UH-huh-huh-huh. Concrete splattered. The smell of acrid smoke and burnt motor oil made Nikita's nose curl.

Jackhammers. Good cover for rapid fire weapons. Her feet automatically dropped down from the cafe chair they'd been resting on, her limbs instinctively tensed as she listened to the city workers tear apart the sidewalk.

Over the top of her book, she scanned her surroundings: cement pipes piled like giant cannelloni on the street, students with their backpacks slung over a shoulder while they walked past the little shops and up the hill towards campus. Two suburbanites in their matching sport suits and spotless running shoes seemed vaguely excited that they were braving infamous Berkeley, but they also looked baffled, as if wondering where the barb wire and demonstrators were.

The city known for its political street fights had quieted down a long time ago. The flower children had grown into stockbrokers and therapists. Epicurean stores had replaced head shops. The only free radicals anyone seemed concerned about where the ones treated by anti-oxidant creams from the beauty shop down the street. Nikita didn't see a single terrorist. Another dead lead. But if this bum assignment meant that she had to sit outside in a cafe and soak up some California sun, she wasn't complaining. Hell, she could be sweating it out in some rainforest jungle right now, eating K rations instead of these sinful butter-drenched croissants from the store she was "working" at. Enjoy the moment, girl. Nikita took another bite as she propped her feet on a chair once again, and settled back into her studies. She cranked up the volume on her Walkman.

"Bonjour. Parlez-vous anglais?" Nikita dutifully repeated the words. She strained to hear her language tape over the rat-tat-tat of the jackhammer on the corner. Only the heavy metal sounds of machinery had been able to drown out a young political activist's pitch as he collected signatures for his petition from table to table. Unfortunately, Nikita could still hear the debate between the gray-bearded sectarians next to her, intent on re-hashing the fall of the Old Left.

Revisionist!" exclaimed her neighbor, gesturing wildly with his cup so that coffee sloshed over the rim on to the table. His sparring partner snorted.

"Damn Trotskyite. At least I can take criticism."

Nikita propped her head on one hand, turning her face away and hiding her smile at their spirited exchange. The men argued like a married couple with the peculiar mix of fondness and contempt, the exact words that pushed the right buttons. She hoped it wouldn't come to blood. The petitioner paused mid-sentence, scratching the blonde beard-fuzz on his chin, and looked anxiously at the two old men, who were his next hit. But under a shock of cotton candy-blue hair, his face brightened when he saw Nikita, his cheeks flushing a little as he gave a quick embarrassed nod of acknowledgment. Nikita waved back. Then she fast-forwarded her tape. Help for women. Now this sounded more practical.

"Leave me alone. Laissez-moi tranquille." Nikita murmured the words as she imagined the quick elbow jab which would probably be more effective but perhaps, less polite.

"Nuh muh too-shay pah. Zhay ewn mah-lah-dee kohn-tah zhuz." She pursed her lips, and tried repeating the phrase from the back of her throat, but only sounded as if she were gargling. A shadow fell across her table as someone clicked off her Walkman.

"Hey." She jerked upright, indignantly pulling out her ear-phones.

Adrenalin surged through her, making her body buzz. Nikita was prepared to fight the intruder when she suddenly smelled coffee and leather, the faint familiar sweat. She glimpsed the large square hand with filbert-shaped fingernails before the warm pads of his fingers brushed up her arm to her elbow, leaving a trail that tingled, triggered memories that heated. In vain, Nikita tried to quiet her breathing before she looked up and squinted into the sun behind him. The light made the tips of his chestnut hair look almost red-blonde. His sunglasses slid down his nose a fraction, revealing gray-green eyes that darkened with some feeling she couldn't name.

"Pardon," he said softly. "Is this seat taken?" His hand ran across the back of the chair which served as Nikita's footrest, and her spine immediately prickled from neck to cleft as though Michael were touching her instead. Six feet separated them, but he still effected her. Something about him. Everything about him: from the way his shorter haircut waved slightly, framing his strong-jawed face, to his firm unsmiling lips. She could spend all day cataloging his features - G-rated and otherwise; had done so on more than one occasion, more often than she wanted to admit ... Damn it. Stop. But all the reminders about discipline, the stern self-empowerment speeches, all the scolding in the world didn't stop this helpless feeling. It never had. It never would. She may be munitions-trained, could dismantle and reassemble an AK-47 in her sleep, was licensed to kill with her bare fingers. But one quiet word from Michael, a quick careless touch, and she was defenseless. Absolutely. It was mortifying. What the hell was he doing here? She turned her scowl on him, wondering just how he figured into this mission.

