The following is an alternate universe story. In a way, too, it's a crossover--only it's not. %) Let me explain that. Part of the setting and background here is working off of a superb and suspenseful French film from the '50s, *Les Diaboliques*; I'll include a short summary in a second for those of you who want/need one. There will be references to characters from that film, therefore, and you can expect the reappearance of a certain place from it, but this story is actually set about 20 years (22, to be exact) after the events from the movie. The movie was remade fairly recently in the U.S., by the way, as *Diabolique*, but--since my general opinion of Sharon Stone tends to hover somewhere around my opinion of toxic waste--I haven't seen it and therefore can't tell you how faithfully it may have reflected the original. This story will include *major* spoilers for the original, though (as will the summary of the film I'm about to give), so--if you want to see it (which I recommend--it's wonderful)--rent a copy and watch it, then come back to this. :)

The basic warnings here are these: 1) While I was certainly alive during the time period when this story is set (it starts in 1977), I was, I'm afraid, nowhere near Nikita's age then; if the details here seem a little off, to those who know, I do apologize. 2) I know extraordinarily little about medicine, Paris, the French language, or France in general, and I probably know even less about girls' boarding schools there, especially as they may have been around 25 years ago. If any of this seems off, again, please do grant me some (or possibly a lot of) artistic license. Oh, and just assume that many of the scenes in France have the characters speaking in French; I just can't write them that way. :) 3) There's a little playing with the ages of some characters here; no offense is meant by it. 4) I'm rating this MA-14 for some adult themes and language, but--overall--I'm not certain that it should be rated that high. There will be some NC-17 near the end, as well. :) 5) Things don't start off well for our heroine, but y'all know I'm an HR. Give me time. :)

Okay, if you've made it through all of this--one last disclaimer: as always, no infringement of any sort (to either LFN or Les Diaboliques or anyone related thereto) is intended with the following. Heaven knows, I don't get paid for this and am not in any way claiming that these characters or places are my own. (This particular story is mine, however, so plagiarists go away!) Any comments or requests can be sent to: Gilbertk@mtc.mid.tec.sc.us.

SHORT AND THOROUGHLY NON-COMPREHENSIVE SUMMARY OF *LES DIABOLIQUES* (BEWARE!--*Major* Spoilers for the movie within): At a boys' boarding school outside of Paris in 1955, Christina Delasalle (the timid and abused wife of Michel, the school's cruel headmaster) and Nicole Horner (his rather brazen but still abused mistress) plot to kill him, at the mistress's goading. Together, they lure him to the mistress's apartment and drown him in her bathtub, later taking the body back to the school and dumping it in the pool. The body disappears, however, causing the rather feeble Christina to worry greatly, her guilt getting the better of her; her mental and physical health are not helped out in the least when some schoolboys claim to have seen her husband still alive. When she finally discovers her "dead" husband in her bathtub, therefore, and he rises from his watery grave to reach out for her, she dies of a heart attack, thus completing the nefarious plans of Michel and Nicole to rid themselves of her, so that they can run the school, which had legally been hers, as their own. They are caught and imprisoned for their crime, however--leaving the school closed, with only one small boy still claiming that he had recently seen Christina alive.

HEART TROUBLES

Chapter 1

All in all, Nikita Wirth thought, it wasn't much of a bridal shower; it was more like a wake. Here she was, about to get married and take off to a brand new country --one she had wanted to see only for her *entire* life-- and her friends looked like she was about to die, instead. Some party.

She gave them a smile which was, if she had wanted to admit it--which she didn't--more bravery than joy and slapped one of her oldest and dearest friends playfully on the leg. "C'mon, Julie. Don't you have anything good to say?" She tilted her head down to try to meet the other woman's eyes, which were far more misty than she would have liked. "A joke? An old proverb? Some naughty wedding night advice? Anything?"

There was a twist in her friend's heart at the words, one which showed in her gaze. They had been here for two hours trying to convince her not to do this, not to go through with it, but she had been deaf to their every plea; she swallowed hard and tried again, still looking at the floor. "You're about to marry a man who's *at least* twice your age."

"Three times, but who's counting?" Nikita's mind noted silently.

"He's going to take you away to a country you've never been to, where you know no one," Julie went on. "We're going to be separated by an ocean and God knows what else."

"There are such things as phones," the other woman noted quietly.

Despondent blue eyes looked up at her through a stray tuft of red hair. She had said it all before, had been trying for so long; she was out of words for now.

Carla decided to step in, then, trying not to feel too much like some sort of tag team. She had been silent for way too long, she knew, had been letting Julie and Jurgen do all the talking for her; she knew that had to stop. "Nik, please." Her friend looked over at her. "You know what we're saying; you know why we're doing this. There is no way in hell you're gonna be happy with him." She shook her head, sighing heavily. "You don't even *like* him."

The bride-to-be looked away, trying not to be affected, as her mind silently ticked off the ledger so far: "Flesh-crawling dictator of a new husband--1; Paris and a school of my own--50 million." She was wise enough not to voice this to the people who loved her, though.

They could see that they weren't getting anywhere with her, could feel their terror at her fate growing--and they didn't have too much more time. Julie's patience for social niceties gave out, then, her horror having grown into rage; her hand slammed on the floor, causing her old friend to jump slightly. "Damn it, Nikita! How long are you going to let him do this to you? How long are you going to let your stepfather dictate your life?"

Oh. Her target swallowed quietly, trying to ignore the too-powerful truth in the words; it was *way* too hard to think about right now. She had to focus on what she was gaining here, after all, or she could never go through with this.

Her friend's shoulders sagged, as she stared at her, becoming disconsolate; she could see she wasn't winning. Her voice pleaded with her. "Nikita, listen to me. That man hates you; he always has." The almost-bride looked up at her tentatively. "You know that. We've always known it. He's done everything on earth he could to make you absolutely miserable. He's taken away your pride, your faith in yourself, even your friends--when he could." Nikita looked back to the floor, as her friend went on. "He's tried ever since he first met you to destroy everything real in you." She shook her head, upset, truly not understanding. "You've always admitted that before, always run away when he's tried to push you on someone terrible. Can't you see that now?"

There was a silence for several, very long, seconds, as a few strands of light hair fell over the eyes of the woman they were all focused on--but she still wasn't answering. Jurgen sighed. He could see that the locks were hiding her tears--and he hated it. His tone was quiet, when he spoke. "N'kita."

His voice worked through to her, as it always did; she swallowed heavily, biting her lip, and looked up at the man she had dated so briefly, the one who understood her only too well--the one she had given up to her friend. He was looking at her so gently. "You don't want to do this."

She let out a shaky sigh and looked back down to the floor, pained. She knew why they were all acting like this, of course, why they were all imploring her so desperately to rethink. It wasn't the 16th century, after all; she wouldn't be killed, if she disobeyed the Inquisitor--as she still thought of her stepfather. She could back out even now, could run away from the pain she knew would come, if she married a man she could never love--could probably never even like, one who came with his own, permanent mistress attached. Julie and Jurgen had even promised to help her along, till she found a job--a job which Jurgen had also promised to use his connections to help her find. She could break away from a family which had never loved her, then, which had no real liking for her at all. She knew all of this. Still, . . .

She swallowed heavily before she told them the real reason for her decision again--but she couldn't force herself to focus on any of them. "If I do it, I get the school, and I get Paris." She could tell they didn't understand; she looked up at all of their imploring eyes. "Don't you see that? I've dreamed of it, ever since I was a little girl, dreamed of that school and that country." She shook her head. "It's what I want, what I've always wanted." She let out a shaky breath, praying she could convince them--that she could convince herself, as well. "This is my one way to get it."

Carla's dark eyes were sympathetic, as she placed a gentle hand on her friend's leg; still, she could never agree to this. "But Paris isn't going to disappear, if you don't go right now, Nik. It'll be there ten, twenty--fifty years from now." Her hand squeezed softly, her gaze imploring. "You'll have another chance."

