Alternate Universe
NC-17

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Burden of Proof – Part I

This is an alternate universe story set in London, England in the present day. It is rated NC-17 for language and sexual content. The characters of La Femme Nikita remain the property of WB and Fireworks Entertainment - no copyright infringement is intended. This story is still a work in progress ~ many thanks to ranma for letting me archive the ‘story so far'. The complete story will be archived in due course.

Yo! Sushi Eatery, London

Nikita Wirth watched the large model train as it slowly negotiated its way past several pairs of keen, hungry eyes. The quick or the dead, she thought with amusement. God forbid that any of the suit-clad legal eagles eyeing the train's cargo of different coloured plates of sushi and sashimi should miss out on their favourite dish.

As she waited for the train to come their way, she watched a group of legal secretaries giggling on the other side of the restaurant and fiddled with her chopsticks, trying to control the almost overpowering urge to poke her lunch companion with them.

Taking her research assistant out to lunch as a thank-you for the hours of on-line research he'd logged during the Strahorn estate dispute had seemed such a good idea twenty minutes ago. Unfortunately, Nikita had forgotten that his dietary intake was mulishly limited to the three food groups. Sugar, chocolate and snack food.

"I mean, look at it!" He stared at the train-propelled Japanese smorgasbord with disdain. "If I wanted to eat seaweed, I'd go to Brighton."

He watched her as she selected a small plate of raw tuna and made a gagging noise. Nikita gave him a hard stare, trying to remember that she was in public and therefore obliged to mind her manners. She wasn't allowed to give him a clip around the ears, no matter how much he deserved one.

Nikita gritted her teeth. "Birkoff, may I remind you that you wanted to come here? What did you think we'd be eating? Burgers and fries?"

She'd given in to his unexpected request that she take him to her local Sushi Train, surprised and puzzled by his sudden interest in Japanese cuisine. He'd been here with her a few times when she'd picked up takeaway for herself, but had always made charming retching noises under his breath about the food.

Nikita was beginning to suspect that something other than the food had caught his eye. She watched as he stared wistfully at a very pretty waitress pouring tea for the customers sitting next to them, and the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

A-ha. Interesting.

"Honestly, Birkoff. You're twenty-three years old and you have the palate of a child."

"So sue me." He turned to give her a wink and reached for his can of soda. Nikita rolled her eyes, wondering if she should send him off to the nearest fast food mega chain just to save them both the heartache. Just as she was despairing of finding anything that would appeal to him, she spied a likely candidate.

Pointing discreetly with one chopstick, she motioned to the sushi train. "Grab that yellow plate...that's chicken."

He obediently took the plate she'd indicated off one of the flatbed carriages trailing behind the small brightly coloured train, but his face was a study in distaste.

"How can you tell what it is?"

"Birkoff. It's chicken. It's cooked. It has a crunchy coating. There's no seaweed. If you close your eyes, you can even pretend it's southern fried." She pushed a small dipping bowl of soy sauce across the table to him before waving her hand at the object of Birkoff's surreptitious affections.

The young Japanese girl walked over to them, and Nikita saw that she was hiding a smile at the sight of Birkoff scowling fiercely at his plate. Trying not to laugh herself, Nikita made her request quickly. "Would you be so kind as to give my friend a fork?"

Red faced, Birkoff waited until the waitress handed him a fork and left, before turning to hiss at Nikita under his breath. "Thanks. Now I look like a total idiot."

Nikita merely smiled at him innocently. "So I take it that she's the one you have a crush on?"

She didn't think that Birkoff could look any more embarrassed than he already did, but he proved her wrong. Flushing even redder, he blurted out a mortified reply. "How did you know?"

She tapped the side of her nose with her finger and waggled her eyebrows at him. "Call me suspicious, but it was highly unlikely that you suddenly developed a hankering for raw fish and cold rice. Besides, you've been staring at her ever since we arrived...with your tongue hanging out, I might add."

"I have not!"

Nikita hid a grin behind her cup of green tea. "Just eat your chicken, would you?"

A short moment later, Birkoff took his first reluctant bite, trying very hard to look unimpressed. "It's okay, I guess."

From Birkoff, this was high praise. Nikita handed him a second plate of the same dish and sipped her tea, feeling slightly more indulgent toward his food xenophobia now that she'd eaten something. "Tell me again why I bother taking you to lunch?"

"Because you're the boss, and you make much more money than I do?"

Eyeing a plate of soba noodles, Nikita tossed him a dry smile. "Try harder, Seymour."

"Because I'm a nice, clean-cut American boy, on an extended working visa no less...and you just can't get by without me?"

She watched him swiftly demolish the second plate of chicken karaage and gave a long-suffering sigh. "I know that the firm's internet usage would be a lot lower if I could."

Birkoff shrugged and drained his can of soda. "Well, you can't find the dirt if you don't do the search."

Nikita grinned and pointed an accusing chopstick at him. "You, my friend, are a cyber-geek."

Birkoff shrugged off her cheerful denunciation and leaned forward, his eyes glittering with something akin to passion. "Hey, technology is beautiful. You just haven't taken the time to appreciate it."

She took another sip of her green tea and raised her eyebrows at him. "Thanks, but I prefer the real world."

Birkoff looked away as a shadow flickered across his young face. "Which part? The lies, or all the idiots?"

The bitterness in his voice surprised her but she kept her reply light-hearted. "Such a cynic for one so young." Glancing at her watch, she made a mental note to delve a little deeper into the psyche of her research assistant. He was definitely a prime example of 'still waters running deep.'

However, any delving would have to wait. At this point in time, work beckoned. Nikita checked that Birkoff had finished his meagre lunch before picking up her handbag. "Let's go. I have a new client coming in at two."

They walked back through the park. Nikita swung her handbag as she walked, inhaling the scent of wet fallen leaves. There had been a brief downpour in the early hours of the morning and the smell of rain still lingered in the air, despite the pale autumn sunshine. Looking at Birkoff, scuffing along beside her, she couldn't help smiling to herself. Extended working visa, my eye. To hear him talk, you'd think he was in imminent danger of being shipped home at any second. Thanks to a long dead Scottish grandfather and an English grandmother, Birkoff could happily work in the United Kingdom for as long as he liked, although she did wonder sometimes why he'd really chosen to leave his family behind in the States.

Which part of it do you like? The lies or all the idiots?

Birkoff's sour words echoed in her head. Taking a deep breath, Nikita stopped in her tracks and turned to him. "Birkoff? Can I ask you something?"

He nodded warily. "Sure."

"What made you decide to throw in your studies?" Silence. "Not to mention move to the other side of the world..." More silence. Nikita touched Birkoff gently on the arm, careful to keep her tone casual. "I mean, that's a huge step for someone who won't eat anything that doesn't come in a Happy Meal."

Birkoff frowned and shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy trousers. Nikita knew he was eternally grateful that the firm of Wirth and Wirth, Solicitors and Notaries didn't insist on its male staff wearing a suit unless they were attending court. She eyed the Ren and Stimpy tie that adorned his slightly wrinkled white shirt with a smile and punched him lightly on the arm.

"Come on, Seymour...it can't be as bad as all that."

Birkoff gave her a dark look. "Wanna bet?"

Nikita stopped and folded her arms across her chest. "I'll buy you lunch for the rest of the week if you'll let me in on your deep dark secret."

Birkoff was a cheap date. In the fifteen minutes it took to reach the office, Nikita learned more about Seymour Birkoff's life than she thought possible. About his twin brother Jason, who had also studied law...the brother who always seemed to do things just that little bit better than Birkoff could...the brother who had been the fair-haired boy as far as their parents were concerned.

Nikita walked alongside Birkoff in silence, trying to digest the startling fact that not only did he have a brother he'd never told her about, but that he had a twin brother. Anidentical twin brother. The thought of two Birkoffs running around loose was enough to make even the strongest soul go a bit quiet.

"I was sitting in the middle of a lecture one morning and I suddenly realized that the last thing I wanted to do with my life was to spend it being a lawyer." He paused to give her a quick smile. "No offense."

Nikita grinned back. "None taken. Carry on."

"I didn't want to be a lawyer. I was only there because of Jason. It's what he wanted to do, and I was just expected to follow his lead." He shook his head, morosely kicking his way through a small pile of leaves littering the pathway.

"'Why can't you be more like your brother?'" Birkoff mimicked his far-away parents unhappily, avoiding Nikita's eyes. "We were identical on the outside, but it wasn't enough. It was as though they could only cope with having two of us if we shared the one life." He finally looked at her, the hurt in his eyes sending a wave of sympathy through her. "I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew that I didn't want to spend it trying to live up to Jason. I had to get away. End of story."

Nikita pulled a face at him, trying to coax a smile. "You're right. It was as bad as all that."

They were now standing on the pavement outside the offices of Wirth & Wirth. Nikita gazed up at her second home. She studied the understated elegance of the façade and pretended, as she often did, that she was seeing it through a new client's eyes. A short walk up the four steps from street level led to wide double doors stained the colour of treacle. Both the large brass doorknob and the plate engraved with the firm's name were buffed to a warm bronze patina that gleamed in the autumn sunlight.

Amazing what a difference a bit of time and a lot of elbow grease can make, Nikita thought with satisfaction. Three years ago, it had been a rundown nightmare of a place that smelled of mildew and mice, a small semi-detached terraced building with moth-eaten carpets and ancient plumbing. But in the heart of London, it had indeed been a 'find'. They'd been lucky to come across it ~ she and Walter had just been in the right place at the right time. It had taken months to put it to rights. Ripping up carpets, painting walls. It had been worth every splinter, every broken fingernail, every aching muscle.