Was she supposed to know him? He wasn't wearing his usual spy gear. His leather jacket was battered, its black color worn down into a dark charcoal gray at the elbows and cuffs. An anonymously blank tee-shirt was tucked into European-cut jeans that looked as though they had been poured over his legs. The denim outlined his lithe muscles, slim and compact like a long-distance runner. Nikita swallowed hard, hoping that the heat she felt wasn't coloring her cheeks right now. Rat-a-tat-tat. Was that the jackhammer or her damnably erratic heart? She glanced quickly away from his legs to his impassive face. No clue there. No quick smile of recognition, a surprised greeting, a welcoming kiss on the cheek. C'mon, Michael. Help me out here.

But there wasn't a hint. His expression belonged to a polite handsome stranger, who seemed like a glass wall: opaque, impenetrable, slippery. Nothing to grab. Why hadn't he warned her? She hated surprises like this. Her longing slid into resentment, equally familiar. Michael was her mentor; pound for pound, he out-muscled her. But he was also just a man. Stop thinking like a warrior. Think like a woman. Yes, that was it. Wiles, not weapons. It had worked for Delilah. It would work for her. Confidence returned, strengthening Nikita, heartening her. She wouldn't give up like a simpering girly girl. She'd give as good as she got. No. Better. Michael's green eyes stared into hers as he repeated his question.

"May I sit here?" Nikita leaned forward, craning her neck, and glanced down the row of outdoor tables in both directions. The sidewalk cafe was packed. Everyone seemed to be outside, sopping up UV and sipping coffee. Nikita pointed to the only empty table, next to an open dumpster with flies buzzing over it. Then she lifted her eyebrows, and glanced coolly back at Michael. Hello, stranger. Two could play this game. The corner of his mouth tugged charmingly upwards, then smoothed out again by the time she blinked.

Nikita heaved a sigh as she shifted in her creaking chair.

"All right," she grumbled gracelessly. Her rayon mini-skirt fluttered when she carefully unfolded her legs, then crossed them again, slowly turning and showing off all the angles of her light golden tan, the color of ripe apricots. Nikita raised her arms and arched her back in one long lazy stretch. The sun warmed her belly as her tank top inched upwards above her navel, which sported a small ring. Its small diamond winked in the light. Then she took her time smoothing down her skirt over the top of her thighs. There. Maybe that would make him as uncomfortably aware as she felt right now, practically ready to jump out of her skin. Damn him. She peeked out of the corner of one eye. Oh. It had. Obviously. Delightful. Score one for her. With a secret smile, Nikita pushed her croissant and cappuccino over to her half of the table. Then she turned around so that her side faced him. She plugged her ear-phones back in, clicked on her Walkman, and lifted her book like a shield.

At last, Nikita said, "Go ahead. Sit down. Be my guest." Her neck bent towards the book as if she were intently studying every phrase. It was sheer pretense. Nikita's eyes moved across the page, but she didn't see a thing. For all she knew, the words could be hieroglyphics, the French as understandable as arcane symbols. Nikita couldn't tell. The only things she noticed was the sigh of leather, soft denim rubbing against denim as he eased into the rickety cafe chair, the legs scraping against the sidewalk.

Michael sat, facing her square on, with his back turned towards the street. He rested his elbows against the wrought-iron table while he nursed his coffee, refusing to follow the polite side-by-side etiquette of two strangers sharing a table. He seemed to disregard the make-believe barrier between them, wasn't pretending that she didn't exist on the other side of the table. No. He stared straight at her despite her best attempts to ignore him. Michael was watching her above the frames of his sunglasses, which perched on the bridge of his definite nose. She felt his scrutiny as if he touched her. He seemed to skim along her face, neck, the slope of her shoulders, down the length of her long arms to where her fingers clutched the language book. His regard felt predatory, edgy with hunger; like the quiet unnerving watch of a lion - about to break his fast - as he stalks through the savannah, each slow measured step parting the blades of grass, the bare whisper as they close behind him. He waited ... and waited, crouched low, belly to the ground; two emerald eyes glowing ... waiting before he pounced for the final skirmish. Michael sat quietly, drinking his espresso like the other patrons of the sidewalk cafe. Even though he slouched against the back of the chair, he still radiated power. Tightly leashed, a power tempered by patience.

