"And this," Operations continued as the blue hologram flashed suddenly, then stabilized, "Is Edgar Crabtree."

Nikita studied Crabtree's face, quickly absorbing the vital stats that scrolled upward. Turning 40 next week; one of the top performers in Gray Sky; graduate of Harvard, then Oxford; a family man; a multi-linguist; a terrorist.

She sighed. Why was it that so many of the people they took out started their careers with such promise?

Nikita shook her head slightly, focusing on Operations's instructions. In other circumstances, Crabtree wouldn't have been worthy of Section's notice. Or, if he had been worthy of notice, he certainly wouldn't have been worthy of the assault Section had planned for him.

"The first team is already on site," Operations barked out, bringing up a map of the private estate where Crabtree would be that night. "Crabtree is one of approximately 3,500 guests who will be at the Quill estate. All activities will be out doors. These areas of the estate --" he clicked again, and the hologram showed a plan of the house, "Will be open to guests as restroom facilities. In addition, the kitchens, here in the basement, are being used for food preparation. The second team will be working in the kitchen; they will have excellent access and be ready to move quickly."

Nikita took a deep breath. Already two teams, probably made of three people each, and she knew she wasn't working kitchen duty.

"The third team, which consists of Nikita, Brendon, Smith and Hazel, will be placed here, here and here," Operations said, indicating places on the grounds. "Smith and Hazel will, as usual, work as a team. They will meet you on site. Brendon and Nikita will mingle for the first half of the evening. Team four will be on the perimeter as contingency. After Crabtree has been taken, the teams will split again and reform to teams five, six, seven and eight. Is that clear?"

As mud, Nikita thought sourly. Nothing about this mission was following protocol, or even making much sense. But Operations wanted Crabtree -- had to get him, really -- and if nothing else, at least this plan was creative and completely out of the ordinary for Section.

Gray Sky had been intensely active in the past two months. A small group, no more than seven people, it had claimed responsibility for a plane hijacking, two hostage situations involving a total of 258 people and an Internet virus that cost several countries billions of dollars. This morning, Birkhoff picked up a transmission that hinted at biological weapons. Section still didn't know where, when or why the group was interested in acquiring biological weaponry, but one thing was sure: it wasn't for a science experiment. Two weeks ago Section nearly had the leader of Gray Sky, but the mission fell apart at the last minute. The leader had slipped through their fingers, which was bad enough. But then Birkhoff had announced that somehow, Gray Sky had tagged on to some of their mission transmissions. While Birkhoff had been able to minimize the damage, the group now potentially knew how Sections teams operated.

It was an advantage Section couldn't afford to give to Gray Sky.

They would get Crabtree back to Section, question him, kill him and go after the rest of Gray Sky. Optimistically, by this time next week the group would be exterminated.

The meeting ended. Nikita rose and went to collect her gear. She glanced at the other operatives around her: she hadn't been on a mission that included this many people for a few months. And this wasn't all of them, either: the first team was already on-site.

Her eyes narrowed. Operations hadn't said who was actually onthe first team ...

Nikita picked up her equipment, and intuitively switched on her handheld. It was her personal computer; Birkhoff had merely downloaded the current information. Nikita checked to make sure everything was there that she needed, then, glancing quickly around, she checked her e-mail.

She had a note from Michael. Be careful. Watch out for the shrimp.

Nikita blinked, then read the message again. Was this some kind of code? Shrimp? What on earth --?

The last mission they'd been on together she'd ordered shrimp at a restaurant and spent the whole night and some of the next day throwing up. Something had been a bit off with the seafood; was that what Michael meant?

Watch out for the shrimp.

She shook her head and typed in a quick message. Does this mean you have to work kitchen duty tonight? Because I'd give a lot to see you in one of those white puffy hats.

While Nikita waited to see if he'd respond, the rest of the teams assembled and began to exit Section. Nikita followed them, keeping an eye on the mail indicator on her handheld. As she settled into the van, the light blinked. She hunkered down, angling the screen so no one else could see.

No hat. But there's no chance you'll miss seeing me. The shrimp has been sitting out for two hours already.

Well, that explained about the shrimp. But what --

The light blinked again, and Nikita opened the next message from Michael. Be safe. I miss you.