A familiar sense of pride at what she'd accomplished rushing through her, she turned back to Birkoff and gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry...just shamelessly gloating again." When Birkoff grinned and started to move toward the steps, Nikita put her hand on his arm. He looked at her hand, then up at her face. Was he blushing? Hiding her amusement, she patted his arm and led the way up the stairs. "You did what you felt was right, Birkoff. And Harvard's loss is my gain, as far as I'm concerned."

As she went to push open the heavy wooden door, Birkoff hastened to open it for her, looking at her anxiously. "Thanks. I'm sorry I rambled on like that."

"That's okay, Birkoff. I asked, remember?" Nikita saw the unspoken worry in his face and gave him a quick grin. "Don't worry. Your secrets are safe with me. Besides, what's Walter going to do except give you a hard time when he finds out that there are two of you running around in the wild?"

Birkoff rolled his eyes at her as they walked through the doors and past the small reception area. "That's precisely what I'm afraid of!"

The quietly impervious voice of Mrs Hannaford broke into their laughter. "Miss Wirth?" Birkoff choked back a final snort of mirth and quickly escaped down the hallway, obviously heading for the back office where he did most of his research. With a sigh, Nikita turned to face the wrath of the firm's senior secretary. Mrs Hannaford dressed as she had done for the last forty years - severe navy suit with matching sensible low-heeled shoes, pearls, and a high-necked silk blouse. A no-nonsense grey hairstyle, which Nikita secretly believed was modeled on the Queen Mother, framed a face that could only be described as severe.

There was disapproval in the secretary's steel grey eyes as they traveled over Nikita. Starting from the top of her windblown blonde head, they lingered scathingly on the perfectly knotted man's tie adorning Nikita's white blouse before dropping to the pointed toes of her high-heeled boots.

Well aware of Mrs Hannaford's opinion of her work attire, Nikita merely gave her a polite smile. "Yes, Hazel?"

She was unrepentant when the older woman's lips tightened with displeasure. Mrs Hannaford didn't approve of being called by her first name by a woman half her age. Nikita didn't care. The woman was a gorgon, pure and simple. She enjoyed intimidating the younger staff, especially the junior secretary Jane. She made a habit of being condescending to the clients, unless she sensed that they were ‘of good breeding', and Nikita couldn't wait for her to retire.

"Mr Draskovic and his wife are waiting for you in the conference room." Each word was coated with icy reproach.

Annoyed with herself for having kept a new client waiting, Nikita looked at her watch. 2:02pm. "Damn. Sorry."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other woman frown at her language and bit back a smile. It's my name on the door, you nasty old biddy. I'll say damn as much as I like. "Did you have time to take their details?"

Mrs Hannaford looked offended. "Of course." Handing Nikita a cream coloured folder, Mrs Hannaford watched as she cast a hasty eye over its contents. "He says that he was fired, without warning, by his employer of ten years." She sounded sceptical. The client was definitely not always right as far as Mrs Hannaford was concerned.

"Unfair dismissal?" Nikita scanned the flowery handwriting without really reading it. Another bone of contention. She was saddled with a scary secretary who hated computers. Thank God for Birkoff. "What's the name of the employer?"

Gazing pointedly at the large clock on the wall, then back at Nikita, Mrs. Hannaford clearly conveyed her wordless message of criticism. Every new question is only wasting time that would be better spent clocking up client fees. Aloud, she merely answered, "Vachek Holdings."

"Okay. Thanks." Nikita tucked the file under her arm, and ran a hand through her hair to smooth it into some semblance of respectability. As she headed for the interview room, she couldn't resist the urge to casually issue a much-hated request over her shoulder. "Give us a few moments, then come and see if we'd like tea or coffee, would you?"

Mrs Hannaford's thunderous expression more than made up for having been treated like an errant schoolgirl, Nikita decided with satisfaction.

Salla Vachek glared at the sheath of papers in his hand, then at the aide standing in front of his desk. "And exactly what in God's name do you call this?"

The young man shuffled his feet, a panicked look in his eyes. "Well, I..."

"I asked for a detailed report of the proposed costs involved." Exasperated, Vachek tossed the papers at his hapless aide. "Instead, you have produced a fairytale of jumbled facts and figures that is completely useless to me."

"I'm so sorry, Mr Vachek." Scarlet faced, the aide scrambled for the papers that were slowing drifting to the floor like thin white leaves. "I can redo..."

"Please get out."

The young man stared at him, stricken. "Sir, I promise it won't happen again." He clutched the rumpled papers to his chest, as though trying to ward off the blow he sensed was coming.

Vachek felt his headache suddenly worsen. Surrounded by fools. "You're quite right", he said tightly. "You're fired."

The ashen-faced young man almost ran from the room, still clutching the despised report to his chest. Suppressing a weary sigh, Vachek pressed a button on his intercom.

After a few seconds, the well-modulated voice of the head of his security staff sounded in the room. "Yes, sir?"

"Mischa, Mr Gibson will be leaving us today. His performance has been less than satisfactory." Rather an understatement, he thought edgily. That someone as inept as Gibson should have been appointed as one of his aides was unforgivable. Irritated, Vachek made a mental note to censure Harris, the Human Resources Manager, personally.

Mischa's next words brought him back to the matter at hand. "What are your requirements?"

Vachek drummed his fingertips on the desktop as he considered the question. Gibson seemed as ineffectual as he was incompetent, however... "Nothing at present. Have personnel satisfy any monetary requirements in accordance with his contract." He smiled sardonically to himself. "We wouldn't want to needlessly antagonize the unions, would we?"

There was a subtle hint of polite appreciation of his employer's dry wit in Mischa's voice as he replied. "Of course not, sir. Will that be all?"

"Not quite. Put a watch on him for the next month. If he makes any ill-timed noises, take the appropriate steps."

"Of course."

Vachek terminated the connection and pinched the bridge of his nose lightly. Always such a tedious chore. However, incompetence was intolerable. And given his lacklustre performance to date, Gibson's departure was unlikely to impact on day-to-day operations. Unlike Draskovic, Vachek reflected wearily, thinking of the last person to leave his company's employ. The termination of that particular contract had given him no satisfaction, but he had had no choice.

Confident that Mischa would handle the removal of Mr Gibson with suitable discretion, Vachek turned his mind onto more pressing matters. The next hour was spent pondering the logistics of obtaining the agenda of the Heads of State conference to be held in Geneva later that month. Such a marvellous opportunity for disruption had, much to his satisfaction, produced several new business contacts. There was much to be done in preparation.

At a quiet knock on his door, he looked up in annoyance. "Come!" His irritation faded instantly at the sight of his daughter. Vachek rose from his chair and walked across the room to greet her.

"Hello, my darling." He put his hands on her shoulders and embraced her briefly.

Elena Vachek pulled back and gave her father a shy smile before brushing a quick kiss against his cheek. "Hello, Father." Her lilting voice was a beguiling mix of private-school affluence and a childhood spent in their native India.

He walked back to his desk. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He looked back to where she was standing uncertainly in the middle of the room. "Please my dear, do sit down."

Elena smiled and sank gracefully into his visitor's chair, crossing her slender legs daintily in one smooth movement. As usual, she was impeccably groomed. Her dress was a sleeveless, plum-coloured sheath that hugged her slender figure admirably. It was an inexpensive looking item that probably cost a small fortune, if his daughter's tastes were anything like her mother's.

"I decided to do a bit of shopping this morning. Seeing as I was in the city..." Elena hesitated slightly. "I thought you might like to have lunch with me?" She looked at him hopefully.

He shook his head with genuine regret, aware of the disappointment in her dark eyes. "I'm so sorry, my dear. While nothing would please me more than to take you to lunch, I'm afraid that I will be caught up in meetings all afternoon." Elena nodded understandingly, and rose from her chair. Walking to the large picture windows, she gazed out at the city below and Vachek took the opportunity to study his daughter carefully.

She seemed much younger than her twenty-one years. Prior to this visit, it had been five years since he had last seen her, when he had given in to an uncharacteristically sentimental urge to mark her sixteenth birthday in some way. Temporarily liberating her from boarding school, he had allowed Elena, with a school friend of her choice, to accompany him on a three-day business trip to Paris.

It had worked out surprisingly well. The two girls had shopped and played tourist during the day, while he attended to various business matters in which he did not wish to involve his daughter. At night, he had taken them out to dinner, introducing them to the few respectable acquaintances he possessed in Paris. Despite being painfully shy even then, his daughter had managed to project a natural air of elegance. It was no surprise, then, that the schoolgirl had become a very beautiful woman.

However, since that trip to Paris, contact with his daughter had returned to the usual sporadic exchange of letters. Despite his former wife's assertions that he didn't truly care for the girl, it was precisely the fact that he did care for his daughter that made him once more withdraw from her life. Taking her to Paris had been a calculated risk, and his activities had accelerated dramatically since then. If Elena had been hurt by his apparent neglect over the last five years, it was a small price to pay. At least she was alive.

Unfortunately, now that she was an adult, it was growing harder to keep her at arms length. Elena had decided to visit him in London. Despite his protestations of a frantic schedule, she had come, seemingly determined to make up for lost time.

He studied her appearance almost dispassionately, noting the delicate features, the gleaming chocolate brown hair that spilled over her shoulders. Her skin was a flawless, smooth mocha colour. Although she was quite tall - -he only had a height advantage of three or so inches - she gave off an air of elegant fragility. He sighed, feeling something akin to regret.

Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, she was a lovely girl. However, apart from the dark brown eyes that were a perfect match for his own, she was the image of her mother at the same age. Vachek considered his own, admittedly craggy features and mused ruefully that his daughter was most fortunate to have inherited her mother's genes. Unfortunately, this made it difficult for him to show his daughter the affection he knew she craved. Sometimes when he looked at her, he saw only an echo of a woman he despised.

It pained him slightly that she was as much a stranger to him now as she had been when first brought into the world, but he was pleased that she was beautiful. That was important for a young girl. It made finding a husband that much easier.

Vachek knew that his former wife disagreed with him on this point, but he made no apologies for his admittedly old-fashioned views. Marriage in their native land was a very serious business. While matters were handled quite differently in his adopted country, he was determined not to let his only daughter be snapped up by the first fortune hunter that caught her eye.

He cleared his throat lightly. "I should be home for dinner. We can talk then."

Elena turned to him quickly, an eagerness in her lovely face that made him feel slightly uncomfortable. "I'd like that."

The intercom on his desk buzzed discreetly. "Yes?"

It was his secretary. "Mr Samuelle is here for you, sir."

Vachek gave his daughter an apologetic smile before replying. "Please send him in."

When he turned back, Elena was studying her polished fingernails casually. "Is that Michael Samuelle? I didn't realise that he was still handling your matters for you. You never mention him in your letters."

"Yes." He nodded slowly, giving her a curious glance. "I was sure that I had mentioned him to you several times - obviously, I was mistaken." He raised a heavy eyebrow at his daughter. "I'm surprised you remember him, my dear. After all, we only spent a short time with him that evening in Paris."

To his surprise, Elena blushed furiously. Vachek watched the colour creep into her face, the cogs of his mind whirring. Perhaps he was imagining things, but his twenty-one year old daughter appeared to be harboring some kind of schoolgirl crush.

He heard the door open and turned to address his visitor. "Ah, Michael, come in. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I'm afraid this just couldn't wait until this afternoon."

The tall, dark haired man gave him a faint smile and brushed aside his thanks. "It was no problem to rearrange my schedule for the morning."

"Excellent." Seeing the younger man's quizzical glance toward the silent figure standing at the window, Vachek prompted his daughter out of what appeared to be a red-faced trance.

"Elena?"

She blinked and looked at her father, then at Michael. Vachek watched with amusement as her colour heightened even further, then turned to his colleague. "Michael…you know my daughter, Elena?"

Still carrying his briefcase in one hand, Michael strode across the large room to take Elena's rather limp fingers in his. "A pleasure, Mademoiselle."

Vachek noted with detached amusement that his daughter looked as though she was about to faint. Perhaps she, like many female staff in his employ, was susceptible to his colleague's subtle Gallic accent.

Michael's reaction to Elena's obvious discomfort was swift. He released her hand and gave her a friendly smile. Polite. Courteous. Nothing more. "I cannot quite believe that you are that young girl I met in Paris five years ago."

Elena gave him a shyly affronted glance. "I was hardly a little girl, Mr Samuelle. I was sixteen."

"Absolutely ancient."

She laughed softly, gradually recovering her composure. "Not quite." She looked quickly at her father, then back to Michael. "I've just turned twenty-one…not that ancient yet."

Michael smiled and put his briefcase on the floor beside the visitor's chair. "Are you visiting London long?"

Vachek rose from his chair and walked around to stand beside his daughter. "Elena is staying with me for a little while." He gave her a benign smile as he slipped his arm around her slight shoulders. "She has been studying very hard and needs a little colour and excitement in her life. Not to mention the fact that her mother has had a monopoly on her for far too long."

Elena threw him a pleading glance. "Father…"

He ignored her rolling eyes. "You've been away at school for last four years. You worked very hard to achieve the results you did, only to spend two years in Jaipur with your mother and her relatives as a reward. A duller backwater I could not imagine."

Elena darted an apologetic glance at Michael, as though to diffuse her father's complaints. "I didn't mind it, actually."

Her father shook his head. "Nonsense." She was a bright girl, but she had led too sheltered a life. Pressing a swift kiss to his daughter's cheek, Vachek put his hand under her elbow with the intent of walking her to the door. "And now, my dear, I'm afraid you must leave us to get on with our work."

Elena pouted prettily, then nodded. "Of course." She flashed a brief but telling glance at Michael Samuelle, then gestured elegantly toward her father with a slender hand. "Don't let him work too hard, will you? He's promised to be home for dinner." Then she blushed, as though shocked by her informality.

Michael smiled politely. Taking Elena's hand in his, he pressed a courteously brief kiss to the back of it. "I will do my best. It was a pleasure to meet you again, Ms Vachek."

"Oh, please call me Elena." Vachek watched his daughter as she gazed up at Michael Samuelle. He heard the quaver in her young voice. His earlier suspicions had been correct. As he watched them, speculation burgeoned quietly into life. It was true that Michael was showing no sign of returning Elena's obvious interest, but that wasn't a surprise.

Watching them, Vachek realised with a start that they looked well together. Elena's delicate, dark beauty contrasted quite strikingly with his colleague's rather unconventionally handsome features. As his thoughts ticked over, speculation became a viable proposition.

Vachek had known the quietly spoken young man for five years now. In that time, he had come to realise Michael was better at hiding his thoughts and emotions than anyone he had ever met. This ability usually made a man untrustworthy in Vachek's eyes. To his surprise, this was not the case with Michael Samuelle. He trusted him with his business. He trusted him with his life. And perhaps, he could trust him with his daughter.

"Michael, why don't you join Elena and me for dinner tonight?"

The younger man hesitated. Vachek could almost feel Elena holding her breath. After a few seconds, Michael smiled graciously at him. "Thank you. I'd enjoy that."

Once his blushing daughter had been dispatched and the door shut firmly behind her, Vachek turned back to Michael, gesturing for him take a seat. As he studied the younger man's face, he noticed that all traces of the chivalrous warmth Michael had displayed toward his daughter had vanished. Once again, Vachek wondered what thoughts truly dwelt behind that shuttered expression.

He nodded toward the now closed door. "She's a lovely girl, isn't she?" The proud father. It was a strange role to be playing, but Vachek was unable to resist the sudden urge to goad his taciturn colleague.

Michael looked at him with unreadable eyes as he smiled politely. "Yes. You must be proud of her." He opened his briefcase and placed a thick pile of documents on the desk between them.

"I have the paperwork you requested. Perhaps you'd care to look it over?"

Vachek glanced at the top page quickly and felt his pulse quicken, all thoughts of his daughter forgotten. Michael had managed to unearth the complete itineraries of each Head of State attending the next month's conference.

Their eyes met over the priceless pile of information. "Well done, Michael."

Michael merely bowed his head in acknowledgment of Vachek's thanks and gestured toward the waiting documents. "Shall we begin?"

Nikita walked into the conference room. Her new client and his wife sat together at one end of the long oval table, gazing around them in bewilderment. She smiled to herself. It was the usual reaction.

The interior of Wirth & Wirth's offices didn't quite match the understated elegance of its exterior. Yet another thorn in old Hazel's side, she thought with a malicious grin. Nikita had spent five years working in the beige and gray world of Stanley & Pembroke. Dull. Boring. Lifeless. The main conference room was a prime example of her vow to never again work in such soul-eroding surroundings.

Three of the four walls were painted a dark red, the fourth a faded chambray blue. The furniture was a funky mix of battle-scarred antiques and gleaming chrome and glass. The pieces of art on the walls were not sedate prints of landscapes by approved masters, but various original works by local artists, each one more colourful than the last. Mrs Hannaford despised it all. Which, of course, only served to spur Nikita on to greater heights of outrageous interior design.

She smiled at the couple waiting for her. Even though Nikita knew they were in their late twenties, she couldn't help thinking how young they both looked. Joe Draskovic seemed to be barely old enough to have finished university. Dark-haired and baby-faced, he looked as though he had borrowed his father's suit and tie for the occasion. Nikita had the feeling that Joe Draskovic was much more at home in jeans and a sweater. She smiled to herself. Birkoff looked the same way on the rare occasions he had to don his only suit.

Sitting next to him and holding his hand, Joe's wife was a striking contrast. Dark red hair – naturally curly, Nikita thought with a practiced eye – fell to her shoulders in a carefully messy bob. There was nothing showy about Marina Draskovic's simple black suit or her plain gold jewellery, but she projected a subtle air of affluence that Nikita recognised. Joe's wife, to use one of Mrs Hannaford's phrases, came from money.

She gave them an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry I've kept you waiting."

They looked her up and down in unison before smiling at her uncertainly. Again, it was the normal reaction. Not many new clients expected a nearly six foot blonde woman in a black trouser suit and spiked heels to come strolling through the door. ‘Nikita' wasn't the most traditional of names for a female, after all. Or perhaps it was just her tie that made them nervous. Of course, they could have seen Walter instead, but that would have only provoked a different but equally startled reaction. Wirth and Wirth didn't quite fit into the usual mould where the London inner city legal circle was concerned.

Joe gave her a faint smile. "That's okay." He started to push back his chair to stand up, but Nikita quickly forestalled his planned gallantry.

"No, please don't get up." She slipped into a chair across the table from them and held out her hand to her new client. "I'm Nikita Wirth."

He shook her hand firmly. "Joe Draskovic." He nodded quickly to his companion. "This is my wife, Marina."

"Nice to meet you both." Nikita gave Marina a friendly nod and received a distracted smile in return. Sensing that the young woman was tense enough without having to deal with matters of New Age etiquette, she refrained from offering a handshake.

