Piano notes fell like raindrops - a jazzy plink ... plink ... plink before they plonked in the lower register. Then the music suddenly burst into a downpour through her in-law apartment. Brushes swish-swished against the snare drums like wipers sweeping back and forth across the windshield in a steady soft rhythm, which hypnotized Nikita and made her feel a little sleepy as she applied her make-up. What was that? An extra discordant beat. Her hand paused mid-air while she listened carefully, but she only heard Blossom Dearie's voice singing about "ooh-la-la's."

"If Napoleon at Waterloo-la-la, had an army of debutantes/to give the British the well-known ooh-la-la/he'd have changed the history of France." The singer's girlish lilt chanted each syncopated syllable between the swinging beat as Nikita waited a moment longer. Jeez. Better relax. She shrugged, then laughed a little self-consciously. Getting as bad as Stumpy, bogeyman everywhere all the time. Poor old Stumpy, her contact on this mission.

Just another sweet nut, another Section casualty. His badly-xeroxed conspiracy newsletters were piled on the apartment floor, next to the recycling bin. No matter how much she liked Stumpy, she couldn't make herself wade through all the single-spaced prose, tangled with strings of improbabilities and exclamation points. But Nikita also couldn't throw them away just yet.

She had collected so many of them by now that she could probably decorate the entire apartment with them. Early Berkeleyana, circa nineteen hundred sixties: propaganda wallpaper, cinderblocks, Diet For a Small Planet. What would Martha Stewart say? Nikita chuckled to herself, then lifted the eyeliner brush again. Snick. Click. What was that? The sound of the front door opening startled Nikita, and the brush almost poked her in the eye. Great. Another false move like that, and she'd turn into a glamorous Cyclops. What price beauty? She cocked her head, listened harder. Even over the music, she could hear it now. Shuff-shuff. Shuff-shuff. Feet shooshed over the old shag carpet in the living room. The sound was unmistakable. One after another, step by step. Each footfall gradually approached the bathroom. The humid smell of soap from her recent shower must be pinpointing her location as surely as a neon sign flashing: "This way. This way."

Nikita silently set her make-up on the bathroom sink counter, and slipped a hand inside the pocket of her terry cloth robe, which was hanging on the bathroom door hook. She pulled out her MAB Brevette, then slowly eased the door open. Pressing her eye to the crack, she scanned in all directions.

"You!" She threw open the cheap veneer door, and it rebounded against the wall with a loud satisfying bang that echoed inside the bathroom. Nikita lowered her weapon. "It would serve you right if I shot you in the back."

One corner of Michael's mouth tugged upwards. "But wouldn't you feel sorry afterwards?"

"Not very." She imagined drilling a hole right where his black leather jacket hung over his shoulder blades. The bullet would pass through Michael's chest, sternum, then exit right near the placket front of his moss green shirt, which was tucked neatly into a pair of faded jeans, the white worn places accenting his hips and knees. No one had the right to look this good. It should be outlawed. There must be some local ordinance. A matter of public safety. When Michael walked down the streets, he probably caused half a dozen car accidents as susceptible drivers of either sex gawked at him instead of paying attention to the traffic. God knows she felt that same way even though she did her best to hide her reaction. Unsuccessful as always. God knew, and everyone else. It was aggravating.

Why did he have to come now when she felt like a wet troll: no clothes, half made-up, hair all tangled? He looked so good, and she must look like a misfit monster. Nikita's threadbare towel was wrapped so tightly around her torso that the bottom hem gaped open just below the curve of her buttocks. Another towel made a temporary turban, listing to one side, a few damp strands of hair straggling down the back of her neck.

Her bare feet stuck to the wet linoleum floor. Remnants of adrenaline made Nikita vibrate like a plucked string. The sharp high frequency set her a little on edge as always.

She huffed a breath, and stormed back into the bathroom. Nikita peered into the mirror. Heavy black kohl began at the inner corner of one eye, before the line zigged up, then zagged down, ending in an impressive smude over her cheekbone. One side of her face looked like a ghoul. God, what a mess. It was all his fault. She rubbed off her mistake, and wished that she was scrubbing his face instead. Into the ground. "What are you doing here? Has something changed?"

