and reluctantly headed toward the airport and back to his own life in France.

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

Madeline Frayne, Nikita's new manager at l'Éclat, was adamant. Nikita would have to go to Marseilles for the kick-off of the fall eyewear campaign. The dark-eyed, auburn beauty was a firm taskmaster, and wasn't buying any excuses. Nikita didn't know which she feared more, losing her mother or running into Michael. She smiled sardonically. Roberta was here to stay, as long as the purse strings were open. Nikita had figured that one out almost at once. She picked up almost immediately that her "long-lost" mother saw her as a meal-ticket; nothing more. She was hurt, but she bounced back. She always did.

Michael was another story. She had checked out the owner of Samuelle's and found that he was an extremely successful businessman—and married with a young son. She knew that the little girl in the Beach Scene pictures was herself—but she wondered if Michael even remembered her name. Apparently, he had gotten over her far more easily than she had gotten over him. What a joke. He had been twelve. She was just seven. What was there to get over?

She would go to Marseilles this September. She might even go to Samuelle's. Just for a laugh. It might be fun to see if Michael had any idea who she was, or if he remembered that summer in Australia all those years ago.

* * *

He never thought it would happen to him, but Michael Samuelle had fallen in love. He was head-over-heels ga-ga about his son, Adam. At four months old, Adam Samuelle was the most handsome, brightest, engaging infant to be found on the planet. Michael found he could just stare at him for hours. Elena had suffered a mild bout of post-partum depression, and most of Adam's care had fallen to Michael. He loved it. He took him everywhere—to the office, the market, the park—anywhere he could show him off. He bought him one of every toy made for children under the age of two. His studio was filled with photos and sketches of Adam in different positions and moods. Nothing was too insignificant to capture on canvas.

Elena was jealous. It was to Michael that Adam responded. It was to his voice that Adam turned—his face that he smiled. She knew part of her mood stemmed from her depression, but she was tempted on more than one occasion to remind Michael that he was not Adam's "real" father. Then she would see the two of them together and she couldn't do it. Elena wasn't a petty woman, just a tired one. As soon as she felt better, she would take a more central role in Adam's life. As soon as she felt better.

* * *

The l'Éclat party was to be held at the American embassy, and hosted by the American ambassador, Paul Wolfe. Nikita requested that Ambassador Fanning and his wife be invited, as they were the closest thing to real family that she had. She did not mention the party to her mother. Salla Vacek, with his wife Estrella, would be in attendance, as the East Indian ambassador to France. The Vaceks had requested, and been granted, the transfer a month ago, and Elena was thrilled to be reunited with her parents. Michael had been told only that it was an embassy party—Elena was sure that he would never have agreed to come if he had known it was for the launching of the new season of a line of cosmetics.

Paul Wolfe was a charming host, and Nikita was delighted to meet him. She noticed that the distinguished looking man with grey hair and ice-blue eyes was more that delighted to meet Madeline, and wondered if Madeline felt the same way about him. Nikita sought out and quickly found the Fannings, and they celebrated their own mini-reunion in the middle of the banquet hall. Nikita oohed and aahed over pictures of the twins, now thirteen and away at boarding school. She had been very fond of the children, and often wondered if she would ever have any of her own some day. In her mind, they had always had dark chestnut curls and grey-green eyes. She knew she would have to give up that fantasy once and for all.

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

The kickoff party was starting off to be a rousing success. All of the "right" people had arrived. Photo-journalists were everywhere, representing every kind of publication. Nikita, Carla, and several other l'Éclat models were being treated like princesses, and were secretly getting a kick out of the whole thing. Nikita had always loved to play dress up, and tonight was no exception, even though it was only her eyes that were "on display."

Michael, as Elena had feared, was irritated. He had expected to be able to speak with some of his father's former colleagues. He had not anticipated being trapped at a "make-up ball." He didn't even know which line it was. Nor did he care. Until he heard the word l'Éclat. Suddenly, alarm bells went off in his head. Was she here? Did she know he was here? Had she seen him? Did she remember him? His eyes scanned the crowed as he accepted another glass of champagne from Elena, who tucked her arm through his and looked up at him, smiling. He smiled back, but there was no warmth in his eyes. He had gone into machine-mode, almost without realizing it. If Nikita was here, he would find her.

