The further she got from Dallas, the angrier Nikita felt.

She was angry at Madeleine for the assignment. It was deep cover, it would last for at least three months, and it paired her with Michael. Granted, they had a semi-truce (she ignored him and he left her alone), but she wasn't sure she'd survive three months with The Great Silent One. She'd either kill herself or him, and it was a pretty even toss up who'd go first. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got.

The speedometer inched up past 70.

She was angry at Michael for several reasons. He already chose a house. He might have at least consulted her. Always telling her what to do, never asking. Not only that, but she was pretty certain he'd known about the assignment before he was in place. He'd not breathed a word about it to her, which wasn't unusual. Three months. The time stretched out indeterminably, as flat and brown as the scenery streaming past her window. If he'd wanted to, he could have gotten out of it, she was sure, or at least, requested someone else to partner with him. Instead he'd dragged her into it, too. To top it off, the back end was full of books that Michael instructed her to pick up. She hadn't realized "a few books" actually meant five boxes. It was inconsiderate. But then, when had Michael ever considered her feelings?

Nikita pursed her lips and passed a red Spider. Then she looked at her gauge and realized she'd better slow down.

She was angry because it was hot. She hadn't realized that August would still be so hot in Texas; it was already cool in Canada, and though she wasn't expecting chilly nights, she wasn't prepared for 104 degree weather. The air conditioning was going full blast, her skirt was pushed up and she had a Coke between her legs, but her back stuck to the seat and she was getting a pressure headache.

She was also angry because she was driving west, which meant the sun was in her eyes. And she was angry because she was in Radio Hell, where she couldn't get even ONE station that wasn't playing country.

Nikita hated country music.

She flipped off the knob and gritted her teeth. Next week, when she made the return trip to Dallas, she'd get some decent music.

The only thing that made her day bearable was the massive amount of shopping she'd done ... most of it with Madeleine's blessing. She'd spent three months worth of rent at Neiman's and then, mostly to spite Michael, she'd bought a car. She wanted the Corvette, but compromised on the Volvo, because she knew she could repair it if she needed to, and she wasn't sure about the Corvette. The Volvo was second-hand and ten years old, but it was a wonderful brilliant pumpkin orange and the inside smelled pleasantly like clay.

She checked her watch. One more hour and she'd be there. The first thing on her agenda was to give Michael hell. She pressed her foot firmly down and sped past a white Suburban.

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

When Nikita pulled into the driveway, she'd worked herself into a sticky, hot, agitated fury. Between the silty dust that clung to her lips and eyes and hair and the relentless sun, she felt downright savage. She slammed the car door, cursing under her breath as the edge scraped her hand, and slung her purse over her shoulder. Let Michael bring the rest in, she thought maliciously, head pounding.

She stomped up the sidewalk, glancing up at the two-story house. Craftsman, she identified automatically, then was angry at herself for thinking of Gray. Was she ever going to stop thinking of him?

She didn't have a key yet, so she rang. Michael answered the door with an open book in his hand, and if looks could have killed, he would have disintegrated on the spot.

Nikita planned exactly what she was going to say to him, but over his right shoulder, she saw a glimmer of turquoise blue, and the words died on her lips. Salvation. She brushed past him, dropping her purse and kicking off her shoes. The shirt followed, and then her skirt. She marched out the back door and dove directly into the pool, a clean, even dive that barely rippled the surface of the water.

Michael marked his place in the book and put it on the umbrella stand, then followed Nikita, picking up her discarded clothing along the way.

"We have neighbors, you know," he said mildly, as she finally surfaced. "Next time, use a suit."

God preserve me from bossy men, Nikita thought. She floated on her back, the icy water chilling her straight through. It felt marvelous. She could already feel her headache ebbing.

"How mad were you?" he asked curiously.

Finally, a question. "I bought a trunk full of clothes at Neiman-Marcus," Nikita answered, her tension receding in the cold water. "Then I went to Nordstrom's and got shoes. I spent $700 on art supplies. Then I bought a car."

Michael sat down on the edge of the pool and lowered his bare feet in. "A car," he repeated carefully. "What kind?"

"Orange." She swam over and looked up, the sun bright on her face.

"Still angry?"

She reached up and pulled, and he toppled in with a huge splash. As he rose to the surface, she smiled. "I'm feeling much better," she assured, and pulled herself up on the edge of the pool.

Just to drive him crazy, and because she was feeling a little exhibitive, she paused, shucked off her skivvies at the back door, and left them on the patio, a soggy mass of navy.

Michael expelled a deep breath, and dove.

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

Still naked, Nikita wandered through the house. Next to the kitchen was a laundry room; Michael had been doing the wash, his clothes in neat little clean piles ready to go upstairs. Still feeling a tiny bit annoyed, she slipped on a T-shirt and some shorts, and continued exploring.

The kitchen was nice and big, flowing into the living room, floor covered with large Mexican tile and big Indian throw rugs. The furniture was comfortable and slightly worn. There was a dining room and an office at the front of the house.

She went back into the kitchen and climbed the stairs. There were three bedrooms and one bath. Two had regular bedroom furniture in them, but the extra room had been cleared of furniture and the rug rolled up. A clean white tarp lay smoothly on the wooden floor, and an easel was set up, but that was it.

This room faced the back yard, and Nikita heard some splashing and a shriek. Puzzled, she went to the window and peered out.

Michael was still in the pool. He'd abandoned his shirt, and was leading a small, red-suited figure around in the water by her hair. Her arms were stretched out for balance in the water, and as Nikita watched, Michael led her to the shallow end and she stood up. Her chin barely cleared the waterline. Although she couldn't hear what he said, it was obvious that Michael was instructing the little girl, for she nodded, and when he held out his arms, she willingly latched onto his hands. He backed away, slowly, towing her, and she put her face in the water.

Nikita went downstairs and outside. Michael noticed her and nodded.

"Rose, this is Nikita. Nikita, Rose Redmond. Rose is eight and lives next door. Her father teaches in the physics department, too."

The little girl squinted up at Nikita and grinned, the thousand freckles on her face lighting up. "You're Mrs. Sam."

"That's right," Michael confirmed quickly. "She just got in today."

"D'you like Dr. Miller's house?" Rose asked.

"Yes, it's very nice. Do you know her?"

"Sure. She lets me come over when Daddy's not home and gran can't watch me."

A tall man broke through the hedge, grinning Rose's grin, and clapped his hands. "Okay, Rose Red, time to come home!"

"Hey Daddy," Rose greeted him, and Michael boosted her up on the sidewalk.

"Don't run," Michael cautioned, and Rose walked to the grass, then sprinted toward her father.

Michael heaved himself out of the pool, and Nikita threw him the towel that was on the back of her chair. He dried his ears and face, then draped the towel over his shoulders. "Jeff," he called, sounding so affable and normal that Nikita stared at him, "Come and meet my wife."

She felt a little pang. Not quite physical pain, more like a too-sour pickle or a surprise bug bite. Nikita rose and held out a hand to Jeff. "Hullo. I'm Nikita."

