Nikita walked into the briefing wearing her nightgown.

Michael knew it was her nightgown. The last time he'd seen it, the black biased-cut satin sheath was puddled at his feet.

He blinked, face showing no emotion, and stared straight forward, not acknowledging her or her apparel, and wondered exactly what had been going on for the last two months.

After they were paired in Washington, he'd been sent to Columbia for three weeks, then in quick succession Rio, Hong Kong, Paris, Sicily and Miami. Michael hadn’t contacted Nikita; instead, he kept up with her through mission reports. She’d hopped around the globe almost as much as he had, and she’d been paired with Nelson for most of the jobs.

Nelson was a good operative, easy-going and friendly, and from her reports, Michael knew they worked well together. Initially, Michael was very proud of her. But as Nelson came in after Nikita, his hand at her waist, the feeling Michael had now was not one of pride.

He took in Nelson with a glance. Tall, blonde, conventionally handsome, he and Nikita looked like matched golden bookends. Nikita was attractive, but next to Nelson, she was breathtaking. Nelson said something to her under his breath, and she smiled, her teeth a quick white flash in her pale face. Her eyes flickered over Michael as she stood next to Nelson, talking to Operations in a low voice. Michael was too far away to hear what was said, but the body language was all too clear.

Michael knew with absolute certainty she wasn't wearing anything underneath. He knew her body better than his own: every hollow, every indention, every small, healed scar was committed to memory, from the nape of her neck to the backs of her knees to the little knobby bones of her ankles. The black satin clung to her, smooth as skin, and he couldn’t detect any lines under the fabric. Not even stockings. Her bare feet were encased in dress sandals. Michael swallowed, feeling suddenly hot, but whether it was from anger, embarrassment or desire, he couldn't tell. Nelson’s hand slipped to Nikita’s hip; Operations nodded at them both, and the three drifted to the table.

Nelson held Nikita’s chair for her and she settled in, thanking him with a smile. Nelson smiled back and gave Michael a friendly nod. Michael resisted the urge to catapult across the table and throttle him.

“Michael,” Operations greeted, “It’s good to have you back. I apologize if you were called away prematurely from your mission, but it couldn’t be helped. We’ve decided to use two teams, and unfortunately, you must comprise one of the teams.”

“Have I been ... requested?”

“You might say that,” Operations acknowledged. “To catch you up to speed: Nikita and Nelson compose Team One. You’ll be working with Team Two.”

“Who--?”

Operations smiled a chilly smile. “You’ll meet the rest of your team on site.”

Operations activated the hologram and begin with a small introduction. “This,” Operations introduced with a wave to the blue screen, "Is Max Kliman. He runs a very successful illegal weapons/drugs business, which normally we wouldn’t care about. However, he has ties with Spectrum and Antioch, and we need him alive.” Operations shot Nikita a piercing glance, and when she didn’t respond, he added, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” she said, voice light and eyes steady.

Operations gave an impatient huff and pointed at her. “I want it tidy, I want it quick and I want it perfect. We’ll operate on two fronts. Nikita’s team will pose as potential investors and work it from the inside. Kliman wants to expand his business into China and is running short of cash. You’ll supply him with the necessary funds and stick with him until you can transfer him to Michael’s team.

“Despite some of his more exotic tastes, Kliman is a family man. You’ll pose as a married couple. You’ll go in tomorrow. See Madeleine for the necessary papers and so forth.” Operations turned to Michael. “Michael’s team will work from the outside as backup. Birkhoff has your information.”

Michael’s lips compressed into an almost invisible line.

“Is something wrong?” Operations asked.

“No,” Michael lied.

“Good.” He deactivated the screen and frowned. “I want 100 percent containment on this one. No heroics,” he said, looking at Michael. “And no last-minute mission changes,” he continued, looking at Nikita. “Follow the profile to the letter. You’re dismissed.”

Nelson left, casting Nikita a quick backward glance, but as Nikita turned to leave, Michael snapped out, “In my office, please.”

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

Nikita followed Michael down the hall, smiling tiredly at Walter as she passed him. Michael opened his door and stood aside for Nikita; she entered and waited.

Michael snapped his shades down and turned to her. His face was absolutely blank, but his voice was furious and, to her surprise, loud. “What is the meaning of this?”

“What?” Nikita asked, startled. He hadn’t yelled at her for years, not since her very first mission.

“You.” He jabbed a finger at her, and Nikita took a step backwards. “Wearing that. In here. With him.”

Bewildered, she looked down at herself. “It’s just a gown, Michael. We were at the opera.”

“You wore a nightgown to the opera?” He wasn’t sure what angered him more: the fact she’d worn inappropriate clothing in public, or the fact she’d worn it on a date with Nelson.

“It isn’t a nightgown. It’s an evening gown,” she said, defensively.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.” She twisted around and presented her back to Michael. “Look at the tag.”

He paused, then, still angry, dipped a hand down her back, searching for the label. He pulled it up and read it upside down.

“Nightclothes come in small, medium and large,” Nikita said, trying to ignore his warm hand on her bare skin. “You may notice the size on the bottom tag.” His fingers brushed her back again and she shivered involuntarily. “Also, Evanander doesn’t make nightclothes,” she added. “Yet, anyway. You may also notice this dress is lined. Nightclothes aren’t, usually.”

The hand retreated and Nikita slowly turned around. He was still frowning. “Why were you paired with Nelson?”

“Michael, I don’t know. We’ve worked a lot together lately. All we had to do was place a tracker on someone. It was no big deal.” She frowned back at him. In all the Michael-coming-home scenarios she’d envisioned, arguing had not been imagined. She wanted him to wrap himself around her and make love to her all night long and tell her how much he’d missed her. Instead, they were standing in his office fighting. She thought things would be different after their last mission together. But she didn’t have to be psychic to see she’d once again misjudged him.

“I’m going home,” she announced. “If you’re finished yelling at me. I’m tired and, though it may seem unbelievable to you, I want to get into my pajamas and into bed. See you tomorrow.” She turned and stalked out, the fabric of her dress gleaming in the light.

Michael watched her go. Several things were bothering him: he wasn’t paired with Nikita for the mission; Nelson was too handsome for his own good, not to mention Michael’s; Kliman meant another brush with Spectrum and Antioch; and, basically, he had no team. Meeting a partner on site meant one of two things: the person was lower-level government and Section was repaying a favor by working with another agency; or the person dabbled in illegal affairs, and Section didn’t want to admit to using an outsider. Neither option pleased Michael.

