The Oxford Booksellers was an old establishment. In fact, it fairly reeked of antiquity. It had been founded in the late 18th Century. Not really old by European standards, but certainly old enough to impress American ex-patriot Mary Raney.

At least, Mary Raney was her name . . . now. The U.S. government agency, which had to remain unnamed, had found it necessary to relocate her to England. It was hoped by all concerned that in the university city of Oxford she would be beyond the reach of the Donatello crime family. No one hoped this more than Mary herself. Two attempts had already been made on her life since she'd testified against her husband Nicholas and his family.

She'd always discounted the pejorative accounts about Italian-Americans. She'd never thought that marrying the son of a respected banker would land her at a long polished table in U.S. Senate, spelling out the truth behind the disgusting events she'd witnessed while married to Nicholas Donatello.

Mary had been in Oxford for a little over a month. She still felt uneasy when venturing away from the small quaint cottage, where she now lived. She'd been provided with enough money on which to live, but she'd thought she ought to work. For that reason, she was in the bookstore . . . to apply for a position.

As she wandered around the premises, noting the customers, she tried to ascertain, if there was anyone who didn't fit. She was still very cautious and had nearly talked herself out of applying several times. However, the appointment had been made, and she would keep it. There was a quiet corner in the far rear where two elderly men sat, reading the local newspaper and sipping their tea.

Once more, Mary looked at her watch, noting that it was time for her appointment with the shop manager. She rounded a carousel of books and tripped on a volume of Keats poetry that lay in the aisle. She would have fallen had not someone caught her arm and prevented it. She looked up into his green eyes and apologized, "Oh, I'm so sorry. It was very clumsy of me."

"Not at all. Are you all right?" he asked with a concerned expression on his handsome face.

"Y-yes," she stuttered. He wore the gown of a don at the university. It wasn't surprising, since the shop was adjacent to the school's grounds.

"I'm glad."

Mary noted that he had a slight French accent. It was unusual for an Oxford Don to be French. "You're French?" She couldn't control her curiosity, but her survival was dependent on curiosity and a suspicious mind. Anything or anyone out of place could pose a threat.

"I'm doing a course this year on French poets. This year it seems they are in vogue for those reading literature." He gave her a self-deprecating half-smile.

Dear heaven, Mary thought. They've set the wolf among the chickens. The effect of his quirked smile on her pulse was invigorating, to say the least. She could only imagine its effect on the female members of his classes.

She cleared her throat. "Well, again I apologize. I have to run. I've an appointment."

"Of course." He nodded, stepping back and allowing her to pass.

In her confusion, Mary rushed for the front door, then red- faced had to turn around and return to the front counter. She could see him still watching her . . . and smiling that half smile.

"May I be of some assistance, madam?" the clerk behind the counter asked in very formal manner.

He was short, bald and had merry blue eyes that twinkled at her. "Yes, yes, you may. I'm here to see the manager about a position," she responded, after turning once more to see the stranger. He was leaving the shop. She sighed. Even in the loose black gown, his back looked straight, and his shoulders were broad. His overall appearance was quite athletic, not at all the esthete one would expect to be teaching a course in French poets at Oxford.

"I'll tell him you're here, Miss--?"

"Raney, Mary Raney. Thank you." She paused, then asked, "Do you know that gentleman that just left?"

The clerk smiled and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "Yes, he's only here for a term. He's been in a few times, and his name is . . . . Let's see here," he began thumbing through index cards, "Durand, Michael Durand.

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

Michael looked at the ancient stone buildings and felt the weight of the centuries past. The measure of his life seemed insignificant when compared with the history of that place, the vast span of time, the multitude of feet that had crossed the same paths. Europe always affected him that way. America and Canada were still brash and rough when compared to the antiquities of his homeland or here. The unparalleled architecture, the permanence, all called out to him. This could have been his world.

He looked at the hallowed walls of education as they surrounded him on the quadrangle and thought what might have been had he not chosen the wrong path in University. Would he have been content with the academic life for which he'd been intended?

Could he have lived the contemplative life of a teacher, imparting his knowledge to those whose thirst for learning was superficial when compared to his own?

Academe was not the only option he'd had. He could've chosen research and development. In that profession, he could've accumulated a fortune by now. Instead, he'd allowed his anger to dominate him, allowed his heart to rule. He'd followed Rene Dian. Protester, terrorist, bomber, murderer. Now, Class Five operative for Section One, Michael was still a killer . . . for the most covert agency on the planet. His life, even emotions, were not his own.

Michael had loved three times: Simone, Elena, and Nikita. But for Section One he would never have met them. Simone, his first love, his first wife, they had met sparked and mated with the exuberance of youth, damning the consequences. Simone had seemingly died on a mission. It was only after three years that he'd learned she'd been held hostage, Section One refusing to ransom her. Simone had committed suicide, eschewing rescue.

His marriage to Elena had been a mission, but he'd come to love her anyway. He'd been forced to marry her while still married to Simone. Her father was a broker for terrorists. Elena was Vacek's only weakness. When Simone had died, he'd eventually turned to Elena for comfort. His pose had became real. Their son Adam had been born, cementing the relationship in ways he'd never dreamed possible. It lacked the snapping passion he'd shared with Simone, but the tenderness he'd felt for Elena had been real. She'd been a good wife to him, giving him a too brief glimpse of what a normal life might have been like. Michael and her father, Sala Vacek, had been assassinated in front of her eyes. That had been the exit strategy from the marriage and mission. Elena and his son Adam had buried an empty coffin and mourned a fraud. Michael would bear the guilt and pain of their misery for the rest of his life.

Michael walked along the ancient flagstones toward his quarters on the far side of the quadrangle. He opened the heavy carved door and walked down the hall to his rooms. He inserted the key in the lock, turned it and opened the door. A slight musty smell of age, filled his nostrils. He walked to the window to open it. Something wasn't right, he sensed it. He quickly surveyed the sitting room. Nothing was out of place. He walked to the bedroom. A long, sinewy blonde lay sleeping on his bed.

Nikita, his third love. He walked to her side and sat on the bed, gently, so as not to disturb her. He moved an errant strand of hair that had fallen across her face. Nikita opened her eyes and smiled.

"What are you doing here?" he asked softly.

"Madeline thought you might be lonesome."

Michael couldn't prevent a small smile. "We are talking about the same Madeline, aren't we?" he asked.

"Well, it sounded good," Nikita snorted. I had a drop-off in London. Madeline suggested that I stop by Oxford and see how things were progressing on your end."

"Things are progressing, slowly. I finally made contact with Mary Raney today. She's been very reluctant to leave her cottage. That's how things are going," he said ruefully. Given the high tech state of Section One's communications, Michael was suspicious of Madeline's motives in sending Nikita to him. Was it a trap? Why was Madeline making it so easy for him and Nikita to be together?

***********

"So what's the profile on this mission, Michael? Madeline wasn't exactly in a sharing mood." Nikita arranged her body in a pose that she felt was moderately seductive. She was still unsure of where things were headed with Michael. He'd agreed that it couldn't be casual between them, but he'd made no further moves, either. Trying to figure him out was like trying to work the NY Times crossword puzzle while blindfolded. He had so many layers, so many secrets. True, she knew some of them, but she wasn't sure if she'd ever know all of them. "Well?" she prodded.

She watched Michael's inner debate. He was most likely assessing what and how much to tell her. What did she need to know?

Finally, Michael began to speak. "My cover is that of a French poet. I'm offering a course this term on the analysis of 18th Century French poetry. Mary Raney is an American who has been relocated by the Agency, after testifying before the U.S. Senate on the activities of the Donatello crime family."