* * *

Nikita was starting to feel overly warm in the crowded hall. Letting Madeline know where she was going, she stepped outside onto the patio, breathing deeply in the still warm autumn air. There were few stragglers about, and those her were didn't seem too interested in talking. Nikita smiled. What would the tabloids give to know that the famous model Nikita, one of the People Magazine's "25 Most Beautiful Women," had never had a boyfriend? Never even been kissed? True, she wasn't a virgin, she thought, her expression hardening, but that had hardly been her choice. Fortunately, she could no longer recall that exact horrific moment in her childhood. She sighed wistfully. What man would ever want her if he knew the truth? That she was damaged goods. Probably frigid, too. The one time a boy at Sunny Day Nursery had tried to touch her breast, she had nearly gone postal, screaming bloody murder and acting like a complete idiot. Probably rendering the kid impotent for the next 10 years, she grinned in spite of herself.

* * *

Michael didn't feel her. He couldn't sense her presence. He couldn't have said how, but he would have known if she were in the room. Easing himself from Elena's side, he started up the stairway, determined to check the second floor. He couldn't be this close and not see her for himself. Even if he didn't talk to her. Even if they didn't exchange a word. It was a compulsion he couldn't fight, even if he knew how. He reached the top of the stairs and started checking unlocked doors, one by one. Most of the rooms were offices, and therefore locked, but he had to try them all. He stepped inside a small parlor where a group had gathered. No Nikita. He asked a young woman going into the ladies' room if she could check to see if Nikita was there. Of course, no description was needed. Several minutes later the woman emerged from the powder room and reported in the negative. Feeling frustrated, Michael opened the French doors that let out to a small balcony over the patio. He stepped outside and took a deep breath of the autumn air. The current was electric. He could feel it. Quickly, he scanned the occupants of the patio below.

He almost missed her. She was standing almost directly beneath him. It wasn't until she moved out into the open and he saw the moon reflect in her silver-blonde hair that he knew he had found her. Nikita. His Nikita. Michael almost called out to her, then caught himself. Even if he had made such an undignified gesture, what would he have said? Hey, Nikita! Remember me? The boy from the beach 18 years ago? He reminded himself that she probably didn't even remember him. She would probably think he was an ardent admirer run amok, and have security take him away.

Enough with the "probablies." It was time to make his move. Michael turned back inside and hastened back down the stairs. He crossed the floor in long-legged strides to the patio doors and stepped outside. She was gone! No, wait. There she was, over against the far wall. Her back was to him. He approached her cautiously, silently, as though she were an injured animal. Mon Dieu, she is tall, he thought as he neared her silent figure. Almost as tall as I am.

Suddenly, his elbow was snatched from behind, and he whirled around fiercely to find himself staring into Elena's startled eyes. "Michael, it's Adam," she began. "His nanny called, and he's running a fever. I really think we need to leave."

Michael's mind was in a quandary. Adam was probably teething, but it might be something serious. The woman of his dreams was standing scant feet away, but his son was ill. His heart was torn. Reluctantly he turned around for one more look, and then left with Elena.

* * *

Nikita was startled from her rêverie by the word "Michael," but she knew better than to turn around. He wasn't here. Why would he be? Why would a multi-millionaire art dealer come to a cosmetics launch party? She had to stop reacting every time she heard that name. People would start coming after her with butterfly nets.

After a few more moments of solitude, Nikita came back inside and reported to Madeline, who was stuck to Paul Wolfe like white on rice. She told her that she had a slight headache, and that she would be returning to the hotel to lie down with a cold face-cloth. Madeline wasn't pleased, but the launch party was a two-day event, and she couldn't afford to have her most famous eyewear model all puffy. She bid Nikita good-night, and Nikita fled to the sanctuary of her hotel.

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

Adam turned out to have a mild ear infection, and responded immediately to the antibiotics the doctor prescribed. Elena was worried about Michael. He had been so preoccupied since his return from Los Angeles, and he had barely talked to her at the embassy party last night. It was as if he were looking for someone else. Elena wondered if he had a lover. She supposed he was entitled. She had forced him into this marriage. He hadn't wanted her before, and just look at her now—a dumpy old cow with the sex appeal of a sack of potatoes. Was it Kate Quinn? No, he evidently didn't care for brunettes. She saw the way he was looking at that model, Nikita, when she called him away last night. He obviously had a thing for tall blondes, two things that Elena was not. She began to weep in despair. She had to find a way to win him back.