The words, however, didn't exactly have their desired effect. Instead, their object just swallowed heavily and looked up at her; her hand had reached up unconsciously to rub over her heart. "Will I?"

It was a simple response, but it struck deep; all her friends looked away. It was a thought none of them wanted to face.

Nikita saw their sorrow, felt her own; she drowned silently in it for a minute. After another few moments, though, she sighed, her eyes growing stronger. She knew she could convince them, if she really tried; she gave it one more effort. "Look, I know this isn't a great thing for me to do, in a lot of ways. I know my stepfather isn't looking out for me, and I know this marriage--in itself--won't make me happy." Three pairs of eyes finally looked, reluctantly, back to her, as her voice grew more impassioned. "But this is what I want--this school, this city--this opportunity. And if I don't take it now, . . ."

There was just no way for them to accept this, however; Julie looked away again, leaving Carla to answer. "But you don't know that there won't be another chance in the future." She ignored the sad, knowing look in the blue eyes before her to continue, more insistently. "You were *fine* a month ago, Nik. Hell, you could outrun the lot of us and leave us tired." She shook her head, eyes a little despairing. "I just can't believe that your heart could suddenly start going wrong now."

The target of these words smiled gently at her, as she answered--even if her other friends looked further away; it had been a pretty taboo subject for the last month. Her revelations now, as well, weren't happy ones. "I've felt it, Carla--just once or twice, just lately--but I have." She shrugged, giving in just a little. "I don't know what's going to happen, of course, but I can't just sit back and hope for something way in the future anymore." She shook her head. "I might not get this opportunity again."

Her other life-long friend took a deep breath, bracing herself, her eyes still focused away. "But this school, Nikita," she looked up at her, "its history, . . ." She shook her head. "How can you want to go there? Why not just burn it down and be done with it?" Her eyes were begging. "There *are* other jobs."

She was only met with her friend's smile, though. "I know." She shrugged. "But . . . I've always been drawn to it, always wanted to see it; you know that. I've known it might be mine for so long now . . ." Another deep breath left her, as she changed tracks slightly. "Look, I want to make something of this place; I want to make it my own. I've got the skills now, got the education." She shook her head slightly. "I *want* this."

"But this marriage, . . ." Julie pleaded.

"It's the only way I get it. It's the only way I get Aunt Christina's school." She shrugged once more. "Otherwise, . . ."

It seemed useless. A silence overcame them all again; her friends had nearly argued themselves out, didn't know what path to take from here. They just knew that what was going to happen tomorrow was a *very* bad idea.

Their reverie, however, was broken by a knock on the door; Julie sighed disgustedly, as she stood up to answer. Carla looked around, a new thought entering her mind. "Do you want me to hide?"

Nikita stayed where she was, trying to avoid the saddened look Jurgen gave her; it hurt her that he couldn't back her in this. She shrugged. "Why bother? What can my stepfather do to me now, even if he does find out you're here?" Carla just nodded.

There was a profound silence in the room, as the guest they had all dreaded arrived. He greeted Julie in a solicitous manner, too, which she tried not to spit at, as she looked him over. He had come to fetch her friend, to drag her back to the idiot stepfather who had made her life such hell--and on the night before his wedding, yet. Well, he was a bit old for a bachelor party, she supposed. He was followed in by his constant companion. "And his mistress wouldn't like it, either," her mind added cattily.

The gray-haired man moved past the younger woman and reached out to take his bride-to-be's hand; she let out a deep sigh and rose slowly. She had known this was coming, after all; time to face up to it.

His voice was everything pleasant, as he spoke to her, but it didn't quite make up for the fact that his eyes always reminded her of a snake about to strike. She wasn't sure anything could make up for that. "Nikita, my dear, you're going to tire yourself like this. Come on home now. Dominic was worried about you."

"Like a jailer with his prisoner," Julie murmured under her breath. The dark eyes of her new, female guest smiled over rather coldly, to her slight shudder in response.

Nikita just nodded, ignoring the exchange; there was nothing to do now. "I know, Paul." It still took a leap of memory not to call him "Uncle Wolfe." "I'm sorry. Let me say goodbye, and we'll go." She tried to ignore again the fact that her husband-to-be's smile made her feel a little ill. "Madeline," she nodded to his companion--and then tried to ignore once more the sense of slight disgust she always felt aimed towards her in the woman's gaze.

Paul held onto her hand a few seconds longer than she was comfortable with--but she reminded herself that she would have to get used to that, among other things. "Of course, dear. Madeline and I will be outside." He let her go.

The pair moved away but were still within sight and earshot; her friends were desperate, though. "Nik, please," Carla whispered.

She just hugged her in return, trying to ignore her, fairly sensible, begging. "Bye, Carla. I'll miss you."

"Nikita," Julie begged, but was cut off by a shake of her friend's head, as she turned back to her. She hugged her a little desperately, instead. "I'll miss you," she whispered.

It was too much. The very unhappy bride-to-be was practically choking back tears by this point, but she turned to her final friend quietly nonetheless. Of all of them, even for all of the years she had known the teary-eyed women near her, he was the one most like her, the one who understood her the best. If only she had been able to love him in return, she might not be leaving with a man who made her flesh crawl. Ah well.

The man who had taught her most of what she knew about the ins and outs of education looked down at her quietly and sighed, wishing there was more he could give her; he took her softly in his arms and kissed her hair. "Be strong," he breathed, for her alone.

It was nearly overwhelming, was more than she could handle. She swallowed heavily and pulled back from him, her eyes watering a little, as she looked them all over. They all loved her, she knew. They all wanted the very best for her, wanted her to be happy-- and she was still disappointing them all. She sighed shakily. But she couldn't disappoint herself, instead. There wasn't enough time left to her for that.

They stood there for another few seconds before the tableau they created was broken by Madeline's voice; its softness, Nikita knew, was deceptive--always was. She was truly speaking to her as though she were a child. "Your mother's waiting up for you. You don't want to tire her out tonight."

The torn woman she addressed bit her lip softly, closing her eyes for a second, trying to center herself. Still, her voice was a little huskier from tears than she would have liked, when she finally spoke. "Of course not." She gave all her good friends one last, loving look, one more smile, and then joined the companions who waited, like death, for her arrival. There was no way back anymore.

Chapter 2

It was a few hours, and several awful talks--with both her mother and Dominic--later that Nikita was finally back in her room alone once more, was experiencing her last night as a free woman. Tomorrow she would be married, would be a bride and on her way to Paris. . . . It was just too bad that it was only the last part of this future which gave her any pleasure at all.

She sighed, as she sat on the side of her bed, forcing herself to stop pacing along the floor. Dominic might be wheelchair-bound now--after a run-in 10 years ago with a very miffed grad. student, one who, Nikita still thought, he had seemed to know a little *too* well--but he still had the intercom he had installed in the house; he would use it to berate her for her sleeplessness, too, if she gave him half a chance. She had to conserve her energies.

She forced her body to be calm, therefore--as much as that was possible--but she could do absolutely nothing about her mind; it, instead, was in turmoil. This was the night before her wedding, after all, a day she had thought about for so long--only it just wasn't supposed to be this way at all. She was supposed to be marrying Mr. Right, the man of her dreams--a man who would be tall, gorgeous, and intelligent, who would have just the combination of tenderness and wildness which had always attracted her the most. She sighed. Paul Wolfe was *not* it.

She could feel the sorrow welling in her, could feel it threatening to overtake her; she tried her best to beat it back, but it was no use. There was a pain in her heart--not a physical one, this time, thankfully--but one which seemed to go down to the very center of her being, which was rooted into her soul; she swallowed heavily. Dear God. It all just seemed too much. . . . How was she ever going to be able to get through this?

She lay back on her bed, the tears welling in her eyes, her throat burning, as she tried not to cry aloud. It was one of the oldest lessons of her home, Dominic having taught it to her so long ago. "To cry is to give your enemy victory," he would intone in that rather sadistic instructor's voice; all his lessons in martial history were useless to her if she wouldn't listen. On and on and on. He had trained her as though she were going off to war herself, certainly as though she were a soldier--an enemy one. She wondered if he had ever thought for long enough to realize what that made him.