Feeling a little stunned, Nikita sat back in her seat. Of course, she knew Michael loved her. She knew he missed her, too, especially now. It had been six weeks since they'd made love and four weeks since she'd actually seen him face to face. Not that she was counting or anything ... but it was kind of nice in a perverse way to know he was lonely, too.

She considered her message carefully, then quickly typed it in. Miss you too. I'll keep my eye out for you.

The van pulled to a stop at the airport, and Nikita, along with all the other Section personnel, got out, pulled out her prepacked carry-on luggage, and went inside the terminal.

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

The Quill estate was huge. The house itself was quite large and the grounds were extensive. By the time Nikita arrived, the party was just getting started.

She still felt a little sick to her stomach, maybe because she'd accidentally squirted honey-mustard salad dressing all over her shirt and had to smell it the whole trip, or maybe because she hadn't eaten anything substantial in eight hours. It was hot, too. The evening was humid and though the sun had set, it hadn't cooled off any.

Nikita pulled on her makeshift shirt, made sure nothing was sliding out, and glanced around. A tuxedo-clad waiter glided by and Nikita grabbed an appetizer off his tray. It was a petite cracker with an artfully applied smear of avocado dip. Springing erratically upward was a curl of radish; Nikita gently picked it off with her teeth, delicately swallowed it, and ate the cracker in one bite. Avocado wasn't the best thing for an upset stomach, but at least it was something, and she was starving.

Around her, the noise level of the cocktail party rose in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed. Nikita drifted to the bar, nodding genially to the other Section operatives she encountered along the way, and ordered a ginger ale. When all was said and done, there were 14 Section operatives within the parameter. Fourteen people to grab one silly little man, Nikita thought scoffingly.

A silly little man ... who was suddenly directly in front of her. Nikita blinked, then smiled. This wasn't in the profile, but when an opportunity presented itself ...

"Mr. Crabtree?" she asked prettily.

"Yes?" His eyebrows raised with polite interest, and Nikita decided maybe he really was a family man. He didn't even blink at her outfit and his eyes never strayed from her face. Either he was a real family man or he was gay, and she knew he wasn't gay. "Hi. I'm Serena Sparks. My husband is Brendon Sparks. We met a few years ago at the Oxford reunion. Remember?"

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't," Crabtree said, but he smiled and held out his hand anyway. "I do remember a Brendon Sparks, though. Is he here tonight?"

"Yes, he's --" Nikita glanced around, trying to find her errant "husband," then turned back around to Crabtree with a little laugh. "He's gone missing, I'm afraid. But he'll show up sooner or later. Is Lydia here tonight?"

"No, she had to stay home. One of the girls had a fever, so she wanted to stay with her."

"I hope it's nothing serious ..."

"We feel fairly certain it's chicken pox. The other three had it last week, so it's this one's turn."

"What a shame. I hope she feels better soon."

"I'm sure she will. Now, whether my wife will is a different issue altogether," he smiled again.

"Well," Nikita said brightly, "It was so nice to see you again. And do keep an eye out for Brendon; he's here somewhere."

"I'll do that." He smiled and took the hand she offered him, and when he turned away she gave his shoulder a casual little pat, depositing a nearly invisible tracker on his sleeve and effectively marking him for the team to monitor. Knowing where he was in this crush of people would make plucking him out a lot easier.

Feeling pretty good about the whole mission, Nikita returned to scanning the crowd. Where was Michael? Just seeing him would make her feel better.

There were three areas set up in the garden: tables and waiters were scattered over the south part of the lawn and buffet tables were set up to accommodate the massive amounts of food required for such a party. On the north side there was a bar. To the east, right in front of the house, was a small stage. Chairs were set up in rows in front of it, and as Nikita watched, a group came out on stage.

"Do you know what's happening?" a woman asked Nikita, as she grabbed another appetizer. This one was some sort of meat on a stick; Nikita recklessly drug it through some brownish sauce the waiter held patiently and took a bite. Chicken. Maybe. The sauce was certainly peanut. Another waiter came by, his tray laden with shrimp. Nikita shook her head, but the other woman took one.

"Ah, I don't know if --" Nikita began to caution, but the woman took a bite, and Nikita shut her mouth.

"I thought they were going to have some performance art thing," the woman said, nodding to the stage where a band was setting up.