"Nikita, hi and welcome to Texas," Jeff grinned, shifting Rose to his other side. Her wet suit dampened his shirt, which was already starting to dry in the hot air. "Michael tells me you're an artist."

"That's right. I'll be in and out of town a lot, but it's nice to have a friendly neighbor next door." A friendly neighbor who also helps out Red Cell, Nikita thought.

Section didn't know if Jeff Redmond actually knew what his formulas were being used for or not. Red Cell ultimately received the benefit of his work, but how they acquired the information was a mystery.

Red Cell, like Section, trafficked in information. Redmond was only one small part of Red Cell's operation, but he was an integral part. Section suspected the information transfer was formulaic, so if they could crack one information link, the rest would follow.

Getting information about Redmond meant getting close to him; ergo, Michael became Dr. Michael Samuelle, well-respected physicist. Section arranged for an incredibly attractive sabbatical for Dr. Sandra Miller that would take at least one semester, and possibly two, depending on what kind of information Michael was able to retrieve, and arranged for Dr. Miller's house to be sublet to Michael and Nikita, who was functioning as a combination of back-up and cover for Michael.

The science department was small; the whole school was small. Only 4,000 students. But Campbell was a college town; in addition to Campbell Christian University, there was O'Malley University and Brayenton College. They were all private and all church schools. O'Malley was Catholic, Brayenton was Methodist and Campbell was fundamentalist, non-denominational. The air force base was ten minutes outside town, and featured another 6,000 people.

Nikita studied their target. Like Michael, he worked in the physics department and was a widower. Nikita felt sorry for Jeff; despite the fact that he was working for Red Cell, he seemed like a nice man, and she wondered if Madeleine's information was entirely accurate.

"Did Michael tell you about the faculty dinner tomorrow?" Jeff asked, and Nikita shook her head. "It's at our house, just the science department. We're twelve, now, and with spouses we'll be ... let's see, if Evan brings his latest girlfriend, we'll be about 20. They're good people, you'll like them."

"I'm sure I will," Nikita said warmly. She liked him, she decided. "Would you like to eat dinner with us tonight?"

"Oh, no, we can't," Jeff lowered a wiggling Rose to the ground, and she grasped his hand, twirling around like a top and humming nonsense. "It's your first night here, I'm sure you're tired. And we're off to Rosie's granma's house for dinner."

"Yes," Rose said, balancing on her toes. "And she'll have all my favorites: salmon croquettes, macaroni and cheese and chocolate pie."

"Well," Nikita said, "I can see why you wouldn't want to miss that. Some other time, then."

Jeff grinned at her. "Well, we're off. See you both tomorrow night."

"Good night," Nikita said, and she and Michael watched the Redmonds vanish through the hedge.

"He seems nice," Nikita said.

"Don't lose your focus, Nikita." Michael picked up his shirt and put it on, then without looking at her, went into the house.

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

The faculty dinner was an educational experience for Nikita. Walking home with Michael, she mused about her new-found knowledge.

First of all, Jeff was a recent widower. His wife had died from cancer 18 months before. This didn't fit in with the time frame they'd established for the Red Cell connection; according to Madeleine, he'd begun associating with Red Cell four years before.

Second, all of the faculty went to some kind of church, and she and Michael were expected to attend as well. Nikita couldn't quite picture Michael going anywhere without a gun or at least a knife, and surely it was against some kind of rule to go to church armed.

Third, she'd learned that Michael was well-respected in the scientific community.

This last bit of information puzzled her. Her cover as artist had been established six months ago when Madeleine began introducing pictures on the market ostensibly done by Nikita. Nikita's "work" was shown in several preeminent galleries in New York and London, and when Nikita was informed of her new status, she'd also been instructed to learn to paint in the same fashion. It wasn't difficult: the paintings were different from each other, and reviewers wrote the artist was still looking for her individual style.

Nikita supposed the same type of cover had been designed for Michael. She knew his name was on several academic journal articles, and she'd thought they were ghost-written, similar to her paintings. But tonight he'd surprised her by getting into a lively debate with Jeff about the pros and cons of dwarf stars, then evolved into black holes, subjects so abstract Nikita stopped trying to understand after the first few minutes. Not only that, but several other people commented on minute points in one of his articles, and he'd expounded on them in a remarkable fashion. Nikita had been surprised, to say the least.

Michael unlocked the back door and stepped back so Nikita could enter first.

"Michael."

"Yes?" He dropped the keys on the kitchen table and rolled the kinks out of his neck.

"How long did you have to study to be able to keep up with those people?"

There was a hint of admiration in her voice, and Michael considered lying. "I didn't."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "I wrote the articles."

Nikita frowned at him. "I know your name is on them. But you must have memorized them ..."

"No. I wrote them," he said. "Call it a hobby."

Nikita didn't know what to think. "Michael, building model airplanes is a hobby. Running marathons is a hobby. Creating theorems is not a hobby."

"It is for me." Michael pulled out a glass and filled it with tap water, and drank the whole thing down in a one gulp.

Nikita started to say something else, but apparently thought better of it. "I'm going to bed," she said instead, and Michael nodded, still staring out into the back yard, thoughts already focused on the immediate future.

Next week was the start of school. He had three months to find out what Jeff knew and how he transmitted the information, all without being detected.

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

Michael's last student had been Nikita, so he was somewhat nervous the first day of school. Because of Dr. Miller's sabbatical, he was taking over her classes, which included two physics classes, a beginning chemistry, and advanced chemistry and one ethics in science class. It was a full load, and Tuesdays and Thursdays would be particularly heavy.

Before his nine o'clock began, Jeff poked his head in Michael's classroom. "Hey, Michael, I've got a problem."

"What?"

"Rose's grandma fell and broke her hip last night. She's in the hospital for today and maybe tomorrow, and she usually picks up Rose from school. Do you think you could take my office hour while I pick up Rosie?"

"Why not let Nikita get her?"

"Could she?" Jeff looked relieved. "I'll have to call the school and let them know someone different is picking up Rose, but it sure would be a load off my shoulders."

"I'll call her now," Michael assured. "I'm sure she won't mind."

Nikita did mind -- a lot. Actually, she didn't mind fetching Rose. She minded the way Michael told her she would do it.

"Michael, I have a cover to maintain here," she said crossly. "I can't just be chauffeuring children around."

"Do it," he commanded, and hung up.

Nikita fumed the entire day. When she picked Rose up, Rose immediately saw something was wrong.

"Are you mad?"

"Yes," Nikita said, looking carefully in her rear-view mirror so she wouldn't run over any children. "But not at you."

Rose absorbed this, then suggested, "Ice cream always makes me feel better."

Nikita gave her a quick look. Rose looked done in. She wasn't a particularly healthy-looking child, and she was pale with the heat. Her hair stuck to her sweaty neck, and her face had a gray tint. "Can you tell me where the nearest Baskin-Robbins is?" Nikita asked, and Rose brightened.

"Sure." She gave her directions, then settled back. "Why are you mad?"