Nikita flipped open the file that Mrs Hannaford had regally bestowed upon her and quickly read the first few paragraphs. When she looked up a moment later to find two pairs of expectant eyes on her, she closed the file and rested her linked hands on top of it.

"Mr Draskovic, I think the best way for us to get started is for you to simply tell me why you think Vachek Holdings terminated your employment."

Joe gave her a small, tight smile. "Retrenched, Ms Wirth, was how the management phrased it." His boyishly handsome face flushed slightly as he glanced at his wife. He's embarrassed, Nikita realised with a pang of sympathy. I wonder if his wife had to talk him into coming here today.

"Please, call me Nikita." As though on cue, the door opened to reveal Mrs Hannaford, her stern features schooled into an expression of polite indifference.

"May I offer your clients some refreshment, Ms Wirth?" Nikita resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The woman sounded as though she was in an amateur Oscar Wilde production. The plumy accent had been cranked up several notches. All the better to intimidate you with, my dear.

Proceedings were put on hold while Mrs Hannaford played her role as the last bastion of Old School Secretarial Servitude to the hilt, dispensing Draskovics' coffees and Nikita's black tea with a determined briskness that set Nikita's teeth on edge.

When her secretary finally sailed majestically out of the room, Nikita noticed that her clients instantly appeared more relaxed. She leaned forward across the table and whispered conspiratorially, "I know how you feel. She scares the hell out of me too."

To her relief, the light laughter that followed broke the tension in the room. She hated trying to extract the nitty-gritty details from clients when they were wound up so tightly that they could barely get the words out.

She gave the young couple a bright smile. "Shall we get started?"

Over the next hour, Joe Draskovic talked Nikita through the significant events of the last month of his employment with Vachek Industries. After his initial hesitation faded, he was quietly charming, smiling reassuringly at his wife every now and then, his recital concise and unhurried. Nikita listened attentively, making notes as the story unfolded.

Joe Draskovic had worked for Vachek Holdings since leaving school at the age of seventeen. Now, at twenty-seven, he was unemployed and at a loss as to the reason why. When he first started work at the company, he had been a lowly office junior. He'd worked hard, and studied Information Technology and Engineering part time. When unceremoniously fired four weeks ago, he had been working in the IT department as the Precedents Manager, a position he had held for nearly two years. As far as he was aware, his employment record had been spotless.

"Favourable annual reviews, pay rises…you name it…they gave it to me." Joe squeezed his wife's hand and looked at Nikita wearily. "As far as I could tell, they thought I was the model employee. And then six weeks ago, something obviously happened to change their minds."

Six weeks ago Joe, doing a few hours overtime on a Friday night and in a rush to get home to his family, had inadvertently accessed the wrong database. Instead of profit and loss spreadsheets, he found himself looking at something completely different.

"Shipping details of deliveries that the company had sent out to addresses all over the world. Names and addresses of companies in Pakistan, the Balkans, Indonesia." Joe let go of his wife's hand and reached for his coffee cup. "Northern Ireland, too." He shrugged as he took a sip of coffee. "I didn't think anything of it. I didn't even know what I was looking at, so it didn't mean anything to me. It still doesn't."

Nikita chewed the end of her ballpoint pen, mulling over the destinations that Joe had just rattled off. They may not have meant anything to Joe, but they had set her alarm bells ringing. Could it be a coincidence that every one is a political hot spot? Deciding to keep her thoughts to herself for the moment, she gave Joe an encouraging smile. "Okay. What happened then?"

When Joe spoke again, his voice was tight with indignant anger. "What happened then was that my supervisor rang me at home early Saturday morning, demanding that I come into work, saying that there was an urgent problem he needed to discuss with me."

Husband and wife exchanged glances before Marina Duskcovic took a deep breath. "Joe didn't say much when he finished the call, but his face was as white as a sheet." She spoke in a calm and well-modulated voice, but her warm hazel eyes flashed a silent appeal at Nikita.

Joe cleared his throat before continuing. "Of course, I went in. And when I got there…" His voice trailed off and he looked down at the tabletop for a moment, as though struggling to find the right words. "When I got there, Lucas…that's my supervisor…was waiting in my office for me. Elio Vachek was with him."

Nikita blinked at the name Vachek. "Where does Elio fit into the scheme of things?"

"He's a junior directors. One of Stefan Vachek's sons." A look of disdain flashed across Joe's face. "Lucas is a good man. He worked hard and was a good supervisor. But Elio Vachek has a well-deserved reputation of being a lazy Daddy's boy, if you know what I mean."

"Hmmm. Go on."

"I'd never even exchanged two words with Elio Vachek before that day. But I walked into my office and there he was, dressed in his usual thousand-dollar suit, sitting with his feet up on my desk. He suddenly started interrogating me about what files I had been working on the night before. Lucas, my supervisor, kept trying to calm things down, but Vachek wouldn't listen to him. The worst part of it was that neither of them would tell me what I'd done wrong."

Finally, out of sheer frustration, Joe had offered to take them through everything that he'd done the night before. Both men had stood behind him while he'd sat at his desk, feeling sick with nerves. He had shown them all the files that he'd worked on, the spreadsheets that he had been updating. Neither of his visitors had made any comment until Joe casually mentioned that he had accidentally accessed the wrong database about an hour before he left for home the night before.

"That was when Vachek Junior really got upset." Joe shook his head in amazement, as though he still couldn't quite believe what had happened that day. "I thought he was going to bust a blood vessel."

Lucas finally ushered the seething Junior Director out of the office before coming back and closing the door behind him. He apologized, saying that the management team was working against the clock on a major development deal, and that tempers were a bit frayed.

"He asked me how I was able to access that database. Apparently, it was password protected. It was a mystery to me as well, until I remembered that I had done an urgent job for one of the other managers the night before. The task he'd given me was beyond my usual responsibility, and he had to key in his password for me to access the necessary files."

Joe stopped and took a deep breath. "Funnily enough, after all the drama, he seemed satisfied with my simple explanation. Then he thanked me for coming in, and said that I was free to go home and spend the rest of the weekend with my family."

Nikita looked at him in surprise. "That was it? What happened to the Angry Junior Director?"

"I didn't see him again that day." He looked down at his hand where it rested on the table, fingers entwined with his wife's. "In fact, I never saw him again, because two weeks after that, the head of Personnel called me into his office and told me ‘that due to the downturn in the marketplace, they were going to have to let me go'."

Nikita tapped her pen against her lips as she processed this last bit of information. "So they're claiming that they had to let you go because of economic rationalization?"

"That's right. A company that made over five million pounds profit last year suddenly can't afford to pay my wages." Joe shook his head almost angrily. "And this isn't the first time this has happened."

Nikita sat up a little straighter in her chair. "Rapid turnover?"

Joe's mouth twisted in a mockery of a smile. "You could say that. People disappear overnight from that place. One day they're working there, the next day they're gone. No fanfare. No send offs." He looked at his wife and shrugged. "I've lost track of how many employees have come and gone in the last ten years."

Nikita heard the bitterness in his voice and empathized completely. Something was definitely rotten in the state of Vachek. All she had to do was prove it. Nothing like a challenge, she mused wryly. But despite her reservations, she could feel the adrenalin starting to pump through her veins. She finally had something she could get her teeth into.

"What exactly does the company do?"

Joe let out a heavy breath. "It's a bit complicated. Vachek Holdings Pty Ltd is the parent company, formed by two brothers, Salla and Stefan Vachek, in 1972. Property development. Commercial leasing. Buying up old decrepit buildings, knocking them down and putting up trendy warehouse style residential buildings to be snapped up by yuppies."

Nikita frowned. "You said parent company…?"

"Yes. There's also Vachek Investments and Vachek Projects."

"Busy little family." Nikita looked at her diary notes. "What do the other companies specialize in? Anything that would require shipping their goods around the globe?"

"After working for the Vacheks for ten years, I know that I should be able to tell you, but I can't." Joe shrugged. "I only did systems work for Vachek Holdings."

"All right, I think I have enough information to put together a little something to send your former employers." Giving the young couple a reassuring smile, she closed up their file. "Unless there's anything else that you think I should know?"

Joe seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, his gaze flicking from Nikita to his wife. Slipping an arm around Marina's shoulders, he looked back at Nikita. "Uh, no. There's nothing else."

Nikita looked at Joe carefully. The tips of his ears had turned pink, and he no longer seemed comfortable meeting her eyes.

She sighed to herself. Unless her nice new client had suddenly been accosted by a bout of acute shyness, he had just lied to her. I hate it when they do that, she thought with mild frustration. Why do they always have to fib?

Studying the anxiety in Joe's eyes and the protective arm he'd put around his wife, Nikita thought she knew the answer. Making a mental note to speak with Joe alone as soon as she could, Nikita gave the young couple a quick smile. "I have all your contact details, so I'll email you the draft of the letter this afternoon. If you're happy with it, we can start the ball rolling, so to speak."

Both Draskovics shook her hand on the way out, and for a moment she thought Marina was going to hug her in sheer relief. Thankfully, she settled for a warm smile and let her husband escort her through the double front doors. As he held the door open for her, Joe pressed a kiss to Marina's cheek. Nikita heard her soft peal of laughter; saw the flirtatious yet tender smile that brightened the other woman's pale face.

Watching them leave arm in arm, Nikita was unhappily aware of a dull pang of longing tightening her throat. Despite their woes, the Draskovics were obviously and completely mad about each other.

