"You have to leave now." He told Helmut coolly in passing.

Nikita noticed Michael's expression was totally blank. She sighed. The machine mode.

"Leave?" Helmut asked in surprise.

"Yes." Michael said, his voice curt. Without another word, Michael walked away, and began to relieve the bodies of the downed Red Cell operatives of their weapons. The one that was only unconscious, Michael casually gave the coup de grace.

"You have to go. Before the others arrive." Nikita warned.

"Others?"

"Don't ask. I can't explain. If they find you here, they'll kill you."

"And these people are on your side?" Helmut joked with a raised eyebrow.

"Technically speaking, yes."

"Anna-Nikita. Will I ever see you again?"

She looked away, her face falling and sad.

"Go now, Helmut. Please. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Too late," he whispered sadly. He tipped her chin up to look at him. "A kiss goodbye, wife? For old times sake?"

She touched his cheek. "You were a wonderful husband and a good friend. Thank you for that." Their kiss was gentle and brief.

"Now go-hurry!" Nikita looked around at an approaching noise but found they were alone. Michael and Klastrom were no where to be seen.

It wasn't until that moment that Nikita realized that Michael had been ordering both of them to leave--not just Helmut. She gave out a small groan of impatience, then reached down and grabbed Helmet's hand, as the first Section vehicle drove up in the guise of an ambulance.

"Come on. Let's get out of here." She pulled him in the direction of a small personnel door in the side of the hangar. "Out the back way," she continued, pulling him towards it.

"You're coming with me?" Helmet asked with dawning wonder.

"Yes, for now."

As they made their escape, and ran in between the rows of small private hangars, he laughed gently.

"That's good . . . you know, I just realized I have a slight problem."

They stopped briefly to catch their breath and Nikita checked to make sure they weren't being followed.

"I'm wondering how I'm going to get home, this being Miami, and me without my German passport." He said with a slight frown.

Nikita's face scrunched up with dismay. Passport!

She had hers, of course. Actually, two of them. One that indicated she was working for the National Security Agency, the other was a French passport. She could easily go home, but Helmut would instantly be detained on any international flight without any identification.

"Where is it? On the plane?" She asked glancing back.

"On the dresser at the beach house, actually," he sighed with a hint of disgust. "It's amazing how having a gun in your face makes you forget other important details."

Nikita was relieved he hadn't said he'd left it in Germany. It was an annoying inconvenience, but it wasn't disastrous.

"All right. The only thing we can do, is go back for it. At least, I can. You'll have to stay here in Miami and wait for me. We'll get you a hotel room, I'll hop another flight back, retrieve your passport, then book us both on the next flight to Germany. But the first thing we have to do is evade airport security. We can't get into the terminal from here without showing identification . . . if I had a pair of handcuffs we could bluff our way through," she casually showed him her NSA identification, "but we don't."

"Ah, but we do-well sort of." Helmut reached into pocket of his gray, trench coat and pulled out a white plastic twist-tie-a sort of temporary binding used by Interpol to subdue prisoners.

"I also have my badge, but I'm way the hell out of my jurisdiction." He said with a slight grin.

Nikita smiled and shook her head. "All right, you're my prisoner then." She took the tie and looped it around his wrists behind him."

"Hmmm, I could keep these on at the hotel too, if you want," he teased, looking over his shoulder at her.

"This bluff is never going to work, if you keep making me laugh," she said, with a grin as she tugged his hands together. "Now be a good boy and behave. Let's go." * * *

Operations had just finished breakfast with Madeline and was taking the final sip out of his coffee, when he was paged by internal security.

Madeline was having hot cocoa along with her croissant. Her dark brows lifted in surprise, mid-sip, as Operations was informed of Michael's arrival back in Section.

"I don't know," Operations answered her unspoken question. He blotted his mouth on the linen napkin and got to his feet. Madeline sat her demitasse of cocoa aside and out of curiosity, got up to follow him.

They reached Operations aerie in time to see Michael arrive, followed by two operatives, who were escorting a prisoner.

"My God-that's Klastrom!" Operations blurted out in surprise.

Michael looked up to assure himself that his prisoner had been seen, then curtly ordered Klastrom taken to containment. Klastrom staggered a little. The tranq had begun to wear off during the flight back from the States, but he was still rather dazed.

Michael tugged off his gloves and made the journey up to the two that were waiting in amazement for his accounting of Klastrom's capture.

"Michael, I must say it's a surprise seeing you," Operations greeted him with a smile. "Even more of a surprise to see that you have brought us a guest. How?"

"Blind coincidence. He happened to be in the Caribbean. We saw him, followed him to Miami, killed five of his men and took him into custody."

"That's it?" Madeline asked, her eyes darting suspiciously between the two men.

Michael shrugged. "Essentially, yes."

"Where's Nikita?" She asked, her eyes focusing tightly on Michael's face.

"Still in Miami. We didn't get a very good start on our holiday, I'm afraid."

Michael's face gave no indication of what he was feeling, but Madeline wasn't fooled. Something wasn't as it should be. However, she had Klastrom to interrogate. Michael's situation would have to wait.

"If you'll excuse me," Madeline said with a faint smile of anticipation. "I have a guest to welcome." She turned to leave.

Operations actually chuckled. "And I have to call George."

Michael took that as a dismissal, but Operations stayed his departure.

"Michael, I'm sure George will agree-take a month with Nikita."

Michael nodded without comment, and quietly slipped away.

* * *

Nikita's trip back to Europe took the better part of the day and half the next.

She could have made the trip in less time if she had dared to use Sections assets, but with Helmut in tow, that was impossible. She could have left him at the airport and arranged a military hop back to Paris, but since she wasn't exactly sure what her status was-she didn't feel too comfortable with contacting Section. At least, not until she knew what Michael was up to. For all she knew, he had reported her killed in action while getting Klastrom so that Section would no longer have a reason to look for her.

Helmut insisted on going with her to Paris, declaring he could take the next flight out to Frankfurt. It was slightly dangerous for him to know that Paris was her destination, but she was too worried about what might be happening to Michael to take the time to argue, or to escort him to Germany first.

When they arrived at Orly, Nikita went with Helmut to get him to his connecting flight to Frankfurt. It was a bittersweet goodbye.

"How does a person tell another how much they mean to them in just a minute," He said against her ear as they embraced.

Nikita kissed his cheek, and looked up at him with misty eyes.

"You don't have to say anything." She said. "You'll always be dear to me."

Helmut swallowed, near tears himself.

"To never know where you are. If you are safe . . . if you are happy . . . "

"Just be happy for me, Helmut. I'll be happy, knowing you are."

"Oh, God," he pulled her close and crushed her in his embrace. He rocked her in his arms for a moment, desperately reluctant to let her go.

"That's your flight," Nikita said gently, hearing the announcement. "Now go."

Helmut kissed her one last time, then turned and walked away without looking back.

Even if he had, Nikita had already gone.

* * *

Nikita went to Michael's apartment to seek him out, even breaking into it out of desperation, when he didn't answer. He wasn't there.

The only other place she knew he might be was in Section, but calling there had its risks. Still, she was too worried not to take them now. She used Michael's apartment phone to call in and requested to speak with Walter.

"Sugar?" Walter said.

"Yes. It's me. Is Michael in Section?"

"Nope, left quite a while ago. Probably home in bed. He caused quite a lot of excitement here earlier. I still haven't heard all the details-how'd you two manage to run into Klastrom? Operations is grinning from ear to ear-it's scary!"

"Just lucky I guess." She said, her mind racing on where Michael could possibly be.