Instead of answering directly, Nikita said, "I hate it when people tell me what to do."

"I thought that when you grew up, no one told you what to do."

Nikita hated to burst Rose's bubble, so she said, "Sometimes that's true. But there are always bossy people, and they drive me up the wall."

"Mr. Sam bosses you?" Rose found the idea incredible, and her voice showed it.

"At times. I don't mind doing what he wants me to do, most of the time, but I hate the way he says it."

"‘Ask and you will receive,'" Rose quoted, and Nikita's head snapped around.

"What?"

"That's our verse this week. We have to memorize a Bible verse a week, and that's the one we're working on. ‘Ask as you will receive, seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened. For whoever asks, receives, he who seeks, finds...' I can't remember the rest of it."

Nikita pulled into Baskin-Robbins, and Rose forgot her verse. "I'm having Monster Mash. What about you?"

"Dunno yet."

They enjoyed their ice cream, then drove home slowly.

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

Nikita thoughtfully dried the last dish and hung the damp towel on the oven door. Ask and you will receive. Well, all right, then, she thought. I will.

She walked into the office and leaned on the door frame. "Michael."

"Yes." He didn't look up from his book, and Nikita waited for a minute before he finally made eye contact with her.

She had two options: either convince him she was right, or hit him hard and run. She chose the latter.

"Stop bossing me around."

Michael blinked. All he'd been doing was sitting there, reading. He'd barely said a dozen words to Nikita all night. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Nikita walked toward him and tilted his chin up so she could see his eyes. "Instead of ordering me around, like a dog or a servant, try asking me to do things." Then, remembering another half-forgotten adage about bees and honey, she gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and turned. "Good night, Michael."

By the time he was able to respond, she was gone. Over his head, the floorboards creaked in her bedroom as she shuffled around, getting ready for bed. Gradually, the sounds died; he heard her flop into bed and knew she was most likely laying on her stomach reading.

This mission was meant to broaden Michael's horizons. He excelled at in-and-out jobs, but he'd not had an opportunity to do deep cover before. There were several times he'd almost been sent undercover, but something always came up: a coup in Tazakastan, a war in Bosnia, a bombing in London, germ warfare in Rio. Madeleine knew he was not exactly gregarious, which is why he'd been paired with Nikita, but now he wondered if that was a wise decision. True, he and Nikita worked well together; it would have been strange if they didn't, since he trained her. But he always felt a little possessive about Nikita too, and somehow he didn't think that was entirely right. He'd taught her, trained her, coached her, protected her. Created her, in a way. He was proud of the way she'd turned out -- most of the time. And he was smart enough to realize that one day, she might surpass him.

Was that true, what she said? Was he bossy?

Michael gave up on the book, and marked his place with one of Nikita's business cards that he had in his pocket. Then he double-checked the doors and turned off the downstairs lights, and went up to bed.

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

The days fell into routine: Nikita woke up, swam or sometimes ran a few miles, painted until lunch, took a break, then spent the afternoon painting some more. She picked up Rose Red after school on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays. On Wednesday mornings, early, she packed up a canvas and drove to Dallas, supposedly to see her agent in New York. Instead, she flew to Section to give a report to Madeleine and a micro disk of the science department's mainframe to Birkhoff. She returned to Campbell late Thursday nights.

Michael left the house at half-past seven each morning. Before Jeff got to school, Michael downloaded all the files in the science department onto a micro disk. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, he came home at five, and Thursdays he came home at half-past six. Tuesdays he stayed till nine, because one of his chemistry classes had a lab and no lab assistant.

September seemed to take forever. The heat pressed down on Campbell. Towards the middle of the month, temperatures dropped to the 90s, and natives began saying, "It's finally cooling off."

The heat made both Michael and Nikita grouchy. Michael blamed his short temper on the fact that none of the files showed any evidence of Redmond's supposed connection to Red Cell. Michael was beginning to wonder if there even was a connection; and if there wasn't, what was the real mission, anyway?

Nikita blamed her short temper on Michael. After an initial polite period, in which he actually asked her questions, he'd reverted to his old egalitarian rule. He ordered her to pick up his cleaning; she conveniently forgot, and Michael had to resort to a striped shirt for school the next day.

"I thought I told you---"

"Pick it up yourself," she shot back at him. "I'm not the maid, you know."

"Nikita --"

But she'd slammed the studio door, and, to his surprise, locked it. "Go away," she said, as he jiggled the door knob.

Between the mission and Nikita, things were not going well, Michael thought. He didn't like fighting; it was counterproductive and a waste of energy. But they seemed to be at odds and ends these days, and it didn't help any that as the weeks went by and the further Nikita pushed him away, the more he wanted to kiss the backs of her knees.

Okay, so it was weird, he admitted. But spending so much time with her was slowly driving him crazy. Preserving their cover, they went to church like the rest of the faculty on Sundays, sitting with the other couples. They went out to eat with Jeff and Rose once a week. They did married people things -- even little things, like Nikita drying the dishes, or running the vacuum, or him mowing the yard -- all reinforced the image of marital bliss.

Something was happening inside him, and it all focused on the back of Nikita's knees. It was still hot out; she wore shorts and skirts, and when she turned away from him, his eyes definitely strayed downward. Why knees? he wondered. Why not something conventional, like her neck or mouth or eyes? Other men focused on breasts or legs, he knew. Why couldn't he?

Boredom, he decided firmly. He was bored because the mission was going so slowly. If only Jeff would make a move. If only Birkhoff would find something in the disks he continued to pass to him.

If only it would get cooler and Nikita would wear long pants.

Sick, Michael thought. I am a sick, sick man.

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

In October, it turned suddenly chilly. The trees gave up their leaves; the wind, which never stopped blowing, turned cold. In the mornings, frost covered the ground. By the afternoon it was 75 degrees, but the promise of fall was in the air.

Birkhoff had good news: Redmond had communicated with his Red Cell contact; the first step had been taken, and now they had to wait for the next one, which would be in a few weeks.

Michael's classes were going well. Except for one persistent flirter, he had good students, and seemed to be well-liked by both the students and the faculty, a fact which surprised him a bit.

Nikita's reputation as an artist improved. Madeleine arranged for two of her works -- not the ghost-painted ones -- to be displayed in New York, which garnered two negative and one positive review.

To Michael's relief, Nikita started wearing long pants. Out of sight, out of mind, he thought, satisfied. Then he began noticing her neck. He didn't know whether to be glad that he was finally becoming conventional or upset because it was happening all over again.

Michael came home to a dark house on Wednesday. Nikita was in Section, he reminded himself. He debated calling in to see if anything else had been detected on the disk.

He opened the refrigerator and found not only a casserole, but a note. "Put it in at 350 for 40 minutes. See you tomorrow. N"

Michael obediently turned on the oven and sat down while it preheated. He took off his tie and sighed. He wasn't any good at undercover stuff. He'd rather attack Red Cell head-on any day of the week.

