"Of course you will stay here with us," said Estrella, stroking Elena's back. "I still cannot believe that Michael kicked you out of your own home. I had thought better of him than that."

Actually, Michael had moved into a hotel the same day that he had found her with Jurgen, but Elena neglected to mention that to her mother. He had also said that he would send for Adam as soon as a suitable nanny could be found, as Elena had shown him that she put her own needs and desires ahead of those of her son.

"And he threatened to take Adam away from me!" Elena wailed. "My own son!"

"Well, he'll not take him from here," pronounced Salla Vacek. "My grandson will be safe, here with his family."

"Oh, thank you, Daddy," said Elena, throwing herself into her father's arms. This was going even better than she had planned.

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

"Anything you can dig up on her," Michael said stonily. "Anything at all that would discredit her in the eyes of the law." He looked over the top of O'Brien's disheveled brown hair and into the clouds behind him. "I won't let her take my son away from me. I won't have it."

"You know I'll do what I can, Mr. Samuelle, but the laws in France are very specific. They always rule in favor of the mother, especially when, uh" he cleared his throat and Michael looked him straight in the eye. "When the petitioner is not the natural father."

"But what if I am," Michael persisted. "Elena is such a whore, Adam's father could be anyone. Why not me?"

"You know that DNA tests will prove that you are not a blood relative to Adam." He sighed, running his hands through his hair again. "I really wish I had better news."

"But you will keep trying, yes?"

"Absolutely," promised O'Brien vehemently. The two men stood to shake hands and Michael sat back down at the table, too tired to move. After everything else she had done to him. The public scandal she had caused. Now he may never see his son again. His eyes began to fill with tears.

He almost missed her. He could see the blurred image of a tall blonde woman scanning the tables of the outdoor café behind him. Suddenly, she found the person she sought. "Carla," she called, raising her arm to wave. Michael stood, blocking her path, and grabbed her by both shoulders.

"Nikita?"

Nikita studied the face before her. She should have felt panicked at his assault, but she didn't. She took in his mousse-tamed chestnut curls that covered his collar in back, and a pair of grey-green eyes she had only seen once before in her whole life.

"Michael?"

"It's really you," he breathed.

"It's really you," she echoed, struggling to take in what had just happened.

Michael pulled her forward, intending to kiss her cheek, but instead the kiss became a fierce embrace, one that Nikita freely returned. They stood unmoving, just holding each other, feeling each other, breathing each others' scent. Michael felt an overwhelming sense of peace, as if all the tension of the last two decades had just drained away. Nikita knew that she had finally, after searching for so long, come home.

Nikita buried her tearstained face in Michael's shoulder. "I didn't think—I never—" she began.

"I know. Me, too." Michael held her a moment longer, then pulled her back to take a good look at her face. She was still there. The little girl from Sydney. They could start over again.

Nikita pulled him close again and buried her face in his neck.

"Are you two gonna get a room or what?" asked Carla, who had finally walked up behind them when she saw that Nikita was no where near ready to order lunch.

Michael and Nikita both sniffled at the same time, and Nikita giggled, wiping her eyes. "Carla, I want you to meet my oldest and very best friend in the whole world, Michael Samuelle. Michael—Carla Sanchez. We work together at l'Éclat.

"The lipstick ads," Michael concurred. "You're even lovelier in person." He gallantly took her hand and raised it to his lips. Carla turned to Nikita, who shrugged, smiling.

"Are you any relation to the art gallery Samuelles?" Carla asked innocently.

"He owns them," answered Nikita proudly.

"Oh my God," exclaimed Carla. "You must be a gazillionaire!"

"Not yet," Michael replied, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Carla," admonished Nikita, her cheeks turning pink. Carla backed away, her hands in the air.

"Obviously you two have a lot to catch up on, so I'm going to order my lunch to go, and you guys have a great time, okay?" She winked broadly at Nikita before turning around and walking up to the café's takeout counter.

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

Michael and Nikita talked for hours—at least, they held hand across the table and stared at each other for hours. Sometimes they had actual conversations.

"When I was coming here, I thought I saw Detective O'Brien leaving your table," commented Nikita. "Are you two friends, or is he working for you?"

"How do you know Marco O'Brien?" asked Michael, nonplussed.

"It's about my mother and her gambling debts," Nikita said wryly. "He helps me find out who she owes so I can pay them before it gets out of hand."

"I'm sorry, Nikita, but I have no sympathy for your mother," Michael replied, voice chilling, his eyes darkening. "I remember what she did to you when you were a child. The woman should be in prison."

"I know you hate her, Michael, and with good reason. But she is my mother. She's the only family I have.

The two sat silently for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Nikita remembered that Michael had not answered her question.

"What about you? Why did you meet with Detective O'Brien?"

Michael stayed quiet for a moment, trying to think how to best word his answer. Finally, he was blunt and to the point. "Elena has my son. I want to get him back."

Nikita dropped Michael's hands. Married. She'd forgotten that he was married.

Seeing the look on her face, Michael was quick to reassure her. "I'm having the marriage annulled. I've already started the proceedings. It could take up to two years though," he warned. He took her hands back in his and stared at her with all the warmth and sincerity he had in his heart. "Will you wait for me?"

She couldn't lose him again. Not after coming so close. The words came out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. "Yes, Michael. As long it takes. I will wait for you."

* * *

"Just how well do you know your in-laws?" Helmut Volker put to Michael. He was seated on the leather couch in Michael's office, smoking one of his favorite cigars.

"I know that Salla Vacek is the East Indian ambassador to France, he was formerly assigned to Turkey, and that he has my son. What more is there to know? Michael asked dismissively.

"Did you know that he has ties to the Russian mafia?"

Helmut waited for Michael's reaction after dropping that bomb. "The *mafia!*" Michael exclaimed. "My son is being held captive by a member of the *mafia*!?"

"Apparently, Vacek does quite a bit of money laundering for them under the guise of philanthropic organizations. He's been on Interpol's Green List for years."

"Green List?" asked Michael. "What the hell is that?"

Helmut knew that he had said too much already, but this was Michael, a fellow Musketeer. He couldn't let him down. "The Green List is a list of bad guys who we know exist, but they're not important enough to do anything about."

"Can't you do something?" demanded Michael. "Move him up to the Red List?"

Helmut shrugged. "It's not my call to make. Technically, I don't know anything about him, and I never called in any favors to find out the intel that I did."

He stood to leave, wishing that he had brought Michael better news. As he put on his jacket, a sheaf of papers fell to the floor. "If it were me, I would start by investigating his charitable organizations—work backwards from there. It will be time-consuming, but it's the only plan that I have."

Michael and Helmut hugged briefly, then the shorter man left, still puffing on his cigar. Michael gathered up the papers Helmut had "accidentally" dropped. They were lists of philanthropic organizations, some of which Michael had contributed to himself.

"Yvonne," he said, buzzing his secretary. "Téléphonez à l'Inspecteur O'Brien à San Francisco."

"Oui, Monsieur Samuelle."

Two minutes later, O'Brien was on the line.

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

Nikita knew that Madeline was maintaining a long-distance relationship with Paul Wolfe, the American ambassador to France. She hoped that his diplomatic powers would carry some weight, and she knocked on Madeline's door.

"Yes, Nikita, what is it?"

Uh oh. Madeline was wearing her "Mona Lisa" smile, the one that didn't reach her eyes and proclaimed that she was generally pissed at the world. Not a good time to ask for a favor, thought Nikita. Still, she hesitated. This was so important to Michael. The least she could do was ask. The worst that could happen was that Madeline would say "no."

"I was wondering," began Nikita nervously, "that is, the ambassador. The one we met in Marseilles?"

"You'll have to narrow that down, Nikita," answered Madeline. "The party was at the American embassy, remember? The place was lousy with ambassadors."

Nikita blushed. "Yes. Of course. I mean the American one. Paul Wolfe?"

The smile was gone instantly, replaced by a penetrating glare. "What about Ambassador Wolfe?"

Nikita wished that the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Her mouth was completely dry, but she managed to swallow. "I have a friend. In Marseilles. He's having trouble with another ambassador. I was wondering if Ambassador Wolfe would have any influence and be able to help my friend." She was staring at the floor at though her Nikes were the most interesting shoes she had ever seen in her life.

"I don't know," replied Madeline. Nikita looked up. The glare was gone, replaced by an almost genuine half-smile. "What is your friend's problem?"

"He was married to the daughter of the East Indian ambassador to France. When they separated, she took their son and has refused to let my friend go near him or even see him. He has petitioned for custody, but—"

"The law always favors the mother, I know," said Madeline thoughtfully. "I'm not sure what you think Paul can do, through, other than talk to Ambassador—"

"Vacek," Nikita supplied.

"Ambassador Vacek. He may be able to talk him into supervised visitation, but that's the most your friend can hope for. Ambassador Wolfe is a smart man—respected and well-liked, but he has no authority over any of the other ambassadors."

"I'd appreciate anything he could do," Nikita said gratefully.

Madeline picked up the phone. "It's about tea time there. I should be able to catch him in his office."

"Wait," said Nikita. "There's something else you should know."

Madeline looked at her, eyebrow raised.

"Adam isn't Michael's natural son. His wife was already pregnant when they got married."

