She was running late. Again.

It had taken a bit longer than Nikita had expected to track down Mick Schtoppel. She'd had to call his cell phone at least a dozen times before he'd finally answered. And when she'd finally managed to run him to ground, apparently having a few midday pints at his local dive, it had taken even longer to get a word in edgeways. But once Mick had stopped babbling about the ‘two smashing birds down here playing snooker', she asked him to meet her the next day.

"You're asking me out? Be still my beating heart. I knew you'd come to your senses sooner or later, Popsicle."

She felt like grinding her teeth. "Spare me, Mick. I need some information, and you're the only lowlife I know."

"I'm crushed, darling. Utterly crushed." She heard him talking to someone in the background. "Call that a pint? Look at the head on it! What are you trying to do to me?"

Nikita sighed. "Mick. One o'clock tomorrow. Don't be late."

"What? Oh sorry, love. You should see the beer this geezer's just tried to serve me. It's all froth and no substance, know what I'm saying?"

"One o'clock. Tomorrow."

"Anything for you, my sweet."

Nikita checked her watch again. Thanks to Mick playing The Elusive Snitch, she was now precisely ten minutes late, and she was still five minutes away. She could just picture Gray, standing outside the Indian grocers where they'd agreed to meet, checking his watch every five seconds, his scowl deepening with every passing minute.

He had rung her at the office while she was in the library talking to Walter. For a moment, she'd debated whether or not to take the call. After his petulant behaviour of the night before, Nikita had intended to let him stew for at least another day. But Walter had looked as though he was dying to get back to his tinkering, and Mrs Hannaford had sounded so disapproving when announcing ‘Miss Wirth has a personal call.' that Nikita had swiftly found herself back in her office picking up the extension.

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry."

She smiled. As conversation openers went, that was pretty good. "So you should be."

"I know."

Nikita pushed aside the paperwork on her desk and rested her elbows on the blotter. Lordy, she was tired. "Did you still go to the movies last night?"

"No, I cancelled the babysitter, remember?" He paused almost expectantly, and Nikita had to bite her lip to stop herself apologizing. She had done enough of that last night. Gray's apology obviously didn't count for much once he'd actually said the words.

When she didn't say anything, he went on, a slight hint of martyrdom in his tone. "Casey and I had a riveting evening of Snakes and Ladders and Teletubbies."

"Gray, trust me. I'm betting you had a lot more fun than I did last night." She was getting tired of the guilt trip, and it was hard to keep the irritation she felt from creeping into her voice.

There was a tense pause, then he laughed. "I just did it again, didn't I?"

Despite her determination to stay mad at him, Nikita shook her head and smiled. "Yes, you did. You're a dreadful boyfriend. I think you should buy me lunch to make up for being such a terrible person."

So now she was racing down the street, risking her neck by trotting in her new shoes, just so she didn't upset the person who didn't think twice about making her feel as guilty as hell every time he felt that things weren't going according to plan. Annoyed with herself, she deliberately slowed to a more normal pace. Gray would just have to wait. She wasn't going to kill herself just because he was too damned impatient to wait for her for fifteen minutes.

To make matters worse, Nikita knew very well why she'd been striding down the street in a mild panic. Guilt. Pure, simple, old-fashioned guilt. She'd had someone on her mind all morning, and it hadn't been Gray. Bloody Birkoff and his photographs.

She hitched the strap of her handbag a little higher on her shoulder and puffed out an irritated breath. She couldn't blame Birkoff. She'd asked him to help her find out more about the other side. How was he to know that she was going to start drooling over a photo of a man she'd never met?

Nikita could hardly believe it herself. She thought that she'd gotten over that sort of thing after her crush on David Bowie withered and died when she reached eighteen. God help her if she started pinning up pictures from Hello! magazine on her bedroom wall. The thought made her laugh at herself, and she suddenly felt a little better. A fleeting moment of madness. That's all it had been.

Five minutes later, she reached the little newspaper kiosk near the grocers and caught sight of Gray waiting for her. He was, as she had envisaged, looking down at his watch and scowling. Disappointed by his predictability, Nikita felt her mental heels digging in. Slowing to a halt, she stared at him until he felt her eyes. When he looked up and saw her, she gave him an innocent smile, turned her back on him and bought a drink from the kiosk.

After popping the top of the can, Nikita turned around and walked toward him. Gray still looked slightly annoyed, but a slow grin was curving his lips. Nikita chewed on her straw and gave him a brilliant smile.

"I'm sorry. Have I kept you waiting?"

"A little bit." The look in his eyes changed from amused impatience to an impatience of a different kind. "You look amazing."

She shook her head flirtatiously. "What am I going to do with you?"

His pale blue eyes grew slightly darker. "I have a couple of things in mind."

She took a step closer. "You don't say?"

Gray raised his eyebrows. "I've had a week to think of them."

The intensity of his gaze made her feel uncomfortably warm. It had indeed been a week since they'd had time to do more than snatch a few quick kisses on the run. Nikita felt her skin flush as Gray smiled, his gaze skimming over her from head to toe. It suddenly felt like a lot longer than a week since they'd made love.

No wonder you went all gooey over that picture. Deprivation is a very bad thing.

Their argument apparently all but forgotten, Gray looked at her like a puppy dog just presented with a brand new bone. So why wasn't she happier about it?

Nikita studied Gray's familiar face, his eyes gleaming with love and desire, the endearingly crooked mouth she'd kissed a thousand times. Yes, she wanted him, but…Nikita closed her eyes and tried ruthlessly to shove every lingering thought of Michael Samuelle from her head.

She wasn't entirely successful in her efforts. The strange restlessness that had plagued her for the last twenty-four hours returned with a vengeance. To her horror, the butterflies that suddenly fluttered in her belly had more to do with a remembered black and white image of cool eyes and a warm mouth, than the flesh-and-blood man standing in front of her.

It was the last straw for a conscience already feeling more than a little guilty. Nikita took a step forward and handed her soft drink can to a bemused Gray. She gave him a quick smile before grabbing a fistful of his sweater and reeling him in.

The urgency of her kiss seemed to take him by surprise. After all, they were standing on the pavement in the middle of a lunchtime crowd. Nikita didn't care. She needed him to kiss her. Needed him to chase away the phantom face in her head.

When she gently bit his lower lip, he took the hint. His arm went around her waist, pulling her close, kissing her back. Hard. The butterflies in her belly took flight, spreading out through her body, her skin tingling. Thank God.

She broke off the kiss and pulled back, nearly laughing aloud at the stunned look on his face. Nikita reached up and wiped a faint trace of lipstick from Gray's mouth and wrestled the soft drink can back from his tightly clenched grip. "So…what else would you like for lunch today?"

Gray cleared his throat and ran an agitated hand through his spiky hair. "Uh, a sandwich and a coffee was what I was thinking, but now I'm not so sure…" He wrapped his fingers around one of her long blonde plaits and gave it a tug, gently pulling her closer.

Nikita deftly flipped her hair out of his grasp and slipped her arm through his. "Sorry. I can only take an hour for lunch. Can't leave the troops slaving away without me for too long."

He let her steer him down the street to one of their favourite coffee houses, good-naturedly protesting all the way. "Are you sure? Because I know I wouldn't need an hour. Ten minutes would be more than enough."

Nikita gave him a cool look as they reached the entrance of the café. "And you think that's going to help your case?" Gray grinned at her hopefully, but she only shook her head in mock dismay. "You have a lot to learn."

Dave Fanning crushed his empty soft drink can and tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat of the car. Stretching out his long legs as much as the cramped front seat of the borrowed car allowed, he rubbed his eyes and cursed the hand of fate that had tapped him on the head for surveillance duty this morning.

He'd been sitting in this fucking car for four hours. He was bored, he was hungry and he had to take a leak. But he knew how the universe worked. The second he took his eyes off the piss-ant little law firm across the street, the whole world and its dog would come rushing out of the goddamn front door.

He'd already spent an hour this morning taking happy snaps of the ex-Vachek employee and his family playing in the park. The guy had a little upper-crust looking red-haired wife, a nauseatingly cute kid, and a look of defeat about him.

God, he hated doing this shit! Most boring fucking thing in the world…sitting on your ass in a shit heap of a car, waiting to take pictures of people who refused to play the game and come out of their damn offices. But the money was too good to knock back. It even made up for the joyless task of working for a psycho nut job like Vachek. Sighing, Fanning checked his watch and refocused the telephoto lens of his camera. There had to be some action soon. It was nearly one-thirty. Surely these saps had to take a lunch break sometime?

Despite his protestations of boredom, Fanning felt his heart rate pick up speed as the front door of Wirth & Wirth opened. His instructions had been to get everything and everyone that went in and out of the place, but the main goal was to snap the lawyer chick, the one who'd been dumb enough to serve papers on Salla Vachek. If she showed, he was to follow her and do a little bit of digging.

He'd been given some names, but he had no who was who. His first subject was a white male, approximately five foot, eight inches. Brown hair cut into a dorky crew cut. Tinted glasses. Cartoon tie. Jeez. What a loser. Fanning snapped away as the nerd loped along the street. He forgot about his boredom as several other staff members trickled out of the building. It was obviously the official lunch hour. He took photos of everyone who emerged from the front entrance, from the frumpy old battleaxe with the chunky legs to the ageing hippy with a goddamn bandana tied around his head.

He watched the same people straggle back to work an hour later. Still no sign of Nikita Wirth. The only female he'd seen come out of the Wirth & Wirth office so far had been the old bag with the pearls and tweed suit.

His unofficial supervisor Mischa, head of Vachek's security team, had told him that Wirth was a blonde female, twenty-eight years of age. They'd managed to unearth some ancient university photo of her, but they needed something more. They needed some dirt.

Fanning watched the old hippy saunter back up the stairs and shook his head in disgust. What a bunch of freaks…and not a good piece of ass in sight. The occasional free peepshow was the only good thing going for this kind of work, but it was obvious that he wasn't going to be getting any action on this little jaunt.