"I think they are," Nikita said, trying not to sound too knowledgeable. "They're having several groups perform. One is a gospel choir, and they've got some new band and I think some cloggers from Ireland, then the performance art. But I don't know any of the names of the groups," she lied.

"Oh, well, it's sure to be interesting, I guess," the other woman said, and drifted away.

Nikita mingled some more and managed to eat another cracker with avocado, two more meats-on-a-stick, a chocolate covered strawberry, and a raw carrot with dressing on it. She passed on the crabmeat, figuring if the shrimp were off, the crab might be, too.

The band finished it's set, received a standing ovation from the increasingly inebriated crowd, and cleared the stage. The gospel choir filed on, their robes rich red and blinding white, and as they started into a swinging rendition of "Standing by the River," Nikita saw Brendon approach Crabtree.

Nikita began making her way over to Crabtree, who, although he didn't yet know it, was pretty well surrounded by Section personnel.

The group of people around Crabtree thickened, then Crabtree slowly listed to one side. Nikita caught him before he hit the pavement.

"Brendon! What happened?" she asked, trying to sound as concerned as possible and making sure her voice carried over the other operatives to the crowd of innocent partiers.

"I don't know," he answered, surreptitiously slipping a hypodermic into his coat pocket. "One minute he was fine, the next minute --"

"We should get him inside --" Nikita tugged at the inert man, then glanced up into the ring of faces surrounding them -- all familiar Section faces. "Do you mind helping us --?"

"Of course."

"Here, stand aside."

"I've got him -- shore him up on the other side --"

The operatives carried Crabtree off the lawn. The guests parted for them, but when they saw Crabtree was being effectively taken care of, no one else offered to help.

Within five minutes, Crabtree was in Section transport.

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

Nikita, along with most of teams one and two and all of teams three and four, drifted back toward the party. Now that Crabtree had been taken, she was part of team six, which included Michael.

Wherever he was.

Nikita glanced around the party again, wondering if there were some sort of place she and Michael would meet if they never did spot each other. More than likely, she consoled herself, Michael knew exactly where she was; she only had to hold tight and he would come to her.

She got another drink, noting when other members of other teams began to drift toward the exit. They were to leave at different times with different people. If anyone asked, Nikita was prepared to spin out a story about how her husband, Brendon, had taken his long-time friend Crabtree to the hospital for apparent heat exhaustion.

But no one asked.

She circled the party again, this time snagging another chocolate-dipped piece of fruit and a square of cheese with a frilly toothpick stuck in it.

Maybe once she found Michael, they could leave and get a decent meal. Grazing was only making her hungrier.

Where was he, anyway?

The gospel choir finished up with "The Jordan River Is Rolling." Nikita clapped along with everyone else and drifted closer to the stage, which was being quickly cleared for the next group. Four women, their hair neatly curled and their skirts short and stiff, filed out on stage; wild violin music filled the air and the women began to dance, pounding the stage with their tap shoes. Sharp tap-tappity-taps reverberated across the garden and people began to clap in time. The dancers smiled widely to the audience, kicked up their heels and somehow, though their hair was flying out behind them, they kept everything else from the waist up perfectly still.

Nikita glanced down to her chest. Wish I could say the same, she thought, pulling on her top again. She felt like an island woman in this get-up.

Well, she might as well enjoy herself while she waited for Michael to fetch her, Nikita thought, resigned. In this outfit at least she was noticeable. There was no way he'd overlook her.

She tugged at her top again, making sure everything was tucked in that needed to be and wishing she'd brought some spirit gum to stick the outfit to her.

The cloggers finished their numbers, curtsied and danced off stage. A man stepped to the lip of the stage while stage hands behind him busily set up for the next act. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight you've heard some amazing groups. This next act, which originated in New York, is on its way to Los Angeles. They agreed to delay their trip for a couple of days to perform for us here tonight. You've no doubt seen them on Leno a few weeks ago. May I present a great percussion and performance art act ... the Blue Man Group!"

Those who were in the know erupted into cheers. Nikita, who had no idea what was going on, merely waited expectantly.

The lights went down. Shadows moved across the stage. The lights came up.

Three men, dressed completely in black, with bright Reflex blue heads and hands stood on stage. The band behind them started to play something jazzy with a heavy beat.

Nikita blinked. Surely not ... surely she was seeing things.

She looked closer.

Good God.

Michael was a Blue Man.