"I can wait," he seemed to be saying. "Waiting makes it better. I can wait, and when it's done, when you least expect it, then I'll have you. You're mine." Come, Ni-kee-ta. It's time. His thoughts penetrated her mind. It was as though he spoke in her ear: the hushed, softly-accented command, the i's broadened to long e's; rolling the syllable over his tongue as though he tasted each one, savored every sound for its sweet forbidden flavor. The voice spoke her name in the special way he used only when they were alone; alone with nothing between them. How often had that happened? Nikita could count the times on the fingers of one hand.

She would have sold her soul to repeat those magical times. What was left to sell? She'd already pawned her heart as collateral. Come, Ni-kee-ta. Look at me. Come out from hiding. Here kitty, kitty. She was being lured with promises of ... succor? Perhaps. Definitely sustenance for her lonely spirit, and good hot sex for her body, all those promises contained in one handsome package named Michael, just within reach. Temptation sat right across the table from her: those strong leather-clad arms ready to wrap around her; jeans shedding, giving to sinew as his legs would twine with hers. What was temptation if not that? Come out. Come out, wherever you are.

But Nikita wasn't a runaway kitten from the streets any longer. That had been a whole life time ago. A completely different person. Since then, she'd grown from a kitten into a lioness. And everyone knew that the lioness was more dangerous than her male mate, the better hunter of the pair.

Nikita tossed back her hair, then leaned her head on one elbow. She turned another page, and continued pretending to read. Her finger ran over each line as she repeated, "Don't touch me. Ne me touchez pas."

"Are you studying?"

Nikita managed a bare nod, not even looking at him. With a scowl, she re-wound the tape a few seconds, then hit the play button again. "Ça suffit! Dégagez! Ça ne m'intéresse pas."

"Sounds like French," he said quietly.

Nikita repeated a few more sentences to herself before she said, "Yeah. It's French. Someone once told me that you must understand the language before you can understand the people, their culture. I'd like to understand ... more than anything."

"Anything? Or anyone in particular?"

"Nope," she said airily. "Now, do you mind? I'm studying here." She held her book even higher. "J'ai un maladie contagieuse."

"KOHN-tage-ee ous," corrected Michael.

"What?" Forgetting, she glanced up at him, met his eyes dead on. Oh God. The Look. The highly-classified Atomic Look. Ten megatons of dynamite aimed at her. Exploded. Ground Zero. She was melting, and it wasn't because of the summer heat. How could she stiffen her backbone if she was turning into honey under the sun? Thank God she was sitting down, because her legs wouldn't have supported her right now. Hot golden liquid gathered in her chest, trickled lower, pooling in her belly and loins. Any moment now, she would start dripping between the slats of her chair on to the sidewalk.

"KOHN-tage-ee ous. The accent's on the first syllable." A faint smile played around his lips: masculine, a trifle smug. That irritated her, belatedly reminding Nikita of her intention.

She gathered herself together, and tried again. Hard to do when you're a puddle. "J'ai un maladie CON-tagieuse. Better?"

"Oui. Perfect." He inclined his head, allowing a quick flash of white teeth before he sipped his coffee.

Michael looked down at his cup, then up at her again. His eyes brightened, lips pressed together as though he were trying not to laugh out loud. "So you have a contagious illness? I hope it's not true. Or if it's true, maybe it's not serious."

"Oh, no. Serious as it gets." Nikita reached down and brushed away some imaginary wrinkles out of her skirt. She carefully straightened out her hem so that its perfect alignment would please even the most persnickety civil engineer. A tank top strap slid off Nikita's shoulder. She let it dangle there, drawing his involuntary glance to the errant tank top and the black lacy brassiere strap underneath. Even though he quickly looked away again, his Adam's apple bobbed once, twice.

"Really?" You don't fool me, Monsieur Samuelle. Not for a moment. Got a good eyeful? He may have caught her red-handed with a French book, but at least she was armed with some interesting lingerie instead of her usual sports bra.