"You calling from Miami?"

"No, I just flew in. I decided not to wait."

"Call his cell phone." Walter suggested.

Nikita had already done that, several times and had no answer.

"Yeah, I will. Thanks Walter. Night."

"Night, Sugar." 'Where was he? And more importantly, what was he doing?'

The idea that he might try to kill himself again hit her with full force. Had her leaving with Helmut pushed Michael over the edge?

She held her head, trying to think, but she was exhausted, physically and mentally.

Leaving him a note on his door, Nikita left to go back to her own apartment. Maybe after a shower and an hour's rest, she could think of where he might be. And what she would do when she found him. * * *

Michael unlocked the door to Nikita's apartment and stepped inside. It was just as she had left it prior to their last mission, neat save for an unwashed teacup sitting in the kitchen sink.

Nikita took a great deal of pride in her apartment, decorating and redecorating as the mood hit her. It was one of the few hobbies Michael knew she had. And one of her many talents.

The afternoon was overcast with a storm threatening. It fit his mood.

Michael walked over and opened the French doors to the balcony. A stiff breeze blew in the curtains; they caressed his face. He closed his eyes against them, pretending they were her fingers instead. The self-delusion lasted only until the first rain drop splashed gently against his forehead, and he opened them again.

He moved away from the windows and wandered aimlessly around the room, before walking up the short flight of steps to Nikita's bedroom.

Her room, like his own, had no photographs, or any other significantly personal items of decoration. The room was functional, comfortable without being cozy. And cold. Gone were her collections of whimsical sunglasses, wire art and brightly colored furniture. Gone, along with the trusting innocence of her youth.

She could survive now, without him. He had taught her well, he thought sadly. May God damn his soul to hell!

Section had done its worse and she had survived. But in doing so, all the simple joys in her life were lost. Nikita was now a creature of Section, emotionally crippled like himself. It had only been a matter of time, he thought wearily. If you were human, you submitted. You submitted or you died.

Michael lay down on her bed fully clothed and cradled her pillow against his face.

He envied the dead. The dead couldn't feel this cold, dull ache of loneliness and loss. He had nothing left of Nikita, save her scent on her pillow. He burrowed his face deep into it.

He hoped Helmut could save what was left of her heart. If nothing else, Helmut lived in the light of day, in a world of hope. He could love her and protect her-give her a life!

For Michael it would have to be enough. He closed his eyes and let his exhaustion claim him. Nikita found the door of her apartment ajar and frowned. Unarmed, she cautiously pushed it open. She had had to leave the weapon she'd collected at the hangar, in the States, rather than trying to bring a weapon aboard a commercial flight.

She immediately noticed the French doors were wide open and rain from the storm raging outside was collecting in a puddle on the floor.

She crept inside on the balls of her feet, making no sound against the backdrop of the storm. Finding no one on the main floor, she carefully ascended the stairs.

"Michael." She whispered.

With profound relief upon spying the silent, black-clad figure lying atop her bed, Nikita backed down the stairs again. She lightly ran over and firmly closed the French doors, then blotted up the water with a few paper towels. Securing the front door, she tiptoed back up to where Michael lay asleep.

He was sleeping so soundly; she leaned over to make sure he was still breathing.

'Good,' she thought tenderly, as her fingers lightly touched his hair. 'Sleep.'

He surely needed it. With the after effects of the tranq and the added jet lag, how he had managed to keep going this long amazed her.

As a matter of course, she knew Michael hadn't slept on the trip back to Europe, not with a prisoner in his possession. Then he would have had to debrief, fill out a number of reports-every bureaucracy had its paperwork to perform, Section was no different

Nikita lit a small, scented candle and using its light, went into the bathroom to take a hot shower. She was just as tired as he was, and yawned underneath the steamy water. She leaned her cheek against the cool tile of the shower wall and actually dozed for a few minutes, until the steam made breathing difficult.

She quickly towel dried her hair and brushed her teeth, before quietly opening the bedroom door.

The storm continued to rage outside, with the rain hitting the windows with the force of small pebbles. Occasionally the room would light up with the blue-white discharge of lightening, but it was in the distance and the thunder that accompanied it was a comforting sound, rather than disturbing.

Nikita carried the small candle with her, sitting it on a table before reaching into her closet and pulling out a robe to wear.

Tired as she was, the shower had refreshed her a little. With a quick look in Michael's direction to be sure she hadn't disturbed his sleep, she slipped downstairs into the kitchen and heated some milk for a cup of hot cocoa. Michael watched the beautiful apparition by candlelight thinking it a dream. Nikita always haunted him in his dreams. Here she stood naked, her slender body painted by the halloed light of a single flame. He watched with heavy lidded eyes, struggling not to lose the sight of her, but his eyes drifted shut despite his desperate attempt to keep them open. Curling her legs beneath her, Nikita sat on the couch sipping her cocoa and staring out at the storm. A sense of weary peace drifted over her. She was home. The only home she had ever really known and Michael was safe in her bed.

She smiled sleepily. That's just where he should be, in her bed.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes remembering his words on the communicator. 'Fifteen days,' he had told her, 'she had that long to decide whether she wanted to be with Helmut or not.' That could only mean that he had gone to Operations and asked for the days that had been promised them. And that meant, they had time together to work things out.

'Fifteen days to go anywhere they chose, no questions asked. To do anything they wanted to do, free of Section.'

Operations had promised, and somehow Nikita knew he saw it as a debt of honor. He would allow them to be free of Section for the allotted time.

'To be free of Section and to be together. Together.'

She thought of Helmut briefly and smiled sadly.

'Her life that could have been.'

But no. Helmut loved Anna, and she was never Anna. He didn't know Nikita, didn't understand her world, or know her pain. But Michael did, just as Nikita knew him and his.

They were mated, more surely and more permanently than any words that could ever be said over them. Their vows had been made in blood and in tears. Everything that they were-their hopes, their dreams, their careers, their fears-they shared.

Nikita thought back to her conversation with Helmet, when she told him she didn't really know Michael. On some level, that had been true, but was their relationship that much different than anyone else's? Take away the differences between the sexes, the mysteries that separated male from female, and what did you have left? The simple knowledge of when the other person hurt, or loved, or knew joy.

Michael knew her in ways no one else did. And in his way, as much as his tortured soul could achieve, he had allowed her close to him. She'd seen his tears, known his pain, been trusted with his vulnerabilities. Did it matter so much that sometimes he was a stranger? Weren't we all strangers to each other at one time or another?

Wasn't it more important to know he loved her? Loved her enough to sacrifice his happiness, even his very life for her?

She nodded to herself, profoundly touched at the memory of all he had done, hoping to make her happy with Helmut. Hoping that through Helmut, she could have the life Michael knew he could never give her himself.

She glanced up at him, sleeping in her bed. So trusting of her love, that he slept soundly. Had he been anywhere else, had she been anyone else, he would have wakened the moment she walked into the room. She'd seen him do it too many times. Somehow, subconsciously, he knew he was safe. It was that intangible link between them, that total awareness of the other's being, that awed her.

Nikita quietly rinsed out her cup and set it in the kitchen sink then carried the candle up the stairs, blowing it out as she reached the bed.

Carefully, not wanting to wake him, she crept into bed beside him. She kissed his shoulder gently, and nestled her face against it.

"I love you, Michael," she murmured. In moments she was asleep.

When Michael awoke, he was alone. He'd only dreamed he'd seen Nikita.