"But why you, what does Section One need from her?"

"Her husband's family had drug connections and through those connections some terrorist connections. She's been marked for death by her husband's family. The Agency feels that there are still details that she didn't reveal. It's my role to determine whether or not this is true and what the details are, if it is."

Nikita swallowed dryly. "I see. I'm just guessing here, Michael, but this is another one of those seduction scenarios, isn't it?"

"If necessary."

"Great," Nikita said softly, "just great." As many times as she'd known Michael to perform in seduction profiles, she'd never gotten used to it. Oh, she knew it didn't mean anything, usually, but it still sucked. At least, he didn't look too thrilled about it.

"So what's your new girlfriend look like, Michael?"

"Petite, dark hair, dark eyes. She's attractive."

"She sounds like just your type," Nikita murmured in a brittle tone.

"Ni-ki-ta," he protested.

"Well, I see now why Madeline asked me to drop in. She just needed to rub my nose in it once more. Lovely woman." Nikita shut her eyes and sighed.

Michael stood and walked to the far side of the small room. He sat down in a lumpy chintz-covered chair, distancing himself from her.

"Michael, don't," she pleaded, reaching toward him.

"We agreed it couldn't be casual between us, Nikita. I can't go from you to her and back to you." He shook his head, unable to say more.

"I don't understand the mental processes you have to go through to do this, Michael, but I know you don't have a choice. I understand that now, but it still hurts."

"You're not the only one it hurts, Nikita."

Nikita rose from the bed, crossed the room and knelt before him, resting her head on his knees. "I know, Michael."

Michael stroked her hair, a touch so soft and tender that it brought tears to her eyes.

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

"Why does Section One treat you this way, Michael? You're too good an operative to waste on scenarios like this."

Michael gave Nikita a wry smile. "It's because I'm so good at it," he said bitterly. "Besides, it keeps us from becoming too close. Keeps us off-balance. Keeps them in control."

Nikita nodded in agreement, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "Michael, do you think we'll ever be free?"

Michael closed his eyes. Would they ever be free? It was a question he'd often pondered. Freedom, what was it? Michael opened his eyes to see Nikita watching him intently.

"I don't know," he replied hoarsely. He could see the love and desire in her blue eyes, shining with unshed tears. He hoped she could see the same in his. He wanted to give her hope, but not false hope. He didn't want manipulation to be a part of the relationship they were trying to piece together. With or without the approval of Section One, he and Nikita had formed an irrevocable bond, forged in the fires of fear, desperation, passion . . . and trust.

"The chances are good that I will take over after Operations," he began, almost afraid to voice his desire aloud.

"You-you'd be Operations then?"

"Yes."

Michael watched as a slow smile spread across Nikita's face. He hated to crush her hopes. "Transitions in power are not without difficulty."

"No, Operations and Madeline sided against Adrian when they took control away from her." Awareness dawned in Nikita's face. "That's why they try to keep us apart now. They're afraid we'll . . . ."

"That may be a good bit of it, Nikita. We're an excellent team. We've already demonstrated our ability as leaders. We would have the loyalty of the other operatives. That was illustrated clearly when Operations was poisoned."

"We're their worst nightmare," Nikita snickered. "They see themselves in us . . . the way they used to be. "How long, Michael?"

Michael shrugged, "Who knows? Too many things can happen between now and then."

"Yeah, one of us could be killed on a mission. I could be held prisoner somewhere like Simone. Operations would probably like that."

Michael knew that Operations had never liked Nikita's lack of discipline or propensity for compassion. Ironically, the leader of Section One had liked Simone. She'd been focused and relentless when on a mission. Compassion played very little role in Simone's emotional makeup. Those were the traits that Operations admired. However, Michael knew that discretion was the better part of valor and thought better of sharing his knowledge with Nikita. Operations' approval of Simone had not prevented him from eliminating her when she'd become inconvenient.

"It's his one failure as a leader, Nikita. You're his blind spot. He's short-sighted when it comes to you. That could be his downfall," he suggested.

"Me?'

Michael nodded. "You," he said quietly. Then deciding a change of subject was in order, he asked, "How long can you stay?" Her presence was a soothing balm to his soul. He wondered if she realized it.

"I have to make a connection in two hours," Nikita said, rising from where she'd been kneeling at his feet.

"Let's go for a walk. I'll show you part of the grounds. It's beautiful here," he suggested, anything to get her out of his rooms. He wanted to make love . . . long slow, agonizingly slow love . . . to her.

Nikita seemed to understand. She reached out her hand to him.

"Let's go."

She pulled him to his feet. He placed his arm around her waist, pulling her close, and placed a kiss on her forehead. It was a brief moment in time, bittersweet, but sweet nonetheless. Understanding flowed between them. Passion restrained, waiting for the right time to be unleashed.

***********

Mary's interview had gone smoothly. She now had a job, or position as the Brits would say. She would start the next day. Mary's independent nature refused to be stifled by the threats of the Donatello family. She walked along the tree-lined street toward her cottage. It actually had a thatched roof. She supposed it was a fire hazard, but it was incredibly romantic. Too bad. Romance didn't appear to be a factor in her life in the near or distant future.

She was too honest to build a relationship on lies, and the truth was forbidden by the government agency that had relocated her. Hopefully, the nightmare of the past was over, and she could form a new life here in the ancient city of Oxford.

She could see that she might be lonely for a while. By nature, she was quiet and reflective, caring only for her books and music. Her favorite pursuits were another difference between her and her former family. She'd never been certain why Christopher Donatello had been attracted to her in the first place. She knew she wasn't particularly beautiful. Oh, her features were regular, but she'd never been mistaken for a cover girl. Mary laughed to herself . . . and at herself. The musician and the banker's son, she must've been out of her mind.

At five feet and one inch, she was shorter than virtually every adult on the planet. She had dark brown hair, cut short in a seventies Hamill bob, and almond-shaped dark brown eyes. Her skin was good, but too dark for her to be mistaken as a Brit. Indeed, her skin tanned if she even thought about the sun. She seldom wore makeup. It was easier to remain non-rescript than to put on a show and attract attention.

Mary reached the gate to her cottage and opened it. She waved at her neighbor on the right, an elderly woman, but very spry. She was a Miss Jane Marple type, if Mary had ever seen one. Her neighbor paused from tending her roses, nodding in response. After all, they hadn't been introduced, yet. Miss Marple, wore a somewhat frayed, wide-brimmed straw hat, gardening gloves and a pale blue print dress. Mary couldn't imagine gardening in anything but jeans or shorts, but the older woman belonged here. She wasn't a transplant like herself.

Mary continued to walk toward her front door, but was amazed to hear Miss Marple address her.

"I say, there. Would you care for some advice on your rear garden? The last tenants neglected it shamefully," her neighbor sniffed, letting Mary know exactly what she thought of that.

Mary turned and smiled. "I'd love it. I'm Ma-Mary Raney," she stuttered, almost forgetting her new name.

Miss Marple's face wreathed in a smile. "Oh, good. I didn't want to intrude, but the garden used to be so lovely, especially in the summer. Well, spring and fall, too, actually. Goodness, I'm being rude. I'm Hermione Griswald. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance. You're American, aren't you?"

At last, her neighbor had a name. "Yes, Mrs. Griswald. Yes, I am." Mary hoped she would ask anymore questions . . . at least not before she had time to think of more plausible answers.

"You must call me Mina. I'm an old maid and a busy-body. Everyone will tell you that. Now, I'm not going to keep you standing out here in the sun. You must come over tomorrow for tea. We'll get acquainted then. I've been quite curious about you since you moved in." Then Mina laughed, "See, I told you I was an old busy-body."