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

From his position on stage, Michael picked Nikita out of the crowd in less than 30 seconds.

It wasn't difficult. She wasn't even wearing any clothes.

Irritated that she was in public wearing what appeared to be a scarf and not much else, Michael fell into the act. The first part was simple enough; he threw marshmallows at the other two Blue Men, which they caught in their mouths then spat back at one another. Michael sincerely hoped the other two Blue Men had their hepatitis shots. Half of the audience was enraptured; the other half looked confused. A few people, apparently with Michael's sensibilities, wrinkled their noses.

Blue Man Group was basically a percussion group. Standing at the lip of the stage were three xylophone-looking contraptions made from plastic plumbing parts; after the marshmallow act, the three men moved forward for the next part. Michael picked up what amounted to a drumstick and, in unison, the Blue Men started playing.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAMADIDY-BAM-BAM

BAM BADA BAM BADA BAM BAM BAM

It felt good to hit something hard. Especially when Nikita was standing out there dressed in nothing for all the world to see. He couldn't tell for sure but he expected her back was probably bare. Usually she wore backless outfits just to torment him; she discovered early on that if she showed him a little spine, he turned to mush. He was particularly susceptible to her lower back, and from the way the scarf wrapped around her he could tell her lower back was completely bare for everyone to look at. Michael decided when this mission was over, he was going to have a good, long talk with Nikita.

BAM BADA BIDI BIDI BAM BADA BIDI BIDI BAM

BAM

BAM BAMADIDY-DIDY BAM BAM BAM!

The crowd began clapping in time. Well, most of the crowd. Nikita was still staring at him as if he were a ghost.

BAM BAM BAM ba-da-ba-da BAM BAM BAM

BAM biddy-bam-bam-biddy BAM BAM BAM

BAM bakka-bakka-bakka-bakka BAM bakka-bakka-bakka

BAM BAM BAM

The Blue Man Group wacked on the pipes for a few more minutes, then stood back to thunderous applause. Even Nikita was clapping loudly, and she had a huge smile on her face.

If I'd known that's what it took to make her smile like that, I would have dressed up in blue paint a long time ago, Michael thought, still a little irritated. He shot her a look, and she responded with raised eyebrows and a grin. Good, he thought. At least Crabtree is taken care of; she wouldn't be here enjoying herself if he were still running around loose trying to procure biological weapons.

The next part of the act involved neon paint. Two men poured paint onto a kettle drum; the third whacked the drum, splashing paint everywhere -- on the Blue Men, on the audience, on the band behind them.

Michael held up his bottle of blue paint and started squirting. It came out with the consistency of mercury, and his partner held up a bottle of green paint. Wild rainbows of color splashed up, as colorful as fireworks, and almost as noisy, for whenever the drummer hit the kettle drum, there was a deep, heavy BAM.

Finally the act was over. The audience went wild, but since Blue Man Group had no encore planned, they merely bowed politely and exited the stage.

"You weren't bad," Sean told Michael as they went into the wings. "Good sense of rhythm." "And the marshmallows were right on target," said Steve. He wiped his face on a towel, leaving an electric blue streak on the material. "It's a good thing you were here. The act calls for three, and with Simon laid up with food poisoning --"

"I didn't mind helping out," Michael said. Sean handed him a bottle of water, and Michael took a long drink.

"The best thing about being a Blue Man," Sean said, pulling a handful of baby wipes out of a container and wiping his bald head clear of paint, "Is that all you have to do is take off the paint and no one knows it's you underneath. Great disguise."

"I'll keep that in mind," Michael said.

"Look, here's my cell number," Steve said, pulling out a business card. "I'm sure Simon'll be okay in a day or two, but ... well, if you ever need a job or anything, give me a call. We're going to have troupes all over the U.S., and they're talking about sending us to Paris next year."

"Thanks for the offer." Michael solemnly pocketed the card. They all shook hands, parted company, and as Michael walked back toward the house to take off his make-up, he felt Nikita come up beside him.

He stopped, turned and frowned.

"What are you wearing?" he demanded.

Nikita blinked, and a little of the light went out of her eyes. "I had an accident on the plane. My shirt was ruined. And all the gift shops were closed at the airport except the necktie and scarf store. It was either a scarf or a necktie. Think I made the right decision?"

"I think you should have stopped by a department store before you got here." His frown grew deeper as he examined her.