He sat up and rubbed away the immediate traces of sleep and went into the bathroom to shower. The dreams, oddly enough, had comforted him. He didn't remember much specifically, other than thinking he had seen her by candlelight, and the sensation that he hadn't been alone.

He stood in the shower a long time, letting the hot water gently pound the soreness out of his neck and shoulder where the tranq had hit him. He checked out the injury and found it significantly black and blue. He shrugged, dismissing it.

When he got out of the shower, he went to rinse out his mouth, in lieu of brushing his teeth and found two toothbrushes in the cup near the sink-one new and unopened. He opened it and used it. Then he noticed come men's cologne and deodorant on the back of the toilet. He frowned. It was his brand, but he couldn't recall ever bringing it over to Nikita's apartment. He used that too, thinking he must have and had just forgotten.

It wasn't until he went into the bedroom and found his clothes replaced with clean ones-jeans and a light green T-shirt, laid out neatly on the bed next to his robe, that he realized he wasn't alone.

Grabbing the robe, he quickly shrugged into it and went downstairs. He scanned the living and kitchen area without seeing her, then realized she was on the balcony. The door was slightly ajar.

She was sitting in a patio chair, enjoying a cup of tea in the late morning sun. Somehow sensing he was there, she turned towards the door and smiled at him. She set aside her cup, stood up, tugged down on her shirt and casually walked over to him.

"Good morning. Breakfast is ready if . . ."

He kissed her into silence, cupping her head in his hands, and drawing her inside the apartment.

"Why?" He asked, as their lips parted.

"Well, I seem to remember you suggesting I move in with you," she began playfully. "I think you'd be more comfortable here, instead."

"Why?" He asked again, his mood far from playful.

She sighed, and got serious too. She took his face in her hands. "Because I love you, you bloody idiot." She whispered.

His expression was a mixed one of pain and relief. He pulled her close and held her tightly for a long time, unable to say a word for all the emotions caught in his throat.

Nikita's hands slipped inside Michael's robe, gliding lightly over the firm muscles of his chest, skirting around his ribs, then down his back. He shivered and kissed her. His tongue was hot in her mouth, velvet across her sensitive lips. He gently nipped at her earlobe, then engulfed her mouth again.

"Are . . . you . . . hungry?" She asked breathlessly between kisses, her eyes closed at the sensations.

He didn't answer, but pulled her hand in between their bodies and pressed it intimately against himself.

He backed further into the apartment, kissing her as he went. In a slow, sensual waltz, they ascended the stairs to her bed.

Michael peeled Nikita's blouse off and tossed it aside, before lowering her onto the bed and tugging off the remainder of their clothes.

He lay full length atop her, demanding a place of dominance, pressing her into the blankets and pillows.

"Ni-ki-ta," he said, in his ever soft voice, "I love you." His green eyes were bright with passion and the truth of his feelings.

"I know, Michael. I know." She pulled him down to kiss, needing him to believe it, taste it, feel it. To know that she knew, and understood, and loved him in return.

Thus began the morning. Bodies entwined. Impassioned. Tender. Fingers skimming against skin, firm muscle, and bone. They dined on each other, hungry for the taste of love, and had their fill.

Nikita watched his face as he climaxed. The painful beauty of his expression at the pinnacle of his pleasure enthralled her, but it was the weight of his head resting against her breast afterward that made her the most content.

They were created to love each other, and she held him close, glad, so very glad, they had realized it in time.

* * *

"A" Michael said, beginning with the alphabet.

"Astronomy." Nikita said with a giggle, taking another sip of her wine. It was late, rather very early in the morning and they had been talking steadily all night.

"You want to know about astronomy?" Michael queried.

"Sure. The stars, planets, the universe, you know, astronomy."

"I can teach you some. To navigate using the stars, at least." He wrote down 'astronomy', and smiled.

"Okay, 'B.'"

"Easy one! Ballet!" Nikita sat up from where she had been reclining on the rug with true excitement in her bright blue eyes. "It was the first thing I wanted to do when I was a little girl. I had this friend in first grade-can't remember her name-but her mother always made her ballet costumes and she would change into them at school before she went to her lessons. God, I envied her!"

"Have you ever been to a ballet?" Michael asked, gently steering her away from her childhood memories. He knew they had not been happy ones and he didn't want old ghosts to spoil their wonderful evening.

"No, not yet. One of these days . . . ."

"I'll take you. Paris has a famous ballet company." He wrote down, 'The Ballet'.

"C?".

"Cello?"

"You want to play?" He asked.

"No, well, . . . maybe. But listen certainly. Will you play for me?"

"Of course, if you'd like. Do you read music?"

Nikita sucked in a long breath, "Nope. Not a word of it."

Nikita, slightly intoxicated, began to show her sense of humor.

Michael's lips twitched. He took a sip of his wine and said mildly, "Well, neither did any of the Beatles, and they did fine."

"D?"

"D? Hmmmm. You do "D".

"All right, 'David'."

"David who?" She asked.

"Not David who-who David-Jacques Louis David, French painter, 18th Century, neo-classical period."

"Okay, write that down-will you take me to see his paintings?"

"If you'd like. He's not a modern artist. You seem to prefer the more contemporary ones," Michael said, noting the few pieces of art in her apartment.

"This isn't just about me-it's about what you like too."

Michael obediently wrote down 'David'.

"Let's see, what's next? Oh! 'E'. Nikita said with a slight frown. She shook her head. "You have anything?"

"Engineering."

"Really? What kind?

"Chemical-but never mind. I haven't been involved with that subject in years." Michael said, suddenly sorry he had brought it up. It had been the main reason he'd been invited to join L'heure Sanguine. Because of his chemical engineering abilities as it related to building bombs.

"F," he said to change the subject.

"Flowers," Nikita said. "I love them," she added, smelling one in a nearby vase, before lying back down on her side, propped on one elbow.

"Do you have a favorite?"

"I dunno. I think I just like them all." She looked at him sleepily.

"Tired," he asked, setting down the writing pad.

She chuckled, nodding. "A little drunk too. No, wait! French!"

"French?"

"F is for French. Teach me French!"

Michael set his drink aside, took hers and set it aside, and lay down facing her.

"You want to speak French?"

She nodded.

He pulled her closer.

"All right," he said. "First lesson. "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, maintenant?"

She blinked at him. "And that means?"

He kissed her, then replied, "Will you go to bed with me now?"

"Hmm," she slipped her arms around his neck. "And I should answer with?"

"Oui, Michel."

"Oui, Michel." She replied obediently.

"Allons," he whispered, against her mouth, before kissing her again. "Let's go."

* * *

"Michael, I've always loved this picture. Who's the artist?" Nikita said, slipping her arm through his as they walked through the gallery. The painting on the wall was of a glorious poppy; its petals spread wide in flaming color.

"Georgia O'Keeffe. She's an American. She's famous for her flowers, and Southwestern landscapes. Most of her work is rather contemporary in style. I thought you might appreciate it."

"Did you pick up all your knowledge on art because of your Section cover," she asked, as they continued slowly through the gallery.

"Most, I suppose, but I took some art courses in college. I still paint on occasion."

"You paint too?"

"I used to. I haven't in a long time."

"Michael," she said with some mild exasperation, "you seem to do everything!"

"No. I still don't dance the ballet." He grinned at her and got playfully slugged for it.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in artistic discussion, with Michael teaching and Nikita absorbing every word.

But what Nikita didn't know about art historically, she did know intuitively. She understood balance, color and design, and Michael found in those areas she had a genius all her own. When he told her so, she blushed and was terribly pleased. It touched him that a simple compliment could make her so happy. Had no one ever noticed her stylishness before and commented on it? It was always evident to him, in the way she dressed, the way she wore her hair, the way she had designed and decorated her apartment.