He crossed the threshold, then sat on the closed toilet seat. Michael took the Kleenex box from the counter, and offered her another tissue. "Hello," was all he said.

She snatched the tissue away from him. "I'm waiting for an explanation." She turned her head to either side, and surveyed her clean-up job. Not too bad. Nikita picked up the eyeliner, then paused, her brush mid-air. His attentiveness made her nervous, her body still jagged up from his sudden appearance. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Go ahead."

"That's not what I meant. Go away. Vamoose. Je veux être seule." Nikita pointed her brush out of the bathroom and towards the living room. "You can close the front door behind you."

But Michael only looked at her, didn't budge from his seat. He sat there, silent and impassive as a boulder, equally as unmovable. He still held the Kleenex. The box rested lightly on his lap.

Nikita glared at him. "Which part of that did you not understand? The English or the French? Couldn't you at least wait outside? This bathroom's really cramped. A telephone booth has more space than this. Oh, never mind. Be that way. You stubborn Frenchman."

"Being a Frenchman is not an insult," he quietly replied.

"Huh. A lot you know." She scooted around him, the back of her legs brushing against the tips of his knees. Then she leaned towards the mirror, closed one eye, and tried again. "All I want is a little privacy."

"I think you've had enough privacy as it is. Too much privacy in fact. Your crystal tracker says you're in Tanzania."

"That's where we are. Tanzania. Not Berkeley. Be careful. Watch out for the wild life. Not to mention their souvenirs. Don't go stepping in some gorilla dung ... Michael, does it look like we're in Africa right now?" She snorted. "Is that why you're here? Jeez. Don't complain to me about that. Take it up with Walter. It's his gizmo."

"You haven't been answering your phone calls."

"Must be off the hook."

"And your answering machine?"

"Broken. What a pity." She outlined her eyelids again with quick deft strokes of kohl. Nikita drew back, blinked a few times, then scrutinized her reflection. Her cornflower eyes looked larger, more exotic, tilting up at the corners lke a cat, now that they were framed by the heavy black make-up. Looked different. Nice.

"You're not in the assigned location."

"That's right. That hotel room was a dump. Rats the size of lap dogs. The Red Rose. Christ. More like the Red Bordello. I had to get out of there. Especially when the desk clerk offered me a special deal," Nikita said cheerfully. She puckered her mouth, and applied pale pink frost lipstick. Then she carefully rubbed every millimeter of her lips together in slow almost-sensual circles. She ran her tongue under her lips and over her teeth as she slid the cap back on to her lipstick until it clicked close. Nikita turned to him. She pulled off her turban, and sodden hair tumbled down her neck and over her shoulders. Then Nikita hung her hair to one side as she crimped and rubbed it dry. She leaned closer, made her voice husky.

"How do I look? I want it to look ... just right." Michael stared at her mouth for a long time, then surveyed her with great care as if noting the exact way the towel was wrapped around her, how it barely skimmed the tops of her thighs; perhaps analyzing the snug knot that rested between the swell of her breasts. He seemed to count each water drop that clung to her skin, still moist and flushed from a recent shower. Michael's lips parted, and one long breath escaped, then two. At last, he said, "You look ... okay."

"Okay?"

A single vertical line appeared between his eyebrows as he appeared to concentrate hard, maybe translating thoughts into English, checking his idioms. "Yes. Okay. You look ... fine."

"Fine? Well, thanks. Your opinion is always so valuable. So descriptive." Nikita gritted her teeth. What a flop. Not a single reaction. Back to Seduction 101 for remedial education. She turned away, and slung the towel over the wall rack, automatically straightening out its wet folds. Who was she trying to fool? Underneath all the make-up, she was still a gawky girl, all arms and legs, towering over the boys; her eyes too big, chin too small, pale skin like a mushroom, like something found under a rock. Nothing could disguise that. The pretty clothes were just costumes. All the hip wiggling and eyelash batting were a foolish dance. Just pretend. His typical lack of response disappointed her. Must be imagining things once again. Michael blew hot, cold. She could never figure it out. Always wondered if she were just a little crazy, hallucinating about him, about them together. Wishful thinking didn't make it so. As the bathroom door swung wider, music spilled in, another ripple of piano, the drums heating. The singer's voice deepened, crescendoed. "When your favorite Ro-me-o, grabs his hat and starts to go ... Just give him the ooh-la-la."