No sooner had he formed this depressing opinion than the front door opened again. Female. Tall. Long blonde hair pulled into two girlish plaits, the ends tied with strips of black. A tight black suit showed off a body that made him want to throw his head back and howl his appreciation.

Now that is a good piece of ass. Fanning hitched the camera into position, quickly recovering his scattered senses. This was more like it. Nikita Wirth had the longest fucking legs he'd ever had the good fortune to lay eyes on. While she wasn't as stacked as he usually liked, he definitely wouldn't kick her out of bed on a cold night.

She stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, as though trying to decide where she wanted to go. It was an unconscious model's pose and Fanning smiled to himself as he took a sequence of perfectly focused head and shoulder shots. Missed my calling, he thought with a smirk. That's right baby…work the camera.

As he watched her through the lens, the Wirth chick covered her pretty little eyes with a pair of dark glasses, gracefully descended the steps and began to walk briskly along the street. She had a large handbag slung over one shoulder. No briefcase. It seemed to Fanning that this was a social outing, rather than business. Fanning put the camera on the passenger seat and started the car. The midday traffic was heavy enough to allow him to follow closely without being seen. He just hoped that she didn't suddenly decide to jump on a bus or leap into a car. His orders were to follow her, but there was nothing like a high-speed chase to attract a bit of unwanted attention.

Nikita Wirth was walking pretty fast, considering the three-inch 'come fuck me' shoes she was wearing. Her black skirt covered her knees, but was so goddamn tight that he could see every dip and curve of her outstanding ass. He grinned wolfishly. She might still have all her clothes on, but this was turning out to be a quality peepshow after all.

By changing lanes and indulging in some swift maneuvering, Fanning was able to keep the blonde in sight. But ten minutes later, she smiled to herself and suddenly stopped at a small newspaper kiosk, rummaging in her handbag.

Swearing under his breath, he quickly pulled into a car space on the other side of the road, only to watch her buy a can of soda and keep walking.

"Fuck!" Fanning smacked the steering wheel with his hand and checked over his shoulder for oncoming traffic before glancing back at his quarry.

Any further colourful words died on his lips as he saw his quarry was now walking toward a tall fair-haired guy, dressed in a dark green sweater and black jeans, and standing a few feet from the kiosk. She was chewing on her drinking straw and smiling, swinging her handbag from her fingertips playfully. The guy was smiling back. Fanning had his camera whirring and clicking within seconds.

"Well, well, well." He took a couple of shots of the guy, thinking that it couldn't hurt. The more information he could get on this chick, the happier Vachek would be. And a happy Vachek was a well-paying Vachek.

Too bad he couldn't hear what they were saying, but the silent show was still pretty good. The guy suddenly looked serious, the woman smiling but shaking her head. It didn't look like an argument, but they were certainly talking up a storm about something. Fanning gripped the camera a little tighter as the blonde took a step forward, handed her soft drink can to her boyfriend and grabbed the front of his sweater to pull him closer. When she planted a long, wet, no-holds-barred kiss on the guy, Fanning almost dropped the camera into his suddenly aching lap.

Jesus! What a technique! It was all over in a couple of seconds, but he had caught it all. I gotta make a copy of these. Fanning shifted restlessly in the driver's seat, a burgeoning hard-on pressing against the zipper of his jeans. Making a mental note to drop by his favourite lap-dancing establishment later that evening, he refocused the lens with an effort.

Sadly, the excitement ended there. Nikita Wirth and her mystery man chatted for a moment, then slowly walked down the street. They disappeared into the dimly lit depths of a small coffeehouse and Fanning knew that there would be no point in following. The location was too exposed and he could hardly follow them inside and start taking happy snaps. However, he'd worked for Vachek too many times to take anything for granted. Reaching for his phone, he called Mischa.

"Hey, it's Fanning. How are ya?"

Mischa didn't bother to return the greeting. "Is it done?"

"Oh yeah…and then some. Just wait until you see the action shots."

"What do you mean?" Mischa sounded bored.

"I mean that little Miss Muffet has a boyfriend and isn't averse to public displays of affection."

"Where are they now?"

"Having coffee in some dank little hole-in-the-corner. Should I wait?"

"No. Come back to my office and I'll organise your payment. I need those photos as soon as possible."

I bet you do, you old pervert. "I'll be there in thirty." Fanning hung up and gunned the engine, pulling out into the traffic with a grin. Who would have thought that he would end up with a free peep show on this assignment after all?

"Coffee, Michael?"

The younger man smiled politely and nodded. "Thank you."

As though by tactic agreement, the two men kept their conversation carefully bland while Margot, Vachek's secretary of ten years, poured coffee and offered milk and sugar.

When the door clicked shut behind her, Vachek handed Michael a disk and pushed a large brief folder across the table. "My instructions regarding the itineraries for the conference, as discussed."

Vachek watched as Michael flicked quickly through the first few pages of documents, a faint frown of concentration creasing his forehead. After a few moments, the younger man looked up. "Very thorough."

He gave Michael a grimly satisfied smile. "I am, as you are so fond of saying, a careful man, Michael. Orchestrated mayhem cannot be left to chance."

Another polite smile. "I agree."

Vachek eyed his legal counsel thoughtfully. He trusted Michael Samuelle with his life, but it didn't stop him from being curious about the other man's personal beliefs. He often wondered what hidden passions or demons, if any, motivated the brilliant young barrister sitting across from him. Of course, Samuelle's professional and personal history had been thoroughly investigated before Vachek Holdings had retained his services. Vachek was many things, but he was not a trusting man. However, what his sources had revealed about Michael Samuelle had pleased him.

Michael Samuelle's parents had been killed in a motor vehicle accident when he was twenty-one. After their deaths, he had taken a year's deferred leave from his studies and traveled through Europe. While doing so, he left his younger sister Lucy in the care of their only living relative, their paternal grandmother.

A year later, when he returned from his travels to complete his studies, Michael Samuelle appeared to have changed from model student to rebellious young man. Apparently disillusioned by the gilded environment of Cambridge, the formerly quiet and studious young Samuelle had joined several on-campus agitator groups. After leading one particularly violent anti-globalisation protest, he had been arrested. Only the intervention of the university heads, citing his recent personal bereavement, had saved him from criminal prosecution.

Surprisingly, through this self-induced turbulence, Samuelle had continued to excel in his studies. However, Vachek's investigators found notations made by several masters at the university, officially documenting their concern. In similar opinions, they voiced alarm at the thought of such a brilliant legal mind going to waste.

Vachek disagreed. That brilliant legal mind had been anything but wasted over the last five years. Michael Samuelle's highly prized ability of coming within a hairsbreadth of breaking the law, without actually doing so, had most effectively protected his client's interests and reputation. Even more remarkable had been his ability to maintain a well-respected image amongst most of his peers. Vachek could only assume this was due to the fact that many of those peers were indulging in white-collar criminal activity of their own.

He waited until Michael had put both the documents and disk into his briefcase, before pushing another folder across the table toward him.

"This is the other matter I need you to take care of."

"The disgruntled employee?" Michael took the folder and opened it.

"Yes. Joe Dusckovic." He smiled faintly as he watched Michael's eyes widen slightly at the sight of several 8" x 10" glossy surveillance photographs. "Know thine enemy, Michael."

His legal counsel lifted the letter from Wirth & Wirth from the top of the pile, and read it through quickly. "Nicely crafted."

It was high praise coming from a man as non-committal as Michael, and Vachek felt a fresh surge of anger. "Yes. Annoyingly so, I must say."

Michael put the letter down on the desk and picked up the surveillance photographs. He looked at them slowly, one by one, his expression unreadable. If he disapproved of such a practice, he gave no outward sign of it.

Vachek sipped his coffee and gestured toward the photographs in Michael's hand. "Mischa has taken the liberty of making notations on the back of each photo."

Michael turned over the photograph he was holding, an exterior shot of Wirth & Wirth. "This is the law firm representing Draskovic?"

"Yes. Wirth & Wirth. Its principal is a young female lawyer who usually handles deceased estates and neighbourhood disputes." Vachek shook his head in weary disbelief, staring at the offending letter as it lay on the desk between them. "I suppose she thinks suing me will earn her some free publicity."

When the other man made no reply, Vachek glanced up. He was surprised to see a flicker of awareness disturb the carefully schooled expression on Michael's face. Vachek leaned closer and quickly read the notation on the back of the photograph in Michael's hand.

"She's quite stunning, isn't she?"

Michael lifted his eyes from the photograph and gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "Quite." An unspoken addendum of ‘if you like that sort of thing' hung in the air between them.

Vachek found himself almost amused by the uncharacteristic lapse on Michael's part. Almost, but not quite. The last thing he needed at this point in time was for his legal counsel to lose sight of their objective.

However, in the space of a heartbeat, Michael's expression became one of casual indifference once more, leaving Vachek to wonder if he had imagined the sudden gleam of male interest in the other man's eyes.

Putting the photograph in question, a close-up of Nikita Wirth kissing her male companion, back into the folder with the rest of the pictures, Michael closed the file and slipped it into his briefcase. Glancing at his watch, he gave Vachek a faintly apologetic smile. "I do have another appointment…"

"Yes, thank you, Michael. That will be all for now." When Vachek stood, Michael did the same, waiting for Vachek to join him before they walked toward the door. "In the meantime, I'd like you to liaise with Mischa to initiate the usual procedure regarding Draskovic."

Michael hesitated for a split-second. "May I offer a suggestion?"

"Of course."

"Perhaps we should try mediation before resorting to anything more…drastic." As they exchanged a complicit glance, the older man smiled to himself at Michael's delicate phrasing. It was a politically correct way of describing Vachek's preferred method of dealing with any thorn in his side.

"If Ms Wirth is as inexperienced in these matters as your sources believe her to be, she should be easily intimidated." Michael paused for a few seconds, then shrugged. "There should be no need for this matter to go any further."