Madeline frowned. "I think your case just died," she pronounced.

"Couldn't you still call and ask?" Nikita pleaded. "Michael has raised Adam since he was born. He's the only ‘real' father Adam knows They're very close. Elena never cared about him until Michael moved out. She even forgot his birthday!"

Madeline slowly reached for the phone again. "I'll call Paul, and ask him to do what he can, but I'm sure you're fighting a lost cause."

"Thank you, anyway," Nikita said wearily as she stood to leave the office. She had done what she came to do. She prayed fervently that it would help, but deep in her heart, she knew that Madeline was right. Michael was fighting a losing battle.

* * *

Simone had had it. Roberta was not holding up to her end of the deal. Actually, Simone was doing more and more cocaine, and her habit was growing faster than Roberta's bank account. She would give the old lady one more chance, then she would rat her out to her precious "Nik." Simone knew what models at l'Éclat could make, and featured ones like Nikita were bringing home a bundle. It was time to share the wealth.

To hell with it. She would go over to Roberta's right now and demand her money. She reached her destination in less than 10 minutes. *Old neighborhood not good enough for you, huh?* she thought snidely. The door to the small rental was locked, but Roberta had left a spare key under the Welcome mat. "Thank you, Captain Obvious," Simone muttered as she let herself in.

She looked around. Not bad. Not bad at all. A VCR, but no movies. "Hmm, looks like she doesn't need this," Simone thought, and disconnect the unit from the TV. "Oh, what the hell," she said, and loaded the television into the back seat of her car as well. Simone looked around at her handiwork and figured Roberta would learn her lesson. You do not screw around with Simone!

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

Detective O'Brien was not acclimating well to France. The fact that he didn't speak the language was a major factor, but he missed American food, American baseball—hell. He just missed America. Michael promised him that he would fly him home for the week of July Fourth and let him fill up on American patriotism. In fact, Michael would join him. He hadn't seen Nikita in over six weeks, and he missed her.

Nikita had emailed Michael her itinerary, so he knew where to find her once they landed in San Francisco. He had the limo driver wait while he went inside the studio to surprise her with an armload of daisies, her favorite flowers. As it happened, Nikita was finished for the day, and was ready to leave with Michael after they first embraced each other in a crushing bear hug. The other models looked each other in wonder. Who was this gorgeous guy? Her brother? It couldn't be her boyfriend—they never even kissed. Picking up her daisies in one hand and slipping her other hand through Michael's larger one, Nikita left the studio with a spring in her step and a song in her heart.

"I know it's only five o'clock, but do you feel like eating yet?" Michael asked. "We could go to our café and sit outside. There's going to be a beautiful sunset."

"No," said Nikita. "Not tonight." She had thought this over very carefully, weighed all the pros and cons, given herself a stern talking to, and come to a decision. "I'm an excellent cook, and you must be exhausted. Let's go to my house."

Michael looked at her in surprise, and tried to ignore the rising pink in her cheeks. "I am tired," he agreed. "Maybe a quiet dinner in is a good idea. I'll have my driver take us there."

Neither of them spoke much on the ride to Nikita's house. Nikita thanked Michael again for the daisies, and Michael told her again that she was welcome.

The limousine stopped at 412 Plaza Drive. The driver let Nikita out, and Michael exited from the other side of the vehicle. "Shall I wait, sir?" the driver asked Michael. Michael looked at Nikita, who was looking at her mailbox as through she'd never seen it before. "I'll call you," Michael replied.

He took Nikita by the hand, and together they walked up the front walk and up two steps to her door. When Nikita took out her keys, her hands were shaking. "Let me, said Michael." He held her trembling hand reassuringly and with the other, opened the door to number 412. They stood at the front door for what seemed like five minutes, but Michael was not going to enter Nikita's house without permission. Finally, she stepped inside and made a sweeping gesture with her hand. "Won't you come in?" she said hesitantly. Michael did. He looked around. From the foyer he could see into the kitchen, which led to a living room/dining room area. To his right was a small office. He couldn't see what lay beyond that, but the whole house was open and airy, with one room leading into the next.

"Your house is beautiful, Nikita," Michael said sincerely. The décor he could see was strictly Nikita—old world traditional mixed with modern funk. Everything blended perfectly. Nikita moved left into the kitchen, so Michael followed. He saw a fireplace at the other end of the living room, and glass French doors that led from the dining area to a private patio. There were steps leading out of the living room next to the fireplace—Michael assumed these led to the bedroom.

"Please, have a seat," Nikita said, gesturing to the couch. She found a vase, filled it with water, and carefully placed the daisies inside. "What can I get you to drink?" Michael thought a glass of wine would relax them both, when suddenly he had a flashback to a little blonde girl on a beach yelling ‘No booze! No booze!' "Whatever you're having will be fine," he answered. Nikita was grinning when she served him his soda. "Do you remember that day on the beach? You turned me into a Pepsiholic!" Michael laughed. He remembered.

"Are you in the mood for chicken or fish?" asked Nikita, padding back to the kitchen. Michael noticed that her shoes had come off, and took this as a good sign—she was comfortable around him. "Surprise me," he called to her. "If I fix fish, there won't be much of a surprise," she stated, smiling. Michael smiled back, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

"Take your shoes and jacket off and lie down on the couch," Nikita instructed. "Dinner won't be ready for at least 45 minutes, and you look ready to drop." Michael wanted to argue, except that she was right. He put a comfortable pillow under his head and closed his eyes just for a minute.

* * *

Michael awoke to sunlight streaming in from the wrong direction. It took a few minutes for him to get his bearings, and then he remembered he was in Nikita's house. He must have slept all night! He was covered with a colorful afghan—he wondered who had made it. He also wondered if Nikita was awake yet, but did not want to go into her bedroom to find out. He sat up and saw a folded note on the coffee table. "Michael—Went for a run. Help yourself to breakfast. N" Michael noticed that Nikita had loosened his tie, and he removed it and placed it on the chair beside his suit jacket. He opened the refrigerator door and looked longingly at the chicken casserole Nikita had prepared. He bet it was wonderful.

Only one way to find out. He got out the casserole and cracked four eggs in a bowl, stirring them with a whisk. He was going to make the omelet of all omelets.

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

"My son turned two on May ninth," he told O'Brien disparagingly. "I wonder if she remembered that birthday." She should have. Michael had sent a card with a long letter, and a literal truckload of toys. As far as he knew, they had both been delivered.

"I got through most of these places when we were in France." Marco showed him the pages that Helmut had left for him, with many names now crossed off. "I have a few more to investigate, and a couple of question marks."

"Which ones are the question marks?" Michael said intensely—eyes burning. "Where? Show me."

The detective complied, and Michael took note. He would call Helmut and ask for another favor—off the record, of course.

"We can't do anything more from here," sighed Michael, "and I did promise you a week in the States. Go. Enjoy your American self."

Both men grinned as they shook hands and O'Brien left Michael's San Francisco office.

* * *

Nikita was at the l'Éclat studio, trying out the new colors that would be part of this year's fall kick-off. The summer campaign had been a huge success, and the higher-ups expected more of the same.

"What's this one called," she asked, pulling a face as she looked at the palette of eye shadow in her hands.

"That's ‘Mocha Fantasy,'" answered Madeline. Nikita rolled her eyes. Who comes up with this stuff? Besides, Mocha anything was not her best shade and Madeline knew it.

"What happened to ‘Misty Mauve,'" Nikita asked. "It sold like crazy last year, and it actually looked good on me."

"Mauve is out. Mocha is in," came the reply.

"Then I think you need a model with hazel or brown eyes, not blue," countered Nikita.

"Just wait until you're made up," Madeline said impatiently. "It's not for us to decide, anyway."

Nikita shrugged in compliance, and the rest of the afternoon went smoothly.

* * *

Michael and Nikita were watching "My Cousin Vinny," one of Nikita's favorite movies. Michael had never seen it.

"What exactly is a ‘yout?'" came the judge's voice from the television. Nikita giggled. Michael smiled just watching her enjoying herself. The chicken casserole omelet this morning had been a hit, and they had ordered dinner from the nearest Chinese restaurant because neither of them had felt like cooking tonight. When the movie ended, Nikita asked Michael if he had liked it, and he told her that he had.

"Liar," she teased. "You hardly looked at the screen at all. You kept looking at me."

"I'm just trying to take you all in," Michael answered honestly. The atmosphere in the room immediately became uncomfortable.

Michael broke the silence. "I don't want to make you nervous, Nikita. I don't why I do, but I can tell. You're edgy right now. We're supposed to be best friends. Talk to me," he pleaded.

Nikita's eyes began to fill with tears. Michael leaned closer to her, but she held her hands up and he backed away. "What are you afraid of, Nikita? Let me help you."

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then abruptly left the couch. "Wait here, she instructed him, then ran up the three stairs to her bedroom and slammed the door.

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

"Adam! If you don't stop that pounding right now, I'm going to take that thing away and never give it back! Do you understand me?" Elena was not having a good day. The nanny was sick, her mother was gone for the day, and she actually had to take care of Adam herself. What the hell was Michael thinking—giving Adam a toy that involved a plastic hammer and little plastic pegs?