Oh God. Nikita couldn't bear to look at him, wished herself miles away. The opposite side of the world wouldn't be far enough away right now. Maybe a completely different planet. She could transfer to some space colony. Was there a station on Mars? Yeah, that was the solution. Humiliated, she picked up her make-up, and put it back on the shelf of the medicine cabinet. But when Nikita shut its small mirror door, she caught a glimpse of Michael, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He lifted one hip. Then he tugged down on the leg of his jeans to relieve a shadowed fullness that hadn't been there before. Round Two to me. Nikita hid her smile. Maybe she hadn't done such a bad job after all.

###

"Oops." Walking across the living room, Nikita caught the knot in her towel, and tugged upwards as if it were about to slip down. "I'm going to get out of these wet things. Don't want to catch my death from cold ... If you don't mind." She stepped around the tall Shoji screen that divided the main room into a front area and a sleeping space. Nikita paused in front of the screen, and pulled her towel loose.

"Well, Michael, you can just go back the way you came. See you later. Say 'hi' to Walter and Birkoff for me."

"But I'm not leaving. Not yet."

"Is that so? I have to tell you. Your timing stinks. Can't do a full briefing right now. I'm on soon. The party at my landlord's. You know, Stan the Man, the notorious techno-terrorist. Bandit of the band waves. Mi satellite es tu satellite. I'll fill you in while I dress. I can give you another five minutes. Max."

Nikita yanked off her towel with a sharp wet snap, and threw it down on the floor so that it skidded and hit the wall where he could see it. She hummed a little as she sorted through the clothes hanging over the top of the room divider, which also served as a makeshift clothes rack. She pulled down the brassiere, its end flicking into the air at the last moment.

As Nikita dressed, she could see Michael through the thin rice paper screen. By a strange trick of the light, his shadow loomed larger than the real man, just like his personality seemed bigger than life, always quietly dominating wherever he was, filling the room, making other men seem inconsequential by comparison. Broad shoulders tapered to slim hips. He held his arms a little to either side of him: relaxed, yet prepared, like a gunslinger ready to draw at any moment. Draw, aim, and fire with deadly intention. Nothing or no one would stand in his way. He always hit his target. No matter what. And she was his next target. Nikita knew it, could feel it as certain as if a bulls-eye were painted over her heart, which leaped and thudded inside her chest right now. Her throat dried, all sand and dust.

"So ..." Nikita stopped. Her voice sounded appallingly rusty. Michael was probably smiling at her discomfort. His sudden appearance was all in character, always in control, calculated to push her off-center. Well, he wasn't the only one who could pop a surprise or two. The first reaction she had provoked was just the appetizer, an hors-d'oeuvre, a little taste. Nikita forced herself to swallow, then resumed. "... this mission's a wash. A complete wash. Read my reports."

"I have."

"Listen, I've been working at 'Over the Moon' for four weeks now. Every morning Stan gets one cup of half-caf/decaf coffee, cream, no sugar, and two SPAM croissants. He thinks his wife doesn't know about his dietary indiscretions, but she does. Margo Beasley notices everything. "He always comes into the shop, ten o'clock a.m. sharp. You could set your watch by it. But I've never seen anything else. No cell activity, no contacts. I'm telling you. Stumpy's wrong about this one. Stan's not some big deal techno-terrorist. He's into micro-breweries, not Molotov cocktails." "Stan Beasley is an international businessman. It's the perfect cover. Travels frequently, anywhere in the world, even to sensitive areas - China, Cuba, Russia ..." "Oh, for God's sake. He and his wife sell New Age stuff: pyramids, crystals, magic stones. They don't deal weapons ... or stolen smallpox." Michael grunted, then continued as if she hadn't said anything.