Mary hesitated, hating to rebuff her new acquaintance. "I'm afraid I'm starting to work tomorrow at a bookstore. I'll be working until five, possibly later."

Mina smiled. "That's quite all right. I live very informally. Come over after your work day ends. We'll have a nice little chat.

Mary was surprised, but answered quickly, "Yes, I will then. Thank you. See you tomorrow then." She nodded, then turned, walking toward her front door. She'd always heard how reserved and formal the British were, but her neighbor seemed quite the opposite. Maybe, the poor old thing was lonely. Mary knew she would enjoy a little social interaction of the non-threatening kind. She might actually come to love Oxford.

**********

Nikita savored her walk with Michael, his hand at her waist, possessing her with a simple touch. It amazed her how he could do that. She inhaled his uniquely natural scent­clean, light and woodsy. It reminded her of autumn leaves, clinging to tree branches, piles of them waiting to be raked.

When she was nine, she and her mother had once stayed at a small cottage, with one of her mother's friends, of course. It had been surrounded by tall maples. The leaves had been glorious in their shades of gold, orange and red. Her mother Roberta, her mother's friend Fred, and she had spent one entire weekend raking them into piles. She had dived into one gigantic stack of them, scattering them everywhere, then raking them again with renewed joy. It had been a wonderful weekend. Fred had been a really nice man, but her mother's thirst and itchy feet had taken them away from security back to the mean streets of the city.

Now, walking with Michael in the old part of Oxford, Nikita was reminded of that other good time. Good times were all too brief in her cache of memories. This time, so ordinary in deed, an innocent walk with Michael, was so rare. His hair was starting to grow longer, curling in unruly curls around his ears and neck. He attempted to keep it severely groomed while in Section. She loved it when he allowed it to curl the way nature had intended. More than once, she'd had to resist the temptation to reach up and twine the curls around her fingers.

"I had no idea Oxford University was so large, Michael. It's beautiful," she said, instead of God, Michael, you're so beautiful I could just cry.

"Yes, there are over a dozen colleges associated with Oxford. As you can see the architecture is a continuum from medieval times to present day. It's a unique environment," he said softly.

Nikita stopped and took in his appearance. He'd changed from his ‘teaching gear' into a navy and green rugby shirt and khaki shorts. His muscular thighs and calves were tanned. She wondered when he'd found time to lie in the sun. Somehow she couldn't imagine Michael as a sun-lizard. "You've gotten a tan?"

Michael flashed one of his too rare smiles, displaying perfect white teeth in his tanned face. "One of the other resident instructors plays tennis. He needed a partner."

Nikita was relieved at the he needed a partner. Still somewhat jealous and insecure by nature, she felt possessive. It was a waste really, no one could possess another, especially a man like Michael. Section One held Michael because of his son Adam . . . and in all likelihood because Michael felt he didn't deserve any better.

Turning to him, she reached out and smoothed the white collar of his rugby shirt. "I have to leave now, if I'm going to make my connection."

Michael wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She could feel his body's automatic response, just as she could feel his heart racing against her breast. She luxuriated in the sensation of being close to him, being desired by him. Lying her head on his shoulder, her arms circling his chest, she sighed, mourning that the time allotted for her visit was so brief. Damn Madeline, she thought.

"I wish you could stay, but it's better if you go," he murmured gently, his head nestling against hers.

"I know." Pulling away from him just enough to gaze into his crystal green eyes, she added with a wry smile, "Keep in touch?"

"Yeah." The corner of his mouth quirked up in a half grin. They both knew he wouldn't communicate with her until the mission was completed.

As one, they turned, to walk back toward Nikita's car, Michael's arm around her waist and her head lying on his shoulder. "Is there any risk in the mission profile, Michael?" she asked as they walked.

"Very little."

"How long will you be here?"

Michael shrugged. "It all depends on how long it takes me to get close to Mary Raney."

"Well, I hope it doesn't take too long," she replied pensively. "After all, you're pretty uh," she paused, not knowing quite how to say it. "You're pretty persuasive."

The left corner of Michael's mouth quirked up, this time in a rueful grimace, while he looked into the distance. "It's a job, Nikita. That's all."

Too soon, they were at the car park. Nikita leaned against the door, pulling Michael to her for a final take-no-prisoners, good-bye kiss. She intended for him to remember her. His tongue swept into her mouth seeking hers. Her hands on his buttocks pulled him even closer. She could feel his need, his manhood pressing into her thigh. She gloried in his passion for her. It was tangible.

Michael broke the passionate kiss, then gazing into her eyes, brushed back a strand of hair from her face. "You have to go."

"I know." Nikita took a deep breath in an attempt to regain some measure of control, turned to unlock the car door, her hands shaking. "See how you effect me, Michael?" She grinned at her own seeming helplessness.

Michael smiled, again, took the keys from her hand and expertly fitted it into the lock, opening the door with ease.

Nikita slid in smoothly, allowing him a tempting glimpse of her thighs.

"Your effect on me is a little more direct." He looked down at the front of his shorts and shrugged.

Nikita giggled. "Are you gonna be okay?" She really couldn't leave him standing on the street in that condition, could she?

"Eventually."

"Uh, want to sit in the car until uh . . . ?"

"I don't think sitting next to you in the car will resolve this. Perhaps, I could stand here, and we could talk for a minute or two?"

Nikita knew she was enjoying Michael's discomfiture a little too much, but she'd never seem him quite so rampant in the broad daylight. "Mmm? Maybe you could take some deep cleansing breaths? That always helps me relax," she suggested with a grin.

The stricken look on Michael face warned her. "Oops. That's a bad choice of words, I guess," she giggled.

"Yes," he answered hoarsely.

"A water hose?"

"Ni-ki-ta."

His voice grew more tense with each jest she made. She ought to stop, but she was having too much fun. "Uh, sorry."

Another agonizingly slow three minutes passed. Michael sighed, glaring at bit at her. She drummed her nails on the steering wheel. "I think you're okay now," she said, giving a pointed look at the area in question.

"I know."

"Well, I guess this is really it, then." Nikita fitted the key into the ignition and turned it, the car roaring to life. "Want a lift back to your quarters?"

"No," he responded tersely. Then, leaning in the car window, he ruffled the top of her head and said. "Take care."

"I will. You, too." Nikita blew him a last kiss, then maneuvered the car into the street. She watched him in her rear view mirror, still standing in the car park, shaking his head. I hate Madeline. I hate her. I hate her became her mantra on the way to her pickup point and then all the way back to Section One. I hate her. I hate her.

**********

It was six o'clock and time for the bookstore to close.

There were two customers still immersed in the stacks. Newly hired Mary Raney supposed that it would be impolite if she asked them to hurry along. She walked to the front door and locked it with the old-fashioned brass key to prevent any late comers from entering. When she returned to the counter, she found one of her two stragglers ready to check-out. He was a bluff and hardy man, red-faced and barrel-chested, with a fringe of sandy red hair that curled around his shiny pate. He had a stack of paper-back murder mysteries six inches high.

"Will that be all, sir?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss, that'll be the lot. I love these thrillers. Love to see if I can outguess the detective in the story," he said, giving her a smile that showed the gap between his two front incisors. "You're a Yank, aren't you?"

"Yes," she admitted freely. "I suppose my accent gave me away."

Her customer nodded vigorously. "Yes, indeed, Miss. It certainly did. Pardon me for mentioning it," his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "but will you be all right here alone with that other gentleman? He doesn't seem quite right to me, if you know what I mean."

Mary looked over his shoulder. It was the French poetry professor from the day before. It surprised her that she hadn't noticed him when he'd entered the store.

