Chapter 1 rated XXX

Author's warning. The following chapter contains graphic sexual situation of a violent nature. If you think you will be disturbed by this, please hit your back button NOW. You have been warned!!!

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In the upstairs bedroom of an opulent three story mansion in an exclusive neighborhood, a married couple were in bed.

"Suck it. oh... yeah.. that's good...."

Michael almost gagged on the hard cock shoved in his mouth, but he managed to control his automatic reflexes and went on fellating the target.

"That's it, " groaned the man. "Get it nice and wet so I can slide it in your wife's sweet little ass..."

Beside them on the bed, the tall slender blonde whimpered.

"C'mere.." the target growled, reaching for her. He pushed her down on her knees and moved away from Michael, his penis bobbing against the woman's spread thighs. His hand groped between her legs, roughly, then, with a loud grunt, he entered her.

She let out a high cry as he penetrated her, then she subsided into soft sobbing. The target, lost in the thrill of possessing her, closed his eyes and groaned in pleasure, not noticing her pain.

He also did not notice Michael's wounded expression, nor did he see Michael surreptitiously wipe his mouth in disgust.

A few moments later, the target opened his dull-colored brown eyes and glared at Michael. "Get with it, man," he ordered. "What's your problem?"

He gave Michael a shove toward the head of the bed. "Make her suck you.." he demanded.

Michael choked back a sob and did what he was told, even though the situation made him feel frozen inside. He was turned off completely, and didn't know if he would be able to summon what it took to even pretend to be aroused in this wretched situation.

He positioned himself on his knees before the woman, stroking her blonde hair. She lifted her head up and met his distressed gaze with glistening blue eyes. Without a word, she obediently took him in her mouth.

Michael groaned, not from pleasure, but because he felt her tears, hot and wet, against his thighs. "Ohh, oh God..." he moaned. "Shit.."

The target, still thrusting industriously inside her, mistook the meaning of his words. He laughed heartily. "Yeah, she's great, isn't she?" He slapped his open palm loudly against her hip. "She's a prime bitch..."

Against Michael's thighs, the woman whimpered.

The target closed his eyes and fell mercifully quiet then, except for his soft grunts. He began thrusting harder, more rapidly, and at last, climaxed with a loud shout.

"Ahh, fuck, yeah..." he groaned. "Damn, that was good...."

In his preoccupation, he never noticed that Michael had not climaxed as well. It never occurred to him to wonder about the woman's sexual release. Her pleasure, or lack thereof, was a matter of total indifference to him.

To their great relief, the target moved off the bed and walked to the chair to retrieve his clothes. The couple knew that the ordeal, at least for tonight, was finally over.

"Well, kids," the target said with a satisfied sigh as he zipped his pants, "see ya next week, huh?"

Michael left the woman, who lay collapsed and exhausted on the bed, and crossed to the target before he could leave. Michael made himself say the words.

"Do think Mr. Markham would like to meet us now?" he choke out softly, not able to manage sounding even remotely eager.

The target shrugged. "Yeah, why not?" he answered. "I'll talk to him tomorrow. We'll see what we can do, okay, Buddy?"

He slapped Michael on the arm and grinned at him. Michael could only nod back, a smile was beyond him. "Thank you," he forced out. "We appreciate your putting in a good word for us."

The target nodded, and with another broad smile, picked his coat up off the chair and went whistling out of the room.

Before he was out of the house, Michael reached for his cell phone.

He took a deep, shaky breath as he dialed, and composed himself, struggling to re-acquire his Section persona, but not succeeding.

He spoke into the phone. " We're making progress. Wilson just left," he reported tonelessly." He says he will mention us to Markham when he sees him tomorrow."

He didn't wait for the person on the other end, in this case, Operations, to congratulate him on a mission well done. Michael hung up the phone and rushed to the bathroom, where he threw up violently into the toilet again and again until he had nothing left to heave.

Exhausted and numb, he brushed his teeth mechanically and washed his face, then went back out into the bedroom. He turned out the light, and slipped into bed.

She had pulled the covers over herself and now lay under them, curled into a ball, her back to him. Tentatively, tenderly, Michael reached for her, and drew her into his arms. She shuddered against him, and began sobbing again.

Michael closed his eyes against the pain and stroked her short blonde hair.

"I'm sorry, Karen," he whispered. "I'm sorry...."

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

Karen cried herself to sleep against Michael's shoulder. It was what she usually did after Wilson's weekly visits. In the morning, She would be falsely bright and brittlely cheerful, putting on her usual brave front. During the day, she managed to hide her distress, playing the role of happy house-wife. Michael didn't know how she did it.

At night it was a different story. Karen was like him; she didn't sleep, or if she did, there were nightmares. Every now and then, after enough tears, she managed to fall into a deep, exhausted sleep and not wake til morning. Michael hoped tonight would be one such night for her.

As for himself, Michael knew that tonight he would get no sleep at all. He was too wound up, too angry, too wretched. He could think of nothing good in his life, except the fact that the horror of this deep-cover mission might soon be over, and that, blessedly, he had somehow kept the knowledge of his situation from Nikita.

He shuddered at the thought. There was no way she would ever understand if she ever found out.

Michael lay in the dark, eyes wide open, and thought back to the day he had been first assigned to this mission. It was shortly before Nikita was "lost" on the Shays mission. She had been depressed, suicidal, caring about nothing, sloppy on missions. Michael had been beside himself, trying to watch over her, trying to get her to focus on the objective, to get her to stay alive.

Madeleine had called him into her office, and it was with incredible relief that he found that she wanted to discuss with him a mission, and not Nikita's cancellation. His relief was short-lived.

Stupidly, or so he thought so now, he had been eager to know the details. But as Madeleine went on outlining the profile, he became increasingly alarmed.

"Our target is Gregory Markham," she had told him. "A high-roller in the illicit hi-tech arms trade. His security is very tight. So tight, in fact, he never leaves his home..."

"Fortunately for us, however, he does have certain ....hobbies that we can use to gain access to him," she continued.

"What kind of hobbies?" Michael asked, unsuspecting.

Madeleine had smiled before she told him. "Group sex. Orgies. Sex parties..."

Michael stiffened, feeling himself grow cold. Valentine missions were always repugnant to him. Having to seduce a female target was appalling enough, but a multiple partner scenario made his skin crawl.

"Will I be going in as a pimp or as a hustler?" he asked tightly.

Madeleine laughed. "Nothing so crass as either of those, I assure you. Markham is very exclusive in who he invites to his.. soirees. So far he has culled all his party guests from members of a rather elite, upper crust swingers group in this exclusive neighborhood...."

She shoved a PDA toward him across her desk. "They call themselves Avalon Adventurers, after the group’s organizer, Avalon Wilson, who is the liaison to Markham. The group consists of mostly bored, wealthy couples with too much time on their hands. Not everyone in the club gets invited to "party" with Markham. It's considered an honor to be invited to his house..."

Michael sat numbly silent, and after a pause, Madeleine went on.

"This will be a long term mission. We have to work slowly. You'll need time to infiltrate the group, and gain Wilson's trust, and thus Markham's. You’ll have to move from your present quarters, of course...."

"What?" said Michael, alarmed. He didn't have much to call his own, but at least at the end of the day, he could find sanctuary in the anonymity and peace of his high-rise apartment in the city. It was his retreat, his way of maintaining his sanity.

"Being established in the neighborhood is the first step," Madleine explained. "You'll have to go there every night you're free, and not on another mission. The operative posing as your wife will spend more time in the house, of course...."

"Wife..." Michael choked out, realization hitting him. Since Simone, he had spent all his nights alone, except for the occasional forced seduction mission. Nowadays, it was Nikita who held his heart, and was his only romantic interest. She was the only one he desired, the only one he wished to have as his wife.

God, he thought, not Nikita. Don't let it be Nikita...

"Yes," continued Madeleine, answering his unspoken question. "We have someone picked out to play the part of your wife. Wilson, and we presume Markham as well, has a weakness for tall blondes..."

Michael's breath caught in his throat, his mind reeling as if from a blow. No. He thought. No. No. No. No....

Pretending not to notice Michael's distress, but enjoying it, nevertheless, Madeleine twisted the knife. "We've pulled an operative from the abeyance pool..."

Michael gasped. No, he screamed inside. Not his Nikita. Not her. Not in abeyance...

"Who.. who is it?" he stammered weakly, his face completely white.

"Karen Hopewell," Madeleine answered, finally relieving him of his anguish. "You probably don't know her. She's a Class Two operative from the Eastern Sector. She transferred in just a few months ago.."

Michael went limp with relief, and then felt wracked with guilt that it didn't matter how much the other operative suffered, as long as it wasn't Nikita.

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

Michael tried to get control of his blinding relief and focus on what Madeleine was saying. She had gone on, explaining about Karen.

"She’s quite skilled in all the seductive arts," Madeline said smoothly, as if she were commenting on the weather. "As a Valentine operative, she has been quite effective in gathering intel for us over the years."

Michael wondered why, if Karen was so praiseworthy, why Section had put her in the abeyance pool. He opened his mouth to ask, and then thought better of it. Instead, he asked a different question.

"When will I meet her?" Michael inquired, trying to sound interested. His mind was still reeling from the whole idea of this bizarre mission.

Tonight," Madeleine told him, to his shock. "The address is on your PDA." She smiled sweetly. "Karen has been living there for the last two weeks, getting settled in and meeting the new neighbors. Her cover story has been that you, her husband, have been out of town on business, taking care of your numerous holdings and acquisitions, while she moves in to the new house."

Michael nodded. "I see," he managed to choke out.

Madeline nodded back at him. "Go there tonight, Michael, and remember-the neighbors may be watching." She smiled. "Make sure your re-union with the little wife is a passionate one."

"Of course," he said bleakly, struggling to maintain his blank stare. With as much dignity as he could, he lifted the PDA from the desk and forced himself to walk slowly from the office, when, with his stomach knotted in dread, all his instincts told him to flee, to run, and never come back.

But he did not flee. Three hours later, after winding up his business in his office, he could delay no longer. He left Section, got in his car, and drove to his new home in the exclusive suburb. He pulled into the driveway, and before he had taken two steps, the door to the house flew open and Karen appeared, a cry of joy on her lips.

"Darling! You’re home!" she gasped in delight.

She raced down the steps and flew into his arms, launching herself at him. Michael followed her cue, and like a good actor, played his part. He returned the hug, lifting her from her feet and crushing her in his arms.

"Karen!" he said breathlessly. "I missed you so...."

"Oh, Michael...." his ‘wife’ sighed happily, and tilted her head up to be kissed.

Michael obliged. Her lips parted under his in an expert pretense of passion, her mouth yielding, eager, and soft beneath his. They stood locked together for a long moments, kissing long enough to be convincing for any possible on-lookers.

At last, with a moan, Karen broke the kiss and slipped her arm around his waist, leading him toward the house. "C’mon, Darling," she laughed throatily, "Let me get you inside so I can welcome you properly...."

Michael laughed back, and pulled her closer, at the same time urging her toward the front door. "I can’t wait..." he growled, his voice low with passion. "I’ve been so h*rny for you..."

They kissed once more on the doorstep, tongues intertwined, their hands wandering over each other. Then Michael shoved the door open with his foot, lifted her in his arms, and carried her over the threshold.

Once inside with the door closed, the play-acting ended. Michael gently set Karen on her feet and she stepped away from him, suddenly demure and composed. She stood with her hands clasped together in front of her, looking to him expectantly for orders.

The light from the chandelier in the opulent entrance hall shone brightly down on her, and Michael took in his first view of his new ‘wife’. She was tall, like Nikita, but more curvy, her breasts fuller, her hips slightly more flaring. Her silver-blond hair was cut and arranged in an attractive, short ‘do’, the style accenting her eyes, which were a startling pale gray-blue. She was lovely. She reminded Michael of a youthful Grace Kelly, with her creamy skin, and elegant, classic features.

He commented on none of this. Instead, he put on his Section persona, like a cloak around him, and barked out one word.

"Report," he said curtly.

