Tragedy Strikes

"Please sit down, Nikita." Madeline gestured to the wing-backed chairs in the corner, sitting in one herself and loosely clasping her hands in her lap. As usual, she was impeccable in voice and manner. She reminded Nikita of the "Southern Lady" in an old poem she had read -- a woman the poet had compared to "velvet sheathing the steel demurely, in that trained, light grip which holds so surely."

"A drunk driver. Our agents were several cars back. They saw it happen. He ran a stop sign at high speed and crashed into Elena's side of the car. She died instantly. Unfortunately, Adam was in the back seat on the same side of her car. He suffered crushing skull injuries. We've brought them both here to MedLab, but there's really nothing we can do for him. We have not placed him on life support, and our surgeons predict his death within the next few hours. There is really no brain activity. Eventually, his heart will stop."

"Yes, but only in the short term. The only way we could then be certain of our future safety would be to cancel him, and we are reluctant to do that. Section has a great deal of time and resources invested in Michael. He has great potential. We want to protect our investment if at all possible. By allowing Michael to confront this issue with a certain degree of choice, we resolve it once and for all."

"Michael." Operations' voice captured his attention and he turned, facing them both -- waiting. Nikita moved to stand beside him, her hand on his arm. Operations told him the news then -- tersely, dispassionately. Nikita would swear later that she felt no warning -- no sudden tensing of muscle, no movement. One moment, he was standing quietly beside her, and the next he had Operations' jacket in a death grip while holding a gun to his throat.

They stopped at the windows to Medlab's ER. Elena's body lay covered - only her long dark hair half-visible from beneath the white sheet. Adam was surrounded by Medlab staff. A red turban covered his head. Nikita realized it had once been white bandages, saturated now with blood and brain matter. Michael pressed the intercom and breathed one word. "Prognosis?" Without turning around, one staff member replied, "He's a gork all right. Get the shoebox ready and dig a hole in the backyard for this one."

Nikita gaped, speechless, as Michael slammed open the door to Medlab, grabbed the man and spun him around. He hissed, "That "gork" is my son. His name is Adam. He's six years old. He can count to 100. He knows his letters. He can write his name. He likes to play soccer, and to ride his bike. He loves music, and he won't go to sleep without his stuffed bear, and without hearing me play the cello. Now get out of here and leave me and my son and his mother alone, unless you wish to die now."

Hours later, Nikita sat outside Medlab, still waiting for Michael to come out. Following the hasty retreat of medical staff, she too had left him alone with Elena and Adam - instinct guiding her to give him the privacy he needed to say goodbye. At one point, she had peeked in the door to find him sitting in a chair, rocking Adam in his arms, humming that same lullaby she had heard him play over and over on the cello in the days following his initial separation from his family.

It was bitter cold as they exited Section. Overhead, stars glittered in a winter sky, and Nikita could smell snow in the air. She bundled Michael into her car and slowly pulled away from headquarters, heading for her apartment rather than his. As she drove, she glanced over to find him trembling violently, his teeth chattering. She turned the heat as high as it would go, realizing he was in shock and needed to be warmed quickly. Suddenly he hissed, "Pull over." She stomped on the brake, and before the car had stopped completely he had jerked open the door and was vomiting into the gutter.

"It's okay, Michael. We'll be home soon. Just hang on." She put the car in gear and headed home as quickly as she could. Fifteen minutes later they were standing inside her door. She led him over to the sofa and plopped him down onto it. He lay back, his closed eyes charcoal circles in a white face. She removed his shoes and covered him with a fleece blanket. Going over to the fireplace, she lit the fire she always kept ready. As the flames rose and the room began to warm, she went into the kitchen, intending to brew tea. Remembering how partial he was to milk, however, she decided on hot chocolate instead. Besides, the warm milky mixture might be more calming to his stomach. While the chocolate warmed, she took a minute to run upstairs and change into an old flannel nightgown Looking down on the living area, she saw him stir restlessly, and returned to sit beside the sofa, rubbing his stomach again gently, stroking his cheek with her other hand. He quieted.

On the low table in front of the fire, the chocolate steamed in two mugs. Nikita blew the froth off hers, then took a sip. She glanced over at Michael. His eyes were open, green pools of unshed tears. She placed her hand on his cheek and turned him to face her. The movement caused the tears to overflow and run down his cheek. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. He stared at her unblinkingly as more filled his eyes. "I could drown in his gaze," she thought.

"Michael, drink this," she commanded. She put one hand behind his neck, lifting his head a bit, and held the mug of chocolate to his lips. He swallowed several times, then pushed her hand away. There was a froth mustache on his upper lip. Unable to resist the impulse, she licked it away with one swirl of her tongue. She then pressed gentle kisses on his mouth. His eyes closed, and she kissed the lids, smoothing the hair back from his damp forehead. His breathing deepened - slowed - and she realized he had drifted off, taking refuge from pain in sleep.

Sensing that this respite would be short-lived, she remained by his side, sinking down onto the carpet beside the sofa, staring into the flames. She didn't remember falling asleep but was awakened abruptly by the sound of hoarse cries - Michael was dreaming again. Over the past few months, as their intimacy had increased, she had become somewhat inured to his occasional outbursts in his sleep. She had developed the habit of stroking his arm or his cheek gently until he subsided, often without ever waking. This time, however, was different. His cries began to take on an even more frantic tone - higher in pitch, more of a wail than a shout. At this point she felt compelled to wake him, and grabbing his face in both hands, she called loudly, "Michael! Wake up! It's Nikita! Wake up now!"

His eyes opened, wide as saucers, but blind to her presence - so deep into the dream that he could only see it as reality. He continued to scream. Nikita knew he would awaken to a tragedy even more real than the nightmare. But, she had no choice, and she slapped him hard, twice, whipping his head back and forth against the sofa cushion. He intercepted the third slap with his hand, gripping her wrist so hard she knew she would find the imprints of his fingers outlined in black and blue bruises tomorrow. She could tell the moment he remembered what had happened. His cries stopped abruptly, but the resulting silence was almost as devastating. His mouth remained open - at first a perfect "O" which, as she watched, began to tremble and dissolve, becoming only one facet of the overall mask of grief contorting his features. He wrapped his arms around her waist, squeezing her tightly, as if he were trying to crawl inside her. He took one long, gasping breath, and released it in sob after sob, his entire body convulsing as she held his head tightly to her breast, rocking them both gently back and forth, whispering her love for him. Eventually, the storm passed, leaving them exhausted. Sobs became occasional hiccups - small aftershocks spasming the muscles in his diaphragm. Nikita continued her rocking, rubbing his back all the while.

As she lay on top of him she could feel his erection hot and hard beneath her. She rubbed him vigorously, and he moaned softly as he swelled rapidly beneath her hand, pressing against the tight confines of the mission pants he was still wearing. Frantically, she unzipped them and released him into her waiting grasp. He sighed with relief, but his sigh turned into a longer, deeper groan as she began to milk him rhythmically, stroking his engorged penis with one hand while circling the tip with her damp thumb.

The sensation was incredible - pleasure and pain so blended that he wasn't sure he could survive the onslaught. Having breached his emotional armor, Nikita held sway over his physical control as well, and almost before he was aware of it, he had thrust violently into her only twice before ejaculating on the down stroke, half in - half out of her, like a horny teenager. To his chagrin, the burning, pulsing stream of white fluid smeared her thighs and his.

"Don't. For once, you don't have anything to be sorry for," she said. "Michael, I love you like this -- don't you realize that your lack of control is the best gift you've ever given me?" Then, dipping her fingers into the moisture on his thigh, she stared intently at him as she slowly and deliberately sucked each one clean, finally running her tongue over her lips in appreciation. "Yum, you taste wonderful."

Each time she pressed it back down, and each time his cock rebounded, he thought he would come apart at the seams. Electric shocks jolted him, and he gripped the sofa cushions tightly in both fists, huffing and grunting as he desperately tried to delay the coming explosion. Nikita could tell the end was imminent, for she could feel his buttocks tighten and see his scrotum drawing up. Just as he was about to erupt, she broke all contact, leaving him on the edge of the precipice. His eyes widened as he realized the choice she was giving him - plead for her help or suffer the agony alone. Always before, he had done what had to be done alone - and that included affording himself the necessary sexual relief.

Now, he was unwilling to consider that option, although the urge to touch himself was almost overpowering. She observed the struggle, as his hands clenched and unclenched, then as he stretched one trembling hand toward his groin, only to pull back and groan, "Please Nikita, I'm begging you, help me!" She watched him intently, noting the sweat on his forehead, his rapid gasps for air, and his tongue licking parched lips. He arched his neck and strained upward toward her, desperate for her touch. How could she resist! But, in order to allow him entry, she had to straddle him backward, due to the acute angle of his erection. Slowly, she lowered herself onto him - then withdrew until he almost popped out again.

He felt the warm wet glove envelope his hypersensitive tip, her own internal contractions milking him deliciously. As she rocked back and forth on top of him, the pressure shifted as well, rubbing first the tip then the back side of his penis. The change in rhythm brought him to an even greater level of excitement - one which he had not believed possible. He tightened one buttock, then the other, desperate for completion, and finally grabbed her tightly around the hips, pulling himself into a half-sitting position, which only tightened the pressure on his c--- as it inflated within her. Hunched forward against her buttocks, he wailed out his release as he emptied himself into her. On and on it shot out of him - just when he thought he could have no more to spend, another spasm would overtake him and another jet of sperm would force its way from his body into hers - in a blind race for the grand prize- life calling to itself on the most elemental level.

Finally, it was over. All he felt now was an overwhelming lassitude. Nikita felt him soften inside her, and she heard his deep sigh of contentment as he released her waist and fell back onto the sofa. She gently disengaged and turned to find him already asleep, eyelids fluttering in time to the aftershocks in his penis as his overburdened system tried to regulate itself. She was tired and sore herself, and the thought of a hot bath was very tempting.

She now sat on the side of the claw-footed tub in the bathroom, running her hand under the tap, then stirring the musk-scented bubbles on the surface of the water. The room was softly lit by five or six thick candles, and she loved the flicker of their light in the mirror and the shadows they cast onto the tiles on the walls. She had pinned her hair up and was just about to step into the tub when she had a second thought. Perhaps Michael would like to join her. Naked, she stepped back into the living room and gazed down at him. She considered letting him sleep, but then she reasoned, "He can sleep later. The more relaxed he is, the better. The more contact we have now, the better."

She was reminded of a method of gentling horses she had recently read about. When a foal is born, the handler maintains contact as much as possible for the first few days, getting the baby used to human touch. Forever after, horses gentled in that manner are calmer and more accepting of the unknown - making them much easier to train. Until now, Michael had been like a wild stallion who had been mistreated - as violent men and women tried continuously to break his spirit. Although seemingly calm and in control as a means of self-preservation, he suffered from the traumatic stress inflicted on his body, mind and spirit by Section. Adam and Elena's deaths had been the final blow - one she did not believe he would recover from without a "sea change." That change had begun, and she was determined to follow it through. There was no going back now - for either of them. She knew deep in her being that he was finished with Section. Whether or not Section was finished with him remained to be seen. It was to life or to death for both of them now, and she fully intended to prevail.

At first, he tried to brush her off, but when she pressed her lips to his, he responded, opening his mouth like a baby bird begging for food. She nibbled on his lower lip, then flittered her tongue into his mouth, tempting him into awareness. His eyes opened, and he groaned as he tried to sit up and pull her into his arms. He felt every muscle in his body! Who had tortured him? Then he remembered, both the tragedy and the loving, and he stilled.

She circled the sofa and extended her hands to help him up. As he stood, he wavered on his feet slightly, as if disoriented, and she quickly stepped closer to put an arm around his waist. As he tried to take a step, they both realized that his pants were pooled around his ankles! In their urgent need, they had both forgotten that little item. Laughing, she squatted down and lifted first one foot, then the other, pulling the pants off completely and throwing them on the chair in the corner. Then she led him into the bathroom.

A half hour later, they lay in the still-warm water, she with her back against the tub, he nestled against her breasts, as she held him to her with her legs crossed at the ankles across his waist. She was washing his hair, massaging his scalp with rhythmic strokes, easing tension in his temples and at the base of his skull with her thumbs firmly circling acupressure points. His head was bent forward on his chest, and his breathing was deep and peaceful. She hummed softly to herself and to him as the water sloshed gently in time to her strokes. She filled a plastic cup with warm water and poured it slowly over the soapsuds in his hair, painting auburn curlicues on the nape of his neck as the soap dissolved. "Um- m," he moaned, as she continued to press her fingers deep into the knots in his neck and shoulder blades, easing the final bits of tension from his body. Finally, she just leaned back and pulled him against her, rocking them both lightly in the waves.

Nikita awoke first, aware suddenly of the now-chilly bath water and the guttering candlelight. Michael was crying in his sleep, his body shaken by deep sobs overlaying the fine tremor caused by the cold water. Nikita chafed his arms and whispered, "Michael, sit up. We need to get out of this water." He jerked awake and leaned forward, allowing her to slip out of the tub from behind him. She grabbed a towel and dried herself quickly, then pulled the stopper from the tub. He sat there as if hypnotized, watching the water swirl down the drain. She lifted her heavy terry cloth robe from the hook on the closet door.