She shook her head, as she stared up at the ceiling, still trying to choke back the tears. There seemed to be so many enemies around her now--like there would be in the future, as well: Dominic, Paul, her mother, . . . Madeline. All of them watched her, evaluated her as though she were some sort of laboratory specimen--well, all except her mother; she was usually either too drunk or too completely subservient to Dominic's every wish to really notice her that much. Nikita just wasn't certain whether that was a blessing or not.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and closed her eyes. God, she hated this, hated it all; it was so hard to remember, sometimes, that this was the way toward what she wanted--was the only way toward it now. If it just hadn't been for that weird codicil in her aunt's will--or was it in the will her grandmother had drawn up after Aunt Christina's death? She never was sure. Anyway, without that, she could have just inherited the damn school and gone over to run it on her own. True, without any name, reputation, or particular experience, it might well be hard to draw students in--especially given the school's weird history--but she would have loved to have tried. She smiled slightly. If only that could have been possible.

Her smile faded, though, as her mind shifted back to reality; she took another deep breath. But no--no, instead, she had to be married to get the school, to have it given to her--and, as the Inquisitor had so kindly put it, who else but Paul Wolfe was going to marry her, especially given the latest diagnosis on her heart? She shook her head. No one--just this awful old creep who was a friend of the man who had tortured her for so very long. Great.

She sighed again, as her mind shifted. It wasn't like there hadn't been others--potentially--before. For awhile, indeed, while she had been in college, it had seemed like she might actually be able to find someone who cared for her, . . . but all of that had come to nothing. All of those dreams had been mere illusions.

She shook her head slightly, her mind turning once more here. If only she hadn't been such a fool--if only she hadn't been looking for "Mr. Right"--if only she had, of all the bizarre things, followed her mother's advice long ago, she might have actually been, . . . well, not happily married by now but at least not totally miserable. If only she had understood that before.

There had been quite a few "potential husbands," as her mother would have put it, in the past several years--had been at least three whom she might have been able to be serious about. There had been Jurgen, of course, who had been so in love with her and still so very patient when she hadn't returned his feelings entirely. There had been Helmut, too--if only he hadn't been so very under his Papa's thumb; he was even rich enough for Dominic to have approved of. Even Gray, if he hadn't been such an already-married jerk, might have been better, in the long run. She sighed once more. Still, she had turned all of them down, in one way or another, had turned them away in hopes of finding "the one"--the man who would make her feel complete. She shook her head, self-disgust filling every feature. What a total waste of years it had been.

She knew now that her mother's advice had been good, in a perverse way--her constant reminders to find someone who would take care of her, who she could basically cope with and then treat everything like a business deal starting to seem almost reasonable. Okay, so she still wasn't really ready to go as far as submitting her mind totally to her husband, like her mother thought she should, but maybe the business part of it was right. Maybe that really was how she should look at it--if only she could. Maybe that was the only way toward contentment.

She was just making a serious effort to convince herself of the truth of this philosophy, too, when her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on her door. She sighed deeply; she knew that faux-perky little tap anywhere. "Yeah," she murmured, rubbing the tears away from her eyes before she sat up slightly.

The door opened, only for her to be greeted by her sister's sly smile. "Half-sister," she reminded herself disgustedly. At least she didn't share everything with the girl.

"I just wanted to see how you were." Abby's look was sweetness and light--if you had been born yesterday. She came into the room completely, uninvited. "And to borrow the blue hair ribbons Mom gave you. They're gonna look *perfect* with my dress tomorrow."

Nikita watched as her sister proceeded to help herself to the ribbons; the younger girl was tying them experimentally in her hair, staring into the bureau's mirror with a smile--utterly oblivious now to the supposed cause of her visit. Her half-sister just sighed at the teenager and flopped back on her bed. She might be annoying, but--of all the problems she had at the moment--Abby was the absolute least of them.

Realizing she had lost her audience, though, the younger girl turned back to her; the sweetness and light of half a second ago had fled, to reveal another side altogether. There was a very nasty glint in her eyes. "You've been crying. Dad won't like that."

Her sister sighed and covered her eyes with her arm, wishing she could will her away. At least she would be rid of one annoyance after tomorrow.

The teenager, however, did *not* like to be ignored; her eyes narrowed. "You're going to look like a hag tomorrow with those circles. Maybe Uncle Wolfe won't want to marry you then."

"Good," Nikita murmured, eyes still covered.

There was a huff. "I'm going to tell Dad you said that!"

That was it, was the final straw; she already had enough to put up with. Nikita sat up finally, tired of this nonsense--tired of everything. "Abby, as far as I'm concerned, you can tell him to go to Hell--and you along with him," she added, as the girl started to open her mouth again. "Now, for God's sake, take whatever it is you came to steal from me and leave. Just go have your tantrum somewhere else."

There was a glint of cold, sharp steel in the teenager's eyes which was the exact picture of her father. It looked ugly on both of them, Nikita decided silently--not for the first time, as her sister's hushed voice growled. "You're going to be sorry for that." After that little malediction, however--and the mandatory door slam that came after it--she was finally, blessedly, alone.

She lay back on the bed again, covering her eyes, as they teared once more. She just didn't have the energy for this sort of thing anymore; it hurt too much. She had put up with 18 years of her stepfather's garbage--and 17 of her sister's. That, truly, was more than anyone could expect out of her in one lifetime.

The thoughts began to weigh in on her now, began to weigh her down; she was fighting back tears, as the weariness of the day--and the sorrows of her future--worked through to her. It was enough, indeed, that, while he spent every day telling his stepdaughter of all her faults and failings, Dominic had trained her half-sister to look and act just like her in so many, outward, ways. It was enough, too, that he sometimes coached Abby in the right things to say or do to make her sister cry--was enough, as well, that they had chosen the ugliest wedding dress imaginable for herself, while having geared the whole wedding around what would best suit her younger sister and the friends she was bringing along to be her half-sister's bridesmaids, leaving Nikita without any choice in the matter at all. It was even enough that her whole, official bridal shower had either been presents which Abby had immediately claimed, with her parents' complete approval, or horrendous instructions to Nikita on how to be a "proper" wife. It was enough, truly, that she had put up with this for so very long. It just didn't seem fair that, on top of all of it, she now had to go marry a man she had never liked at all.

She swallowed heavily once again, but it didn't stop the tears; she tried to cry as quietly as possible, her hand in front of her face. Everything hurt right now--everything. She was no longer even sure that the thought of Paris and the school of her dreams, her own little place to teach by her own rules and ideas, was enough for her, wasn't sure whether anything could really make up for the huge emotional mistake she was about to leave herself open to. Still, if she stayed, she had nothing, either--some kind friends, yes, but nothing else. Dominic had made it perfectly clear that he would take everything material from her, if she didn't marry Paul--and he knew all the right people, truly, could poison their minds against her, could convince anyone that they were better off with Lizzie Borden as their child's teacher, with anyone except her. There was nothing, then, if she didn't marry Paul--and, if she did, if she could force herself through it, there would be Paris, at least. She just couldn't let herself focus on anything else right now.

None of her determination, however--sadly--stopped her tears or her doubts. Instead, she remembered--remembered way too much, no matter how hard she tried to stop herself. She thought about the chill she had had every time she had been forced to meet "Uncle Wolfe"--and his constant, auburn-haired companion--as a child; she was probably just lucky that he wasn't really her relative. She thought, as well, about all the childish dreams she had once had of the man she would share her life with, of how certain she had been that she would find him, that he would care for her, would love and cherish her. She had told, had convinced, herself for so long, in fact, that he was out there, that--someday, maybe in Paris at a school of her own--she would meet him. And he would be dashing and beautiful and make her heart stop in love. She swallowed back the tears. If only that were true.