Adam looked up in confusion. This was his favorite toy. This was how he always played with it. The banging was the best part. Where was Julie? He liked her much better than this "Mummy" person. Julie had fun with him and let him laugh and play. Whenever he saw Mummy, she said he gave her a headache. What was a headache? When he had asked Mummy what it was, she told him to shut up. He didn't know what "shut up" meant, but thought he should quiet, just in case.

He wandered aimlessly over to his toy chest, and pulled out his English ABC book. He considered asking Mummy to help him read it, but she looked cross. He sat down on the floor and began turning the pages, naming each letter as he went. "A—apple. B—boy. C—cat. D—"

"Will you shut up!?" snapped Elena. "Go take a nap or something. Isn't it your naptime?"

He had just eaten breakfast, and it was nowhere near naptime, but Adam quickly did as she asked. He left the nursery and went into the room next door where his bed was. Obediently he removed his shoes and socks and climbed into bed, clutching his Teddy fiercely. Adam wasn't sure if he remembered Daddy, but he knew that Teddy had come from Daddy before he left, and holding the ragged bear always made him feel better. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, hoping that Mummy would go away and Julie would come back soon. Maybe, if he was a very good boy, Daddy might come back, too.

* * *

Nikita's telephone rang. As Michael was sitting by the end table where the cellular was, he picked up and answered it. "Nikita Wirth, please," came a female voice on the other end.

"She's busy right now. May I take a message?" asked Michael, his pen in his hand, looking on the coffee table for something to right on.

"Tell her I have information about her mother that she needs to know," said the voice.

Michael recognized a scam when he heard one. "What sort of information?" he asked.

"It's none of your business," the woman snapped.

"It sounds like you have information that Nikita really doesn't want to hear. Am I right?" There was silence on the other end of the line. He continued. "Maybe you and I can do business so that we don't need to bother Nikita with any of this."

"Who are you?" came the voice, suspicious.

"A friend. You can call me Michael."

A pause, then "My information doesn't come cheap."

He dangled the bait. "Money is of no concern." He envisioned the woman smacking her lips in satisfaction. "We need to talk," he continued, "but not on the phone. Where can I meet you?"

A longer pause, then, "I'll call you tomorrow with the arrangements."

"I've left this number with a lot of people. How will I know it's you? What's your name?"

"Simone."

Simone hung up the phone, threw her had back and laughed with abandon. She was going to be rich. She could smell money a mile away, and this dude had it. A looker like Nikita wouldn't be sleeping with a loser. A rich businessman or financier. Simone didn't care. She hummed. "I'm in the money. I'm in the money."

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

Michael slipped his pen back into his shirt pocket and relaxed back into the corner of the couch. He didn't know what Nikita was up to, but he was sure that whatever she had to tell him would be worth the wait.

He heard the bedroom door open, and Nikita walked shyly down the stairs. Michael's jaw dropped. She was wearing his old black À la Vie! T-shirt, the one in his paintings. He couldn't believe she had kept it all these years. She sat on the other end of the couch and drew her bare legs up behind her.

"I can't believe you still have that thing," Michael said, breaking the silence.

"You don't know what this "thing" has done for me, Michael," she said in a low voice, her eyes downcast. "I needed you so much when I was a child, and holding on to this shirt was like holding on to a part of you. When things got really bad, I knew you were close by, watching over me, waiting to make me feel better."

"Oh, God, Nikita," Michael uttered, his voice filled with raw emotion.

Nikita continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Even when I grew older, and I knew you weren't coming back, a small part of me never gave up hope. I felt like, if I had this shirt, then one day we would somehow find each other again." She smiled crookedly. "And we did." She looked up to see tears in Michael's eyes.

"I tried to find you," he said hoarsely. "When I got home from school, I went to the beach, but your house was gone. I didn't know where you were. No one could help me. Not even Crazy Walter."

Nikita smiled at the memory of the old man.

"I gave him my address in Marseilles, but you never wrote, so I guessed he never found you."

"Then I saw the paintings in San Francisco," said Nikita, her face solemn again. "I knew at once that the little girl was me, but I didn't know if you even remembered my name, or if you would want to see me. When I found out we were both living in Marseilles," Michael's head shot up, "I checked you out. You had a wife and son." Michael closed his eyes in pain. "I moved to the States. I had to get away. I couldn't bear knowing that you were so close and that you hadn't waited for me to grow up." She looked at him from beneath veiled lashes. "Stupid, huh?" She forced a laugh.

"I did wait, Nikita, as long as I could. Then my father died, and made me swear on his deathbed that I would marry Elena Vacek." He looked away. "I had no intention of following through, but Elena turned out to be pregnant, and she named me as the father." He closed his eyes again, then opened them to her, letting her see into his soul. "I had never slept with Elena. You know Adam is not my biological son, but I love him as though he were. I'm moving heaven and earth to try to get him back from his whore of a mother." Nikita began to speak, and he silenced her with a wave of his hand. "Adam is my problem, not yours. I never should have mentioned it. I'm sorry."

"Don't you see, Michael? Fate has brought us together again. We are two halves of a whole. We complete each other. I was functioning without you, but I wasn't really me. Part of me was missing. That part was you." Michael digested her words slowly, and knew she spoke the truth. "If you have a problem, then we have a problem," she continued. "I've already put a call through to Ambassador Wolfe in Marseilles."

Michael's eyes widened in surprise. "You didn't have to do that."

"You still don't get it, do you?" she smiling gently, placing her left hand on his arm. "We're a team. No one is ever going to split us up again."

"You have a deal," Michael agreed emphatically.

"Should we shake on it?" offered Nikita.

"Or we could seal the deal with a kiss," proposed Michael impulsively.

Nikita visibly withdrew into her shell again.

"What did I say?" asked Michael, truly confused.

Nikita chewed her lip again, then took the plunge. If she couldn't tell Michael, then who could she tell?

"I-I don't know how to kiss. I've never kissed anyone before." Her face turned crimson, and Michael had the good sense to keep the look of total disbelief from his countenance.

"Then I'll teach you," Michael pronounced. "Just like I was teaching you to swim. Only this time we'll finish the lesson, okay?"

"Okay," came the whispered answer.

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

Michael moved closer to Nikita, but not too close. He wanted her to come to him. She did, reluctantly, inching toward the middle of the couch. She knelt facing him, then settled back on her heels. Michael told her to watch his hands, which he placed palm down on either side of her legs. "I won't move them," he promised. She nodded. She closed her eyes and waited for the assault. Waited for him to grind his face into hers and ram his tongue down her throat. She felt her stomach churning. She couldn't do this. Her eyes flew open. She was terrified.

She saw Michael's loving, concerned gaze. "It's okay, Nikita. I won't do anything to frighten you. We'll just sit here and talk. It is not a problem.

"It is a problem, Michael. It's my problem. I've seen couples kiss. I've seen it in the movies and on TV. I know it doesn't have to be like it was when I was a child. It's just that when I close my eyes—"

"Then leave them open," Michael shrugged. "Some people do. I usually close mine. It's a personal preference, not a rule." Nikita looked at him skeptically. "We'll both leave our eyes open, ok?" Nikita nodded slowly. "Ready?" he asked. She hesitated, then nodded again.

Michael instructed her. "I'm going to kiss you, but I don't want you to kiss me back. I just want you to know what it feels like." He leaned forward, Nikita braced herself, and Michael placed a butterfly kiss on her trembling lips. "There. Now you've been kissed. It wasn't that bad, was it?"

Nikita shook her head slowly. That was it? *That* was what she had been afraid of?

"I'd like to kiss you again. Is that okay?" Nikita nodded again. This time Michael's lips lingered a little longer, and Nikita felt their soft, velvet-like texture. It felt—nice.

"This time, I want you to kiss me back." Nikita nodded, and pursed her lips as though she had just sucked a lemon dry. Michael smiled gently. "You don't have to do that. Just wait for my kiss, then do what I do. If you like it, we'll keep doing it. If you don't, just back away and we'll stop. Okay?"

"Okay," said Nikita, licking her lips. Her mouth was dry and her pulse was racing. She had felt something during that last kiss, a sort of tingle inside. Was that normal? Would it happen again? Curiosity won out over fear.

This time she leaned into the kiss, surprising Michael. There is was again! That sort of "zing" feeling. She wondered if Michael felt it, too. She closed her eyes to give into the feeling. Their kisses became longer, deeper. It was Michael who broke it off. He was heeding his early warning signs. If she knew where his mind was going and where his body wanted to follow, it would frighten her to death.

Nikita had to ask. "Did—did you feel something?" she asked hesitantly, shyly.

Oh, yeah, thought Michael. "Like what?" he asked Nikita.

She blushed. "I can't describe it. A kind of electric thing. Like a buzz or a tingle." She looked away, totally embarrassed.

Michael took her hands in his. "Absolutely," he answered honestly. "Like a current flowing between us."

Nikita's head snapped up. He had felt it, too! "Is that normal?"

Michael laughed. He couldn't help it. "It is for us. It happens when two people who love each other very much and are meant for each other come together."

Nikita pondered this and nodded. Yes. That made sense. She asked him another, totally unexpected question. "Do you want to spend the night?"

Michael reared back in surprise. "Nikita, that's a huge step from kissing to staying the night. I don't think you're ready—"

"I didn't mean together," she said, smiling now at his discomfiture. "I meant in the spare room. It seems silly for you to stay in a hotel when I have an extra room, and I really liked waking up with you here this morning."