Mary smiled and nodded, dropping her voice in the same fashion. "I've seen him in here before. I think he's pretty harmless. He teaches French Poetry."

Her protective customer bobbed his head and shrugged. "Takes all kinds, I suppose. Good evening, Miss."

"Good evening, Mr.--?" she paused, not knowing her sociable customer's name.

"Story, Matthew Story, at your service. I'll see you again. I'm a frequent patron here. Love those thrillers," he added with an innocuous smile, then turned and walked toward the front door. Mary followed Mr. Story to the door, unlocking it, allowing him to leave. She noted that the earlier sprinkle of rain had turned into a downpour. Damn! She'd forgotten her umbrella. She really wasn't acclimated to the frequency with which it rained in England. Now she would be soaked before she reached her cosy cottage.

Once more, she returned to her place behind the counter. It was now ten minutes after six. She supposed her new acquaintance Mina Griswold would have given her up for tea. She busied herself with straightening the counter, putting away all non-essential items, while waiting for her last customer to complete his browsing.

The manager of the shop was ensconced in his office working on the computer. No matter, she'd just have to wait until the poet was ready to check-out. She went toward the back of the shop and cleared away the coffee and tea paraphernalia. She was hoping he would take the hint. He did. He came walking gracefully toward her with an apologetic look on his face.

"Pardon moi, but I am keeping you. The store is ready to close, n'est-ce pas?"

Luckily, Mary retained enough of her high school French to understand him. "That's okay. I'm going to have to wait a while now till the rain lets up a bit. I forgot my umbrella. It was such a beautiful morning, I didn't drive my car."

"Please allow me to take you home. I am the one who kept you here so late," he offered in, what seemed to her, a very earnest manner.

"Oh, no. I couldn't. Please, I don't want you to think I was hinting for a ride. I'm so embarrassed," Mary admitted in a rush of emotion. She could feel the flush spread up her neck. Hopefully, her dark complexion would prevent him from seeing exactly how mortified she was.

"It would be my pleasure, Madame."

She hesitated. She certainly didn't know a thing about him, not really. What if he were someone hired by her husband's family? Worst case scenario, what if he were a serial killer? Her brain cried caution, but the way her heart had sped up at his approach, told her something else was going on.

After juggling his books from right to left, he held his right hand toward her. "I'm Michael Durand." His smile was spontaneous and easy.

She knew she needed to make a quick decision. "I'm Mary Raney," she said, offering him her hand. He shook it briefly. His grasp was firm, but gentle . . . and warm.

"All right. Now, uh, I need to ring up your purchases and give the key to the manager before I leave." That should put him on his guard. The manager would see her leaving with him, just in case her body washed up on some distant shore. At least,the authorities would have a witness. She knew she was being rash, but he was a devilishly attractive man . . . and it was still pouring buckets outside.

She felt him continue watching her as she nervously keyed in his order. Hm. A volume of Molière's work, German philosophy in the original language, as well as one by popular mystery writer, Dick Francis. "You certainly have eclectic tastes, Mr. Durand."

Again the million-watt smile was aimed at her. "Oui, I like to read a little bit of everything."

"Well, that's it then. It comes to £15 even."

Michael handed her the required pound notes in exchange for his books. Mary retrieved her leather bag from underneath the counter. She then turned from his piercing gaze, taking the key to the manager, who rose wearily from his spreadsheets. He followed them to the front door, unlocking and re-locking it behind them.

Michael unfurled his umbrella and positioned it over their heads. It was a tremendously large black affair, easily capable of sheltering two individuals from the downpour. Mary was unsettled by his proximity. The brush of his arm across her shoulders while he held the umbrella over their heads nearly made her jump. They walked the short distance to where Michael's car was parked. He paused, patting his pockets in search of his keys, then smiled on finding them.

"I'm a little absent-minded when it comes to my keys," he said in a sheepish tone.

"Me too," Mary admitted.

Michael unlocked and opened the door, keeping the umbrella poised carefully over her head as she slid inside the small black Citroën. She watched as he hurried around to the driver's side, which she quickly reached over and unlatched from the inside.

"Merci," he said smoothly as he placed the key in the ignition and turned it.

She loved his accent . . . and his voice. Oh, my, she thought, His voice was sultry . . . and the timbre! Sometimes it was silken, sometimes velvet, but always memorable. As a musician, the tonality of his voice reminded her of the cello, stirring and sensual. Geez, she thought, I'm getting way ahead of myself. Here I am, riding home with a stranger, and I'm nearly ready to plan how many children we'll have. Luckily, he couldn't read her thoughts.

He cleared his throat. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of response from her. Oh, Lord! He needed directions to her cottage­-unless he really could read her mind!

"You'll need to...." She began giving him the instructions he needed to take her home. After finishing, she apologized, "I'm sorry. I haven't been out much since I moved here. I've been very busy settling in and finding a job."

"You're new to the area?" he asked.

"Yes, I've only been in the country few weeks." She was afraid he would ask more questions, but he simply nodded and continued driving, expertly with an economy of motion.

As Michael turned down the lane to her cottage, she began to wonder if she should invite him in for tea or coffee. Surely, she should. After all, he'd come out of his way to help her.

He pulled to a smooth stop in front of her thatched-roof cottage. He seemed to be waiting. "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea or coffee?" she asked, finally summoning her courage.

An regretful smile crossed his face. "Désolé. Time does not permit me tonight. I have a seminar to give in about thirty minutes. Some other time, perhaps?"

Mary was more disappointed than she wanted to admit. "Another time then," she said, quickly opening her door.

She was about to make a run for it, when she heard him say, "Wait." He rushed around to her side of the car with the umbrella and held it over her head once more, walking her to the front door.

It was her turn to fish for the keys. She dug around in her purse, finally locating them in the very bottom. She looked up into his jade eyes, feeling like she was going to melt from the intensity of his gaze.

"Thank you, again," she said, averting her eyes to fit the key into the lock. She turned the key, unlocking the door, and twisted the brass door knob, and opened the door. She turned once more to him, offering her hand. She was stunned when he pressed it to his lips, instead of shaking it. "Oh, my," was all she could manage to say.

"Au revoir, Mary Raney. I'll see you again?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure, uh, okay. Yes, that'll be fine." Mary was appalled at her callow responses, but he had totally destroyed any vestige of composure by kissing her hand in such a courtly manner. She barely managed to stumble in the door, waving good-bye with a hand gone limp. She watched as he turned and walked toward his car. She shut the door, and leaning against it began to seriously hyperventilate.

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

Madeline reviewed the details of Michael's status report. His second meeting with Mary Raney had gone well. Due to the fortuitous juxtaposition of unforeseen events, a downpour at closing time and no car, the subject had actually allowed Michael to take from home from the book shop. Although Madeline had trained Michael herself, she'd never ceased to marvel at his POS in seduction scenarios. Mary Raney had been profiled as quite paranoid and cautious. Yet, Michael had been able to accomplish this much in two meetings. Michael always knew when to soft-peddle his advances, and when to push.

Operations hadn't been thrilled with her idea to use Michael, but when she pointed out that the relationship between Michael and Nikita was intensifying, he'd made no further objections. It would test Michael's ability to perform, which Madeline never doubted. It would also test Nikita's strength of purpose. Nikita had never functioned successfully in a seduction scenario, not without mind-control and drug enhancements. While Nikita would deny it, she had the unfortunate characteristic emotionality of a romantic.

Operations' story about his father's retrievers, using a system of rewards and punishments to maintain control over them, had been informative. However, Operations was short-sighted. "Eventually, one of them had to be put to sleep." Madeline knew that the loss of either operative would be catastrophic. As already demonstrated, Michael would become virtually useless to them if Nikita were lost or canceled. Canceling Michael would be an even greater error in judgement, given Michael's skills and potential.