* * *

Michael was at his office, buried in his work. The gallery in Lisbon was set to open before Christmas, and he still had a lot of preparations to make. His intercom buzzed, and his secretary let him know that his friend, Helmut Volker, was waiting in the reception area. He instructed her to send him back, and breathed a sigh of relief. A visit from a good friend was just what he needed to take his mind of the whirlwind of recent events.

"Have I come at a bad time?" asked the boyishly handsome blond, sticking his head through Michael's doorway. He walked into the office and plopped down on the leather couch next to Michael's desk, making himself quite at home. Of German parentage, Helmut had been another of Michael's comrades at Culver Military Academy. Narrowly escaping expulsion with his fellow "Musketeers," he had graduated and gone on to be recruited by Interpol. Naturally, he couldn't talk about his work with Michael, but they did get together now and then for a round or two of golf.

"No, not at all," answered Michael, offering Helmut his usual cigar, which the other gratefully accepted. "Just gallery work. It seems never ending."

"It will never end the way you keep expanding," the other man retorted. "You're almost large enough to qualify as your own country!" The two men shared a laugh.

"Helmut," Michael asked thoughtfully, "what do you know about the l'Éclat model, Nikita?"

"Not as much as I'd like to," said Helmut, grinning, "and I've even gone out with her!"

"You have?" said Michael, incredulous.

"Yeah. We had a great dinner, a great talk, and when I took her home, she offered to shake hands at the door and disappeared inside her flat," said Helmut, shaking his head and grinning at the memory. "So much for the great Volker charm."

"She didn't invite you in?" said Michael, not quite believing his story. Helmut could charm the clothes off a woman faster than anyone Michael knew.

"From what I've heard, she's never invited anyone home. Never granted so much as a peck on the cheek. She's known as the Ice Princess in the modeling circles."

Michael mulled this over in his mind, fascinated. Her childhood must have left deep scars indeed. It never once occurred to him that she might be saving herself for someone. Someone like him.

* * *

Elena was dining with her parents, having ascertained that Michael would be detained at the office again. This habit of his was starting to be annoying. Oh, well. Just because he was content to have no social life didn't mean she had to sit home and twiddle her thumbs. She checked her appearance in the mirror again, and liked very much what she saw. Too bad Michael wasn't here to appreciate her.

Her parents were entertaining a family friend, Jurgen, from the Swiss embassy. Jurgen was tall and broad shouldered, with thick, wavy blond hair and dark blue eyes half hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. It had been clear at once that he was taken with Elena, and she was very flattered. It was a pity that Michael couldn't be here to see that other men still found her desirable.

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

Nikita sighed as she made another money transfer to cover her mother's overdraft. She had already found her a better place to live and furnished it for her, bought her a reliable car, and given her a sizable allowance. Nothing, it seemed, was enough. Whatever Nikita bought her, Roberta wanted a better model. What ever monies she gave her, Roberta needed more. Her mother wasn't drinking—Nikita saw to that. That was part of the deal. One drop of alcohol and the party was over. She just couldn't understand where all the money was going.

She hadn't met Simone. Simone was still using, and was forcing Roberta to split the proceeds of Nikita's monetary gifts 50/50 as payback for finding her daughter. It wasn't as though Nikita couldn't support herself and her mother, but she was worried. She decided to hire a private investigator. She looked through the Yellow Pages and stopped on a name that she liked. Marco O'Brien.

* * *

"You're going out again?" Michael asked. "That's four times this week."

"Relax, Michael. I'm just having dinner with my parents," Elena lied smoothly. "I didn't mention it to you before because I had no idea you would be home tonight. You usually aren't."

"You thought I would miss Adam's birthday?" Michael asked her incredulously. "You knew I'd be home for that. Are your parents having the party at their house?"

"I thought he was too young for a party," said Elena, improvising madly. "He's only one. He wouldn't remember it anyway." She couldn't believe she had forgotten Adam's birthday. Why hadn't his nanny given her the heads-up?

"Well *we* would remember, and my son is having a party. Call your parents and cancel. We're having a blow-out party for Adam tonight, and we're *both* going to be here to celebrate it." What was Elena thinking? It was as if she didn't even have a son. Or a husband. She was so wrapped up in herself lately it was like the rest of them didn't even exist. "I'll make all the arrangements from the office. All you have to do is be here with your parents. Do you think you can manage that?" he asked her, a trifle sarcastically.

"Of course," she answered, praying desperately that her parents were in town.

Michael left for the office and Elena called her parents, who fortunately were at home. They were thrilled to come to Adam's party, and had wondered when she was going to invite them. "Just one small favor, Mummy," she asked her mother. "Michael thinks I was having dinner with you and Daddy tonight."