But no. Now she was facing the truth. Instead of a beautiful lover and friend, she was going to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather, one who even came with a ready-made mistress. Instead of the loving mate she had always dreamed of, she was being partnered up with her stepfather's choice--someone very dignified, someone, indeed, who had all the right credentials to attract students to a new school, but who would be her official jailer more than anything else, who would allow her no freedom at all, in either her external or internal lives. The man didn't even care about her, she knew--was only marrying her as a favor to his old friend Dominic and as a way to, no doubt, get a school of his very own. Her heart wasn't going to nearly stop because of a beautiful, beloved man, either; according to her stepfather's doctor, in fact, it was threatening to do that for good all of its own accord. She sighed. It stank, however you looked at it--and there was just no way out.

She knew she couldn't let herself go on like this, though; she tried to calm herself, instead, tried to focus on the positive. . . . She might not go too crazy, if she did that.

Her mind began a list of things to focus on, then, a life of those points which might get her through. Paul was kind to her, at least; he didn't yell like Dominic, was more subtle in the ways he tried to control her. And he and Madeline, too, had quite a bit of experience at running schools, would know all the right ways to set it up, to get it functioning--would look impressive for recruiting new students, as well, a very necessary quality, especially considering the school's prior, unfortunate, reputation. She would also get her life in Paris, she reminded herself, would finally be able to see the city which had always seemed like home to her, which she had dreamed about for so very long. She smiled slightly. There would even be no more of Abby's tantrums--or of Dominic's sneering comparisons of the two of them. She would, finally, be free.

Her tears had dried a little, therefore, as she forced herself to look at things this way. It, really, was the only way toward self-control for her at all.

She was slightly calmer, then, when her solitude was broken once more--this time by a much softer knock, one she didn't immediately recognize. She sighed and sat up, wiping any hint of tears away--or trying to. "Come in."

All of her hard work at calming herself was soon undone, however--sadly; her newest visitor did nothing for her state of mind. "Madeline," she whispered, barely making it a greeting.

The older woman gave her a smile which seemed warm, almost tender; still, there always seemed to be a layer of ice around her when she did that. Nothing quite got rid of that impression. "I didn't mean to bother you. I just wondered whether we could have a little talk."

God. The blonde woman before her took a deep breath and forced a smile onto her face, as she nodded. She had a feeling the woman's opening words were going to be the understatement of the century.

The door was closed quietly, and the almost-bride watched, as her husband-to-be's mistress sat softly on the bed beside her; she could never quite get over the woman. She was always so absolutely correct, so utterly perfect. Her dresses never had a wrinkle; she was never caught in an even mildly ungainly or awkward moment. She was very beautiful, really. And yet, beneath it all--somewhere deep in her eyes--there was an . . . emptiness, was something dark and ugly; all of the perfume and softness just covered it from view. "What did you need from me?" she wondered, not entirely certain she wanted the answer.

That small, perfect smile met her again; the voice which accompanied it was muted and rich. "I thought, since we were about to become so close, that there were some things we should discuss."

The younger woman swallowed a little heavily and then silently cursed herself for the slip; Dominic's coldly assessing eyes were nothing to Madeline's. "Such as?"

Her husband-to-be's constant companion wasted no time on subtlety. "You know that Paul and I are lovers." It was a simple statement, requiring no answer--which was good, because Nikita was a bit too tongue-tied to give one. "After your marriage tomorrow, of course, that will continue."

Almost despite herself, she felt like she should interrupt. "I . . ." she started.

Madeline's voice was still quiet, but she cut her off completely, nonetheless. "Hear me out. You're young in the ways of the world--inexperienced when it comes to how things really work." In many ways, the words were venom, but her tone of voice, her whole manner, could still have been used to pay her companion the highest compliments; she continued explaining. "Paul and I work well together--physically and professionally. You and he will be a good match, a good partnership, as well, but I think we both know that your physical condition leaves aside the whole issue of anything like a more intimate relationship." Her eyes seemed so reasonable. "And we both know that you can't expect any man to live without such needs."

There were a few moments of silence after this declaration. Nikita wanted to have an answer for her, of course. In fact, she had about 12 floating around in her head--several of them rather unpleasant. Still, mostly she was torn between wanting to argue for the idea that maybe there should be some allowances for a woman's needs--and a huge desire to cheer over the fact that she might be about to escape one of the most loathsome parts of her coming marriage. Instead, she remained almost entirely tongue tied; only one idea escaped. "And the wedding night?"

Madeline smiled. "I'll take care of that," her soft voice consoled--as though the fairly brazen idea were simple common sense. "So long as you're willing to keep up appearances, to say--should anyone be bold enough to ask--that the marriage has indeed been consummated, everything will be fine."

Despite herself, the recipient of these new ideas was slightly agog. Seeing that she obviously wasn't going to gain much more response, however, the older woman rose, still smiling quietly. "That's all we needed to talk about." She moved toward the door.

It took a few more seconds, but Nikita did finally find her tongue, one of the million thoughts in her head breaking through. "Madeline." The older woman turned back to her. "Did Paul ask you to talk to me about this?"

There was a quiet but disturbing sort of light in the other woman's eyes, as she looked back at her; her smile hid far more than it revealed, as well--not for the first time. "Let's just say that there are some things any long-time partner understands. You'll learn that eventually." Seeing that there was no more the bride-to-be could say to this, too, she opened the door. "Good night, Nikita."

She left the younger woman blinking, now thoroughly unsure of anything to come, all of her previous work at inner peace destroyed. If her husband's mistress was this bold already, after all, what in God's name was to come? She sighed, thoroughly without answers. She had a very sick feeling, however, that she was going to find out.

An extra thank you to Leigh for allowing me to use the name (I'm pretty darn sure) she originated for a character here. Thanks, Leigh! :D

Chapter 3

There were just some things which nothing could be done about, which no one could help you with; if Michel Samuelle knew anything, it was this. Some pains went straight to the heart of you, cut into bone--and not even the dearest and closest people to you could ever truly give you solace for those.

He had been in his room alone again, had been there for hours--had been watching a sunset which, despite its beauty, had done nothing to warm the chill in his soul. It was only the voice of his friend which finally told him that he would have to face the world again.

"Michel!" Rene was calling with friendly determination, as he came up the stairs. "You are not a hermit! The world demands your attentions!"

Michel sighed, closing his eyes for a second before he started for the door. If he let his friend continue on like this, he would disturb Monique's every paying guest--and, especially considering the fact that she shared all his pains, he couldn't allow her to shoulder any further burdens.

He opened the door to be greeted by Rene's smiling face; he tried to return it but only managed to do so slightly less than half-heartedly. He knew his friend understood all too well what he had been doing when he had shouted for him up the stairs, had known that Michel could never have ignored his summons, could never have allowed all of his sister's boarders to find such a lovely grounds for complaint. He understood his close friend's reasoning, as well--appreciated his concern. Still, he truly wished that he could have just been left alone.

The slightly-balding man's eyes ran down his friend, taking in his almost-disheveled clothes; he stifled a sigh, as he looked back to his eyes. It was worse than he had thought. Michel had always been neat, had been refined to a fault. . . . This wasn't like him at all.

His look softened a little, though, as the sad-eyed man stepped back to let him in; his guest closed the door behind him, his voice very soft, as the object of his concern moved to a seat on the foot of the bed. "Mi-chel--it's been 10 months, almost a year." Depths of sorrow looked up at him, made their point, as Rene shook his head. "You can't let this change your whole life."

The grieving man looked back down again, before he stood, turning toward the window; he couldn't bear to witness the camaraderie, the sympathy in his friend's eyes. Several seconds passed in silence, before a whisper passed his lips. "It has."