"Review the intell on him. Sudden departures, equally sudden arrivals. Chance meetings with anybody. Unexplained income. It's textbook."

"The only thing textbook are the books the Beasleys sell. Things like your Pet's Chakras and You or The Joy of Spirulina."

"Why are you so mad?"

Nikita roughly picked a gentian blue shirt off the screen, felt it snag across the cedar frame. She winced. No point in taking it out on good silk. She raised her arms, and scooted the shirt over her head, careful not to smear her cosmetics.

"I'm not mad, I'm ... irritated."

"Did he try to hit on you?" A hint of amusement threaded through Michael's words before he coughed discreetly, as if trying to swallow his laughter and speak at the same time.

"No. Worse. I had to drink his health concoctions. Some kind of brain power drink. Neurotransmitters, he said. My God. It was like thick green paint. How can anything that plugs up your gut possibly make you smarter? For days I couldn't ... Oh, never mind. The things I do for Section. I deserve a commendation for that one." She slowly pulled down the matching skirt, and slipped it over her legs.

"Why didn't you refuse?"

"I couldn't say 'no'. Didn't want to hurt his feelings. Stan's a nice guy. Maybe a little kooky, but that doesn't make him a techno-terrorist. There's no way. The man doesn't even have a computer. Refuses. Says that long-wave radiation from the monitors sucks your brains out. Makes you stupid. So he still writes everything longhand. On paper. Can you imagine? And this party. Their party's a benefit for a women's shelter."

"So he's a Good Samaritan. Like Alex Chandler?"

Nikita's fingers froze halfway up the skirt zipper. She took a deep breath. "That's not fair. That mistake was a long time ago. I've learned a lot since then."

"Doesn't sound like it to me. You can't let personal ..."

"... feelings interfere. Don't get too close. Yeah, yeah. I know that one by heart. It's not feelings. It's judgment. Mine. We're chasing after the wrong guy. I know it. This is a candy-ass job, Michael. Why are we doing this?"

"Are you in danger?"

"No."

"Then just do the work, and file the reports. Don't make any waves."

Her chin jutted out. "Why?"

"Just do it. Trust me, Nikita." How often had she heard that before? Something about his voice made her pause and worry a little. But pushing him further wouldn't yield any results. Damn rock-headed man. His obstinate character charted right off the Mohs scale for hardness, tough enough to cut diamonds. Time to beat a strategic retreat. Keep your eyes open, girl. Stay sharp. This game was getting old. She was tired of trying to scale his barriers or finding ways to burrow under them. If only he would tell her everything instead of parceling out the truth in safe doses, a little at a time. Was Michael protecting her or himself? It galled her, this patronizing behavior. It was an absolute hindrance. Nikita wanted to be treated like an equal partner, not put on some stupid pedestal. Her mouth puckered as if she had just taken another bite into something and found it sour at the core instead. Again. But she wasn't about to give up. Not yet.

Frowning, Nikita bunched up a sheer silver stocking until it looked like a shimmering donut, then inserted one pointed foot inside of it. She propped her leg on a chair, gently drew up the thigh-high nylon, and released the elastic band with a snap. Then she switched legs, repeating the same ritual. Nikita smoothed the nylons one more time, made the last minor tugs and adjustments.

"There. All done." Michael said something under his breath. His shadow twisted, thinned, then grew larger as he appeared to move away from her.

"Michael?" She stuck her head out, but didn't see him. Where had he gone? Nikita walked around the screen, and back into the main room. He gazed out an open window, his back towards her.

"There you are. Can you help? Can't reach the last few buttons." Nikita turned around, lifting her hair to one side. She waited, but he didn't respond at first, made no move towards her. She glanced over her shoulder. He only stood there, staring out into the night. "If it's not too much trouble," added Nikita.