She turned down the coverlet, removed the damp robe, and pushed him down onto the mattress. He sat on the edge of the bed until she gently shoved him back onto the pillow, lifting his legs and covering him. She went around to the other side and got into bed. As soon as she settled, he turned toward her spoon-fashion, twining his legs in hers, his arms around her waist. She put her hands over his and nestled back against him, feeling his breath soft against her neck. Fits of trembling still shook them both, but these became less frequent as they warmed together under the covers.

He had still not said a word, but she could tell he was wide awake. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table -- 2:00 am. It had already been a long night and there were hours yet to endure before daybreak. She tried to turn over to face him, but he only gripped her tighter. Rather than resist, she relaxed and twined her fingers softly into his locked hands. Eventually, his grip loosened and he began to respond to the hypnotic "hand dance" they both loved. She could now feel his growing erection pressing against her bottom and hear his breathing quicken. Following these cues, she pressed more firmly against him and tilted her bottom upward, allowing him to slip into her from behind. He moaned softly and cupped her breast, then her mound, tracing a bolt of heat lightning from one to the other, as he began to circle the fleshy bud between her legs with his thumb. She hunched around his hand, rocking back and forth against the wonderful pressure, as her bottom bumped rhythmically against his own pelvic thrusts.

Higher and higher they climbed, until all at once he stiffened against her. Reaching around behind her, she pressed her fingers into his buttocks, forcing him deeper. He gave one guttural cry and came deep inside her, his cheeks clenching with each spurt. The feel of those powerful muscles spasming under her hands drove her over the edge, as she rushed toward her own completion -- her grip on him tightening and loosening as she rode the crest of the wave. In this way she milked him, but even after all was spent, he continued to pound into her, unwilling to cry "enough". Because it was never enough.

As if sensing her presence, his eyelids began to flutter, and then his eyes flickered open. His hand searched for her body in the bed beside him. Her absence registered, and he bolted upright, coming face to face with her as she sat down on the edge of the bed and brushed the hair back behind his ears. The relief on his face touched her -- his practiced mask of indifference had been well-shattered, and he had not yet figured out how to mend it.

"Come to think of it, he'd probably look hot in the tights." She eyed him carefully for his reaction and was rewarded with a faint quirk of one corner of his mouth. She leaned forward and pressed a feathery kiss on his cheek. Even at this innocent touch he flushed and he felt himself harden. He had already been half-erect from the usual morning "wake up call" from Mother Nature, and this only added to his discomfort.

While he was in the bathroom, she started the coffee -- the strong dark French roast she knew he preferred -- and toasted frozen croissants. She briefly considered making an omelet, but she was afraid he wouldn't eat at all if she offered him too much. So, a basket of croissants with strawberry preserves and butter were all she set on the table. By the time the coffee was ready she began to wonder what he was doing in the bathroom. It had been quite a while since he went in there, and she had heard no sound for the last 15 minutes or so. She tapped on the door.

She pushed him down onto the closed toilet seat lid. Wetting a cloth in cold water, she wiped his face, then pressed it over his eyes, resting his head back against her other hand. After several applications of the cold cloth, he looked like he was feeling better. She picked up her hairbrush from the vanity and brushed his hair, teasing him gently about the numerous curls and "cowlicks" she was trying to tame.

He put his hand over hers and solemnly bit into the offered pastry, chewing it slowly. He swallowed convulsively, and she was aware of the effort it took for him not to lose it entirely all over the table. She said nothing - only broke off another small piece and held it out to him. This time it went down easier. It took nearly 30 minutes for him to finish two croissants and a second cup of coffee, but at the end of that time he definitely looked better. His face had a bit of color back in it, and he seemed more at ease.

Thirty minutes later they entered Section. Michael led her straight to the "ballroom," from which they could look directly upward into Operations' aerie. His eyes locked on those of Operations and Madeline, both of whom had evidently been informed of his return. To the casual observer, his stride appeared natural, leisurely even. But to Nikita, following close behind, he was a stalking panther. He closed the distance to the aerie in only a few seconds. And all the way there his eyes remained locked on the two who awaited him.

So it was as a couple that Nikita and Michael entered Operations' territory for the last time -- although Michael was the only one who knew that at the time. It was as a couple that they faced the man who had attempted to control them for so long -- who did not yet realize that he had lost that control. But Madeline knew it now, watching Michael. She had sensed the change in him as she watched him coming up the stairs, and his response to her probe in their brief exchange had confirmed her hypothesis.

His comments over the phone began to make more sense to her. In his first call, from her apartment, she remembered him saying something like "It's finished. No, I am resolved. I'll call you when everything is ready." And then, in Operations' aerie, he had not even identified himself by code name -- he had only said, "It's me. Tell him." Not a request but a command. These thoughts and others flashed through her mind as she felt his hand on her back, guiding her out and away from the walls which had confined them for years, in soul if not always in body.

They barely made it inside her door. With one hand she turned the inner latch while with the other she unzipped his jeans and grabbed hold of his rock-hard erection. He backed her against the foyer wall, pulled her pants down in one violent motion and entered her immediately. She wrapped her legs around his waist and shoved her heels into his buttocks, forcing him deep into her aching warmth. He strained into her, his arms braced against the wall for purchase, and groaned out his release, unable even to take a breath until his force was completely spent. She gasped out his name with every spasm of his body, every lurch of his penis against the tip of her womb, every jet of semen as he ejaculated deep within her. Afterward, they remained in a clinch, panting, foreheads touching, their bodies still trembling with aftershocks. Michael traced Nikita's eyebrow with his thumb, and she caressed his stubbled cheek with her palm. When he gently disengaged, she whimpered at the loss of contact, then forced herself back into some semblance of control, both for her sake and his. For they could no longer delay the inevitable. Walter was due to arrive in less than half an hour, and Nikita still had to pack.

Relieved, Walter and Birkoff led the way to the car downstairs Walter insisted on driving, and he directed Nikita and Michael into the back seat. They left Paris and headed toward the little village of Bienville, where the priest awaited them. Nikita took Michael's hand, which she noticed was cold and trembling slightly. She chafed it between her own hands, and lifting it to her lips, blew warm breath into his palm. He did not look at her but squeezed her hand gratefully. She moved closer, putting one arm behind him to hold him more tightly against her. He relaxed slightly as he felt her subtle embrace.

Other than Nikita asking once, "How much farther, Walter?" no one spoke for the entire trip. Finally, they arrived in Bienville, and Birkoff could see a tiny stone church, gothic in style, at one end of the square. Behind it was the graveyard which overlooked a field of wildflowers and pine-forested hills in the distance. Walter stopped the car at the front entrance to the church. Michael took several deep breaths, eyes closed, then gently detached himself from Nikita's embrace. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out sunglasses and put them on.

Father Philippe had seen the black sedan arrive, but he had waited in the nave of the church, watching the man get out of the car. He had wondered about this man ever since the one named Walter had come to see him the day before, bringing with him the bodies of the woman and child. He had been curious as well as uneasy about the speed and secrecy with which the funeral arrangements were being made. All of his questions had been skillfully deflected. He had had to insist on this meeting, and even then had he had been given no assurance that it would take place. He did not even know this man's name -- only that the deceased were his wife and son. The man came toward the church, his face a cypher, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. But there was something --

As if in answer to his silent prayer, the man halted a little distance from the priest. For a moment he just stood there, the sunglasses reflecting the light from the rows of votive candles. Then he slowly lifted his hand and removed the glasses. Face to face they stood, eyes locked in absolute silence for perhaps a minute. In that gaze Father Philippe saw a vision of the hell in which this man lived, and his heart went out to him. No longer afraid, he closed the distance between them. As he approached, the man sank slowly to his knees, bowed his head, and whispered, "Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

His visitor had stopped in the open doorway, his eyes methodically sweeping the room -- missing no detail. Father Philippe doubted he was even aware of doing so. This was evidently a habit of such long standing that it had become second nature. Having satisfied himself that they were indeed "a deux", or private, he walked slowly over and sat down, staring into the flames. He removed the black leather gloves he was wearing, but kept them in his hands, rubbing them distractedly with his thumb. At first, the priest had been determined not to initiate the conversation but as the silence dragged on, he realized this man was a master of reticence. So, he reached for the decanter of cognac he kept on the small table beside his chair. He poured it into two small snifters and held one out to his guest in invitation.

And yet, this man was living proof of God's ability to salvage good from evil. He told of the recruit named Nikita -- how he had been ordered to break this young woman, to shape her into yet another whore for this entity called "Section." He told also of how her light had prevailed against the darkness in which his soul resided. She had reached out to him with love, and he had grasped hold of that lifeline with all the ferocity in him. And so had begun his resurrection. But he paid and continued to pay a terrible price. The wife and son now lying dead had originally been pawns he played in the chess game of his life in Section. A "blood cover," he had called his family.

For a time, before Nikita, he had been able to maintain the charade. To all appearances he was a loving husband and father. But he remained emotionally untouched. Love, however, cannot be contained. It feeds upon itself and escapes the bounds we try to set for it. Ironically, it was his love for Nikita which had enabled him to love his son, and, in some sense, his wife. But once the emotional firewall he had erected was breached, he had no defense against the agony of their loss. And that loss had always been inevitable, given the circumstances of his assignment. Nikita had walked with him through the firestorm. Her love had kept him alive. She had become his "raison d'être" - his reason for being.

"I think you already know the answer to that question, my son. To God the good of the one IS the good of the many. Holy Scripture reminds us of this again and again. Did not the widow search until she found the one lost coin? Did not the wealthy man trade all of his many riches for the one pearl of great price? Did not the shepherd leave the flock to go in search of the lost lamb? All these parables proclaim the same truth -- that each of us is God's 'favorite' son or daughter."

The centuries-old ritual words of absolution echoed through the room. On hearing his name and the words of forgiveness, Michael gave one choked sob, which he tried to stifle with his hands. But Father Philippe cupped the back of his head and drew him closer. At first he resisted the more intimate gesture, but then he surrendered completely and, burying his face in the priest's cassock, cried like a child.

Father Philippe poured himself another drink and sat down to wait. He too felt drained. As he sipped the cognac, he thanked God for his priesthood - for the sublime gift of forgiveness he was entrusted to impart. Now that the urgency of the moment had passed, he remembered the unhappy task he still had to perform. He glanced at the clock on his desk. Four-thirty! "Mon Dieu!" Well, the dead were in no hurry. He had done the right thing in ministering to the living first. Still, he knew that Michael had not come alone. He wondered where the others were He rose quietly and left the room, glancing back to make certain Michael was still asleep.

As he walked into the church, he saw three people sitting in the last pew. They stood up as he approached. He recognized the one called Walter. Beside him was a young man - a boy, almost, who looked at Father Philippe with unconcealed curiosity -- almost as if he were a bug under a microscope. The priest couldn't help but feel sorry for the young man. He reminded him of a veal calf, raised in a dark crate, never allowed the freedom to grow to maturity -- slaughtered for its tender, pale flesh. "Another abomination," he thought sadly. "Oh Man, what hast THOU wrought!"

Finally, he turned his attention to the woman. She was taller than either of the men. White-blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes, milky skin. "Mon Dieu, Elle est si belle!" He felt his loins tighten at the sight of her. He blushed furiously, relieved that he was wearing the skirted cassock rather than pants. He could tell that she knew what he was thinking, for she smiled and winked. Her easy acceptance of his natural human reaction somehow made it all right, and he grinned wryly back at her.

As they entered Father Philippe's office, Nikita could see Michael's head resting against the high-backed chair in front of the fireplace. She walked over and looked down at him. She had never seen him so deep asleep. She pulled up a footstool and sat down on it. As she watched, his mouth quirked up in a tiny smile, then pursed into a suckling motion. She stroked her fingers over his lips, and he latched on, suckling more strongly. As she pulled he frowned and murmured "Maman."

She shook him gently, calling him by name, but his eyes remained closed. He seemed determined to remain oblivious. The only reaction she got from him was a grunt of annoyance as he batted away her hand. In the end, she had to resort to more forceful tactics, pinching him hard enough to leave bruises, she was sure. He awoke, moaning softly at the discomfort she had inflicted. He looked at her, then at Father Philippe, as awareness dawned.

On learning how late it was, he stood up abruptly. Dehydration from his violent illness the night before, cognac, and exhaustion warred with the surge of adrenaline now coursing through his body. His eyes rolled back in his head, and it took the combined efforts of Nikita and father Philippe to prevent him from toppling flat onto the floor. They sat him back down in the chair. Nikita pushed his head down between his knees.

"The letter of the law must bow before the spirit," he reminded himself. The risk these people had taken in attending this mass was sufficient proof for him to allow them to share fully in this communion. They were invited guests at the Lord's banquet, and he was not about to turn them away hungry. He had taken a few moments to explain the service to them before he began, and he was pleased by their close attention to his instructions. They had seemed eager to observe all the proprieties out of respect for Michael.