As they ate lunch at a small café on the left bank and fed swans bread as they floated past, Nikita commented, "It's a strange thing. I've lived here four years and have yet to master the language. I can read a little French, but I still can't speak it."

"Why is that?" Michael asked, casually tugging on her little finger as her hand lay on the table between them.

"I was afraid to go anywhere, Michael. When I wasn't in Section, I stayed home. I didn't know anyone," she gave a little shrug of one shoulder and played with her napkin. "Mrs. Prejean at the market speaks English, so do most of the people where I shop. It was too easy not to learn to speak it, I guess."

"But you picked up German easy enough. I've heard you speak it."

"A few words here and there. Madeline says I don't have the knack for languages."

"Madeline is wrong."

"Michael, Madeline is seldom wrong."

"She is, when it comes to you. She always has been. You rarely react the way she thinks you will."

Nikita frowned and shook her head. "No, Michael. Let's not talk about Section. Not now."

He reached over and contritely kissed the palm of her hand. "You're right. Come," he pulled her to her feet. "We have to go pick up the tickets for the ballet."

"Tonight? You're taking me tonight?"

"Tonight."

"Which one?'

"Giselle. Better bring tissues. It's quite tragic." He smiled at her with mild amusement at her delight.

She hugged him close and cheerfully ordered. "Allons!"

* * *

Nikita firmly kicked Michael out of her apartment as soon as they returned from buying the ballet tickets.

"Go! I have girl things to do. I have to get a dress and my hair done and you have to go home and bring over some more clothes. Allons!" She ordered, opening the front door.

"Are you coming with me?" he asked.

"No. I just told you . . ."

"Then it's "allez" Michael interrupted. "I'll pick you up at seven."

As soon as the door closed, Michael heard a muted whoop of joy and he smiled a genuine smile of happiness over her pleasure.

When Michael returned at seven, Nikita was ready in a dress that fair took his breath away.

The dress was of cherry-red, raw silk, with a flared, full-length skirt. Her shoulders and arms were bare, but only until she slipped them into the matching bolero jacket, with a double-frogged enclosure. Small slippers with French heels, dyed to match, with small rhinestone decorations on them, completed the outfit.

Her hair was French braided, with a rhinestone comb to one side and she carried a small cherry, leather purse with a rhinestone strap.

"Am I o-over dressed?" She asked, worried over his silent expression.

"Ni-ki-ta, you're beautiful." His hands went around her waist then he leaned over, kissed her beneath her left ear and whispered in something in French.

"What did you say?" She asked as her toes curled up.

"I'll show you when we get home,' he replied, gently kissing the tip of her nose. "Let's go, while I still have the strength to leave." He took her by the hand and led her out the door.

Michael drove, not wanting any reminders of their last night out together. When the got into his black Mercedes, he handed her a small unwrapped box.

"Opera glasses," he said by way of explanation. "You might need them."

"Thank you." She leaned over and kissed his cheek, then rubbed away a lip print.

Nikita walked like a queen up the long carpeted staircase to their seats. She beamed with happiness over this girlhood dream about to come true and chattered with : 'Oh Michael, look!' and 'Isn't that beautiful?' every few steps.

Giselle kept Nikita's attention throughout. As a girl she had read books on the ballet and remembered the plot of this one. It was sad and she cried at the end, but they were mostly happy tears at having so wonderful a time.

After the finale, the crowds wound their way down the main staircase. There was a wet bar that served cheese, wine, and pastries. Michael got them both fluted glasses of champagne and they stood chatting about the ballet for several moments, before Michael saw Helmut in the crowd-and Helmut saw Michael.

Helmet saw Michael's free arm wrap around Nikita's waist and his body instinctively shift to shield her from him. Not that Helmut could blame him.

Raising his arm and displaying his watch, Helmut held up two fingers, then tapped the face of the watch. Then he pointed in the direction of the men's room and turned and walked towards it.

Michael frowned but had nodded once in response.

Nikita noticed none of the communication between the two men as she was happily chatting with an older woman about the beauty of the ballet costumes.

Michael leaned near, kissed her cheek lightly and inquired, "Are you ready to go home?"

She smiled and kissed him back. "Yes, but I have to make a little stop first."

"Same here. "I'll meet you at the entrance."

* * *

"I've checked them. We're alone." Helmut said as Michael entered and pushed open the first stall.

"What do you want?" Michael asked coldly.

"Two things. One, to thank you for making her happy. Finally got that stake yanked out, I see." Helmut jested weakly.

"We don't have much time."

"I know." Helmut sighed. "I need your help."

"How did you find us?" Michael demanded.

"I followed Nikita from the airport. Not for any nefarious reasons, I assure you. I just knew I couldn't live without knowing where she was and if she was going to be all right. Could you have, if you were in my shoes?"

Michael didn't answer, but it was obvious he understood.

"I followed her to her apartment. She seemed safe enough, so I left and caught a flight out to Germany. Red Cell was waiting for me upon my arrival. Klastrom's men must have reported our abduction. They wanted to know where Klastrom was. I told him I didn't know-that he had dropped me off in Germany with instructions to wait until he contacted me later for an arms sale. I told them I haven't heard anything since. As to knowing you were here tonight, I've been watching Nikita's apartment since I returned to France, and followed you here."

"What is it you want me to do about it?"

"Is Klastrom still alive?"

"For the moment, yes."

"They want him back."

"Impossible."

"They've threatened my father and Anna-Nikita, if Klastrom doesn't contact them in the next 24 hours."

"Then I suggest you take your father and disappear." Michael said, turning to leave.

"Michael, please! Hear me out."

Michael stopped and turned around. "You have one minute."

"Look, I've insinuated that Interpol might have him. I told them my reasons for leaving the country in the first place-that Interpol had intercepted the bomb and that I thought they were looking for me. I told them Klastrom told me Interpol wasn't looking for me and that's why it was safe to return to Germany and our former arrangement."

"What do you want from me?" Michael asked.

"We need to convince Red Cell that Interpol has Klastrom. But of course, Interpol doesn't have him, your organization does."

"They won't turn him over to Interpol."

"Look, I know you have close ties with someone powerful within Interpol. I also know someone working in the Investigations section at Interpol is a Red Cell mole, although I've never been able to find out who it is. All I want you to do is have your contact leak to Investigations that Interpol has detained Klastrom. Once Red Cell gets word Interpol has Klastrom, hopefully, that will get the heat off of me. And I think we can use this situation to ferret out the mole as well."

Michael sighed. "I have to go."

"Will you help me?" Helmut begged.

"I'll try. Meet me tomorrow morning at Notre Dame, near the altar. I'll be there at nine."

"Thank you." Helmut said.

* * *

"Thank you," Nikita said with a happy sigh as her head leaned against Michael's shoulder. "I had a wonderful time. Everything was so perfect."

They stood just inside her apartment, holding each other.

Michael drew her closer and kissed her gently, "I'm glad."

"Now," Nikita murmured, her fingers combing through his curls playfully, "What was it, in French that you were going to show me?"

"How would you . . . like to sleep . . . under the stars tonight?" He asked, his mouth planting seductive little kisses against her neck as he asked.

"On the balcony?" She asked weakly, her bones seeming to melt.

"You did say you wanted to know a little astronomy," Michael continued.

She kissed him back. "Absolutely."

* * *

An hour later the two of them were cuddled together on the mattress borrowed from Nikita's bed, and hauled out on the balcony.