Unperturbed, Karen nodded, adapting effortlessly to his abrupt change of manner. "Yes, Sir," she responded. She knew, as did he, that though the neighbors may have watched them outside, that inside the house there was no surveillance, either by their target or by Section. They were free to speak.

"I’ve fleshed out the roster of Avalon’s Adventurers," she began. "Their membership consists of ten couples, who all live within a five block radius of this house. Three of the couples live on this street, and one of the most active couples live right next door- Paula and Keith Henderson."

Michael nodded, impressed. "Have you established direct contact?" he asked.

"I’ve met the Hendersons, and some of the other wives, when they invited me over for coffee," Karen explained. "So far, it’s only been very casual. I think it might be a while before we are ‘initiated’ into their inner circle. I believe they are still sizing me up."

She frowned. "Of course, now that you’re here, things might move faster."

"Impressions?" Michael asked, ignoring her last comment.

"I only have a superficial acquaintanceship with them, but they all seem very much alike.." Karen grimaced. "They’re all pretty much shallow, vain, and pathetically anxious to impress me with their importance..."

"Within twenty minutes of meeting me, Paula Henderson told me her husband’s net worth, how much she had paid for the house, and how all of her lovers have told her she has great..er.. tits." Karen gave him a quick, crooked smile. "She also told me how much the tits cost, too."

Michael smiled in spite of himself at her dry wit. "So you think it will be difficult to infiltrate their group?" he asked.

"Not really," Karen replied thoughtfully. "The Hendersons struck me as bored, jaded, and eager for new blood." She looked up at him, her face carefully blank, but her voice did not conceal her disgust. "Keith Henderson pinched me and told me I was "hot", and his wife seemed anxious to know when you would be coming home." She shook her head. "I don’t think we’ll have much trouble at all."

"Good," Michael commented unenthusiastically. He sensed that Karen loathed this whole mission as much as he did. "Any intel about Wilson?"

"Not much. I didn’t meet him, but his name was mentioned. I gather Avalon Wilson is not married, but has a variety of girlfriends." She grimaced again. "Apparently he changes them as frequently as he changes socks."

"That’s about all I can tell you," she finished. "Are you hungry?" she asked him.

Startled, Michael raised an eyebrow. "What?" he said.

"Are you hungry?" she said again. "Madeline told me to expect you and I have some dinner waiting for you in the kitchen." She gestured toward the end of the hall. "This way..."

Michael nodded, and followed her, feeling suddenly very tired, and very hollow inside. The emptiness was in part due to hunger, and he found himself salivating at the smells that invaded his nostrils as he entered the huge, modern kitchen.

"Coq au vin?" he asked in surprise, turning to her.

"That’s right," Karen answered, and crossed to the stove. She took a baking dish out of the oven, setting it on the wide counter. She indicated with a gesture that he should take a seat at the kitchen table, while she continued with her work. In a few minutes, she had deftly filled a plate for him, adding from the simmering pots on the stove top servings of rice and green beans, along with the fragrant chicken.

She set the plate before him, and then served herself a small portion of the food as well, and joined him at the table, seating herself gracefully across from him. From a carafe on the table-top, she poured them each a glass of white wine.

"Is this all right?" she asked, a note of concern in her voice. "If you don’t want wine, I could make you some coffee," she offered. "Madeleine told me you liked coffee......"

"This is fine," Michael assured her, taking an eager forkful of food. He tasted the chicken. "It’s excellent," he told her sincerely. "How did you know it’s my favorite?"

Karen gave him a knowing look, and a small smile. "Madeleine told me."

Michael put his fork down, and looked at her, his stomach knotting. "And just what else did Madeline tell you about me?" he asked tensely.

His question flustered her, the cool blonde losing her composure for the first time since they met. "I.. I.. Well... I mean..." she stammered incoherently, blushing and lowering her eyes. "Nothing," she finally answered, not looking at him.

Michael shot out his hand to grip her wrist. "Nothing?" he asked in a deceptively soft voice. "Explain what you mean by nothing."

The soft gray-blue eyes that looked up at him were suspiciously bright. Her lower lip trembled slightly. She took a deep, quavering breath and then answered him. "Let’s just say she gave me the information she thought I needed to know in order to complete this mission," Karen told him. "Which I assure you, I plan on doing." She licked her lips nervously and lowered her gaze again. " I intend to fulfill all my duties as your wife, as ordered," she finished tensely.

She pulled her wrist free from him and stood up. "I think I’ll go to bed now, unless there is anything else you require?" she asked in a dignified tone.

Michael stared at her for a long moment, realizing all at once that underneath the calm exterior, she was terrified of him. "No," he told her gently. "I don’t need anything else." He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Thank you," he added.

She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement, and then turned on her heel and left the room.

Michael stared down at the rapidly congealing wine sauce on his chicken, and then angrily pushed his plate away. He found that he had suddenly and completely, lost his appetite.

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

For a long time Michael sat in the kitchen, elbows on the table, head in hands, thinking, his food untouched. Then he got up and crossed to the stove. Leisurely, with slow deliberate movements, he scraped the food from the pots into the garbage can and then put the pots in the sink. Then, still pensive, he left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the bedrooms.

It was easy to determine which was the master suite. It was situated at the end on the corridor. He passed numerous other bedrooms, all with doors open, all empty and dark. The master bedroom’s door was closed, and a faint light shone from underneath.

He knocked softly and called her name. "Karen?"

"Come in," she called back in a low, tremulous voice.

He turned the knob and pushed open the door. "I just wanted to talk to you about...." he began, then halted in mid-sentence, freezing in shock just inside the doorway.

"Karen?" he gasped, staring at the woman on the bed.

She was stretched out on top of the coverlet, one leg drawn up, the other out straight, her hands behind her head on the pillow. The faint golden light from a lamp turned down low illuminated her ivory skin, full breasts, and soft curves. Her only covering was the sheer, lacy cream teddy that she wore, which left nothing to the imagination. For all that the garment revealed, she might as well have been nude.

She smiled at him, albeit tremulously, and rose gracefully from the bed, crossing the room to him. Michael still stood in the doorway, unsure what to do.

Karen helped him. She pulled him by the arm further into the room, then closed the door behind him. With gentle movements, she stepped in front of him and slipped her hands up his chest until they reached his shirt collar. Her fingers began slowly working free his shirt buttons.

Michael stood still, letting her have her way. "Why are you doing this?" he asked in a low voice, noticing that her fingers trembled against his skin and she could not meet his eyes.

"I’m supposed to be your wife," she whispered, softly. "I’m supposed to get to know you...."

Realization dawned. He knew now why she offered herself to him even though he could sense the fear coming off of her in waves. Her terror was almost palpable.

Michael gripped her wrist again and stilled the hand that wandered over his chest. With the other hand he lifted her chin up and forced her to look into his eyes. Hers were filled with tears.

"Madeleine ordered you to sleep with me, didn’t she?" Michael said softly.

Karen let out a gasp and lowered her eyes, trying to pull away from him. He could feel her trembling.

Michael gripped her harder, not letting her go. "Answer me," he demanded tightly. "DIDN’T SHE?"

The blonde operative nodded, still not looking at him. "Yes," she said in a small voice.

Abruptly he let her go, then surprised her by stroking the back of his hand gently against her cheek. "Karen," he said gently. "Look at me."

She raised her gaze to his; she was still trembling.

"I am the mission leader on this assignment," Michael told her tensely. "I will determine at what point it becomes necessary for certain unavoidable.... scenarios to take place....."

Karen took in a sharp breath, staring into the green eyes.

"Until then," he concluded softly, releasing her hand, "I have no plans to take advantage of a valued colleague. Understood?"

She gasped again with relief, and the tears fell down her cheeks. "Yes," she whispered, crying harder.

He caught a tear on her cheek with a gentle hand and stroked back a lock of silver-gilt hair. "Goodnight," he said tenderly, then turned on his heel and left the room. Through her tears, Karen watched him go down the hallway and enter one of the other bedrooms and shut the door behind him.

"Goodnight, Michael," she whispered, feeling suddenly hopeful for the first time since being assigned to the mission. Then with a sigh she shut her own bedroom door and went to bed.

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

Surprisingly, Michael slept well that night. He rose shortly before dawn, showered and dressed, then went downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Karen there ahead of him. She had already made the coffee, and poured him a cup as soon as he entered.

"Good morning," she greeted him shyly, with a genuine smile.

"Thank you," Michael said, as she handed him the mug of steaming coffee. "The same to you."

Her smile brightened, and she settled at the kitchen table, sipping at her own mug, her tension of the previous night gone. She looked remarkably young , with her face scrubbed clean of make-up and wearing a modest nightgown and robe, instead of the teddy of the night before.

She no longer played the part of the Section seductress, but the trusted colleague he had deemed her the night before. Apparently, from her relaxed demeanor, it was obvious that she was more comfortable with the latter role than the former.

Michael sat down opposite her, and she looked up at him trustingly. "I told the Hendersons we’d have them over for dinner when you got back into to town. Is next weekend soon enough?"

"Fine," answered Michael, sipping his coffee. "It may depend on what missions come up between now and then."

She nodded. "Of course."

She took another sip of coffee, her smile fading. "Michael, could I ask you something?" she said tensely, looking down into her mug.

"Yes," he invited simply. "What is it?"

The blue-gray eyes flickered up to meet his and she ran her hand nervously through the short-cropped hair. "What do I tell Madeleine when she asks me about us? About ..... how we are getting along?"

She blushed, and Michael knew she was asking him what she should say when Madeleine asked her about whether they had had sex.

He sighed gently and leaned back in his chair. "Tell her the truth," he said softly. "Tell her we are establishing a good relationship and that everything you’ve done has pleased me so far."

She looked up at him, her smile returning. "Okay," she said quietly, her eyes gleaming with gratitude. "Thank you."

The bond was established then. Each knew they could trust the other to protect them from Section. Michael wondered if Karen knew how grateful he was to have her as an ally on this difficult mission. It was much more than he had expected. She was competent, intelligent, quick to adapt, quick to understand. He wondered again why she was in abeyance. And he wondered if he could do anything to change that status for her.

Perhaps if they completed this mission successfully, it might make a difference. Curious, he was about to ask her a question about her background, when his cell phone rang.

"Yes?" he answered. What he heard on the other end made all thoughts of Karen fly out of his head. The Shays mission had just gone very sour.

"On my way," he said tersely, flipping the phone shut with a snap. In an instant he was up out of his seat.

"Michael?" Karen asked, rising from the table as well. "What is it?"

"I have to go," he told her tensely. "I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. You might have to have to handle the dinner with the Hendersons without me."

"Of course," she answered, then added softly, "Be safe."

He paused, and then smiled at her. "You’d better come to the door with me."

"Right," she said, instantly understanding. They needed to show the neighbors that they were a passionate married couple, and how much they regretted that their reunion was cut short when the husband was unfortunately called away on urgent business.

They kissed deeply and fondled each other on the door-step, putting on a display much like the night before. The curtains on the window next door twitched, and Karen knew that their performance had not gone unnoticed.

She gave Michael one last hungry kiss and then let him go, waving at him as he went down the driveway. As she watched the car leave, it struck her with a jolt of shock how much she would miss him until he got back.

Michael had no time to think of Karen in the next agonizing week. Everything had gone completely, terrifyingly wrong. There had been an ambush- two NSA agents had been killed and the scientist Shays had been taken by the Freedom League.

When at last a location had been found and Michael and his team had gone in to rescue Shays, it had been impossible to get him out. Shays had been wired with explosives, and a van of hostiles arrived, further threatening the team’s exposure. He knew the mission had to be aborted, that they had no choice but to cut their losses and leave. Michael ordered Nikita to cancel Shays and get out.

It wasn’t until they were exiting to the van that Michael learned that his orders had not been carried out. He knew as soon as he saw her face that something had gone very wrong.

"Did you kill him?" Michael asked tensely.

Her answer chilled him to his soul. "I couldn’t," she said, trembling. "Not in cold blood."