The oven light blinked off, and Michael slid the casserole in. It looked a bit frightening; Jeff gave Nikita one of his wife's old church cookbooks, and she'd been trying various recipes. Perhaps the scariest had been a jell-o dessert named Pink Fluff. It contained pineapple pieces and Cool Whip, and just thinking about it made Michael's mouth pucker. This one seemed to consist mainly of cheese and chicken, and little pieces of green. Green pepper? Green chili? He couldn't tell, and he wondered if he'd be better off going out.

It was cool enough for a fire; Michael methodically laid the wood and the kindling, then sat back and waited to see if it would start. He stared into the flickering light, and when he realized he was picturing Nikita's neck, and the way she pulled her hair over one shoulder when she wanted it out of her face, he snapped his mind back to the present.

Michael ate dinner while watching a bizarre television show about secret agents, but the obvious tactical errors disturbed him, so he did his dishes, put the rest of the casserole in the refrigerator, and went to bed, full, warm and, oddly, lonely. It felt strange not having Nikita in the room across the hall. As he drifted to sleep, images of Nikita's neck flittered through his mind, and he groaned.

Sick, he thought. I'm one sick man.

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

Nikita unlocked the door on Thursday night and tiptoed in. It was late, past eleven, and she didn't want to wake Michael.

She dropped her keys on the umbrella stand and locked the door behind her, taking off her coat and laying her purse down. Shoes came off, and socks followed.

It was good to be home. Her flight had been delayed -- twice -- and about an hour outside of Campbell it started raining. Not gentle, nurturing rain. Monsoon rain. It took every ounce of concentration she had to keep the car steady.

On the plus side, Birkhoff thought next week the intel would actually be useful. Until now, only hints and suggestions had been made, but this week something firm showed up. He'd cross-matched the data with two other possible Red Cell contacts other teams were watching, and they'd all showed similar information.

"This is good," Birkhoff told Nikita. "This means we were right about a pattern. We take down Redmond, the rest of the information chain will follow."

Finally, she thought. It's almost November, I don't know how much more of this I can take.

Nikita flipped on the kitchen light and took out the casserole. Must have been good, she thought; half of it was gone. She cut off a slice and popped it into the microwave and pored a glass of water.

Michael made a fire, and it was just dying out. Nikita sat as close as she could, feet against the warm bricks, and sighed. She was cold clear through, and the fire felt marvelous.

Rain lashed the windows, and Nikita turned toward them, then nearly jumped out of her skin. Michael was lying on the couch, book open on his chest, fast asleep.

"Michael." She shook his shoulder gently, standing well back from him so he wouldn't attack her. "Michael, wake up."

His eyes popped open and the book fell to the floor. Nikita retrieved it, and the microwave went off. "Want something to eat?"

"No. When did you get in?"

"Just now. Weather was awful." Nikita got her plate and came back to the fire, curling as close to the fireplace as she could. She flicked her hair over a shoulder so it wouldn't get in her food. "I'm frozen cold."

"What's Birkhoff say?"

"Hopefully something next week. Something's bothering me, though. We know when and we'll find out how next week, but we still don't know why Jeff is selling to Red Cell. What's his motivation?" Nikita finished her dinner and pushed the plate away, changing the subject. "What do you think? Worthy of a second meal?"

"It was better than the pink stuff," Michael said, trying not to look at her neck. He fastened his eyes on her ear, instead; she wore dangly ear rings, and he envisioned taking them out of her ears with his teeth.

"Michael, are you okay? You look a little strange."

"Just tired," he said, feeling a little short of breath.

"Me, too." Nikita rose and picked up her plate, then extended a hand to Michael. "Come on, time for bed."

If they went up together, she would go up the stairs first, and he'd have to watch her. "You go on. I'll wash up," he offered, and she flashed him a smile.

"Thanks." She gave him a fleeting kiss on his cheek. "Sweet dreams."

Probably not, he thought gloomily as he went to the sink. I'm in hell and there's no way out. Somehow he thought Madeleine had something to do with this, but to tell the truth, he was so confused and disoriented, he couldn't figure out what.

_________________________

As sometimes happens in Texas, on Sunday the weather turned very warm and sunny. After church and a meal with Jeff and Rose, Nikita and Michael came home. Michael hadn't been sleeping well, so he took a Sunday nap, and when he came downstairs, he stopped abruptly in the living room.

Nikita had the paper spread out and the window open. The breeze ruffled her hair and the newspaper; she had a variety of heavy objects stacked on the papers to keep them from blowing around. She lay on her stomach, her bare legs idly waving to and fro. "Hey," she greeted. "Nice nap?"

Michael couldn't answer. His eyes zeroed in on the backs of her knees, and he actually felt a sinking feeling.

"Michael?" She turned around, then scrambled to her feet. "Are you all right? Michael?"

Horrified, he watch her come closer. Don't touch me, he wanted to say, but his mouth wouldn't move.

"You're flushed," she said, worried. She put a cool hand on his neck, and he tensed. "You don't feel well, do you?" Unable to resist, he allowed her to lead him to a chair and push him down. His neck and hand burned where she'd touched him.

"Leave me alone," he growled, batting her hands away. "I'm fine."

"If you say so," Nikita said, annoyed. "But I think you might take an aspirin."

He couldn't stay here. He felt like something inside him was pulling him toward her, like the magnets he used to demonstrate with in class. He got a second wind, pulled himself from the chair and took a healthy three steps away from her. "I'm going to school," he announced, and Nikita stared at him.

"Michael, it's Sunday."

"I have work I didn't bring home."

"You're sick," she said, apparently trying to convince him to stay home.

Tell me about it, he thought. The further away from her he got, the better he felt. The door slammed and his car started up, and Nikita shook her head. "Weird," she muttered, and returned to her paper.

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

On Monday morning, Michael's car wouldn't start, so Nikita dropped him off at school. "I'll call the garage."

"Thanks."

"You know, if you bought a Volvo, this wouldn't have happened," she teased. She pulled over to the curb to let him out, stopping traffic, and he got out, leaning back in to gather his briefcase and some errant papers. Several co-eds gave him a curious look, and Nikita smiled benignly at them.

"See you tonight," Michael muttered, preparing to back out of the car, and Nikita suddenly leaned forward and gave him a kiss.

"Have a good day."

Slightly befuddled, Michael clutched his briefcase in one hand and his papers (still trying to escape) in the other. Nikita smiled brightly and pulled away from the curb, leaving him standing there, bewildered.

___________________

When she picked her up from school, Nikita discovered it was Rose's birthday.

"Nice crown," she commented, and Rose grinned.

"I am the Birthday Queen today," she announced.

"No kidding! Congratulations," Nikita said. "So, what did you get?"

"Daddy gave me Barbie's Dream House. It's pink," she said dreamily. "Inside and out. Granma gave me a Barbie car. It's pink, too."

"I understand Barbie is big on pink."

"Oh, sure. When we get home can we go to my house and see if there are any packages?"

"Yep. We have a strange schedule today, though. Michael's car is broken, so we have to pick him up at five, and your dad wants to go to your gran's tonight, so I'm dropping you off at university."