Throughout the ritual, Michael had knelt statue-still, his gaze fixed on the closed coffins. As was customary at the consecration, the altar serer had rung the bells to announce the act of transubstantiation - the changing of the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. Michael had flinched at the sound and looked toward the altar for the first time since the mass had begun His eyes had been wide, yet unfocused.

"Courage, mon ami," he had whispered, briefly covering Michael's hand with his own. He had moved on, then, offering the consecrated meal to Nikita, to Walter, and to Birkoff. Father Philippe had been gratified by the solemnity with which they had received and consumed the offering. To his astonishment, he had even thought he saw tears glistening in Walter's eyes. Now there was a man he would like to know better.

Although the sun had set, Michael was wearing dark glasses again. "Pauvre homme, let him hide behind them if it helps," thought the priest. He wondered whether Michael was trying to hide from his own grief or hide his grief from the rest of them, but either way, it wouldn't work for long. His grief was too powerful, even for a man whose very survival had depended for years on his ability to deny all emotion. Father Philippe had already seen the evidence of that in his study.

"Almighty God, into Your hands we commend the soul of Elena -- most loving wife and mother. May she find everlasting peace and eternal joy in Your presence and that of Your own mother Mary. Father, You Who sacrificed your only Son for the salvation of mankind, only You can fully understand how Michel feels as he must now give his only son into Your loving care. Keep Adam close to You. Through You may he always feel Michel's love for him. Finally, we pray that You might comfort Michel in his desolation. We here with him today can only offer a poor imitation of Your boundless love, but what little we do have we share willingly. Have mercy on us all. Amen."

At Walter's touch, Michael had stiffened, but as the older man joined with Nikita to shelter him in their warm embrace, his grief overwhelmed him. His sobs shook them all in violent spasms, which finally began to subside as his last reserve of strength was exhausted. Nikita and Walter looked at one another silently. Both could sense that Michael now knelt completely limp between them. If either of them backed away he would collapse onto the ground.

Each one taking an arm, the two men raised Michael to a standing position, and Nikita hoisted him over her shoulders. It was a good thing Birkoff had brought the car as close to them as possible. Walter opened the door to the back seat and climbed over to the other side. Nikita lowered Michael's unconscious form into Walter's waiting arms, tucked in his legs, and shut the door. She offered to take Walter's place, but he shook his head and said, "If you don't mind, Sugar, I think I'll just stay where I am. Why don't you ride up front with Birkoff?"

As they drove slowly down the deserted country road, a harvest moon rose, like a giant Chinese lantern, to light their way home. Birkoff spotted the house first, its chimney peeking through the trees lining the narrow path off the road. Then the clay-tiled roof came into view. The place looked run-down, as if the owners had abandoned it months or even years before. As they drove into the yard, however, he saw signs of more recent habitation. The house and barn had been recently painted, and the barn had a shiny new roof. Some kind of vine with large white flowers covered a trellis on the porch.

Nikita climbed out of the car and went around the side of the house. She opened a breaker box and flipped several switches. Light flooded the porch. Next, she went over to a windowbox near the front door. Sliding out a tiny false panel in the bottom of the box, she extracted a heavy iron key and opened the front door. It creaked on ancient hinges as it swung slowly open. She reached inside and flipped a light switch.

He eagerly set about the task she had assigned him, happy to have something impersonal to do. He was still not comfortable with being near this "new" Michael. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to witness the emotional meltdown of someone he had always seen as invincible. It made him question his own stability even more. And, if he were to be absolutely honest with himself, he was jealous of Walter's care for Michael. "Sibling rivalry at my age!" he snorted to himself. "But, I guess that's what being part of a family means - sharing affection." And he had to admit it, Michael needed all the family he could get right now.

Michael jerked up, moving away from Walter. His eyes darted wildly around as he tried to orient himself. They could see the realization dawn of where he was and who he was with -- and whom he had lost. He slumped down in the seat, head bowed, as he fought for some semblance of control. Walter got out of the car and Nikita took his place next to Michael. She wanted nothing more than to put her arms around him, but when she touched him he flinched away, sucking in breath in one harsh gasp. She removed her hand - instinctively aware of his acute embarrassment at his own fragile emotional state. For a few moments he teetered on the edge. Then, taking a series of slow, deep breaths, he turned to face her.

"Yes, Birkoff, I am definitely making a joke," she replied solemnly. "There is no way in this world that I would trust you to come up with anything even remotely resembling a well-cooked meal. Now make way for the chef!" And she playfully shoved Michael forward. To her relief, he offered no resistance, but went over to the tall wooden cupboard and looked inside. Turning back to Nikita, he queried, "Would soup and an omelet be all right?"

While they poured eagerly over Michael's record collection, he and Nikita worked together -- cutting vegetables for the soup and whisking eggs for the omelet. The routine tasks were soothing -- allowing Michael to keep his grief at bay as long as his hands stayed busy and Nikita remained in sight. She sensed his need for her presence and circled in and around him, offering assistance and following his instructions. Now and then she would ask "Why?" or "How?" just to keep his attention focused on her and the job at hand. She knew sorrow lurked just around the corner, in the dark, and she was determine to keep him in the light as long as possible. The darkness would return soon enough. For now, let him rest.

Nikita followed Michael down the narrow staircase to the small cellar. She remembered hiding here when they were being tracked during last summer's mission. She couldn't say she remembered seeing wine down here -- her mind had been preoccupied with avoiding detection and with hiding the field router from the team Section had sent out after her and Michael. Now, however, when Michael pulled the chain on the ceiling light, she noticed the floor-to-ceiling wine rack against the far wall. It was filled with bottles of various shapes and hues. She had been telling the truth when said she didn't know one wine from another. She had always drunk whatever Michael offered, and whenever he had asked how she liked it, she always replied, "It's fine." Frankly, it had all tasted pretty much the same to her, but she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings.

He very deliberately set down the bottles he was holding and stood passively, arms at his sides, allowing her to set the pace. She loved the fact that he was being totally open to her ministrations, and she took full advantage of the situation. She lifted his arms and placed them around her waist. Cupping her hands around his buttocks, she shoved him full against her lower belly. He gasped at the heat she engendered in him, as the blood rushed to his groin and his erection filled his pants.

Standing directly in front of him, she unzipped his pants as quickly as possible, considering the obstacle his swollen flesh presented. At the sound of the zipper he gave a deep, strangled moan and grabbed for her hand. "Oops!" she thought, all at once doubtful if he would be able to hold off until she could release him completely. She swatted his hand away and jerked down his briefs. His erection caught on the elastic and his breath caught in his throat as he felt the electrical jolt that surged through his system.

Nikita had seen him aroused before, but not like this. It really WAS purple! The skin was stretched so tight that the knob was completely exposed, forcing the entrance to his urethra slightly open so that pre-ejaculate trickled freely down and over the entire hood. The large vein running up the back of his penis was pulsing vigorously, causing his entire length to jerk in tiny spasms in time with the rapid beating of his heart.

At first, she tried manipulating him just with her hands, but he couldn't bear it. So, she knelt in front of him and oh-so-gently swirled her tongue around the knob, soothing and licking the hypersensitive tip. Then she licked all the way from tip back to root, up one side and down the other. Gently lifting him, she licked underneath as well, paying special attention to that male "G" spot between his balls and his anus. Licking and sucking all over his grossly swollen testicles, she lubricated the entire area to prepare him for her hand. He was emitting a high-pitched whine. His eyes were tightly shut, and a tear trickled down each cheek from behind the closed lids.

At her words, he opened his eyes and stared in wonder down at the vision before him. She was so beautiful -- her golden hair draped over his groin -- her blue eyes shining up at him -- her mouth open as she massaged the helmet of his penis with her lips and tongue. One hand was clasping him lightly around its base. The other cradled his sac, rolling the two aching, sperm-filled globes against one another. As he watched, she began to milk him gently, pressing and pulling, urging him onward. She tickled him again on that little strip of skin leading to his bottom.

He couldn't answer. He just leaned his forehead against hers and tried to catch his breath. His knees threatened to buckle, but he locked them in fierce determination. All he could feel was overwhelming relief from that painful pleasure he had been tortured by ever since they had entered the cellar. It had been a near thing. He wondered what Walter and Birkoff would have done if they had heard his screams. He still couldn't believe he had held them back. It had taken all his strength.

"Well, it's about time!" teased Walter as they reentered the main room. "I see you found what you were looking for." The double-entendre was followed by a pregnant silence Birkoff looked up from the record he was examining. He saw an evil grin on Walter's face. Nikita was blushing furiously. Michael appeared pale and drawn, but his lips were red and swollen. And there was a distinctive musky scent in the air. "I guess they sure DID find what they were looking for." He hastily returned to his perusal of the LP collection. He was no Walter -- and he wasn't about to banter with Michael about his sex life! It was risky enough being here in the first place, without raising the stakes any higher for the sake of a wise crack.

"I'll tell you two what," Walter continued in a casual tone. "Why don't you make yourselves comfortable on the sofa, and Birkoff and I will finish fixing supper. After all, you've already done most of the work, right? All we have to do it scramble the eggs and slice the bread. I'll do the eggs," he reassured them "soto voce". Michael looked at Nikita with raised eyebrows. She nodded to him in agreement.

He knew what she was referring to, although it was an unspoken concern they both held separately. He had known Michael a long time -- had seen him deal with stress and grief so many times. Michael might be able to control the expression on his face, the tenor of his voice, but his body would betray him sooner or later. He was very circumspect about it, but Walter remembered the first time he had become aware of Michael's difficulty. It had happened a month or so after Simone's capture. Michael had become more and more silent and withdrawn -- and thinner. Rumor had it he never ate or slept. Walter had wondered how he kept going, apparently leading missions as capably as ever. The crisis had come when he had been required to attend a dinner with Operations, Madeline, and George. He had arrived in Section impeccably dressed and had stopped by Walter's station to obtain a PDA and a weapon. "Some dinner party," Walter had said to him at the time. Later that evening, Michael had come to return both items. He had placed them deliberately on the counter, politely said good night, then turned away and puked his guts up all over his expensive silk shirt and Italian shoes. It had happened so suddenly it took Walter a minute to react, but when he tried to help, Michael had shoved him away. When the attack was finally over, Michael had wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, turned to Walter and whispered, "I'm sorry. Please call Housekeeping," and walked away. Later, Walter heard the scuttlebutt that Michael had sat through the entire dinner, graciously accepting every course that was pressed upon him, and charmed all with his intellect and elegant wit. The dinner had been considered quite a coup for Operations and Madeline. George had been suitably impressed with the civilized manner in which Section was being administered. Only Walter had been witness to the aftermath of that farce, and he recalled it now in vivid detail as he observed Michael sleeping on Nikita's lap.

He smiled and picked up his spoon. He dipped it in the bowl, stirring slowly while inhaling the rich aroma of beef and vegetables. Nikita snagged a thick slice of the French bread covered with butter. She ate neatly yet rapidly, emptying her own bowl of soup, sopping up the dregs with a crust of bread, then devouring several chunks of the cheese. All the while, however, she eyed Michael furtively. Walter also appeared unconcerned as he refilled his glass, but he watched Michael as well.

Walter had to give her credit. She would make a good poker player. He was interested in Michael's response to her challenge. The other man looked at her silently for a long moment, then picked up his wine glass and saluted her with it in acceptance of the challenge she had issued. He took a sip of the wine, then brought the filled spoon to his lips and took the first bite. He chewed slowly, then swallowed convulsively, as if forcing down the food by sheer willpower.

By the time the bowl was empty, Michael's forehead was dotted with tiny beads of sweat. Without a word, Nikita cleared the table. She dampened a clean tea towel and wiped his face, then draped the cool cloth over the back of his neck. He sat very still, head bowed, struggling to keep down the bread and soup. Nikita stood behind him, absentmindedly rubbing his back. Her touch seemed to help, for Walter noticed that his fingers released their cramped hold on his wine glass. After a few minutes he gave a trembling sigh and leaned his head back against Nikita. She spoke as casually to Walter as if the past half-hour's ordeal had never happened.

"Now I wonder where HER head is." His mind was definitely in the gutter now -- not that it didn't have good cause. This was going to be embarrassing. But he and Birkoff couldn't wait much longer for these two to get up. He reached down and thumped the bottom of the purple sock. Nothing. He thwacked it harder, and this time it jerked back under the covers and he heard a muffled "Ow!" from Nikita. There was a shifting of the bedclothes which reminded him of some burrowing creature moving through its tunnel. Suddenly, Nikita's head popped out from under the coverlet.

"Well, I can think of ONE sure-fire way to get him up," she rationalized. "Of course, it might be a bit noisy, but Walter and Birkoff can just get over it." She shoved the covers further back. As she gazed down at him with hungry eyes, her hand drifted down to his groin. She cupped her palm over him and waited for the heat and pressure to work their magic. It didn't take long. He blossomed under her touch.

They lay stunned for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to get past the initial shock. Nikita tested the soreness between her legs. Her muscles continued to contract spasmodically around her fingers, but other than some chafing she figured she'd be fine. She wasn't so sure about Michael, though. His hands cradled his groin, and he was rocking back and forth slightly, his knees drawn up. She touched his arm.