The last thing that bothered Michael was something far more insubstantial. He felt off-balance, as if he misplaced something but couldn’t remember what it was. Almost like he had ’flu or ... something. Absently, he reached in his desk drawer and took out a vitamin. He swallowed it dry. Then he sat down, turned on his laptop, and began studying Madeleine’s files.

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

When she worked nights, it was difficult for Nikita to go directly to bed. She got home and pulled off her dress, hanging it up carefully, shaking her head as she thought of Michael. Really. He acted like a jealous boyfriend, she thought, aggravated.

A jealous boyfriend.

She frowned, and remembering their argument, opened a dresser drawer, searching through the slippery garments till her hands lit on a black sheath. She pulled it out and shook out the wrinkles.

He had a good eye, she admitted reluctantly. The cut was similar and though the backs of the gowns were different, from the front, they looked remarkably alike. Both black satin, both cut on the bias, both floor-length. The evening gown had a low back and zipped up the side. The nightgown pulled over her head, and had a scoop neck and back. Nikita pulled it on and looked at herself critically in the full-length mirror.

There were definite differences. The straps weren’t the same and the waistline in the gown was a little looser, but from a distance, the garments looked alike. Especially since he hadn’t really had time to study this particular nightgown; she’d worn it for maybe ten minutes when they both realized it was an impediment.

Nikita considered her reflection, turning around to see the whole effect. Then she stripped off the gown and pulled on a t-shirt. Madeleine had already packed their bags, she was sure. All she had to do was show up at Section tomorrow; everything else would be taken care of.

Thoughtfully, Nikita emptied her handbag on the bed and repacked it. But instead of lipstick and a compact, she carefully folded the black nightgown. For good measure, she searched through her dresser and added a few other pieces of lingerie and a couple of other things she never traveled without.

Always be prepared, she thought with a slight smile. She’d been paired with Nelson. But if she knew Michael, he’d figure out a way to get her alone.

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

Michael had a headache the size of Alaska. Nikita and Nelson were already in place in their Section-rented cookie-cutter half-a-million dollar house in Reston, and Michael, who arrived at National during rush hour, correctly assumed that Metro would be faster than a taxi.

Michael collected his bag at the carousel and was about to head to the train when he was blocked by a tall, dark-complected, handsome man.

“Jesus H. Christ,” the man said, “God damn it to hell and back. Don’t tell me I’m working with you.”

For the first time in two days, Michael’s face relaxed. “Nice to see you, too, John.”

John gave Michael a friendly whack on the back, shouldered his bag and glanced around. “So, where’s the Duchess?”

“Don’t ask.”

“But I must. You know my affinity for difficult questions. Come on, give: where is she?”

“On the other team.” The two men walked out of the terminal and set off across the parking lot. When they reached Michael’s car, John raised his eyebrows questioningly. “You can drive,” Michael said, and John slid behind the wheel.

“Tell me everything,” John requested.

“You first,” Michael said.

John shrugged and pulled into traffic. “Max Kliman’s a sneaky son of a devil, I’ll tell you that much. We’ve known about him for five years and had him under surveillance for two. We haven’t been able to get enough on him to put him away for good. Unlike Section, the United States government tends to take a dim view of out-and-out murder; they’d rather we make a good example out of Kliman. It’s not bad P.R. for the agency, either.”

“Of course.”

John navigated Route One slowly; traffic was backed up as usual, but it was moving. “We requested Section’s involvement last summer, when it became clear we weren’t getting anywhere. They finally cleared it -- I still don’t know why, they aren’t usually so accommodating -- but only if I was put on the case and they sent one of their own to work it with me.”

“Why?”

“Hey, it’s your employer. Don’t ask me. All I know is, after you’re finished with him, we get to keep him. It’ll be a media circus,” he said, with some satisfaction.

Michael gazed out the window. Traffic was heavier, and finally John was able to pull off on South Fayette, which ran parallel to Route One. Within a few minutes, he made a left on Saint Asaph and pulled in front of the townhouse. “No place like home,” he said cheerfully, moving to get out of the car, but Michael stopped him.

“How long have you been on the case?”

“About six months. There will be other agents working it too, but they aren’t to know you and you don’t need to know them. It’s for everyone’s good, Michael.”

Michael nodded and released John, who popped the trunk and grabbed Michael’s bags.

Michael unlocked the door and held it for John. “So. How about we order in some dinner and you can tell me about your love life,” John suggested.

“You should write romance novels, not work for CIA,” Michael reproved.

“I’ve often thought of doing an advice column for City Paper,” John mused as he flipped through a stack of take-out restaurant menus.

“Perhaps if CIA doesn’t work out,” Michael suggested.

“Yes, one should always be able to fall back on something,” John agreed. He held up two menus. “Armand’s or Thai Lemon Grass?”

“I don’t care,” Michael said. He sat down on the bottom stair, then lay down, gazing at the small chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

John placed their order, hung up the phone and frowned at Michael. “All right, Sport, out with it: what’s with Nikita and why the hell is she all the way out in Reston, instead of here with us?”

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

Nikita and Nelson’s house was large, new and, in Nikita’s opinion, oppressively House Beautiful. She hated it. She hated the new carpets, the new furniture from Ethan Allen and the new Ralph Lauren sheets and towels.

“Doesn’t have any character,” she sighed, and Nelson frowned.

“Is it supposed to?”

“I guess not.” She was cross and had the beginning of a headache. She hadn’t slept well the night before; her dreams were odd and busy, and when she woke up, the only one she could remember with any clarity was Michael painting her toenails. Hot pink. Love to see what Freud’d make of that one, she thought sourly. Forget Freud: Madeleine would have a field day. Being tired made her slightly air sick on the plane, and she’d caught herself twice before she snapped at Nelson. It wasn’t his fault she was in a crabby mood, Nikita reminded herself as she opened her suitcase and began unpacking in her bedroom, which was across the hall from his. Nelson lounged in the doorway.

“We don’t meet Kliman till tomorrow’s party. Would you like to do something tonight? See a movie? Go out to eat?” he asked.

Nikita stared at her almost empty suitcase, then returned to the dresser, opening drawers, searching for something. She checked the closet, then the suitcase again. “Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

“Isn’t this party dressy?”