"All right," he agreed. It would be good for her to get used to his presence in close quarters. "It's too late to send to the hotel for my bags, though."

"I have an extra toothbrush you can use, and I guess you can sleep in your shorts until your pajamas arrive." Michael smiled in agreement, not bothering to tell her he didn't wear underwear or pajamas. Nikita and Michael both stood and stretched, having sat in one position for too long. "We share the bathroom, so I'll leave a robe for you. It's one of those big, terry ones some of the nicer hotels give out."

"That will be fine. I'll see you in the morning," Michael said warmly.

"In the morning," echoed Nikita. Then she walked up to him and kissed him full on the mouth. *ZING* There it was again! She walked upstairs and into the bathroom. Michael sat back down on the couch and ran his fingers through his hair. What sort of animal had he unleashed?

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

Roberta Wirth liked holidays. Holidays meant lots of filled rooms, and lots of filled rooms meant lots of tips. It wasn't big money, but it certainly helped out. Of course, she had to work harder, but Roberta had never been afraid of hard work. She had been bussing tables from the time she was fourteen, then waitressing even after she got pregnant with Nikita at the age of seventeen. It's not like Nik's father had stuck around to help with the bills. Well, to be completely honest, he could have been one of two boys she went to the drive-in with. At least, those were the two that were blond. Roberta had tended bar, dealt blackjack, and even took a stint in a factory just to put food on the table and to keep Nikita in school. No, work wasn't the enemy.

Simone was.

Simone looked far too happy last night when she came in to the motel to get her monthly check. She was up to something. Another get-rich-quick scheme. Roberta prayed that it didn't have anything to do with Nikita. Not that she was worried about her, but she didn't want her free-ride to come to an end.

* * *

Nikita awoke with a smile on her face, and she knew immediately why. Through her bedroom door, on the other side of the bathroom, was Michael Samuelle. Her best friend, her confidant, her mentor, and the world's best kisser. Not that Nikita had anyone to compare him to, but she knew she was right. She stretched languidly, loving today already. Even the sudden chirping of her cell phone couldn't ruin her mood. She slipped out of bed and ran down the steps to the living room.

"Hullo?"

A pause, then "May I speak to Michael, please?"

Nikita answered, "He's sleeping." A little thrill went through her when she said that. Okay, Nik, get a grip. "May I take a message?"

"Tell him I'll meet him at Volare's at noon. We, ah, have a lunch date."

A knot formed in Nikita's stomach. "And your name is--?"

"Simone. He's expecting my call."

"I'll certainly give him the message," Nikita said brightly, wishing she could sink through the carpet as she snapped the cell phone shut.

Michael was meeting another woman for lunch. How could she have been so stupid. All that talk about "completing" each other and loving her. Of course he loved her. Just like a brother loved a sister. She remembered how abruptly he had ended their kissing "lesson." Obviously, he didn't feel comfortable kissing his "sister." She had been so intent on her wants and needs that she hadn't even considered how Michael might have felt. Well. Now she knew.

The object of her musings took that moment to emerge from his bedroom, freshly showered and dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing yesterday, pressed last night by Nikita. He couldn't find any mousse among Nikita's hair products, so his hair lay damply in riotous chestnut curls, framing his handsome face.

"Hi," he said softly, noting that Nikita was still dressed in his T-shirt.

"Oh. Hullo," she returned nonchalantly.

Michael instantly went on the alert. He had not become the successful businessman he was without honing his skills at reading people. Nikita was upset. Brittle.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," came the flippant reply.

"Nikita. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Oh, yeah. Speaking of talking, you had a phone call earlier. I'm supposed to remind you about your lunch date." Her smile was forced. She seemed almost apologetic.

Michael was confused. Today was a holiday. Most of the restaurants were closed. Bauer would never have scheduled a lunch meeting on July the 4th in San Francisco. "Who called?"

"Simone," Nikita managed to spit out.

Understanding dawned on Michael's face. Nikita was jealous. What lousy timing. He couldn't tell her about Simone and the scam she was trying to run. Not yet. "Did she say where and when?" he asked in his most business-like voice.

"Volare's. Noon."

Michael fiddled with his PDA, then picked up his briefcase and pretended to look through it. "I must have left her file back at the hotel. I can pick it up when I have my luggage sent over." He snapped the briefcase shut and fixed an amiable smile on his face. "So, what's on your agenda for today?"

"Dunno," she said, wheels turning. Simone was a client. Or at least Michael acted like she was. He wouldn't lie to her, would he? She had to test him. "Probably hang out with Carla at her place until dinner time, then spend a quiet evening at home. I'm not real big on fireworks."

"Sounds nice," Michael agreed. "But let me cook tonight."

"Okay," Nikita agreed, "but it will have to be fish."

"Ah. Zee Frenzh can work meericles weeth feesh," he said with an impossibly thick French accent.

Nikita laughed in spite of herself. "See you tonight," she waved as he picked up his jacket and prepared to leave. Michael figured that a good-bye kiss was probably out of the question, so he blew a kiss and bowed deeply at the waist before closing the door. Nikita giggled.

She then grew sober again. She hoped she knew what she was doing. She picked up the phone to call Carla.

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

Salla Vacek paid a rare visit to his grandson. The boy was sleeping peacefully, clutching some sort of ragged animal. Vacek made a mental note to have the servants throw it away. He was so proud. The child was one-hundred percent Vacek. He had Elena's straight dark hair and dark eyes, and his skin was amber, not pasty white like that bastard father of his.

Yes, little Adam had no idea how fortunate he was. He was heir to the Vacek kingdom. The ambassador smiled. Even Estrella had no idea how wealthy he was. She was unaware of his "second job," the one that was so lucrative. Laundering money for the Russians was almost too easy. Just press a few buttons here, write a few checks there, and the job was done. Of course, he would bring little Adam into the "secret" family business as soon as he was old enough. The boy was very bright—far ahead of his age group in both physical and mental abilities according to the doctors who had recently examined him.

His mother, well, Elena had been a disappointment to him. Her life revolved around shopping and parties. Where did she think her clothing allowance was coming from? She seldom saw Adam, and the day spent with him yesterday had been a disaster. Elena was definitely not maternal material. Finding Julie was a stroke of genius. Adam adored her, and she gave him the attention he so badly needed. Now, as to a father-figure. Adam must not grow up to be a sissy. Elena should marry again—provide Adam with a male role-model. He would talk to her mother tomorrow.

* * *

Carla felt ridiculous. Spying on people was not her gig, and she thought that the big, floppy hat Nikita forced her to wear drew more attention to her than it accomplished as a disguise. Per Nikita's instructions, she had arrived at 11:45 and had requested a table near the kitchen. The maitre‘d looked at her quizzically. No one had ever requested a table close to the kitchen before. Carla just smiled.

Michael arrived five minutes early. He was seated at a table for two in the window of the restaurant. The waiter showed him a wine list, which he waved away. Michael looked at his watch. He looked up at the door every time someone walked in. At five after twelve, a petite Asian woman entered the establishment and glanced around furtively. Michael knew at once that she had to be Simone, and motioned to her. It looked like she wanted to move to a booth in the back, but Michael was holding her chair and insisted that she sit down.

Carla made her move. She grabbed the arm of a passing waiter and asked if she could possibly be moved away from the kitchen—the noise was giving her a headache. Was the table behind the gentleman in the window available? This was no problem at all, and Carla was in the perfect position to hear every word Michael said.

* * *

Marco O'Brien was thoroughly enjoying his "vacation." He'd been to a Giants' game, where he'd eaten four hot dogs and gotten pleasantly drunk on American beer. He couldn't get enough of television broadcast in English, and even today, on his favorite holiday, he sat dressed in his shorts drinking beer and watching reruns of "Three's Company" and "Soap." He loved Benson. Didn't take crap from anyone.

Eventually, he scratched his chest, ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, and picked up the files he had on Salla and Elena Vacek. Michael was paying him double his usual fee, not to mention flying him home for a week, and Marco felt guilty if he didn't do *some* work He couldn't do anything more about Salla until they returned to France. Now Elena. Her file was growing. The parties she was going to were getting wilder and wilder. He might be able to find evidence of drug use. He would check around with the modeling agencies in town to see if any of them had seen Elena on the party circuit while in France. Having accomplished that arduous task, he pulled on an old pair of cut-offs and went out in the back yard to fire up the grill. The Fourth of July wasn't a holiday without a man-sized steak and a king-sized beer to wash it down with.

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

Michael could tell that Simone was using from the moment he saw her. It was clear now where most of Roberta's allowance was going—straight up Simone's nose. He studied the face in front of him. She must have been beautiful once, with almond eyes and long black hair. He supposed that some people might still consider her to be "pretty," but it was obvious to him that the drugs had taken their toll. Simone was unnerved by his perusal.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer," she said sarcastically.

Michael smiled politely. "I hope you don't mind. I've already ordered for us. Fettuccini Alfredo. Is that all right?"

Simone looked at him suspiciously. "Why are you buying me lunch?"

"You told Nikita we had a lunch date," he responded smoothly. "I didn't want you to be a liar."

Simone snorted.