It was time to leave. Walter had insisted on returning to Section by the noon deadline despite Michael's offer of protection. For thirty-five years he had lived his life a certain way, and although he felt a heady sense of freedom, he couldn't let go quite yet. As for Birkoff, he didn't know if he could make it on the "outside." All he could remember was Section. They would both have to wait and see. There was no rush. They could always leave tomorrow.

Nikita hated to see them go, but she knew this was something they would have to work out for themselves. Meanwhile, she had Michael to worry about. He was still reeling from grief. The price of freedom had been so high. He might never recover completely from the role he had played for so long. His entire adult life had been a "play within a play," and the toll it had taken on his spirit was devastating. All she could do was be here for him.

Nikita tiptoed in from the kitchen and sneaked a look at Michael. He was sitting in the overstuffed chair beside the fire, his head thrown back, snoring softly. The book he had been reading had fallen to the floor. One of these days I'm going to get him to do something about that broken nose. She thought. Although it added an interesting asymmetry to his beautiful features, it also caused breathing problems at times. And the only times he had ever been sick not counting injuries had been with sinus or ear infections. If only all those panting female operatives and Valentine "marks" had known his sexy whisper was often the result of postnasal drip! How romantic! She chuckled, suddenly filled with tenderness for this man who was, after all, only human. She had doubted his humanity for so long that any evidence of it struck like a gong in her heart.

The fire had died down, so she put on another log and sat cross-legged in front of the hearth, at Michael's feet. He didn't even stir. She stared into the flames, mesmerized by the sparks of red and blue which darted through the yellow blaze. The log sizzled briefly as a spot of moisture was licked dry by the heat. She savored the warmth and the faint aroma of cypress emanating from the hearth. An old-fashioned clock tick-tocked metronomically on the mantle. She drifted . . .

The mantle clock chimed four times, paused, then belled twice more at a higher pitch. Four-thirty. In Michael's dream the sound was transformed into the ringing of his cellular Section phone. He jerked awake, heart pounding, and began searching for it in the cushion of the chair. His abrupt movements woke Nikita, who found herself lying flat on the woven carpet, staring straight up at him. He had on the blank mask she was so accustomed to, and for a moment she was terrified that it had all been a dream -- that they were still in Section. But no, she remembered, THIS was real. Section had been the nightmare.

It had been a week since Walter and Birkoff had left them. Seven days and nights of eating and sleeping and slow walks and companionable silence. Seven days and nights of music and poetry and quiet contemplation and an ever-increasing intimacy. Seven days and nights of abstinence, too -- the result of that over enthusiastic earlier coupling which had them both still a bit too tender to enjoy "full physical contact sport," as Nikita jokingly called it. But that was all right. There would be time. Until then, they played a gentler sensual game with tongues and lips and fingers and toes and long, slender limbs -- tasting and suckling, cradling and cuddling, spooning, twining, joined in every way but one.

The damp sheets smelled of lavender and sex. A ray of sun passed through the uncurtained window and drifted slowly upward from the foot of the bed. As it crept toward the headboard, it illuminated the two who lay sprawled on top of the sheets, sated at last and sound asleep. In a sequence of still shots, it revealed every aspect of the human form -- male and female. As Adam and Eve they appeared -- he about to awaken and find her beside him for the first time.

She loosened the garters a bit, then using both hands, she pulled them slowly up toward the tip. All along the length of him, the lace scraped against his hypersensitive skin, and every nerve ending screamed in reaction. He went plank-stiff, his heels digging into the mattress, as he arched like a bowstring and the arrow between his legs took flight. Creamy liquid spurted out of him in hard bursts, splattering her breasts.

The sun was setting, painting the sky with hot pink and purple streaks. As twilight deepened, the moon flowers, giant blooms five inches across, were beginning to unfurl. Their fragrance was almost overpowering. Nikita, dressed in sweats and warm socks, sat in the porch glider, huddled under an old horse blanket. She didn't mind the cold. All she had to do was think of Michael to kindle a flame that warmed her from the inside out.

She had left him asleep again -- as limp as a rag doll. His strength and stamina weren't up to par yet, and that last little game they had played had taken its toll. At first she was afraid she had hurt him again, from the sounds he had made at climax. But by the time she had washed up and returned with a wet soapy cloth, he was dead to the world. She had wiped him down and thrown the covers over him, leaving him to sleep it off. That had been a couple of hours ago, and she was getting impatient for him to wake up so they could eat supper.

The little snack they had had earlier in the afternoon had long since worn off, and she was ready for something more substantial. She had found a recipe for paella stuffed in an old cookbook and had tried her best to follow it. The result was simmering in a black iron pot on the stove. She hoped it would at least be edible. They were getting low on fresh vegetables, so she opened a can of marinated artichokes for a salad. They really would need to make a trip into the village tomorrow for supplies. She wasn't sure how to broach the subject with Michael -- he had shown no inclination to go anywhere, and she wondered if he intended to hide away here indefinitely. Oh well, tomorrow would take care of tomorrow's troubles.

She turned around. He was huddled against the wall, his hands cradled under his arms. She approached him slowly with her arms open wide. He shook his head in denial of her comfort. Just stood there shaking his head and repeating "I'm sor . . ." She stopped the words with her hand. She could feel his lower lip trembling. It was still too dark to see his eyes, but she knew he was crying. She kissed his eyelids and tasted salt water.

"Do you want me to tell you who you really ARE, Michael? You are a man with many gifts, who has been forced to use those gifts in ways that no human being should ever have to use them. You are a man who has done the very best he could to live with honor under horrific circumstances. You are a man who, despite suffering terrible personal loss, has chosen to live and to love and to try again. You are the man I love. And I see no reason at all why everyone else can't know that man."

They had spent the last four hours wandering from one shop to another as the mood struck, leaving orders for the supplies they would pick up before heading back to the farm. Nikita had dragged Michael into the hardware store, where she had tested every color of paint in stock before deciding on the half dozen she eventually ordered. He had found a tiny bookstore, and she had chatted with the proprietor for an hour while Michael kept adding to the stack of books on the checkout counter. Each time they entered a different shop, Nikita had introduced herself and Michael to the shopkeeper and to whatever patrons happened to be there. Her imperfect French was no hindrance, as Michael soon discovered, since even the most ardent Francophile was won over by her enthusiasm. And, to his relief, his own reticence was taken for granted as the natural complement to a lovely and vivacious wife. He relaxed and began to enjoy himself. Nikita glanced at him from time to time and was delighted at the openness of his expression.

The rocking horse was the largest one she had ever seen. It appeared to have been made from a carousel horse. It was poised on its rocker base as though in full gallop. It was dapple gray, with a white mane and tail fashioned from real horsehair. The gleaming black saddle was of soft leather, and the stirrups were silver. Draped across the high arched neck were reins of purple velvet with gold tassels.

It was a pleasant evening. The air was soft with the promise of an early spring. Nikita had drifted off to sleep. Michael caught a whiff of chocolate as she snuggled against him. She still had a smudge of it on her chin, and he moistened his thumb and wiped it off. It tasted so sweet as he licked his thumb clean. He wanted more - much more - of his "Chocolate Nikita." It was a good thing they were almost home. The engine roared as he pressed down on the accelerator.

Playing helped. In the music he felt safe enough to let everything go -- to float away on an ebbing tide. It had always been the one emotional outlet he allowed himself. He had learned to play as a child, and for a while his parents had hoped he would make it his career. They had been assured that he had the talent and the focus, and he might indeed have followed their wishes for him. But with their deaths his course altered, and the rest was history. Still, this was one gift that he had insisted on keeping for himself, and those he had served all these years had come to recognize the wisdom of his decision. It made him the best there was. He might not believe it right now, but that hadn't changed.

Upstairs, Nikita had finished demolishing the wall separating the bedroom from the unfinished loft space just beyond. Evidently, the original builder had run out of money to finish the entire second story, so he had partitioned off what he needed and never gotten around to the rest. For whatever reason, succeeding generations had also ignored it. And Michael had never spent enough time here to investigate the discrepancy between the inner and outer dimensions of the house. But Nikita had. It was her habit to explore every nook and cranny of any refuge she found, and this farmhouse had been no exception. A few days ago, she had reached the conclusion that there HAD to be a hidden room upstairs. She hadn't mentioned it to Michael yet. She didn't know why, exactly. Perhaps she still needed some safe, secret place all her own. But when he had bought her the horse, she knew just where it belonged.

In silence she contemplated the fruit of her labor so far. Now that the wall was down, she could see what she had to work with. She stepped through into the loft. She estimated its size as about 15 by 30 feet. From in here she could see the cross-hatch pattern of the ancient roof beams, as well as the brick chimney -- a sturdy column rising in the middle of the open space. She stretched out her arms and twirled slowly, her head thrown back, aglow with the thrill of discovery. Oh yes indeed, this had possibilities!

He shook his head and kept on playing. This had been going on for hours, and his face and hands were slippery with sweat. That didn't seem to affect his performance, from what Nikita could tell. The music that poured out of the cello was as vibrant as any she had ever heard from him. She peeked over his shoulder to see what he was playing now. Ravel's "Pavane Pour Une Enfante Defunte - Pavane for a Dead Child?" She wasn't sure of the translation, but considering recent events she wouldn't be surprised if that was correct.

"That's an easy question to answer. Because you've had all you can take. And more. It isn't a matter of strength of will. You're a human being, and your mind and body are going to do what they have to do to survive. Just now, that meant shutting down to 'reboot', as Birkoff would say. I'm sorry that it was something I said that caused this. I wish I could learn to keep my big mouth shut and leave you alone."

Rocking . . . rocking . . . her hands were wound tight in the reins. His own hands cramped around the edges of the saddle as he held himself upright, his hips thrust forward, his thighs gripping the sides of the horse. He was inside her from behind. Like a piston, he pushed deeper when they rocked back, then slipped nearly out when they rocked forward. Her bottom bumped rhythmically against his pubic bone with every backward stroke. She could feel him, swollen tight, hot and hard and slick with their mingled juices. Faster and faster they rode. Their journey's end was sight. She suddenly leaned forward over the horse's neck, twisting her hands in the mane. She stood in the stirrups, her legs stiffly extended, as her bottom lifted in a full display of readiness. She heard the creak of the leather as he lurched forward, his inflamed penis a battering ram pounding at the entrance to the inner bailey. The gate opened and they surged through it together, announcing their arrival with mingled cries of ecstasy.

Meanwhile, Michael was involved in a project of his own. Every day he left the house after breakfast and didn't come home until late afternoon. He left empty-handed and returned the same way. He didn't take either the bike or the Rover. He walked, bundled against the wind when necessary. If it rained, he wore his long trenchcoat and heavy boots. If the sun was shining he wore a T-shirt, sweater and jeans. During all this time, Nikita respected his privacy. She didn't need to question him -- all she had to do was look at him.

One rainy afternoon, she lay on their bed, replaying in her mind the events of the past few weeks. It had all started a day or two after they had transferred the horse to the loft. She had intended to begin working right away, but she had had cramps too bad. Usually her period came and went without much fuss, but this time she bled heavily and painfully. All she wanted was a heating pad and enough Advil to allow her to sleep.

It was his only reference to his state of mind on that horrible day. He squatted down and began to pluck out the few weeds that had begun to sprout in the fresh earth. He gently rubbed the petals of the wildflowers, then traced his stained index finger along the inscribed names. She knelt beside him and put her arm around his waist. She could feel the fine tremor running through his midsection. He took a deep breath. The tremor stopped. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring into space, eyes half-closed, smiling dreamily.

On the near side of the hearth stood the horse. It faced the mural Nikita had painted on one side wall. A forest scene, with a knight and his lady leading their horses down a narrow path. Huge oaks formed an archway over the path, and a single ray of sunlight shone on the travelers. On the other side wall was a companion piece. Camelot - with Pendragon pennants flying from every tower, the red dragons bright against a cloudless sky.

She remained silent, remembering the circumstances under which the horse had come into their possession. If it was his mother's horse, as he said, then she had been right -- he was German. And definitely up to no good. There was no way in hell that she was going to tell him where he could find it -- this cochon! She might be an old woman, but she still knew how to keep a secret. She had certainly had enough practice during the War.

Genevieve Marais had been eighteen years old when the Germans invaded France and occupied the village. She had immediately joined Le Resistance, and her first assignment had been to secure a position in the household of Colonel Fuchs, the commanding officer of the German forces in the area. Her beauty had made it easy -- the Colonel had need of a private secretary -- one who could fulfill "other duties as assigned."

For four years, she had done her duty -- all of it -- for the glory of France. For three of those years she had been in love with Emil. Shortly after she had come to work for Colonel Fuchs, Emil had been hired as the gardener. She had recognized him right away as one of the young men she had met at a Resistance meeting. At first, she did not dare to communicate. The danger was too great. But as the months passed, Emil began to find an especially tasty slice of pate or a piece of cheese in his lunch basket, and Genevieve came upon the odd wild rose or tiny carved figurine in a drawer of her desk. Their mutual respect grew into a clandestine passion - one which was forced to remain unrequited for years. It was simply too dangerous to the cause for them to indulge their own desires. And there was, of course, the Colonel. He had first claim on Genevieve's "affections." His wife and daughter had come to live in the village with him, once the occupying forces had established their authority. But, Madame Fuchs was no longer young and beautiful. There had been no other children after Ilsa, and she was nine years old.