There was a small sigh in return. The loose blond strands fell around his friend's face, as he lowered his head; his entreaties were not working--again. Still, he tried. "But your job, the career you've worked for--the children." He looked up but was still greeted with the back of a head of auburn hair, with shoulders he had once seen so proud and strong, now slumped a little in defeat. One forearm was braced against the windowsill, as well, the back of the index finger running repeatedly over his friend's lips; Rene knew the move, knew the discomfiture it signaled. Still, he pressed. "You can't let all of that go to waste now."

Michel closed his eyes, trying once more for control over his sorrow. What he was about to do was right, he knew, but it hurt him, nonetheless; he paused a second, before he tried to explain. "I have so little family left--Monique, her husband, her child." He trailed off before swallowing again. "They're all that's left to me now." He sighed, opening his eyes once more, forcing himself to turn back around to meet the concerned blue gaze before him. "I have to be close to them."

There was a stutter in the heart of the man who cared about him; it destroyed him to see his friend in such pain--and about to make such a dreadful mistake. He shook his head in slight amazement, his tone pleading. "You only work a half hour, maybe 45 minutes away from them now; you're not in a separate universe. All that separates you is traffic."

He regretted the last words, however, almost as soon as they were out. He closed his eyes and looked away, bracing for the other man's storm.

He received it, as well. Michel's eyes were mocking now, almost cruel--but the cruelty was truly aimed at himself; his words, though, were practically being spit out. "'Traffic.'" He shook his head, amazed. "That's all that separated me before--all that ever separated me. When Papa was sick, when I knew," his breath was shaky, "knew that he might, . . ." He trailed off for a second, regaining his strength, before his self-rage continued. "I was just a phone call away, right? Was just in the city, just a short drive away." Once more his voice failed him; his breath became even shakier when he went on. "And then when Maman . . ."

He trailed off again, looking away, swallowing fiercely to keep back the tears which burned at him, which ached to be released; his cheek ticced slightly. It took him several seconds to regain enough control to finish. "What good did any of that do them?"

His friend watched him, sighing, pained--wishing so strongly that there was something to do to take away the pain. He knew, however, that nothing really could. Two loving, so-cherished parents gone in two weeks' time, both of them gone without a chance to say goodbye--ten months was nothing to that; ten years might not be. And, truly, looking at his friend right now, he wasn't certain that anything really could.

He swallowed a little, as he watched the man he had known for so long, the one who had never once lacked resolve or determination, as he painfully regained the strength to go on. He himself knew something like it, after all, understood, had been through similar pains. All you could do was apply love to the wound as heavily and constantly as possible, love which was entirely unconditional. And, for Michel--as much as his friends truly meant to him--that love came from family.

Rene knew all of this, of course, comprehended every pain with as much clarity as any outsider could. Still, as deep as the wounds went, he couldn't support his friend's decision, still felt it would be wrong for him; he sighed inaudibly, beginning in a breath, praying that his old friend would understand. "But this school, its reputation," sad, green eyes looked back to him, "you're worth more than that."

He couldn't argue. Michel sighed, nodded slightly, as he looked away. Rene was right, of course; he knew that. The school was forever tainted, would always be haunted by ghosts--emotional if not tangible ones. He wasn't even sure it would live past the first year. For all of Professor Wolfe's reputation, for all of his experience, local parents were still wary of the place, still remembered its tragedies too well. Even Wolfe's beautiful, highly-educated, and--by all accounts--quite capable, young wife might not be able to survive the ancient sins which clung to the place. All of this was true--but none of it could change his mind.

He went on to list a few more arguments for Rene's cause mentally, however, giving his friend his due, agreeing with the assessments the man had given of him. He was a highly-prized catch for any school, indeed--had enough of a reputation for both tradition and innovation in teaching to be able to pull in a large salary wherever he went; getting him would be a formidable coup for the soon-to-be reopened school, he admitted silently, one it may not truly merit--and he *had* been happy for nearly seven years at his current post. Still, . . .

He looked back to his friend finally, his gaze unhappy but accepting, knowing this was his fate. "It's only 10 minutes away. I can come visit Monique anytime I'm needed, can be here to help out on every break, now matter how short. I can even just be here to have supper once in a while." He shook his head once more. "I won't be a stranger anymore."

Rene sighed, knowing again his defeat. It didn't matter that all of this was true for the school they both taught at right now, didn't matter that it too was only a short ride away. His friend had been cut deeply by his parents' deaths, by the cruelty of fate in forcing him to miss both of their passings by mere minutes--had been cut too deeply to heal quickly. To him, just now, even 20 miles seemed like an eternity; he had been wounded too deeply to believe anything else.

He only made one more attempt, then, only had one more gambit left. "And Simone?"

Michel closed his eyes quickly before her refocused on the floor. He hated to leave her, it was true--to be so far away. He knew, rationally, of course, that it wouldn't be an insurmountable distance, but boarding schools didn't exactly allow you to go out on your own every night; there were too many responsibilities. The days they would have off simultaneously would be rare, their visits even rarer. He sighed, his mind turning. But Simone was a friend to him far beyond being a lover, and--despite her sadness at his decision--she had never tried to dissuade him at all.

Despite all of this, though, his next, simple words came hard for him; he could never quite talk about Simone to Rene without feeling a little torn. It was the two of them who were so obviously meant for one another, who were simply waiting for the right time to connect; he had always felt a little guilty keeping up any sort of intimate relationship with her in the face of that. Simone, however, was not a woman to be turned down. His voice was soft. "She understands."

His friend looked to the floor--finally, utterly defeated. "Ah," he breathed. They both let the subject drop.

The conversation came to a standstill, the next few seconds silently awkward, pregnant with unspoken truths. Michel turned back to the windows, sat back on his bed to stare out at them; his friend understood his quiet company, after all--and he himself had long since run out of things to say.

Rene took a second to pull himself back from his thoughts, back into himself; he had yet to consciously admit that it was any thought of Simone which did this to him. He looked up once more, returning to the real subject at hand. His friend had won for now, but that didn't mean he was letting the details go; his friend's happiness was too important for that. "Monique says the famous Professor Wolfe stopped by here earlier. Did he ask for you?" He already knew the answer, of course, but it was something to draw his friend out with. He waited.

Michel didn't turn back, just shook his head, lost in other thoughts now. "No. I'm not sure he's made the connection between us. He just needed directions to the school."

His guest's eyes narrowed. That he *didn't* buy. From what he had heard of Wolfe, the man never did anything at all by chance; everything was planned. He may have been a brilliant organizer, too, but he was also known for being controlling as hell. There was *no* way he had just gotten lost.

He stepped to the side of Michel's bed, then, looking at his friend, analyzing the minute shifts in his mood. What was it he was thinking about? Was it possible that, between these new, mysterious musings and the trauma over his parents' deaths, he had stopped fully analyzing his moves, his life? He sighed, saddened by the answer. Yes, it was. Of all the things he was, his friend had never been spontaneous, had never taken an ill-advised step. Now, however, he feared that might have changed.

He watched him closely, therefore, continuing to analyze, as a plan he had once discarded began to return to him. "What do you think of him?"

Michel shrugged, oblivious to the deeper meanings of the question. "I didn't meet him."

"And Monique?"

There was only a sigh from the man on the bed; Rene filled in the rest. "Monique said he seemed controlling, his niceties superficial." Michel just nodded; they both knew that he had understood the answer to this before he had ever asked it. He continued to draw him out anyway. "Did you meet his wife?"

The silence which enveloped the grieving man suddenly deepened, the mood which had already begun turning becoming profound, as his mind ran back. He had been upstairs in his room when Wolfe had come, after all, had watched from his second-story window, as the man had entered the boarding house; his eyes, however, had not been very interested in him. Instead, his whole focus had been wholly captivated by a head of bright hair he had seen through the window of the car; the sun, indeed, had been shining just right, had made the strands shine like polished gold, like something far more precious than he had ever imagined could exist. It had been an absolutely miraculous moment.

That, though, had not been all of it, hadn't even been close. The angel he had been gazing at had seemed to feel his gaze, had looked up to him then, her blue eyes shining so beautifully, even as he stared down through his window. He had seen in them things he couldn't have named, as well, ones he had never quite been able to understand before--phenomenal things. It had nearly stopped his heart.