Carla leaned as far back in her chair as she could without being obvious. Damn Michael and his good manners. He talked so softly she had to strain to hear him. Simone was coming through just fine. So far, she couldn't tell if the meeting was business or something else. The waiter chose that moment to bring her food, and she missed the following exchange.

"You have some information for me," Michael said bluntly. "What is it?"

"I said my information isn't cheap. Put an offer on the table."

"One thousand dollars."

"You're insane. One thou will get you the weather report. We're talking major news. Ten-thousand dollar major news."

Michael didn't blink. "Twenty-five hundred."

"You're not getting squat for under six-thousand."

"Three-thousand. That is my final offer. I have a cashiers cheque in my wallet made out in that amount. Take it or leave it."

Simone knew he was serious. She had expected more, but three-thousand in her hands today was a sure thing. She could always soak him for more later.

Carla had finally dumped the waiter, and was all ears again.

"Hand over the check."

Michael pulled his wallet out of his breast pocket and removed a cashiers cheque in the amount of three-thousand dollars. He replaced his wallet and laid the cheque on the table, placing his hand firmly on top of it.

"What is the information you have about Nikita's mother?"

All Carla caught was "Nikita's mother," but Simone's reply came through loud and clear.

"She was a hooker. A prostitute. She's got a record."

"When was this?" asked Michael quietly.

"When she first came to the States—for about 10 years," Simone said triumphantly.

"And you know this how?" questioned Michael.

"Before she moved, she was my next-door neighbor for five years. There's not a lot about my neighbors I don't know about," she bragged.

Michael released his hold on the cashiers cheque. "I trust that this information will not get to Nikita?" he confirmed.

"Not from me," Simone said blithely, cheque firmly in her possession. "But you know how some things have a way of just—slipping out."

"And what would prevent that?" asked Michael, knowing that Simone had no intention of keeping her promise.

Simone picked up his hand. Michael raised his eyebrows. Simone said, "You're a good-looking man, Michael Samuelle. I think maybe you and I can work something out. I know you find me attractive. You couldn't keep your eyes off me when I first sat down."

Michael stifled the urge to burst out laughing. Oh my God! She was trying to seduce him!

Carla had heard enough. Stuffing the hideous had under her chair, she stood and walked over to Michael and Simone. "Michael Samuelle! It is you! I'm Carla Sanchez, remember? From the café?"

"Of course I remember you, Carla," Michael said warmly. "Have you eaten yet? Would you care to join us?"

Simone was stunned. Was he turning her down?

"No, thanks. I've just finished. The food's great though. You should bring Nikita here sometime."

"Yes. I will. Thank you." And with that, so Simone couldn't see him, he winked broadly at Carla. He had seen her the moment he walked into Volare's, and guessed what Nikita was up to. He should have felt hurt that she didn't trust him, but actually, he was kind of flattered. Carla blushed as she picked up her purse and walked over to pay the cashier.

"Hell-O?" Simone said, visibly annoyed. "Remember me? The one who could turn Nikita's life into a living hell?"

Michael picked one of Simone's hands in both of his. Her heart beat faster. "Simone," he said softly, looking her directly in the eyes. "You know that I am a rich man. You should also know that I am a very powerful man, and I protect those I care about. That includes Nikita and, by extension, her mother. If I were to hear that there was any unpleasantness involved in either of their lives, you will deeply, deeply regret it. Have I made myself clear?"

Simone nodded. Her hand in his had grown cold. Suddenly the waiter appeared with their food. Michael stood to leave. "I'm sorry," he told Simone. "I'm not going to be able to stay for our ‘date.' Please, enjoy your meal." He handed a fifty-dollar bill to the waiter and told him to keep the change. He strode confidently out of the restaurant, while Simone just stared out her food, suddenly sick to her stomach.

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

"It was a business meeting, nothing more," Carla repeated, staring at her fingernails.

"Then why do I get the feeling you're keeping something from me?" insisted Nikita.

"I've told you everything! She sat down, told Michael she had some information for him, I didn't catch what kind—gallery stuff I guess. He paid her, and then he left. He didn't even stay to eat. That's all that happened. I swear."

"Since when does Michael pay people for information," mused Nikita.

"Maybe she was a detective," said Carla, inspired, "like that Marco guy with the great smile and cute butt."

"That's possible," Nikita agreed reluctantly. "But why wouldn't he have told me? He said her file was at the hotel, like she was client or something."

Carla threw her hands up in the air. "I give up. At least you know it wasn't some romantic tryst." She stood to leave. Just then, Michael let himself in with his new key. "Must be nice having a live-in chef!"

Nikita ducked her head and smiled. Naturally, Carla assumed that she and Michael were really "living together," not just sharing a house.

"Will you join us for dinner, Carla?" he said, placing a bag of groceries on the kitchen table and shrugging out of his jacket.

"Nah. I get offers like that from handsome guys all the time," she joked, winking at Michael. "I prefer my own cooking, actually. Nobody else makes churritos just the way I like them."

She and Nikita hugged goodbye, and Nikita locked the door behind her.

"Would you mind making a salad while I change clothes, or am I totally on my own tonight?" Michael asked Nikita.

"I think I can handle a salad," she smiled, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to start washing vegetables.

* * *

Elena was hung-over again, and in a foul mood. She had broken up with yet another boyfriend. Men. They were so undependable. Look at Michael. They had the perfect marriage until she made one teensy mistake—then he suddenly turned into Mister Self-Righteous and dropped her like a hot rock. At least she could keep Adam from him. That made her smile. Then she frowned again. Jurgen, who ruined her entire life, had been seeing two other women at the time he was seeing Elena, and she would never forgive him. Who else did she hate? She sighed, there were too many to remember.

The only person she could really count on was her best friend, Karyn. They had met a couple of months ago, and bonded immediately. Elena knew that Karyn was gay, but that didn't bother her. The fact the Karyn popped uppers and was constantly wired bothered her a little, but it also made her a lot of fun, too. Elena could always turn to Karyn when she had man problems. She would call her today. What time was it? Only three in the morning. Oh, hell. She'd only been asleep for an hour. She should never have taken that pill Karyn gave her. She would never get any sleep.

* * *

Michael had baked the fish and served it with a thick cream sauce. Nikita had to admit it was delicious, as were the snow peas and tomato pudding. She also managed to snarf down some of the magnificent chocolate soufflé. She felt as though she waddled as she made her way to the couch when Michael waved her out of the kitchen. He cooked it, he would clean it. She watched him as he washed the dishes—he was wearing a pair of tight-fitting faded blue jeans and a navy polo shirt, and from her angle, the view was magnificent. Of course, he chose that moment to turn around and smile. She waved weakly and turned back around on the couch.

She picked up the TV remote and started flipping through channels. There was never anything good to watch on Sunday nights. She paused the remote on "La Femme Nikita." She chuckled silently. Carla had tried to get her to watch this show, since she and the lead character shared the same name. A homeless girl is taken off the streets and trained to be a covert anti-terrorist operative. Puh-leeze. Who writes this stuff? Even though the male lead's name was Michael, she just couldn't get into it. The whole "counter-terrorism spy" thing just seemed ridiculous to Nikita.

She turned off the TV and picked up a magazine. The higher-ups at l'Éclat had agreed that Nikita was not the best model for "Mocha Fantasy," and had chosen Suzanne Sherman instead. Nikita supposed it would be Suzanne's face, not hers, that she saw staring back at her from next month's issue. She flipped through a few more pages. Fortunately for Carla, her coloring was perfect for "Mocha," and she would be working a lot this fall. Nikita would be doing hair care products, and had been ordered to stay out of the sun or to wear a hat so as not to change her natural hair color. Nikita loved the sun, but she tended to freckle, and had learned to stay out of it anyway so this was not really a problem for her.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Michael's butt suddenly plopped down on the couch next to hers. She started to laugh, then saw that his face was totally serious. "What is it, Michael?" she asked, concerned.

He took her hands in his and looked deeply into her eyes. "We need to talk."

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

Madeline had received several messages from Paul Wolfe regarding Michael Samuelle's son. None of them contained good news. Paul had talked to Vacek, which seemed to have made things worse. Vacek deeply resented the American's interference in personal family business, and the relationship between the two diplomats was now chilly at best. Vacek had also thought that Michael had given up his quest for Adam. Now that he knew differently, the boy was a virtual prisoner in the embassy. He was rarely allowed outside of the grounds, and even then he had two bodyguards. Salla Vacek wasn't taking any chances.

Madeline had debated on whether to call Nikita had home, but finally decided a face-to-face meeting was needed. She had her secretary draft a letter and put it in Nikita's box. She would see it the next time she came into the office.

* * *

Nikita's heart lurched. Carla was wrong about Simone. Michael was having an affair with her.

"I lied about Simone," he said bluntly.

Oh God!

"I said she was a client, but I was meeting her about personal business."

Nikita started to see black spots before her eyes. She was hyperventilating.

"She is a con artist and a thief, and she wanted to be paid for giving me certain information."

The black spots started to fade as Nikita's heart rate slowed. She looked at Michael, who was looking directly into her eyes with care and concern.

"I didn't want you to know anything about her until I found out what the information was."

"What was it?" Nikita asked, chewing her bottom lip nervously.