Emil was, of course, aware of Genevieve's predicament, but he was powerless to protect her. He had trained himself to hide his feelings for her. But, the bile rose in his throat whenever he saw the Colonel's hand draped possessively over Genevieve's shoulder. At those times, it was all he could do to remind himself of their mission - to do whatever it took to gather intelligence to defeat les Boches, to free France from this degradation.

"I asked him then, what about Ilsa?" said Madame Beaullieu. "He told me she would continue to live with her mother." It was about this time that I first saw the horse. Perhaps because of his guilt, the Colonel showered presents on Ilsa - costly, outrageous toys, among them a life-sized rocking horse. He presented it to her on her 13th birthday. She ignored it completely - just sniffed and said, 'Papa, you know I'm too grown up for a rocking horse!' So, it went into the attic. It wasn't until January 1945 that I saw it again."

"The Allies were nearing the village, and the Colonel and his family were forced to flee in the middle of the night. Evidently, his attachment to me was secondary to his attachment to his own miserable hide. Thank God it was over! Emil and I were finally free. I must confess we took advantage of the spoils of war. We stripped the house of whatever the Colonel had left behind, including the horse.

Opening his eyes, he scanned the horizon. Lowering clouds portended a coming storm. He could smell the ozone in the evening air. Flying insects swarmed near the ground, and the birds followed them, swooping down to enjoy the bounty. A gust of wind lifted his hair off his neck, drying the sweat. Relief. He wiped his palms on his jeans, ashamed of this physical evidence of his inner struggle with panic.

She could fee the hard outline of his erection against her mound. She rubbed against it invitingly, and he moaned again. "Please, Ni-ki-ta." She tried to insert her hand in the waistband of his jeans, but something was already there. So, she began to inch down the zipper, careful not to cut him with the teeth. It was a close call. He held his breath, fighting for control, as he felt the cool air against inch after inch of his hot length.

Nikita could fee his impending climax. She knew the signs well by now -- the tightening of his haunches, the change in pitch of his cries, the angle of his erection -- all spoke of imminent eruption. He was right on schedule. He gave a deep grunt as his testicles contracted, and his penis began the spasms which would force his seed down and out. He came in pulsing waves, a spoonful at a time, into her cupped hands. His entire body danced to the rhythm of these waves - his stomach muscles, his hands, his knees, even his toes, she suspected, were flexing and releasing in sympathy with the activity going on between his legs.

She recognized also the signs of his completion. The spasms gradually became less violent - the spaces between them of greater duration, until finally they appeared to cease. But, she knew that he often experienced one final, violent contraction which expelled the last few drops. She waited patiently, her hands still cupped. She saw his jaw tighten, and knew it was coming. Sure enough, he thrust frantically into her hand one last time, hunching forward as a long, hissing breath escaped from between his clenched teeth. When it was over, he gulped in a breath of air and collapsed bonelessly against her. She supported him until he could stand on his own. He smiled at her shyly, and she kissed him once more for good measure. He drew out a bandanna from his jeans pocket and began wiping his semen from her hands.

They were both soaking wet by the time they made it onto the porch. A loud clap of thunder startled a yelp out of Nikita. Michael smiled and drew her closer. She loved the feel of his arms around her. Heat radiated from him. His shirt steamed slightly as the water soaking it evaporated. He smelled sweet, like new-mown hay. In fact, a few strands of it were threaded through his hair and stuck to his sweater, she noticed. She picked them out at her leisure as she nestled against him. He wiped her dripping hair away from her face, then delicately lapped at the moisture which still beaded her skin. Her shirt clung damply, revealing the clear outline of nipples puckered by the cold - and something else. He circled one nipple slowly with the callused pad of his thumb. Lightning flashed behind her closed eyelids as a bolt of pure lust zinged from that point of contact straight down to her clitoris. She gasped with the ferocity of it.

He drew her bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it in rhythm to the action of his thumb. She opened her legs and rubbed against him, begging for more. He was more than willing to oblige. Transferring his attentions, he thrust his hand into her pants and began to circle that other erect nub with his thumb. His mouth moved down to her nipple and he swirled around it with his tongue. She could feel herself begin to peak as tiny ripples became waves of ecstasy. The tide washed in and around her, and she drifted helplessly wherever it pulled her, crying out as she totally abandoned herself to sensation.

"Ohhh!" She cried out at the stretching sensation deep within, and she instinctively bore down to force as much contact as possible with those rigid appendages inside her. As the friction increased, a second, even stronger orgasm coursed through her. Michael may have sensed it coming before she did, as the waves of inner pressure became stronger and more predictable. Again, he obliged, inserting a third finger while speeding up his thumb action around her hot nub. He could feel it harden and swell under him -- a smaller version of his own now-insistent erection. But this was her turn - not his, and he suppressed the desire to rip open his pants and thrust himself wildly into her. She appeared quite satisfied with the way things were going, and he had no intention of disrupting her pleasure at this point.

Nikita felt him supporting her with his thighs as she sagged at the knees. She leaned her forehead into his chest and gripped his shirt with both fists, while she trembled helplessly in the throes of her release. He rubbed her back, patiently waiting for her to recover. At last, she took a deep breath and released it, then looked up at him. Her eyes were still slightly unfocused, and she had a lopsided grin on her face. He chuckled and brushed his hand across her cheek.

She had told him what she knew of the Beaullieus' situation She had hoped that would be enough for him, but his resistance went deeper than she had realized. For years he had been unwilling to access the feeling, caring part of himself. Now he was unwilling to unleash the warrior. She could understand his fear, but she knew that until he could reconcile the two sides of his nature, he would never be completely healed. She played her trump card.

They were in the loft, examining the horse for some clue to the secret it held. They had removed the saddle, which now hung over the back of a chair. The most logical conclusion was that the horse was hollow, and that whatever was so valuable was packed inside it. But, the horse appeared to be carved of one solid piece of wood. For the past several hours they had conducted a painstaking search for a hidden opening, but they had found nothing.

She awoke to the sound of the shower. She stretched out her hand to the hollow beside her in the bed. It was still slightly warm. She rose and stripped off her clothes, then padded silently over to the bathroom door. Steam enveloped her as she entered. Pulling aside the shower curtain, she stepped inside. He was standing with his back to her, his forehead leaning on his crossed arms as he gripped the towel bar. The hot water drummed down on the back of his neck. She stepped up behind him and began to massage the knots out of his neck and shoulders. He moaned softly at her touch. The very sound of that moan aroused her, and she bumped her pelvis against his backside in silent invitation. He gripped the bar more tightly and bent forward, spreading his legs. She reached between them and cupped him in her hand. His sac was full and heavy. Her hand traveled up his length, measuring his readiness. He was hard as stone. When she took her hand away he growled in protest.

"Patience, my sweet baboo. I'm just soaping my hands." His imagination did the rest, and he gasped as his erection swelled and lengthened, the tip now touching the shower tile. He backed up to relieve the pressure. (Not yet! Not yet!) He repeated desperately to himself. He could hear her behind him, lathering shower gel between her palms. He waited for her touch, not daring to breathe. When it finally came, he nearly did too.

Nikita was close to the edge herself. She wanted him inside her in the worst way, but the anticipation itself was so exciting that she couldn't bear to bring it to an end just yet. With every stroke of her slick hands, he groaned loudly and pushed back against her. She rubbed her thumb in slow circles over the slit in the tip of his penis, and his own secretions blended with the lather. Suddenly, he whirled around and thrust himself full into her, ready to burst from the hot aching load he carried.

She loved the feel of him inside her, filling her like a giant plug from lips to womb. She began to spasm around him, sucking him in as deep as possible. He could stand it no longer. He had to release NOW. He could feel it bubbling out of him even as he strained against that final barrier. For that one moment, all the uncertainty, the fear, the pain -- fizzled out in his release. Only one thought remained - for both of them.

Half an hour later, they were at the farm. It had been an interesting ride. Michael spoke not at all. He drove with commanding skill, Emil noticed. A very light touch - no motion wasted. In his youth, just before the war, Emil had spent a year on the racing circuit, and Michael's driving technique was curiously reminiscent of his own. Even this "barge" of a car seemed to float over the country road and around the many tight curves. Nikita sat in the back with the Beaullieus, explaining to them what she and Michael suspected about the horse.

As they entered the house, Genevieve couldn't help but notice the loving care with which it had been furnished. It was a bit embarrassing to enter the young couple's boudoir. Nikita hurried in the door ahead of them and hastily pulled up the covers on the bed. There was a familiar smell about the room -- one which caused Genevieve to smile. Ahh, young love! It was insatiable. She remembered how she and Emil couldn't seem to get enough of each other in those first years after the war. They had restrained themselves for so long, it had been as though a dam burst once they were free to express their feelings. Monique and Albert had been born within 10 months of one another in 1946. And even after almost 50 years, their own marriage bed was still quite warm. Yes indeed, she could well imagine the activity this one saw! She chuckled softly. Michael looked at her sharply, and Nikita's face flushed becomingly.

It was now late afternoon. Just over 24 hours since first contact. The silence in the attic was oppressive -- broken only by the occasional mutter from Emil as he wrestled with the puzzle of the horse. Genevieve and Nikita sat in the chairs by the fireplace. Genevieve appeared to be asleep, but nothing about Michael or Nikita escaped her as she observed them from beneath lowered eyelids. Michael stood by one of the murals, arms folded, staring into it. He had not moved in almost an hour. Nikita, on the other hand, was in constant motion. She twisted a lock of her hair, drummed her fingers soundlessly on the padded arm of the chair, scratched one spot or another, and swung one foot back and forth. And all the while, her eyes were boring a hole in Michael's back. If he felt her gaze, he gave no indication of it. Finally, Genevieve couldn't stand it any longer.

"Not unless you can guarantee he marries a woman named Genevieve, idiot! I have TOLD you, vieux homme, it must be passed only from Genevieve to Genevieve. That has been OUR family's tradition for the past 200 years! And before you make light of it, just remember that 90% of what YOUR family has collected for the past ten generations is nothing but junk! It has been pure luck that a few items were of value."

The stress of the past 24 hours had taken a lot out of both of them, but it was clear that it had been harder on him. He confirmed this by falling deeply asleep as soon as she started the car. As they rounded the first curve on the road home, his body listed toward her, coming to rest with his head against her right shoulder. She drove the rest of the way with one hand, holding him steady with her arm braced across his chest so he wouldn't pitch forward if she had to stop suddenly.

Then she took another look at him lying there, vulnerable in exhaustion. She lay down beside him and rubbed his back, feeling him relax under her hand. Even asleep, he had been tense. She pressed a light kiss under his jaw and murmured, "On the other hand, I guess you've suffered enought for this lifetime, haven't you cheri." Cheri - now where did I pick that up? she thought groggily. Oh yeah, from Emil. And she fell into a dreamless sleep.

She went down to the kitchen. From the refrigerator she pulled a vial of the powerful antibiotic Section had developed to combat his sinus and ear infections. Returning upstairs, she filled a disposable syringe, grabbed some cotton balls and alcohol, and prepared her first assault on the invisible enemy. But first she had to gain access to the battlefield. She put down her weapons, rolled him on his side so she could reach his zipper, and stripped down his jeans. At her touch, he hardened but didn't wake. She rolled him back over and pulled down his briefs. She swabbed the target area with alcohol, then plunged the needle into his backside. She had taken the precaution of lying across him, but his only reaction to the sting of the needle was a slight moan and an involuntary jerk of the muscles in the cheek she injected.

Her words registered at last, and he sat up on the edge of the bed. The pounding in his head was awful. Sudden nausea roiled through him, and he was afraid he wasn't going to make it to the bathroom. He lurched past Nikita and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, emptying his stomach of what little he had eaten the previous day. She grabbed a damp washcloth and held it to his forehead until the spasms passed. Then she filled a paper cup with mint mouthwash and cool water and let him rinse the bad taste from his mouth.

"Head back, please," she prompted. "Close your throat and hold your breath." He obeyed, too tired to protest. She emptied the syringe into one nostril, then repeated the procedure with the other. Then, holding a small basin under his chin, she tipped his head forward, allowing the warm solution to drain out. After several more applications, dried blood and discolored mucus began to flow out with the salt water mixture.

They arrived at the village church just as the bell was tolling for the beginning of Mass. This was the first time they had been to Sunday services since their arrival at the farm. Nikita wanted to sit in front, but Michael firmly escorted her into a pew only a few rows from the rear entrance. There was no need to call more attention to themselves than necessary this morning. Even so, a few of the villagers - the Beaullieus included - recognized them and nodded politely in welcome. Nikita smiled back. Michael knelt and made the sign of the cross. He rested his chin on his clasped hands and closed his eyes. She imitated his pose. Hello, God, this is Nikita. Please help us to do what is right today. Help us keep Genevieve and Emil safe. Take care of Michael for me. Give him strength. Let him feel Your love. Have mercy on us all. Amen.