This, though, had not been all of the amazement he had felt in that moment. There had been even more to that blue gaze, too, had been a sadness--one which had been every bit as profound as his own. For the life of him, though, he could imagine nothing which could ever cause an angel like her such sorrow, nothing which should be allowed to. Anyone who could do something so unspeakable was beyond his cruelest imagination.

The moment, truly, had been hard to describe, its effects too profound to encapsulate so easily. When their eyes had met, however, something in him had begun to stir, something he had thought long dead; he still wasn't certain that he hadn't imagined it. While the look had been achingly brief, too, it had still lasted for a miraculous eternity for his soul. It was as though those sad blue eyes knew him, understood him in a way which went so very far beyond these lives they now lived; they saw into him in a way he himself could not. And, even more amazingly, she had ended their time by gifting him with a very small smile.

He shook his head just slightly, trying to break himself from his reverie. Those seconds of connection, after all, had been fleeting. Moments later, the dark eyes of the woman in the front seat of the car had broken in, instead, had severed the tenuous connection he and the angel had formed. This woman's eyes had looked at him as though she understood his soul, as well--but what she had found there had not pleased him at all, had broken the eyes of the angel away from him with what he feared might be a terrifying finality. He had almost been relieved when Wolfe had reemerged to take them both away.

These memories, of course, were proving difficult for him to process, were a challenge to all the sense he thought he had. He sighed, then, pulling himself together, realizing he hadn't answered Rene's question at all; he refocused, speaking quietly. "I saw her."

His friend smiled, even if Michel didn't see it; he was beginning to understand the new element to this silence. He prodded softly. "Is she the angel everyone says?" He gained his answer when slightly surprised green eyes caught his once more--and he saw that he had struck his target. "Ah." He nodded. He would say nothing else there, but it was a twist he had never quite imagined.

Michel looked away again quickly. Rene knew him far too well--and, since he himself was thoroughly unsure of anything he was truly feeling, that knowledge was a little more than uncomfortable right now.

He changed the subject just slightly, therefore, trying to run from these insights; he didn't make it very far. His tone had soured, indeed, as he spoke not so much from his conscious mind but from something deep within him. He just needed to tell it to someone. "He had her riding in the back seat as though she were his child." They both understood too well from hearsay who it was who had the front.

His friend repressed a laugh. This really was too wonderful, showed a sense of life which had been missing in this man for far too long now. Michel's chivalry was well-known, after all, but this still went beyond it. He smiled. He wondered whether he could make this work.

He began his new plan, then, hoping he understood his friend's relationship with Simone enough to not be leading him down paths that would eventually hurt her. He suspected, however, that she would only approve. "Then, there's only one thing for me to do." The green eyes looked back again. "I shall offer my services to your new master, as well." The look before him grew a little surprised. "We can't leave the beautiful Madame Wolfe to the clutches of such a monster, now can we?"

Michel blinked. There were times, he thought, when he really couldn't believe his friend. This, after all, was the man who had been trying so hard to convince him not to take this path, and now . . .

He looked into him for a second to be certain of his desire for this change, wanting to be sure. Then, for the first time that day, he smiled; his tone was lighter. "You would cure her marital woes with poetry, Rene?"

His friend laughed, happy to see the man before him smiling once more, if only for a moment. He did want to see if they could continue down that path. "Well, poetry cannot cure every ailment, but . . ." He trailed off, looking into the green eyes before him for a second; he nodded his head at him. "And you, what will you do? Show her the stars--or perhaps teach her the physics of love?"

There was a deeper smile for a second, a quicker beating of the heart--before reality came back; Michel looked away. "She is married."

Hmm. Rene repressed a smile. To a poet, after all, such things only seemed important if the marriage were a true one. But this . . . The smile broke through. Yes, Rene thought to himself. They would see about that. Indeed, they would see.

Chapter 4

Motives were interesting things--especially when everyone in the room had several. Job interviews were always like that, of course, but this one had a twist. . . . The interviewee was already half in love with his prospective boss's wife.

Michel blinked once and brought himself back to full attention; he had been staring for at least half a second too long at Madame Wolfe. This, too, wasn't a particularly brilliant tactic on his part, since it had been Monsieur Wolfe who had asked the question; he finally processed it fully. "I'd like this job, because it's a challenge--a new school, a new reputation to build. Anyone who is here at the beginning will help in shaping its character as well as its perception by both the parents and the community." His calm, interviewing mask--a slightly more somber version of the one he used while teaching--was on; his eyes focused more deeply on Wolfe. "And that's where I know I'll be of the most help to you."

His prospective employer gave a half-smile at this; they both knew it was a challenge. Everyone here was aware that the new school would need Professor Samuelle--badly; his reputation for excellence, as well as his good rapport with the surrounding community, were exactly what it had to have if it had any hope of survival. Without him, they might well be lost before they had even opened their doors.

All of this knowledge, however, made no impact on the tactics of two of his interviewers. Madeline liked a challenge, after all, and she had no desire to negotiate his salary from a losing position; she picked up on his last words. "Are you telling us, Professor Samuelle, that your reputation has, perhaps, out-paced your skills? Because, if that's true, we both know that we could find someone else of at least equal standing."

Actually, of course, they both knew exactly the opposite, but Michel met her words calmly; politics of this sort was not new to him. "You may ask any of a hundred different people for my references--as I'm certain you already have. My reputation for teaching is well deserved." Neither of the older pair before him answered, though; he tried another tactic. "If, however, you truly have your doubts," he began to rise.

It was Nikita who finally broke in at this point, who ended the silence the pair beside her had, for the most part, forced her into. She knew, of course, the sort of verbal game which all three of these people were playing, but it was like a language she understood but couldn't quite bring herself to speak. She hated games and pointless verbal sparring, always had--and Dominic's presence in her home had only increased that hatred. She just couldn't let it go on any longer.

Her mind processed through all the reasons for her interruption once more, ran through them in an instant. They all knew the truth, after all, knew how much they needed this man--but, she had seen more and more, Paul was more than capable of allowing him to leave, of letting him swing in the wind for weeks, even--weeks when they might well lose him--in hopes of bringing down his price. Whatever her new husband's pecuniary motives, then, they made little difference to her now--especially when she was faced with the thought of having this immensely beautiful man walk away from her life for good. . . . It didn't matter to her, either, at the moment, that she knew she shouldn't be feeling this way at all.

Despite the multiple play of her emotions, therefore, she did manage to stay outwardly calm, as she stopped him. "Professor Samuelle," he looked back to her with eyes which gave her an internal shudder of some unnamable, and wholly new, longing, before they both repressed the momentary look once more. "I'm sure that we all understand the value you could have for us here, but I believe there's an issue we haven't quite discussed."

He smiled at her a little, warmly, despite himself. Her French was quite good, quite well practiced, but there was an awkwardness to her tone which made her inexperience with everyday usage of it clear--and the slight Australian accent which flavored it did nothing to offset that impression. God help him, but he was charmed--again. He listened quietly, then, trying to keep his face calm, as she continued.

She met his smile slightly, professionally--or, at least, that was what she was attempting. "We *are* new, and we're all aware that it's been quite awhile since there has been a school in this building." Paul gave her a look which she couldn't entirely ignore, even though it came from her side; it made her shudder just a little--far less pleasantly than Professor Samuelle's had--but she went on, nonetheless. "This presents a unique challenge to us, one I believe you would enjoy being part of."

The smile of the beautiful man before her just deepened at her words; she had to swallow slightly, before she went on. It was rather disconcerting how much it warmed her through. "As this is our first year, however, you will probably understand that there are certain . . . limitations we're all under, in regards to salary and benefits."

His smile just deepened with her words. God, she was beautiful. He really was going to have to be careful not to let his growing attraction to her show too profoundly.