"Okay."

Rose received clothes from her aunt, and her other grandmother sent her a box of beads meant for stringing into jewelry.

"Try it on," Nikita urged, and Rose took off her blue jeans and sweater.

Nikita had seen Rose in a swimsuit, but never without clothes on. A long, pink scar ran down her breast bone, and Nikita couldn't help staring.

"Oh," Rose said, catching Nikita's eye. "I had surgery when I was little. Something's wrong with my heart. Can you zip me up?" She turned around, and Nikita zipped the back of the dress up. Rose twirled in front of her, and Nikita forced herself to smile.

"Very pretty. You'll have to get your daddy to take a snap of you and send it to her."

"A snap?"

"A snapshot, a picture."

"Oh, right." Rose disrobed again and put on her school clothes, carefully putting the dress back in the box. Then she got out her beads and begin stringing a necklace.

Heart surgery. That would be awfully expensive. Would insurance cover it? Maybe most of it, but probably not all, Nikita thought. Did she need a transplant? A new valve? Was she a difficult match? No wonder she was undersized and had a funny color; her heart was defective.

There it is, Nikita realized. There's the weakness Red Cell is exploiting. You're always supposed to follow the money, that's where we were confused, but there is no money, there never was. They're blackmailing him or something instead.

_________________

At straight up five, Nikita walked with Rose to Jeff and Michael's floor. The halls smelled pleasantly of explosive substances, and Nikita thought longingly of Walter. Rose skipped on ahead for a moment, then stopped, and when Nikita caught up with her she noticed the skin around her lips was blue.

"Slow down, Rose Red," Nikita advised, and took her hand.

"Hiya, Birthday Girl," Jeff grinned, and Rose jumped into his arms. "How was your day?"

"Fine. Tomorrow can we have another birthday dinner with the Sams?"

"Trying to stretch this for all it's worth, are you?" Jeff teased. "Sure, why not? You game, Nikita?"

"Yeah, if Michael is. Just let me fetch him." Nikita strolled into Michael's classroom and stopped.

He was bent over a microscope, and a young (impossibly young, Nikita thought) woman -- no, a girl -- was standing at rapt attention. She was pretty and obviously completely bowled over by Michael. Nikita stopped at the doorway and watched.

"Here's what you're looking for," Michael said, and moved so she could see. "See the little purple squiggly lines? That's it."

"That? Oh, I guess I was looking at the wrong thing ..."

Oh, good grief. Nikita smiled brightly and strode in. "Hey, handsome."

Michael pivoted, eyes wide. Cautiously, he replied, "How was your day?"

"Fine, thanks. Busy. The car'll be ready tomorrow. They have to get the part from Amarillo. But I do have a surprise for you. What's up?" She wondered over, taking in the slides, the scope, the co-ed.

"This is Patricia, she's in the general chem class. We're having a lab tomorrow and she's been having trouble."

I'll bet, Nikita thought. She smiled sweetly. "He's a good teacher, isn't he?"

"Oh, he's -- I mean, I --- I mean -- yes, yes, he is," Patricia stammered, blushing.

Nikita linked her arm through Michael's and grinned at him. "Hungry? How does spaghetti sound?"

"Ah ... good," Michael said, and disentangled himself. He scurried his briefcase together and within minutes they were loping toward the pumpkin, the forgotten co-ed standing rather dejectedly in the hallway.

"I know a secret," Nikita announced, eyes dancing. She grinned at Michael over the roof of the car. "Don't look so scared, Michael. Remember how I didn't understand why Jeff would be selling information?" She slid behind the wheel and leaned over to unlock Michael's door. He got in, tossing the briefcase in the back. "It's Rose. She's got something wrong with her heart."

"What?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out. You think it'd be faster to hack into the hospital records, or to let Birkhoff do it?"

"Birkhoff. He'll be undetected, and we'd take a chance. Why? Getting restless?"

"A little."

They got home, and Michael set the table. Thinking about the lovely Patricia, Nikita added two more cloves of garlic to the spaghetti sauce. How many dishes could you realistically use garlic in, anyway? Meatloaf, she supposed. Roast beef. Steak. Fish? Mmmm, maybe. Onions would be good too, though, and onions went with everything. She made a notation on the grocery list and turned to Michael. "We're ready," she announced cheerfully, and he sat down.

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

Michael noticed three things in the following weeks: Patricia's scores improved, so it wasn't necessary for her to come to lab early anymore. Nikita began an extremely disturbing trend -- she touched him. Not intimately. But often. His arm, his back. Once she leaned forward to make a point and patted his knee. He was so unnerved he completely lost the thread of the conversation.

The third thing Michael noticed was Jeff seemed even more preoccupied than ever.

Ask and you will receive, Rose's icebox art shouted at him every morning. Well, why not? Birkhoff's snooping revealed only bare-bones information; why not go to the source? With a little careful prodding, Jeff spilled Rose's medical history, and Michael could have kicked himself for not asking sooner.

Rose had a congenital heart defect. She was born with a malfunctioning valve, making it necessary to have a valve transplant. But babies grow fast; by the time she was two, she'd had two more valves installed, and when she was five, she had another.

Now she was nine, and her heart was so enlarged that the only real solution was a heart transplant.

Jeff rinsed out a bowl and handed it to Michael to dry. It was evening, another unseasonably warm day for October. The kitchen radio was on and tuned to the university station, and in the den, Nikita was teaching Rose how to dance. It was ‘40s night and Glen Miller bounced through the room; Nikita twirled Rose around.

Follow the money, Michael thought, focusing on Jeff. "So, does insurance pay for something like that?"

"Partially, but that's not the real problem. The real problem is getting a heart she won't reject. Her mother had the same difficulty, and the anti-rejection drugs they gave her weakened her immune system so much that she contracted three different cancers. Well, that's not quite true: the lung cancer moved to her spine, and then to her liver."

"I'm sorry," Michael said. He heard Nikita laugh at something Rose said, and though he couldn't make out the words, he could tell by her tone of voice that she was teasing Rose about something. He glanced over at the pair. Glen Miller was finished and they flopped down eagle-spread on the floor, hot and breathless. Nikita pushed her hair away from her neck and Michael felt a familiar sinking feeling. His eyes slid downward and fastened on the backs of her knees; the weather was so nice, she'd worn shorts today. A little blue vein barely showed through her skin, and Michael had an almost overwhelming desire to trace it with his finger.

"You have to have the perfect match," Jeff explained. "Or a different drug. There's a doctor that's got a new medication out now, it's not supposed to have some of the effects other anti-rejection drugs do. He's only taking a limited number of patients, though, and Rose'd be the youngest. There's certain criteria the patients have to meet: they have to be otherwise healthy, strong, with a good chance of survival. I think Rose'd be perfect. He's expressed an interest in her case."

The dishes were done, and Michael folded up his damp tea towel. Nikita came up behind him and put an arm around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. Michael immediately tensed up, and Nikita's arm loosened. "Hey, Rosie's sacked out on the floor. I didn't realize how late it was getting," she said.