He spent the next few days trying to cover for her with Section, trying to cajole her, to plead with her to try to redeem herself with Section, to beg her to do what she had to in order to stay alive. But all his efforts were useless.

"I can’t change who I am," Nikita had told him forlornly.

He had held her then, but even as he held her, he felt her slipping away from him. "I wish things could be different," he whispered, his heart breaking.

Inevitably, she had been put on the list of operatives in abeyance. Michael learned of it when he was briefed by Madeleine and Operations about the clean up mission to get the Freedom League, and make sure Shay’s formula did not fall into enemy hands.

Anguished, Michael listened to his instructions and realized that they expected him to kill Nikita himself, to send her into the building to plant explosives and then order their detonation before she and the other abeyance operatives could get out.

Numbly, Michael wondered why they hated him so much. He didn’t know how he managed to maintain his composure and not scream at Operations and Madeleine, but he hung on until he got to his office, and then broke down. He lay his head down on the desk and sobbed. But he could only allow himself to indulge in tears for a few minutes. Frantically, he wiped at his eyes and then devoted himself to finding a way around Nikita’s death sentence.

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

Michael thought he had found a way to save her.

He had managed to slip the PDA with it’s warning encoded, to her before she entered the building to plant the explosives. He hoped she had gotten out in time, but he didn’t know for sure. Still, he had no choice put to order Walter to push the button. The building, along with the abeyance operatives inside, incinerated into flames. Michael sat rigid, agonized, in his seat in the van, wondering if he had just killed the woman he loved.

When the van returned to Section, Michael endured the debriefing with Operations and Madeleine and then rushed to his office. He closed the blinds and then turned on his computer, and, hands trembling, typed in the message.

"Nikita, are you there?"

He waited. For hours. He sent the message again and again. Still no answer. He didn’t believe it was possible to feel the way he felt- so empty, so crushed, so devastatingly helpless. So guilty, so torn. Had he saved her, he wondered, or had he killed her?

Frantically, he keyed in his code, over and over, waiting for her answer.

He was still in his office, head slumped on his arms on the desk, when Madeleine came in an hour later. Michael sat up abruptly, trying to collect himself, hoping she did not see the tears on his face that he wiped hastily away.

"Yes?" he said tightly as she entered and closed the door behind her. He tensed, wondering if she knew he had been trying to contact Nikita.

Madeleine stood calmly before him, hands folded in front of her, and gave him a sympathetic smile. "I think you need to get some rest, Michael," she cooed. "Were you planning on going to bed soon?"

He stared at her, then ran a hand wearily through the auburn curls. "No," he answered. "I still have some reports to do. I’ll go to my quarters after a while..." Michael had no desire to leave Section; he needed to be near his computer in case Nikita contacted him.

She fixed him with her cold gaze, her demeanor no longer sympathetic. "Don’t," she ordered. "Don’t go to your quarters. I want you to go home." She paused, and then added sharply, "Home to Karen, your wife."

Michael blanched. "Karen?" he blurted out.

Madeleine smiled and took another step forward. "I know you’ve been through a rough couple of weeks, occupied with the Shays mission," she said softly. "But it’s over now, and our mission to get Markham is still on-going. And so far Karen has been carrying the load of that by herself...."

She perched one hip on the edge of his desk, leaned toward him, and went on, her voice low and confidential. "Karen has met with the Hendersons several times, and flirted heavily with both Keith and Paula. I have even ordered her to undress in front of the bedroom window where they can see her and .... perform for them...."

Michael paled further, his mouth set in a grim line. He understood that what Madeleine meant was that she had ordered Karen to masturbate, to pleasure herself while the Hendersons watched.

Madeleine smiled, seeing that he understood. "These are jaded people, Michael. She can’t hold their interest forever, no matter how.... entertaining she is. And the Hendersons will be beginning to wonder why you don’t come home, why you aren’t there..."

"We must allay their suspicions," the lovely brunette continued. "You need to make an impression, and make it in a big way."

Michael closed his eyes, his hands balling into fists under the desk. It took all his force of will not to scream at her, not to lash out. What the hell did she want from him? How much did they expect him to take? They had made him kill one woman tonight, the woman he loved, and now they were ordering him to make love to another.

"Michael?" Madeleine asked sharply. "You will have intimate relations with your wife, in the bedroom where the Hendersons can see you. Tonight. Is that clear?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her, his face a mask of pain, and strained resignation.. "Very clear," he whispered hoarsely.

*Inhuman bitch* he thought to himself, hating her more than he ever thought it possible to hate someone.

Madeleine smiled. Her strategy had worked. She knew Michael would have a problem letting go of Nikita, and she sensed that he needed his feelings of sadness diverted into other channels. Perhaps Karen would provide one such diversion, while, she, Madeleine, could provide another. Hate and lust were always good for that.

She rose from her perch on the desk and headed toward the door. Go as soon as possible, Michael. I’ll expect your report in the morning." She walked out the door, closing it behind her.

Michael slumped forward again, head in hands. He typed in his message one more time before he left.

"Nikita, are you there?"

Again, no answer.

Numbly, he turned the computer off and rose from the desk. The anger that had blazed inside him a few moments before was gone, his heart cold ashes. He was dead inside. Nikita was gone. Lost. What did it matter now what Section asked him to do? What did it matter who he slept with, or who was watching? Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing.

The blank mask again settled on his features. The cold machine man was back. He slipped out of his office, and walked, a ghost, down the corridors, and out of Section.

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

In the opulent master-bedroom of the beautiful house, Karen lay on the wide, king-sized bed, naked, writhing. In what she thought of as a one-man play, she was just beginning her performance. The stage had been set, the audience was there, (for she had seen that the Hendersons were in the house, watching her) and the curtain, literally, had been drawn back. The only thing left to do was to complete her solo act to what she hoped would be her audience’s satisfaction.

As to her own satisfaction, well, Karen thought, she could always fake that. She was finding it hard to work up enough enthusiasm for her task tonight, and she cast around in her mind for some fantasy that would fuel her arousal and make her performance a little more convincing.

To her shock ,immediately a sharp, specific image came to mind. Green eyes, auburn hair, soft lips, broad shoulders. How his arms felt around her when he held her, how he tasted when he kissed her. How his voice had sent chills of desire down her spine when he growled into her ear that he wanted her.

"Michael," she moaned, arching her hips off the bed. She threw her head back and stroked one hand down her throat to her breast, plucking at one aching nipple with her fingers, wishing the fingers that touched her could have been his.

The hand strayed lower, over the creamy, smooth skin of her waist and belly, then lower still. Her thighs parted of their own accord, and Karen caressed the sensitive inner thighs, again imagining it was Michael’s caresses she felt, and not her own. Her fingers brushed the pale curls adorning her womanhood, and then parted the soft pink folds, exploring gently.

"Yes...Michael....." She groaned softly. She felt a fleeting sense of guilt that she was "using" him this way, when he had made it very clear that the only physical encounters she could expect from him would be for mission purposes, alone. It was a relief to her that he did not see her as his own personal whore, like some trainers treated their material. She was profoundly grateful for his respect. But Michael’s elusiveness did add to his aura of desirability. And she desired him now. Very badly.

Her fingers started a rhythm of their own, moving in slow strokes and tiny circles up and down her sensitive flesh. Her other hand found and fondled the neglected, equally aching peak of the other breast.

"Arrrhhh.... ohhh... Michael.." she groaned again, forgetting her audience, forgetting that she was performing. She was lost in her fantasy, aware only of her need, aware only of how much she wanted him. She wanted those green eyes looking at her body. She wanted those sensitive hands to be touching her, she wanted those soft lips on her skin, she wanted his lean body covering hers, she wanted his firm maleness, his hard, beautiful c*ck inside her...

Her body bent back in a bow, arching up off the bed, every muscle taut and tensed, hips writhing and quivering. Her fingers continued their relentless dance, rubbing faster and faster. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her breaths coming in sharp gasps. So enthralled was she by her fantasy of the imagined lover, that she did not hear the front door of the house open quietly, or the soft footsteps on the stairs.

When the bedroom door was pushed open, she was not aware that the object of her fantasies was standing there, his green eyes riveted on her body. Frantically caressing herself, moaning his name, she reached the climax of her performance.

"Michael!" she cried out in passion as she came. "Oh God, Michael...."

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

The numbness that had assailed him in Section stayed with him, all through his drive ‘home’, and was still with him when he entered the house. He didn’t care, Michael told himself. It didn’t matter what he had to do. They had made him kill Nikita. What could they do to him that would be any worse than that?

He let himself in the house with his key, surprised that Karen was not there to greet him. He didn’t see her downstairs, so he mounted the steps, wondering if she was already in bed. As he approached her room down the hallway, he heard the soft noises from behind the bedroom door. Soft moans and sighs, and little, high cries, and then, he heard her cry out his name...

He pushed open the door and saw her, her gleaming nakedness revealed by the soft lamplight. She was lovely, more perfect than he had ever imagined. Slender, long-limbed, with full, exquisite breasts, her head thrown back to reveal the long line of her throat, her hips thrust in the air toward him, her fingers parting the cleft between her legs just for him....

"Nikita?" Michael gasped, momentarily confused by what his senses told him couldn’t be real. He had never slept with Nikita, never had her in his arms of in his bed. He had only imagined what that could have been like. And now she was dead, and he would never feel her in his arms. Or was she?

Was she here? Had she got his message? Did she know how much he needed her? Had she somehow found her way back to him?

Hope leapt in him, flaring high, warming him, melting the icy cold of his soul. At the same time, his body responded as well, his manhood warming, flaring to life. He wanted her. This vision on the bed, this woman that cried out for him. He had to have her, had to have her warmth, her body, had to feel her warm and alive beneath him...

With a groan, he flung the door wider and strode into the room. In a moment he was on her, covering her length with his. He plundered her mouth, taking possession of her lips, while his hands frantically roamed over her, taking possession of her body. Karen, after an initial shock, responded eagerly, her mind still not clear, but still clouded with passion, her body, despite her climax, still yearning for more.

"Michael?" she whispered against his cheek when at last he freed her from the kiss. "Are you sure?" she gasped.

"Oui.." he groaned hoarsely, his mouth trailing hot fire down her throat and lower. "Shh, Nikita.. please.. please, just let me love you.." he moaned. "Please..."

Karen’s only answer was to whimper in ecstasy as his lips closed over the tip of one soft breast.

The lovers were silent then, no words exchanged, both lost in fantasies of their own. They communicated by touch, skin to skin, both sensing the needs of the other. Karen tugged on Michael’s shirt buttons, and he let her pull his jacket down and off of him and push his shirt aside so that her hands could roam across his chest. His body left hers for an instant while she freed him from his clothes, and then he was back on top of her, pulling her close, his mouth again ravishing hers.

She wrapped her legs around his lean hips and clawed his back, holding him tightly to her. She could feel his aroused manhood pressing into her thigh through the material of his pants. With an impatient groan, she groped between their bodies, eager to release him from the impeding clothes.

Gasping, Michael broke the kiss and rolled to the side, swiftly undoing the belt and pulling off the last of the offending garments, including shoes and socks. Naked and eager, he climbed back on top of her.

Her thighs were open and parted for him, her core wet and ready. His body was ready as well, the velvet shaft of his penis thick and hardened with desire. He plundered her mouth once more, and groaning the name of the woman he loved, he entered her.

"Nikita..." he moaned, and thrust his hard length all the way into Karen’s slick, satin sheath. Her heat engulfed him, warming him. He rocked into her forcefully, holding her tight, not wanting to let her go- not wanting to let go of the illusion that she represented. He had to pretend a little longer.

Some part of his mind knew it wasn’t real, knew she wasn’t Nikita. But the part of him that needed to survive, to have hope, wasn’t ready to face that reality just yet. In order to stay sane, his mind let him continue to believe.

"Oui.." he grunted urgently. "Ahh.. oui..." He thrust into her violently, desperately, while she writhed and bucked underneath him, her passion as urgent as his. His hand found one breast again, and he lowered his mouth to capture the other. Fingers tweaked one peak into hardness while his tongue laved the other, nipple pebbling beneath his lips. His hips never stopped their insistent onslaught, grinding powerfully into hers, c*ck thrusting urgently.