Why do I suddenly feel as though I'm missing out on something? Giving herself a mental shake, Nikita walked slowly back to her office. She had a boyfriend. She had a life, despite constant assertions to the contrary by both Walter and Birkoff.

Nikita thought of Gray and frowned slightly. From the hints he'd been dropping for the last month or so, she knew he was working up the bravado to ask her to move in with him. The thought was enough to make her feel faint. Not with excitement, but rather with panic.

Moving in with Gray also meant moving in with his three-year old daughter Casey. And as much as Nikita loved both of them, she wasn't sure she was ready to be an instant mother. And that was what worried her…if she really loved Gray, shouldn't she be jumping at the chance to play Happy Families?

Dismissing her distracting thoughts as best she could, Nikita went in search of her research assistant. It was time to do a little digging.

With a rising sense of despair, Marina Draskovic watched her husband push away his barely touched lunch. She bit back a sigh, reached for her wineglass, and took a very long sip. She had talked him into having lunch at a small, busy, Irish pub around the corner from Wirth & Wirth, overriding his protests about the cost and her time away from work. It was an outing they could ill afford, but she was determined to keep their lives as normal as possible for as long as she could.

Striving to keep her voice light, she casually stole a thick cut potato chip from his abandoned plate, and rolled her eyes at him. "I'm not sure how happy I am about these new eating habits of yours, Joseph…they're playing havoc with my girlish figure."

Joe gave her a sad smile and she looked away, tears pricking warmly behind her eyelids. They both knew why he wasn't eating. It was the same reason he wasn't sleeping. The same reason they were suddenly watching every penny. A graphic designer with a medium sized advertising firm, Marina found herself working late nearly every night, to bring in some extra money. Joe looked for work during the day and at night looked after Molly, their three-year old daughter. Marina couldn't yet bring herself to take away the little girl's beloved daycare center, expensive as the rates were. It would only be an admission of defeat.

They would manage somehow. Marina swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, and tried not to think of how they would manage the mortgage payments on their Holland Park terrace house, once the money from Joe's severance package was exhausted. If this had happened a few years ago, they would have been okay. There would only have been the two of them, and they still would have been living in that ancient little rented apartment, madly saving every penny for a deposit on a house of their own. It would have been tough, but they would have managed.

But now…Marina took a deep breath and pushed her own plate away. Now, they had Molly. They had heavy-duty financial commitments. Four weeks ago, she would never have dreamed they would be living off one income, and a rather modest income at that. When Joe had first been retrenched, she'd briefly considered asking her parents for financial help. Well, five seconds counts as briefly.

Five years ago, her parents had made it plain they saw her marriage to ‘that computer repairman' as a personal insult to all they had done for her. Sadly for all concerned, her parents were snobs who would have preferred to match her up with the weak-chinned son of their life-long best friends. Unfortunately for her parents, Marina just couldn't get past the fact that Nicholas Brassingthwaite the Third was a drunken idiot who used to throw frogs and snails at her when they were children.

The very thought of seeing her mother gloat over Joe's misfortune, was enough to turn her stomach. So much so, that she hadn't quite gotten around to telling them Joe wasn't working. As for Joe's parents…well, they'd died of cancer, ten months apart, when Joe was nineteen. For the last five years, all they'd had was each other. Just the two of them. When Molly had come along, two had become three. It had always been enough.

It wasn't enough any more. She felt very alone. Every day, it got harder to keep her increasingly pessimistic thoughts to herself. Joe had always been the positive one, while she was the worrier. It had always been a joke between them. Mr. Ying and Mrs. Yang. But now Joe, the eternal optimist, was changing right in front of her eyes. Every single day, she saw a little more light go out of his eyes. Heard the new, hard bitterness that crept into his easy way of speaking.

Joe never said the actual words to her, but she knew he felt betrayed. Marina could see it in his eyes. He had never worked for anyone but Vachek Holdings. He had never wanted to work for anyone else, despite being approached by several IT companies over the last ten years — companies that had all been eager to secure the talents of an up-and-coming workaholic. His first loyalty had been to Vachek's company. So much for loyalty being rewarded, she thought resentfully.

The cruelest development of all was that Joe had approached every one of those companies during the last month, looking for work. And every one of those companies had turned him down. It was as though his termination by Vachek Holdings had made him a pariah in the local IT community.

Forcing a smile to her lips, Marina laced her fingers through Joe's, and squeezed his hand as it lay on the tabletop. "So, what do you think of our new solicitor?" They'd already discussed Nikita Wirth at length when they had first left her office, but Marina was suddenly at a loss for a safe topic. This…thing was taking over their lives, and she hated it.

Joe gave her hand an understanding squeeze, and wriggled his eyebrows at her. "She's certainly a change from old Poncenbey."

Marina smiled wryly at the mention of her parents' antiquated and decidedly crusty family solicitor. "That, my dear, is something of an understatement." She shuddered at the thought of trying to explain their current situation to Tristin St John Poncenby, QC. She could just picture him looking down his long, quivering, red-tipped nose at them; his private belief that the employer was always right more than evident on his pale and pasty face.

Baulking at the thought, Marina had asked around her acquaintances for a recommendation. One of the women in her design team had recently had some changes to her will done by a small but competent firm in the city. The female solicitor who had done the work had apparently been thorough, down to earth and intelligent. When her friend had mentioned the firm's flexible payment structuring, Marina knew her search was over.

Yes, Nikita Wirth was definitely a change for the better. Not only did she appear to believe Joe's story, she actually made Marina feel as though they had a chance. "I like her."

Joe smiled faintly. "So do I." He reached out and tucked a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear, his fingertips trailing lightly down to stroke her neck. "I finally feel as though I'm actually doing something about this whole bloody mess."

She leaned into the gentle caress of his hand, letting his touch soothe her slightly jangled nerves. The sadness in his voice made her chest feel tight and achy. "It's only been a month, Joe. Bloody messes always take a little time to sort out, don't they?"

As Nikita walked down the hallway, she thought again of her lunchtime discoveries and shook her head in amazement. Birkoff had only worked for her for eighteen months, but he was right. She couldn't do without him. His computer knowledge and research skills had quickly become invaluable. But more than that— if anyone had asked, Nikita would have said they'd become good friends.

It was a shock to realise now how little she'd actually known about him. She'd never really asked. He'd had good references, and they had just ‘clicked.' It was as simple as that. And after Birkoff had started working for them, she'd been so absorbed in building up their client base that she had let anything else fall by the wayside. Too busy schmoozing potential clients with free legal seminars to bother asking one of my key staff members anything about himself.

Silently chiding herself for being so single-minded, Nikita strode down the long hallway. Her target was sitting in his rather small office with his back to the door. Standing in the open doorway, Nikita shook her head and smiled. Birkoff may have muted the sound on his PC, but she could still see his computer screen. Obviously the cosily confessional atmosphere of their lunch date had left him feeling secure enough to play Quake during office hours.

"Birkoff!"

His head snapped up and the joystick went flying across the keyboard, as though he was hoping to hide the evidence. As he turned to look at her, his square-framed tinted glasses slid down his nose, giving him a slightly disorientated look. "Don't do that!"

Biting back a grin, Nikita strolled over to him and dropped the Draskovic file into his lap. Making her voice as stern as she could, she delivered her instructions. "I need you to find out whatever you can about this company. Who's on the board of directors…if it has any parent companies or subsidiaries…anything at all. Go back as far as you can."

He nodded meekly, pushing his glasses back into place with a decidedly shaky index finger. "Sure. I'll get on it right away."

Nikita raised her eyebrows at him and flicked a glance at the abandoned joystick, still doing her best to sound displeased. "I'm glad to hear it."

He looked so forlorn that it became impossible to keep her stern façade from cracking. Birkoff let out his breath in a heavy sigh of relief. "Jeez, I though you were going all official on me there for a second."

She patted him on the head playfully. "Never. By the way, I also need you to find out what law firm represents Vachek Holdings. I'll have a friendly little letter to send them this afternoon."

Birkoff was already firing up the modem and flicking through the file but he spared her a quick glance. "I don't know which law firm, but we already know who their legal mouthpiece is."

Nikita leaned against the doorframe and watched Birkoff's South Park screensaver dissolve into nothingness. "Well, I don't. Should I?"

Birkoff rolled his eyes, and dug out a glossy magazine from underneath a pile of paperwork on his desk. Nikita vaguely recognized it as Hello! magazine, the bible for social climbers and titled young rebels alike. What Birkoff was doing with a copy was anyone's guess. Perhaps he liked looking at the paparazzi shots of the young female members of the Royal Family in their bikinis.

He started flicking through the pages, mumbling almost to himself. "This issue is a couple of months old. I knew I'd seen the name Vachek before." Pages flicked. "You know the guy I mean…that French guy. The barrister."

"Birkoff, there are thousands of barristers in the greater London area alone. Why on earth should I know which one of them advises Vachek Holdings?"

Birkoff folded back the pages of the magazine and handed it to Nikita. "You'll never find out anything useful if you don't read the social pages." He pointed to a full-page, black and white picture. It was a posed shot – a laughing group of people dressed as though for a day at the races. Smiling women in big hats held glasses of champagne. Men in suits tried not to look as though they'd rather a poke in the eye than another glass of champagne.

Birkoff's finger landed on a swarthy middle-aged face. "That's Salla Vachek there. I think he's the Big Man." Tall and heavyset, Joe's former employer seemed to glower back at her. His features were coarse, his eyes small and dark in a fleshy face. Despite the broad smile stretching his thin lips, there was a predatory air about him that made Nikita uneasy.