She tried to ignore the flutter that his look sent through her, cursing herself slightly; she focused on him more deeply, instead, ignoring, too, the way that Madeline's eyes now bore into her. "If you join our work here, though, I believe you'll find that it's to your liking--and," she went on boldly, knowing how much her companions would hate it but understanding, as well, how much this man was needed, "if we're successful, I believe we can easily renegotiate such details in the years to come." Her smile grew. "How would you like to join us?"

Michel returned her smile, his admiration growing. She was brave; it was yet another point to her credit. Both of the people next to her were obviously considering at least some minor forms of homicide, and yet she still plunged on. His heart warmed to her further. Yes, she was the sort of headmistress a school like this needed. . . . He was going to like working with her immensely.

He sat down once more and nodded, therefore, looking from her to her companions. "What sort of opening salary might you suggest?" His gaze rested back on Nikita warmly, after his challenge was registered.

There was a profound silence for a few moments, as Paul half-contemplated bursting a blood vessel. He could not *believe* that his naive fool of a wife had undercut them so badly; his mind was ticking through a copious list of names for her which several years in the navy--nearly a lifetime ago now--had taught him too well. It was going to take another few moments until he was capable of anything like polite speech.

Madeline understood all of this, of course--and was none too pleased herself. Still, she needed to get this situation in hand once more, had to regain a firm control, and that could not be done in mixed company. She smiled at Michel. "That is a question we'll need a few minutes to discuss. Would you excuse us?"

Nikita was inwardly shuddering, knowing too well that she was in for it--that she was about to face a chill of displeasure which would make her fantasize about living once more under Dominic's, far more loving, roof. . . . This was not going to be fun.

She was undercut by Madeline, however, as she began to rise to follow her husband and the older woman; a sweet and unconvincing smile met her. "Why don't you stay and entertain Professor Samuelle for a moment, Nikita?" Then, before her target could answer, the older couple had gone.

Paul was fuming by the time he and his mistress were finally out of earshot; the woman with him became his target. "You were supposed to train her, Madeline, to teach her the proper way to act." His gaze bore in deep. "How did this happen?"

The dark eyes before him showed nothing but a rather chilly calm, deflecting any blame. "It appears that Dominic's influence was not as total as we had hoped." Her companion's eyes narrowed, but she simply shook her head. "It can be dealt with."

His ice-blue gaze just showed his fury. "How?"

He was met by the small smile which always signaled this woman's greatest pleasures--and triumphs; he already knew his own answer, after all. "We're working on it, but she's young, strong, willful. Give it awhile. We'll win, in the end."

Paul nodded. She was right, of course; she always was--sometimes infuriatingly so. "And this latest disaster?"

His companion's eyes grew a little distant, as she nodded. "It's to our benefit, in the long run." She met his again. "The world needs to see her as a partner, as your companion, has to believe that her input is valued here; otherwise there'll be too much talk about us. The school won't survive another scandal--and her brand of modern thought will attract those who the more traditional values might keep away."

He let out a slight huff but agreed silently. Despite the fact that he often depended on it, he did hate it when she was right. "And Samuelle's salary?"

She nodded again. "He'll take what we expected in the beginning; he wants to be close to home."

His eyes narrowed. "You're sure of those rumors?" She only smiled; he sighed and nodded once more. "Let's go back, then."

She shook her head. "In a minute."

He nodded again, seeing her strategy; he changed subjects, then, as he looked away, his eyes growing distant, his mind turning. "What about the . . . energy which seems to surround the two of them?"

"Samuelle and Nikita?" He nodded, still staring away--processing--and she smiled again. So he had noticed. Good. "Let's leave it. It could be useful, if something goes wrong." The sly smile deepened. "It would be better if she isn't seen as *too* innocent."

Hmm. He finally smiled a little in return and looked back to her, as he pondered the many possibilities. Yes, she was right again. His smile deepened, as he reached up to stroke over the mink-like locks of her hair. God, he loved her. . . . What a wonderful bitch she was.

Chapter 5

Nikita's position, once her companions had left, of course, was awkward in the extreme. She had been entirely undercut by Madeline, had been left behind again like some wayward child forced to sit in a corner to think about her latest transgressions; she repressed a sigh. It wasn't the first time for that, either, but she did wonder if she would ever quite grow used to it.

There was a silence between herself and Professor Samuelle, a silence which hid many things; both of them were lost in thought. For Nikita, her mind was whirling not just around the most recent reproof by her husband's mistress but also around the odd air which lay between herself and the man before her. She really didn't understand the latter at all.

She managed to repress a sigh. She remembered, of course, quite vividly, looking up to see him in the window of the boarding house after their arrival in the area just three days ago, remembered the way it had set a torrent of emotions spinning within her, ones she was entirely incapable of comprehending. She had never been so affected by a man before, had never felt quite like this--and it was disturbing what equilibrium she had managed to find in the extreme. She didn't know how to deal with it at all.

This confusion, though, didn't mean that she was entirely without resources; she wanted to just explain it away, after all, did try to. Still, it wasn't that simple. It was just rather obvious that her inner disturbance wasn't simply because he was attractive or obviously intelligent; it wasn't even the quiet wells of sorrow she had seen in his eyes in just those first few moments. All of that she was more than capable of resisting. It was something which she couldn't understand, instead, was something slightly unreal. It was a sense of . . . deja vu, she supposed, a feeling of having met him again--as though she had been searching for him so long, had found him at last--but even this didn't quite help her; she knew quite well that she had never seen him before the other day. It was disconcerting, to say the least, then. She wasn't certain how she should feel about it at all.

There was something else about this particular moment which bothered her, too, however--and that was the fact that her companion seemed to be going through exactly the same emotions which she was; it just made it harder to believe. After those few moments at the window, after all, she had told herself to behave, to stop making up fantasies about this new country, about some man she had conjured up, one who didn't--and wouldn't ever--exist. Yes, that face at the window had been beautiful, but she was married--however miserably; her soul ached a little. She just had to stop pretending that her future would be bright.

This, though, was a hard battle for her to wage. She had dreamed of this moment for so long, truly--of this country, of this school, of the lifetime mate she would find here. But she knew now that those were simply fairy stories made up by a lonely child to give herself hope; there was no reality in them--and there was no room for dreams anymore. The last week had taught her that.

Her mind ran back fleetingly over all the events she had seen so recently, even as the silence lingered between herself and Professor Samuelle. The wedding itself had been a disaster for her, in every sense--even more so than she had expected. Her best friends had been barred from entering by Dominic, who had enlisted a friend in the local police to forcibly remove them, if necessary. The church had been packed, instead, with colleagues of her stepfather and her new husband, along with Abby's many giggling friends. And not a single one of them had been welcoming.

She sighed. The indignities hadn't ended there, either. It hadn't even been enough that she was marrying someone whom she had once referred to as "uncle"--a man whose mistress was incredibly bold. It hadn't been enough, as well, that her stepfather had lectured her for at least half an hour on that dreadful morning on how ugly she looked, how poor her manners were, and how fortunate she was that Paul was even bothering to take her off his hands. No. Her half-sister, indeed, had brought the real topper to the proceedings, had gotten her petty revenge for the imagined slights of the day before by removing enough of a thread from a pivotal part of the back of her gown, just enough so that it gaped open from the weight of the stupid train her mother had chosen, as she walked down the aisle, leaving her exposed--only to her eventual knowledge--throughout the entire ceremony. She sighed quietly. Dominic had called her a guttersnipe for that one--and that had been the start of her "happy" married life.

Of course, none of these horrors had really been the worst of it; none of it was anywhere near as bad as what she was suffering through the marriage itself. Paul might still be vaguely polite to her, at least in company, but she had since been forced to listen to one too many of his nighttime encounters with Madeline, whose room was always next door to hers. She was beginning to think that she would never have, or want, a sexual thought ever again.