Her skirt was fine. Black and to the knee. Her shoes looked fine too: simple pumps. But instead of a shirt, she'd wrapped a scarf -- quite a big scarf, but still a scarf -- around her chest. It left her back and most of her stomach bare, and was anchored by a strategically-placed knot around her neck and, if he wasn't mistaken, a safety pin tucked between her breasts.

Under his scrutiny, something flickered in her eyes. She tilted her chin up and met his gaze. "Don't tell me you don't approve, Michael?"

He said nothing.

"After all," she said archly, "It's not as though I've shaved my head and painted it blue."

"It was for the mission," he ground out. He began walking to the house again and Nikita fell into step beside him.

"Um-hum. And what's Madeleine going to say when she sees your bald head?" Nikita asked.

"It's just hair. It'll grow back."

"I suppose."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Did she sound ... disappointed?

They entered the house through the kitchen, went up the back stairs and into one of the bedrooms that was off-limit to guests but reserved for the entertainment. The bed was heaped with choir robes and the dresser was littered with bobby pins and packages of baby wipes. Michael sighed, sat down at the vanity and reached for a baby wipe.

Nikita sat down beside him and looked at him in the mirror. "I don't know, Michael. I kind of like your ... blueness."

His eyes met hers in the mirror and his hand stilled. Nikita looked a little ... flushed. Not just her face, either. Her chest -- what he could see of it, anyway -- was tinted pink and even her stomach was a little darker than usual. She turned the same color when they made love.

He looked at his own face. "It's the same color as your eyes," he noted.

He heard her breathing alter, and his eyes slid back to hers. "Nikita."

"Y-y-yes?"

"I'm sorry I was angry about your ... ah ... apparel."

"'s okay." Her eyes grew darker, but she kept them focused on him.

"There's just one thing I need to know."

"What?" she nearly whispered, and he realized she was no longer looking at his eyes. She was looking at his mouth. Almost ... mesmerized.

Michael licked his blue lips. Nikita's eyes nearly slid shut. "Promise me you didn't eat any seafood tonight," Michael said, his voice low and coaxing.

"Not a bite," she murmured back. He brushed a hand across her bare back and they both shuddered. Then his fingers drifted up to the insubstantial knot that held Nikita's outfit together.

"Do you think you could help me take off this paint? I don't think I can reach the back," he said, his lips hovering near her shoulder. He gently kissed her shoulder blade and heard Nikita's breath catch in her throat.

"Is that ... is that all you want to take off?" Nikita managed to get out.

"Did you have something else in mind?"

Instead of answering, Nikita's hands slowly crept toward his pants. She fumbled for a minute, then tugged off his knit shirt, exposing his chest which looked startlingly white against the Reflex blue of his throat and face.

Michael leaned forward, his fingers sliding through the knot at her neck, and placed a gentle blue kiss on her cheek. She sighed and closed her eyes, but just as he'd nearly undone the knot, he stopped and started to rise. "The door --"

"I locked it," Nikita murmured, pulling him down and burying her face in his neck, her lips pressed against his pulse.

Michael's blue hands framed her face. "I missed you."

She flung her arms around him. "Good. I missed you too."

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

Feeling absurdly pleased that his unconventional profile had worked, Operations strode through Comm. "Birkhoff. Have all the teams returned?"

"Just about," Birkhoff replied. "Actually, everyone has reported in, but Michael and Nikita's flight was canceled. They're coming in first thing tomorrow."

Operations frowned. "That's not acceptable. I need Michael to run the mission to pick up the rest of Gray Sky. Send a plane --"

"The reason their flight was canceled was due to weather," Birkhoff interrupted. "There's a storm that's moved in and they've shut down the airport. I tried to get them a rental car but --"

"But under the circumstances, it wouldn't do much good." Operations frowned. "I'll be in Madeleine's office if you need me. We'll reconfigure the mission."

"Yes, sir."

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

That was the problem with flying commercial, Michael thought, irritated. They shut down airports for silly little storms that Section wouldn't have blinked at.

Outside the terminal, rain lashed the windows. It was raining so hard he couldn't see the runway lights. A storm like this wouldn't have even bothered Birkhoff. He would have been able to guide the plane to a safe level in no time ...