Now it was Michael's turn to look uncomfortable. He rubbed his chin. "This is very hard for me to tell you, Nikita. It's-it's about your mother."

"My mother?" Nikita asked in surprise. "Oh, Michael! Is she ill? Is she dying?" He shook his head but didn't speak. "Tell me," she demanded. "I need to know."

"It's nothing like that," he promised. Nikita waited. "How well do you remember your mother from when your were a little girl?"

Nikita looked at him in surprise, then looked away. "I don't really remember that much."

"I remember that she hit you. You had bruises all over."

Tears were forming in Nikita's eyes.

"And what about her boyfriends?" he persisted gently. He thought, but didn't add, ‘and what she let them do to you.'

"She was different then, Michael!" she snapped angrily as she stalked away from the couch. "She was drinking then. She didn't know what she was doing."

"Please sit down, Nikita," he implored gently. Nikita sat back down in the corner of the couch, a large pillow clutched to her abdomen as if it could defend her from the evils of her memories.

Michael continued. "She was still drinking when she came to the States, Nikita. She did some things—things she wouldn't want you to know about."

"What sort of things?" she asked in a whisper.

Michael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "She was a prostitute, Nikita. She has a record with the both the Los Angeles and San Francisco Police Departments. I checked it out myself, and it's true."

"Why are you telling me this, Michael?" Nikita asked, tears rolling down her face.

"Because I love you," he answered honestly. "Because I wanted you to hear it from me instead of someone like Simone." Nikita didn't respond or look at him, so he continued. "She's been sober for five years. She has a good job, and she loves you. She's not that other person anymore. That's all in the past."

Nikita stared at the blank TV screen for a few more minutes, then scooted over on the couch to nestle close to Michael. He wrapped his arms around her protectively. Just like a big brother, thought Nikita.

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

À la Vie! - Chapter 33

Something between them had changed, and Michael couldn't figure out why. Nikita was still friendly and cordial, but it was as if a spark in her had been blown out. She was treating him as though she were his sister, not his girlfriend, and it felt all wrong. "I made dinner reservations for us tonight at Volare's. Wear something sexy," he instructed her.

Well, *that* was certainly unbrotherly. "Volare's?" she questioned, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Couldn't we go some place else?"

"No," came his firm reply. "I need to exorcise some bad memories from that place, and who better to do it with than the woman I love."

He'd been calling her that a lot lately, but he never actually said he was *in* love with her. He'd not kissed her since that first night, and he was leaving for France the following afternoon. Nikita's head was in a whirl. She didn't know how to read Michael anymore. She cautiously agreed to dinner at Volare's, then mentally searched her wardrobe for something to wear once Michael had left for the office. Nikita didn't own anything that could remotely be considered "sexy," but Carla did. They were roughly the same size, though Carla's chest was bigger and Nikita's legs were longer. She picked up the phone.

* * *

Carla pretended to be shocked at Nikita's confession about her mother. Nikita had mulled over what Michael had told her, and decided that the news was not so earth-shaking after all. It was almost to be expected of her mother. Carla marveled at how well Nikita was coping at finding out that her mother had been a hooker. "She was a whore in Australia," she told Carla bluntly. "Why not get paid for it here? Money in the bank is certainly better than a black eye and a kid you don't want."

"Oh, Nik," said Carla, and embraced her best friend. The two held each other for a moment, then got down to the business at hand.

Carla had the perfect dress for Nikita. It was silk, off the shoulders, cut just low enough to tease, and came to the middle of Nikita's thighs. "It looks so much better on you than it does on me," Carla said wistfully. And it did. The color was ice blue, and complemented Nikita's eyes and hair perfectly. She wished she owned the dress instead of Carla, but it would never have occurred to her to ask.

* * *

Adam and Julie had a secret. Julie was teaching Adam how to write his full name, and she was using brochures from Samuelle's to do it. On the back cover of a pamphlet was a picture of Michael Samuelle—Daddy, Julie had told him. Adam had gazed at it in wonder, and rubbed his chubby finger over the black and white photo. "Daddy?" he whispered, knowing even at the tender age of two that this must remain between him and Julie. She confirmed that the man in the picture was his daddy, and helped him find a safe place to hide it.

Julie was using only the front cover of another brochure—helping him to trace the letters S-A-M-U-E-L-L-E, when Elena chose that moment to enter the room. She picked up the page and tore it into shreds. "Teach him to write "Vacek,' she pronounced. "I'm having Adam's name legally changed."

"I didn't think you could do that without the father's permission," Julie ventured timidly.

Elena looked at her coldly. "I can do anything I want. I'm a Vacek. You would do well to remember that." She tossed her head and left the nursery.

* * *

O'Brien's questions had not been very productive. Those with whom he had spoken that had remembered seeing Elena Vacek had never seen her doing drugs. In fact, she was always admonishing her friend, Karyn, to stop. No, nobody knew Karyn's last name, only that she was gay and that she and Elena were inseparable. Hmm. He would follow up this mysterious Karyn when he returned to Marseilles.

À la Vie! - Chapter 34

Nikita skillfully applied her make-up and went to work on her hair. She had rolled it on huge rollers, creating soft waves that cascaded down her shoulders and back. She pinned the sides back—nothing too fussy. Her dresser was now lined with hair care products courtesy of l'Éclat, but she eschewed both hairspray and spritz. If her hair stayed up, it stayed up. If it didn't, it didn't. After all, this was just Michael she was having dinner with. Her roommate and best friend.

Michael had chosen to get dressed at the hotel, and had his suit pressed there as well as having his shoes shined. He shaved closely, something he hated doing, and moussed back the recalcitrant curls. There. That would teach them. He was extremely nervous about their date tonight. After all, this was Nikita he was having dinner with. His soul mate and the love of his life.

* * *

Michael's driver picked Nikita up at precisely 7:15. She was already seated at a table in the front window when Michael's cab let him out at the front door. Nikita saw him before he saw her, and she drew a deep breath. God, he looked magnificent. How could she have ever though Alec Chandler was good looking when the most beautiful man in the world was standing twenty feet away, dressed in Gaultier, and looking for her.

The maitre‘d brought Michael to their table, and he drew in his breath. My God. She looked amazing. The dress was fantastic, that was true, but Nikita's natural beauty radiated sunshine, filling the room and Michael's heart with warmth. He sat down in the chair opposite her.

"Hi," he said shyly.

"Hi," she whispered back.

A long pause while they just looked at each other, like moths drawn to twin flames.

"You look—incredible," Michael breathed, breaking the silence.

Nikita blushed. "You look pretty good, too," she answered softly, staring at the table napkin in her lap.

The waiter broke the tension, and Michael looked at the wine list, then ordered something in French. The waiter smiled and backed away from the table.

"I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "I should have asked you what you wanted instead of just taking charge."

"It's okay, Michael. I don't drink," responded Nikita.

Michael was mortified. "Oh my God. I was so nervous about our dinner tonight that I completely forgot. When the waiter comes back, I'll order us two sodas, okay?"

"Water with lemon will be fine," she answered. Michael was nervous? About what?

When it was time to order, Michael, still reeling from his earlier faux pas, let Nikita make the selections. She ordered two of her favorites, planning to share with Michael. He agreed, and some of the earlier tension dissipated.

They talked of trivial things during dinner. It seemed that neither of them was able to put on the table what they were really thinking about.

Finally, while they were finishing their spumoni, Michael spoke. "Nikita, are you mad at me?"

"Mad at you?" She jerked her head back in surprise. "Of course not. Why would you think that?"

"You've changed. Ever since I told you about your mother, you've been, I don't know, indifferent toward me. Like you don't love me anymore." His eyes were sad.

"But I do love you," Nikita responded without thinking. "I love you with all my heart." She blushed, realizing what she had just revealed. She had really put Michael on the spot. "I know you love me, too" she went on quickly. "We're best friends. We'll always love each other, no matter what."

She's not in love with me. Michael was stunned. She thinks of me like a sister thinks of a brother. Michael felt the darkness closing in. He gave it one last shot. "But what about when you said you'd wait for me? Didn't you mean it?" he persisted.

Nikita had the courtesy to look embarrassed. "I did when I said it. That was before I knew how you felt about me. I won't hold you to it."

Michael was genuinely confused. "How I felt about you? I'm in love with you, Nikita. I think I always have been. I wanted you to be my wife, and a mother for Adam. I thought you felt the same way." He saw her dismayed look and realized he was wrong. He stood to leave. "I'm sorry, Nikita. I'll move my things back to the hotel tonight." He had taken three disconsolate steps when he heard Nikita call out.

"Michael, I'm in love with you!" Several patrons of the restaurant turned to look in her direction, but Nikita didn't care. Michael had to know how she felt.

Michael stopped in his tracks. He came back to their table as though he were being pulled by invisible string. He looked at Nikita's eyes, which were brimming with tears. "I knew that you loved me, but you never said you were in love with me. And that night that we were kissing. You stopped so suddenly, I thought that I disgusted you." Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "At first I thought it was because I was ‘soiled goods,' then I figured out you felt like you were kissing your sister."