“Yeah, I guess. I have a tux. What are you wearing?”

“I don’t know,” Nikita said blankly. “Madeleine didn’t pack anything appropriate. There’s this ...” she held out a simple red silk short coatdress, “Or this ...” She displayed a denim jumper.

“They look awfully casual. And awfully ... short.”

Nikita frowned, then checked the sizes. “No wonder. They’re the wrong size. Who do we know that wears a size six?”

“Not me, Boss. You must have gotten the wrong bags. Richard’s team was leaving right after us -- maybe you got one of his people’s stuff.”

“Who was on his team?”

“Paul ... Richard ... Cecily ...”

Nikita let out a growl of frustration. “I bet right now, Cecily is as unprepared as I am. Why do these things happen to me?”

“Well, not to worry,” Nelson said cheerfully, reaching into his wallet. “I understand Tyson’s Corner isn’t too far, and they have Neiman’s. Is that satisfactory?”

“It’s a waste of time,” she grumbled, accepting his Neiman’s card and his American Express. “I’ll have to buy everything from the inside out. And I’ll have to expense it. Give me the keys, please.”

Nelson handed over the keys, received a half-hearted thank-you, and watched Nikita leave the house.

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

It was lucky they arrived early; it took Nikita the good part of the afternoon to get together a decent wardrobe, and by the time she was finished, she was absolutely exhausted.

She ate lunch at Magic Pan, figuring the more calories she consumed, the better, then she set off again. By the time it was late afternoon, her feet were sore and her arms ached from carrying packages. She checked her watch: Michael’s plane was due soon, and she felt a stabbing ache for him.

Except for the lingerie she’d packed at the last minute, she didn’t have anything but the clothes on her back. As predicted, she had to buy everything from the inside out: underclothes, socks, stockings, shoes, dress clothes, casual clothes, not to mention make-up basics ... when she was done, she had a huge headache that only got worse as she attempted to navigate rush-hour traffic. She stopped by a Rite Aid for a few drug store necessities, and by the time she got to the house, she was hot, tired and cross.

Nikita slammed through the front door. “Nelson! Come here, I need some help.” She dropped two bags in the foyer, then returned to the car for another armful. “Nelson!”

She set her bags down, carefully hanging her evening clothes on the banister rail. She cocked her head, listening. “Nelson?”

The house was quiet. Uneasily, Nikita reached for her gun, lodged in the small of her back. It had been a nuisance today when she was trying on clothes -- she’d been afraid she’d leave it behind in a dressing room -- but she was very glad for it’s heavy weight now. “Nelson?”

Silence. Nikita slowly closed the door, forgetting about the other packages in the car, and began a careful circuit of the house.

She started in the dining room, then made her way slowly to the kitchen, ready for anything. It was empty, silent except for the faint ticking of the clock on the stove. She entered the hall again, then opened the study door. Clean.

There was one more room on this floor: the living room. She crept around the doorway, gun ready, then slowly she lowered it, relief washing over her.

“Nelson. Why didn’t you answer?” He was sitting up in an easy chair, back facing her, glass of water at his elbow. “Nelson?” She circled around him, then she stopped, clapping a hand over her mouth.

Except for the perfect red-black hole in the center of his forehead and the slightly crooked stream of congealed blood that ran from his head to his neck, he might have been asleep. But she didn’t have to check his pulse to see he was dead -- and probably had been for awhile.

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

Nikita hated calling Housekeeping, especially when it was someone they knew. Section was a small community, and even if people weren’t personally acquainted, the reputations of all were well-known.

But she made the call and sat down to wait with Nelson. She held his hand, which was clammy and a little stiff by now, and hoped that rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet. She supposed she ought to lay him flat on his back so it would be easier for them to take him out, but she just didn’t have the heart.

Absently, she patted Nelson’s hand. “I wish you were alive so you could tell me who did this to you.”

No answer; but then, she hadn’t expected one. Methodically, Nikita began to think about the possibilities.

She knew Section was working with a government agency on this one. Could have been a rogue agent, she thought, musing on other possibilities. Some unknown enemy tracked them down and took his chance? Kliman? One of the groups he worked with -- Spectrum? Antioch? Nikita was familiar with Spectrum, having been a “guest” of theirs for three torturous days, but Antioch she didn’t know -- at least, not personally. But Nelson did. He hadn’t mentioned it at the briefing, but she’d seen him tense up when Operations mentioned the name.

Of course, the answer could be far simpler. Nelson’s murderer could have been one of their own.

Galvanized into action, Nikita jumped up and ran upstairs, gathering all the identification she’d left behind. She stuffed her papers and Nelson’s into an empty pillowcase and fairly flew down the stairs, sweeping up all her packages and bags and heading out the door.

She didn’t bother to lock it. And as she pulled out onto the highway in the middle of rush-hour traffic, she saw the Housekeeping van on it’s way to Nelson.

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

Her first thought was to catch the next flight back to Canada. She had enough cash for the ticket. Then, for a moment, she entertained the notion of just deserting, driving until she ran out of gas. “Unrealistic,” she muttered to herself, concentrating on the road and the packed freeway.

If she were compromised, they all were compromised. That meant Michael was in danger as well, along with whomever was on his team. She knew Michael could take care of himself, but a little niggle of worry nipped at her. She didn’t know where he was; she’d have to contact him through Section, and if Section was responsible for Nelson’s death, then not only would they be able to find her, but they’d be quick to eliminate Michael. If they hadn’t already ...

There was another way to get to him, though. She hated to do it, but Michael’s safety depended on it.

She followed the Beltway, constantly checking her rearview mirror for a tail. It was almost 8 o’clock; she’d left the house at 7, and the traffic was finally starting to thin out a bit. She passed 395, then started watching the exits. Van Dorn. Telegraph Road. She got off on Route One, heading north, then took a right on Duke. Two more streets and three irate pedestrians later, she pulled in front of the house on Asaph.

She stopped the car and sat there for a moment, wondering what she’d find in the house. It was dark and quiet, and she hoped when she entered she wouldn’t find any dead bodies.

Unable to stand it any longer, Nikita got out of the car, chambered her gun, and resolutely marched up the walk.

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

“Michael? Sounds like someone may be breaking into the house,” John announced, cocking his head toward the scrapey-clicky sound from the entry way. John swallowed his mouthful of pad thai and picked up his gun from the counter.