Madeline reviewed the intel from the recent Zalman mission. Michael had chosen to take Nikita with him, and there had been no surveillance at the farmhouse. Had the pair finally consummated their new relationship? Knowing Michael as well as she did, Madeline doubted it. Michael had been very restrained in any demonstration of affection toward Nikita. The tapes from the Armel mission, however, had indicated a certain intensity based on familiarity. The more she thought about it, the Armel mission couldn't have been their first time together. It was their first documented time together. And they did perform well. There was no doubt about that.

Madeline considered Nikita's state of mind at the farmhouse. She imagined that Nikita would have been more than willing. Given Michael's natural caution, knowing it was a mission, he would not allow himself the luxury of using Nikita's feelings in such a casual manner. Madeline also knew that had she been alone in the farmhouse with Michael, the outcome would have been different. She would've brushed aside his objections and code of honor and taken full advantage of the situation. Of course, she didn't have Nikita's romantic sensibilities.

A sensor alerted her that Nikita had entered her access code at the door. She hit the remote, allowing the younger operative to enter. Nikita was dressed in a long pencil-slim black skirt, topped with a black blouse that stopped short of the waist, exposing an inch of Nikita's abdomen. Madeline watched her creation as she gracefully walked down the three steps. Tall and blonde, Nikita possessed the chameleonic ability to be as elegant as a runway model or as grungy and gauche as the street kid she'd once been. Nikita had presented quite a challenge during her early recruitment period. Rebellious, undisciplined and always vulnerable, Nikita had been worth the effort in spite of her these faults.

"Yes, Nikita?" Madeline said, acknowledging her presnce. Nikita had been back from Oxford for more than twenty-four hours. Her debrief had been spectacularly uninformative, to say the least. "What is it?" she prodded. Nikita continued to look around the office, looking uncomfortable. Finally, Nikita slumped into the chair across from her, opened her mouth as if to speak, but didn't. "Obviously there's something on your mind? Are you going to tell me what it is, or shall I start guessing? I have several important missions in live status, so I would appreciate brevity."

"Michael--" Nikita began.

"What about Michael, Nikita?"

Nikita's face flushed, as she asked, "I was wondering why an operative of his status is being wasted on sucn a low priority mission?"

Madeline leaned back, disguising her astonishment at Nikita's question. "You should know by now the priority level of a mission is not yours to judge. However in the spirit of educating you, I will explain. The subject Mary Raney is known to be highly cautious, nearly paranoid in making new contacts. It was determined by the profiler that only an operative as expeienced as Michael would be effective in getting close to her in the shortest amount of time. Michael has already demonstrated that the profile was on target in this instance."

"But I thought he'd only . . . . "

"Nikita is this a professional concern or personal? Michael's been involved in this type scenario many times. It appears that is this a problem for you. Is there something you want to tell me about your relationship with Michael?"

Nikita straightened up in her chair. "No, it's a professional concern only."

"I see, " Madeline said, nodding her head. "Then in a professional sense, you know as much as you need to know. Any other consideration should be immaterial."

Nikita rose, "Thank you for the education, Madeline. I'll leave you to your live missions."

Madeline allowed Nikita to reach the second step before stopping her with one more question. "Are you going to be able to handle Michael's seductions, given the state of your relationship, Nikita?"

Nikita paused before turning. "I don't know what you mean, Madeline."

"I mean that Simone was very focused. She understood the nature of the demands that Section placed on Michael. She was able to separate the operative from the man. "

Nikita to address her and snorted, "And look where it got her. She's just as dead for all her vaunted objectivity and focus."

Madeline allowed Nikita to leave unimpeded by further questions. It was satisfying to know that she'd ruffled Nikita's equanimity. Nikita always spoke her true feelings for all her intentions to keep them to herself. It had the advantage of keeping Madeline at least one step ahead. She permitted herself a discreet smile.

*********

Mary returned to her cottage after tea and a charming visit with Mina Griswald. The heavy rain hitting the thatched roof, made a sound unlike any other. It was so soothing that within five minutes of sitting down in front of the fire with a new book in hand, she fell asleep.

Somehow Mary knew she was dreaming. Being in a mist-filled valley with steep mountains on either side seemed to be a clue that she was not anywhere she'd ever been before. She was sitting by a gentle stream that murmured messages to those with the patience to listen. Then in the surreal way that things always seem to happen in the world of dreams, the innocent brook became a roaring river. The head of a monstrous red dragon emerged from the depths and looked about . . . for a meal?

She opened her mouth and tried to scream, but no sound came out. She'd never considered being a dragon's lunch as one of her life goals, but it appeared likely that it was about to happen.

By this time, she fervently hoped she really was dreaming. She scrambled up the steep bank away from the dragon, ripping the hem of her diaphanous gown. Her movements caught the eye of the dragon. His claws unsheathed, and he flapped his transparent wings, raising his heavy body from the river, and settled on a piece of rocky ground between the river and the dark forest.

He wasn't very big as dream dragons go, but he certainly looked capable of snapping her up in one gulp. He began waddling toward her, claws clicking ominously against the rock-strewn path.

The mists roiled around the dragon's maw as he began to belch fire and smoke in anticipation of his meal, or maybe it was a scare tactic. If so, it worked! Where's a white knight when you need one? she asked the Universe. The Universe responded, sort of . . . . Immediately, she could hear the sound of a steed in full gallop. The black stallion and his black-armored knight appeared on the scene. At this point, she wasn't going to be picky. If her knight in shining armor turned out to be riding a black horse and in slightly dull armor, that was pretty much okay. As long as he knew what to do with his long sword.

Quickly, the knight demonstrated his skill. He knew exactly what to do with his sword. It only took three slashes through the air, and the head of the dragon lay at her feet, only to roll topsy-turvy into the roaring river. Once the dragon was slain, the river returned to being the sweetly murmuring stream it had been only dream minutes before.

The dark knight dismounted and bowed before her.

"Thank you, kind knight, for you have saved my life. Everything I have is yours." Did she really say that? Well it was a dream. It simply had to be.

"And what have you, fair maiden, to offer me?" the dark knight asked, removing his helm, showing his handsome, but unsmiling face. His green eyes shown with the fire of diamonds. Clearly this was no namby-pamby white knight. No, indeed.

"Only myself , Sir Knight. I would be a true and loyal wife to you."

A look of sadness crossed the knight's face. "I cannot accept your precious gift. Your heart is true and light, while mine is dark and full of evil."

"No, it cannot be. You saved my life. I am yours." Mary's dream self began to weep and wail. It was definitely a dream. She knew she'd never act so lame in real life.

The knight glanced over his shoulder toward a tall tower, suddenly piercing through the mists. "Only one can fill my heart with light, and she lies prisoner in yon turret ensorceled to do the will of an evil magician."

"Then you must free her and save her as you did me."

"She cannot be mine until all the evil in the world has been vanquished. Such is my task. I fear I must continue my journey. I wish you well, fair maiden." The dark knight bowed over her hand and kissed it. "Farewell, I would that you find happiness soon."

"I wish you Godspeed on your mission, Sir Knight and that you free your heart's love from the spell."

Wordlessly, the dark knight bowed once more. Then mounting his dream steed, he rode away, disappearing forever into the mists.

Mary looked at the slain dragon and in direction of the dark knight. She shrugged and said, "Wouldn't you just know? All the good knights are already taken."