Vachek studied Michael carefully for a long moment. "I assume that this has nothing to do with the fact that Miss Wirth is decidedly more attractive than your usual opponents?"

Michael returned his gaze steadily, his mouth curving in a humourless, almost bitter smile. "Of course not."

Michael studied the file opened in front of him. He had spent last night and most of the morning making arrangements in accordance with Vachek's latest instructions on the Heads of State conference. Now that that task was completed, it was proving impossible to keep his eyes from straying to the Draskovic brief - especially the surveillance photos fanned out across the top of his desk.

When Wirth & Wirth had served a Notice of Intent on Vachek Holdings late Monday, Salla Vachek had not been pleased. He had dispatched his minions to unearth whatever they could about the small law firm and, in particular, the female solicitor foolhardy enough to attempt bringing the Draskovic matter to trial. Michael frowned and began to read through the report once more, although he already knew it by heart.

To his discomfort, Michael couldn't offer himself a logical reason for his growing interest in the case. It was all standard procedure…nothing that he hadn't already experienced during his five-year association with the Vachek family. He had taken care of many similar situations effortlessly and without the slightest interest in the parties concerned.

Despite his silent self-assurances, every instinct Michael possessed told him this one could prove to be different.

Nikita Catherine Wirth was Australian, but her nationality seemed almost accidental— a result of her parents' wandering natures rather than a deliberate choice. Born in Sydney in 1972, to an English father and American mother, Nikita Wirth appeared to have had rather a colourful upbringing. Her father had returned to England in 1976, without his wife and child. Permanently. However, as Ms Wirth's parents had been co-habiting in a de facto arrangement, divorce proceedings had hardly been necessary.

When she was twelve years old, she and her mother, Roberta, had immigrated to Canada to live with one Walter Wirth, Roberta's brother. When she had finished her schooling at the age of seventeen, she'd moved once more, this time to the UK to study law at Oxford. Quite a young age to move halfway around the world by yourself, Michael mused.

Her uncle had followed her across the Atlantic four years later, after she had finished law school. He was a patent attorney, and Michael could only assume that he had been a major influence on Ms Wirth's choice of career. Now, after several years working for small, nondescript firms, Walter Wirth was the senior partner at his niece's firm.

At 29, Nikita Wirth was unmarried, had no children and lived alone. Roberta Wirth had married an American by the name of Shaun Atkinson in 1988, and now lived in New Jersey. Her father, Philip Jones, had died in 1996, following a lengthy illness. Nikita Wirth had no siblings.

Michael shook his head. In just two days, the bare bones of one woman's life had been split open for public consumption. The ease with which Vachek's investigators had managed to unearth every aspect of Nikita Wirth's life concerned him. The very fact that it concerned him was disturbing in itself. Pushing this thought aside, Michael focused again on the report and read ahead to the paragraph that had been nagging at him ever since he had first read it last night.

Subject is on cordial terms with mother and stepfather. Father died five years ago without having made contact with his daughter. Despite their estrangement, subject was named sole beneficiary of his estate. Subject left her position as third year solicitor at Stanley and Pembroke to establish small law firm with capital acquired from father's estate.

It puzzled him. If Nikita Wirth had been estranged from her father, why had he left his estate to her?

Mischa, Vachek's head of security, had added a memo addressed to Michael, in which he made several additional observations regarding Ms Wirth. Despite an intimate relationship with the male subject in Photograph #14, she lived alone. She worked long hours. To quote Mischa directly, they hadn't been able to detect that the delectable Ms Wirth had much of an inner life.

Michael smiled humorlessly to himself. He hadn't thought Mischa the poetic type. Perhaps researching Ms Wirth for two straight days had left its mark on him. Thinking again of the tall blonde captured in glorious Technicolor in the 8" x 10" photographs lying on his desk, Michael wasn't entirely surprised.

He reached for the surveillance pictures and flipped through them once more, examining them carefully one by one. Joe Draskovic, the former employee, had been photographed with his family in a local park. His wife and young daughter were laughing happily as they played on the swings. However, there was a certain bleakness about the husband's expression that was almost painful to see.

Michael put them aside and picked up the other batch of photographs. One by one, the photographs brought the life and times of Nikita Catherine Wirth to life in his hands. The front entrance of the building where she had her office. A gray haired older man who had been identified as Nikita's uncle, Walter Wirth. Michael raised his eyebrows at the sixty-something year old who was dressed like a twenty-year old biker. Interesting family.

An imposing but matronly looking female, of indeterminate age, with short, rose-tinted hair stalking regally from the building. She was apparently Ms Wirth's secretary. Finally, a young male in his early twenties with a crew cut, tinted glasses and an appalling taste in ties. Michael checked the notation on the back of the photograph. Seymour Birkoff. American. College ‘drop-out'. Interesting employees, too.

Then, as he had the previous two times, he lingered over the last five photographs.

Nikita Wirth was indeed ‘delectable', as Mischa had noted. Studying the long graceful lines of her body, Michael found it easy to understand why Vachek's head of Security had been moved to uncharacteristically flowery language.

He picked up the picture of her striding along the street. Michael eyed the impossibly high heels of the black stilettos she was wearing, and marveled anew at the balancing abilities of the female species.

The shots had been taken yesterday at 1:30pm, as she left her office, presumably for a lunch break. Ms Wirth was dressed in a pinstriped black suit consisting of a short, fitted jacket and a knee-length skirt. A large black handbag was slung over one shoulder.

Michael studied the next few photographs at length, and found himself suppressing an involuntary smile. Nikita Wirth would have been a picture of career-woman elegance had she not been chewing on the straw sticking out of her can of soda, to say nothing of the two pale blonde schoolgirl style plaits that framed her face. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, but nothing could disguise a voluptuous mouth curved into a mischievous smile.

The next photograph revealed the reason for Ms Wirth's wide smile. It showed a tall, blonde man raising his hand in greeting as she approached him. Michael studied the man dispassionately. With his height and fair colouring, he and Ms Wirth could have passed for brother and sister. Michael's eyes fell on the next photograph in the sequence and smiled grimly at the thought. Given the openly affectionate embrace that had been captured by the lens of Vachek's investigator, he very much doubted it.

Michael almost felt like a voyeur as he studied the image, but he didn't look away, drawn by an impulse he was at a loss to understand. The subject of Vachek's report was kissing her lover with a casual sensuality that made Michael's gut tighten.

It had been a very long time since he'd had such a reaction to a woman, least of all a woman he'd never met. Disturbed by the thought, Michel pushed the photographs aside and opened the file once more. In a vain attempt to keep from dwelling on how accomplished Ms Wirth appeared to be in the art of French kissing, Michael took a deep breath and read through the rest of Mischa's memo.

According to Mischa, Nikita Wirth tended to take on ‘bleeding heart' cases. Given the estates work her firm handled, Michael wasn't surprised that Wirth & Wirth had a large number of elderly clients. What interested him was their practice of not asking their clients to pay any legal fees until the matter was concluded, an unusual arrangement in a city firm.

He read on, noting that one of the investigators had spoken to Ms Wirth's secretary on the pretext of being a potential client. The woman proved to be, as the English would say, a sharp-tongued harpy. Nevertheless, she had offered the reluctant assurance that fees were negotiable, based on a client's income. It seemed Ms Wirth liked championing any proverbial underdog that came her way, even if it meant she didn't recoup her costs. It would be cynical of him to assume that she could afford to be generous due to her father's leaving her enough capital to do so. For some reason, Michael sensed that Nikita Wirth would do exactly the same, even if her firm were struggling to break even.

Hardworking. Honest. Caring. Impulsive. Generous.

He frowned. She has no idea what she is getting herself into. Unnerved by the sudden pang of apprehension that assailed him, Michael distanced himself with an effort. Ms Wirth might be an innocent about to get caught up in the complicated world of Salla Vachek, but if she was as smart as all advance reports indicated, it was possible she would emerge relatively unscathed.

His gaze alighted on her photograph once more, and he felt the same unsettling attraction that he had experienced earlier. Apparently as brilliant as she was beautiful, Ms Wirth was a complication he definitely did not need. He returned the photographs to the file and pushed back his chair. He had been working for five hours straight on various matters for Vachek Holdings, and the sudden need for fresh air was overpowering.

He nodded to his secretary as he approached her desk. "I'm unavailable for the next hour, but if Mr Vachek calls, please ask him to try my cell phone."

Theresa Viscano gazed at him with the usual mixture of awe and longing as she stammered out a reply. "Of course." The tip of her nose turning pink, she looked down at her keyboard, flushed with embarrassment. Michael sighed silently. His former secretary had been a no-nonsense, frighteningly efficient woman in her early sixties who preferred the company of women. Unfortunately, she had retired three months ago. Her successor was perfectly competent, but after enduring dinner with Elena Vachek and her father earlier this week, he was weary of blushing beauties who could barely bring themselves to meet his eyes.

To Michael's consternation, there was quite a different woman in his mind as he left the dimly lit entrance hallway of chambers and walked out into the pale warmth of the midday sun. He walked slowly along the street, content to let passersby push past him as he sifted though his thoughts.

Michael couldn't deny that Ms Wirth's striking image appeared to have taken up residence inside his head, but he told himself it was simply a natural reaction to an undeniably beautiful woman. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Judging by the quiet rage his client had shown on receiving Nikita Wirth's politely worded letter, Michael knew this situation required the most meticulous handling. Throw in Vachek's additional extra-curricular activities, and Michael knew he couldn't afford to let anything cloud his judgment. Not now.

As he made his way slowly toward the small cluster of outdoor eateries near his chambers, Michael considered again what he'd learned from Mischa's extensive report. He was quietly confident that Ms Wirth was more than capable of taking care of herself, However, he realized with some dismay, it suddenly seemed to matter a great deal that she prove him right.

"Merci, Mademoiselle."