It was a warm summer night, with only a few clouds to get in the way of the stars.

True to his promise, Michael gave her a short lesson on astronomy, but it soon escalated into a lesson in biology.

With warm hands, Michael slowly disrobed them out of the clothes they had changed into, to move the mattress-Nikita out of her sweatshirt and shorts and Michael out of his jeans and black T-shirt. Soon the only thing between them and the sky above, was the thin cotton blanket that covered them both.

They lay on their sides facing each other, as close as they could get together without actually joining until Michael pulled Nikita's silky thigh over his hip and pushed himself partially inside. She was already wet for him and it took all of Michael's forbearance not to go any further.

When Nikita struggled to get him all the way inside, Michael stopped her, his hand clamping firmly down on her hip.

"No, no," he whispered softly, "not yet . . . not yet . . . shhhh." He trailed his hand down her belly to the place they were joined and began to gently stroke her, while his mouth began its own tugging seduction of her lips.

In moments, Nikita was writhing beneath his fingers, her hips rocking, desperate for more of him. One arm wrapped around his hips begging wordlessly for him to get closer still. Finally, words followed.

"Michael, please . . . I . . .oh, please . . . I'm ooooooooh!" She pulled at him and Michael thrust home, just in time to feel her come around him.

Any thoughts of delaying his own pleasure further quickly died. He'd waited all night for this and her response had been too sweet to ignore. His body pumped into hers only three times before reaching its climax.

"Merci," he said hoarsely, then kissed her.

"No, thank you-merci-for the most perfect night of my entire life." Nikita replied, holding him close. "I love you, so much."

Michael closed his eyes, wondering if she would feel the same if she knew he was lying to her again by omission.

'I'm sorry,' his heart said silently. 'But I can't risk losing you again.'

* * *

Nikita's eyes blinked open in the early morning sun. Michael leaned over to block it out of her eyes.

"Good morning," he said softly, as he carefully moved atop her.

"Mmmmmm," Nikita sighed with pleasure over the welcome weight and warmth of him. "A very good morning to you too."

"What would you like for breakfast?" He asked, smoothing her hair away from her face, then gently stroking her cheek with his fingers.

Nikita's raised herself against him invitingly. "You for starters," she coaxed.

"I'm afraid we might startle the neighbors a little," he said. "We've been noticed."

"Damn." She said softly.

"You're blushing." He said with a tender smile, lifting up.

"No, I'm not. I'm mad. I don't like voyeurs." She folded her arms protectively across her breasts.

He leaned down again and kissed her mouth briefly, "Neither do I. Let's get dressed and go inside."

They dressed discreetly underneath the blankets, then dragged the mattress and bedding inside and set them to rights in her bedroom.

Like newlyweds they coupled twice, once in the shower and again on her bed, right afterward.

"Oh, Michael, Michael," she said holding him close and stroking his hair, "I could really like getting used to this. The days are going too fast, too fast."

"Don't think about it," he said, stroking away a sudden tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Think about what you're going to pack."

"Pack? Where are we going?"

"Away from voyeurs, for one. To my house in the country-it's about time it got a woman's touch. I thought you might like to help me furnish it a little better than it is."

"You mean decorate it?" She said with a smile returning to her face.

"Anyway you'd like." He replied, grateful and pleased to see that smile return.

Oh, Michael! You mean it? It would be so much fun!" She hugged him and laughed.

"Then get dressed. I'll go by my apartment for a few things, run a few errands, and pick up something for a late breakfast. I'll be back around 10-10:30."

"Oh, Michael I love you!" She planted a kiss on his mouth to emphasize her words and wiggled off the bed to get dressed.

And God, he loved her too.

* * *

Michael arrived at Notre Dame a quarter to nine and scouted out the area. The church was partially filled with parishioners and tourists. Some were participating in tours, others were trying to get some early morning prayers accomplished.

He strolled carefully to the altar, genuflecting and crossing himself before taking a seat. It was an old habit from his childhood and he hoped God wouldn't mind.

Helmut arrived a few minutes later; he nodded respectfully towards the altar as well, but didn't kneel. He tried to look casual as he took a seat near Michael.

"Thanks for coming." He said quietly.

"Are you sure you weren't followed," Michael asked.

"Yes. I took three taxis getting here. I even went out and bought an entirely new set of clothes and shoes, to make sure nothing I have could have a tracker or listening device in it."

"What have you told Red Cell about your being here in Paris?"

"That I'm still worried that I might be arrested at any moment and would rather it not happen in front of my father."

"I've spoken with my contacts in Interpol. They are interested in your plan, once they know what it is."

"I've done a little research over the last few hours and I think I have narrowed the suspects down to four individuals." He handed Michael a small envelope.

"Have your contact give each one of them the information that Interpol has Klastrom and that he's being moved. Give each one of them a separate location for the move. The mole will no doubt report back to Red Cell to arrange Klastrom's rescue. Depending on the location of the "rescue", we will have our mole, and if there can be a nice little fire fight, perhaps we can make Red Cell think Klastrom's been killed in the attempt to escape."

"All right. I'll take care of it. I have one favor to ask of you as well." Michael said, tucking the envelope into his inner coat pocket.

"What is it?"

"Don't try to see or speak with Nikita again."

Helmut was silent; his eyes held a hint of anger.

"If you do," Michael said, with lethal softness, "I'll kill you." He got to his feet to leave.

"Michael, wait." Helmut grabbed his arm to prevent him from leaving. Michael stopped and looked at him.

"Is she happy?" Helmut asked.

"Yes."

"Then, you have my word. Goodbye, my friend." Helmut offered Michael his hand.

After a moment's hesitation, Michael tugged off his glove, and took it. "Go," he said afterwards.

Helmut nodded, and got up to leave.

Michael waited a few moments until Helmut disappeared, then walked over to where prayerful parishioners were lighting candles. He lit three. One for Simone. One for Adam. And one for Nikita.

* * *

Helmut had left Michael with a difficult problem to solve. He needed to explain Helmut's plan to the Section contact in Interpol, without betraying Helmut's identity or how Michael came upon the information about the mole. If Section got wind that Helmut had compromised Nikita's cover, both Helmut and Nikita would be in grave danger.

However, in order to set four separate traps, hoping one would be sprung, Michael would have to involve Section. Section's contact within Interpol had influence, but wouldn't be able to set up missions to support the information Michael was giving him, not without blowing his own cover. Besides, Klastrom was in Section's hands, not Interpol's.

As Michael was driving to his apartment to pack some clothes, his cell phone rang. Thinking it was Nikita, Michael answered it.

"Yes?"

"Jacques. Come in."

'It had been a calculated risk, to capture Klastrom alive,' Michael thought as he stood in Operations aerie waiting for Operations to finish his phone call with George. 'Sometimes, you lose'. He told himself.

"All right, Michael. What's really going on?" Operations asked.

"What do you mean?" Michael returned softly.

"Klastrom told Madeline the details of his capture. You and Nikita didn't simply run into Klastrom-you were with Volker!"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Volker saw Nikita on the beach. To maintain her cover, she went with him to his home and was there when Klastrom arrived with his men."

"Why didn't you and Nikita kill Volker on sight?"

"We weren't in play. You said fifteen days . . ."

"Don't get cute with me, Michael! You knew I wanted Volker taken out!"

"The situation changed when Klastrom showed up. I assumed you preferred capturing Klastrom to killing Volker. Was I incorrect in my assumption?"

Operations paced angrily, but finally admitted, "No. But what happened to Volker?"