Michael gave him five seconds, counting them out evenly. He flipped off the kitchen light. Then, silent as a shadow, he eased the kitchen door open and followed, keeping to the walls.

The lights were off in the hall, but Michael could see John in the light from the streetlamp outside and the fading twilight that filtered through the transom and the narrow windows bordering the door. He crouched, gun aimed at the door, every muscle tense.

The door swung open, and the stranger immediately hugged the wall, weapon extended.

Michael squinted. Something about the posture ... the way the gun was held ...

“Ease up, John,” Michael hissed quickly, hearing John’s gun cock. The person at the door swung around at the sound of his voice, gun up and ready. Michael sighed.

“Nikita, it’s us.”

Nikita’s gun lowered and she sagged against the door frame. Michael turned on the light, the chandelier throwing cheerful light on the trio. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “I’m fine,” he said icily.

“Well, I’m not,” John announced, finally rising, looking considerably pale under his normally dark complexion. “Damn it, Duchess, I nearly shot the hell out of you.”

Nikita was able to grin a little, and she said, “That makes it twice now, doesn’t it? I guess I’d better be more careful.”

John snorted, then gave her a rib-crushing hug, relaxing his grip when she squeaked in surprise. “I missed you, Duchess. Michael said you were seeing how the better half lives, way up in Reston. What gives us the pleasure?”

Nikita took a step away from him and twisted her hands together in uncharacteristic nervousness. Now that she saw they were safe, her precipitious flight seemed foolish and the rush of adrenalin that kept her in motion since finding Nelson was ebbing.

“Nikita?” Michael prompted. She bit her lip, not answering, and his anger mounted. “What do you mean by breaking the mission profile?” Still no answer. He took four large steps and put his hands on her shoulders, his grip like steel. “Answer me. Now.”

“I ... didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“I ... I ...” She twisted away from him, but he caught her and shook her, hard.

“Where is Nelson? Nikita, where is Nelson?”

“The last time I saw him, he was sitting in a wing-back chair with a bullet in his head,” she shot out, and this time, she successfully eluded Michael’s grasp.

He simply stared at her. “Did you --?”

“No! Of course not.” Nikita rubbed her shoulders, frowning at him, then turned to John. “I don’t know who did. I wanted to get in touch with you and I thought John could help me so I wouldn’t have to go through Section.”

“Are you all right, Duchess?” John asked, voice kind, and Nikita blinked hard so she wouldn’t cry.

“I’ve had a very long day,” she announced in self defense, arms folded tight against her chest.

“Of course, you have,” John sympathized without making her feel like a wimp. “We have some food in the kitchen. Come and tell us everything. And don’t leave anything out.”

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

Michael’s house wasn’t big. When indoor plumbing became fashionable, a bedroom had been converted to a bath, so there were only two bedrooms upstairs. In the wide upstairs hall there was an extra couch that doubled for a bed when there were too many people, but it usually served as a hold-all: it was the temporary repository for John’s bathrobe, a stack of magazines that never made it to the recycling bin, a basketball, a violin case and a pile of clean towels waiting for the linen closet.

The guestroom, which Michael took, had twin beds and lay at the head of the stairs; the other, John’s bedroom, was across the hall and had a connecting door to the bathroom. It was near the back of the house and had a double bed. They shuffled bedrooms around, moving John in with Michael and Nikita into John’s room. After Nikita went to bed and the men unloaded her car, John and Michael returned to the kitchen.

“No wonder she was tired. She must’ve bought out half the mall,” John grumbled, dropping the last of the shopping bags. “Did you put in a call to Section?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know it wasn’t a Section hit?”

“Two reasons: first, if it were Section, Nelson would’ve disappeared. Second, she would have been hit too. One thing is certain: whoever targeted him wanted to make sure she found him.”

“Or they didn’t know she was with him. Do you think she was followed?”

“If she says she wasn’t, she wasn’t.” Michael moodily rubbed his chin, his cold food forgotten on his plate. “In addition to this, we still have to meet with Kliman tomorrow.”

“We can’t discount him as a suspect. Maybe he knew you were coming.”

“Maybe.”

They were silent, Michael frowning into space, John finishing up his curried vegetables and cold rice. “We’ll follow our initial procedure as closely as possible,” Michael decided finally. “You’ll take Nelson’s place. I’ll watch from the perimeter.”

“You should take Nelson’s place. You and Nikita are a good team.”

“No. I’m a better sharp shooter than you are. It will be easier for me to keep you both safe if I’m on the outside. Besides,” Michael said, rising from the table with his plate, “I’m the one in charge of this team. I can order you to obey.”

“You never have before.” John’s voice was quiet, but there was a definite edge to it.

“I haven’t needed to.” Michael loaded the dishwasher, then turned back to John, face blank. “But I will if it becomes necessary.”

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

In silence, John and Michael cleaned up the kitchen. They went upstairs and got ready for bed.

“I’m sorry Nikita kicked you out of your bedroom,” Michael said, pulling off his shirt. Though the apology was specific, John recognized it for what it was -- an apology for Michael’s behavior.

“No problem.” John got into bed, yanking up the sheets. “As long as I don’t have to sleep in the same bed with you. As I recall, you’re a kicker.”

“You steal the blanket,” Michael reminded. He got into bed and clicked off the light, and silence descended on the house.

“She was in love with Nelson,” Michael announced, and though his voice was quiet, the room was dark and John was almost asleep.

He jerked awake and stared across the room at Michael’s bed. “Michael, don’t be any more foolish than you can help.”

“She was,” Michael said simply. “She told us so tonight.”

“God damnit,” John said crossly, rolling over to his back. “Do I have to turn on the light for this?”

“No.”

“Good.” John settled back and peered at Michael’s still form. He frowned. “When did she say she loved Nelson?”

“Right there at the table. You heard her. She said she was very fond of him.”

“Michael, being fond of someone and being in love with them are two completely different things. Hell, I’m fond of you, but I’m not in love with you any more than I would be my own brother.” John snorted. “You’re a damn fool, Michael, and what’s worse, you’re a idiot.”

“In what way?” Michael sounded interested, rather than offended, and John grinned at him in the dark.

“You’re a fool for being jealous. You’re an idiot for not doing something about it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as marching across the hall and telling her what you’re telling me. What do you think I am? A damn psychiatrist?”