Nikita's eyes scanned the photograph quickly. Three males, two females. Both women wearing such ridiculously large hats, that it was impossible to see their faces. The man standing on Vachek's right would have to be a brother or cousin. He had the same heavy build, the same facial structure. The same cold eyes.

Nikita shivered inwardly and shifted her gaze once more. To her consternation, as she stared at the third man in the photograph, her heart did a funny little lurch.

He stood to the left of Salla Vachek, a large-hatted woman clinging adoringly to his arm. And, he was one of the most amazing-looking men she'd ever laid eyes on.

Intrigued, Nikita tapped a fingertip on the arresting face, studying it with more than a little interest. He didn't look like any man she'd ever met before. Whoever he was, and she assumed he was one of Vachek's cronies…he was definitely a unique specimen. And an eye-catching one at that, she mused.

Birkoff's chatter became just a noise in the background as she stared at the man in the photo. Her initial impression was that he wasn't really her type. A little bit too handsome. Nose a little too patrician. Chin just a little too stubborn.

She looked harder, and realised with surprise that his hair was quite long; it seemed at odds with the conservative Ascot approved suit he wore. The dark wavy hair was ruthlessly brushed back from his face to almost, but not quite, touch his shoulders. Pale eyes. He has cold eyes too, she thought suddenly. Her gaze went lower and she felt a little flutter of warmth in her belly. His eyes might be cold, but that mouth…

Nikita blinked, shocked at the R-rated thoughts that leapt into her head. She didn't know this man from Adam. What was she thinking?

Unnerved, she looked at Birkoff. "Who is that?"

The words were out of her mouth before she could help herself. Birkoff grinned at her triumphantly. With a sinking heart, she knew exactly what his answer was going to be.

"Why, my dear Ms Wirth." His fake English accent was excruciatingly bad, but Nikita hardly noticed. She was too busy staring at that face, trying in vain not to wonder what it would look like in colour. "That's the barrister I was talking about. That's Vachek's legal counsel. Michael Samuelle."

He was deep in thought, yet the cell phone's quiet ring pulled him instantly out of his reverie. Without lifting his eyes from the document in front of him, he reached inside his jacket to retrieve the insistently bleating phone.

"Yes?"

The conversation was brief and one-sided. He listened intently for a few moments before a meaningful pause from the other end indicated a reply was required.

"I understand."

A final terse word in his ear was quickly followed by the soft hum of the dial tone. Shaking his head, he barely had time to flip the cell phone shut before the speaker on his office telephone crackled into life.

"Mr Samuelle? Mr Vachek on line one for you."

He inwardly winced at his new secretary's mangled pronunciation of both surnames, and reached out to press the flashing red button. Seconds later, the heavily accented voice of his most demanding client echoed softly through the office.

"Michael."

Michael continued making notes on the latest brief he'd received from Vachek Holdings' in-house solicitors, a refreshingly legitimate, albeit complex, application for a building license. "Good morning, Salla."

A slight pause. "Not quite." There was a subtle menace in the other man's voice that Michael recognised only too well.

"A problem?"

"An ex-employee is causing some trouble."

"How?"

"He's hired a solicitor to bring a case of unfair dismissal. Some piddling little firm served documents on us late yesterday afternoon."

Under different circumstances, Michael might have been amused by the outraged disbelief in his client's voice. The mere thought that an ex-employee would dare take such a step, appeared to come as a shock to Salla Vachek. And yet Michael had handled several such matters for him during the course of the last five years.

Finishing his final notes, Michael closed the brief folder and issued his client a polite reminder. "It wouldn't be the first time that a former employee has taken this course of action."

"You're quite right." Another heavy sigh. "Such a litigious world we live in. Take care of it for me, would you?"

Michael glanced at the imposing piles of paperwork relating to Vachek Holdings already covering his desk, then closed his eyes for a split-second, his mind racing. The next eight weeks were crucial. Timing was everything. For them to have come this far, only to fail in their objective, would be unacceptable.

There was some comfort in the knowledge that a wrongful dismissal case against Vachek Holdings had never made it to court. Similar matters had been brought to a close with an out-of-court settlement, some by far less savoury means. This latest development shouldn't pose any more of a problem than the previous incidents.

"I'll have one of my clerks pick up the documents this morning."

"I was hoping you might come to my office. After all, there are other things for us to discuss, yes?"

Michael paused, thinking of the thick pile of documents he had delivered to Vachek's office the day before. "Your conference next month?"

"Yes. I've looked through the proposed agenda, and have made some changes. I'd like you to take a look at them."

Such a polite conversation. Nothing had passed between his client and himself that could possibly be misconstrued or taken out of context in the unlikely event of the conversation being overheard. Salla Vachek was nothing, if not a careful man.

"Of course." Michael did a quick mental calculation. "But I'm afraid the earliest I can get to you is four this afternoon."

A small hint of warmth crept into his client's voice. "That will be fine. Thank you, Michael." There was a discreet pause. "Elena and I very much enjoyed your company last night. We must see if you can find the time to repeat such a pleasant experience while Elena is still in London."

Michael hesitated for a few seconds. While he recognized the suggestion for what it really was - a polite demand - he had no intention of letting himself become enmeshed in Salla Vachek's matchmaking endeavours. Elena Vachek was an attractive young woman who would no doubt make someone a very loving, very subservient wife. The realisation that his client had focused on him as the potential recipient of such love and devotion caused a cool finger of dread to trail down his spine.

Nevertheless, to reject the suggestion out of hand would be to offend his client ~ something that he wanted to avoid at all costs. Forcing a smile into his voice, Michael opted for caution.

"I'm sure that could be arranged."

"That's the barrister I was talking about. Vachek's legal counsel. Michael Samuelle."

For a long moment, Nikita didn't say anything. She just perched herself on the edge of his desk and stared at the magazine. Ordinarily, Birkoff wouldn't have minded the fact that she was sitting on his desk. After all, he was only human. And male. And breathing.

But right now, she was weirding him out. "You all right?"

His boss blinked and looked up. Her smile was a little forced. "I'm fine. Why?"

"I don't know. You just seemed to be zoning out there."

"Sorry. Got a lot on my mind, I guess." She was still studying the photograph as Birkoff leaned over to take another look for himself.

Ugh. The Vacheks had definitely been hit over the head with the ugly stick. And they not only looked ugly, they looked mean. "Those two Vachek guys look like thugs."

Nikita shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle."

Birkoff turned back to his computer and quickly dialed up the modem. "Want me to dig a little deeper? Get some background stuff on them?"

There was no reply. He glanced over his shoulder at his boss. To his surprise, she was still looking at the magazine.

"Nikita?"

She looked up with a start. "Sorry, what did you say?"

Birkoff repeated the question. Nikita nodded quickly. "Sure." Her gaze dropped to the magazine in her hand once more. As Birkoff studied the absorbed look on her face, a little theory sprang to life in his head. Grinning to himself, Birkoff leaned back and linked his hands behind his head.

"About the Vacheks or about their barrister?"

Nikita snapped the magazine shut and dropped it onto his desk. "What do you mean?" She seemed flustered by the question.

Woah. Can we say ‘defensive'? Birkoff looked down at the magazine, then up at Nikita. He knew he wasn't imagining the faint blush stealing across her face. Very interesting. He leaned forward, carefully enunciating his words. "Do you want me to find out as much as I can about the Vachek brothers and Michael Samuelle?"

Nikita looked slightly abashed. Sliding off his desk, she dusted some non-existent lint from the front of her jacket and nodded. "Hmmm, yes please."

Birkoff watched her beat a hasty retreat. He smirked. Very interesting indeed.

Two hours later, Nikita was back. Carrying a huge mug of tea, she leaned against his office door a little too casually. "So, what have you got?"

Birkoff gestured toward his screen. "I pulled a lot of stuff off the net. The company was floated on the share market two years ago, so it wasn't too hard to find the basic stuff." He wrinkled his nose up as she leaned across him. The smell of her Earl Gray tea always made him want to sneeze. "I don't know why you drink that stuff. It stinks."

Nikita patted him on the head indulgently. "It's an acquired taste. Like sushi." She peered at his monitor. "Anything scandalous?"

He shook his head. "Nope. It's all boringly legitimate so far. But I did manage to unearth some more photos. I printed them for you." Watching her face, he handed her a manila folder. "That Samuelle guy certainly gets around."

Nikita opened the folder, quickly scanned the photographs inside, and shut it just as quickly. She raised an eyebrow at him, her expression otherwise neutral. He did, however, detect more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone as she queried, "More social pages?"

"Mostly. There's an old university snap from Cambridge in there. He apparently graduated at the top of his year. With honours. Got some sort of ancient award for achievement too."

Nikita casually sipped her tea, but Birkoff had the sudden feeling she was back in the Weird Zone again. "How is it that he was able to study at Cambridge? Didn't you say he was French?"

Birkoff shrugged. "My guess is that he's got dual nationality. If he's actually working here, one of his parents or grandparents must have been born in the UK." He grinned at her. "Like yours truly."

Nikita nodded almost vaguely, and tucked the folder under her arm. "Thanks. Keep going with that other stuff, would you?" Then for the second time that day, Birkoff watched Nikita stride out of his office as though the devil was snapping at her heels.

Nikita yawned languidly and reached for her second cup of coffee. She was exhausted. It had been one o'clock this morning by the time she'd finally flopped into her queen-sized bed. But as tired as she'd been, sleep had eluded her. There had been too many facts, figures and faces whirring around in her head.

One face in particular, much to her discomfort. Every time she'd closed her eyes, she'd seen Michael Samuelle's cool, pale stare.