The elderly French woman dimpled and waved him away with a rusty giggle, girlishly pleased by the rather flattering salutation. Smiling to himself, Michael picked up the folded newspaper and espresso from the counter, and walked toward a vacant table. A couple born and bred in Bordeaux ran his favourite espresso bar; the Thai takeaway he often patronized on his way home from work was owned and operated by a charming family from Pakistan. London was indeed a cultural melting pot.

It was warmer than one would expect for October, and the air was filled with the scents of spicy food and freshly ground coffee. When he first left his office, he'd had no intention of eating lunch in the park. However, his stomach had had other ideas, easily seduced by the sights and smells on offer. After a rare moment of indecision, he'd eaten lunch at one of the many noodle bars. Michael knew purchasing an espresso and a newspaper after he'd eaten was merely a delaying tactic, designed to put off the inevitable return to his office and real life. However, he was in an unusual mood, his thoughts taken over by an odd feeling of disquiet that he couldn't quite shake.

When he heard a familiar voice booming out nearby, he turned his head slightly, grimacing inwardly, as he located its source. Mick Schtoppel was swaggering through the brasserie next door. It was rather hard to miss the smooth-skinned head of one of London's most annoyingly garrulous informants. After a few seconds, more out of curiosity than anything else, his gaze drifted to Schtoppel's companion.

Michael stared in disbelief at the willowy blonde impatiently leading Mick Schtoppel to a secluded corner table. She'd been in his thoughts all morning, and to have her suddenly materialize in front of him was something of a shock. His newspaper and coffee all but forgotten, Michael simply stared like a gauche schoolboy at Nikita Wirth.

He wasn't the only one. Heads turned as the pair made their way through the restaurant, and it wasn't hard to see why. Ms Wirth was an arrestingly beautiful woman. She wore a pinstriped trouser suit that looked as though it had been tailor made for her long, lean body. The unbuttoned jacket revealed a matching waistcoat with a plunging v-neck.

Michael blinked. In an effort to distract himself from his decidedly unprofessional thoughts, he pondered the odds of running into one particular person in a city the size of London. Thanks to Mischa's report, Michael knew the offices of Wirth & Wirth were at least half an hour's walk from this group of eateries, and yet here she undoubtedly was, not five minutes from his chambers. Just what was Ms Wirth doing on his side of the city?

Michael made a half-hearted attempt to return to his newspaper, but it was a lost cause. The oddly matched couple dining in the brasserie next door made much more interesting viewing than the latest gossip from Wall Street. He watched as they took their seats, knowing that he should leave, but unable to make his feet obey. When Ms Wirth slipped off her jacket to reveal lightly tanned bare arms and shoulders, his mouth went dry.

He was too far away to hear their conversation, but it didn't matter. Their body language was far too easy to interpret. Michael smiled to himself when Ms Wirth scowled and slapped Schtoppel hard across the stomach with her menu. He understood her reaction only too well. Mick Schtoppel's company was definitely something to be endured, rather than enjoyed.

He watched as they ordered their meals, then as they talked. The conversation looked to be a somber one. Despite her dark sunglasses, he could see the occasional frown crease Ms Wirth's forehead. Schtoppel appeared to be behaving in his usual manner. Lots of exaggerated hand gestures and eye-rolling. Michael couldn't help feeling more than a twinge of sympathy for Schtoppel's lunch date.

He hesitated at that. Date? It was entirely possible, he supposed. Mischa's report had unearthed one lover - perhaps there were two. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee, refusing to dwell on why he found the thought so repellent.

But as he studied them discreetly, Michael came to the swift, and welcome, conclusion that this was a business meeting. For two reasons. The thought that there could be some kind of romance between Nikita Wirth and Schtoppel was too ludicrous to even contemplate. Secondly, despite their clean track record, Wirth & Wirth had as much right to consort with the likes of Mick Schtoppel as any other customer seeking to buy information. He made a mental note to have Mischa look into Schtoppel's dealings with the small law firm. The report had made no mention of any contact with the well-known informant. Perhaps it had been some time since Wirth & Wirth had utilized his services.

Even as his thoughts raced ahead, Michael was unable to take his eyes off Nikita Wirth. The schoolgirl plaits were gone, replaced by a flaxen blonde mane that framed a heart-shaped face. Intent on her conversation with Schtoppel, she seemed oblivious to the furtively admiring glances aimed at her by several passersby. It didn't appear to be due to any shyness or insecurity. Far from it. Michael's first impression was that Ms Wirth was well aware of her beauty. His second impression was that she couldn't have cared less.

Beautiful, brilliant, and matter-of-fact.

Michael couldn't deny that the more he watched this woman, the more he felt drawn to her. It was an indulgence he couldn't allow. Pulling his gaze away from the amicably bickering couple he gave himself a mental shake. Nikita Wirth could be nothing more than a pleasantly erotic distraction from the grim realities of life. It was time he left.

Mick Schtoppel stopped in his tracks and eyed the open-air café suspiciously, his large dark brown eyes narrowing with fiscal wariness. "The thing is, luv…it's not that I wouldn't love to treat a gorgeous bird like yourself to a slap up meal, but things have been a little tight lately and…"

Nikita gritted her teeth and made a mental note to throttle Walter when she got back to the office. "Mick."

He flashed her a dazzling ‘at your service' smile. "Yes, love?"

Nikita had known him for far too long to be taken in by the sudden show of good manners. "Do us both a favour and drop the ‘lovable Cockney rascal with a heart of gold' routine. That stopped working on me a long time ago." She brushed past him and headed for an empty table tucked away in a discreet corner. She'd deliberately chosen a meeting place well away from her usual lunchtime haunts. Nikita had no intention of letting anyone she knew see her having lunch with Mick Schtoppel.

The last few days had been trying, to say the least. She always became a bit snippy when she hadn't had enough sleep. However at this point in time, her lack of sleep was the last thing on her mind.

Gray had finally asked her to move in with him. She'd been expecting (and dreading) the question for weeks. Every time she'd imagined him asking her, she had had a different answer in mind, yo-yoing back and forth between ‘yes, I'd love to' and ‘no, I can't think of anything worse.' And yet when Gray had taken a deep breath and asked her yesterday over coffee, there had only been one answer in her head.

No.

Of course, she hadn't just blurted that out. Quietly panicking, she'd told him that she wasn't quite ready for that step yet. That she needed some time to think about it.

Reluctantly bringing her thoughts back to the present, she sat in one of the two chairs and glared up at Mick as he dithered uncertainly around the table. "Sit down. Shut up. We're having lunch. If I must talk to you, I intend to distract myself with something pleasant." She picked up a menu and tossed it to him. "Pick something. And if you don't annoy me too much, I might even pay for it."

"Drop the routine?" Dramatic to a fault, Mick slapped his hand over his heart as though mortally wounded. "Doll Face! How can you say that?" Dropping into the chair next to her, he leaned over to slide his arm along the back of Nikita's chair, visibly cheered by the knowledge that he wouldn't be paying for lunch. "You know you're the only girl I can really be myself around…"

Despite her permanently low level of tolerance for all things Schtoppel, Nikita found herself trying not to smile. "Mick…"

He gave her a brazen wink. "I know. Shut up. Right you are."

He started to read through the menu with a self-satisfied grin. Nikita sighed. She'd realized a long time ago that nothing she could say to Mick Schtoppel would ever deflate that overly healthy ego. He annoyed her to the point of violence, but he was harmless. Sometimes, even charming. Nikita was loathe to admit it, but sometimes she envied him his easy confidence.

For the beginning of autumn, it was an unseasonably warm day. Nikita shrugged out of her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. Mick's gaze widened slightly and affixed itself to her cleavage. Nikita sighed silently and rued her wardrobe choice of that morning. This particular suit was one of her favourites, but she should have remembered Mick's wandering eyes.

She fixed him with a stern glare. "Mick…"

He merely beamed unrepentantly. "Sorry, love. But you are looking particularly scrumptious today."

Nikita frowned at him before turning her attention to the menu, continuing to ponder the mystery that was Mick Schtoppel. He was one of the most unusual looking men she'd ever met. It wasn't that he was ugly, it was just that he was…Nikita studied the smooth skinned head and big brown cow eyes, searching for the right word to describe Mick Schtoppel, but eventually had to admit defeat. Unusual was going to have to suffice.

He'd burst, for want of a better word, into her life two years ago. Walter had dug him up from somewhere to help them track down an errant husband who'd vanished into thin air, making it rather difficult to serve divorce papers. Despite her initial misgivings about trusting a larger-than-life buffoon who wore 1960's suits and talked like a character actor from a Guy Ritchie movie, she'd been forced to admit that Mick had actually been helpful. Afterwards, he had been duly compensated for his time and effort and sent on his way. Unfortunately, he'd been annoying her ever since.

Two years ago, Mick had had hair. Not much, but hair, nonetheless. Since then, he'd obviously decided that if his hair was vanishing, it was going to vanish on his terms. Now his head was so beautifully bald and shiny, Nikita had no doubt she'd be able to touch up her lipstick after lunch without taking her compact from her purse.

As for those eyelashes…Nikita felt the usual flash of female irritation on the subject. Utterly wasted on a man.

Nikita signaled to the waitress, then watched as Mick proceeded to flirt outrageously with the young West Indian girl who couldn't have been more than nineteen. She let him have his fun for a moment or two, figuring the better his mood, the more information he might share. The things I do for inside dirt, she thought sourly.

Finally, when his clichéd pick-up lines threatened to make her gag, and their waitress looked as though she was considering tipping the jug of iced water over his shiny little head, Nikita closed her large plastic menu and backhanded him across the abdomen with it.

Mick clutched at his stomach in outrage. "Ooof!" Their waitress snickered under her breath as he glared at Nikita. "Watch the abs, darling!"

She ignored him and smiled apologetically at the young girl waiting patiently to serve them. "I'm so sorry. He doesn't get out much." Handing the menus back to the girl, Nikita nodded at Mick. "He'll have the pasta of the day. I'll have the lamb curry."

With wistful eyes, Mick watched the waitress leave before turning back to Nikita. "Pasta?" He made a face. "What are you trying to do to me?"