"Why would he think that? You haven't been to dinner with us in ages," Estrella answered, perplexed.

"Michael's been staying late at the office so much lately. I didn't want him to think I was home alone night after night, so I told him I've been there with you and Daddy," Elena said persuasively.

"I'm not sure I like this idea, Elena," said Estrella. "Lying to Michael—"

"Just let him think I was coming there tonight," Elena pleaded. "He may not even ask about any other time."

"Well, I don't like it, but—"

"Thanks, Mummy," Elena sighed in relief. "You're the best. Kiss Daddy for me." She hung up the phone and dialed Jurgen's number.

* * *

"You need to get Nikita to increase your allowance," pronounced Simone. She was examining herself in the mirror for signs of any cocaine residue.

"I don't think I can," Roberta responded nervously, checking between the mini-blinds for any sign of the cops. She hated it when Simone did coke in her living room. It wasn't that she was tempted—booze and weed had been her drugs of choice, but she had fought hard for her six years of sobriety and besides, she had promised Nikita that she would stay clean and she didn't want to end up back on the wrong side of a jail cell.

"I'm sure you'll find a way," replied the petite Asian, snapping her compact shut and dropping it in her purse. "You wouldn't want little Nik to find out about your illustrious career as a working-girl, would you?"

"You said you wouldn't tell her anything as long as I split the money with you," said Roberta defensively, "and I've done that from Day One."

Simone tossed her long hair back dismissively. "Yeah? Well it's not enough any more. Either she increases your allowance, or we change our split to 60/40—my favor."

"That's not fair," whined Roberta. Inside, she was panicking. Since she had come into her windfall, she had taken the extra money and had begun to play the ponies. Her luck had taken a turn for the worse lately, and she had debts of her own to pay.

"Fair or not, that's the deal," said Simone harshly as she left Roberta's apartment.

* * *

"Nik? It's me. We need to talk. I'm going to need an advance on my allowance this month. Or an increase would probably cover it. Call me as soon as you get in. I'll be waiting by the phone. I love you, baby."

Nikita pressed the rewind button on her machine and listened to the message again. Roberta sounded nervous. Almost desperate. Something was definitely going on. She put in a call to Detective O'Brien to let him know about this latest development. She would wait until she heard back from him before calling her mother.

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

Michael was in shock—his face alternately ashen and then red with rage. Elena was in tears. "How long has this been going on?" he ground out. Elena cried harder. "Answer me!"

"He--, I--, you need to listen to me, Michael," she pleaded desperately.

"I'm listening." Michael's eyes were the color of slate. His face was a mask of stone. Elena had never seen him look so cold.

"This was the first time! I swear!" she choked out. "Nothing like this has ever happened before."

"Then the servants should be able to verify that, shouldn't they?" Michael sent for the doorman. A thin, elderly man soon stood before him, visibly trembling. "How many times has Mr. Jurgen been to the house in my absence?"

The doorman swallowed convulsively. He had been with the Vaceks for years, and felt some allegiance to Elena, but frankly, Michael terrified him. He was compelled to tell the truth. "Two or three times a week, sir," he answered, almost in a whisper.

"I see," said Michael, a muscle working in his jaw. "And how long has this been going on?"

"At least four months. Maybe more." The doorman couldn't meet Michael's eyes.

"Thank you. You're excused."

The doorman left without a sound.

"He's lying," Elena cried brokenly. "Who are you going to believe? A servant, or your wife who loves you?"

Michael looked directly at her with soulless eyes. "I have no wife," he pronounced calmly.

* * *

"How much does she need to pay off all her debts?" Nikita asked O'Brien wearily. The detective ran his fingers through his already wind-mussed hair.

"She has three bookies. These are the totals." He pulled a paper from his rumpled suit coat pocket and set it down on the table in front Nikita. They were having an espresso at Fisherman's Wharf, not far from the café she and Carla favored. Nikita looked at the figure and sighed in dismay. No wonder her mother had sounded desperate on the phone.

"If I give you the money, can you cover these?" she asked.

"Yes," Marco replied, "but it will have to be today. Interest on these kinds of debts compounds daily."

Nikita stood up. "I need to go to the bank. I'll meet you back here in two hours."

O'Brien looked at his watch and frowned. He broke into a sheepish grin. "Should give me enough time to go buy a new watch."

Nikita laughed.