"Thanks, Nikita," Jeff smiled. "Neither did I. I'll take her home. See you tomorrow, Michael? And get some sleep, you look terrible."

Michael nodded, and they watched Jeff carry Rose Red across the lawn. Jeff was right; Michael wasn't sleeping well. Maybe four hours a night. The rest of the time he lay awake, looking at the ceiling. Sometimes he got up and worked mathematics problems. Sometimes he graded papers. Mostly he thought about the woman across the hall. He was tired, and not just physically. The mission was draining, being close to Nikita was exhausting, and frankly, he felt like a zombie most of the time.

Michael removed Nikita's arm and stepped away. Then he drew her toward him and moved in time to the waltz that was playing.

Nikita smiled against his cheek. He was warm and solid and (thanks to her) smelled nicely of garlic. They danced slowly through the kitchen and then to the den, and Michael turned out the lights as they passed them. He made a pass by the back door and Nikita double-checked the lock, then they waltzed through the front part of the house. Lights flicked off in their wake.

Their last stop was the kitchen radio, and with a decisive snap, Michael punched the button and his hands relaxed, prepared for Nikita to move away, but she still swayed as if the music was playing, and she didn't let go of him.

"We've not danced in a while," she said, breath warm on his ear. The only light in the kitchen was from the upstairs hall, and as they danced past the laundry room, she pulled the door to.

"Campbell's not a dancing kind of place. In fact, the police may come to arrest us any moment now ..."

"Maybe, but not for dancing."

Michael led the way upstairs, puzzling over this remark, but when he reached the top and turned to bid her good night, she stepped into his arms again, hands on his shoulders.

It became a habit with her, kissing him quickly good night. She started it to aggravate him, then continued when she discovered it made her feel a little better to end the day on a congenial note. No matter how angry she was with him, or how frustrated with their situation, she tried to finish the day positively. So, like she'd done for the past two months, she brushed a kiss across his cheek.

But this time, Michael reacted.

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

He pulled away from her and took a step back. Then he took another. Then he said something that he never forgave himself for.

"Is this part of the mission profile?"

Nikita stopped breathing, and her eyes froze on his face. "What?"

"This," he said, waving at the air between them. She still didn't answer, and he got angrier. "You. Going around all day in nothing but shorts, showing off your neck to God knows who."

Her eyes grew wider, if that was possible, and without answering, she went into her bedroom and shut the door.

Michael did the same. He undressed and put on his pajamas (blue striped), and lay down in bed, stiff as a board, arms folded over his chest.

He waited.

Nothing. Not even a twinge of sleepiness. He turned over on his stomach. He watched the minute hand on the clock spin around. He tried counting sheep. He pictured them leaping over a fence, one after the other. Nothing.

Michael sighed and switched pillows. He scrunched down in the bed, shutting his eyes.

He stayed that way for a full 10 minutes, then he sat up and slowly, reluctantly, crossed the hall.

"Nikita."

He waited for an answer, then tried the door. To his surprise, the knob turned in his hand. He walked through the door and heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked.

"It's me," he said.

"Yes, I know."

He cleared his throat. "I came to ask you something."

"Ask."

"Forgive me?"

It obviously wasn't enough; the gun remained cocked, and he was sure, aimed straight at him. Nikita didn't acknowledge his apology, so he continued. "I ... overreacted. It was a stupid thing to say."

"Yes, it was."

"I don't know why I said it."

"No?"

Michael was still standing by the door. "May I come in?"

The gun uncocked and he heard her slide over in bed. Taking it for permission, he sat down gingerly on the foot of the bed, and he heard Nikita edge away from him. "I don't like this assignment," he began. "I don't like long missions, and I don't like monotony. I don't like being away from Section this long. I watch the news and know I should have been in Columbia or Athens or Edinburgh, not here."

"Not with me," Nikita translated.

"Yes," Michael said slowly, then, the dark making it easier, he gave up. "You don't love me."

"Who said I didn't?"

"You don't," he stated, staring down at the place he knew his knees were, even though he couldn't see them.

The mattress under him dipped suddenly, and Nikita wrapped her arms around him from behind. "For being so smart, you sure are dumb," she remarked, and then her hands crept under his pajama top, skin to skin, and Michael shivered.

"Stop it."

"Michael, relax."

"Where's the gun?" Michael had a sudden image of them rolling over it and it going off.

"Oh, well, hell, Michael," Nikita said crossly. She rooted around in the covers for the firearm, keeping one hand firmly on Michael's collar. She found the gun and tossed it (rather too cavalierly for Michael's taste) off the bed. Then, in a burst of energy, she pulled him back and stretched out on top of him. "Don't even think about going anywhere."

Michael's hands crept down the sides of her legs, and she shifted slightly. Then a finger traced the crease behind her knees.

"That tickles," Nikita said, twitching her leg away, but then Michael began kissing her, and the laughter fled, replaced with quite another feeling.

The minutes passed. Michael kissed every spot that he'd been craving, and quite a few that he hadn't remembered. "Missed you," he murmured, and Nikita sighed.

As he reached the divot in her throat, Nikita choked out, "Hold it."

He stopped, hands still on her waist. "Yes?" he whispered, a ragged sound in the room.

"I ... have a question."

"Ask." Imperceptibly, his hands moved under her top and rested on the small of her back, skin to skin.

"Are you ... Is this ... Because I can't, Michael, not again. It's too hard and I just ... I can't."

"You want to know if things will be different when we're in Section," Michael translated, and, since it seemed wise, he pulled away, reaching for the bedside light. He flicked it on and they both blinked in the sudden illumination.

Nikita curled up into a relatively (for her) small white cotton ball, hair electric around her shoulders, eyes suspicious.

"Tell me what you want," he said, and the offer was so magnanimous, Nikita blinked.

"Now? Or later?"

He considered. "Whichever." He settled himself at the end of the bed again, and began buttoning up his top, prepared to wait it out.

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

Choices. Nikita thought quickly. She knew what she wanted: Michael. But in what capacity? Well, in any capacity, she decided recklessly. As long as he's by my side, things will be all right. Won't they? She'd been thinking short-term, but now suddenly, she expanded her view. What about next month? Next year? We could both be dead by then, she thought. Or not. Did he love her? It was such a nebulous word, love: she thought perhaps he did, but there were times when she was sure he didn't.

Michael yawned, finally becoming sleepy. "You don't have to decide right now," he said.

"Maybe we should sleep on it," Nikita replied. She hospitably added, "You can stay if you want."

Michael turned down the bed and fell into place. He was asleep almost before the covers settled around him. Nikita leaned over and flipped off the light, and hesitantly reached out for him. He didn't move away, and her hand fit nicely under his folded arms.

___________________

When Nikita woke up, she couldn't move, she was very hot, and she was confused.

She was confused because Michael was muttering in French, and she was hot because he was curved around her like a parenthesis. She couldn't move because he was lying on her hair.

She gently tugged at her hair, but Michael pulled her closer, nudging his face into her neck, so she occupied herself with her current problem.