Karen let out a soft scream, not of pain, but of pleasure. It was her fantasy come true. His touch, his lips, his body moving inside her, just as she had imagined. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him into her, almost as if she were afraid this dream-lover might escape. Her hands roamed his back and she clung to him, steadying herself against the jolts that rocked her every time he slammed into her, shaking her with each powerful, delicious thrust.

"Uh.. uh.. uh.." she moaned in time with his thrusts, while Michael kept in rhythm with soft groans of his own. His hands left her breasts to press on either side of her on the bed. Michael lifted off of her, his weight on his arms, to get better leverage. His hips stayed in constant contact with hers, his c*ck sinking further into her depths.

From below, Karen looked up at him, heart leaping at the sight of his sweat-sheened, muscular chest, the long column of his strong throat exposed to her gaze. His eyes were closed, his face contorted in passion. She ran her hands down his lean hips, reveling in the feel of his smooth, warm skin. She could feel that warmth and smoothness from the inside as well, his manhood caressing and arousing every inch of her sensitized, quivering flesh.

He was so beautiful, so overpowering. Suddenly, she knew she was going to come again.

He pounded into her, faster, harder, his pace frenzied and wild, his passion out of control, just as she was. She tried to hold on for the wild ride, but to no avail. She let go, and tumbled over the edge into blinding oblivion, screaming his name.

"Michael.." she sobbed, her body jerking in ecstasy beneath his. "Yes.. yes.. Michael..."

"Nikita..." he groaned in return, and with a strangled cry, he surged into her once more, his body spasming inside hers as he emptied his seed into her depths. He lay panting and quivering on top of her, still buried to the hilt in her wet heat. He closed his eyes, and lay his head on her shoulder, holding her tight, holding on to the illusion. He was too tired, too overcome, too shell-shocked by the devastation of the day’s events to want to face reality just then.

Instead, exhausted and heart sore, he let himself escape gratefully into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Karen, felt herself relax beneath him, and gently stroked her hand down the shimmering, auburn hair in one last caress before she followed him down into the depths of sweet, peaceful sleep.

In the bedroom of the house the next door, the audience watched the performers rest after their show.

"God," swore Paula Henderson, her eyes glazed with passion. "I’ll die if I don’t have that man..." She licked her lips. "And that Karen is delectable, too.."

From behind her, her husband Keith wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. She could feel his stiff erection pressing into her the cleft of her buttocks. He groaned and whispered against her neck, "I want them, too.." His hands roamed over her perfect, expensive breasts.

Paula laughed, and tilted her head back to bite him softly on his jaw. "We’ll call Wilson in the morning, and let him know about the neighborhood’s hottest new couple.."

She turned in his arms and gripped his c*ck through his pants. "But that’s tomorrow," Paula growled. "Right now, I want you to f*ck me like Michael just f*cked his wife.."

Keith laughed in response, and pulled her down on the bed.

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

Michael slept on, until the dreams began. He moaned softly in his sleep and tossed his head on the pillow.

********

"Michael, get them out of there, now!" he heard Walter’s frantic voice.

It’s not the mission profile," he heard himself say in an icy tone.

"NOT the mission profile?!" Walter shouted angrily, then the tears welled and the next words were torn from him, anguished. "Nikita’s in there!"

The old man reached frantically for the detonator button, to deactivate it. His eyes widened in shock when Michael put his hand on his wrist and pulled the gun on him.

Michael’s face was ice, but his eyes were liquid fire.

Beside them, Birkoff rested his chin on folded hands and closed his eyes, resigned to yet another loss.

The clock ticked down the seconds to the explosion, while the men waited for the moment when Nikita -friend, sister, beloved- would die.

The last second of her brief life expired, the timer clicking down to its inexorable end. They heard the fiery hiss and low rumble as the bomb ignited, felt the van rock and shake with the blast. Michael felt the explosion in his soul, felt his heart consumed with fire....

"Nikita!!!" He screamed. "Nikita, no!"

*********

He awoke with a gasp, sitting up straight in bed. He was soaked in sweat, and shivering at the same time. He gulped in great gasps of air, trying to get his breath back. He gasped again, and let out a sharp sob, as the truth hit him. It was not a nightmare, it had not been just a dream, but he had lived it. It was horribly, horribly true.

Nikita was dead.

He sank his face in his hands and cried wretchedly.

From behind him, a soft hand touched his shoulder, and an even softer voice asked gently, "What happened, Michael? What happened to Nikita?"

He looked up, startled, into Karen’s concerned blue eyes. He had almost forgotten her existence, in his grief over his Beloved. Now, memories of the night before flooded over him. He remembered how he had leapt on her, taken her, claimed her, used her as a substitute....

"God, Karen...." he groaned, awash with guilt. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...."

She put a finger to his lips to stop his words. "Shhhh, it’s okay," she soothed him. "You needed me, and I.." she looked away, blushing. "Let’s just say, I needed you, too."

She turned back to look into the stricken green eyes. "Tell me what happened to Nikita," she said again, stroking his shoulder gently.

Michael began to quiver again, his face contorted in pain. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t get the words out, tears choking his throat.

"Is she dead?" Karen whispered, saying the words for him.

Michael closed his eyes and nodded his head, tears streaming from beneath his closed eyelids down his face. The next moment he found himself enclosed in her embrace. Gratefully, he did not fight her comfort, but buried his face in her shoulder and let his grief take him.

She rocked him like she would a small child, and stroked his hair, whispering soothing words. She knew what it was like to grieve, knew full well the soul destruction that Section demanded. She was surprised that more operatives didn’t kill themselves. She wondered what had kept Michael holding on so long.

Maybe what had kept him alive was Nikita. Her eyes hardened, and her mouth was set in a grim line. She was going to watch over Michael very carefully, see to it that he didn’t try to join Nikita too soon. She knew there was nothing in this mission to get Markham that would encourage Michael to stay. Karen knew it was going to get a lot uglier, very soon.

Michael’s sobs began to quiet, and she pulled him down on the bed, letting him nestle against her. She pulled the sheet up over them again and stroked his hair. "Just rest now, Michael," she soothed him. "Go back to sleep.."

He sighed deeply, and a few moments later she felt him relax against her. His breathing slowed, and he fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep, resting until morning until the phone rang, and the horrors began anew.

It was the Hendersons calling, inviting them to a party, to meet Avalon Wilson.

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

And so began what Michael would always refer to in later times as the worst year of his life. He marked it not by the beginning of the calendar year, but by this shattering event. He tried not to call it "the day Nikita died", because he still had the agony of hope that she had survived. But as time went on and she did not answer the multiple messages he sent her daily, he began to sink into despair.

He thought sometimes if he had been given enough time, and enough space, enough peace, to grieve, that he might have been able to recover from this harshest of blows. But Section, of course, allowed him none of these things.

The missions, the training, the strategizing that Section required of him did not slow. And beyond that, spiraling slowly downward, was the deep cover mission to get Markham. Michael thanked God that Karen was a fellow operative, and not a target to whom he would have to pretend to be happily married. Such a pretense would have been difficult under any circumstances, and was impossible for him now, given his state of emotional devastation.

As much as she could, Karen gave him the space he needed. She was quiet and unobtrusive in the house, respecting his need for privacy, but available if he needed to talk. She seemed to understand his pain, and he knew she sympathized with him, but her sympathy was never expressed in an overtly sentimental way, but rather in small gestures of tenderness-sometimes just a touch on his shoulder, sometimes just a look. He was grateful for the solace of her company in the house.

And, despite himself, he was grateful for the solace of her in bed. Because of the mission, and because the Hendersons were watching, sleeping with Karen was a necessity. In bed, too, she was understanding. She never seemed to mind that he groaned another woman's name at the height of passion with her, or that he called out for his Nikita in his restless dreams, or sobbed her name in his nightmares.

Being with Karen was the easy part of the mission. Dealing with Avalon's Adventurers was the difficulty. Michael hated Wilson from the first; the rest of the group he just pitied. His hate grew stronger as the year wore on and he and Karen were drawn closer and closer into Wilson's inner circle.

At first, they just attended regular parties in the neighborhood, where they were eyed lasciviously by the Adventurers, but never touched or propositioned, or invited to join in group sex. That "honor" was only for the most exclusive of the members, taking place at only the very special parties.

If being allowed in these special parties had been just a matter of who was the most attractive, Michael and Karen would have had no problem getting in. They made a striking couple, and both had powerful sensual appeal. But the parties were not about beauty, or even really about sex. They were about power.

Even in fourteen years of being in Section, Michael did not think he had ever seen a group as into twisted power plays as this. They jockeyed for position against each other in some cut-throat attempt to be in the "in crowd", to attain the status they craved. Being chosen over the others to attend a private party at Markham's estate was the ultimate cachet. And the only way to get there, to achieve that status, was to impress, please, and captivate Avalon Wilson, their leader and liaison with Markham.

And that is where the true ugliness began.

Michael thought back now to that first meeting with Wilson. He and Karen had been at the Hendersons' house, surrounded by the vain, hollow, and sad, if beautiful people that made up the group known as Avalon’s Adventurers.

Michael remembered being introduced to them all, couple after couple. He heard their names, but they all seemed somewhat interchangeable to him. All of them were in their thirties, or early forties, the insecurities of approaching old age looming large. He could see the fear in their eyes.

They all had something to prove before Time and decrepitude took its inevitable toll. They had to prove they were still young, still strong, still desirable, still daring enough to play their wild, dangerous games.

They were lost, purposeless, seeing no meaning in life beyond the pleasure of forbidden thrill-seeking, and the glory of achieving the perceived honor of being chosen by Markham.

In short, they were as Karen had described them. Pathetic.

Michael and Karen did not meet Wilson right away. It was actually a few months later that they encountered him at a party at the Hendersons. By then , the operatives had heard plenty about him, Wilson's name spoken with almost hushed awe and reverence by the people whose group bore his name.

It was obvious when Wilson had arrived. The crowd parted before him, the guests greeting him with deference and excitement, men and women alike.

Michael watched him approach from across the room, noting the fawning attitude of his followers, and Wilson's casual acceptance of their adoration as his due. The man was not particularly handsome, but it was not his looks that held the appeal. It was the palpable charisma that came off of him in waves.

Michael was uneasily reminded of Rene Dion, a man whose charm and persuasion had so blinded him that Michael had followed him in his wild schemes, even to the point of planting bombs for him, going to prison, and ending up in Section One.

Wilson, like Rene, was a natural leader, a man born to sway others. But unlike Rene, who at least had an underlying, if misguided, sense of higher purpose for what he did, Wilson had none. Wilson's used his power for no cause other than his own vanity. His only purpose was to manipulate and use others because it gave him the thrill of being in control.

That's what Wilson was all about. Control. And from the first moment Wilson saw Michael, he knew what he wanted to do. Control him.

From across the room, their eyes locked, two alpha males instantly recognizing each other. They knew only one of them could be dominant. Michael, unfortunately, was under orders to submit. Grim and quaking inside, Michael squelched his urge to fight or flee, and smiled as he was introduced to the predator Wilson.

"How very nice to meet you at last," Michael lied, taking on the same fawning attitude as the rest of the sheep.

Wilson, the wolf, grinned, and licked his lips. Oh, yes, he thought to himself. He was going to enjoy Michael. Very, very much.

And so a new agony began. It was not long before Wilson joined Karen and Michael in their bed. Their submission pleased him, and tormented them. The degradation and humiliation wounded them both; Karen went around the house hollow-eyed and silent. Michael found himself considering an option he had never taken seriously before- that of ending it all, and joining Nikita.

But then, the world shifted and changed again, when on a mission in Lyons, he saw a face that he never thought to see again.

Nikita. Nikita was alive. And he would do anything to be with her. He would do anything to bring her back.

Bringing her back proved to be easy, Michael thought in retrospect. Being with her was not.