This, though, wasn't even all. Her suffering hadn't ended with her arrival in the country she had so long fantasized about. She might be near Paris, indeed, but she had seen none of it, none of the places of her dreams. The school, too, was still being repaired, was eerie and damp, had strange noises at night when she was alone, ones which were beginning to work a little through all the courage she had so long possessed. She attributed some of them, though, to the truly creepy maintenance man who Paul had hired--Monsieur Zalman; just one of his slimy looks and she had headed for the bathtub. That, however, had been before Madeline had reminded her that the room she was occupying now had been her Aunt Christina's--and that in itself had given her bathroom a whole new, awful meaning. . . . She wasn't really sure that she was over it yet.

All of these thoughts, all of these memories, of course, flew by in a matter of seconds; they had been plaguing her often enough by this point to have become a simple, constant backdrop to her every conscious moment. The fact, too, that she was now sitting with a man who seemed to so well fit all of those fantasies she had once had of her ideal mate, . . . well, somehow it just seemed a little too cruel, even for the terrible expectations life had long ago taught her. She just wasn't up to much more.

Michel, of course, was not at all immune to her discomfiture, shared it entirely, if not for all of the same reasons. He had felt many things when around beautiful women before, had experienced quite a few emotions in his time, but none of them quite equaled what he felt around this woman; it disturbed him terribly. He just couldn't get past it at all.

There was nothing easy about his feelings at the moment, truly; he had even dreamed about her each night since he had first seen her, had managed to be so distracted, as well, that he hadn't thought about his parents for whole hours at a time. It was an amazing ability she possessed. He simply wasn't certain how she managed it.

He had been very torn, very confused for the past several days, then--had spent more than a fair allotment of time worrying over his various suppositions about her situation with Wolfe and the woman everyone knew to be his mistress. It wasn't that he thought they would hurt her, of course, more that he suspected the depths of her grief and pain, had surmised their low estimation of her worth. It tormented him. Never before in his life had he more wanted to be someone else's comfort.

The silence between them had lasted for an awkward couple of minutes by the time he finally spoke. Her silence was too terrible. He had to let her know that someone would listen to her; it certainly didn't seem to be a trait her companions shared. He, therefore, did his best. "You're a very brave woman."

She blinked, finally broken from her thoughts. "What do you mean?"

He gave her another one of those smiles which warmed her--a little too well. "You've never been to France before?" She shook her head. "And you've never run your own school."

She looked down with a smile, hoping he wasn't just trying to get information out of her. "Not yet."

She met his eyes once more, this time with a slightly bratty look which nearly stopped his heart. His eyes fixed to it for a second. He had a fleeting thought that her mouth was made to be kissed, but repressed it as much as was possible; it really wasn't good for his sanity. His eyes met hers again. "And yet, here you are, a new bride in a new country, ready to take on a new job." He smiled, his words sincere. "That's bravery."

She understood the truth of his thoughts, could hear it in his tone; she looked down, smiling. She really didn't have any response--but she did appreciate his kindness.

He watched her for another few minutes, his heart beating faster, as his eyes ran over her every feature. Her beauty staggered him; he just couldn't get over it. Those eyes, that hair, the smoky sound of her voice . . . God. All of it, though, was eclipsed by the sweet light which shone from within her. His heart saddened. How she had ended up with an artifact like Wolfe was beyond him.

He tried to pull himself back from these thoughts, changing the subject again, purposely turning his mind once more. "I couldn't help but notice your accent . . ."

She looked up, her eyes worried, broken from her warmer reflections. She had never been happy with her pronunciation of so many words in French, had felt so inadequate so very often--a feeling Paul and Madeline had done nothing to console her for; her heart beat faster. "Is it that bad? Have I pronounced something wrong?"

It took him a second to follow her fears; he was sure the confusion was evident on his face. Once her words clicked, however, he shook his head. "No, no, your French is very skillful. I meant . . ."

"Oh!" She laughed at herself. "I was born in Australia, lived there for some of my childhood." She shrugged. "Somehow, it just never goes away."

He tilted his head a little, looking into her; he was speaking solely from his thoughts. "Why would you want it to?"

Oh. She made a small sound and looked down, recognizing his compliment--and realizing, too, that they were probably proceeding into a dangerous area. Lord. Why on earth had Madeline left her alone with him?

He smiled, appreciating the beauty which shone so clearly in her with the slight flush of her cheeks, but shared her latest thought; he changed paths. "You've just graduated from college?"

Her smile faded, as she nodded, her face going a little blank again. His question played too much into her fears of inadequacy, of her newness in her field--the ones both Dominic and Madeline had worked on so strongly. "Master's program."

His eyebrows raised a little. "How old are you?" He knew it was an inappropriate question, of course, as soon as it left his mouth. Still, for some reason he didn't understand, he had no guards up when he was around her--and his words were too often open. He sighed. It was going to make things awkward, as they worked together.

She didn't really notice or share his line of thinking, however; she was far too used to the question--in its most pejorative sense. "22."

There was another moment of silence. "How did you . . .?"

She looked back up to him and gave him a sudden smile; it had suddenly dawned on her that he wasn't somehow scolding her. "I started college at 16."

He smiled again, shaking his head. "That's very impressive."

Her own smile faded, as she looked away once more, her heart flinching a little. "I suppose so." Dominic had certainly never thought it was, had used those same words frequently in a tone so sarcastic it made her want to cringe--did so despite the fact that Abby, his eternal favorite, was doing well just to pass her high school classes at all. Oh well.

He sighed slightly. Once again, he saw the switch in her but was lost as to the cause of her pain; he just wished he could take it away. He switched topics once more, therefore. "So what are your plans for the school?"

Nikita smiled once again; he had hit on a good topic. Still, she did feel a little guilty to have him doing all the work in this conversation, knew she should be a better hostess than that--should take more of an interest in him alone, should efface herself and allow him to expound on his every idea for hours, nodding silently. Or, at least, that was what her mother had told her to do with men. . . . Too bad she had never listened.

She answered his question, sighing at the enormity of it, as she focused on him once more; she shook her head. "There're so many." She paused for a second. "I suppose, though, that, more than anything else, I want a place where the students feel comfortable and inspired. I don't want them to be here because they have to be, but because they like learning."

He nodded, his eyes very tender. "I like that." He took a deep breath. "Still, I'm not sure that's always possible."

Her smile just deepened. "But it should be. That's what education's all about, Professor Samuelle."

God. Her smile, the look of intensity and tenderness in her eyes--all of it was so amazing; he was going to love working with her. . . . He just prayed that Wolfe allowed any of her dreams to come true.

The conversation between the younger pair was quiet, as the older couple returned; they were obviously talking about Nikita's wishes for the school. Madeline smiled. Yes, this could be very helpful, indeed.

They came in once more just in time to hear a quiet, "Call me Michel, please."

Hmm. The older woman caught the very pleased smile which passed over the lips of her blonde charge. "Nikita." Then, however, the object of her scrutiny felt the eyes on her and her happy expression died away; Madeline's own pleasure increased. Good. She was learning.

Paul addressed their prospective employee, as the older pair reclaimed their seats; he handed him a piece of paper. "I believe these figures should do for you."

Michel took the contract before him and smiled inwardly. In truth, it was more generous than he had anticipated--even if it didn't quite match what he had been paid before; there was a fair allotment of days off, as well. Good. The fact, too, that they had obviously already made up the document just reaffirmed his assessment of his value to them. This meant that he could be near his home--and, as was becoming rather important to him, Nikita as well. Excellent. . . . This was just how he wanted things to be.

His face, however, was outwardly calm, showed very little; Nikita swallowed heavily. After their brief conversation, she had truly believed that he wanted to be one of them--had thought it even more strongly than she had before. Still, his poker face was good--a little too good; it was the one thing she had always seen in Jurgen, too, which had disturbed her. With him, though, she had learned how to read it, in time. With Michel, however--who knew? She waited.

The man before her nodded slightly, after seeming to consider. "This will do for a start, but I'll need a clause which states that, with a success rate we can agree upon, this will be renegotiated upward."

Paul let out a small noise, but nodded. "Agreed."