Nikita filled their water glasses, uncomfortably aware that she sounded like her mother. "It's better for you than all that fried junk I've seen you wolfing down."

He looked indignant, but pulled his coat a little tighter over his belly. "I'll have you know that the Chip Butty is not just a meal, it's a patriotic choice."

"Mick." Her Mick Buffer Zone was rapidly shrinking. If she didn't get him talking about Salla Vachek soon, she was going to do something they'd both regret. "Can we get down to business?"

"Sure thing, my lovely." Mick put his elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand, staring at her with disconcerting intensity. "Okay…you wanted to pick the Schtoppel brain. What can I do for you?"

"What can you tell me about a man named Salla Vachek?"

Mick pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "Salla Vachek, did you say?"

"Yes." She frowned at him, not wanting to ask but knowing she was going to anyway. "Why? How many Vacheks do you know?"

"Well, now there's the interesting thing." Mick settled back in his chair as though making himself comfortable. Nikita could feel her eyes rolling back in her head, and was thankful for her dark sunglasses. It looked like she was in for a long lunch.

While she tried not to watch Mick inhale his pasta, she ate her lunch and listened to what he had to say. Salla and Stefan Vachek had created Vachek Holdings in 1972. Born in India, they liked to convey the air of ‘rags to riches'. Mick snorted as he told her this. "Those two came from money, make no mistake about that. They have a big brother, did you know? He was the golden boy, the one who actually went into the family business."

"And just what is the family business?"

"Big mining company. In one of those little European countries." Mick waved a dismissive hand. "Not quite sure of the nitty gritty details, pet." He paused to ogle a passing waitress before turning back to Nikita. "But the two younger sons have done very well on their own, don't you worry about that."

Salla Vachek had sired one daughter, Stefan three sons. Mick knew nothing about the daughter, but all the male offspring were no-hopers. According to Mick, of course. One of his ‘old chums' had been at school with Elio, the youngest of Stefan's sons.

"I've met the chap, you know. Not much going on upstairs, if you get my meaning. I have no idea how that cretin passed his O-Levels." He raised one eyebrow at Nikita and rubbed his thumb and index finger together. "I guess money talks, hey luv?"

She chased plump kernels of rice around her plate with her fork, trying to make the pieces fit together in her head. Elio didn't seem to be any more popular with Mick than he had been with Joe Draskovic. Looking at her lunch companion, she casually tossed out a baited hook. "Walter seems to believe that the Vacheks are not quite the mild-mannered businessmen they'd like to world to think they are."

Mick swiped his mouth hastily with his napkin and swallowed the bait. "He's a clever man, your uncle." He looked around him, as though checking for lurking eavesdroppers. "I wouldn't get involved with these people if I were you."

"It's a bit late for that." Nikita sighed and ran her hands through her hair. First Walter, now Mick. Their caginess and coy hints were driving her mad. "So Vachek's crooked. It's just one more reason to take him to court."

Mick flashed her a look that was almost one of concern. "Well, Popsicle…there's crooked, then there's crooked. The Vacheks aren't your typical shady businessmen." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "The word is that they have certain connections with certain parties with certain political leanings."

Nikita gave Mick a hard stare. "What sort of leanings, Mick?"

"Right, darling. Definitely very right. We're talking extremist with a capital E."

She sipped at her water and tried to read between the lines of Mick's annoying ‘nudge nudge wink wink' recital. All she wanted was a straight answer. "Are you telling me that the Vacheks are somehow tied up with one or more extremist political factions?"

Mick beamed at her proudly. "You didn't hear it from me, Doll Face."

Nikita dismissed the nauseating endearment, but the sudden churning in the pit of her stomach was harder to ignore. Aware of a growing sense of apprehension and weary of the word games, she leaned across the table and tapped Mick's smooth forehead with two fingers. "Are we talking terrorists, Mick?"

He paled slightly, as though horrified by her bluntness. Finally, he nodded reluctantly, looking around the brasserie as though he expected a Vachek family member to leap out from behind one of the wrought iron fixtures.

Nikita sat back in her chair and let out the breath she was holding. She felt sick. I wonder if Walter ever gets tired of being right all the time?

"So what's the connection? Money? Drugs? Weapons?" Frustration was never one of her favourite emotions, and Nikita could hear her voice growing sharp. I don't have a clue about terrorist factions…how the hell am I supposed to interrogate Mick about them?

Mick held up his hands against her verbal barrage and shook his head, looking regretful. "Now there, I can't help you, love. I don't know the nasty details."

"Then who would know?"

Mick muttered a few bad words under his breath that she didn't quite catch but which sounded suspiciously like ‘bloody buggery bollocks'. He finally gave her the answer she wanted, but he didn't look happy about it. "I might know a few people."

Nikita said nothing. She just stared at him, waiting, until finally he sighed long-sufferingly and shrugged. "I guess I could ask around…make a few discreet enquiries."

She flashed him a quick smile. "Good. You do that."

He nodded, reluctantly resigned to his fate. "Fine."

Having turned off her cell phone during lunch, Nikita now pulled it out of her handbag to check for messages. Mick leaned closer, trying to read the display screen over her shoulder. Despite her icy stare, he only tossed her a blithe grin.

"Are we done?"

"Not quite." Nikita took a deep breath, put her phone aside, and asked the question that she'd wanted to ask for the last hour. "What can you tell me about Michael Samuelle?"

"Ah…Vachek's dashing legal counsel. I've met him, you know."

She fiddled idly with her cell phone, opening and shutting the cover distractedly. "When?"

Mick batted his eyelashes at her coyly. "Here and there. Around the traps - you know how it is." The eyelash fluttering became a wink. "Friends in high places, that's me. I'll have you know that my services are very much in demand by many a varied clientele." He leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. "I can tell you one thing, my pet." Bringing one hand down to his face, Mick tapped a finger against his nose. "He's very popular with the girls." He laughed, sounding both envious and admiring. "The boys too, but I don't think he bats for their team."

Ignoring the unfamiliar flicker of jealousy that streaked through her, Nikita tried to sound as bored and disinterested as possible. It was just a photograph, for god's sake. "Really."

Mick took a sip of water, nodding sagely. "Pity he's just as crooked as his boss. You'd probably like him otherwise." He gave her another wink and started ticking off Michael Samuelle's alleged good points on his fingers.

"He's handsome. He's rich. He's ruthless. He's…" Mick glanced over her shoulder and stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened, then he looked back at Nikita with a smirk. "…right over there."

Nikita stared at Mick as her heart did a bungee jump, hitting the bottom of her stomach with a dull thud before it bounced back up to thump against her ribs. She could almost feel the blood draining from her face, and Mick's look of concern told her that she wasn't imagining things.

"Are you alright, Popsicle? You look a bit on the pale side."

"I'm fine." Nikita snapped out the words and gazed down at the white tablecloth resolutely. She was not going to look. Pulling the white linen napkin off her lap, she twisted it in her hands, threading it through her fingers aimlessly. She'd wondered if that arresting face would be as impressive in the flesh, and now she'd only have to turn her head a few inches to know for certain.

No. She was not going to look.

Nikita stared at her water glass for a long moment, determined not to give in to her now rampant curiosity. After a while, her thoughts did an about face. They'd never met, so there's no way he could know who she was. So even if he caught her sneaking a peek, it wouldn't mean anything more than a nervous looking blonde girl staring at him across the park.

As Mick's garbled, and no doubt delusional, story about his latest supermodel conquest buzzed in her ears like so many annoying mosquitoes, Nikita took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. Trying to look as casual as possible, she turned her head slightly to scan the small café next door.

Lordy.

Michael Samuelle was indeed ‘right over there,' sitting alone at a small metal table about five metres away, unhurriedly sipping a coffee while flicking through a newspaper. The pale autumn sunlight was glinting off his dark hair, making it appear almost reddish brown.

She knew she was staring, but she couldn't seem to make herself look away. He wasn't wearing sunglasses or a coat, just a black single-breasted, rather expensive looking suit. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a pale business shirt the colour of clotted cream. The knot of his dark blue tie was slightly askew, as though he'd loosened it in deference to the unexpected heat.

The contrast between the stern faced individual she'd seen in the photographs and the relaxed looking man sprawled in the chair in person was startling. Nikita swallowed hard as she took in the long legs stretched out underneath the small table. Oh yeah. Definitely better in colour.

Just as this rather unethical thought occurred to her, Michael Samuelle lifted his eyes from the newspaper. They found hers immediately, as though he'd been aware of her scrutiny. Startled into immobility by the directness of his gaze, Nikita stared back. Holding her eyes with his, he lifted the white china cup to his lips and drank some coffee, the smooth tanned column of his throat rippling as he swallowed. He was staring at her in a way that made her toes curl.

Nikita felt her face grow warm as the blood began to hum in her ears. Flustered by the unsettling thoughts rioting through her head, she found herself doing something she hadn't done in a very long time.

She blushed.

She blushed, then she panicked.

Nikita turned away, but she could still sense his eyes on her. The thought made her feel skittish. Awkward. Breathless. It was so far removed from what she felt when Gray looked at her, she felt a sudden sense of shame, as though she'd just cheated on him with someone she'd never even met.

"Come on." She pushed back her chair so quickly it nearly toppled over. "Time to go."

Mick looked at her unhappily. "No pudding?"

"No." Nikita got to her feet and started gathering up her things as she looked around wildly for the waitress. Looking at a photograph and thinking that someone was a bit of a bad-boy hunk was one thing. Running into that same someone after you'd been thinking those particular thoughts was quite another.

She wanted to settle the bill and get out of there. Now. Luckily, their waitress was quick to respond, suddenly appearing in front of Nikita with a slim black bill wallet. Nikita smiled distractedly and took it from her, flipping it open with one hand, while rummaging in her large tote bag for her purse with the other. She prayed she had enough cash on her; having to go through the rigmarole of using her credit card would only impede her escape. With a silent sigh of relief, she crammed too much money into the bill wallet and handed it back to the waitress.