"Nothing. I had Nikita escort him back to Germany. He's been reinstated with Interpol. I assumed that was the end of it."

"That was George's decision!" Operations bit out angrily. "How did Nikita manage to maintain her cover? Didn't Helmut want her to return as his wife?"

Michael paused, pondering whether to take another calculated risk.

"She didn't maintain her cover," Michael said bluntly.

"What? Helmut knows she works for Section?" Operations expression was absolutely frigid.

"No. He thinks she works for NSA. It was the only explanation we could give him for our involvement with Klastrom's capture. We gave him enough of the truth to make our story believable, right down to the reason behind Nikita's marriage to him-that two agencies, Interpol and NSA, were working the same rope, from different ends."

"Why was none of this in your report to Madeline?" Operations demanded.

"I knew you would be annoyed and I wanted my fifteen days." Michael said truthfully.

Operations frowned. "That was a debt of honor. I stand by my word."

"So my month with Nikita is still available?"

"Yes. As I said, George approved it. Klastrom was quite a prize."

"Then there is one more thing I need to tell you."

Michael went on to explain Helmut's concerns about a Red Cell mole in Interpol and laid out Helmut's plan-letting Operations believe it was Michael's idea.

"Once the mole is identified, we have an interesting choice on our hands," Operations said, again pleased at the information. "We can either take him out, or use him as a conduit into Red Cell for disinformation. This will also give us more leverage with Interpol. They'll be in our debt."

"I suggest using Davenport as coordination team leader for this mission." Michael said in conclusion. "He is excellent at handling multiple taskings."

"Good choice." Operations agreed.

"May I go now," Michael asked quietly. "I'm still officially on vacation."

Operations gave out a deep sigh. "Somehow, I know there is more to all of this than what you've told me Michael, but my word, is my word. Go."

* * *

It was nearly noon, when Michael returned to Nikita's apartment. He found her nervously pacing on the balcony.

"I'm sorry I'm so late," he said, "the errands took longer than I had anticipated."

Nikita looked up at him, her blue eyes doubtful.

"Michael, the truth. Please? No more lies between us."

Green eyes met blue, and green acquiesced.

Michael nodded.

"All right. I was called in. Klastrom told Madeline he was with you and Helmut, when he was captured. I should have killed him."

Nikita grew pale at the news. "Is Helmut in danger?"

"No. He has George's protection. Operations can't touch him."

"Why does he have George's protection?"

Michael hesitated.

"Please, Michael, tell me everything."

"I went to George in order to get Interpol to reinstate Helmut. George will do anything he can to thwart Operations. He ordered Volker green-listed for his protection."

"You did that for me," Nikita said, putting her arms around him. "Thank you."

"You said, good men were hard to find," Michael said, enfolding her against him.

"You certainly are," she said, kissing him. "Very hard to find."

* * *

"We're home," Michael said, leaning over and gently brushing his mouth against Nikita's.

"Hmmm, home." She kissed him back with a snack, then yawned and stretched.

It was late afternoon, nearly evening when they arrived. Nikita gazed up at the trees, heavy with leaves. They were old trees, their boughs grown thick with the years. Perfect for climbing she thought to herself. She smiled, feeling like a kid again.

They were free! Free of Section for at least another week and a half. It wasn't long enough-would never be long enough-but at least it was something. She'd long since learned to take what she could get.

Quickly unpacking the car, and stashing everything inside, they drove into the nearby village to grab some food before the stores closed for the day. As they walked down the small grocery isles, Nikita beamed with happiness. Such a simple, simple pleasure-grocery shopping! A taste of normalcy!

She linked her arm through Michael's and watched as he inspected the freshness of the tomatoes and scallions. He chose a few of each and slipped them into the net shopping bag they had brought along. The remaining ingredients for a toss salad followed, along with French bread, butter, table wine, wild rice, and two Rock Cornish hens.

They bought just enough for two meals: the night's supper, and tomorrow's breakfast.

"Oh! Wait, one more thing!" Nikita exclaimed as they stood in line to pay. She trotted off, to return a few minutes later with the ingredients for making a banana split.

"Dessert! I'm on vacation and I'm splurging!" She said with beaming satisfaction.

Michael eyed the can of whipped cream in her hand, and gave her an almost mischievous look.

Nikita cocked a brow at him in wonder. Minute by minute Michael was revealing new aspects to his personality that she had never seen before.

She smiled back at him, a little smugly, as if to say, "Oh, yeah? What are you thinking about?"

His mischievous look turned into a smile that nearly knocked her over. It lit up his eyes and his entire face. This, she discovered with awe, was Michael, truly happy for the first time since she'd known him.

Nikita wished she could save that smile-put it in a bottle-paint it on a chapel ceiling-paste it in a book-anything! Anything to keep it forever. She settled for memorizing it and sealing it in her deep in her heart.

While their meal was cooking, Michael took Nikita on a walk around his property. There was a small duck pond, assorted ducks included; lots of trees, one with a tree swing, and a meadow full of wild flowers.

"God, Michael, it's so beautiful here." Nikita said, leaning back against him. "How long have you had this?"

He gave a deep sigh, "About four years. I bought it right after Adam was born."

"Did you ever bring him here?" She asked, eyeing the tree swing.

"No. You're the only one that's ever been here." He rubbed his hands up and down her arms for a moment, the continued: "I'm not sure why I bought it. I just wanted something-some place . . . I guess I thought maybe, one day, it would be Adam's."

Nikita turned in his arms and pulled him close. "Please, Michael, don't be sad. I wouldn't have asked, if I'd known. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said, cupping the back of her head in his hand and pressing it against his shoulder. "What is, is. As long as I have you, I can deal with it."

She hugged him tightly in response.

"Then take me home, I'm hungry." She said, giving him a quick kiss.

"So, how do you want the house decorated?" Nikita asked, buttering her bread, and taking a bite.

"However you'd like," Michael replied, offering her total creative control with a warm expression in his jade eyes.

"Well," she said looking around with a judgmental eye. "I think contemporary is out of the question. It's an old-fashioned country house and it should be decorated like one. Lace curtains . . . hand-hooked rugs . . . rustic furniture . . . maybe an old fashioned brass bed?" She smiled at the thought.

Glancing around the room, she mentally surveyed its contents and contemplated a color scheme. Something cheerful, yet soothing. Buttery yellow, sea green, and French blue? Perhaps a little rose here and there?

"You think-I'll make dessert," Michael said, taking their dishes and leaning down to kiss her.

She looked up at him suspiciously; the mischievous look had returned.

When Michael returned he carried a bowl of ice cream and bananas, topped with nuts, chocolate syrup, strawberry sauce, pineapple and the prerequisite cherry on top.

Michael handed Nikita a spoon and sat down across from her on the floor where they had been sitting, eating their meal on a low-lying table, oriental style.

Nikita looked at the bowl. "Where's the whipped cream?" She asked.

"You wanted whipped cream?" He asked innocently.

"Can't be a real banana split without whipped cream." Nikita noted firmly.

"No problem. Voila! Whipped cream." He produced the can from behind his back, shook it, and covered the top of her ice cream with a fluffy mound of white.

"Aren't you having any?" She asked, noting he had brought only one dish and spoon.

"You have your dessert," he said, taking her hand in his. "And I'll have mine." He squirted a long foamy line of whipped cream along her index finger and proceeded to lick it off in the most erotically, sensitive way Nikita could have imagined.

"Ahhhh, I think my ice cream's melting . . ." Nikita murmured with half-closed eyes.