What did she want? It was a little hard to think with Michael so close, but she focused on the issue at hand, and by the time he began stirring, she had a basic idea.

"I need some help, Michael."

He jerked awake and looked around wildly. "What time is it?"

"It's Saturday," she said quickly, and he relaxed. Then he blinked and, if she hadn't known better, almost blushed. He attempted to untangle himself, and Nikita rolled over on top of him.

"Oooph," he muttered, and she grinned at him.

"Please don't leave."

"If you insist," he agreed, and she folded her arms over his chest and rested her chin on them.

"Listen, I've been thinking."

Michael waited, the warmth of her body seeping through his pajamas. Almost of their own volition, his hands moved up her sides, and settled around her ribcage. "I've been making a list in my head, pros and cons."

"All right."

"On the con side, there's living two different lives. Lying to everyone. Living apart. There's always the possibility, although remote, I could get pregnant." Michael's mind shuddered, and Nikita went on. "Then there's the day-to-day stress we both go through. One of the other of us could get canceled at any time, or die on a mission. I don't know what I would do if that happened to you. It's really not fair, not to either one of us."

Michael understood. The odds were insurmountable, he knew that better than anyone, and certainly better than Nikita. His body grew cold under hers, and his mind dark.

Nikita continued. "On the pro side, there's only one thing."

"What?" he managed to ask.

"You," Nikita said, and kissed him.

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

"Michael."

He was so dazed, he had to actually think of the correct English response. The sheets, his skin, the pillows all smelled of Nikita. His arms were full of her, and she lightly stroked his throat, smoothing her hand across his heart.

"Michael."

"Yes?"

"What are we going to do about Jeff?" Nikita traced a pattern of lines on Michael's bare chest, and he groaned, his body responding, yet again, to her touch. He turned his head and kissed her, a long, slow, dazzling kiss, then rolled her on top of him so she could see his eyes.

"Exactly what we planned. I'll intercept the formula, Section will meet you and retrieve the messenger. We'll finish out the semester and go back to Section."

"No, I mean about Jeff. What happens to him? What happens to Rosie?"

Michael didn't answer, and his hand, which had been moving up her bare spine, stopped.

"I really hate this," Nikita said abruptly, moving away from him. He gave himself a mental shake and tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

"A lot of these missions, it's easy to just do it and forget about it. I don't like this deep cover business, though. It's boring, it's slow and you get involved. Our parameters have changed, but the mission stays the same, right?"

"Our job is to find out how the information is transferred. Redmond isn't our concern." Michael's voice was low and brisk, but Nikita smiled.

"Michael, he is."

"Nikita, we can't get involved."

"We already are." She got up and reached for some clothes; the first thing she grabbed was Michael's, and she fished around for something of her own.

"We don't have to be. Disengage."

"I told you before, I don't like it when you tell me what to do." She retrieved her undershirt and struggled into it, then began searching for pants.

"Please disengage."

Nikita put on her shorts. "Michael, Jeff isn't one of the bad guys. And Rose certainly isn't. He's just a man who wants to help his little girl. Surely we could help him out?"

"It isn't our place."

"Shadows, right?" Nikita said softly. She was angry, he could tell by the way she stood and the edge to her voice. He didn't answer and he didn't move. She let out a puff of annoyed breath. "What if I could figure out a way to help him? Would you help me carry it out?"

"Yes. If it's feasible, I will help."

She looked at him, and he felt himself being weighed. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, hand on his chest, and sighed. "You may not be a good man, Michael," she said slowly, "but you are an honorable one. Help me do the right thing, please."

He kissed the palm of her hand, then drew her down beside him. She settled down on top of him, legs tangled in his, arm draped across his chest, head in the crook of his shoulder. His hand moved up under her shirt, and she moved closer, Jeff and Rose momentarily forgotten. Her mouth latched onto his, and he pulled her on top of him, inching up her shirt.

"Perhaps I was a bit premature in dressing," she said, breathless.

"Perhaps." The shirt came off, and Michael's hands moved lower. Soon the shorts followed the shirt, and Nikita, unable to help herself, began giggling.

"What?"

"I was just thinking it was a good thing it's Saturday. What would your students say if they could see you now?"

"I believe they'd say I have excellent taste and am a very lucky man."

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

Nikita lay, stomach down, on the roof of the library, her rifle trained on the science building entrance across the way.

Michael was inside, downloading Jeff's files. From her vantage point, Nikita carefully scanned the area again; it wouldn't do for Jeff to come upon Michael, and it certainly wouldn't do for the Red Cell operative to intercept him before Michael did.

The door opened and Michael stepped out. He didn't look at her at all, but she felt a rush of warmth as she saw him stride toward the parking lot. She kept her sight on the door, but her attention was on Michael.

Another car drove up. Jeff stepped out, greeted Michael, and they stood talking. "Come on, Michael, move," she said softly, and then she saw Michael genially take Jeff's arm, other hand gesturing in the air. He pulled Jeff along, and Jeff, after a backward glance toward the center of campus, reluctantly followed.

Nikita waited. She checked her watch. Section's van pulled up in the parking lot, ready for the Red Cell operative.

Finally, just when she thought they were going to have to call it a night, a figure detached from the campus and made its way to the lot. Nikita aimed and shot true, the tranquilizer dart hitting her victim square in the back. She hated shooting people in the back, but then, she thought, it's only a tranq. At least he's not dead.

Yet, anyway.

The van doors opened. A black figure quickly loaded up the Red Cell operative, the doors shut, and the van pulled away.

Nikita rose and stretched, then dismantled her weapon, put it in her knapsack, and, after a quick look around, scaled the dark side of the building. She landed with a little thump, detached her rope and reversed her jersey. Instead of black mission wear, she had on a red-striped shirt. She tucked her hair into a pony tail, perched some glasses on her nose, and hopped on the bicycle leaning against the wall. She glanced down at her watch. If she hurried, she could catch the B bus, which ran near their house.

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

The first week of December was cold, windy and miserable. An intermittent light snow fell, turning to freezing ice by mid-day. Michael came home from school early, and found Nikita in a cooking frenzy, singing along with Bing Crosby on the radio.

The now familiar smell of garlic permeated the air. From now on, he thought, I will forever associate the smell of garlic with Nikita.

"You're early!" she exclaimed, and he nodded.

"They canceled classes, said the sidewalks were icing up."

"But I'm not ready!"

"Can I help?"

"Peel these, boil this and see if this tastes right." She handed him a sack of carrots and four potatoes, then popped a spoon in his mouth.

"Good. Hot." He took a big drink from the glass of water she had on the counter.

"Too much garlic?" Nikita said, and Michael, eyes watering, kissed her nose.

"I love garlic. Especially if you have some too."

They were interrupted by a frantic knocking on the back door, and Michael broke away to answer it. Jeff tumbled in, shaking a piece of paper.

"Hi, Jeff," Michael greeted, and Jeff nearly bowled him over.

"Look at this. Look," he said, waving the paper in front of Michael, so Michael took it and read. "This can't be right. It must be a mistake. Read it."