Operations' suspicions, Madeleine's watchful eye, and the overall conditions of life in Section were enough to keep them apart. But beyond that, there was Michael's paranoia, his horror, at the idea of Nikita finding out about the mission, about Karen, and most of all, about Wilson.

Along with a deep, but unacknowledged shame about his activities, there were other reasons he never wanted Nikita to know. It would hurt her terribly, emotionally. And beyond that, knowing might hurt her in other ways as well.

If it was the last thing he ever did, he would keep anything having to do with the ugliness of Wilson and what he did from ever tainting his precious Nikita. He would keep her safe, even if it meant pushing her away, even if it meant being apart from her.

Michael sighed and turned over to try and sleep at last. His last thought was the mantra he said to himself every night before he slept; the words that comforted him and kept him from complete despair.

*At least, Nikita doesn't know* he thought. *Thank God, she doesn't know.*

But she did.

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

Nikita already knew.

At least, she knew where Michael lived. Her training with Adrian had not gone to waste. While she had been busy down-loading the Gemstone file, she had accessed the personnel records, and read the address for one Class Five Operative, Michael Samuelle.

Later, when Adrian had been taken down, and Nikita had been given a reprieve of sorts after challenging Operations to defend Section, she waited. Michael had kissed her in the middle of Section. She thought, surely, there would be more.

She thought that after it was plain she was not to be cancelled, and was on full status again, involved with almost every mission, that Michael would come to her- that he would want to be with her, share himself with her- make love with her.

But he didn't. He was as distant and closed off as before. When he was around her in Section he was all business, his face schooled in a carefully unreadable mask. He was by her side on missions, but he hardly spoke two words to her.

Nikita ached for him. She was dying inside. She was so lonely for him, so ... thirsty. As if she were a flower dying from lack of rain. A drop, a drop of mercy was all she wanted, another kiss, a look, a word- anything, would be all it would take to keep her alive, but he gave her nothing.

"Damn him," Nikita said one night, alone once more in her bed in her apartment. "Damn him...." Her curses stopped, and the tears began. She no longer had the strength to maintain the pretense of anger. She wasn't angry at him. She was deeply, deeply hurt.

She tossed and turned on the bed in the dark room, letting the tears flow, letting herself sink lower into the abyss of despair.

"Give it up," he told herself angrily. "Just forget him..."

But something inside her protested that it was not over, that her love- their love- was still alive. A frisson of hope snaked in her belly, and she sat up suddenly in the dark, remembering that she knew where Michael was, where he went at night. The address...

She swiftly put on the bedside lamp, then searched between the mattress and the boxspring for the precious piece of paper she had hidden there. Her fingers felt and curled around it, and she pulled it out and looked at the words scribbled on the paper.

A street name. A house number. Michael's house.

Was he there, alone in bed, sleepless like she was? Was he thinking of her? Was he wishing she would just appear in his doorway, and take him in her arms, and ease his loneliness, too?

Nikita shook her head, laughing derisively at her self for this bit of fantasy. Of course he wasn't. Michael had his own life, and he was living it without her. Still...

Her curiosity was piqued. She wondered what that life was. She wondered what the house looked like....

With a decisive sigh, she rose from the bed and crossed to the closet, pulling on a simple black dress over the slip that she had worn to bed. What would it hurt, she told herself, to just drive by, just for a moment, and see?

She slipped her feet into her plain black pumps and then quickly ran a comb through her hair. She rushed through the motions, knowing that if she stopped to think about it, she would stop herself, and simply go back to bed.

But she didn't stop herself. It was stupid, she knew. It was childish. But she had reached the point of desperation, and some stubborn part of her that refused to give up on Michael demanded that she continue. She needed him. Just a glimpse, maybe....

Clutching the piece of paper with the address on it in one hand, and her car keys in the other, Nikita left her apartment, bent on looking for Michael.

She wished later that she never had.

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

As Nikita pulled onto Michael's street, she could hear the party from half-way down the block. The lights in the house were all ablaze, and a throng of cars was in the driveway and parked along the street. The sounds of voices and music, and laughter came from the house, echoing down the elegant street.

Amazed, she circled the block and checked the house number again. Yes, there was no mistake. It was Michael's house. Suddenly weary, her loneliness engulfing her, she felt too upset to drive on. She pulled into the nearest empty space near the curb, turned off the motor, and leaned her head against the steering wheel, struggling not to cry.

The sounds of the party wafted out to her, and distracted by her pain, she did not hear the footsteps approaching her car until the visitor had tapped on her partially rolled- down window.

"Excuse me," a polite masculine voice said, with a touch of amusement. "Are you all right?"

Nikita bolted up straight in her seat and stared at the man. He was dressed expensively in a tuxedo. His brown hair, gray at the temples, was carefully combed to hide a balding spot. Nikita guessed his age to be about 50, but he could have been younger, given the leanness of his physique and the air that he had about him of pampered care and grooming. This man, Nikita sensed shrewdly, took excessively good care of himself.

"Miss?" he said again when she did not speak. "Are you all right?"

Nikita blinked at him, and then stammered out a reply. "Uh.. er... yes. Yes, I'm fine, thanks," she choked, struggling to give him a false smile.

"Too much to drink, perhaps?" the man suggested with a wry smile.

Nikita gave him a self-deprecating smile back. "Perhaps," she agreed wearily. She had been feeling queasy, but it wasn't from the effects of alcohol.

The man smiled wider. "Perhaps a little hair of the dog would cure you," he suggested mildly, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Pardon me?" asked Nikita, realizing she hadn't been listening, but had been lost in her thoughts of Michael.

The man extended his hand to her. "Please," he said in a formal tone, "May I escort you back to the party?"

Nikita hesitated. Then her caution deserted her, and she smiled up at the friendly stranger in the tux. "Why not?" she said brightly, and got out of the car.

In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought wryly to herself.

"Do you .. know Michael well?" her escort asked as he led her down the sidewalk. There was a hint of innuendo in his voice, but Nikita dismissed it, thinking she had imagined it.

"No," she answered truthfully. "Not well at all..."

The man patted her arm. "That could change," he told her with a lilt in his voice. His brown eyes twinkled in the darkness. "Just come with me to the party. I'll make sure he ... notices you..."

Again, the innuendo, the suggestion of something more going on. But Nikita didn't care. She walked on, glad for the presence of this man by her side, glad that she wouldn't have to walk into the party- into Michael's house- alone.

"Thank you," she told her companion, giving him a dazzling smile. "Lead on."

In a few more steps they had reached the beautiful three-story house, went up the front walk, and then to the door. With a proprietary air, almost as if he owned the place and everyone in it, the man opened the door for her without knocking, and led her inside.

Nikita found herself surrounded by light, and sound, and people. Lots of people. They were all as carefully groomed, coifed, and preserved as the man by her side. They were all apparently having a good time, although the gaiety seemed a tad forced, their laughter a little... maniacal?

The crowd flowed around them as they proceeded further into the house, the men and women scanning Nikita with envious eyes. Even in her simple attire, she was starkly beautiful, despite her lack of diamonds, or beaded gown, which seemed to be the uniform of the female party attendees.

"Where's Michael?" her escort asked a woman in the entrance to the living room. The woman giggled.

"He's in the den, with Karen. They're entertaining Paula... she answered. She blushed, and laughed again. Nikita stiffened, thinking the woman was obviously drunk. Nikita hadn't liked at all the way that answer had sounded.

She liked the woman's next comment even less.

"I can't wait for my turn.. " she added, giggling again.

Nikita glared at her, but the woman had turned away by then, and did not see Nikita's angry scowl. But her companion did.

"Don't fret, love," he told her soothingly. " The night is young. I'm sure Michael can make time for you...."

She gave him a puzzled look. Was Michael giving private audiences, like the Pope or something, to his guests? Why wasn't he just circulating at the party?

Before she could ask a question, her escort had whisked her down the center hall, leading her further into the house. At the rear of the hall, to the right of the grand staircase, was a closed door, which Nikita assumed was the door to the den. A knot of people stood in the hallway, all of them whispering together, faces flushed in excitement. Their eyes all had the same expression- greedy anticipation.

For some reason, Nikita was reminded of a gathering of vultures, but tried to shrug off the image. Impatiently, she pushed through the crowd ahead of her escort and flung open the door to the den.

"Michael?" she started to say as she entered. "Can I have a moment to tal...."

The words stopped in her throat, her breath deserting her lungs in one great gasping sigh of shock.

On the rug before the fireplace, was Michael, his naked body entwined with two women. One, a tall blonde with short hair, was licking the breasts of the other woman, a pretty brunette, who lay moaning, legs spread wide, as Michael serviced her orally, his arms wrapped around her bucking hips, face buried between her legs.

The world tilted. Nikita felt her legs give out from under her, and if it hadn't been for her escort's steadying hand under her arm, she knew she would have fallen to the floor.

At the sound of Nikita's voice, Michael gasped as well, turning frantically to face her, disentangling himself hastily from the dark-haired woman beneath him, who uttered a feeble moan in protest as his body left hers.

"Nikita?" he choked out, eyes wide with horror, as shocked as she.

*NO, God please no* he thought to himself. It couldn't be happening. His Nikita couldn't be here, now, seeing this. She couldn't be in his house, watching him abase himself for the mission. And worst of all, he screamed inside, Nikita couldn't be here at the party, with HIM. But there she was, clinging to his arm- clinging to the orchestrator of all this horror-their target, the head of Avalon's Adventurers- Avalon Wilson, himself.

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

Nikita did not stay to hear any more beyond Michael's strangled gasp of her name. She had to get away. She did the only thing she could do. She ran.

Blindly, she twisted out of Wilson's grasp and headed for the door at a run. She pushed past the crowd of avid on-lookers and found her way to through the hall. Before she could reach the front door, Wilson caught up with her.

"Don't fret, my Dear," he said in a soothing voice, his eyes still twinkling. "The fun's not over, I assure you..."

He bent his head close to Nikita, and put his lips next to her ear. His breath stirred wisps of hair at her temples, and sent chills through her spine. But it was his words that made Nikita's blood run cold.

"Michael and I, and his wife, Karen, of course, will have our own, more... private, party later tonight..." He laughed. "Would you care to join us?" he invited smoothly.

Nikita froze, staring at him. "W-wife?" she gasped, reeling from this new blow. "Did you say.. wife?"

Wilson smiled. "Yes..Karen," he answered, still amused. "But not to worry- she is very generous about..sharing Michael with our group, as you have seen, and with me..."

Nikita gagged. "You?" she choked out.

"Oh yes," Wilson said merrily, enjoying her distress, but also becoming turned on by it. He was indeed attracted to this fascinating blonde beauty.

"Michael has become one of my particular favorites in bed," he commented, as if he were talking about his preferred brand of cigarette, or a particular flavor of ice cream he liked.

Nikita blanched, feeling nausea rise in her throat.

"But I'm sure he and Karen wouldn't mind if our threesome became a foursome," Wilson continued, to Nikita's disgust. "Why don't you stay, and find out just how fun it could be?" he pressed.

"No," she said grimly, through lips made stiff with shock. "No, thank you."

She walked away from him, and out the door, her back rigid, trembling with the effort not to scream, not to lose control.

Wilson called after her, his voice carrying to her as she crossed the lawn to her car. "As you wish, my Dear," he sang out, still amused. "Perhaps some other time..."

Nikita flinched and did not answer him, just walked steadily to her car, and drove away. The trip home she passed in a zombie-like state of numbness, her body automatically taking over the task of driving, while her mind shattered and fled in a hundred different directions.

She had left Michael's house, but the images that she had seen there followed her. Michael in the den in front of the fire. Naked, intimately caressing another woman. Worse, two women. Then she couldn't help envisioning another scene. Michael... with Wilson...

She shuddered, and let out a sob, fighting the last most horrible thought of all. Michael, with someone named Karen. Michael-- married.

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

On the drive home, Nikita felt a whole range of emotions- humiliation, anger, loathing, disgust, hurt, confusion, a twisted envy for Karen, even longing for Michael, and most painful of all, a bitter self-contempt for how stupidly naive she had been to think that Michael had ever wanted her, had ever cared for her- had ever loved her.