The young girl quickly scanned the wrinkled notes, her eyes widening slightly. "Your change, madam?"

Nikita pulled her jacket off the back of the chair. "It's yours."

Their waitress beamed at her before dashing off in a blur of spiky dreadlocks. Nikita didn't bother to check whether Mick was following her. His voice was like a foghorn in the quiet restaurant. She knew without looking that he was dancing around behind her to whatever appalling disco tune he was singing under his breath, trying to keep up with her and get their waitress' phone number, all at the same time.

Never again, Nikita vowed irritably. I don't care how much juicy insider gossip Mick sniffs out. My sanity is too high a price to pay.

"Popsicle! Hold up a jiffy, would'ya?" Mick reached her side, puffing melodramatically. "Those legs of yours are much longer than mine."

Nikita juggled her handbag and jacket awkwardly, trying to shove her purse back into the depths of the former, while slinging the latter over her shoulder. At the same time she was fighting off the urge to look back and see if Michael Samuelle was still watching her.

Okay, so he'd caught her looking at him. He didn't have the faintest idea who she was, so what did it matter? Nikita winced inwardly, knowing that it did matter. He might not know who she was now, but he would know soon enough. This matter of Joe's wasn't going to be settled over the telephone or via letters and faxes. Sooner or later, she would have to meet with Vachek's legal representative. Damn, damn, damn!

Her purse was still sticking out of the top of her tote bag, digging into the inside crook of her elbow. Annoyed, Nikita reached down to push it to the bottom of her bag. Her fingertips brushed lightly over the jumbled contents, and an odd feeling that she'd forgotten something began to nag at her. She slowed her pace slightly. My phone. She couldn't remember putting the phone back in her bag after checking for messages. Nikita sighed and began to search her bag. Purse, makeup, bottled water and assorted junk. No phone.

She stopped in her tracks. "Damn it."

Mick bounced up and down at her side, snapping his fingers to a soundtrack only he could hear. "What's the matter, Popsicle?"

She answered automatically, her heart sinking. It wasn't going to be a quick getaway after all. "I can't find my phone. I must have left it at the table."

Her lunch date gave her a quick smile and glanced hopefully at the café they'd just exited. "I'll just go ask that smashing waitress if she's seen it, shall I?"

Nikita shook her head in annoyance. "Leave that poor girl alone, Mick." She turned away, flinging a parting shot over her shoulder. "Don't wait on my account. I'll call you tomorrow."

She walked quickly back to the brasserie with her head down, still frantically rummaging through her bag. Surely he's gone by now. After all, why would he still be hanging around? I'm not going to look for him, that's for sure. I'm going to find my phone and go back to work. I have too much junk in here. Why do I have so much junk in here? I can't see a damn thing in this black hole of a bag. She pulled her sunglasses off and perched them on top of her head, muttering under her breath.

As she was making a silent plea bargain with the higher powers that she would clean out her bag if they would just let her find her phone, Nikita collided with a warm solid presence that smelled much too good to be Mick. Knocked off balance, she wobbled atop her size nine platforms for a few seconds before a decidedly male hand reached out to steady her, sliding up her forearm to cup her elbow.

With an embarrassed smile, Nikita abandoned her disgrace of a handbag. "I'm so sorry…I wasn't paying attention to where I was…" She looked up into a pair of cool green eyes, and her apology died in her throat.

Michael Samuelle was watching her intently, a small smile tugging at his lips. He was standing so close that she could smell the fresh scent of his aftershave. His hand was still on her arm, his fingers curled around her elbow. Her skin tingled lightly where he touched her. Flustered, Nikita instinctively took a step backward, clutching her bag in front of her like a shield. Holding her gaze with his, he took his hand away, his smile faintly apologetic and yet knowing at the same time.

"I believe I have what you're looking for."

Michael couldn't deny the more he watched Nikita Wirth, the more he felt drawn to her. It was an indulgence he couldn't allow. Nikita Wirth could be nothing more than a pleasantly erotic distraction from the grim realities of life. He pulled his gaze away from the amiably bickering couple. It was time he left.

However fate, and Mick Schtoppel, conspired against him, apparently intent on complicating his life. As Michael was about to rise from his chair, the bald headed man, wildly gesticulating as he talked, glanced casually in his direction. Their eyes met for no more than a split-second before Schtoppel quickly looked away, but the damage was done. Michael had seen the recognition in his eyes; had seen how Schtoppel had turned back to his blonde companion eagerly, talking rapidly.

Perhaps he was indulging in vain imaginings, but Michael had the sudden suspicion that he, or perhaps his client, had been one of the many topics under discussion at the neighbouring table. His pulse quickening, Michael spread out his newspaper on the small table and began to read industriously, taking a leisurely sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. Now that Schtoppel had seen him, trying to slip away unnoticed was pointless. He had no choice but to wait them out.

After a long moment, he felt his nerve endings begin to spark with awareness, and he knew he was being observed. Even as he told himself that it was an error in judgment, he lifted his eyes from the newspaper to look at Nikita Wirth.

She was staring at him. Even though dark sunglasses hid her eyes, Michael sensed her shocked recognition. She seemed paler; her full lips slightly parted as though she had started to speak, but suddenly found herself at a loss for words.

Wondering just what Schtoppel had said to cause such an extreme reaction, Michael returned her gaze steadily as he reached for his coffee cup. Ignoring the unpalatable taste of tepid espresso, he took a long sip, never moving his eyes from her. At a distance, Ms Wirth was spectacular. How much more potent would she be at close range?

Almost as though she'd heard his silent musings, Nikita Wirth blushed.

Then, her face still delicately tinged with colour, she pressed her lips into a tight line, almost as annoyed though at her own reaction. Michael watched her, fascinated by the shifting emotions flickering across her expressive face. His previously disdainful thoughts on the subject of blushing females were forgotten completely.

Even with her eyes shielded by sunglasses, it was clear to him that Ms Wirth was quite flustered. Abruptly giving him her back, she spoke rapidly to Schtoppel before pushing back her chair. Michael gave up all pretence of discretion, and watched her openly as she got to her feet and looked around for a waitress. Her earlier poise had vanished completely; she seemed almost jittery as she snatched her jacket from the chair and grappled with an overlarge handbag.

There was a moment's delay while the bill was paid, then she strode out of the brasserie with Schtoppel prancing about in her wake like a demented bridal party attendant. Michael watched her leave, his thoughts darting in a dozen different directions.

Michael was not a vain man, but neither did he cling to false modesty. Many women, and quite a few men, were attracted to him. However, he doubted Ms Wirth had been struck dumb by his devastating good looks. There could be only one explanation for her excessive reaction to his presence.

She had done her research…just as he had done his. Ms Wirth knew exactly who he was, and what he did. And now she couldn't wait to get away from him. Perhaps, Michael mused dryly, Ms Wirth hadn't liked what her research had uncovered.

As Ms Wirth stormed stylishly away, Michael saw her cell phone fall unnoticed onto the grassy pathway. Its owner was too busy dealing with her ridiculously large handbag, her suit jacket and Mick Schtoppel to notice. Michael was on his feet, walking toward the dropped phone, before he could talk himself out of such a course of action. Keeping one eye on Ms Wirth's enticing semi-naked back, he scooped her cell phone up from the ground.

Given her current state of agitation, he was surprised at how quickly she noticed its absence. She stopped in her tracks and began to rummage through her bag. Her shoulders sagged slightly and, after a very brief conversation with Schtoppel, she spun around to walk back toward the brasserie, her head down, still searching for the errant phone in her handbag.

Later, Michael had to admit to himself that he could have done a dozen things to prevent what happened next. He could have stepped out of her way. He could have called out to her. He did neither. Obeying an instinct stronger than his usual self-control, Michael said nothing and remained where he was.

A few seconds later, Nikita Wirth slammed into him; an exotically perfumed battering ram. Her knee connected painfully with his, her black leather tote bag smacking against his stomach. Michael reached out instinctively. He slipped his hand underneath her elbow to keep her from losing balance. Her skin was smooth and cool beneath his fingers.

Still peering into the depths of her bag, she shook her head with a self-depreciating smile. The husky warmth of her voice as she offered the half-laughing apology sent a frisson of awareness skittering down his back. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention to where I was…"

Michael found himself holding his breath as Nikita Wirth lifted her gaze to his face. When their eyes locked in a stare of mutual recognition, her lush mouth fell open slightly in surprise. Her smile vanished. Staring at him, she took a small step backward, her fingers tightening on the shoulder strap of her bag, as though preparing to ward off any unwanted advances.

With a faint smile, Michael reluctantly removed his hand from her arm. The urge to indulge in an advance was definitely more than a little tempting. Nikita Wirth was an incredibly beautiful woman. The dark sunglasses had been pushed up to the top of her head, revealing her eyes. They were a startlingly pure sapphire blue, currently glittering with what appeared to be a combination of embarrassment and lively curiosity.

When it became obvious that he would have to be the one to break the silence, Michael did just that. "I believe I have what you're looking for." Her eyes widened slightly, causing him to wonder at his unintentionally flirtatious choice of words. He held out the cell phone to her. "You dropped it on the pathway just outside the brasserie."

Her eyes dropped to the phone in his hand, then back up to his face, as though trying to decide if he was playing a practical joke on her. Finally, she reached out and took the phone from him, her long fingers grazing his as they curled around the small black handset. The colour in her face heightened once more, and he took advantage of her momentary confusion to study her at close range.

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but Vachek's photographers had failed to do her justice. Ms Wirth's hair was pure Nordic blonde. It fell in a gleaming curtain, spilling over broad yet slender shoulders, left bare by the halter neck style of her pinstriped waistcoat. The deep v-neck plunged dramatically, showcasing the creamy swell of her breasts alarmingly well. To his discomfort, Michael was finding it difficult to keep his eyes averted and body impassive.