Michael sighed. “There’s no point. She’d just throw me out.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” John propped himself up on his elbows and addressed his friend. “Let me ask you something: you’re a grown man with the woman you love right across the hall, and you’re sharing a room with me. Now, as flattering as I find it, you have to admit it’s pretty damn dumb, too.”

“What’s the question?” Michael’s voice sounded a trifle icy.

“How do you want to spend the rest of your life? As Martyred Michael? You play the part well, but frankly, it’s getting a little old. Get over it, Michael. Get on with it.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“Yes,” John agreed, turning his back to Michael. “It is. It’s your fault you’re in this shape: if you weren’t so damn stubborn, you’d be a lot happier. Now either go the hell to sleep or do what you ought to do.”

The room was quiet; though annoyed with Michael, John was also tired. He was almost asleep when he heard Michael’s bedsprings creak, and the door open quietly.

In two minutes, Michael was back. John roused briefly. “What’re you doing, Michael?”

“She’s asleep.” John detected a bit of satisfaction in Michael’s voice.

“Why don’t you wake up her instead of me, then?”

“She needs the rest,” Michael answered, sounding surprised. “I did open the window, though. She doesn’t sleep well in a closed room.”

“Is that so?” John turned over in bed and yanked the blanket up.

“Yes.” Michael settled himself in bed, then said quietly, “Good night, John.”

“Damn it, Michael, you are certifiable.” John yawned then mumbled, “G’night.”

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

When Nikita woke up on Wednesday morning, John was perched on the end of her bed, cup of coffee ready for her. Without a word, she stretched out a hand, wrapping her fingers around its warmth.

He waited until she drank half of it, then he said, “We have a new plan.”

“Oh?” she asked mildly, grateful for the bitter warmth and caffeine boost.

“You and I are going to Kliman’s party and bringing him in as originally planned.”

“Let me guess: Michael will watch the perimeter.”

“Something like that. Nikita, what’s wrong with you two?”

“He’s scarcely said a dozen words to me in two months. He didn’t contact me once.” She looked down at her cup, aimlessly tracing the rim with her finger. “Want to know something really sick, though? Every day I ran over the lists of casualties, looking for his name. Every day I’d scan the lists, hoping I wouldn’t see his name, and when I got to the end all I could think was, he’s all right, at least until tomorrow ... I can’t live like that, not without some help from him.” Even to her, she sounded a bit forlorn, and she gave John a faint grin. “I’m not strong enough to be that kind of person.” She looked away from him and took another drink of coffee. “Well, it doesn’t matter. We’ve always worked together well; we should be able to continue no matter what our personal feelings are. Or, rather, what my feelings are.”

“That’s too bad,” John said sympathetically. “You’re such a good team, I figured you’d work the other out in time. Especially since he loves you.”

Nikita snorted. “He doesn’t love me.”

“Yes, he does, Duchess.”

“No, he doesn’t. Anyway, what if he did? He doesn’t want to do anything about it.”

John shrugged. “Maybe because he doesn’t know he needs to. You and Michael are comfortable with each other. Simpatico. On the right wavelength, and believe me, it’s a very strange frequency. You’re ... homey.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know ...” John took her coffee cup from her and stretched out on the bed, his feet near her face and his head pillowed on her blanketed feet. “You know how he takes his coffee. I’ve never heard him ask you what you want for dinner; he just knows what to order. Last night when we came up to bed, he even checked on you, wanted to make sure the window was still up the prescribed three inches. You’re such an old married couple.”

Nikita laughed. “Yeah, and old married couple who pack enough weapons to annihilate a small nation ...”

“Well, hell, if you want to get picky about it, we all do that,” John grinned. “I just meant you are at home with one another. And when you find someone like that, you damn well better try to make it work. Maybe it’s hard, but it’s worth it in the end. No place like home, you know.”

Changing his method of attack, John smiled and asked, “How do you feel?”

“Much better, thank you. Any word on Nelson?”

“He’s still dead, if that’s what you mean. They haven’t found anything at the scene implicating anyone, which is significant ... it’s certainly a professional job.”

“Well, of course it is.” Nikita stretched her arms out in front of her, then flopped back on the pillows. “Can’t I sleep a little while longer?”

“’Fraid not. You have an appointment at a beauty salon and I have to meet a colleague of mine for lunch. Then I’m doing a site inspection with Michael, working out any kinks. Come on, I’ll drop you off on my way.”

Nikita groaned and pulled the covers over her head. John just laughed and grabbed a bare foot. “Come on, Duchess. We have to get ready for tonight.”

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

It was only in the last half hour of the party that things began to unravel. Before that, everything ran like clockwork.

Nikita and John appeared as scheduled. They were introduced to Kliman. They circulated, Nikita dancing twice with Kliman. On the second go-round, she tagged him per Michael’s instructions.

Michael was out of sight. Holed up in a van outside, he could hear everything that went on, but they all agreed that it was better that he stay tucked away. “Our Secret Agent Man,” John joked, and though she didn’t say anything, Nikita felt better knowing he was nearby. Of course, John was extremely competent and she had no doubts about her own ability. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry, and the truth was, she just felt more comfortable knowing Michael was close.

Nikita sent Kliman a dazzling smile, and he smiled back, holding her just a little too close for casual contact. “So, what do you think?” Nikita purred, and Kliman gave her a half-lidded look laden with possibilities.

“I think we’d make a great team. With your money ... and my connections ...”

Nikita smiled again. “That’s what we thought, too,” she confided, and as John approached, she sent John a loving look. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Certainly,” John agreed, removing her from Kliman’s grasp. As John drew out his checkbook, Kliman’s swallowed any protest he might have made. “So, do we have a deal?”

“Of course, dear man.” Kliman gave him a friendly slap on the back, and John grinned broadly. He looked around for something flat to write on, and Kliman offered, “My office ... it’s just down the hall ...”

“Thank you.” John followed Kliman, holding out a hand to Nikita. It would take them both to subdue him, and John wasn’t taking any chances.

It was over quickly: distracted by the number of zeros John was writing, Kliman never even noticed Nikita weighing a heavy jade vase in her hand. She swung it up and over, and it collided with a solid thwack on the back of Kliman’s head. He gave a surprised little moan and promptly keeled over.

“Michael,” Nikita announced quietly in her com-link, “Come and get him.”

“On my way,” he answered.

John trussed up Kliman neatly, and Nikita admired his knots. “Almost as good as a Boy Scout,” she critiqued.