Beside him, Nikita stood, stretched and rubbed her eyes. "Come on. Let's go to a hotel. I'm tired and so are you. What do you say to the Four Seasons?"

"The Airport Hilton," Michael suggested.

"How about the Westin?" Nikita bartered, trying to get a hotel upgrade.

Michael stood, put an arm around her waist, and leaned toward her. "How about whatever's the closest?" he asked, his breath warm and seductive.

"Perfect." She smiled, kissed his chin, and picked up her bag. As she bent down, her top gaped a bit and Michael saw a smear of blue paint across one breast. She'd dressed first, then he'd tried to get all the blue paint off her. Thinking of other places no doubt still decorated with blue pancake made it a little difficult for Michael to breathe. Nikita sent him a sharp, accessing look. "You shouldn't look at me like that in public," she said.

"Like what?"

"Like you want to rip off all my clothes and give people something to stare at."

"But I do want to rip off --"

"Michael, come on. Hotel. We need a hotel. Someplace close, I promise." She laced her fingers through his, gave him another quick kiss, and led him out of the airport.

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

The next day when they arrived at Section they weren't exactly bright and well-rested but both Michael and Nikita were certainly more relaxed. They took the elevator down to Section in silence.

Standing behind Michael, Nikita admired his bald head. She'd never thought such a thing would turn her on, but then she hadn't thought blue paint would turn her on either. This morning she'd taken a quick shower; when she'd washed her stomach, she noticed her bellybutton was ringed in blue and she'd very carefully avoided washing it. Michael had taken a shower too, but now she spied a seam of bright blue right behind his ear. "Stand still," she said, getting out a tissue and carefully wiping it off. She gave his head a little caress and Michael, no doubt remembering last night, shuddered faintly.

"Don't do that," he said.

"Which? This?" Nikita touched his ear again. "Or this?" She ran her hand over his head, loving how the smooth skin felt.

"Neither."

Nikita couldn't help it. She loved the way his head felt; her fingers brushed his skin again and suddenly she found herself plastered to the wall with Michael on top of her. "When you do that, Nikita," Michael said slowly and softly, "It makes me want to reverse the elevator, take you home and make love to you till neither of us can think. So, please ... please ..."

Wide-eyed, Nikita nodded and Michael released her, taking a good two steps back.

"Is there any chance that we'll get to do that any time soon?" Nikita asked after a moment.

"Probably not," Michael said, sounding depressed.

In the fluorescent lighting, Michael's head and hands were a pale periwinkle. No matter how many times he washed, some of the color had stained his skin. Nikita said thoughtfully, "Perhaps we should have tried cold cream on your head. You still look a bit ... cyanotic."

"Believe me, my blood flow is fine," Michael snapped.

"Oh." Nikita felt her face grow warm and the elevator jerked to a stop. Michael exited and Nikita trailed behind him.

"Check in with Birkhoff," Michael ordered, his voice tight and controlled. "Tell him I'm here. I'll need to review the Gray Sky mission probably, but if it's already in play -- and it should be -- I'll start working on our other problem."

"Our other problem?" Nikita asked, puzzled.

"The one that results in neither of us being able to think."

"I thought you said we wouldn't have a chance --"

"Our priorities have shifted."

"Oh." They walked briskly down the hall, not touching or doing anything else to make anyone think they were talking about anything other than work. "I'm a priority?"

"Nikita, you are always a priority."

Their voices were pitched low, too low for the surveillance equipment to pick anything up. Keeping her face a neutral blank and her lips as motionless as she could, Nikita murmured, "I do love you, Michael."

"Even when I'm painted blue?"

"Especially when you're painted blue." They paused at the entrance to the main floor of Section, and Nikita turned to report in. "Oh." Nikita turned back to Michael. "There's something you should know."

"What is it?"

"I still have blue paint in my belly button." She turned around and sauntered off, leaving Michael in the doorway literally unable to move.

After a few moments, his legs worked again. Moving a bit awkwardly, he slowly went to his office. He decided to check the Gray Sky mission first, then he'd need to work something out for himself and Nikita.

He gave a firm nod of his bald head to the people he passed, ignoring the stares of other operatives and in particular the stricken looks of the females. The only female he was interested in had a penchant for teasing him by baring her back. He felt his body tighten and his steps faltered.

He was definitely going to have to rearrange their schedules for the next few days.

Definitely.

********

End

********