He looked up as the passenger door opened. Michael stood before him. He wore black combat gear, with a large automatic strapped to his thigh. A thin black metal wand stretched from his ear to his mouth - some kind of communication device, Emil decided. His long hair was pulled back and secured at the top with a rubber band. Blank-faced, he held out a weapon, butt first, to Emil. The hand that offered it was rock steady. Emil's eyes widened. This man was a stranger. And yet . . . there it was again, that flash of memory . . . another face, another time ...

The signal led them deeper and deeper into the countryside, until finally the green blips came to a halt on the screen. At the same time, the PDA video verified that the other vehicle had stopped. The prisoners were being escorted down what appeared to be an underground tunnel. The camera panned in a circular motion, revealing large pipes overhead and thick cables running along the side walls of the tunnel.

Michael led Emil through the trees and around the side of the low hill. Suddenly, he pushed the older man to the ground and dropped down beside him. He pointed out their destination. It was an army bunker left over from the war The Nazis had built them all over France, particularly along the coastline. Emil recognized this particular one. Located further inland, it had served as a shelter for the general staff of the occupying forces. No one had bothered to destroy it after the war. For a few years, it had actually been used to store the wine from the local harvest. Eventually, with the return of prosperity, the surrounding villages had each built their own wine cellars, and the bunker had been sealed and forgotten. It was obvious that someone had unsealed it. Set in the rock face were steel doors wide enough for miliary vehicles to pass through.

Emil didn't know what to say. It was obvious that what was happening inside had triggered some painful flashback for Michael - a memory he needed to share with someone who understood the difficult choices a soldier must sometimes make. But now was not the time for such sharing. Swift action was called for, and Emil took it. He shook Michael roughly. The younger man's head bobbed back and forth as his hands plucked weakly at Emil's hold on him. Emil pulled him by the hair with one hand and slapped him with the other.

The sound of the explosion had barely finished echoing through the underground headquarters of the Reich. Michael and Emil waited outside the entrance to the tunnel. As the first line of Friedrich's men emerged, they were mowed down. Emil dispatched his share, but he had never seen anyone as deadly accurate as Michael. He and the automatic weapon he wielded were one entity - one killing machine.

But, Emil knew there would be others waiting inside the tunnel. He said a quick Act of Contrition. This would be the most dangerous part. Michael signaled him to wait, and he flattened himself against the rock face at one side of the opening Michael had blasted in the steel doors. Michael threw in a stun grenade, then followed it. Emil heard sporadic automatic weapons fire, then silence. He peeked around the entrance and saw more dead bodies lying along the corridor. Michael motioned him forward.

Michael gestured toward the metal door at the end of the tunnel. They crept along the wall until they were just outside it. Michael pulled yet another device from his pocket and pointed it at the door. He showed it to Emil. A tiny screen showed half a dozen brightly-colored human shapes lining the walls of the room. Two more were seated, and a third lay motionless on the floor. As Emil watched, two of the shapes crept toward the door. One of the seated figures rose and walked over to the other, pointing an arm toward the head of the person still sitting down. Emil knew that arm held a gun, even though he couldn't see it. He nodded his understanding of the situation.

Michael slung the long-barreled automatic back over his shoulder. Pulling another explosive device from the sack, he attached it to the door and set the timer. He removed the handgun from the holster strapped to his thigh and motioned Emil to step back. Ten seconds later, the door blew off its frame. It clanged to the floor inside the room. Michael stepped boldly into the opening, arm outstretched, firing single shots in rapid succession. Emil, his vision blurred from the wave of the concussion, had scuttled in right behind him. He could hardly credit what he saw and heard. With each shot Michael fired, a man fell. Only a few managed to return fire, and of those only one hit the target. If he felt the impact of the bullet, Michael gave no sign of it -- just continued sweeping the room systematically.

The lightning speed of the the final assault had stunned Friedrich as well, and he now found himself in the unenviable position of having to choose whether to keep his gun aimed at Genevieve or to shoot Michael. Even if he managed to kill Michael, Emil would shoot him before he could turn the gun back on his hostage. Better to keep his last pawn as protection, he decided. Pressing the cocked weapon to Genevieve's temple, he screamed,

His finger tightened on the trigger, but in the same fraction of a second Nikita's foot shot out and kicked his right leg out from under him. His shot went wild as he dropped to the ground. She was on top of him in an instant, pinning him to the floor with her elbow to his throat. Genevieve jumped up out of her chair and grabbed the gun he had dropped as he clawed at Nikita desperately, trying to free her hold on his airway. She gestured with the gun at Nikita.

Michael sat down beside her and pulled her into his lap, rocking her like a baby. He looked up at Emil. It was then that Emil remembered who Michael reminded him of. It was that young sniper who had joined them in 1944. He told them he was 18, but Emil knew he was barely 15. He was the only member of his family still alive. His parents were rich French Jews who had converted to Catholicism in the late 1920's, but that hadn't stopped the Nazis from sending them and their three little girls to Dachau. This boy, Jean-Louis, was their only son. He had been on a hunting trip when they were taken. His skill with a rifle became a legend among the Maquis. He was credited with over 100 kills by the end of the war. And after every one, he had the same look in his eyes that Emil saw in Michael's now.

"Your home or ours?" asked Emil. He was driving the Land Rover. Genevieve sat beside him in the front seat. When there was no answer, she turned around. Nikita was stretched out across the back seat, her head in Michael's lap. His head was bent over hers. Genevieve couldn't see his face, but the hand that stroked Nikita's hair was damp. As Genevieve watched in silence, another drop of moisture fell onto it. She turned back to Emil.

Emil looked in the rearview mirror. Michael was staring back at him intently. Despite his protest, Emil thought he didn't look too good after all. He was increasingly pale, and a fine sheen of perspiration covered his face. He was breathing much too fast and shallow, indicating either increasing discomfort or respiratory distress, or perhaps both. Emil looked at Genevieve with raised eyebrows. She nodded, and he drove faster. She glanced into the back every few minutes to check on their passengers.

It was dusk by the time they arrived at the Beaullieus' cottage. The villagers were all home at supper, so there were no witnesses to the struggle. Emil parked the Rover around back, just outside the kitchen door. Genevieve went in immediately to call Dr. Molbert. When she came back outside, Emil had opened the door to the back seat. Nikita had revived somewhat, having had a good sleep on the way home. She sat up gingerly and stepped down, still hunched over and hugging her elbows to her sides. Genevieve helped her into the house. Emil turned to Michael, who hadn't yet made a move to get out of the vehicle. The older man held out his arm, and Michael grabbed it, leaving a bloody handprint on Emil's white sleeve. He was breathing in harsh gasps now. Emil let him rest a moment, sitting on the edge of the seat with his feet on the ground. With a soft groan, he stood up. Emil looked at the seat. It was soaked with blood.

Nikita woke again while the doctor and Emil were stripping Michael out of his mission gear. Although his eyes remained closed, he winced when the soaked undershirt was pulled away, reopening half-clotted wounds in his side and lower back. The entry wound was only the size of a dime, but because the armor-piercing bullet had gone straight through, it left a much uglier exit wound. This was now bleeding profusely again, soaking the sheets.

"I am concerned about the amount of blood he has lost. I don't know how long it will take him to recover his strength without a transfusion. I can't get the blood without arousing suspicion at the clinic, but I can get plasma. That will be better than nothing. I'll be back with it as soon as I can, but it will probably take me at least an hour. While I'm gone, keep him warm. I don't want him going deeper into shock. Heat up some towels or a blanket in the oven. I've elevated his feet with pillows. Make sure he stays in that position, even if you have to sit on him. If he regains consciousness, give him as much water to drink as he'll take."

As they bathed the sleeping couple, the Beaullieus couldn't help but notice the collection of scars they sported - bullet wounds, knife wounds, even burns in some very interesting places - all neatly healed. It was obvious they had had excellent medical treatment, and equally obvious that they had needed it on a frequent basis. Emil and Genevieve could relate to their pain, but their own war had been so long ago that the psychological as well as the physical wounds had healed and been all but forgotten. Recent events had brought those memories to mind again. And seeing these two now, it was depressing to contemplate the violent life they must have been leading for God knows how long.

Michael, as the doctor had expected, was still in very serious condition. He was extremely pale, and his respirations were shallow and too rapid. His blood pressure was only 85 over 50, which was indicative of the blood loss he had suffered. Dr. Molbert immediately hung a bag of plasma on one of the bedposts and started a line in the back of Michael's left hand. He added the first dose of antibiotic to the plasma. "We are lucky that his veins have not collapsed," he commented to Emil and Genevieve, as he squeezed the plasma bag to increase the flow rate as much as possible. "Once some of his blood volume is restored, I expect his pressure to rise dramatically. You can take turns pumping the plasma in, just like I'm doing now. Don't squeeze too hard -- just enough to help it along a bit. Yes, like that," he instructed Emil, who had taken over for him at this point.

Within an hour, Michael's blood pressure was 115 over 62, which was in the safe zone. His breathing had deepened and slowed, especially after a very mild injection of morphine - just enough to take the edge off the pain. Dr. Molbert hadn't wanted to sedate him any more than necessary, since his pressure was still so low. But, now that a bit of color was back in his face, and he slept peacefully, the doctor could relax for the first time tonight. It was nearly 10 o'clock, and he was tired. So were the Beaullieus, he knew. Emil and Genevieve, although still vigorous, were both nearly 80, and it was obvious to him that they had been through some sort of physical and emotional ordeal today. It was also obvious that they weren't about to confide in him. (Ah well, that is their prerogative. I can't force it out of them. When and if they want to tell me, they will.) He glanced over at them. They were sitting together on the settee at the end of the bed, their heads nodding. He went over and touched Emil on the shoulder.

For the next hour he alternately dozed and checked on his patients. Just before midnight, he checked their vital signs. Nikita's pressure was steady at 120 over 80, as it had been for the past several hours. That ruled out any internal bleeding. Michael's blood pressure hadn't risen much, only to 115 over 65. However, his color was definitely better. It was likely that the pressure reading was normal for someone in his excellent physical condition. Dr. Molbert disconnected the plasma from the needle in Michael's hand, but left in the shunt in case he needed more later. Then, he checked for drainage from the wounds. Another good sign - only a slight trickle of blood and clear serum. Perhaps there would be no infection. Enough It was time to get some sleep himself.

Genevieve turned to Michael and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. "Good, it feels as though you have only a slight temperature. That is probably normal, considering the insult to your body. Then she looked down at his hips and said matter-of-factly, "Cher, surely you must need to make pee-pee. Let me bring you something to help you with that." Even in the dim light, Nikita could see Michael blush. But, when he spoke, although his voice was hoarse and weak, he gave no hint of his embarrassment at Genevieve's offer. "Thank you, Madame. If you don't mind, I would prefer if Nikita helped me."

After handing Nikita an old glass pickle jar, she left the two of them and went downstairs to make the coffee. She would wake Emil when Dr. Molbert arrived. Until then, he would benefit from the extra hour of sleep. Yesterday had been harder on him physically than on her. A couple of slaps were all she had had to contend with. Her real pain had come from watching those pigs beat Nikita. She knew it wasn't Christian, but she hoped they were in Hell right now! She would have to go to confession today. She wondered what Father Matthieu would give her for her penance when she told him she had killed a man yesterday. She had better make herself some kneepads. She would surely be using them!

As suggested, he knocked before entering the bedroom. The two of them appeared to be asleep, but as he bent over to examine Michael, he was disconcerted to find himself being silently observed. The man's eyes were unusual in color - a true green, with the crystalline clarity of gems rather than the hazel eyes more common in biology. The eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul, he thought. How is it, then, that I have no idea what this man is thinking or feeling right now?

"There doesn't seem to be any infection. I've been giving you an antibiotic. Hopefully, it will prevent any such complication. As I told the others last night, though, you've lost a lot of blood. You're in no danger now - I gave you two liters of plasma. But, it will be some time before you get your strength back. If you wish to hasten your recovery, I suggest that you follow my orders and the orders of everyone else in this household. If we tell you to eat, you eat. To drink, you drink. To take medication, you take it. To sleep, you sleep. Merde, if we tell you to piss, you piss! And so on, ad infinitum, until further notice. Do you understand?"

"If you recall, cherie, Emil and I survived four years of Nazi occupation. There were times when neither of us thought we could continue another moment, much less another day or month or year. It is true, I do not know all the details of your past, but I have seen enough to draw certain conclusions. And I still say this man is not so different. With enough time and enough love, he will heal - as we have. Now dry your tears and lie down beside him. I have no doubt he will be calling your name next." She smiled at Nikita. " . . . Just ask any wife."