Mary awoke, not with a start, heart racing, or soaked with perspiration. She awoke giggling. The stimulus for her dream was only too apparent. She dismissed the Freudian symbolism with another giggle. Did he know how to use his sword? Well, she doubted very seriously if she would ever find out, in spite of his inviting eyes and easy smile. He probably was already taken.

He was too handsome and too kind not to be.

She knew her fantasies were getting out of hand, but how in the world would she get him out of her dreams?

**********

Nikita left Madeline's office, not trusting herself to stay there a minute longer. There'd been times in the past when she'd looked upon Madeline as an icon on which to model herself. However, that had been during her early days in Section One, when her very survival depended on how well she absorbed Madeline's lessons. She hadn't made the mistake of underestimating the older woman in a very long time.

Madeline was utterly ruthless when it came to keeping a mission running. Yet Nikita knew that she'd benefitted from Madeline's softening influence on Operations.

Now that she and Michael were emotionally closer than they'd ever been, it seemed that Operations and Madeline contrived to keep them physically apart. The frustration was maddening, at least it was to her. She'd told Michael she couldn't do the casual sex thing with him. He'd indicated he understood. Now, he was undercover in Oxford, preparing to seduce another innocent. Here she was sitting here on her bum, twiddling her thumbs. Passivity was not her strong suit. Perhaps, a little visit with Birkoff was called for. Maybe, she could speed things up a bit?

Nikita turned toward the direction of Systems, Birkoff's hang-out. The cold steel gray walls surrounded her. It was a good thing she wasn't claustrophobic. The first time she'd realized she was five-hundred feet below ground, she'd nearly lost it. Initially, the enormity of her situation had been overwhelming. Now, it was just another day at the office.

Birkoff looked up at her approach. "I'm busy, Nikita."

Nikita leaned over Birkoff's keyboard. "Seymour, you know you always have time for a friend," she said seductively.

Birkoff shook his head nervously. "Not when you come after me with that tone of voice, I don't. It always means trouble . . . for me. The last time I gave you a break, I ended up in the white room, attached to a lie-detector."

"Now, Birkoff, I told you I was sorry about that. You know I was trying to protect a friend." She leaned closer and whispered, "I just need a little information, Birkoff."

"Oh, yeah. Like what? Want to know where Michael is, I suppose? I can't tell you, it's classified."

"I already know where Michael is," Nikita said in an exasperated tone. "He's in Oxford. I want to know about his target, Mary Raney."

"Jealous, Nikita?" he asked sarcastically, but ducking in advance of her wrath.

Nikita pursed her lips and asked him pointedly, "I wonder if Operations would like to know who programmed his stereo system to play, "I've got a date with a red hot momma tonight" over and over and over?"

"Okay, okay!" Birkoff's fingers flew over the keyboard. "Here you go. This is all I have access to." He hit a save button and seconds later handed her a small disc. "You've never seen this before, and I never gave it to you."

Nikita smiled. At least there was one man she could bend to her will. "Thanks, Seymour," she said, blowing him a kiss. "I won't forget this."

"See that you do forget it, Nikita," he hissed, shaking his head. "I don't like lie detectors."

"Neither do I," she agreed with a grin.

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

Michael watched the seminar attendees leave. He wondered what the students would think if they knew his real line of work. A cover as a French poet, wasn't too difficult to perfect. He'd always been fond of French poetry. The language was perfect for rhyming, or not as the case may be.

One female student stood a few feet away, watching him stow away the remainder of his notes in a black leather briefcase. He'd noticed her during the seminar. Her incessant questions had tried his patience. She was of medium height with long, straight brown hair and fine gray eyes. He found the rest of her facial features ordinary, but not unattractive. No, it was the underlying air of desperation about her that had set his nerves on edge.

He tried to ignore her. She flipped her long hair over her shoulder before addressing him, with a shy smile and an outstretched hand. "M. Durand, I'm Caroline Tweed. I really enjoyed your seminar. I wonder if you would like to go for a cup of coffee. There are several points you made in the seminar that still aren't clear in my mind."

Unable to avoid it, Michael took her hand briefly, but shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I have some work of my own to prepare for my publisher. I have a deadline, you see," he said with what he hoped was a polite, but discouraging expression. The last thing he needed . . . or wanted was another woman breathing down his neck.

Her back grew rigid at his refusal. "I could assist you with your notes. I could help you in any number of ways," she offered with a flirtatious flutter of eyelids.

"Merci, but no. I prefer to work alone. I am a very solitary person, you see. A recluse, you might say."

"I find that difficult to believe, Michael. I hope you don't mind me calling you by your given name. Titles and surnames are so stuffy. Don't you agree?"

Being polite was a waste of time. He assumed his most arrogant attitude and said bluntly, "It's immaterial what you call me. I'm not interested in coffee, or answering more of your questions. I have work to do. Good evening, Mlle."

He snapped the fasteners on the lid of his briefcase with two no-nonsense motions, picked it up and stalked out of the auditorium. He maintained a brisk pace as he walked toward his quarters. Behind him he could hear the hurried click of her shoes against the stone walkway. He hoped that his previous rudeness would discourage her completely. Obviously, it hadn't. He turned. There she was. She stopped short as he advanced toward her. He summoned his blank stare, "Mlle., enough of this game," he said hoarsely.

Caroline raised her chin stubbornly and replied, "It's a free country. I can walk wherever I want. I just happen to want to walk in the same direction you are."

Michael dropped his briefcase to the walkway and took a menacing step toward her, his hands hanging loosely by his sides.

She took a step backwards.

He took another step forward.

She retreated once again, another step, her gray eyes growing wide.

Michael spun on his heel, retrieved his briefcase and left her standing. He didn't like intimidating anyone unless it was necessary, but an awestruck student, hanging on his coattail was not part of the mission profile. For her own good, he'd had to make short work of dealing with her.

Back in his quarters, he walked to the window to draw the draperies and saw her standing thirty yards away, watching his window. Brusquely, he drew them and put her out of his mind. He walked to the refrigerator, looking for something to eat. Nothing. He pulled out a bottle of Mèrlot and uncorked it. Without waiting for it to breathe, he poured a measure into a long-stemmed glass and carried it to the armchair by the telephone. Sinking gratefully into the comfortable leather, he took a sip of wine. Setting the glass down on an adjacent table, he sighed, then dialed Mary Raney's number.

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

Attired for the night in a long tee shirt and bunny slippers, Mary padded around her bedroom, picking up socks and hanging up the clothes she'd just removed. She was still grinning about her dream. Maybe she ought to turn that silly thing into a fantasy novel. It certainly had all the necessary elements--good versus evil, a dark knight, and an imprisoned lady love. Of course, she'd have to write her own character into the lady love role. Not some anonymous Rapunzel-type in the tower. Maybe she would be the heroine who rescued the knight, instead of the other way around. That would be a lot more fun than waiting to be rescued.

Mary sat on the side of the bed and kicked off her bunny slippers. Suddenly, the telephone rang. She'd not had a single call since she'd moved into the cottage. She checked in daily with the agency by accessing a coded line and leaving a series of preordained cryptic messages. "All's fair in love and war" meant that she was fine. "Damn the torpedoes!" meant she'd been compromised and needed to be extracted at once. She let the phone ring three times before marshaling the courage to pick it up. "H-Hello?"

"Bon soir, Mary Raney. This is Michael Durand."

"M-Michael?" she stuttered. How the hell did he get her number?

"I wondered if you would have dinner with me tomorrow night?"

The soothing sound of his voice caressed her ear. "H­how did you get my number? It's unlisted."

"Pardon, but I did not realize you were ex-directory. They gave it to me when I inquired. If you would prefer that I not call you . . . ?" he paused, as if uncertain.