"I am," Michael said. His eyes met Nikita's, and she left the soup to read over his shoulder. "Is this a reputable doctor?" Michael asked, although he knew the answer.

"Reputable! Dr. Emmanuel Staritz! He's the top in his field. He's been working on transplant patients for 20 years, at least. He's a pioneer. He's been testing this new medication on heart patients for five years, it was approved for adults six months ago. Now he wants it approved for children, and Rose has been chosen to be in the second test group."

"Second?" Nikita asked.

"Yes, the first group has already passed the one year mark."

"Mortality rate?" Michael asked.

"Five percent. In other heart transplants, it's higher. When my wife was alive, we heard of him, but it was too late for her to begin treatment with him." He waited with the anticipation of a child at Christmas, and Nikita smiled.

"It's wonderful, Jeff! When does she go in?"

"As soon as they have a heart for her. She's already started on the anti-rejection medicine, so she'll have to be isolated until they do surgery. I told her she could come over tonight if she promises to stay indoors today. It'll take a few days for her resistance to bottom out."

Was this right? Nikita asked herself suddenly. She had a sudden vision of Rose waiting for a heart, her immune system weakening, and something innocuous, like a cold, killing her. Nikita bit her lip and stole a glance at Michael. He frowned at the letter, then clapped Jeff on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Jeff. I hope she gets a heart soon."

"Soon," Nikita echoed, giving Jeff a hug. "Run and get her, Jeff, we're almost ready anyway, and we can chat while you men do ... whatever it is you do."

Unable to control his excitement, Jeff bounded out the door, slipping over the frozen lawn to his own home and his daughter.

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

Nikita's apartment was spotless, every stitch she owned was ironed, and her refrigerator was so clean, it could have been used for an advertisement.

She couldn't sleep.

It was their third night back, and Nikita had tried everything. She'd spent an hour working out today, hoping it would exhaust her, then spent the rest of the afternoon running errands. She'd changed the sheets on the bed. She'd taken a warm bath. She'd watched mind-numbing TV. None of it worked. She stared up at the ceiling, sleepless.

Of course, she knew what the problem was. She hadn't kissed Michael good night. She didn't expect him to come by, and he didn't. Probably sleeping like the dead, she thought, irritated.

Nikita rolled over, shut her eyes determinedly, and forced her body to relax. She tried not to think how big her bed felt with only her in it.

__________________________

He couldn't sleep.

Michael turned on his side, then his back. He'd elected to sleep in Section because it was nearly ten o'clock when he finished work, but now he was regretting his decision.

He sighed. He missed her. The way she draped herself across him, her cold feet icy on his legs, the way her hair tickled his nose. He missed her getting up in the middle of the night for a snack. He even missed the damn crumbs in the bed.

Michael rolled over on his stomach, arms stretched out. No one would steal his pillow tonight, or hog the blankets. The sheets were depressingly clean and cold, and finally, he gave up.

Michael strode toward Section exit, and Walter just barely caught him.

"Michael, I need you to do something for me."

"What is it?"

"Nikita forgot to return the rest of her tranq darts after the mission. Inventory is due tomorrow afternoon, and she's not scheduled to come in until Friday."

"I'll pick them up," Michael said. "Do you need them tonight, or is tomorrow all right?"

"Tomorrow's fine. Tell her hello for me and that we're still on for Friday."

Michael briefly wondered what was special about Friday. He made his way to Nikita's and paused at her door; it was past midnight, and Nikita was an eight-hour sleeper. Still, he wanted to see her. Had to see her.

He knocked and without waiting, he got out his keys, but before he could put it in the tumbler, the knob twisted.

"Michael? What is it?" She was in her pajamas, but wide awake.

"Walter wants his tranq darts."

She nodded, standing aside for him to enter. She put down her book, and, curious, Michael glanced at the cover. "A biography about Einstein?"

"An interesting man," Nikita said vaguely, digging in her luggage. She came up with a handful of pellets, counted them, and handed them to Michael.

"You can't sleep?" Michael asked.

"Nope."

"Me either." Michael sat on the couch, not touching her, obviously unhappy.

"I'm glad you're here. I have something funny to tell you. How about some hot cocoa?"

"I can't stay."

"I didn't ask you to."

"In that case, all right." He watched her heat the milk and pour in the chocolate. She bought him a cup, and grinned at him.

"I'm cooking a casserole for Walter on Friday. Want to come over?"

"I'll be in Albania."

"Maybe next time, then."

Michael nodded to the canvas on the wall. "Rose's picture looks nice."

"Yes, doesn't it?" Rose presented them with a picture of what she imagined her new heart to look like when they left Campbell; it was a conglomeration of pinks and reds, all vibrating with energy. "She may have a future in art, I think. You can have it next month, if you like. She gave it to both of us."

"No, it should stay with you."

They sipped their chocolate, and finally Michael rose.

"I have to go."

"They're keeping track of you." It wasn't a question, but Michael nodded. "Someone followed me around today, too." Nikita told him. "Someone new. Not very good."

"What was it you wanted to tell me?" Michael remembered.

Nikita shifted from one foot to the other, avoiding his eyes, then finally said, "What do you know about common law?"

"It's legally binding," he answered. "Why?"

"Did you know that in Texas, if a couple have an agreement to be husband and wife and live together as if they are married, and if the public believes they are married, they are?"

"What?"

"It's true. I looked it up today. The only way it can be terminated is by a divorce. I guess Madeleine didn't think about that."

"A divorce seems so sudden," Michael deadpanned, and Nikita, relieved, grinned.

"Better not fool around on me," she quipped. "I could have you killed, you know. Hey, I know people ..."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Michael assured, and they were quiet for a minute. Nikita wrapped her arms around him and leaned in.

"You have to go," she sighed, and felt him nod. "I have something else for you. So you don't forget me while you're gone."

Michael seriously doubted that was possible, but Nikita handed him a flat, square frame, and he looked at it, prepared to love whatever it was. It was a framed photograph, black and white, of two wide lines.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Can't you tell?"

He looked closer. The lines became legs. The backs of legs. Nikita's legs. He could just make out the little blue vein on the back of her left knee. "I had it made yesterday, when I heard about your mission. I meant to give it to you tomorrow, but you need it now. I don't want you to forget ..."

The tips of his mouth slanted up. "No fear of that," he said, then pulled her close and kissed her hard.

"Have a good trip." Nikita walked him to the door, then pulled him close and gave him a good night kiss. She pulled back, a question plain on her face, but she didn't say anything.

"Ask," he prodded, and she bit her lip.

"Will you please stay safe?"

"As safe as I can."

"How long?"

"Maybe a week, maybe longer."

She nodded. "Let me know when you get back?"

"Of course."

She kissed him again, a quick, feather-light touch that made his knees turn liquid, then watched him walk down the hall. She shut her door, pleased that he'd liked the picture an been surprised about her news. Then she turned out the lights and crawled into bed.

And this time, she fell asleep.

-end- (finally!!)