The emotions followed her as she climbed the stairs to her apartment and turned the key in the lock. Once inside, alone, with the door shut behind her, the pain and confusion deserted her, and she was left only with a sense of numbness, and a sudden eerie calm. She felt nothing, and her mind was perfectly, rationally, clear.

*I'm in shock* she thought, and almost laughed. *Sort of like someone who just had a body part amputated and it hasn't registered yet.*

Zombie-like, almost on its own accord, her body walked her to the kitchen, where she went through the motions of getting out a bottle of wine, opening it, and pouring herself a glass.

Still numb, feeling disconnected, as if it was someone else and not her who did these things, Nikita took the full glass of wine and wandered up the stairs into her bedroom.

On automatic pilot, she went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, scanning the limited selection of drugs available there. At last she found the small bottle she was seeking- prescription pain pills left over from the last time she had been in Medlab for a mission related injury.

As she recalled, it had only taken one tablet to make her sleep like the dead. She wondered idly how many pills it would take to make that a permanent condition.

To her amazement, she looked down and found there was only one pill in her hand, and that, even though she didn't remember doing so, the pill bottle was now safely capped and back in the cupboard.

She considered taking the pills out again, and pouring herself a handful, but somehow she found herself strangely too weary to make the effort. Instead, she let her body's innate wisdom carry her back out to the bedroom, where she put the pill under her tongue and then washed it down with a huge gulp of wine.

Tilting her head back, she finished the glass, and set the empty goblet down on the night-stand. Unhurriedly, still in a state of eerie calm, she undressed and slipped into bed.

By the time she was settled under the covers, and had arranged her pillow under her head, Nikita was already feeling sleepy. It occurred to her then how grateful she was that she would spend the night in sweet, dreamless sleep, oblivious, and when she woke up in the morning, the worst night of her life would be over.

Because the idea of being awake, and aware through the hours til dawn, imagining what Michael was doing, and with whom, was a torture she knew she couldn't handle.

A few minutes later, when the treasured oblivion claimed her, she didn't fight it, wisely giving in to her higher self's plan of action.

Nikita slept, knowing all too soon the night of protective unconsciousness would be over, and that tomorrow....

Tomorrow, Michael would still be married.

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

Nikita arrived in Section the next morning, feeling rested but unsettled and shaky inside. The blessed numbness of the past night had worn off, all her tangled emotions back and tremulously close to the surface.

She decided to continue her higher self's plan of pain-avoidance, and stay out of Michael's way. She thought she just might be able to get through this horrid day if she didn't have to see him, didn't have to be reminded of what he was doing last night....

Hastily, she shoved the thoughts away. She couldn't think about it, she scolded herself. Otherwise she would break down completely. She already felt close to tears, felt like screaming, felt like punching someone. If only she didn't run into Michael, she just might manage to keep hold of her tenuous self-control.

She kept her sunglasses on to hide the emptiness in her eyes, and sauntered with studied casualness over to Birkoff's station.

"Hey, Birkoff, what's up?" she greeted him with false cheer. "How's my favorite over-achiever this morning?"

She was proud of herself that she had gotten the words out without her voice quavering.

The boy-wonder did not look up, absorbedly staring at his computer screen. Distractedly, without any preamble, Birkoff said the words she wasn't prepared to hear.

"Michael wants to see you right away," he told her almost absently. "He's been waiting in his office for hours."

Having delivered this blow, Birkoff returned his full attention to his monitors, unaware that Nikita had gone suddenly white. He only noticed her at last when it registered to him that she had stood frozen in the same spot by his side for two minutes.

"Well?" he said, annoyed, turning his head to look up at her. "Aren't you going to see Michael?"

Nikita wasn't sure she had enough breath to get the words out. "Uh, yeah, sure...." she choked hoarsely. She flashed him another phony smile. "I'm going, I'm going...."

She walked away reluctantly, dreading every step that took her to Michael's office. Her emotions swirled and tangled inside her, a coldness clenching her stomach. By the time she reached Michael's office door, one emotion out of the many had gained ascendancy and had taken her over - resentment.

She took a deep, angry breath and then rapped sharply on the door, then entered without waiting for an answer.

"You wanted to see me?" she demanded with what she hoped was a rude tone.

Michael looked up from his desk at her. He was exhausted, pale, with dark circles under his eyes- eyes that were wounded, desperate and... scared. It was a look that almost evoked pity in her, until she remembered last night, and the reason he now appeared less rested than she.

"Yes," he said softly, his voice tense. "Come in..." He pushed the code into his keypad at the desk and de-activated the surveillance, then stood up and came toward her. "I need to talk to you. About last night."

Nikita felt a chill of fear, and fought the urge to flee. She didn't want to be there. She didn't want to be reminded, to have her nose rubbed in it. Why was he torturing her like this? Why couldn't he just leave her alone?

Angrily, she slammed the door shut with a loud bang and then faced him, crossing her arms across her chest and glaring at him with her chin held high.

"You mean your cozy little neighborhood orgy?" she spat out. "What about it?"

Michael flinched at her words, his eyes glittering with pain. He lifted one hand as if to reach for her, then thought better of it, and returned his hand to his side. "I knew you were upset. I wanted to see if you were all right," he answered in a gentle voice. "I was worried about you."

Nikita closed her eyes, hardening herself against the insidious charm of this plea. It's all a lie, she told herself. He doesn't care a flip about you.

"No need to worry, Michael. I'm just great," she told him flippantly with a sneer. She put her hand on the doorknob, and pulled it open. "If that's all you wanted, I'm going now..."

She put one foot over the threshold, anxious to make her escape.

"Nikita, wait. Please."

She closed her eyes again, hesitating in the doorway. "What is it, Michael?" she asked tensely, keeping her back to him.

She heard him come up behind her, then felt his hand on her arm as he pulled her back into the room and reached around her to shut the door. She flinched at his touch and backed into the corner of the room, glaring at him angrily, her eyes sprouting painful tears.

Michael looked at her, noting her distress, and feeling his insides knot at the thought of the reason for it. He would have given anything for her not to have known about the degrading acts of last night, or of his secret life as Section's whore. But it was too late, Nikita had seen it, and all he had now was this chance to tell her of his regret, the words torn from his soul.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.

Nikita stared at him, stunned for a moment. Then something clicked inside her, her control suddenly gone, as his words triggered all the angry, wounded feelings she had tried to suppress. Her rage boiled up inside her, her resentment flaring and spilling out in the form of words that she knew would hurt him back.

"You're SORRY?" she sneered, her lip curling in contempt. "That's right, Michael. You are. More than sorry- you're ... sick..' She shook her head in revulsion. "I was right about you, she spat out, "When I said once that I was only attracted to the man you PRETEND to be...."

"Nikita, please.." Michael begged. "I..."

"Let me finish!" she screamed, glaring at him, her eyes blazing blue fire. "I said that the REAL Michael would disgust me, I'm sure...." Her mouth twisted, as if she had just tasted something rotten and sour. "And you do.." she declared vehemently, her words stinging him to his soul.

He said nothing, just closed his eyes, and let her vent the rest of her ire at him.

"I saw the real Michael last night, didn't I?" she hissed. "That's how you really are, isn't it?" she yelled.

"You're not the noble person I thought you were. Hell, I don't know if you're even human... she vented cruelly. You're not a man at all, you're some kind of ... conscienceless animal..." Her voice broke on the last word, and she bit her lip to hold back the sob that threatened to escape her throat, still angry, but unable to speak another word.

Michael stood tensely silent, taking her abuse, feeling he deserved it. He said nothing, letting the quiet that filled the room after she finished stretch out between them.

When at last he responded to her diatribe, it was not with words at all, but actions. Calmly silent, he pulled something out of his pocket, crossed the room, and dropped the item into her hand. Nikita took it from him, and then looked down at the object in her palm, bewildered.

"A key?" she said in surprise, then looked back up to meet his eyes. "What's this for?" she asked suspiciously.

He paused cautiously, then answered her in a low urgent voice. "It's a key to my apartment. Go there tonight. I don't want you to go back home. I want to keep you..."

"WHAT?" she burst out in a harsh gasp, interrupting him, as the implication of his words set in. "NOW you do this? NOW you finally want me in your life? NOW you want me in your bed?" she yelled, enraged and hurt. "You BASTARD!"

She hauled back her arm and threw the key with all her force in his direction. It whizzed past his head and hit the far wall with a clank, then fell noisily to the floor. Michael did not react, but stood unflinchingly in front of her, still regarding her calmly.

This placidity enraged her more, and she leapt for him, reaching up to slap his face and pummel her fists on his chest. "Don't you have enough bodies to warm your bed, Michael?" she screamed. "Didn't you get enough last night, after you f*cked everyone in town?" She slapped him again. "Including your WIFE?" she added bitterly, breaking into a sob.

Michael had endured her blows stoically, but now he reached out his hands to capture her wrists, holding her still. His green eyes glittered with pain, his voice was low, and he spoke with an intensity that frightened her.

"You didn't let me finish," he said tightly. "I was about to say, 'I want to keep you away from Wilson...' " He took a deep breath and continued. "Stay in my apartment, or in your stand-by quarters, if you prefer, but don't go back to your place." He licked his lips nervously. "He was very interested in you last night. He may have followed you..."

Nikita blinked at him, confused. "Who are you talking about, Michael?" she demanded. "Who might be following me?"

"The man who brought you to the party last night," Michael answered grimly. "Avalon Wilson. I don't want you anywhere near him...."

Nikita gasped in shock, and pulled out of Michael's grip, stepping back away from him. "You mean, your BOY-FRIEND?" she spat out in disgust.

"Are you JEALOUS, now?" she taunted him. "Oh, that's just RICH, Michael," she said in a caustic tone, lip curling, standing with one hand on her hip. "You don't want to screw me yourself, but you don't want your lover to be interested..."

Michael uttered a curse and startled her by gripping her suddenly by the arms and shoving her up against the wall.

"Now listen to me," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. This is an order, you understand? Stay away from him..."

Michael was truly alarmed, terrified at the idea that Nikita would not take him seriously, and would end up entangled in the filthy world of Avalon's Adventurers as he was. The idea of Wilson touching his Nikita made his blood run cold.

"Promise me you'll stay away from him," Michael pleaded tensely. "Please."

Nikita saw the genuine fear in his eyes, and her heart sank further. Michael wasn't upset by the fact that she knew about his parties, or his sexual hobbies, or even that she knew about his having a wife. All Michael seemed to care about was that she didn't interfere with the real love in his life- Avalon Wilson.

Wracked with the pain of this hard realization, that Michael didn't care about her, she felt her heart break inside her. Her anger and defiance dissipated, and she was left with only the feeling of wounded resignation, and a strange peace.

The battle was over. She had fought for Michael's heart, and lost. It belonged to another. She would give up trying to win his love, and just let him go.

She went limp in his grasp, slumping defeatedly, resting her head against the wall. "All right, Michael," she capitulated with a soft sigh. "I promise."

Michael sighed as well, letting the breath he was holding out in one long gasp of relief. "Thank you," he told her sincerely, and then let go of her to cross the room to retrieve the key she had thrown behind the desk.

He held the key out to her again, and told her the address. "It's on the top floor of the Towers downtown. You know it?" he asked gently.

Numbly, Nikita took the key from his fingers and nodded. "I know it."

The Towers building was a landmark of the city, an old and elegant structure of refinement and understated taste. Michael's choice of apartment seemed to reflect the one dignified, reserved half of Michael, while his flashy, ostentatious house represented the other, wilder part of him. He did indeed, thought Nikita, live his life split in two.

Nikita sighed. It didn't matter how many parts Michael's life was splintered into, how many pieces there were to him. She only knew there seemed to be no room in any of those parts for her.

Without looking at him, she pocketed the key, and then turned and shuffled slowly to the door. At the threshold, her back to him, she pulled the door open and uttered her final words of farewell.

"Good-bye, Michael," she choked out, then stepped through the door and was gone.