"No, it's all right. I­I mean it's all right that you called, but I'll have to straighten this out in the morning. I really prefer . . . . I mean, I live alone." Mary knew she sounded like a rather lame female, but no one was supposed to know her location. The government agent had warned her about new associations. She needed to think clearly. The problem as she saw it­she couldn't think clearly around Michael Durand.

"Mais oui! A woman who lives alone, must be careful."

Damn, she'd told this man, this green-eyed stranger that she lived alone. Why didn't she just tell him her life history along with her social security number, bank PIN, and AOL screen name?

"Yes, that's right. I do have to be careful." That's why I'm ready to go out with the first gorgeous man that asks me.

"I have no evening classes the rest of the week. If tomorrow night is not good for you, we could make it another night," he suggested softly.

Mary figured it was a damn good thing he couldn't see her now, in a faded tee shirt and bare feet. "Tomorrow night is fine."

"I will call for you at eight, if you will permit."

"Yes, I will permit." Mary loved his formal style of speaking, as well as his accent. They constituted a heady combination. She wondered if she sounded too anxious. He had no way of knowing how long since she'd been out on a date. Lord, if she included her three year marriage and the six months of nightmarish Senate hearings and hiding from the Donatello family, the roundabout move to England, it'd been nearly four years. She was sorely out of practice in the art of dating. As for anything else. . . . Her heart slammed into a roller coaster of a ride rhythm at the thought of anything else.

"Until tomorrow evening, then. Bonne nuit."

"Yes, good night, Michael." Mary hung up the telephone. His speaking of his native language was going to do her in, if nothing else did.

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

After he completed his call with Mary Raney, Michael strode to the old roll top desk with which his quarters had come furnished. He ran his hand over the satin-finished surface. The wood had developed the patina of age, along with many layers of wax. It almost seemed alive to him. There was a sensual pleasure obtained from the stroking of fine old woods, nearly as much as stroking the ivory skin of a certain blonde operative . . . an operative who plagued his mind and haunted his dreams of late.

Michael sought to banish his pervasive thoughts of Nikita, especially now. He had to think only of his target, of what would be required to seduce her, and how to do it as quickly as possible. He sensed that her cautious nature was a facade. She was attracted to him. He knew this, because he'd seen the signs so many times before. The stuttering, the breathless responses, the flushed face. How he hated that he induced such emotions, so easily. He almost hated the women for being so naive. There had been times when he wanted to shout, Don't believe me. I'm a liar. I'm only here to use you. I'll break your heart, if I have to, and I'll never look back.

Michael opened his laptop, keyed in a long sequence of numbers and letters, thereby accessing the Section One main frame. Tonight, he preferred to communicate with Madeline by computer. He'd even deactivated the voice program. Madeline would be able to tell too much about his state of mind, if he spoke with her by com. set or secured line. What she would make of his choice of communication, he cared not.

He quickly made his report on the results of his latest telephone communication with the target, and exited the system before Madeline was aware of his presence. He was tired and in no mood for verbal jousting with Madeline or anyone else. He parted the draperies at the window. Apparently, his admirer had given up. She was no longer in sight.

He looked up at the moon. It was full. It was a moon meant for rowing on a lake with one's lady love. It was a moon for lovers.

A sharp rap at the door startled him. He dropped the drapery, removed his 9mm from the back of his pants, checked the clip and rechambered it. He strode to the door. "Yes?"

"Michael?" The voice was female . . . and if he wasn't mistaken, it was Caroline Tweed.

Michael snatched his robe from the back of a chair and put it on over his clothes. He slipped the gun into the pocket and opened the door a couple of inches. "Yes, what is it?" he asked, feigning a yawn.

She gave him an eager smile and said, "I thought perhaps you'd changed your mind about my offer of assistance with your work?"

"No, in fact, I was about to go to bed for the evening. I don't need any help." He was ready to slam the door in her face.

"I could help with that, too," she suggested with downcast eyes and a seductive smile, leaning against the door.

"Mon Dieu! C'est incroyable! Lazzaiz-moi tranquille! Ça ne m'intéresse pas. Arrêttez de me suivre!" Michael shouted and gesticulated like a madman. Would she get the hint?

Caroline stepped back, no doubt startled by his rude behavior. However, she persisted, "Qu'est-ce qu'll ya? Êtes-vous pédé?"

"Oui!" Michael exclaimed enthusiastically. "Exactément!"

"I see," Caroline said, a disappointed look crossing her face. "Sorry to have misunderstood."

Michael took a deep breath and let it out. "No problem, Mlle. No problem at all."

"Again, I'm sorry, Michael. Au revoir."

"Au revoir, Mlle. Tweed." Michael closed the door and took another deep breath. Luckily, Caroline had provided the solution herself. It would also keep any other female students at bay. Now, all he had to worry about were the male ones.

*********

Caroline Tweed walked to the car park where she'd left her ancient MG. She kicked the tire, not to test its worthiness, but for pure spite. She couldn't believe she'd made such a mistake in judgement. Perhaps, she hadn't made a mistake, after all. Maybe it was a ruse to force her to leave him alone. Well, she wouldn't be deterred that easily. She would ascertain the truth about him. Surely, it wouldn't take too much of her valuable time.

Michael was so divine. He was worth the effort. His sensual grace and his intelligence marked him as a prime example of male flesh. She hadn't been so attracted to anyone in at least five years. Of course, she didn't want to think about the last one. He'd betrayed her, but he'd suffered for it. She'd seen to that. It had taken her nearly three years to convince the physicians that she was over that particular fixation. She had convinced them, finally.

She'd been at Oxford since the beginning of the spring term. The old urges had come to her, again. She needed this Michael to make her feel again real, to make her feel like a whole person, instead of an empty shell.

She wouldn't give him up easily. She felt that persistence was her salient character trait. She hadn't given up when her father had nearly beaten her to death. She hadn't given up when her mother's boy friends had soiled her with their foul hands and lips. Someone with Michael's purity of spirit would redeem her. He would come to her and cleanse her with his tender lips and strong hands. Michael was her soul mate. She could feel it.

Caroline unlocked her car and slid inside. She rummaged through her purse. Where were those damn keys? Oh, there they were! Right under her knife. She inserted the key into the ignition and the motor purred into life. Michael was simply playing a game with her, playing hard to get. He really desired her. She just knew it. Soon, he'd know it, too.

* * *

After Caroline Tweed left, Michael debated over reporting her to Section One as an anomaly. If Caroline Tweed did not desist in following him, she posed a very real danger to the smooth completion of the mission. In years past, he wouldn't have hesitated, nor would Section. Caroline Tweed would have quietly disappeared. Nikita'd had a very strong influence on him. He decided to wait. Perhaps, tonight's performance had discouraged her from entertaining any romantic notions about him.

Michael pulled the cell phone from his pocket, attached the encryption device and connected with Birkoff. "I need you to do something for me," he said bluntly.

"Michael, no hello, how are ya?" Birkoff asked, in a very disrespectful voice.

"Birkoff, this needs to be kept quiet. I need you to pull any intel on a Caroline Tweed. She's a student here at Oxford."

"Now, Michael, Section One's computers aren't supposed to be used to scout dates."

"Now, Birkoff. She's an innocent who could affect the outcome of the mission."

"Then you need this to take this to Madeline."

"No. Just do it."

"I know. I know. Don't betray you, or you'll kill me. I know."

"That's right," Michael said softly, before adding, "I need it yesterday."

"Of course. Don't you always?"