Ms Wirth's men's style trousers were ridiculously tight, enhancing curves that were anything but masculine. Her long legs ended in chunky black platform heels he would have found ugly on any other woman. In a sea of female solicitors who wore serious suits and did their best to conceal any hint of sexuality, Ms Wirth was definitely an individual.

The subject in question gave him a reserved smile as she slipped the phone into her handbag. "Thanks."

It was the first time he'd seen her smile, and the change in her face was quite startling. Michael found himself staring at the curve of her bottom lip, at the way her full mouth tilted up at the corners. He had the feeling Ms Wirth smiled quite often, but was determined not to do so in front of him.

A smile tugged at his own mouth at her quiet stubbornness. "You're quite welcome."

Ms Wirth eyed the smile he wasn't bothering to hide, and the tentative warmth in her face instantly cooled. A subtle change occurred in her body language, a sudden look of challenge in those extraordinary blue eyes. Michael was fascinated, but his better judgment debated the wisdom of prolonging the contact. Perhaps it would be better to make a timely exit.

The courteous goodbye he started to offer Ms Wirth was halted when he saw her gaze drift down his face, lingering on his mouth. She bit her bottom lip as she stared at him. Her teeth were very white against the dark honey colour of her lipstick, and Michael felt his body quicken. She lifted her eyes to his once more. A long look of speculation stretched out between them, broken only by the sound of an annoyingly familiar voice.

"Mi-chael! Well, well, well!!"

"I believe I have what you're looking for."

He was quietly spoken; his French accent soft, almost lilting. And utterly seductive. Maybe it was just Nikita's imagination, but it managed to make his harmless statement sound like an indecent proposal.

Scrambling to regain both her dignity and composure, she opened her suddenly parched mouth to speak. Unfortunately, her brain and voice appeared to be in cahoots, and had decided to abandon her to her fate.

When she didn't say anything, he raised his eyebrows and held a cell phone out to her, his smile fading slightly. "You dropped it on the pathway just out the brasserie."

The way he pronounced brasserie made her insides go all hot and shivery. It was a hell of a time to find out she was susceptible to men with accents. Trying not to appear too much of a tongue-tied idiot and failing miserably, Nikita nodded jerkily and reached out to retrieve her phone with a slightly unsteady hand. Their fingers brushed as she took the phone from his palm, and it was all she could do not to jerk her hand away as if she'd been burnt.

Just take it and leave. He doesn't know who you are. Just say thank you and walk away.

Unfortunately her feet, like her voice, didn't seem to be listening to her brain. Captured in a black and white photograph, Michael Samuelle had given her butterflies. Standing right in front of her in the flesh, he was enough to make her feel as though she'd fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole. Rabbit hole? Jeez Louise, she felt like Dorothy Gale when everything in Oz suddenly changed from black and white to colour.

She was so close she could have reached out and traced the sculptured cleft in his lightly whiskered chin with her fingertip. His hair wasn't the flat dark brown it appeared to be in the photographs, but a rich chestnut colour. It was brushed straight back from his face, falling in soft waves to his collar. The eyes that she had declared pale and cold were anything but that. They were a brilliant greenish-gray, currently examining her from head to toe with a thoroughness that made her wish the ground would swallow her up.

Her face felt hot. Why did I have to wear this suit today? Nikita longed to pull her sunglasses down to cover her eyes, and her jacket on to cover the rest of her, but she had the feeling that such a move would only gain her another of those knowing smirks.

She dropped the phone into her bag and gave him the most indifferent smile she could manage. "Thanks."

The sensual mouth twitched, as though he was amused at her lacklustre response. "You're quite welcome."

His clear green eyes were filled with a private merriment that had the effect of irritating the hell out of her. Trying to put aside her uncharacteristic nervousness, Nikita drew herself up to her full height and glared at him. In her third highest pair of shoes, she was eyeball to eyeball with him. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and she found herself staring at his lips. He had such a soft, sensual mouth – she didn't understand how it could look so good on a man. Giving herself a mental shake, she lifted her eyes to find Michael Samuelle studying her mouth with equal interest.

Oh Lordy. Nikita swallowed the lump in her throat, suddenly feeling as unsteady on her legs as a newborn giraffe.

"Mi-chael! Well, well, well!" A sudden blur of purple polyester to her left heralded Mick Schtoppel's arrival. He was looking from her to Michael with such gleeful anticipation that Nikita was surprised he wasn't rubbing his hands together.

The other man tossed Mick a politely disinterested greeting, but his eyes never left Nikita's face. "Mick."

Oblivious to the death glare Nikita quickly flashed him, Mick kept talking, obviously encouraged by the acknowledgment of his presence. "Fancy meeting you here. It's a funny little old world, isn't it? I mean, we were just talking…ow!"

Mick gave Nikita an injured look, putting his hand on the small of his back where she'd just pinched him as hard as she could. "All right, all right. There's no need for violence."

His head swiveled back and forth between them, as though he was watching a tennis match. "I just thought I'd do the polite thing and introduce you two legal noggins, seeing as you'll be doing the old ‘see you in court' routine. " Mick made a tut-tut noise and wriggled his eyebrows at Vachek's chief legal counsel. "Your client been misbehaving again, ‘as he?"

Michael Samuelle's expression didn't alter in the slightest, but Nikita sensed that he wasn't impressed by Mick's verbal diarrhea. Neither was she. She cleared her throat pointedly. "Mick…"

"I mean, it's much more civilised, don't you think?" Mick paid her no attention whatsoever, seemingly enthralled by his imagined role as charming host. "Mr Michael Samuelle, may I present Miss Nikita Wirth."

Despite the desire to strangle Mick until his shiny head turned blue, Nikita found herself watching the other man's expression carefully. She looked for any hint of surprise on that austerely handsome face, but found none. He merely returned her searching look with an infuriatingly cool stare.

Before she could say anything, Mick winked at Michael in a nauseatingly man-to-man gesture. "And you'd best be on your toes with this one…she's not just a pretty face, I can tell you."

Gritting her teeth, Nikita decided to make the best of an awkward situation. Holding out a hand to her future opposing counsel, she gave him a gracious smile.

"Mr Samuelle."

He inclined his head slightly and took her hand in his. Their fingers tangled warmly and, to her chagrin, Nikita felt suddenly short of breath. She could feel that same spark again, as though his touch was charging her skin with static electricity. His hands were beautiful, with long tapered fingers that made hers look almost stubby by comparison. His nails were square cut, almost the same length as her own, blunt as they were.

Before her brain could register he was holding her hand the wrong way for a handshake, he had lifted it to his mouth.

"Ms Wirth." The green eyes never left hers as he brushed a fleeting kiss over the back of her knuckles. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end, a shiver dancing down her spine at the touch of his lips on her skin.

She'd never wanted to run and hide from someone so much in her life.

Aware that she was gaping at him like a stunned mullet, Nikita nodded abruptly and eased her hand from his grasp as gracefully as she could. Her whole arm seemed to be tingling, and she was uncomfortably aware of the lingering heat in her face. Bloody Mick! Thanks to him, she was now a red-faced ball of embarrassment, while Michael Samuelle remained irritatingly composed.

She took a deep breath and met his shuttered gaze with a nonchalance she was far from feeling, her mind racing. His complete lack of reaction was enough to make her think… Nikita blinked, wanting to smack herself on the forehead. She and Birkoff had done a little bit of digging. It would be foolish to think that Vachek's legal advisor hadn't done the same. Nikita knew that she was being mulish and slightly hypocritical, but the idea of this man researching her was rather unnerving.

But whatever her thoughts were on the matter, one thing was suddenly, embarrassingly clear. Like her, Michael Samuelle hadn't needed an introduction - he'd known who she was all along.

"Mi-chael! Well, well, well!"

Concealing his irritation, Michael acknowledged Mick's presence. He knew from experience that ignoring the man would not make him disappear. "Mick."

Ms Wirth's eyes flashed a silent warning at her lunch companion. Not surprisingly, Schtoppel completely ignored it. "Fancy meeting you here." A broad grin nearly split his face in two as he looked at them both in turn. "It's a funny little old world, isn't it? I mean, we were just talking…ow!"

He broke off abruptly and turned to the woman next to him with a frown. Michael watched with interest as Schtoppel rubbed the small of his back with a martyred air. "All right, all right. There's no need for violence." The blonde and the bald man glared at each other for a moment, then Schtoppel sighed heavily.

"I just thought I'd do the polite thing and introduce you two legal noggins, seeing as you'll be doing the old ‘see you in court' routine." After clicking his tongue with disapproval, Schtoppel smirked at Michael knowingly. "Your client been misbehaving again, ‘as he?"

Michael said nothing, and the managing partner of Wirth & Wirth shot him a strangely apologetic look. Turning to the man chattering beside her, she tried to stem the flow of words pouring from his mouth. "Mick…"

She may as well have tried to catch Niagra Falls in a shot glass. Her charmingly hybrid accent was no match for Schtoppel's booming, tourist-pleasing Cockney.

"I mean, it's much more civilised, don't you think?" Looking pleased with himself, Schtoppel put his hands on his hips, and nodded first at Michael, and then back at the silently fuming woman. "Mr Michael Samuelle, may I present Miss Nikita Wirth."

Before either of them could react, Schtoppel directed a rather loud aside at Michael. For one unhappy moment, Michael thought the other man might actually slap him on the back. "And you'd best be on your toes with this one…she's not just a pretty face, I can tell you!"

Despite his irritation toward Schtoppel, Michael had to agree with him. Definitely more than just a pretty face. This view was reinforced when Ms Wirth schooled her features into a pleasant expression, professionalism obviously winning out over personal opinion.

Giving Michael a serene smile, she held out her hand. "Mr Samuelle."

Michael bowed his head politely and took her hand in his. It fit into his palm perfectly, her slender fingers nearly as long as his. Driven by an impulse he would later reluctantly admit to himself had been a desire to provoke, Michael decided not to shake Ms Wirth's hand. Instead, he brought it up to his lips, and her eyes widened in surprise.