"Can't have that," Michael said. He took the spoon in one hand and fed her a small bite of ice cream and banana, while he unbuttoned her shirt with the other.

* * *

Nikita studied Michael's sleeping face and smiled broadly.

'Who would have thought it? Michael, . . . ticklish?'

She rested her head on her arm and indulged herself in the simple joy of looking at him.

He slept on his side, facing her. His lashes feathering his cheek; his beard adding depth and contour to the line of his jaw; his cinnamon hair tousled and curling around his ears. In repose, he looked now, more a boy than a man. Remembering last night, Nikita's grin nearly turned into a chuckle. Indeed, his actions last night had been somewhat boyish-at least at first.

'Just as I think I know you . . .' she thought, mentally shaking her head.

Nikita knew she would never appreciate a banana split in quite the same way, ever again. From the whipped cream with which Michael had decorated her finger, to the baptism of her breasts with drizzles of chocolate ice cream, to the well placed cherry in her belly button, Michael had fully indulged his appetite.

She closed her eyes, remembering the contrast of ice cold chocolate being sensually removed by a tongue so warm it seemed to burn. That part of her anatomy clenched at the memory.

It was when she had decided that two could play his sticky game that she was surprised to find Michael's unbefore known weakness-he was ticklish! Discovering that, Nikita had shown him no mercy and in the end they ended up entangled, laughing and covered in whipped cream and chocolate syrup.

And she had discovered something else. She and Michael were having fun together. As if Section had never existed-as if it never would again.

They had taken a leisurely, candle-lit, bath together afterwards. Bed had followed and Michael finished what he had begun earlier--starting playfully, and ending with such tenderness that Nikita was moved to tears.

With his mouth he worshipped her, kissing every inch of her face with an expression of near reverence. And from the moment he entered her body, to the moment he cried her name in exaltation, Nikita never felt so loved and needed in her life.

How had she ever doubted him? How could she ever doubt him again?

* * *

Nikita ran and Michael fell into a measured stride at her side, in perfect time with her own. They were side by side reflections of strength and beauty, racing along a country road in the early morning light. Neither spoke of the need to keep in shape for Section, instead they ran for the sheer joy of doing so. It was the physical embodiment of their newfound freedom and their hearts were as light as their feet.

Coming to a fork in the road, Michael waved Nikita off to the right. The road shortly narrowed to a path that led through a forest, lush with oak, maple and fir trees towering overhead. Their run slowed to a walk by an unspoken mutual agreement.

"It's beautiful, Michael," Nikita gazed up at the sun as it filtered through the heavy verdant foliage of the trees. "Like a living cathedral," she finished in awe.

"It's one of my favorite places," he replied quietly. "There's no one around for several miles in every direction. Come." He took her by the hand and led her further down the overgrown path. After a few minutes they arrived at a small waterfall surrounded by moss-covered rocks large enough to sit upon.

"Let's rest here awhile," Michael said, pulling off his shirt and laying it across one of the rocks for Nikita to sit upon. He pulled off his running shoes and socks as well, and stepped into the stream below the waterfall.

Nikita bent to unlace her shoes to follow and he smiled at her. "I warn you, the water's ice cold."

"Sounds refreshing to me, I'm hot from the run," she replied, tugging off her last shoe and sock, and joining him barefoot in the stream. She immediately giggled and scampered over to where he was standing. "You weren't kidding! It's freezing."

Michael caught her in his arms. "It will feel warmer after a moment. Come, there's one more thing to show you." He took her hand and led her towards the waterfall.

"It's a cave!' Nikita exclaimed as they scooted behind the waterfall.

"Not a large one, but big enough to walk around in it," he said, squatting down and holding out his hand. The water tumbled over his outstretched palm, the droplets reflecting like diamonds in the incoming sunlight.

"I like to think that no one else in the world knows of this place's existence," he said, bathing his face and chest in the water, before rising again.

"Hmmm, my turn," Nikita said, tugging her T-shirt off and tossing it to a place that was relatively dry. She stepped closer to the waterfall, and let the water splash over her arms, face, and neck.

Michael stood behind her, and she felt a little tug, as he unhooked her bra and slipped it off. His warm hands cupped themselves over her breasts, then rubbed the tips of her chilled nipples in gentle, ever widening circles. She shivered and closed her eyes as his mouth was suddenly hot against her neck.

"Oh, Michael . . ." Her breath caught in her throat as one of Michael's hands dipped lower. It glided slowly across her belly, then slipped beneath the waistband of her running shorts. His fingers found the warm, satiny crevice between her legs and gently stroked through the dampness they discovered there.

His other hand pulled her tighter against himself and she could feel his warm breath against her ear as he whispered in French against it.

Nikita caught two words out of the whole that she recognized-voulez-vous-'will you.' As to the rest of the question she had no idea what he was saying and didn't care in the least. Whatever he was asking, the answer was yes-God, yes!

She turned in his arms, to kiss him, her one hand pushing off the remaining bit of her clothing, while the other cupped the back of his head.

Michael felt the balance of power shift in her favor and tentatively relinquished it.

He lay on the floor of the cave with Nikita astride him. She leaned down, like an angel gazing at him with the bluest of eyes, her face framed by the golden curtain of her hair, her fingers tenderly moving over his face. She traced his brows, caressed his closed lids, his lips, then kissed him. When her tongue met his, Michael reached around and pulled her close, intending on taking back his place of dominance by rolling over with her, but Nikita resisted.

"No, Michael, let me, please let me?"

He surrendered, relaxing his hold on her. His eyes gazed up at her, green with curiosity and adoration.

Nikita undressed him, then stroked his chest with the palms of her hands. His skin was hot, his heart pounded beneath her touch. She leaned down and laved her tongue over his nipples, feeling them contract and smiling at his involuntary intake of breath.

She moved lower, raining gentle kisses over his belly, as she held his hands at his sides. They fisted beneath her grip as she went lower still, her lips barely grazing the velvety hard length of him. She felt him tremble and his body tense in anticipation.

Lush lips, a satiny mouth and Michael thought he would go mad with the sensation. When it finally got to be too much, he forcefully pulled her up to kiss as the rest of him lifted up and thrust home.

Nikita started to move and Michael, struggling to maintain some control, clamped down on her hips. His eyes closed. "Wait," he gasped.

Nikita smiled as she kissed him and moved anyway. Immediately he groaned and she felt his body pulsate deep inside her.

Pleased to have had the proverbial last word, Nikita lay atop him and smiled. She kissed his shoulder and sighed. "I love you, Michael." Resting against him, totally content, Nikita felt Michael's hands slowly stroking up and down her back. He was always touching her-her face, her hair. Anytime they were alone he touched her. And Nikita was always starving for it.

"Ni-ki-ta?" Michael's voice was soft against her hair.

"Hmmm?"

"Marry me?"

Nikita blinked at the question, then slowly sat up and looked down at him.

"What?"

Michael sat up as well, keeping her astride his lap. They were perfectly matched, literally looking eye to eye.

"Will you marry me?" He repeated earnestly.

Nikita studied his face, momentarily stuck dumb by the question.

"Marry . . but what about Sec-"

Michael covered her mouth with his hand. "They aren't here. No one in the world is here but you and me." His thumb caressed her lower lip before moving aside for his mouth to replace it with a brief kiss.

"I love you. Please, marry me."

Nikita burst into tears and embraced him, too overcome with emotion to voice her answer. Michael held her close until she calmed somewhat.

"I didn't intend that you should cry," he said cradling her close, still hoping for an answer. "Maybe you'd like a more conventional proposal . . ." he said soberly.