“Almost? Hey, Duchess, I passed Weebelos with flying colors ...”

“... whatever that is ...” Nikita joked back. She turned her back on them and waited at the window. When she saw a shadow detach and slink toward her, she unlocked the window and leaned out in preparation to pull him in.

With a grunt, Michael hefted himself over the windowsill and between them, they drug Kliman to the window. Michael swung his body back out until only his arms showed, and Nikita and John maneuvered Kliman over the sill. Michael let out a soft staccato curse as Kliman fell through the bushes, but as Nikita watched, he shouldered the other man and made his way slowly back to the van.

Nikita pulled the window closed, carefully locking it. “I think that went well, John.”

“Nothing like the pleasure of a job well done,” John agreed, snapping off the lamp. Darkness descended and together they watched the lawn for any activity. But Michael apparently hadn’t been detected, and Nikita turned toward the room.

“Ready to get back?” she asked.

But John, still facing the window, blinked. A small red dot danced over the room, coming to rest on Nikita’s back. Without thinking, without warning her, he launched himself toward her just as the window behind him shattered and the silenced bullet whizzed into the room.

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

Nikita was standing between a sofa and an end table with a lamp on it when John tackled her. Had he planned his attack better, he would have caught her properly, but as it was, he slammed into Nikita, who twisted around in surprise. For a brief, excruciating moment, they wavered uncertainly, then, in a bone-crunching tumble, John came down on top of her. Nikita crumpled, taking with her the lamp and the table, but neither the crash of windowpane or the splinter of wood covered the sickening snap of breaking bone.

With a flurry of feathers and stuffing, the bullet pierced the brocade fabric and lodged in the back of the couch.

The room was silent except for the sounds of heavy breathing, then John slowly got off of Nikita. Except for a goose-egg sized bump on his eyebrow from a table leg, he was fine. “Duchess ...?”

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

Michael delivered Kliman to the interrogation facility with surprisingly little trouble. Because of the deal with the CIA, Madeleine arranged to meet Michael and Kliman at Langley; she conducted her investigation using all her standard Section equipment, and when she was satisfied that the information had been fully extracted, she handed him over to the government.

Michael went home. He expected John and Nikita to at least leave a light on for him, but he drove up to a dark house. He pulled up to the curb and stopped the engine, watching the windows for movement.

Nothing.

Frowning, he checked his weapon and slowly got out of the car. Instead of entering through the front door, he went around the block and up the alley, stealthily opening the back gate and quietly entering through the kitchen.

The lights were off; the house empty. Anxiety mounting, he climbed up the kitchen stairs, gun drawn, and quickly checked the bedrooms. Nikita’s was a mess of shopping bags not yet unpacked, tissue paper and new clothes strewn over every flat surface. His and John’s room wasn’t much better: Three bow ties lay on the dresser, tangled and discarded for one reason or another, and John’s dress pumps were in the middle of the floor. Michael frowned, and checked the closet: as he suspected, John was wearing Michael’s shoes.

Maybe they went out afterwards, he thought. Maybe they stopped off for dinner: work always made John hungry, and Nikita needed time to wind down after a mission. Or they could’ve caught a late movie.

Michael straightened up the room, told himself to not worry, and went downstairs for a snack. Half-way down the stairs he stopped, returned to his and John’s room and turned on his laptop, searching for a specific program. He punched in the access code and waited, tapping his chin impatiently. When the grid finally appeared, his eyes narrowed and he slammed off the computer.

Really, this was intolerable.

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

Michael strode through the halls of Bethesda Naval Hospital, every step making him angrier and angrier. It wasn’t enough that Nelson had been murdered; now another member of his team -- for he’d begun thinking of the others as “his” -- was injured.

He paused at the doors of the emergency waiting room, scanning the faces of the unfortunately injured. Finally his eyes rested on John.

He was sitting with his head in his hands, staring at his -- or rather, Michael’s -- shoes. He was still dressed in evening wear, except his tie was undone and his coat was gone, and from where Michael stood, he detected a smear of rusty blood on one of his sleeves.

“John.” Michael’s voice was quiet and controlled, but John looked up slowly. He was in trouble and he knew it.

“She’s going to be all right,” John said. “It’s just a broken arm. A bad break, but certainly not life-threatening.”

Michael frowned down at him, and John sighed. “It’s the upper part of her arm. They’ll want to keep her overnight.”

“She won’t like that.”

“No.” John sighed again, and nodded to the molded plastic chair on his left. “Have a seat, Michael, we’re going to be here awhile.”

“Good. You can start by telling me everything that happened after I left.”

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

Nikita awoke slowly. Dimly, she became aware of her surroundings. An uncertain breeze came through the partly opened window, bringing a vague scent of wet earth and growing things. Occasionally a dog barked, but on the whole it was quiet, which was fortunate because she felt very hung over. Pain bubbled through her, and her head felt like it was in a vice clamp. “Ouch,” she muttered, lifting her hand to rub her forehead.

The added weight of the cast was unexpected, and instead of rubbing her head, she whacked herself. “Ouch,” she said, sharper this time, and let her arm fall to the pillow on the other side of the bed.

She heard a startled grunt, and looked to her left. Michael was laying on top of the covers, fully dressed, rubbing his head. He gave her an injured look, and though he didn’t speak, his silence spoke volumes.

“Shut up, Michael.” Nikita closed her eyes, and when she’d categorized her priorities, she opened them again. “I have some questions.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t remember what happened after you came to the hospital to get me.”

“We brought you home.” Michael didn’t mention the trouble they’d experienced with the doctor or nurses, and he didn’t elaborate on the difficulties of putting an semi-conscious female still in evening clothes into a small sports car. If I am very lucky, I will never have to go through that again, Michael thought. Then again, I’ve never been lucky.

“I was wearing clothes.” Nikita fixed him with a cold stare, and Michael nodded.

“You were,” he agreed.

“I don’t seem to be wearing any now.”

“No.”

The door opened and John appeared bearing a tray.

“You,” Nikita said, eyes narrowed. “You have some big-time apologizing to do.”

“I’m sorry about the arm. However, it’s better than being shot,” John pointed out, handing Michael coffee and Nikita orange juice.

“I’m not so certain of that,” Nikita snapped, accepting the juice. John tactfully looked away as the sheet slipped; Michael adjusted it politely and Nikita snarled at him.