"Really. It's very serious," said Nikita. "I've talked with doctors. Specialists. Hundreds of them." Her voice dropped lower. "It's terminal." There was a freak silence as conversations suddenly paused around her. Even the old leftists at the next table stopped arguing for a moment. Curiosity crackled like static electricity; building, building, ready to discharge at any moment. Nikita glanced up from her book, and the eavesdroppers hastily averted their faces. Coffee cups rattled against saucers. Then conversations abruptly resumed a little louder than before, a huge rush of sound filling the awkward vacuum.

"What do the doctors say?"

"It's a fever, a life-long fever. I get so hot. It's unbearable. Nothing works: aspirin, Tyenol, Advil. Cool baths, wearing loose cotton clothes, wearing ... nothing at all." She stopped, hooked a finger around her strap and pulled it up over her shoulder. The tank top slipped down again, but this time, she didn't try to correct it. Nikita looked around, then leaned forward as if confiding something. Her shoulders hunched a little, the other strap slipping down her arm. She was vamping him, and enjoying every minute of it.

Nikita whispered, "Nothing makes the fever go away. I've tried. Sometimes, I'm in the grips of the fever for days. But nights are the worse. I always spike around midnight. I'm so restless. I can't sleep." She chewed her bottom lip, trying to bite back a smile, waiting.

As her words seemed to register, Michael's pupils dilated until his irises looked like faint green rims around large black circles, the portals of his soul. His lips parted, but he didn't say anything for a long time. Behind him, a bus squealed to a stop, discharged its passengers, then rumbled off again before he spoke.

"Ah! Insomnia is a terrible thing. Everyone needs a good night's sleep. But surely coffee doesn't help. If you can't sleep, then you shouldn't drink that." He pointed to her cup.

"It's decaf." A defensive note crept into her voice. They'd argued about her caffeine intake before.

He lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug. "As you like. Perhaps you can find a cure for your insomnia ..."

"Warm milk? Forget it. I hate that stuff. Tastes like mucus."

"I wasn't going to suggest warm milk. There's an old French remedy."

Sure there is. Some candlelight, wine, and ... you. Nikita arched a single skeptical eyebrow.

"Oh, really?"

"It's an old family remède maison, passed down from father to son. Perhaps I could ..."

"Hey. Hello. Howzit going, Nik'?" The young political activist walked up to them with the unflappable eagerness of a puppy ready to run after the ball and play again. His book bag swung forward from the momentum, and jarred their table. He didn't seem to notice. Grinning, he pulled out the front of his tee-shirt. "Like it?" It was plain white cotton, with brand new vertical creases that ran down his stomach, still left from when he took it out of its wrapper and unfolded it this morning. The tee-shirt was carelessly half-tucked into his army surplus pants. On him, the tee-shirt was only underwear, as if he'd forgotten to finish dressing before he ran out the door. On Michael, the same white tee-shirt looked like gift-wrapping that Nikita itched to tear off.

She tapped the young man's chest. "Hey, no slogans on your shirt today. I liked the one you wore yesterday: 'Our bombs are smarter than the average high school student. They know where Kosovo is'."

"Yeah. That was a peach. But today, I'm a blank slate. Trying to make a statement, y'know. Existential. All that jazz." He looked hungrily at her croissant, then glanced around almost guiltily.

"Saving one for me?"

"Sure. Come by the store. There's one with SPAM, waiting there for you with your name on it. Don't worry. I won't tell your militant vegan friends."

He flushed to the roots of his bright turquoise hair. "I know. You're good at keeping secrets." He stared down at his feet. "Thanks," he muttered.

"Your secret's safe with me. No problem, Ocean."

The young man instantly frowned so that his lip piercing on either side of this mouth formed a silver "V."

"Call me 'Sean'. I'm trying it out."

"Trying it out?" Michael looked from one to the other.

"What do you mean?"

Nikita jerked her thumb towards Sean. "He's second generation Berkeley. Hippie parents." "Yeah. Star and Mountain Man, my gro-o-o-oovy Mom and Dad." He flashed a peace sign. "My cross to bear. There were three Ocean's in my kindergarten class. It was confusing. Whenever the teacher called out 'Ocean,' we all answered. Then we all finally learned to ignore her. What were my folks thinking? Dumping a name like that on a kid? I mean, they got to pick their own names. It's not like they were stuck with something stupid. Christ. Ocean. I hate the sea. Can't stand the beach. Don't even like the way sand feels under my feet ... So I'm going to change my name. Legal. Soon as I can. Got to find one that fits me, y'know."