After lying awake for over an hour, she'd decided that enough was enough. Hauling herself out of bed, she'd spent twenty minutes dozing fitfully in a hot bath. When the water had begun to cool, she'd dragged herself back to bed. After using every relaxation technique she'd learnt in her long ago yoga classes, she'd finally fallen into a restless sleep.

The alarm clock had rung about five minutes later, or so it seemed to her groggy mind. And now, four hours later, she was sitting in her office, chugging espresso. She felt as though she was nursing a massive hangover, but without all the fun of drinking the tequila shots.

She'd spent the last few hours preparing the final account statements on several files. The work in itself wasn't urgent, but she wanted to clear her calendar and her desk completely. Nikita had the distinct feeling that the Draskovic matter was going to prove time-consuming. Her time, to be precise.

If I was working for someone else, I'd be complaining about the hours right about now, she thought with a weary sigh. After drafting a Notice of Intent, she'd emailed it to Joe for his approval late yesterday afternoon. He'd rung her immediately to give her the go-ahead, but it had still been a rush to serve the documents on Vachek Holdings by close of business. Of course, it could have waited until this morning, but she'd been anxious to get things moving.

Happily, the process servers used by Wirth and Wirth was a small organisation consisting of two twenty-something males, one of whom continually professed his undying love for Nikita, the other for Birkoff. They were always eager to please, and seemed to regard rush jobs as an opportunity to score points.

Nikita had then worked until after midnight, painstakingly going through all the data on Vachek Holdings Birkoff had pulled off the Internet at her request. She was pleased with what she'd managed to accomplish, but unfortunately it had meant that she'd had to cancel her plans with Gray. And he had not been happy.

Satisfied that she had dealt with all her other pending work, Nikita brought up the Draskovic file and began to sift through the documents, profit statements and company prospectus she had been working on last night. But much as she tried to concentrate on what she was doing, she found herself fuming silently, thinking about Gray's ill-tempered reaction to her phone call last night.

He'd been ominously silent as she'd made her apologies. Then, in a cold, sad voice, he had practically accused her of putting everything else in her life ahead of him. He'd managed to make her feel guilty, and Nikita was angry with herself for letting him do it.

Why do I get the feeling there are two different sets of rules here?

In addition to the long hours he put in at his modest, but well-regarded architectural firm, Gray was a single father. His wife Fiona had died two years ago, leaving him to bring up their now four-year old daughter Casey alone.

In the past, he had cancelled plans. He had broken dates. He had put his work ahead of her when he'd had to. And Nikita had understood; a concept that Gray seemed to have a little trouble grasping when the situation was reversed. The atmosphere between them when she'd ended the call last night had been frosty, to say the least.

Trying to ignore the niggling voice inside her head that was busily reminding her how much she hated men who sulked, Nikita began checking the notes she'd made last night on the financial prospectus for Vachek Holdings. Birkoff had managed to procure this document by posing as a potential on-line investor. He's getting to be quite the little detective, she thought with amusement.

To her dismay, after a few minutes, her thoughts began to wander again. She kept her eyes on the glossy pages in front of her, but she didn't feel like reading anymore. What she wanted to do was open that folder Birkoff had given her yesterday afternoon.

This is bad, Nikita thought. Thanks to Birkoff, she was now the proud owner of one Hello! magazine as well as four photographs of Michael Samuelle. She'd spent so much time looking at the photos last night; she could now tick them off in her head, one by one.

There was a grainy picture from his university days. It was rather interesting, to say the least. He looked so young and his hair was quite appalling. But it was his broad smile that had caught her eye. At the age of twenty, Michael Samuelle looked relaxed and almost indecently happy. Compared to the later photos Birkoff had given her, there was quite a contrast. It made her wonder what had happened to turn that happy looking university student into the cold-eyed matinee idol featured on page 112.

Then there were three more black and white pictures from older issues of Hello! magazine. They had been taken at various social events over the last few months. Birkoff was right. Michael Samuelle certainly did get around. Art Gallery openings. Another race day. A premiere of a new art house movie. And in each photograph, there was a different woman on his arm. All of them rather vapid looking brunettes, Nikita noted with a perverse sense of satisfaction. But all three women had been achingly beautiful, and the sight of Michael Samuelle dressed in black tie had made her thankful she'd been sitting down.

Stop it. Don't you think you looked at them enough last night? Annoyed with herself for acting like a love-struck teenager, Nikita cracked her knuckles and went back to her reading. Very industriously at first, then slower and slower, her gaze finally drawn back to the folder on her desk, like an idiotic moth to a roaring bonfire.

Before she'd left the office last night, she had pushed the folder underneath a pile of papers and tried to forget about it. Out of sight, out of mind. Unfortunately, that strategy hadn't worked. Nikita frowned and reached for her coffee again, more to keep her hands occupied than anything else. This was, indeed, very bad. I have work to do. I'm much too busy to be spending time goggling at a picture of a shady fat cat businessman's smoking gun for hire.

"Damn it."

Accepting the inevitable, but still calling her research assistant a rather colourful name under her breath, Nikita stopped reading the prospectus and pulled the folder out from its hiding place. One quick look. Just to familiarize myself with the enemy. That's all.

While her brain was busily fobbing off her common sense with some heavy-duty denial, her hands were quickly flicking through the pages of the magazine. Why wouldn't I be curious? I'm about to send these people a nasty letter. It's perfectly normal to want to take a peek at them. Flick. Flick. Where are those damn social pages?

As though testing her resolve, Nikita made herself read the accompanying caption before she let her eyes anywhere near the photograph in question.

Salla Vachek, chairman of Vachek Holdings, enjoys the mornings' races at Ascot with friends and family.

A list of names followed: Stefan Vachek. Suzanne Parkinson. Andrea Karsov. Michael Samuelle.

Michael Samuelle. Nikita chewed on the end of her pen as she stared at his sculptured features, trying to work out why he'd had such an instant and unsettling effect on her. For startes, she didn't even like dark-haired men. And he looked so serious. She liked men who had a ready smile, men who looked as though they'd be nice boys, to put it plainly.

Michael Samuelle was smiling, but it was nothing more than a subtle curving of his rather attractive mouth, a secretive little smile that did very odd things to her insides. Nikita let out a slightly shaky breath, increasingly fascinated despite her better judgment.

Michael Samuelle did not look as though he would be a nice boy. He looked as though he would be a very bad boy indeed.

The thought sent a little flock of butterflies winging through her stomach.

"This is ridiculous." Annoyed, Nikita shoved the magazine back into the folder. Without looking at any of the other pictures, she slipped the folder into the bottom drawer of her desk. By sheer force of will, she managed to continue reading the achingly dull financial prospectus, but she was conscious of a lingering feeling of restlessness.

Her reaction to Michael Samuelle's physical appearance wasn't the only thing worrying Nikita. Using the usual legal search engines, Birkoff had dug up the details of several trials for which Michael Samuelle had been the advising barrister. Last night, as she had read through them, her heart had sunk lower and lower with each new case study.

He was good. He was very good.

She had kept reading, hoping that the next trial would have a different outcome. Negligence. Breaches of the Workplace Health and Safety Act on several building sites. In every one of the eight case studies Birkoff had unearthed, Michael Samuelle's client, in Nikita's learned opinion, should have lost. However, the court had found in favour of Vachek Holdings every single time. It was slightly unnerving.

When her phone rang, she reached for it gratefully. "Nikita Wirth."

"My, don't we sound professional?"

At the sound of Carla's voice, Nikita smiled and leaned back in her chair. "Hey there. What are you up to?"

"Not a lot." Her best friend sounded as though she'd just woken up. The life of a musician, Nikita mused enviously. She heard Carla yawn, then the sound of a cigarette lighter being expertly flicked. This was followed by a satisfied sigh.

Nikita rolled her eyes disapprovingly even though Carla was miles away and safely out of visual range. "Inhaling your breakfast again?"

"You bet."

"Those things will kill you."

"Something has to."

Nikita grinned into the receiver. How many times had they had this conversation? Carla had started smoking when they were both eighteen, which made it more times than Nikita cared to count.

Carla yawned in her ear again, and Nikita felt her own eyes water in sympathy. "You should have been there last night, Nik. I was great."

Nikita sat bolt upright, memory and guilt colliding with a dull thud. "Oh, Carla, I'm so sorry." Her friend made a half-decent living playing her beloved acoustic guitar and singing in various smoke-filled venues around the city. Last night was the third time in two months Nikita had failed to materialize at one of her performances.

"I forgive you. Thousands wouldn't, but I do." Underneath the mock petulance, she could hear the smile in Carla's voice. "Did you work late again?"

Nikita linked her fingers and stretched her hands out in front of her, feeling the muscles across her shoulders twinge in protest. "Uh-huh. Until midnight. Listen, about last night. I'm so sorry…I forgot all about it."

"It's okay. I'm over it. It just means that I will be forced to subject you to a private performance on your balcony next time you invite me over."

Nikita winced at the memory of the fallout from Carla's last impromptu concert on her balcony. It wasn't that she was a bad musician. Far from it. She played the guitar beautifully and sang like an angel with a pack a day habit. It was the time of three o'clock in the morning that had seemed to offend Nikita's neighbours.

Nikita stared at the framed picture of Gray and his daughter Casey upon her desk, her guilt level spiking once more. "If it makes you feel any better, I had to ditch Gray too."

"I guess he wasn't too happy about that." There was a hint of malicious satisfaction in Carla's voice. She didn't think much of Gray Wellman, and Nikita was unhappily aware the feeling was mutual.