He took her hands in his and shook his head slowly. "Oh, Nikita. If only we'd said these things three days ago. We could've straightened this whole mess out. Look at me." It took her a while to do so, but when she did, she saw love. True love. "I had to stop kissing you the other night. You were so amazing I was afraid I would lose control and ravage you on the couch." She gasped, and Michael grinned. "It's true. That's all I thought about when I was in the spare bedroom. How much I wanted you and how I needed to force myself to go slowly so I wouldn't frighten you."

"R-Really?" asked Nikita with a shy smile.

"Really," Michael confirmed.

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

Michael and Nikita held hands all the way home in the back of the limousine. Twining and untwining fingers, rubbing each other palms with their thumbs. "Hand Dancing" was the phrase that popped into Nikita's head. She stifled a giggle. They pulled up into Nikita's driveway, and Michael gave the driver instructions for taking him and O'Brien to the airport Thursday afternoon. They stepped inside the kitchen, where Nikita automatically kicked off her shoes and Michael threw his suit jacket and tie over the chair in the living room. Nikita snagged two Pepsis from the fridge and joined Michael on the couch, where he was lounging with his stocking feet on the coffee table. He'd probably already forgotten where he left his shoes. He took the Pepsi with a smile, popped open the top and drank deeply from the can. Nikita joined him on the couch, sitting as she usually did, with her long legs pulled up behind her.

"Did I ever tell how beautiful you are?" he asked.

"Not tonight," she responded with a smile.

"Well, you are. Beautiful." He took another swig of Pepsi before placing the can on a coaster. "Where did you get that dress? It's incredible."

"Actually, it's Carla's," she answered, smoothing the dress down her thighs. "It looks different on her, though."

"I'll bet," Michael snorted. "Find out how much she paid for it and I'll pay her double. No one should ever wear that dress but you." He ran his hand lightly over her bare shoulder before returning it to his side. How could she ever have thought that he wanted her as a sister?!

Nikita shivered at his touch, but it wasn't with fear or apprehension. She didn't know what it was, but she wanted to feel it again. "Michael," she asked boldly, "will you kiss me?"

Michael lifted his hand again and ran his thumb over her brow, then gently across her lips. "Are you sure you want to start something we can't finish?"

"Why can't we finish it?" she asked, holding his thumb to her mouth and kissing it softly.

"You're not ready," he told her gently. "I want your first time to be truly wonderful, with no doubts and no fears."

"I'm not a virgin," she reminded him.

"Yes you are," he said softly. "You've been raped. You've never make love before. I want to make love to you Nikita, but not until you're ready." He leaned in swiftly and kissed her. Nikita pulled away sharply. "See what I mean? You're still afraid, even of me."

"That was just a knee-jerk reaction," she protested. "Try it again. I'm ready this time."

"You need to be ready every time. You need to want and expect it If and when that happens, we'll move on, but not before."

"Deal," agreed Nikita. "Seal it with a kiss?"

Michael threw back his head and laughed. "You're incorrigible."

He leaned forward to kiss her, and Nikita did not pull away. She met his kiss with one of her own, and Michael felt an electric current run through his body. He placed one hand on the nape of her neck to hold her closer—she flung both arms around his neck and did the same. Michael gently ran his tongue across her closed lips. Nikita gasped, but she didn't pull away. Encouraged, Michael slowly slipped his tongue between her parted lips—just enough to touch the tip of hers.

Nikita wasn't sure if she liked this new sensation or not. Michael hadn't removed his tongue, so he clearly enjoyed it. Nikita decided to experiment. She slid her own tongue into Michael's mouth. He gently sucked on her tongue, and she could feel the sensation down to her toes. She returned the favor, and Michael deepened the kiss. All righty, then. This was definitely on the "OK To Do" list. Michael broke the kiss, and Nikita sighed in disappointment.

"I want you to do something," he said solemnly. Nikita looked at him warily. "I want you to touch me." Nikita began to feel panicked. The tongue thing was nice, but surely he wasn't telling her to— "I want you to touch my chest through my shirt. Do you think you can do that? Say ‘no' if you can't, and I'll understand perfectly."

Nikita didn't even realize she'd been holding her breath till she let it all out in a rush. His chest. She could to that. She'd even seen his chest bare before. Okay, that was twenty years ago, but the concept wasn't completely foreign. She took her hands from around Michael's neck and laid them palms down on his chest. His heart was beating as rapidly as hers! She ran her hands up to his shoulders, then down the side along his ribcage to his smoothly muscled abdomen. She splayed her fingers and ran them up his shirt, but stopped when she felt two small, hard knots. Oh my God! She had touched his nipples! She started to jerk her hands away, her face crimson, but Michael held them there, trapped. "It's okay, Nikita," he said with a grin. "I told you you were a good kisser."

Michael picked up her hands them and brought each of them to his mouth, kissing her palms. "I think that's enough for tonight. I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I did."

"You enjoyed yourself? Really?" Nikita questioned.

"Are you kidding?" he said, grinning broadly. "I just made out with a super model, and I'm spending the night at her house. It's every teenage boy's dream come true!"

They both laughed, and wrestled on the couch. Nikita won. Michael was ticklish.

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

There was a message waiting in Michael's Marseilles office from Julie. Michael read it and frowned. Adam's trips outside the embassy grounds had been cut off completely, and he had two body guards with him when he was outside in the compound, which was a rare occurrence. She also reported that Elena was using amphetamines, but not on a regular basis. She knew nothing about Karyn, so had nothing to report on that front. Michael made sure that Julie knew he was grateful for the information, and that she was well compensated.

Julie would have reported to Mr. Samuelle for free. She hated the Vaceks--Elena in particular. She was completely unfit as a mother, and should never have been given custody of Adam—laws be damned. She had never met Mr. Samuelle face-to-face, but his inquires about Adam's health and well-being were far more frequent than Elena's visits to the nursery. Julie had asked for, and received, a 4" X 6" color photo of Michael, which Adam kissed every night before hiding it from his mother and the other servants. They had thrown out his Teddy, so the picture and the brochure were the only connection he had to his father. The pictures and Julie. Julie never let Adam forget that his father loved him very much, and wanted to come and see him, but it was against the law. He also knew that he must never ever mention Daddy when anybody but Julie was in the room, or they would send her away for ever.

* * *

O'Brien crouched in the bushes, snapping photos of Elena and Karyn as the former left Karyn's home. That was not a friendly little good-bye kiss. Evidence was growing that proved Elena and Karyn were having a full blown affair. Being a lesbian would not cause Elena to lose Adam, but if Marco could prove that she was also using drugs, they might just have a case.

The courts still might give custody to the grandparents, claiming that Adam had been raised in their home and would be traumatized if he were removed. The detective had to find the key to exposing Salla Vacek. He knew he was close. He wondered how Michael was getting along with his friend from Interpol.

* * *

"You know I only come here for the cigars," Helmut Volker was saying, puffing away contentedly. Michael did know that, and it was the only reason he ordered them. Personally, he hated the smell of any kind of tobacco, and generally had his office fumigated after every one of the agent's visits.

Michael came to the point immediately. "What did you find on the charities I sent you?"

Helmut leaned back on the couch, savoring every moment. He was in a theatrical mood. "Well, my friend, I believe you're going to be one very happy man."

"Cut the crap, Volker." Michael was not in the mood for games.

Helmut got down to business. "Two of the three names you gave me are dirty, with Russian Mafia written all over them."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm not sure," Helmut reminded him. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Which two?"

"That I can't say. But have O'Brien concentrate on the ones that you gave me. You won't be disappointed."

* * *

Nikita had talked to Madeline, and she was disappointed, though not terribly surprised. She liked to think of her adopted country as being the most powerful on earth—able to move mountains—but she was a realist. Having an American ambassador talk to an East Indian one wasn't going to get the latter to change his mind, especially when it was none of the American's business in the first place.

It was with great surprise, then, when she got a telegram one early August afternoon. She opened it with trembling fingers. "ELENA DRUG ABUSING LESBIAN.VACEK TIES TO RUSSIAN MAFIA.NEW CUSTODY HEARING 19 SEPTEMBER.LOVE YOU.MICHAEL"

Nikita cancelled all her bookings for the next six weeks and took the next flight to Marseilles.

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

Michael had put the opening of the Chicago gallery on hold until after the trial. That didn't mean he had any less work to do, and he was elbow deep in paperwork when his intercom buzzed with a welcome announcement. "M. Samuelle, Mlle Nikita Wirth attend pour vous voir."

"Très bon," he answered delightedly." Accompagnez Mlle Wirth à mon bureau, s'il vous plaît." When Nikita came through the door, he had the presence of mind to wait until his receptionist had gone before pulling Nikita into an embrace and kissing her deeply. She willing kissed him back. They hadn't seen each other in nearly a month, and nightly phone calls were not enough to feed their need for one another.

"I got your telegram," Nikita panted when they came up for air. "I had to come and be with you. Oh, Michael—this is so exciting."

"I'm going to see my son again!" Michael was positively beaming. "There's no way the courts can keep him from me now."

"That's wonderful news," Nikita said sincerely. "You must be so happy."

"And relieved," Michael added. "It's been over eight months since I've seen Adam. I wonder if he'll even remember me?"

"Of course he will," Nikita was quick to reassure him. He took her into his arms again and they just held each other, breathing deeply.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

"I dunno," Nikita confessed. "I didn't make any reservations, and I came right here from the airport."