"Ms Wirth." Holding her eyes with his, he pressed a courteous kiss to the back of her hand. As soon as he did so, Michael realized that he had made a critical error in judgment. Her eyes darkened, her hand tensing in his grasp. Michael had suspected that the gesture would shock her. What he hadn't expected was that he would manage to shock himself.

Her skin was beguilingly smooth and baby-fine under his lips, and he could smell the sweetness of her hand lotion. Creamy lavender scented skin sent a sudden longing streaking through him to taste, as well as touch. He found himself wondering if the rest of her skin felt as soft, and his groin tightened at the thought. It became an effort to keep the gesture perfunctory. Silently cursing his lack of control, Michael ended the caress and lifted his head.

Ms Wirth looked dazed. It seemed inconceivable to him that such a beautiful woman had never had her hand kissed, but it seemed to be the surprising truth.

Recovering her composure, she cleared her throat lightly and quickly withdrew her hand from his. Mutually ignoring Schtoppel's voyeuristic scrutiny, they regarded each other for a long moment. Then her gaze narrowed, and Michael watched the blue warmth of her eyes ice over.

"Thank you for the thought, Mick, but I don't believe Mr Samuelle needed an introduction."

Michael blinked, taken aback by the polite venom in her voice. But he merely smiled, unable to resist the urge to point out what he knew to be an obvious truth.

"I'm quite sure you're aware that your reputation precedes you these days, Ms Wirth." Her eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing. "I'm also quite sure that Mr Schtoppel's introduction was unnecessary for both of us."

Ms Wirth glared at him heatedly. "I beg your pardon? I have no idea what you're…"

Michael smiled at her knowingly and she broke off abruptly, pressing her lips together tightly. A flush stole across her face, the tip of her perfect nose turning slightly pink. For a member of the legal profession, Michael thought with wry amusement, she certainly is a terrible liar.

Before she could say another word, a worried looking Mick Schtoppel was patting her soothingly on the shoulder, smiling apologetically at Michael. Smoothing ruffled feathers, not wanting to antagonize either of his meal tickets. "Now, now love…save it for the courtroom, hey? Surely there's no need for hostilities just yet?"

She shrugged off his hand with an irritated jerk. "Goodbye, Mick."

"Are you sure, Popsicle?" He glanced at Michael. "And leave you two alone without a chaperone? Isn't that against the lawyer rules or something?"

Ms Wirth's jaw clenched, although Michael couldn't tell if it was in reaction to being called Popsicle, or Mick's twisted view of the code of legal ethics. She bestowed an elegantly malevolent look on her erstwhile lunch companion. "Go away, Mick."

Mick Schtoppel was not a man who was deflated by insults or condescension. He merely shrugged before rolling his eyes at Michael. "I'm just a poor slave to her beauty and charm. She asks…and I obey." Turning back to Ms Wirth, Schtoppel took her hands in his and air-kissed her on both cheeks, blithely ignoring her expression of startled repugnance.

Schtoppel put his hand up to his face, comically miming the universally accepted symbol for telephone. "Call me," he mouthed exaggeratedly. With that, he was gone, a thickset flash of bad suit dancing alone toward the business district.

In the wake of his sudden departure, a tense silence ensued. Ms Wirth watched Mick Schtoppel's retreating figure briefly, then turned to give Michael a hard look. "Well, as instructive as this little chat has been, I think it's over, don't you?"

Intrigued to the point of recklessness, Michael gave her his most charming smile. "A pity."

She eyed him for a moment, visibly disconcerted by his reply. When she spoke, her words held a defensive, mocking tone. "I suppose I should thank you for saving my cell phone from certain destruction, Mr Samuelle."

Michael bowed his head courteously. "It was my pleasure. As was meeting you, Ms Wirth." Admiring the flush of colour staining her high cheekbones, he raised an enquiring eyebrow. "I'm sure you and I will be meeting again, although perhaps under less…pleasant circumstances." He could scarcely believe the words that were falling out of his mouth. Effortless detachment had rapidly become a thing of the past as far as this woman was concerned.

The blue eyes grew even stonier, and Michael could see she was torn between professional courtesy and what she really wanted to say. Natural instinct apparently the stronger of the two impulses, she glared at him coolly. "I'm afraid you're quite right. Which means that it's rather unwise for me to be standing here, making idle chitchat with you." Ice literally dripped from her every word. "Goodbye, Mr Samuelle."

He didn't have a chance to reply before she spun on her heel and stalked away. He watched her, admiring the alluring curve of her hips and long graceful stride, even as he berated himself. What had he been thinking? Engaging her in conversation. Kissing her hand. Bemused, Michael shook his head. He knew very well what he had been thinking. He had been thinking about pulling her into his arms and kissing that primly professional smile from her beautiful mouth.

Damn. He had broken his own rule. He had allowed himself to become distracted while dealing with a business matter. He had forgotten what was at stake. Michael frowned, angry with himself. In the space of a few minutes, his normally ironclad self-control had been effortlessly derailed by a five foot ten blonde distraction with a tiny nose, endless legs and intoxicating eyes. And that mouth… He felt his blood grow warm once more. Merde.

She was diving into deeper water than she could ever imagine. All Michael could do was try and ensure she made it back to the surface relatively unscathed. Michael thought of the pugnacious tilt of that delicately pointed chin, and sighed. Beautiful, brilliant and stubborn. This matter was not going to be resolved as easily as he had hoped.

Michael walked back to his table, collected his newspaper, and then made his way slowly back to his chambers. His mind was filled with thoughts of his opposing counsel. Although he still intended to suggest a mediation conference, Michael was now acutely aware that he was walking a very fine line.

After reading Mischa's extensive report about the ‘enemy,' there wasn't much he didn't know about Nikita Catherine Wirth. Unfortunately, all the research had failed to prepare him for one important, and rather disturbing, discovery. When Nikita Catherine Wirth looked at him with those incredible blue eyes, he no longer cared that she was the enemy.

"Want to grab some lunch, amigo?"

Startled, Birkoff looked up at Walter. Lunch? "Uh, sure. What time is it?"

Walter looked amused. "In your own little world again, I see." He held out his wrist so that Birkoff could see his watch. "It's two o'clock."

"You're kidding?" Birkoff pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He'd been pulling facts and figures about Vachek Holdings off the net for four hours straight, and he hadn't even noticed. "Sure. So long as it's not raw fish, okay?"

Walter's smile broadened. "Are you sure? I hear that you'd developed quite a liking for Japanese delicacies."

Birkoff felt his face turn red with embarrassment. "I'm going to kill her."

The older man slapped him on the back. "She'd have you flipped on your back with the wind knocked out of you before you could even lay a hand on her." Walter gestured toward Birkoff's computer impatiently. "Come on. Turn that thing off and pay a visit to the real world. I'd kill for a beer."

"Well…"

Walter patted the back pocket of his black jeans, letting Birkoff hear the distinct sound of clanking coins. "Lunch is on me, kid."

Birkoff grinned and shut down his terminal. "Let's go."

Walter looked pleased. "Splendido." He led the way out into the hallway. "I just need to drop past Hazel's desk on the way out.

One minute later, Birkoff was doing his best not to pull a face as Walter flirted shamelessly with the office dragon. "So, do you want us to bring you something back to nibble on?" Walter wriggled his eyebrows at the elderly secretary, managing to make the simple question sound positively indecent.

Mrs Hannaford tittered creakily. "Oh, go on with you! I've got better things to do than listen to your nonsense, Walter Wirth."

Birkoff stared in disbelief. Was Mrs Hannaford, that pillar of unsmiling virtue, actually giggling? He watched as she waggled a playful finger at Walter, and turned back to her typewriter. Her normally sallow face was tinged with pink.

Birkoff leaned up against the wall in the reception area and shook his head. Sheesh. He knew that Hazel had been Walter's secretary at his old firm for years, but did he have to be quite so charming to the old battleaxe? Nasty Hazel was bad enough, but Flirty Hazel turned his stomach.

"Okay, amigo." Walter walked toward him, rubbing his hands together. "I got us a leave pass for an hour."

Birkoff nodded toward Hazel's desk. "Should I even ask what that was all about?"

"Oh, you know her." Walter gave him a resigned smile. "She's been feeling a bit out of step with the young kids on staff lately. I just like to fluff her ego up now and then."

"Don't let Nikita catch you flirting with Hazel – she'll never let you live it down."

Walter laughed. "Don't worry about me…I can handle our girl." He checked his watch. "Now let's go get that beer."

Birkoff made a face. "Not for me. I still haven't recovered from the last time you asked me to go for a beer." His stomach quivered at the memory of his last ‘liquid lunch' with Walter. He'd spent the afternoon running to the toilet every fifteen minutes. Never again. "A sandwich will be fine."

"Suit yourself." Walter gave him a wink. "Mind having that sandwich at the corner pub?"

Birkoff had just opened his mouth to reply, when the heavy front door abruptly flung open. Looking as though she'd just run a three-minute mile, Nikita stalked into the office. Foolishly ignoring the sudden sense of treading on dangerous ground, Birkoff tried to catch her eye. "Hey, how did it go with…?"

Nikita gave him a look that made the rest of his sentence crawl back down his throat and hide. "Don't ask." With that, she steamed past them and straight into her office, slamming the door behind her.

The two men stared at the closed door for a moment before Walter turned to Birkoff with raised eyebrows. "I wonder what's gotten up her pretty little nose?"

Birkoff grinned. "Don't you remember? She went to lunch with Mick Schtoppel."

"Aha. That's right." Walter glanced again at his niece's closed office door. "That'll do it every time."

"She must have been pretty desperate for information - she can't stand the guy." Birkoff shook his head. "Why on earth would she agree to go to lunch with him?"

"Ah, well…" Guilt flickered across Walter's weathered face. "I may have had something to do with…"

There was a muted thump, then the loud sound of feminine cursing from behind Nikita's closed door. Birkoff gulped and looked at Walter. "Beer?"

Walter was already striding toward the front door. "You took the words right out of my mouth, amigo."