"You guess correctly."

"That man wants you barefoot and pregnant, Nik."

Nikita chewed the end of her ballpoint pen in quiet agitation. "So you keep saying." Carla never missed an opportunity to voice her belief that Gray hated the thought Nikita's life might not revolve solely around him. The topic of conversation had always made Nikita feel uncomfortable, and this morning was no different. Probably because it was becoming harder and harder to convince herself Carla was wrong.

"Well, I have to return the favour somehow, don't I? You and your ‘menthol sticks of death' speeches." They laughed together briefly, then Carla spoke again, sounding almost animated. "Okay, I'll make a deal with you, Nik."

"I can't wait to hear this."

"I'll give up the cigarettes, and you tell that clinging vine of a boyfriend of yours to get a life, preferably one without you in it. What do you think?"

Without conscious thought, Nikita's gaze dropped to the bottom drawer of her desk. What do I think? I think I'm in big trouble, that's what I think.

She took a deep breath, praying she didn't sound as uncertain as she suddenly felt. "I think I'll have to get back to you on that one, Carla." After exchanging farewells, Nikita pushed back the chair and left her office. She needed to talk to Walter.

As usual, their resident patent attorney was ensconced in the library, rather than his own office. According to Walter, the library smelled better. His newly refurbished office smelled of paint and carpet, whereas the library smelled of old books, wood and furniture polish. ‘It's got more character, Sugar' was a familiar catchphrase.

Nikita stood at the door and watched him for a few moments as he sat at the long oval table, half of which was completely covered in reference books and metallic odds and ends. No wonder Birkoff has to do his research in the back office, she thought with a tolerant smile.

"Hey Walter."

Blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he beamed up at her. "Hi ya, Sugar." Nikita ignored the mess he had made on her beautifully restored walnut table, her grin widening. Having Walter in her life was worth any amount of scratches on the antique furniture. As far as Nikita was concerned, the advent of her mother's only brother into their lives when she was twelve had been little short of a miracle.

Her parents had never married. From the sparse details that Nikita had gleaned from her mother, the relationship had been a tempestuous one. Her father's position as a senior official with the UN had meant that he was never home long enough to settle in one place. He'd met Nikita's mother, a beautician, on a whirlwind trip to New York City. They were instantly infatuated with each other, and before Roberta knew it, she was being dragged around the globe twice over.

Nikita had been born when they were living in Australia, and for a short while, life became less nomadic. Then one day, when Nikita was four years old, she'd woken up to discover that her father didn't live with them anymore. Apparently, infatuation wasn't a lifetime kind of thing.

Fortunately, after a little while, Nikita could barely remember her father. Unfortunately, Nikita's mother, Roberta, remembered him all too well. By the time she was ten years old, Nikita knew what it was like to live with an alcoholic; knew a child's confusion of looking after someone you desperately wanted to look after you.

When she was twelve, Walter had bulldozed his way into their lives on a private mission to find out how much of a mess his little sister was in. She'd been ignoring his letters and phone calls for over ten years, and he'd finally decided that enough was enough. He'd taken holidays from his not-very exciting job in a small legal firm in Edmonton, Canada, and jumped on a plane to Australia.

Nikita would never forget the look on her mother's face when she'd opened the door that night. She'd tried to shut it again just as quickly, but her big brother was too fast for her. And then they were hugging—hugging each other so tight that Nikita would have sworn she heard her mother's ribs crack. When he'd caught sight of her lurking in the shadows, he'd given her a big smile.

"And who's this?"

Her mother flushed bright red, as though she was embarrassed. "Walter, this is Nikita. Nikita, say hello to your Uncle Walter."

Startled into shyness, Nikita just stood with her back hugging the dining room wall, staring at her new uncle in silence. She'd never seen an old person who dressed the way he did. He was wearing shiny black leather pants, just like the bad guys on TV. He had long hair tied back in a ponytail nearly as long as hers. Uncle Walter's hair was mostly grey, just like Mrs Martin's, her teacher at school, but it had brown bits in it, just like her Mum's. And he had a scarf tied around his head that had all these really pretty patterns on it that he later told her were called paisley.

He'd walked over, held out a hand for her to shake and called her "Sugar." And Nikita had decided there and then, Walter Wirth was the coolest grown-up in the whole world.

He's still the coolest grown-up in the world, if a little odd sometimes, Nikita thought with a snort, spying the open toolbox sitting on the floor next to Walter's chair. As patent attorneys went, Walter had definitely earned his reputation of being one of London's most eccentric. She couldn't remember the last time she saw him in a suit. Nikita smiled to herself. He wouldn't be Walter unless he looked as though he'd just parked his Harley outside. And if she wasn't mistaken, that was a brand new bandana he was sporting around his now completely grey head this morning.

He rarely saw clients these days, preferring to spend most of his time tinkering with his own gadgets. Nikita didn't mind. It was an arrangement that suited them both. She was able to tap into his forty-odd years worth of legal experience, and he was free to continue his quest for the perfect electronic toy.

He'd been so unhappy at that firm in Middlesex, hemmed in by office politics and ‘the goddamn stuffiness of the lot of them'. Even so, it had taken a lot of persuasion on Nikita's part to entice him to come and work with her. He'd viewed Nikita's inheritance from her father's estate with suspicion, to put it mildly. After weeks of cajoling and begging to no effect, Nikita had gone to his office, unannounced and spoiling for a fight.

They stared at each other, identical blue eyes locked in a battle of wills.

"Sugar, I am not going to live out my days sponging off my own niece!" Arms folded. Defiant to the very last.

They'd been arguing for an hour, and Nikita was at her wits' end. She threw her hands up in the air, as frustrated tears stung her eyes. "Walter, I need you! I don't give a damn if you bring in any fees, or if you spend every day sitting around reading those ‘penny dreadful' westerns of yours!"

His expression softened when he noticed her tears. "I'm an old man, Sugar. You don't need me."

Nikita wiped her eyes with the back of her hand almost angrily, and then she reached out and squeezed Walter's hand very tight. "I…need…you." She shook her head, looking at him pleadingly. "I don't think I can do this without you."

He smiled at her knowingly. "You're such a terrible liar, Sugar. We both know that you could do this with one of those long skinny arms tied behind your back!" He shook his head, a deep frown scoring his forehead. "Ordinarily, I'd jump at the chance…but it just doesn't feel right. You can afford to hire the best…"

Nikita waved a hand in front of his mouth to shush him. "Walter, you've done more for me than I can ever repay. The money isn't important. All it means is that you can get out of this place before you die of boredom. It means that I can stop worrying whether I can afford my rent next month. "

"But Sugar…"

"But nothing." She flashed him a sly grin. "I'm not completely selfless, you know. I intend to pick your brain mercilessly. And let's face it…two Wirths on the front door looks much more impressive than just one."

Pulling her mind back to the present, Nikita turned her attention back to her uncle. "What on earth are you working on now?"

Walter gave her a smug grin. "This is the one, Sugar. Retirement, here I come!"

Nikita eyed the contraption in his hand. She tried to look impressed, but as far as she could tell, it was a mutant dictaphone with a blue glowing screen. It looked like something out of Lost in Space and, as usual, what purpose it actually served would be Walter's little secret. That was just fine with Nikita. As long as he wasn't doing anything illegal, she didn't want to know. "Well, don't go anywhere just yet. I need your advice on something."

Walter set his latest toy down carefully on the table and, with a theatrical wave of his hand, gestured expansively to the closest chair.

"My door is always open, Sugar."

Nikita sank down into the leather chair, took a deep breath, and got straight to the point. "Do you know a barrister called Michael Samuelle?"

Walter stopped sliding photocopied articles on patent pending around the polished wooden tabletop and looked at her with a frown. "Any particular reason for your question?"

Wondering at his suddenly serious air, Nikita nodded. "We have a new client. He's bringing an unfair dismissal case against Vachek Holdings. Samuelle is their usual choice of barrister."

Her uncle pursed his lips in thought. "You don't say?"

"I do. Any advice?"

Walter was silent for a long moment, and Nikita had the sudden feeling he knew quite a few things, but was debating sharing them with her. Finally, he started stacking his paperwork into neat piles. "Well…I know one or two little tidbits, but it might be a good idea to have a quiet word with Mick."

Nikita fought against the urge to roll her eyes, without success. "Please tell me that you're joking."

Walter shook his head. "I kid you not."

She poked him in the arm. "I thought you were a nice man. I thought you loved me. Why would you want to make your favourite niece waste her time talking to a bottom-feeder like Mick Schtoppel?"

"Sugar, he's not my favourite choice of lunch date either, but you have to admit he has his uses."

Nikita thought about their friendly neighbourhood snitch, and sighed. Walter was right, but she'd be lucky if she got through ten minutes of conversation without bopping Mick on the head with a blunt object.

"I know he does. But what makes you think he can help with this?"

Walter leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, looking for all the world like a wise old sage. "Well…let me put it this way. Mick knows every single low life and player in this city."

"I still don't see…"

"Just take a tip from a wise old man, Sugar, and believe me when I tell you that Salla Vachek isn't quite the legitimate business man he makes himself out to be." He wriggled his graying eyebrows at her. "And neither is his legal counsel."

Nikita put her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands, trying to ignore the sudden queasy feeling in her stomach. "Fine. Fine. I'll talk to Mick." She glared at Walter through her splayed fingers. "Just make sure you're around to bail me out when I'm charged with assaulting His Royal Annoyingness."

Her uncle snuffled under his breath, a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "Sugar, it's the least I can do."