She reached down on the side of the bed for the container, then lifted the blanket and slid it beneath. In trying to position the jar, she accidentally brushed him with her hand. He was already achingly hard, not only from the need to urinate, but also from his need to be inside her. At her touch, a jolt of lust shot through his groin. His stomach muscles tightened reflexively, and pain lanced through both wounds. He clamped his lips shut as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

While Michael slept, Nikita made her way slowly downstairs She found Emil and Genevieve sitting at the kitchen table, talking in low tones. She figured this must be their favorite room. She liked it herself, actually. Lemon-yellow walls, sturdy pine furniture covered with Genevieve's antique linens, a blue woven area rug covering scrubbed wooden floors -- the typical French country kitchen. There were fresh flowers in the center of the table -- daffodils and a spray of lavender. Their perfume blended with the smell of fresh coffee and a fresh-baked apple tart cooling on top of the old-fashioned iron stove.

"We have decided to contact Monsieur Boudreaux about the items we found in the horse. He is an old friend of Emil's -- they were in La Resistance together. Monsieur Boudreaux is an expert on stolen art. He has compiled the most comprehensive list possible of what was taken from French museums during the war Many of the items now on display in the Louvre, la Musee d'Orsee, and other major museums were recovered by Boudreaux. Of course, we will wait until you and Michel have recovered a bit before we invite him here. He is a man of great curiosity, and it would be too tempting for him to pry into your own situation."

As she made her laborious way up the stairs, Nikita could hear Emil scolding Michael. By the time she reached the doorway, he was back in bed. His face was the color of a dirty dishrag. Blood spotted the bandages. Emil and Genevieve were panting from the effort of picking him up off the floor. Emil continued to rave, waving his arms for emphasis in pure Gallic fashion. Finally, he shook his finger under Michael's nose. His voice trembled with anger. "You WILL NOT get out of this bed until Molbert gives his permission. TU COMPRENDS?"

"What's all this commotion?" the doctor asked. "From the way Emil was acting, I thought surely I'd find you dead by the time I arrived." He pulled down the blanket and examined the bloodstained bandages. Turning to Genevieve, he said, "I see why you were concerned. However, this doesn't appear to be too bad. He may have torn a couple of stitches, but that's easily enough mended. Now just what brought about all this embarras?"

They were silent. Dr. Molbert sighed. "Very well, then. Let me stitch him up again and rebandage the wounds. If there's still no infection, I might as well remove the tube while I'm at it." He turned to Michael. "I'm going to knock you out completely for this I don't want you ruining my work even before I finish it!" He pulled a syringe from his surgical kit, filled it with a colorless liquid, and swiftly injected the sedative into Michael's much-abused derriere. Within two minutes, his eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp.

Emil jumped up. "Et moi, I have just the thing." He plucked a dusty bottle from the top shelf of the cupboard. He set it on the table. Nikita eyed it dubiously. Its contents swirled thick and dark with sediment. Genevieve supplied tiny crystal glasses, and Emil poured. It was beautiful - whatever it was. So deep a red that it was almost black. Nikita raised her glass and took a whiff. "Cherries!"

"Mais oui," said Genevieve. "It is what you would call, in English, 'cherry bounce'. Every year I make a batch from the tiny wild cherries growing on that tree outside the window. I know they have reached the perfect stage for picking when the birds who have eaten them begin to fly into the windows or to stagger around on the ground. Then I harvest them and mix them with bourbon. The mixture ages until the next year - or even longer. It only gets richer as time passes."

"Oh, my family has always had a recipe for making liqueur from the cherries. But, it was during the war that a wounded American soldier from La Sud-Ouest Louisianne gave me his own family's recipe. I had given him a glass of ours, and he commented that it reminded him of his mother's. I tried her recipe and have used it ever since." She whispered in Nikita's ear. "It is excellent for a woman's monthly misere. And women in labor swear by it. It allows them to sleep between the pains. I will give you a bottle to take home with you."

"Eh bien," said Dr. Molbert to Nikita. "You have a decision to make. There are several options. I could keep him sedated for the next few days, to give the wounds a chance to begin healing properly. The difficulty with that is that he won't be able to take nourishment by mouth. I can give him some nutrients by IV solution, but I am concerned he does not have adequate reserves and would only weaken him further. I have noticed that he is already too thin."

"That is understandable," said the doctor. "But, it does complicate matters even further. The only other viable alternative I can think of is to insert a feeding tube. And even this carries some risk. He could become dependent on that form of nourishment and refuse to eat once the tube is removed. On the other hand, a temporary reprieve from the stress he has been under could reawaken his appetite. You know him best, Nikita. How do you think he would react?"

"Well, Nikita, I must admit you have been accurate in your prediction of his responses. I agree that the feeding tube would cause more problems than it would solve. So that, in effect, rules out heavy sedation. The question remains, then, how to prevent him from becoming so anxious about you." The doctor thought for a moment. "Does he trust Genevieve and Emil to tell him the truth, at least about your well-being?"

"That is a beginning, at least. That gives us another option. I believe that as long as one of you stays with him at all times, he will remain calm. It would not be healthy, Nikita, for you to bear the sole burden of watching him. In order to regain your strength, you must get out of bed, walk about, and in a few days, return to your own home for a few hours at a time. And it will be good for him, also, to have someone to talk to, to know he can count on for help. Who better than Emil and Genevieve?" He cast a knowing glance at the older couple. "I'm sure you have some 'war stories' you can share with him. It might also help him to know he is not alone in his guilt."

"I suspected as much. I want you to double the dosage. The more he sleeps, the sooner he'll heal. And feed him as often as you can - even if he'll only take a few bites. He'll be more likely to eat when he wakes from the first deep sleep after each dose. Don't wait, though, until he's in pain again. As soon as he's eaten and done whatever else he needs to do, pop another pill into him. I don't think you need to worry about addiction. From what you've told me, he would much prefer to suffer than to allow himself surcease in drugs. So, if that is all, I'll be going."

"Well, I believe the answer lies not in complete abstinence, but rather in more frequent, though less intense, 'activity'. Here is what I suggest. If he craves your touch, touch him. But do not wait until he is starved for it. Be extremely gentle with him. You do ALL the work, understand?" He paused for a moment, then continued. " . . . I have just thought of something else that might help. One of the techniques developed by Dr. Lamaze teaches the laboring woman to use only one muscle while relaxing all others. I will bring you a copy of his book. With your 'encouragement', I am sure he can learn this technique in no time," said Dr. Molbert, waggling his eyebrows at her.

Emil sat beside the bed, taking a quick peek from behind his newspaper every few minutes to make sure Michael was still asleep. He found himself reading the same paragraph over and over. His mind kept replaying the scene from yesterday - the automaton that killed with such precision. He found it difficult to reconcile that image with the man now lying here. The one who had cried in Nikita's arms like a heartbroken child not two hours ago.

Nikita lay on the narrow bed in Monique's room, her arms folded behind her head, her legs spread wide in a brazen display. To Dr. Molbert's consternation, she had become another person as soon as the door shut behind the three of them. She had quickly stripped, plopped herself down on the bed, and hooked her feet in the rungs of the footboard. The bruises on her body stood out in stark relief against her white skin. She appeared oblivious to her nudity, her position, or any discomfort he was currently inflicting. Her face was a blank, her eyes opaque She was not here.

Nikita nodded as she spooned more soup into Michael. One for him, one for her -- until the bowl was empty. She sopped up the last drops of broth with a crust of bread and popped it into his mouth. He chewed solemnly, his eyes never leaving her face. She wiped his chin with the towel, then touched her lips lightly to his. "For dessert," she whispered. He breathed in the smell of her. Against his will, his lids fluttered closed.

She giggled like a young girl. Hand in hand, they climbed the stairs. They stopped outside the door to Albert's room and listened. All was quiet. "Bien," nodded Genevieve in satisfaction. Emil whispered in her ear. "Just like when Albert and Monique were babies, eh cherie? You couldn't rest well until they they were asleep." Her eyes twinkled. "It wasn't only the children who kept me awake, old man, as you well know," she whispered back. He opened the door to their bedroom.

He had sat with Michael for an hour or more at a time the past few days, and the younger man had been singularly uncommunicative. That hadn't stopped Emil from talking, though. He could tell Michael was listening, no matter how hard he tried to tune Emil out. So, he recounted some of his and Genevieve's wartime experiences -- particularly those the two couples might have in common. He even told of his agony over being unable to protect Genevieve from the Colonel. He had never shared this with anyone, although Genevieve had always known how he felt. That was one reason he loved her so. When he had finished, he saw Michael's hand was fisted at his side. Emil had leaned over and covered it with his own. He had sat there in silence until that hand slowly unclenched beneath his, like the petals of a flower opening in the warmth of the sun. He had risen, then, and poured a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the table. He had held the glass to Michael's lips, and the younger man had drunk it down in three or four huge gulps -- the salt from his tears mingling with the sweetness of the fresh-squeezed fruit.

It was Monday morning. This was their fourth chess game. Emil had won the other three. The first time they played, Michael had fallen asleep in the chair after half a dozen moves. The second time, he had lasted until the end of the game, but with no apparent plan of attack or defense. The third time, Sunday afternoon, Emil had begun to fear he might have to accept a draw. But Michael had been unable to sustain his focus after more than an hour. He had slept long and hard after that game.

Michael sat stunned as Emil hugged and kissed him. When the older man backed away, he swayed toward him, as though drawn by a magnet. But it was too late. Or was it? Emil saw the yearning in his eyes and grabbed him again in a bear hug. He stood there for a moment, waiting. The younger man's arms crept around his shoulders as he leaned into Emil's embrace. Emil patted him on the back this time and grumbled in his ear. "Eh bien, mon fils, you have decided you deserve a hug from this old man after all, oui?"

"Relax. That's right," she encouraged as he tried to focus all his attention on that one throbbing muscle between his legs. He felt her take the weight of him in her hands. His own hands were wrapped around the rungs of the headboard. Every few seconds Nikita could hear a slight creak as he pulled mightily on them. It was a wonder they weren't bent completely out of shape. But, this seemed to displace his urge to tighten his stomach muscles, thus sparing his wounds. She bent to her work. Stroking. Blowing gently. Licking. Sucking. She rubbed him against her own arousal, delighting in the slick heat she had generated. At the point of contact, her curls tickled his tip. His shaft jerked in her hand, and both he and the iron bars groaned in reaction. She backed off, panting.

"Lift up a little," she instructed, and slid her palms under him, cupping his cheeks. She lifted one, then the other, in an alternating rhythm. His erection swayed gently from side to side, like a telephone pole in a high wind. She lowered herself slowly onto him, taking care to brace her weight on her knees. He began to keen softly as he felt her folds envelop him. His hands clenched again, and Nikita saw the headboard rungs bend outward. He gave a deep straining grunt and bucked up off the mattress as he spurted hot and heavy into her. Any pain was swept away in the wave of ecstasy. She felt herself clench rhythmically around him, sucking - pulling - milking his essence. When he went limp under her, she rolled off to the side and lay there, still feeling tiny sporadic contractions. He let his arms drop to his sides, palms up, utterly spent. They fell into dreamless sleep.

I really should get up and take a hot bath. She tucked him in tighter and stood up. She looked again at the headboard. Oops. Two of the bars were now in the shape of parentheses. There was no way Emil and Genevieve could miss this telltale evidence of their passion. As a temporary measure, she propped several pillows against the headboard. As soon as she could, she'd have to find something to use as a lever.

As she soaked in the old-fashioned metal tub, she reflected on the past week. She was almost completely recovered from the beating she had suffered, and Michael was so much better that Dr. Molbert was planning to take out the stitches tomorrow. After that, he had said they could go home. As grateful as she was to Emil and Genevieve, she was really looking forward to being truly alone with Michael.

"Everything looks good. You are still healing, so don't exert yourself - especially by attempting to 'throw' anyone. And for heaven's sake, don't let her throw you either!" he teased. "Listen to your body. Allow yourself to rest every day - as often as you feel the need. Sleep as much as you can." He bent toward the two of them and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "And make love at least once a day. It floods the system with endorphins - a natural painkiller and antidepressant."

Dr. Boudreaux arrived precisely at 3:00 that afternoon. After brief introductions all around, Genevieve led him into the parlor of the house. Since this room was seldom used, it was rather cold and smelled strongly of lemon furniture polish. They gathered around a green baize-covered table in the center of the room. Genevieve brought in the blue velvet sack and handed it wordlessly to Dr. Boudreaux. He slowly pulled it open and shook the contents out on the table.

Taking a jeweler's loop from his coat pocket, he examined one piece after another. Then he opened his briefcase and took out a small notebook. Nikita could see that it contained a list of some kind. With a pencil, he placed tiny checks beside more than a dozen of the items on that list. The whole process took nearly an hour. They had stood around him the entire time, caught up in the suspense. When he had finished, Dr. Boudreaux gestured toward the parlor chairs.

He didn't deserve her. She was everything that was good and right about the world. She was the one who had restored the life to a soul he had thought long dead. And when he had given up on life, not once, but thee times, she had been there. To protect him, when he hadn't had the strength or the will to do it himself, and to drag him back from the brink, when the time had been right. And what had he ever done for her. Nearly got her killed. Lied to her time and again.