Nikita lifted her head pushed him back a little so she could see his face, then smiled and sniffed.

"Conventional?" She wiped away her tears. "Never that, Michael." She ran her fingers through his hair then nodded. "Yes," she answered. "I want to, . . . but Michael, what about Section? They won't . . ."

Michael plundered her mouth, effectively hushing her words.

When he released her, they sat for a long moment, forehead pressing against forehead, eyes closed, both savoring the question asked and answered.

"Operations said no questions asked." Michael said finally. "Section doesn't matter."

Nikita wrapped her arms tightly around him and whispered, "Then when?"

"Today, tonight, whenever you can be ready. Tomorrow, if you need more time."

She kissed him tenderly. "Then the sooner we get dressed and leave, the better."

* * *

The church was small, built of gray stone and old-housing a thousand years of offered prayers. Michael led Nikita by the hand to the altar, where they knelt and waited for the priest to pray a blessing over them.

The elderly priest spoke only French and Latin, but Michael translated his vows to Nikita in English.

She blushed at "With my body, I thee worship," and grew tearful when Michael carefully slipped the slender gold band onto her finger.

When it was her turn, she carefully repeated what the priest told her to say and took her cue to place the ring on Michael's hand from the little altar boy that held it out to her.

The priest prayed in Latin and Michael whispered the meaning of the words:

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit . . .amen."

And then he kissed her . . . as her husband.

* * *

"All right, what did I just promise you in there?" Nikita asked with a smile, standing on the church steps with her arms around his neck.

Michael's arms were tight around her waist. "You promised to love, honor, and obey."

She arched an eyebrow at him and tossed her head saucily. "I thought all you wanted was for me to obey?" Remembering a conversation long ago when she had loved him as 'Sage'.

"I lied." He replied softly, studying her face.

"After today, no more of that, 'K?" She ran her fingers through his russet curls, her expression suddenly more serious.

He touched his mouth briefly to hers. "Okay."

Michael took her hand and they walked down the ancient steps to their car.

"Where do you want to go for our honeymoon?" He asked as he started the engine.

"Home, Michael. To our house in the country." She said laying her head against his shoulder. "I want to make some memories there, . . . while we still have time."

There was a sudden look of sadness on her face and Michael knew without asking what had caused it.

"We have time," he said, deciding now was the time to tell her. "Operations doubled our time together because of Klastrom's capture.

"Thirty days?" She said her face brightening.

He nodded. "Time enough for you to rearrange everything in my life, . . . wife." He said smiling happily.

They didn't go directly home, but stopped at a photographer's and got several portraits taken. Following that, they went out to eat, Michael having arranged a small wedding dinner, complete with cake and dancing. Whether there were any other living beings on the planet that afternoon, Nikita couldn't say. All she would remember from that day was Michael.

It was nearly sunset when they arrived home again. Nikita noticed there had been a delivery of some sort while they had been gone. There were several very large boxes leaning up against the garage door.

"What's that?" She asked as Michael opened the car door to help her alight.

"You'll see," he said cryptically. They walked over to the front door. Michael opened it, then bent and scooped Nikita effortlessly into his arms and carried her inside.

She smiled. "That was nice." She whispered as he gently set her on her feet again.

He smiled and kissed her mouth softly.

"Historically speaking, the origin of the tradition wasn't so nice."

"Oh?"

"Men carried their brides across the threshold because they were essentially captured as spoils of war and didn't exactly come willingly."

"But what of the brides that came willingly?" She asked with a glint of humor in her eye. "Did they carry the groom across instead?"

Michael chuckled and tenderly looped a lock of her hair behind her ear. "I have no idea. Remind me to research that one-day. Kiss me."

She obliged him with a long, sensual exploration of his mouth. "Love you," she said, ending it.

"Keep that thought, but come upstairs and change. We have work to do." He said, tugging on her hand.

"What?"

"You'll see. Come."

When Nikita had finished changing, she trotted downstairs to see that Michael had dragged in the large, flat boxes from outside.

"Michael, what are they?"

"A wedding present. An extremely necessary one, at that. Open it and see."

Together they pried opened the boxes.

"It's a bed! A brass bed!" She laughed as Michael tugged the headboard out of its box. "Michael, it's just what I had in mind! It's beautiful!"

"You said you wanted to decorate. I thought the bedroom would be the best place to start."

That got him a hug and a near giggle of delight.

"When did you get it?" She asked, her hand stroking the smooth brass bars, with hand-painted ceramic decorations.

"When you were out looking for your dress. I was a bit concerned I wouldn't be able to get it delivered in time, but the man was quite understanding when I told them why I needed it today."

Two hours later, the bed was in place and flawlessly made up. Nikita walked around it, inspecting it from all angles. It was the first piece of furniture that was "ours" not "his" or "hers".

"Oh, Michael, it's perfect." She said as she felt his arms go around her from behind. He kissed her neck in agreement.

"I know just the curtains and bedspread I want too-but we might have to go back to Paris to get them. Then I want to put a small carpet over there, and could we get an old wooden rocker for the corner?"

The kiss against her neck became a smile. "We'll go tomorrow, I promise." He said, beginning to dance her slowly backwards towards the bathroom.

"Where are we going?" She asked playfully, as he reached out and flung open the door.

"To get clean bodies . . . ," His hands slipped under her shirt and peeled it over her head. Nikita turned suddenly in his arms and backed away for a few steps, but Michael continued in playful pursuit.

"For lying on clean sheets . . . ," He caught her around her waist, expertly stripped her of her bra and tossed it aside. She scampered away again, smiling broadly.

"Why?"

"So we can test out the bed." He lunged for her

She laughed at him, wiggled out of his grasp, her hands going atop her hips.

"Don't I get a say in all of this?"

"You promised to O-bey, remember?" His arms went back around her waist and pulled her close. "Wash me, wife." He ordered, kissing the words against her mouth.

Nikita shoved one hand down the front of his jeans and cupped him.

She grinned at him and teased, "You realize of course, I have your life in my hand."

He nodded, trying not to laugh.

"Say please," she ordered, tenderly stroking a sensitive area with her thumb.

"Please?" Michael's eyes clamped shut as his body suddenly got hard as rock.

"Well, since you said it so nicely and . . . I did promise," She kissed him while she undid his jeans and shoved them past his hips.

* * *

"When did you know?" Nikita asked softly as she rested her face against Michael's chest. He held her close, one hand casually stroking the silky skin of her back.

"When did I know what?" He queried, looking down at her.

"That you loved me." She looked up him, her eyes dark in the candlelit room.

He gave her a half smile, "If I told you at first sight . . . "

"I'd know you were lying!" She grinned, finishing for him. "I remember trying to kill you 'at first sight!' "

He nodded, fell silent for a moment, then replied: "It was the night we were captured by Red Cell."

She looked surprised. "Truth?"

"Truth," he replied seriously.

Nikita nestled her head back onto his shoulder. "I wasn't very happy with you, you know," she pouted over the memory.

"I know." He kissed her hair, his expression wistful.

"You never have explained why you used me."

"It wasn't my choice to use you." He stroked her hair.

"Okay. It was Operations-but you could have told me," She said, lifting her head and looking at him. "It infuriates me to think he picked me because he was so sure I'd betray Section!" She buried her hot face against his chest again.

Michael sighed. "If it makes you feel any better, he gambled. Madeline told him the odds were 95 percent against you breaking."

"Really?" She looked up at him half-surprised, half-suspicious.

"Yes."