As the door closed behind her, Michael's last bit of control slipped from him, and he collapsed, trembling, into his chair behind the desk.

He put his head in his hands, letting the waves of despair wash over him.

He whispered his farewell to the empty space where she had been. "Good bye, Nikita," he said hoarsely. "Good-bye, My Love."

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

By staying in his office most of the day, Michael managed to avoid running into Nikita again. At least, that is, in person. Her presence haunted him, her angry words of earlier echoing in his mind, stinging him. He knew she was justified in her rage, and he had not tried to dissuade her from thinking the worst of him by telling her that what he had done last night was all for a mission.

*Maybe it was better this way,* Michael thought, recalling Nikita's look of first disgust, then dismissal, when she had left the room.

* Let her hate me.* He mused forlornly. * At least that way, she'll avoid me, as well as Wilson, and be out of harm's way.*

Michael shuddered. The last thing he wanted was Nikita to be pulled into this whole Markham mess. The fact that Nikita hadn't known about it was the only thing that had made it easier, and now...

Michael hung his head, his stomach clenching. Now she knew. The worst of it, the ugliest part, at least. He supposed he should have told her the rest. Maybe it would have eased Nikita's mind to know that he wasn't really married, and that Karen was not his wife, but a fellow operative. Maybe if he had told her his life in the three-story house was all a lie...

But he couldn't. He hadn't explained anything. Michael wondered if it had been cowardice on his part, or because of his natural reserve. He had always had difficulty talking about his feelings, and his Section training had encouraged that trait to the point of making him secretive about everything, cautious with every word.

He should have forced himself to tell her, but the words had not come. He realized that there was no way he could bring himself to talk about the degradation of the nights with Wilson, and the suffering that he and Karen endured.

His humiliation was like a raw wound in his soul, and the only way he managed to keep sane was to clamp down hard on that pain, shut it off, turn it off, suppress it. To open it up to even Nikita's tender probing was somehow beyond his capacity to contemplate.

Last night's party had shaken Michael profoundly, and Nikita's discovery of his activities had been the final blow to the evening's culmination of horrors. The party had been in essence his and Karen's initiation into the inner circle of Avalon's Adventurers.

They had been allowed the "honor" of hosting their first party for the group, and the rules had been set, and simple. In order to be full members of the Adventurers, they were required to service everyone at the party who desired them.

It had been a nightmarish marathon, Karen and Michael, singly and together, taking turns, bringing the endless line of voracious party goers to orgasm any way they could, using hands and mouths when other parts of them were too sore and spent to continue. Never before had Michael felt so used and violated, not even when he had been raped in prison.

It was only a horrid twist of fate that Nikita had chosen that night, of all nights, to seek Michael out.

When he had seen her at his house, trembling in shock at the sight of him and Karen in a torrid embrace with Paula on the den floor, Michael had wanted to leave and follow after her. But he couldn't. To do so would be to destroy any chance he had of completing this wretched mission and reaching his goal of accessing Markham.

No matter how much he loathed the idea of submitting to him, Michael knew he could do nothing to alienate Wilson at this critical juncture of the mission. He and Karen must remain essentially, Wilson's slaves, until Markham was captured, and the mission was blessedly over.

He prayed that that time would be soon.

As if in answer to his thoughts, his cell phone rang, startling Michael out of his dark reverie and bringing him sharply back to the present.

"Yes?" he answered curtly.

"Hi, Honey," came Karen's contralto voice, sounding nervous, and falsely cheerful. "I hate to bother you by calling you at work, but I have SUCH exciting news...."

"What is it?" Michael asked tensely, instantly alert to the underlying anxiety in her voice. "Is Wilson there with you?"

Karen forced a brittle laugh, high, tinkling and hollow. "Why, that's right, Darling, he's right here. And guess what?" She continued brightly. "He wants to talk to us about meeting Markham..." He heard her take in a shaky breath, and then finished. "Isn't that wonderful?"

"Karen, are you all right?" Michael asked sharply, alarmed. "Do you require back-up?"

He heard her sigh of relief. "Oh, Honey, could you?" Karen cooed gratefully. "If you could tear yourself away from work and join us, that would be so nice..."

"I'm on my way," Michael answered instantly. As he hung up the phone, he could hear Wilson's familiar rumbling laugh in the background, and his blood ran cold.

Karen had hidden it behind the cheerful voice, but Michael had sensed the veteran operative's fear. Something even worse than usual was going on, and Michael was bent on getting to her, fast.

Before he left Section, he took the time to quickly notify Madeleine of the situation. Michael had lost one wife because of his failure to request back-up, and he was determined not to lose another, even a pretend one, for the same reason.

Section's beautiful chief strategist did not keep him long, just acknowledged his report and told him that the surveillance in the house would be activated, and that a team would be deployed to protect Karen.

With a grateful nod to Madeleine, Michael flew out of Section, rushing to his car. As he sped along the highways at break-neck speed to get home, his mind was running as fast as his car, dreading what he would find when he got there.

That morning, he hadn't thought it was possible for things to get any worse. Now, the cold knot of dread in his stomach told him that they had done just that. The bad feeling in his gut gnawed at him- He knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Grimly, Michael prayed all the way home that he was not too late.

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

Michael wanted to floor the car and screech into the driveway, but forced himself to slow down at the corner of his street and drive the speed limit for the last block home. As he pulled up to the house, to his great relief, the door opened and Karen came flying out to meet him.

"Darling!" she cried, holding out her arms. "You're home!" There was a falsely brilliant smile on her face, but her eyes were two blue pools of terror.

Michael lingered by the car at the end of the driveway, so that the embrace that took place next would be as far away from the house as possible. He could see Wilson standing, smiling, watching them from the open doorway.

Rushing down the walkway, Karen reached Michael and flung her arms around his neck. Michael hugged her back, whispering in her ear. "Are you all right?" he asked her urgently. "Did he ... hurt you?"

Karen trembled but answered in the negative. "No, he didn't touch me. I could have handled that. This is worse...." she whispered, nuzzling her mouth against his jaw.

Michael stiffened at her words, then kissed her. Murmuring against her cheek, he told her of Section's arrangements for her safety.

"Back-up team is in place and will enter on my command," he informed her tensely. "Surveillance has been activated."

Karen nodded, then let out a high laugh, pushing Michael away in a playful gesture. "Oh, MI-chael!" she squealed. "You naughty boy, you!" She laughed again. "I want to try that, too, but later, okay?" She gave him a tiny almost imperceptible shake of the head, letting him know that back-up wasn't necessary.

Michael was relieved, but still disturbed by the distress he had seen in her face. Something was still very, very wrong.

He looked up to see Avalon Wilson, eyes dancing merrily, regarding them avariciously from the doorway. The older man looked very pleased about something, almost gloatingly delighted. Michael felt another chill of apprehension go through him; Wilson's cheer and Karen's misery contrasted sharply, and did not bode well for the evening ahead.

Beside him, Karen slipped her arm through his and began leading him up the front walk. "Wilson has just the most exciting news for us, Michael," she chattered gaily. "I can't wait til he tells you himself."

The couple exchanged anxious looks and then preceded up the steps and into the house. Wilson greeted them heartily at the door.

"Welcome home, my boy," their target said to Michael, slapping him on the back. "Hated to interrupt your day at the office, but you must understand, there's not much time left, and I thought it best to give you as much chance to prepare as possible.."

Michael eyed him warily. Wilson was always like this, effusively polite and congenial, very much a hail-fellow-well-met type. Until he was in bed, and in control, and then the warm friendliness was dropped, and all semblance of charm disappeared in acts of ruthless domination.

"Time?" queried Michael, as the trio entered the living room and took seats, he and Karen sitting on the sofa together, Wilson in the wing-backed chair. "Time til what?"

Wilson smiled, enjoying this moment. He enjoyed the couple's anxious glances to each other; he had enjoyed watching them grovel and beg for the chance to join his group, and then abase themselves for the opportunity to belong to the inner circle, and submit to his every whim just for the chance to gain the highest honor of being Markham's helpless play-mates.

He had decided months ago that they were suitable to be in the inner circle, with their beauty, and their skills, and their sizzling attractiveness, along with their seemingly endless capacity for obedience. But Wilson had held off on allowing them access, dragging the probationary period on, because he was enjoying it too much.

He had "tested" them more than he had any other couple. Unlike the others, whom he soon tired of after a few weeks, Michael and Karen were endlessly entertaining. Perhaps it was something Wilson instinctively sensed about them- they were different from the others, not as shallow, not as casual, not as light-hearted.

Wilson might not have put it that way, but perhaps it was their innate self-respect, their dignity, that irritated and fascinated him, that he felt compelled to crush. Whatever it was, he only knew that toying with them had become his favorite past time. And that the opportunity to do so now was too good to miss.

Wilson grinned and beamed at Karen and Michael across the room. "Why, not much time til Markham's next party, of course!" he answered heartily.

"Really?" said Michael, feigning enthusiasm. "You mean, we're invited?" he asked with false eagerness, forcing a smile.

Wilson nodded. "That's exactly what I mean, dear Boy," he said beaming. "You're definitely in..."

Karen squeezed Michael's hand and scooted closer to him on the couch. "Isn't that wonderful, Darling?" she giggled. I just knew you'd be pleased..."

"Great!" responded Michael, keeping his eyes warily on Wilson. "Uh, just when is the party?"

Wilson smirked. "Sooner than you think," he drawled, his eyes twinkling. "How's this week-end sound?"

Karen gasped. "But that's only four days away!" Wilson had told her the party would be soon, but she hadn't realized the time-frame would be so narrow. She hoped Section would have a big enough window to run sims and prepare for Markham's take-down.

"Great," Michael said again. He tried to look happy. "We'll be ready."

"Let's see," Karen interjected, trying to sound vacuously excited, "I need to get my hair done, and my nails, and go shopping, and maybe have a facial...." She giggled. "Oh, isn't this fun?"

Wilson smirked, leaned back in his seat, and delivered his killing blow. "That will be lovely, My Dear, but like I was saying before, there's one more thing you need to do before you can go..."

Karen paled, and Michael stiffened at her side. "And what's that?" Michael asked, pretending nonchalance, even as his guts twisted inside him. This was it. This was what Karen had been so disturbed by, thought Michael. Some new condition, some added requirement of their enslavement before they would be allowed to complete this nightmare assignment.

Michael took a deep breath, and prepared himself. But he still reeled with shock when the blow finally came.

Wilson smiled. "You just have to persuade a friend of yours to accompany you to the party," he answered gleefully, twisting the knife. "That little bit of loveliness and charm," he continued, licking his lips, "that delectable little piece that came to your soiree last night."

Michael's breath stopped in his throat. *Oh, no. Oh please, God, no...*

The smarmy voice continued. "I want her, and when Markham heard about her, he wanted her too." Wilson grinned, and then said her name. "I want .... Nikita."

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

"No," Michael gasped out involuntarily. "Not Nikita.."

Wilson smirked again, noting the tension in Michael's face, and how he had gone white at the mention of her name. He had also seen Karen's reaction earlier, a flash of pain and horror in her eyes that she had quickly covered, but it had been a revealing nonetheless.

Nikita must be sore point between the spouses, Wilson shrewdly surmised. Nikita must be an old flame of Michael's. From the way Michael had acted at the party when Nikita walked in on him, and the way Karen had gone pale with shock today at the mention of the her name, the long-haired blonde beauty must be the one woman Karen did not want to share Michael with. And she was obviously someone Michael did not want to share, either.

And Wilson would use her. Nikita was the key to crushing Michael, something which up til now Wilson had been unable to do. He salivated at the thought.

"But why not Nikita?" Wilson asked flippantly, enjoying the effect of his words, as Michael paled further. "She was moping around the party, obviously anxious to be with you, my Dear Boy..." He grinned. "I'm sure she'd jump at the chance to spend the weekend with you..."

Wilson licked his lips. "And I can't wait to spend some time with her, too..."

Michael sat frozen and speechless, his hands clenched at his sides. It took all his control not to jump up from the couch and kill Wilson with his bare hands.