"No trouble," he said in hushed tones, but his sigh suggested just the opposite. Michael's fingers slowly fastened the tiny pearl buttons that she'd left undone on purpose. Each glancing touch felt like a cinder that glowed hot, a banked fire with the potential for even more. Nikita felt it even through the silk, sparking straight to her skin. When he pushed the last button through the tight loop, his knuckles rubbed the soft hairs on her nape, and something inside her ignited. Heat trailed up her spine, from the dimple between her shoulder blades to her neck. She felt like a living flame ... He seemed to be speaking from a great distance.

Nikita blinked, trying to concentrate on his words. "What did you say?"

"I said it's done. C'est fini." He ran a finger down the line of her buttons as though he were checking his handiwork one last time. Nikita barely repressed her moan. She tried to hide her reaction by leaning over to pick up her sandals from the floor. Her skirt caught as she bent over, the fabric stretching tight over her hips.

"Peaches," he murmured.

"Hmm?"

"I smell peaches."

"Oh. That must be my neighbor's tree outside. It's a peach tree." Nikita straightened up, and pointed to the open window. The round silhouettes of fruit looked like large black ornaments hanging from gnarled boughs, which were thick and twisted with age, and sprawled low and horizontally, only its arthritic end branches turning skyward. A breeze stirred the crescent-shaped leaves.

Michael put his hands on the sill, leaned forward, and glanced to either side. His tongue clicked with disapproval. "Why is the window open?" He sounded a little pained, as if annoyed that he had to remind her after all this time.

"Why do you think the window's open? For the air. Circulation. This apartment gets stuffy. Don't make it any stuffier."

"It's not secure. Just look at this access. Five vulnerable points."

"I counted seven." Nikita slipped on her silver sandals, then bent backwards, lifting one leg at a time to adjust the little straps in the back of her heels. "You think it's insecure? Try it. Just try it and see."

Michael reached towards the window, but hesitated at the last moment. Instead, he picked up a flyer from the floor, crumpled it, then lobbed it towards the window. When the paper wad passed under the window pane, thin ultraviolet beams suddenly appeared and repelled the makeshift missile, which landed back on the rug again. There was a sizzling sound. The room smelled unpleasantly of burnt paper.

"Hey. That was Stumpy's latest newsletter - the conspiracy about mad cow disease and hormones in milk. We're poisoning ourselves. Like the Romans and their lead aqueducts."

Michael smiled. "Don't tell me you read those."

"All right. I won't." Nikita lifted the hem of her skirt, and calmly ground out the smoldering remains with her sandal.

"I'm glad you didn't use your hand. It packs a wallop. Sixty Joules."

"You didn't warn me," said Michael.

"You didn't ask. You just made an assumption. My trainer once said that experience is the best teacher. A thousand simulations never totally prepares you for the field." She lifted her eyebrows, made her eyes round and innocent. "You mean that's not true?"

"For some things, yes." He prowled towards her, every step with deceptive casualness, a slight roll and dip of his shoulders with each predatory move. "For some things, there's no substitute for direct experience."

He stepped even closer so that their mouths were just inches apart. "There's nothing like the real thing." His words puffed and blew against her skin. She danced back a little.

"Real thing? I don't know about reality. Reality's overrated." She tugged down her silk top that ended just under her breasts and above her midriff. Then she ran her hands over the fitted yoke of her skirt to where it flared out into long voluminous folds. She held out the material, swirling it this way, then that. She turned in a complete circle, the soft silk swirling around her legs, aware that the shadows of her limbs were probably visible through the sheer fabric. "Isn't this beautiful? I love all the blues. But look. The color changes in the light. See? Now it's lavender and turquoise green like the sea, always moving. See the silver glitter. Gorgeous." Nikita made another turn, then paused. She bit her fingertip. "But I could use your advice."

"Yes. On what? I'll help in anyway I can," he said gravely.

"Well, I don't know about the jewelry." She rested one hand on her toned abdomen, which was framed by the hem of her short shirt on top and the low hip-hugging waistband of her skirt below. She fingered the small sapphire on her navel ring. "It may be too much. Kind of overstated. But it does match these." Her other hand touched the teardrop sapphire and diamond earrings that swung from her lobes.