Nikita smiled. "Last week, you were Mohammed. Sean's okay. It's more you. I like Sean."

"Yeah?" He beamed, puffing out his chest a little.

"So, what petition do you have this time, Sean?"

"It's good this time. It's really good. Ready?"

"Hit me with it," laughed Nikita, leaning back in her chair.

"Okay. Here goes: Hi. Do you want to save the planet?" Sean's voice cracked on the last word when Michael fixed a cool stare on him. The green gimlet eyes were half-hooded with menace and possession. Go away. This one's mine.

The activist shuffled his sneakers against the pavement. Something clanked inside his pockets. Sean glanced around, seeming uncertain as he lost his momentum. Poor kid. Toughened terrorists had cracked under that same patented stare during one of Michael's interrogations in the White Room. It really wasn't fair. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Nikita propped her chin on one fist, and gave Sean an encouraging smile.

He smiled back, nervously fingering his petition. "Umm ... This initiative will save the lives of animals. Hundreds of them. If this proposition passes, then only sick animals or old ones can be killed for meat or leather. Sign here, and we can put it on the ballot for November. Then the voters of California can decide. Oh ..." Sean's clipboard wavered as he seemed to realize for the first time that Michael wore a leather jacket. The young man stepped back.

"Sure. I'll do it." Nikita smoothed down the curling ends of the stained paper, and signed the petition with a flourish. Then she handed the clipboard to Michael. "It's a good cause. Just think of all those innocent cows. Moo. Moo. You know - Elsie, Elmer, Ferdinand the bull." She batted her eyelashes at Michael.

He stared at the petition. His brow creased. "I can't. I'm not a ... registered voter here."

"Hey, hey. No problem." Sean collected his clipboard from Michael, then, almost as an after-thought, pointed to the jacket at the last moment. "You don't look like the violent type. You probably hate murdering cows for their skins. Don't have to, you know. You can get cool jackets made out of recycled rubber tires. Black, shiny. Chicks love it."

Nikita hid her mouth behind her hand as the activist walked over to the next table. With the same enthusiasm, Sean began again.

"Hi Do you want to save the planet...?"

"Is that true?" asked Michael softly. "Black rubber? Do 'chicks love it'?"

Nikita ignored his question, and pulled on her necklace, drawing the chain out from under her tank top and between her cleavage. She looked at the small watch hanging from its fob, then gave a little start of surprise. "Oh. Just look at the time. My break's over. Have to get back to work. Well." She smiled at him as she gathered her belongings from the table. Nikita raised her coffee cup, and saluted him. "It's been real."

"Wait." Michael grabbed her arm, and the feel of his warm palm sent electricity jumping from synapse to synapse through her entire body until she felt as if she were shimmering. A thousand Watts. Nikita cleared her throat.

"Yes?"

"I'm very hungry. Can you recommend a place to eat? Where did you get the croissant?"

"You mean this?" The pastry was gigantic, puffed out as if it had been raised on steroids. It bore no resemblance to the delicate flaky croissants made in France.

"Where I work. A little shop down the block called 'Over the Moon'. We sell cheese, pastries, pizza. Check it out. There's lots to choose from. The croissants come in fifteen different flavors."

"Flavors?"

"Yeah. This one has baloney and cheese in it. It's great. A complete meal in itself." Nikita took a large bite, and chewed noisily to prove her point.

"Baloney? My God," whispered Michael, who, for once, revealed his distaste.

"What's the matter? Don't like baloney? That's practically un-American. No worries. Fourteen other flavors to pick from. There's always SPAM. Everyone likes SPAM. You bet. Welcome to California. I love living here. There's a lot of variety. Always something new." Nikita winked at him before turning and leaving. She walked away with just the right swivel and sashay in the hips. "Good-bye."

"Not good-bye. Á bientôt." Even though the words were softly spoken, they sounded alarmingly like a threat.

Continued in Hors-d'oeuvre

###

Author's Note & Glossary

Many thanks to Silea and Kadyn for French translation.

Á bientôt. See you later.
Ça suffit! Dégagez! Ça ne m'intéresse pas. Enough! Get lost! I'm not interested.
remède maison home remedy.

For S, my "ipo kane," who makes improbabilities possible. No romance novel comes even close to the reality ... All non-LFN characters are under copyright to F. Yep (c) 1999

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