Karen realized Michael's inner struggle, and stepped in to respond for him.

"But, Wilson, Darling," she protested innocently. "Nikita is just an old acquaintance of ours that we lost touch with. Until last night, we hadn't seen her in YEARS, right, Honey?" She looked to Michael for affirmation.

"Yes," he answered tightly. "That's right. We don't even have her address..."

Wilson put on an expression of mock pity. "Why, that's really too bad," he said, without a trace of sorrow. "Because Markham was really hoping to meet her..."

Karen shrugged, trying to make light of the tense situation. "Oh, well," she said with a flirtatious laugh, "Markham will just have to enjoy me, instead, won't he?"

Wilson nodded his head, thoughtfully, still smiling. "He will enjoy you, indeed, My Dear.." he said.

Michael gave his 'wife' an admiring glance, thinking that Karen had pulled it off, and that Wilson would now drop his interest in Nikita. But Wilson's next words crushed all his hopes. "He'll enjoy you IF you bring Nikita.." Wilson finished, still smiling. "Those are the conditions..."

"But we TOLD you," protested Karen, "We don't know where she is!"

Wilson shrugged, standing up from his chair. His eyes narrowed as he looked at them, his pleasant expression gone. "Then it's a shame you'll miss the party, then, isn't it?" He headed toward the door, as if that was his last word on the subject.

Alarmed, Michael followed him out the room, Karen not far behind him.

"Wait!" Michael called after him, finally finding his voice. We're still invited to the party, aren't we?" he said, trying to salvage this rapidly deteriorating mission.

If they failed to bring down Markham, this year of torture at Wilson's hands would have all been for nothing. And to Michael, that idea was completely unacceptable.

Wilson's eyes hardened. It's this way, Michael," he explained, placing his hand on the door handle. "Either you come to the party with Nikita, or you don't come at all..." He smirked again. "It's your choice.."

He gave them one more satisfied look as he registered their stricken expressions, and then walked out the door.

When he had gone, Michael slumped into a chair in the hallway, his head in his hands. "God, no..." he muttered to himself over and over. "Please, God, no..."

A sudden voice in his ear startled him, making him almost jump out of his skin.

"Team Two to Team Leader," said the crisp, male voice through Michael's com unit. "Target is leaving the premises. Do you want us to follow?"

Michael sighed, and struggled to compose himself. He had forgotten all about the back-up team. "Negative, Team Two," he responded in a shaky voice. "Return to Section."

He looked up at Karen who was standing with her back to the door, arms around her shoulders, hugging herself, as if she was desperately cold.

"Michael," she said softly, "What are we going to do?"

He rose suddenly from his chair, coming toward her, his hand under her elbow. Swiftly, he turned her to face the door, and then opened it, guiding her through it ahead of him. She looked up at him, noticing the new glint of determination in his tortured green eyes.

"We're going to go see Nikita," Michael answered, leading her to the car.

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

When Nikita had decided to leave for the day, she remembered her promise to Michael not to go back to her apartment. It still stung her that he had been worried about this Wilson person being attracted to her, and that obviously Michael's affections laid in that direction, and not hers.

*Fine* she thought to herself. *Michael doesn't want me to see Wilson. Well, I don't want to see him, either. *

She was too raw and wounded from her conversation with Michael earlier, and too hurt about the revelations of last night at the horrid party to feel up to dealing with running into the man she thought was her rival for Michael's affections. Wilson had given her the creeps, anyway.

Disconsolately, she trudged through the Section hallways, went down several stairways, until she reached level 8, and her standby quarters. She unlocked the door with her code, and entered.

The room was windowless, and gray, and very neat. She preferred to keep her two lives totally separate, so that her quarters had none of the cheer or color of her apartment. Anyway, there was no point to decorating here. She spent most of her standby time running sims, studying plans, working out, checking her weapons, or just resting- in essence, prepping for a mission. Her room in Section was not a home, but basically, a soldier's barracks.

She shut the door behind her and sank wearily down on the small, spartan cot. The room depressed her further, and she was already as low as she could ever remember being. Sighing heavily, she realized how drained she was, and how weary. And how much she felt like crying.

"Michael, how could you do this?" she choked out, sobbing. "How could you love him, and not me?"

The tears flowed then, at last, and she fell sideways on the cot, hugging the pillow to her chest, and curling up into a ball on the small bed, crying hard.

It was only after several minutes of fierce sobbing that the pain registered to her. Not an emotional pain, but a physical one. Something sharp, and hard, was digging into her hip, pressing into her flesh where she lay on the mattress.

"Wha..?" she gasped, and sat up, hiccuping, to check what it was that was causing her discomfort. She ran her hand over the mattress, and there was nothing there. Then she touched her side, and realized what had happened- she had been lying on the key in her pocket.......

The key.

Hastily, Nikita dug into her pants pocket and pulled it out, holding it in her palm. The key to Michael's apartment that he had given her earlier. Her hand closed over it, and she clenched her fist around it, hard, until this new pain registered.

Pain. Would it hurt more to stay here, in her lonely quarters, or would it be more even more agonizing to go to Michael's apartment, and dwell on her loneliness there?

Maybe, she thought, just maybe, seeing his place would help her understand him more. Maybe she could find some closure there, and say her good-byes once more, there in Michael's personal space. Maybe, even if it hurt like hell to go there, anything was better than staying here, out of her mind with pain.

Decision made, she stood quickly, wiped her eyes, and grabbed her coat, heading toward the door, and to her car, which would take her to the Towers building downtown.

-----------------------------------

The minute Nikita stepped through the door, she was struck with an instantaneous sense of recognition- the apartment, unlike the fancy house he lived in with Karen, was pure Michael.

The ceilings were high, the woodwork ornate, the oak floors warm and gleaming, remnants from another age more elegant than this. But inside the rich setting, Michael had made his mark.

The walls had been painted stark white, and the furniture was sleekly modern, chrome and black leather chairs and couch, and glass topped tables. Modern art hung on the walls, abstracts with attractive splashes of vivid color that were somehow soothing, and not harshly obtrusive. They were perfect, belonging there.

But not everything was modern. The rug was obviously a vintage Persian creation from the last century, the jewel-colors brightening the room. A magnificent cherry-wood breakfront glass cabinet dominated one corner of the room, displaying treasures gathered from around the world on its shelves- small statues, pieces of china, figurines, including a beautiful jade Buddha and a small goddess figure that Nikita recognized as being of almost stone age antiquity.

Awed, Nikita turned away to once again scan the room. Everything went together, the blend of old and new, past and future. It was harmonious, elegant, logical, and somehow mysterious. It was so very... Michael.

She sighed. She felt better having come here. It was so peaceful, the atmosphere so comforting, she could almost pretend that the ugliness she had seen last night had never happened. This haven of serenity seemed like the real Michael, so different from his other place - that horrid three story house, with its horrid den and...

She bit her lip. "Stop it," she scolded herself. "Don't think about it."

Her weariness washed over her again, and she felt the sudden need to lie down, to sleep, and just let the oblivion take her. Turning again, she spotted the entrance to the hallway, and went down it, until she reached the bedroom. Michael's bedroom.

It was as elegant as the rest of the apartment. And like the living room, it contained a cabinet of mementos, but there was a difference. The cabinet was smaller, and the mementos more personal.

Nikita sat on the bed and gazed at the items on the shelves. A set of rosary beads, elaborate, and very worn. Perhaps they had belonged to Michael's mother, Nikita speculated. There were pictures- a small crinkled one of a dark-haired girl with Rene Dion. Who was she? Nikita wondered.

Other faces in the photos she recognized. A picture of Simone, in all her youth and beauty, before she was tortured- her face unscarred, her hair, thick, long and beautiful, her eyes still bright with hope, undimmed by the madness of revenge that been the cause of her death.

Tears started in Nikita's eyes, and she looked away. Michael had loved Simone. Perhaps she was the only person he had ever really loved.

Madeleine may have been right, in her remark that Michael might be one of those people who could only love once. Maybe everyone that came after Simone was just a diversion for Michael, and not a true passion. Herself, his wife Karen, and his new lover, Wilson.... Nikita turned back to scan the treasures on the shelves once more. Her eyes searched the photos, and it struck her that, oddly, something was missing.

There was no photo of Karen, who Nikita had assumed was the strikingly lovely blonde she had seen last night in the den with Michael. If he was married, why wasn't there a photo of her? There was also no photo or memento of Wilson, either.

She scanned the display once again, and then her eyes lit on something she had over-looked earlier, the sight of which made her take in a sharp, gasping breath. There, enshrined in an elegant velvet lined box, was a pair of sunglasses.

Her sunglasses.

She peered closer, and her eyes widened again, in another, greater shock.

In the velvet case as well were two rings, tied together with a ribbon. Wedding rings. Matching rings, man and a woman's. Nikita recognized them immediately as the ones she and Michael had worn on one of their very first missions together, when they had posed as a married couple.

They had been convincing as two people in love....

Nikita began crying again. Maybe she had meant something to Michael, after all. Maybe he had truly cared about her. Maybe he had some of the same dreams she had, wishing they could be together. Why else would he have saved these particular things, and placed them so carefully among his collection of treasures?

But then she remembered last night, the images of Michael with others wounding her anew. He may have cared for her once, but now...

"Oh, Michael...." she sobbed. "Why did you stop loving me?"

Suddenly, a sound from the living room startled her, and she jumped to her feet, instantly alert. She froze, tensing, as she heard the front door open.

"Nikita?" a familiar male voice called urgently. "Nikita, are you there?"

Nikita sighed in relief, flooded with joy. He had come to see her. Maybe they could talk some more, maybe they could work things out, maybe he still loved her...

"In here, Michael!" she called out to him eagerly. "I'm in here!"

Footsteps approached down the hallway, and then he was there, standing in the door-frame, his face ravaged with grief, his eyes full of pain, but beautiful all the same. "Nikita..." he breathed, his voice full of longing.

She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing close. He held her tightly, pulling her into a desperate embrace. She felt him tremble in her arms, and then his words began. "Come away with me Nikita..." he whispered hoarsely. "We have to get out of here..."

Nikita felt her legs go weak, and she closed her eyes. At last, the words she had wanted to hear. At last, Michael wanted them to be together.

"Whatever you want, Michael," she whispered back, her heart soaring.

He groaned, and kissed her deeply, but his lips did not linger on hers. Taking her hand, he pulled her impatiently toward the door. "Let's go.." he urged.

They had only gone a few steps when a voice in the doorway stopped them in their tracks.

"That's not a good idea, Michael," the voice said firmly. "You can't go anywhere..."

Nikita froze, looking up at the lovely blonde woman blocking their path. Then she turned to the man by her side. "Michael, what is your wife doing here?" she gasped.

Michael ignored her question, staring at Karen. He moved out of Nikita's embrace, and to Nikita's astonishment, took his wife's hand gently in his.

"It's all right," he said soothingly to Karen. "I want you to come with us. I'm not leaving you......"

Karen's mouth fell open, stunned, but her shock was nothing compared to that of Nikita's, who stood rigidly silent, as the world faded to black, winked out, and then returned, as she almost fainted, then recovered.

Michael stared from one speechless, unmoving woman to the other.

"Please," he begged them urgently. "Please, let's just go...."

Still holding Karen's hand in his, he reached out the other to Nikita, to grip her arm and pull her to the door. Nikita flinched violently out of his grasp, and at last found her voice.

"You sick bastard!" she screamed at him, devastated. "You expect me to just join you and your wife in a menage a trois?" she sobbed brokenly. "Just how twisted ARE you?"

"Nikita..." Michael begged in a quavering voice that revealed his desperation. "I'll explain later. Just come with me now, please!"

"No!" she yelled, backing away from him, sobbing. "Whatever sick little games you and your WIFE want to play, just leave me out of it!"

She stared wildly from Michael to Karen, her eyes full of hurt, and fear.

To her astonishment, Karen came forward slowly and placed her hand lightly on Nikita's shoulder. Nikita stared at the other woman, bewildered.