His lips tightened into a dour line, turned downward as he seemed to consider the earrings ... and who had given them to her. "I don't like them. I never did. Too overstated ..."

"No, they're not."

"... Too bold. Flashy. Gaudy ..."

"Gaudy?! You make them sound like costume jewelry!" Nikita's mouth opened and closed a couple of times without saying anything. For a moment, she could only manage to sputter. Thoughts fluttered inside her head in no apparent order, indignation jamming up her words, blocking her speech. Finally, she spit out a sentence. "These earrings ... They're Bartolli originals, very exclusive."

"I'll admit they're expensive. But being expensive doesn't make them tasteful. Doesn't suit you at all."

"They match my eyes perfectly. The exact Pantone color. Just ask Walter. We compared them on the spectrometer. Perfect match." She lifted a finger, touched the earrings. "I love them. They're very special to me. They're the only real jewelry I have. Grown-up lady jewelry," she said calmly, folding her arms across her chest.

Michael gave a little shrug. "As to that ... well, surely you're not hinting? Are you, Nikita?"

"Me? Hint? No. Absolutely not. Jewelry only means something when it's given with some real feeling behind it. Without feeling, it's meaningless. Just a bribe. Not a token of affection ... or love."

"Take them off."

"Why? I like them. Now, if you excuse me. I have an engagement." She walked away from him, crossed the living room, and stepped into the hallway. Nikita picked up a blue shawl from the vestibule so that it tumbled from her hand to the floor like a waterfall of silk. The material rippled, releasing the vaguest memory of patchouli and incense as if something still lingered from a trip to an Indian temple once upon a time, perhaps during the scarf's past life long ago. She carefully centered the sari over the top of her head, and then started to wrap it around her body. When she was done, Nikita examined her reflection in the hallway mirror. The matching Indian outfit and silk shawl made her eyes seem larger, bluer. The silver slippers even made her feet look petite. She looked like a blonde lotus, somehow transplanted in Bombay, instead of a big Valkyrie galoot from Section One. Feminine, not a freak or a floozy. Her appearance pleased her, pleased her greatly. He came up behind her, gently rested his hands on her shoulders. In the mirror, they looked like a portrait: about the same height, mahogany head next to blonde, male and female, an off-matched pair - she in Indian fancy dress, he in casual shirt and jeans. But instead of clashing, they complemented each other. They looked like they belonged together. A pair. For a second, his hands tightened before Michael turned her towards him. He leaned forward until his lips almost touched her neck right below her ear lobe. Michael sniffed once, twice, his breath stirring her hair. He picked up a strand, rubbed it between his fingers, then tucked it behind her ear. He drew back again so that they stood nose to nose.

"It's you. You're the one." His gaze wandered over her face, lingered on her mouth.

Michael's thumb caressed the corner where her lips met. "What?" she whispered, feeling the rough pad of his thumb catch on her lips when she spoke.

"You smell like peach ... It's not the tree. It's you."

She cleared her throat, forced the words past the new constriction. "Yes. It's my soap."

"You smell ... good enough to eat. I wonder."

"You wonder ... What?" All of a sudden, Nikita felt stupid and slow, as if the air was full of opium smoke which clogged her senses, made everything surreal. But it wasn't opium. It was his eyes. Their full force was turned on her, mesmerizing her like a narcotic. His deep green eyes, and that voice - soft, a little husky now, the slight French accent, drugged her system, made her weak all over. So addicting. Totally addicting. Nikita was hooked. She could mainline him forever, and never be satisfied, never have enough. The Michael effect - it had to be illegal. It took all of her will to keep standing on her legs, which seemed boneless all of a sudden. She stared back, intoxicated, helpless.

"What do you wonder?"

"I wonder ... do you taste like a peach?" Michael's gaze flickered over her features once more, flickered and darkened to the color of the deep sea. He bent towards her. His breath brushed her right before his lips touched hers, and his sigh passed from his mouth to hers. Soft. Soft and quiet as a summer breeze. Warm. Tender. It stirred her, almost moved her to tears. It was a shy kiss. A question. Come to me, Nikita? Her body raced ahead of her mind, and answered him. Again. Oh, and again, she answered without words, with need. She yielded to the pressure of his mouth moving over hers, the feel of his arms around her; her body fitting, instinctively shaping to his, soft to hard, curve to angle.