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

In spite of his misgivings about Caroline Tweed, Michael had every intention of proceeding with his plans to have dinner with Mary Raney. The intel that Birkoff provided indicated that Caroline Tweed had a long history of mental illness. A brilliant student in her youth, she had been considered responsible for the death of one of her teachers, albeit indirectly. Her constant stalking behavior had disrupted his marriage. The man's wife was in the process of suing for divorce, when the teacher committed suicide. Caroline had spent several years in a treatment facility and had only recently been released. Well, she would find he was made of sterner stuff than her prior victim.

Michael stood before the mirror and finger-combed his hair to his own specified standard of acceptable disarray. He adjusted the collar of his green shirt, while smoothing the lapel of his brown corduroy jacket. Carefully, he thrust the shirt tail into his cocoa-brown corduroy pants, making certain that no wrinkles disturbed the fit of the pants over any aspect of his body. He pulled a tan braided-leather belt, from the closet and threaded it through the belt loops of his pants and fastened it. Michael looked at the mirror and saw whom he was supposed to be­a French poet, about to go to dinner. Showtime!

* * *

Mary Raney jumped out of the shower and almost slipped on the wet tile floor. "Shit!" she exclaimed. She was running late. She'd had trouble leaving the store on time. Now, Michael Durand would be here in fifteen minutes. Her hair was still wet, and she had absolutely no idea in hell what she was going to wear. Why hadn't she asked him where they would be having dinner?

She rushed to the closed and flung the door open. She grabbed the hangers of four skirts and several tops and threw them on the bed, then returned to the vanity and wailed in dismay. She snatched a comb and pulled it through her hair. Thank heavens, it was short and she could blow it dry in five minutes.

Five minutes later, hair dried, she leaned forward on tiptoe in order to see if her eyeliner was straight. A touch of bronze shadow on her eyelids, and a coordinated color on her full lips, a little blush, and she was ready.

Except for her clothes! She grabbed the first skirt on the bed. It would have to do. Underwear, you dummy! She rushed to the oak chest and pulled out black bikini panties. Quickly, she stepped into them and pulled them up over her slim hips. Woo Hoo, she thought, preening in front of the mirror. Probably wasted. I'm out of my mind. Totally, out of my mind.

She yanked the long black and white skirt over her head. Blouse? She turned, looking from one blouse to the other. Black lace? Do I dare? I do! In spite of its delicacy, it wasn't transparent. It was well-lined in a semi-transparent silk. She barely had it buttoned when she heard a knock at the door. Lord! He's here. She thrust her feet into black patent leather sandals, and raced for the door.

Mary reached the door, took a deep breath, counted to ten and exhaled slowly. He knocked again. She fixed a smile on her lips and hoped her fear didn't show. She opened the door. He stood there. Lord! He was magnificent! Brown corduroy. She wanted to reach out and touch it, all over. Instead, she managed to squeak, "Hi, Michael. Come in."

Michael smiled. "Thank you." He ducked his head and entered the cottage.

"I should have warned you. These doorways were made for shorter men."

"Oui, I see."

"Y-you look wonderful, Michael," she stuttered.

"Merci, I'm supposed to say that to you, and you do look wonderful."

Mary felt the heat as her face flushed. "I'm really acting like a goof. I haven't been out much lately. I guess it shows."

"Not at all. You're very refreshing and charming, Mary Raney."

"Well, if you keep this line up, you're probably going to get very lucky tonight." Michael's beautiful mouth twitched. Realizing she'd spoken aloud, Mary gasped, "I-I mean-"

"I already feel very fortunate. I am taking a beautiful and charming woman to dinner. I wouldn't presume to expect more." He paused as his eyes traveled up and down her body. "Of course, I cannot deny that I've had thoughts about . . . you."

Mary swallowed or tried to. Her mouth and throat were dry. "I'm very flattered." she said, casting her eyes downward. She couldn't bare to return his penetrating gaze.

"Shall we go?" he asked offering her his hand.

"Of course," she replied, placing her right hand in his left. Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt like turning a cartwheel down the brick walk. However, she managed enough self-restraint to keep from it.

***********

Caroline Tweed prepared for her evening carefully, too. She began by shower and shampooing. She followed her usual meticulous routine, carefully removing all evidence of body hair on her legs and underarms. After all, it would be her first time to be with Michael in the evening. True, he hadn't asked her out, but she planned on seeing him just the same. She was sure he would be delighted to see her. He wouldn't have to pretend a coyness that she knew was simply the reservation of a sensitive and caring man.

Michael was so handsome. She'd fallen for him immediately upon walking into his class. He'd smiled at her with that crooked little smile of his, and she'd placed her heart at his feet. She hoped he wasn't going to be like the last one. That teacher had been so unsatisfactory. Robert hadn't appreciated any of her gifts or her assistance with his lesson plans. He'd made her quite angry at the end. Imagine, blaming her for the breakup of what was obviously an unhappy marriage to start with.

Well, she didn't want to think about Robert anymore. She had a new love, and he was more intelligent, more elegant and more sensual than Robert had ever thought about being. Really, she was having difficulty even remembering what Robert looked like.

Caroline looked into the mirror and saw her reflection. She had excellent skin. People had always told her that. Also, she had lovely gray eyes with dark lashes. Her nose, mouth and chin were at best, acceptable. But the eyes were the mirrors of the soul, and she was certain that one look into hers and Michael Durand would be hers forever.

Her straight brown hair a very fine texture, but it thick. Another plus. Men loved long hair on women. She pulled a silver-back brush through and watched it fall gracefully to her shoulders. She began to apply her make up, sparingly. She had no desire to look anything like the blonde whore with whom she'd seen Michael walking a few days earlier. She'd been quite shocked to see him with the blonde. The pair had walked about the grounds for over an hour. He'd pointed out various buildings and monuments. They'd seemed quite close. No matter, he wouldn't need the blonde. He had a new interest now. "C'est moi!" she said aloud to the mirror and smiled at her reflection.

Caroline quickly donned black slacks and a black jersey top. She walked to the bed, picked up the black leather shoulder bag lying there, and rummaged through it, checking the contents. Yes, her friend was still encased in its leather sheath.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Caroline stood in the shadows outside Michael's quarters. Surely, he would come out soon. She didn't want to give him another opportunity to feign homosexuality. He was simply a shy man and needed a more subtle type of encouragement. Perhaps, she'd been a little too forceful in her attentions. Yes, subtlety was needed in dealing with a man like Michael.

She'd already made a study of his habits. She knew where he parked his automobile. She knew he liked to take long walks, sometimes running for exercise. Sometimes, he played tennis with another teacher. Soon, he would have time only for her. They would be so happy.

* * *

Caroline had followed Michael to his car and now followed him in her own. Instead, of going to dinner at a pub, he had turned into an older residential area. It was very quaint with some cottages that still retained their thatched roofs. She watched as he pulled his car into the driveway of one such cottage.

She held her breath as he exited his car and walked to the front door. He knocked. What was he doing? Whom did he know here in Oxford? A petite brunette came to the door in response to his knock. Who was she? Caroling felt as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. She felt the urge to vomit, to spew the venom she felt for this woman. This little dark woman was with her Michael.

Well, she'd certainly been right. Michael wasn't gay. He had an evening engagement with some, little tramp. He was being unfaithful to her with a dwarf of a woman who didn't come to his shoulder. Caroline watched in horror as the woman smiled and giggled. They were holding hands!

It took every bit of self-restraint that Caroline could muster to keep from rushing the couple before they entered Michael's car. Perhaps, she was overreacting. It was possible that this was not what it appeared to be. She should give Michael the benefit of a doubt. Perhaps, she was his sister or the sister of a colleague, and he'd been coerced into taking her to dinner. Yes, that was it. Michael would never willingly betray her.

She would follow them to ascertain the true nature of their relationship. Then any action she took would be appropriate.