“Touch me again and you lose a limb,” she said.

“Now, now, Duchess,” John said soothingly, “Don’t be testy.”

“Shut up, John,” Nikita said, teeth barred.

“You know, both of you could work on your Injured Agent manners. I don’t think I’ve ever known two people more surly than you when you’re under the weather,” John said. “I may talk to Mad Maddie about it. Perhaps she needs to start a class ...”

“Shut up, John,” Michael said.

“Mmmm ... in any case, this should put a smile on your face, Duchess. Breakfast of champions,” John said, giving her a small white pain pill. “Down the hatch now: you’re much too crabby without it.”

Nikita shot him a scathing look, but took her medicine and lay back. She glanced at the clock, then at Michael. “If you have any questions for me, you’d better ask them in the next twenty minutes. After that, I’m out of here.”

“No questions,” Michael said, and John prudently took the empty glasses and left the room. “Do you need anything?”

Did she? Nikita considered. She supposed she should have brushed her teeth after the orange juice, or at least gone to the bathroom. But both activities seemed to involve an awful lot of energy, so instead she said, “Go away,” and closed her eyes.

By the time he left, she was sound asleep.

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

When Nikita woke up the second time, her head was clearer and she felt a little better. It was very early morning, and the sun was just coloring the sky. Unsteadily, she made her way to the bathroom and started a bath. Thanks to Michael, she didn’t have to disrobe, and she gingerly got into the warm water, propping her arm on the side of the tub so it wouldn’t get wet.

It was awkward with only one hand, and tiring, too. She stopped to rest half-way through, thinking about the last few days.

The thing that bothered her most was Nelson. Had the same man that shot at her also killed him? Assume it’s the same guy, she thought, tenting her knees with her washcloth balanced on top, rubbing the soap in. It would be too much of a coincidence for two separate entities to be after them. He obviously is after Kliman, too, then. Maybe he’s Specter or Antioch? Does that make sense? She thoughtfully washed her toes. In that case, what would they do now that Kliman was contained? Give up? Go after the CIA? Or would they even know CIA had him? Maybe they -- he -- whoever -- would come after Section instead.

In that case, the attacker would have to be eliminated. Nikita had no qualms about that: not only had he killed her partner, he’d broken her arm.

Bathing finished, Nikita leaned back in the cooling water. Well, at least this more or less eliminates Section. Michael prudently left details of their mission vague; Section knew they would deliver Kliman, but were under the impression that Nikita would bring him in at the end of the party, not during the middle of it.

Frowning, Nikita slowly sat up. Only Michael had known the entire plan. Michael, herself and John. That meant only one person knew where she and John were in the house, and only one person knew when they would be there.

Money and passion were prime reasons for any usual murder. Michael wouldn’t have been concerned about money. But he’d clearly been jealous of Nelson. Was it possible he was jealous of John, too? In usual circumstances, Nikita would have dismissed the thought -- Michael was a self-possessed man and did not normally run about killing men who looked at her. Well, he’d injured a couple, but murder was a bit excessive, even for Michael.

But the thing that bothered her the most was, how had he known to come to Bethesda for her?

He was jealous of Nelson.

He was capable of injuring her.

He’d ample opportunity to do both.

Maybe it was time she had a little talk with him.

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

Nikita pulled on some jeans and searched around for a shirt that buttoned down the front. She didn’t think she could deal with a pull-over; a bra was hard enough one-armed, and by the time she finally got one on, she was in a very bad mood.

She also had no shirt. She’d bought only the essentials when she went to Tysons Corner, and after attempting to pull on two different shirts and getting tangled up in both of them, she stomped across the hall into John’s and Michael’s room and rooted through the closet until she found something she could wear.

“Did you need something?” Michael asked politely from the doorway, and Nikita whirled around, still trying to get the shirt off the hanger. Nikita gave it an impatient shake and the hanger boomeranged across the room; Michael took a nimble step back as it ricocheted past him.

Nikita frowned and put her right arm in the sleeve, but the cast was too big for the left sleeve. Michael sighed and took out his Swiss Army knife. “May I?”

Grudgingly, Nikita nodded and removed her left arm. Michael carefully slit the seam in the sleeve, then tore the rest of the material off; Nikita quickly shoved her arm through and fumbled with the buttons. They slipped through her fingers and she hissed in annoyance.

“Nikita, slow down.” Michael folded his knife and without touching her skin started buttoning her shirt from the bottom up. Whether to distract himself or her, he asked, “Did you know it takes less time to button from bottom to top than from top to bottom?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s a scientific fact. Also, you don’t usually mismatch the buttons.” His fingers moved upward, sliding the buttons into their holes; he made it look so easy, Nikita thought, enviously. Of course, it was easy ... if you had two hands.

“Michael.”

He’d reached the topmost button, and his hands drifted toward her shoulders, gently feeling for any other injuries -- not that he needed to, she thought crossly. It wasn’t like he hadn’t looked at her last night. And if she knew Michael, he’d run professional hands over every limb, checking for hidden strains, sprains or fractures. “Yes?”

He was so close to her, she could see each eyelash and the texture of his skin. She had a sudden urge to lean forward and kiss him very slowly. How was it that he could make her feel this way? She wanted him, and at the same time, she was still angry with him and not a little afraid. She trusted him about as far as she could throw him. But when he looked at her with those inscrutable green eyes ...

She took a deep breath. “How did you know I was at the hospital?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“How did you know to come to the hospital, Michael?”

“Injured personnel are always taken to Bethesda.”

“How did you know I was injured?”

He blinked again, gave her that half-smile she hated so, and shrugged. “It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

“Nikita, don’t start asking questions that you don’t want to know the answer to.”

“All right, then. What about Nelson?”

Michael’s lips tightened and he took a step back. “What about him?” he asked icily.

“Do you know who killed him?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me. I was quite ... fond of him.”

“Fond,” he repeated, voice hard.

“Yes ... we worked well together ... he was a good Operative. Didn’t you think so?”

“Yes,” Michael said, eyes narrowed.

“So ... do you know who killed him?”

“No.” And with that, he turned and left.

Frustrated, confused and still angry, Nikita childishly stomped one foot tipped with bright pink toenail polish. But she wasn’t watching where she was stepping and came down on Michael’s -- or John’s -- discarded belt, with the buckle pointing up. She gave a squeak of pain, hopping on one foot, holding the other in her good hand, then, losing her balance completely, she fell with a crash to the floor, still clutching her foot.