It had been so long, but they moved together as though they'd never forgotten; as though they'd never been apart, separated by misunderstanding and manipulation, by circumstances out of their control. They kissed: greeting, remembering, rediscovering.

Now the gentleness quickened into something stronger. Heat gathered speed; fast, faster until sirocco winds swept across the desert that was her life, and blew through her at a gale force, sweeping aside reason, protocols, the outside world. Everything was leveled. Everything seemed possible now. Now, in her hands, under his. Snap. Krrr. In the back of her foggy mind, she barely heard it - the sound of silk tightening, threatening to tear.

"Michael!" She pushed away, panting, a little shocked, more than a little delighted. "Michael. We better stop ... the ... the mission. I have to go to the party."

"Merde," he said succinctly. He added a few more words she had never heard before. His hands bunched, then slowly, slowly relaxed. Party. Must go. Move it, girl. Flustered, Nikita snuffled a laugh, and picked up the long white bakery box from the table without really seeing anything. She felt discombobulated, her mind one place, her body in another as she struggled to do the simplest things. She moved like an image blurred across several frames of film, entirely disconnected. A series of Nikita's walked in a stuttering broken-down manner instead of one person with her usual fluid style. Move foot. Good. Now, move the other. She started towards the door, but Michael's hand caught her arm.

"Wait."

"I mean it, Michael. I have to go. This whole job's a waste, but I still need to do it."

"But you can't do it looking like that."

"Like what?" Nikita glanced down. Her sari was completely mangled. She tried to set the box on the hallway table again, but Michael stepped in her way.

"Here. Let me." He quickly untangled the crushed blue silk, shook it out, and wrapped it around her torso again with an expertise that thoroughly annoyed her. He was finished in a matter of seconds.

"Spend any days in India? Any nights?" she asked sarcastically. Nikita glanced in the mirror. Half of her lipstick was smeared on her face, the other half on Michael's. He licked his thumb and wiped off the evidence of their recent embrace. He smiled into the mirror at her, but didn't answer her question.

"Taking the fifth, hmmm?" Nikita dug into her pocket, pushed past the keys to find her lipstick. She repaired the damage. "There," she said brightly. "Good as new."

"No. Better. Much better." He took the box from her, and read the note scrawled across its top.

"Mange-moi? Eat me. Jésus. What's in here?"

"Wouldn't you like to know. Maybe it's naughty lingerie. Maybe a round of bullets."

"Or maybe not."

"It's eclairs. From work." Nikita opened the door. They both stepped over the threshold and into the warm summer evening. "I suppose you're coming with me."

"But of course." "And there's no way I can talk you out of it." He balanced the box on one arm, and held her elbow with the other. The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked down the garden path towards her landlord's house. Crickets were chirping their night song.

"You can try," he said softly. "I love how you try."

Continued in Just Desserts.

###

Author's Note and Glossary: Many thanks to Silea and Kadyn for their help with translation.

Give Him the Ooh-La-La, Cole Porter.
hors-d'oeuvre appetizer.
Je veux être seule. I want to be alone.
Je voudrais la pêche, s'il vous plaît. I would like a peach, please.

Jésus Jesus.
Mange-moi Eat me.
merde shit.
Mi satellite es tu satellite. "My satellite is your satellite," an adaptation from Mi casa es tu casa or "My house is your house," Spanish.
Mohs scale a qualitative scale in which the hardness of a mineral is determined by its ability to scratch, or be scratched by, any one of 15 minerals arranged in the following order of increasing hardness: from talc (lowest) to diamonds (highest).
Mon Dieu My God.
pêche peach.
Stumpy, aka. Dickie D., unfortunate Section operative first mentioned in Resurrection.
Taking the fifth reference to the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution, which provides that no person "shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself."

All non-LFN characters are under copyright to F. Yep (c) 1999.

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