"You'll stay with me," Michael announced. "The rates are good, and the food is magnifiques."

"Okay," Nikita agreed. She couldn't believe how easily the word came to her mouth. She had changed so much in the last month—all thanks to Michael.

* * *

Julie was highly agitated. She wasn't supposed to know, but she had pried it out of Vacek's limousine driver, Eric, that Elena was planning to take Adam and run. Salla Vacek was working out the details. They would both be out of the country before the end of the month. She had to get word to Mr. Samuelle.

* * *

"Your loft is great," enthused Nikita. Not that it couldn't us a woman's touch. The colors were dark and severe, mostly black and dark red, and the walls were stark and ironically free of artwork.

"It's just a place to sleep," Michael shrugged. "I'm not here that often. Oh!"

"What?" asked Nikita, curiously.

Michael looked sheepish. "I'm afraid I forgot one rather important detail. I didn't do it to set you up, I promise," he said sincerely. "I had no ulterior motives when I made the offer, just wasn't thinking, as usual."

"Michael," Nikita said patiently. "What are you talking about?"

"I only have one bedroom," he confessed.

Nikita's cheeks were tinged with pink, but she looked him the eyes when she answered. "Then we'll have to share."

"Are you sure about this Nikita?" Michael said gently, stroking the side of her face and running his thumb across her eyebrow. "I mean, it's a fairly big bed, but I can sleep in the chair down here." He gestured to a black leather overstuffed chair with matching ottoman.

"I'm sure Michael," she answered resolutely. "I trust you."

Michael looked at her for a few moments, considering her words, then came to a decision. "All right," he said gamely. "Let's get your bags upstairs."

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

They were eating leftover vegetable lasagna, which Michael had prepared the day before. Conversation at the dinner table was initially stilted, but became more animated as Nikita drew Michael out by asking him questions about Adam.

"He walked at eight months. Did I tell you that?" he asked, beaming. "Eight months! That's almost unheard of. And he was speaking in complete sentences at a year and a half. Not long dissertations or anything like that, but ‘Daddy, I want the ball.' None of that baby babble most kids use. And so handsome! Well, he looks just like his mother—." His voice trailed off.

"I'm sure he's beautiful," said Nikita, "with his father's artistic eye and kind and gentle soul."

"He does know all his colors," Michael said hopefully. "In French and in English."

"I bet you'll have him painting before his third birthday," teased Nikita.

Michael smiled. "And he'll love you. He'll love having you for a mother. You'll make a great one, I know."

"I hope so," returned Nikita softly, "and maybe not just to Adam."

Michael took her hand and pulled her on to his lap. They kissed deeply.

Michael and Nikita were in love; Adam was coming home; and all was right with the world.

* * *

Julie braced herself as Eric's hand crept further up her thigh. He was leaving a slobbery trail of kisses down her neck, and she felt vaguely nauseated. "But where do you think they're going?" she prodded gently.

"He said something about Munich. You should be meeting Adam's German tutor any day. Now can we drop this and get back to the subject at hand?" His own hand slid higher, and he giggled at his double entendre. Julie smiled weakly, her mind racing. Munich. She had to get word to Mr. Samuelle. He was not in the office today—she would try again tomorrow, if she lived that long.

* * *

O'Brien's contacts informed him that Karyn's house was on the market. She couldn't possible live openly at the embassy with Elena, and Elena couldn't leave the embassy without Adam if she wanted to continue her "good mother" façade. There was only one explanation that made sense. Elena was going to take Adam and run.

* * *

Michael showed Nikita where to put her toiletries in the bathroom, then slipped into the bedroom to find something to wear in bed. Sleeping nude in the same bed with Nikita would not be a good move—for either of them. He settled on a pair of black sweatpants and a thin white tank shirt, and removed all the covers except the top sheet in deference to the warm weather. Nikita emerged from the bathroom a moment later, dressed in a modest powder blue nightshirt with the l'Éclat logo.

Michael had been right about the bed. It was not quite king-sized, but almost. He crawled over to the far edge and lay on his left side, facing her. "Is that the side you usually sleep on?" asked Nikita, "because it really doesn't matter to me, and I don't want you to go to any trouble or to put you out or anything just because—"

"Nikita, get in bed," he ordered. She was rambling, which meant she was scared to death. Michael decided that a firm, no nonsense approach was what she needed now to put her at ease. Nikita got into bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin. "Pull the little chain on the lamp to turn it out," Michael instructed. When she hesitated, he added, "There's a nightlight in the bathroom, so it won't be totally dark in here." Nikita did as Michael said and, after a moment, realized that he was right. She could see just fine. She stole a look at Michael, who had turned on his back with his arms folded beneath his head. His eyes were closed.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Nikita rolled on her side away from Michael and closed her eyes, smiling. She was asleep in minutes.

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

Michael had decided not to go into the office today. It was Friday, and he was going to spend his 3-day weekend with Nikita. Until his secretary called him at home. He knew the news must be dire if she disturbed on his day off.

It was. It was an urgent message from O'Brien, stating that he had to see Michael, and that time was of the essence. Julie Sand from the Vacek's mansion had also left several messages asking him to call. Michael received O'Brien's message about Elena first, only to have it confirmed by Julie. Vacek's plans were still unknown. All she knew for certain was that they had hired a German tutor for Adam. Julie was nervous. This was her first visit to Samuelle's and Adam's father was rather intimidating.

"Is the tutor male or female?" Michael asked Julie suddenly.

"Female," answered Julie, a little thrown by his line of questioning. She tucked a lock of bright red hair behind her ear.

"Did Vacek interview .her, or did she come from an agency?" Michael pressed.

"I don't remember hearing anything about an interview, and since we would be working so closely, I'm sure I would have met her if there was one." She paused. "I was never interviewed," she added helpfully. "They hired me through an agency."

"So they don't have any idea what she looks like," mused Nikita, following Michael's line of questioning.

"You don't happen to speak German, do you?" Michael asked Nikita, sure he knew what her answer would be.

"As a matter of fact, I do," she stated proudly. "I learned along with the Fanning twins. I'm a little rusty, and I couldn't fool a native for long, but I could hold my own with the Vaceks."

Michael's gleam of elation turned into a sigh of disappointment. "It's too dangerous. I could never allow you to do it."

Nikita ignored him and turned to Julie. "What's the tutor's name?"

"Bobbi Maxfield."

"Right. Michael, get the name of the agency that Julie was hired through—call them and cancel Bobbi Maxfield. I'm going to buy a couple German tapes to brush up, and Monday morning, the Vaceks are going to meet the new, improved Fräulein Maxfield."

"Nikita, this is insane. You're a model. What if they recognize you?"

"Michael, you've seen me without make-up. How do I look?"

"Beautiful."

Nikita laughed. "To you, maybe, but to the average Joe I just look normal—like anyone else you'd see on the street. I'll even wear sensible shoes and tweeds."

"In August?" asked Julie, still puzzled.

"I'm kidding," said Nikita. "Give Michael's secretary the name of your employment agency, then go back to the Vacek's and keep your eyes and ears open. Do not act surprised when you see me Monday morning masquerading as Fräulein Maxfield, German tutor.

"Got it," said Julie, confusion clearing. She swiftly left the building and returned to the embassy before she was missed.

Michael took Nikita's hands. "Are you sure you want to do this? It's very risky."

"It's the only way we can get close to Adam. Somehow, we'll work out a plan to get him outside and then snatch him away from the Vaceks. It's the only way."

"Have I told you how much I love you?"

Nikita smiled. "Every day in every way."

* * *

"You are Australian," pronounced Salla Vacek.

"Yes," replied Nikita, "but my father was German, and we lived in Germany for 10 years"

"Then you know Munich well," said Vacek, intending to test her.

"No, actually, we never made it to Munich. We lived in Bonn." It was the only other Guidebook she could find, and she had crammed like crazy in case he asked about landmarks. When he admitted he didn't know Bonn, Nikita let out a giant mental sigh.

"Will my grandson have an Australian accent?" he asked, concerned.

"No," Nikita answered truthfully. "I learned German with a true German accent."

"My driver has a few questions for you." He motioned for Eric to come into the room. "Eric lived in Munich as a boy. He is anxious to see if his German is still fluent. You will indulge him?"

"Of course," said Nikita, smiling. Okay, here it comes. Let's hope you can hold your own.

"Das junge Fräulein reist ohne Gepäck. Wo sind Ihre Kleidung?" he fired at her.

"Die Luftfahrtgesellschaft hat mein Gepäck verloren. Ich warte darauf jetzt,"

"Wie werden Sie sich behelfen?" he tried again.

Nikita smiled. "Ich werde fein sein. Vielen dank für das Sorgen."

Nikita looked at Vacek. He was looking at Eric with an expression that clearly said, ‘Well?"

Eric hesitated a moment, looked at Nikita, then nodded to the ambassador. Vacek sent him from the room. Nikita's heart slowed to a more normal rate.

Vacek summoned Julie. "This is Adam's nanny. She will show you to your room and introduce you to Adam." Nikita smiled at Vacek, then left the room in Julie's wake.

**The young lady has no luggage. Where are your clothes?
The airline lost my luggage. I am waiting for it now.
How will you manage?
I will be fine. Thank you for your concern.