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

The rest of Nikita’s day did not improve at all. Michael vanished and John, while solicitous, had to go back to work now that his part of the mission was over.

“Can you drop me somewhere before you go?” Nikita asked.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Salon.”

“You were just there yesterday,” John protested.

“That was a can of hair spray and a broken arm ago. Please, I just want them to wash my hair. It won’t take a minute, I promise.”

“It’ll take longer than a minute, and I’ve only got 45 minutes before I have to be at Langley.”

“So I’ll take a cab back.”

“Thank you, no. Michael would have my head, letting you roam around unprotected.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me I’m under house arrest?”

“Not arrest, Duchess. But for the sake of my health -- and yours -- I’d really rather you stayed indoors today. Besides, I know your arm has to hurt. A day off won’t kill you, and it’d make my life a hell of a lot easier. Please?”

Nikita chewed on her lip, deciding. John added, “I’m not above bribery. Anyway, I owe you. I still feel bad about the arm. What do you want? A nice pizza for dinner? Something fancier? You name it, Duchess.”

“Clean hair.”

“Hell, you’ve got a one-track mind.” John grinned and patted the counter beside the sink. “All right, then, hop up and be damn quick about it.”

Nikita eyed him suspiciously, and John laughed. “It’s been awhile, but surely washing hair isn’t something one forgets. Come on, Duchess, I don’t have all day.”

After he left, Nikita told herself it was really quite nice of him to help her. So what if her hair smelled of Lemon Joy? She flipped on the kitchen radio and pulled a comb through the knotted mass, slowly working the tangles out. Before he’d left, he’d promised to take her out tonight. She needed to get her suspicions organized, so to speak; John would be a good sounding board.

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

After a particularly long day, a very weary John unlocked the front door and tossed his mail on the umbrella stand. It promptly slid off. John muttered, “Damn,” as he leaned down to scoop it up.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked, coming through the dining room. He wiped his hands on a tea towel and slung it over a shoulder.

“Nothing. Bad day. Found out I have to go to Columbia at the end of the week. Again. Damn it. It’ll be hotter than hell and it’s the rainy season ... which means I’ll get athlete’s foot over my whole body and probably the water’ll be brackish, which means we’ll all get sick ... how’s Nikita?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you doing? Are you making dinner?” John followed Michael into the kitchen, attracted by a strong smell of tomatoes and garlic. “Jesus, Michael, you planning on scaring all the vampires in the state? How many cloves did you use?”

“A couple,” Michael shrugged, and stirred the bubbly red mixture.

John took the spoon out of his hand and gingerly tasted the sauce. “Good. I forgot you can cook.” He glanced around and asked, “Where’s Nikita?”

Michael frowned. “I thought she was with you.”

“I told her to stay home today.”

Michael’s eyebrows elevated, and John laughed. “Okay, so I had to use a little bribery. But she promised she wouldn’t leave. She’s probably asleep upstairs -- those narcotics put you out.”

Michael’s frown deepened. “She doesn’t take medication when she’s alone ...”

“Maybe I should go check ...”

“I will.”

John stirred the sauce, listening to Michael’s light tread on the floor above him. He looked around the room; the radio was on, turned to NPR, and the announcer was giving traffic reports. As usual, the Beltway was a parking lot, and John was glad he wasn’t out in it.

He glanced up when he heard footsteps on the stair. Nikita came down first, followed by Michael, his mouth in one tight white line. She looked ... good. Rested. With her good hand, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and grinned at John. “Hey handsome.”

“Hiya, Duchess. Ready for a night on the town?”

“Sure. Where’re we going?”

“Wherever you want. Here’s the Entertainment section,” he said, shoving part of the Post toward her.

“Want to come, Michael?” Nikita asked, looking carefully over the movie selection. He shook his head no, just as she knew he would, and she smiled. “Sure?”

“No, thank you. I have work to do before we leave tomorrow morning.”

“Hey!” Nikita grinned and turned the newspaper so John could see it. “Look what’s showing at the Uptown!”

John glanced over and his eyebrows shot up. “I’ll be damned. Well, that settles it, then.”

“It’s a sign,” Nikita said solemnly. “And I’ve never seen it on the big screen. Only on television.”

“This,” John decided, “Will be a night to remember. Let’s hurry and eat. We can just make the 9 o’clock show if we step on it.”

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

The Uptown Theater on Connecticut Avenue was one of the old movie palaces. It wasn’t renovated -- that is, it still had 1970 carpeting and the walls, once gilded and painted deep, lovely colors, were an indifferent beige. But unlike other palaces, it hadn’t been carved up into three or four screens. There was one screen, and it was huge.

Nikita made her way into the middle of a row. John gave her a push and she continued till they were almost at the end.

“I don’t like the middle. It’s too hard to get out,” John explained, and Nikita nodded. “This is good.” They sat, and John passed Nikita the popcorn. “I’d completely forgotten it was Judy Garland week. They have a festival once a year here ... it’s always packed on the weekends, but maybe it won’t be too bad tonight.”

Couples drifted in. Some parents with older children settled in the big, cushy seats; young college kids holding hands and gay couples took seats, quietly talking before the movie began.

“I think tomorrow night they’re doing ‘Meet Me in St. Louis,’” John said. “But we’ve already missed ‘Harvey Girls.’ It’s not one of my favorites, but --”

“John,” Nikita interrupted, “What do you think about Michael?”

“He’s an excellent cook and you could do a lot worse,” John decided.

“That’s not what I mean. I can’t figure out who else know we’d be in the library at that time. No one in Section knew when we’d deliver the material; Michael was the only one who knew --”

“You’re crazy,” John said flatly.

“I’m trying to be logical --”

“Well, you aren’t.” The lights dimmed and the screen flickered to life. “Besides,” John leaned toward her and whispered, “You’re the last person in the world he’d hurt.”

Nikita was quiet, but privately, she didn’t agree. John was almost certainly ignorant about the times Michael had beat her -- all in the line of work and all to preserve her life, she reminded herself. We’ll see, she thought, finally focusing her attention on Dorothy Gale’s family problems. By the time the first few notes of “Over the Rainbow” drifted over the audience, Dorothy’s problems seemed much more important than Nikita’s; Nikita drew her legs up, locked her good arm around her knees and allowed herself to be absorbed in the picture.