The words came out quietly, with no additional accent or inflection to indicate how important the answer was to the questioner. He watched her set her coffee cup down, carefully, and lower her eyes. His heart sank a little lower. She was hiding her first reaction from him, never a good sign. Michael turned his head slightly and scanned the room again, relieving Nikita of his fixed stare. It had been six days since they had left Emil and Genevieve's home and now, after several times he was succesful in making himself ask the most important question in his heart.

Nikita wrapped her arms around him and gently rocked back and forth, her mind trying to understand his reaction. she inhaled sharply as she remembered what could have caused him to react this way. She'd seen his expression while he was sitting at the table, waiting for her to finish dinner. Then he'd seemed to snap out of it, and she'd thought everything was fine. She'd asked him to dance, and he'd led her out into the middle of the room, wrapping his arms around her, and leading her in a passionate dance, until suddenly he'd stiffened, and a look had come over his face that she'd seen only a few times before. The day he'd lost Simone for the second time. When she'd found him sitting in his loft, staring at the TV, where a picture of his son was frozen in time. the day Elena and Adam had been burried. And although she hadn't recognized it then, she'd seen it on the day they'd met.

He had looked... lost. Utterly and completely lost, but where his eyes usually showed nothing, they had brimmed with emotions; pain and fear being foremost, but certainly not the only ones. He'd looked as if he was going to be physically ill, and she'd made him sit, waiting for him to grow calm again, But he hadn't. He'd tried to say something, but it never came out, and then he'd simply stared into her eyes for an endless moment, before choking out those words, in a voice so strangled with emotion it was barely recognizable as his. All the times she'd seen that look on him, had one thing in common, at least in varying degrees. He'd stopped caring about himself. He was giving up. And that was something that terrified Nikita above all else.

"God! For someone so smart, you can be really stupid at times. Don't you get it yet? I love you. I won't go because I love you. And as for you letting me go, and then bringing me back into Section again, I told you before. I returned to Section for you. I'd rather live half a life, with you in it, than be free, and never see you again. Life without you means nothing. Whether it's at Section, or somewhere else. That's why I won't go. I'd rather die."

"Because..., you're you. Because you're a good man, underneath that cold exterior you hide behind. Because I've seen what's in your heart. I've seen what happens when you let someone in. I've seen the grief and anguish that you've suffered through, and what it's done to you. No one who feels as much as you do, can be the heartless bastard that you seem to think you are. And I know that the things you've done, the lies you've told me, were for my own protection. They hurt. I won't lie to you. They really hurt. But I know why you did them, and as strange as this may sound, it's part of the reason why I love you. You always put your own feelings aside, to try to do right by me, even if you thought it would make me hate you. " taking his face between her hands gently, she caressed his stubbled cheeks with her thumbs. brushing a kiss softly across his trembling lips she continued. "We're meant to be together. Soulmates, Michael. And you don't get to chose your soulmate. That's just the way it is."

Michael inhaled sharply. "Talk- in- the- mor-ning." With each syllable, Michael kissed her, then deepened the kiss. Her white body started writhing under his kisses and caresses. In turn her hands were caressing and demanding, and Nikita became a Valkyrie riding back to Valhalla as she mounted a tumescent Michael. She teased and tantalized him as she moved until Michael could stand no more. He quickly flipped her over and continued the steadily increasing rhythm. Michael had little control that night, as all his fears and anxieties came to the fore, as they had the first night on the boat. Fear of losing her battled with the reality of their every day existence. He had lost so many loved ones. He could not bear to lose Nikita.

Nikita could feel the desperation in Michael's heart and in his essential self. He made love to her as if they would never make love again. She felt the same desperation, because she was still burdened by years of insecurity and neglect. Their climaxes came almost together, Nikita's a moment before Michael's. They shuddered in each other's arms as the tears mingled on their faces, for they wept in joy that they had this love and this togetherness for now. within a few minutes Nikita felt his hold slacken as his breathing became slower and deeper. closing her eyes she wrapped her arms around him and drifted off to sleep.

He took the basket without further comment. He knew what she was thinking. She was still worried about his injuries. And he had to admit that the drive had taken more out of him than he had expected. He had been quietly gathering his strength for the walk from the barn, even though it wasn't far. He opened the car door and levered himself out. At least she had granted him the dignity of that simple exercise. She was studiously ignoring him as she gathered more packages from the back of the Rover. He went slowly up the steps, holding onto the railing with one hand. It wouldn't do to trip and drop the eggs. That would be too much of an admission of weakness.

He unlocked the front door and held it open. While waiting for her to join him, he breathed in the familiar old-house smell that had attracted him to this place a couple of years ago. It was a mixture of polished wood, chimney smoke, and dried herbs. Hundreds of years of family life - of cooking and cleaning and washing - of noisy children and harried young parents and patient elderly grandparents - all had left an indelible mark on this structure. It was the mark of permanence, and he longed for it - not just for himself but for Nikita. He knew she felt it too. At first, he had been so angry that she had "renovated" the upstairs, but now he realized that she had left her own imprint in this place, adding yet another layer to the patina of time.

At the feathery touch of her thigh against his jeans, he very nearly dropped the basket of eggs after all. God, but he wanted her right now. The stab of desire actually made him weak in the knees. He tried to ignore his reaction, but she must have heard him gasp, because she turned around and grinned back at him before turning the corner into the kitchen. He followed her. (I have no more self-control than a dog who sniffs after a bitch in heat!) When he entered the kitchen, she was standing with her back to the counter, waiting.

He set them down with exaggerated care, then moved closer. He imagined he could smell her hunger for him. He stood as close as he could get, pressing against her full length. He reached down and cupped her through her jeans. She moaned and thrust her pelvis toward him. He lowered the zipper just enough to tuck his fingers inside. She wasn't wearing any panties. He removed his hand and looked at the shining moisture coating his fingertips. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. It hadn't been his imagination after all.

Nikita watched his nostrils flare as he breathed in her scent. His lips parted slightly, and she put her hand around the back of his neck and drew him toward her, flicking her tongue into his mouth. He sucked on it like a baby on the teat. She felt an answering tug deep down in her belly. Her left leg crept up and rubbed against his thigh, pulling him even harder against her. His erection was fierce. She could feel the heat of it even through his pants.

To her relief, he backed off. He turned his head to the side and closed his eyes, breathing raggedly. He pressed his hand to his side and bent over slightly, trying to ease the pull on his wounds from the hot weight in his groin. She didn't dare touch him, not even for support. Finally, he regained control and straightened up. When he spoke, his voice was still hoarse, but his eyes were bright with humor.

"Um hum." His breath tickled her neck. She rubbed his back in long slow strokes, and he burrowed his head deeper into the hollow of her shoulder. His stubble felt like fine steel wool. She relished the contrast with the smooth skin under her hand. She pressed his lower back gently, careful to avoid the still tender wound in his left flank. Instead, she swept her hand down to cup his buttocks. He flattened against her from right thigh to breast. As hard as he had been just a few minutes ago, he was that soft against her now. She looked down. His right hand was splayed across her left breast, his fingers delicately massaging her flesh. It reminded her of a starfish she had once seen in a seaport aquarium, perched on a rock, holding itself in place with tiny movements of its arms as it constantly adjusted to the shifting current. As she watched his fingers, she felt tiny echoing ripples deep inside, as her inner muscles still contracted sporadically in the aftermath! of her ecstasy.

They abandoned all pretense of conversation then. She indulged the fantasy she had had earlier, alternately fluttering her tongue in and around his navel, then blowing gently on the dampness she had created. With every lick, every puff of air, he hardened more. She rolled off to one side in order to admire her work. She held her hand above his groin, waggled her palm in silent encouragement, and he watched in amazement as a thick column of flesh rose from between his thighs, lengthening in increments as it reached out to touch her. She kept moving the goal. If only, like a snake, he could shed his too-small skin and keep on growing!

She seemed hypnotized by the sight of him, as the rabbit is transfixed by the cobra's swaying dance. But she had never been easy prey. With palpable effort, she broke free from the spell. "Don't move," she rasped. "I'll be right back." She backed away from the bed, her hand still outstretched toward him. He tracked her every move. Reaching behind her with one hand, she opened the dresser drawer and fished around inside until she found what she needed. She held up a length of blue ribbon and stalked toward him. He held his breath as she carefully tied it in a bow around the base of his thick stalk. The loops of the bow spread over his groin. She lifted one of the dangling ends and passed it lightly over his knob. A couple of gentle swipes and a fountain of milk began to pulse upward, splashing all over the bow. He gripped the sheets and hung on for dear life.

Nikita watched him avidly. There was an invisible erotic bond between them. When he came, she did too, even though he hadn't touched her. After it was over, she untied the bow. Kneeling directly over him, she ran the length of sodden ribbon between her legs, anointing herself. She waited for what she knew was coming. His neck arched, his mouth opened in a silent cry, and one final spasm racked his frame. A few drops of thick cream oozed from the slit in his knob. She licked them off. At the feel of her tongue, he turned his face to the side and bit down hard on the pillowcase.

His refusal to take the bait only fueled her desire for retaliation. She looked around for something . . . (Ah hah! That should do.) She waded across the creek and picked up a child's toy wooden sailboat that bobbed against the opposite bank. She filled it with icy water and casually strolled back to where he lay. She held it over him and poured the water slowly over his crotch. It didn't take but a moment to penetrate. Her stunt backfired, though. As far as he was concerned, since she was the one who had tried to freeze it off, she was the one who was going to thaw it out. It didn't take him but a moment to penetrate either.

He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. The sweet ache was becoming so intense that he was starting to hyperventilate. He grabbed her hand and forced it against himself, right where he needed it - over and over again on that same spot. She didn't protest, just let him set the pace, as she had all day. He raced toward the summit, pulling her along with him. At the last, he strained up into her palm, holding her thumb right over his opening, and she could feel the hot juice bubbling up beneath it. Still, he refused to let go. She coaxed him to lift one knee, and she slid her other hand underneath, raking his buttock lightly with her nails. That finished him. He jerked her hand away, while in the same instant a gush of fluid pulsed out of him. With every pulse, his whole body convulsed.. By the time it was over, he lay curled on his side, his knees drawn up. Nikita spooned against his back. He was shaking from reaction. She kissed the nape of his neck!

"Fine." He unwrapped it and wolfed it down in four bites. She smiled at him approvingly. "Want another?" He thought about it. "Yes." The second one went down the same way. So did an apple and a wedge of cheddar, and six oreos. Followed by a large carton of milk. Finally, he lay back and rubbed his stomach absently. Nikita put down her book and crawled over to him. She leaned over and wiped off his milk mustache with her thumb.

The sun was low in the sky - a big burnt orange globe - by the time they arrived at the house. The temperature had fallen, and the air was fresh with the smell of spring clover and mint. They lingered on the porch for a few minutes, watching the sunset. Nikita felt sheltered in his arms, and she turned her face into his shirt and inhaled deeply. Sunshine-dried cotton, citrus aftershave, and the musky scent of a supremely healthy male body.

For the rest of the week, they kept to the same routine as that first day home. After a leisurely breakfast, they would set out for the creek. By the third day, Michael was able to walk all the way there without stopping to rest. By the end of the week, they were wandering farther afield, then circling back to have their usual picnic under the trees. Every afternoon they made love, then took a nap. Nikita had abandoned her attempts to wade in the creek, but she loved to squat down on the bank and watch the minnows swim in tiny schools. She would sprinkle breadcrumbs or cookie crumbs over the water, just to observe the disintegration of the water ballet as they competed for food. When it was all gone, they would again become one organism, whirling and turning with perfect precision. She was fascinated by this transformation.

Michael preferred to read, or to draw. The latter was one talent of his that she hadn't known about. One afternoon while watching the fish, she realized he was watching her. He had one of her sketchpads in his lap. She peeked over his shoulder and saw herself through his eyes for the first time. It was quite a revelation. That day they had reached a level of such sweet intimacy in their loveplay that even the memory of it could arouse them.

The only difference in their weekly routine was that Genevieve didn't call at 6:30 every morning. Nikita was grateful. As much as she was coming to love the older woman, she and Michael still needed their own space - their own time to recover. (Who knows? Maybe she and Emil are doing the same thing we are!), she thought as Michael's hands began to explore new territory early one morning. She smiled at the recollection of that other morning when she and Michael had heard the older couple making love. Then her mind went blank as Michael's tongue followed the trail blazed by his hands. She grated out,

"That is good. I am very pleased. Perhaps you would care for a game of this 'Go' that you were explaining to me? Genevieve has gone to visit her sister for the day, and I am a free man. I flatter myself that you might not mind a few hours of my company. Oh, and before I forget, Molbert asked about you yesterday. He wants to check your wounds within the next few days. If you like, I can have him pay us a brief visit while you are here --to kill the proverbial two birds."

Nikita wasn't quite sure what to do with herself. It seemed like she had been attached to Michael at the hip - and not just figuratively - for the past couple of months. It was kind of hard to believe that he had left without her. That was a big step for him - a very big one. It made her happy to think he was overcoming his fears, but it did leave her at loose ends all of a sudden. Well, she had better think of something, or she was going to be bored all day. Life in Section had been a lot of things, most of them awful, but it had never been boring!

She looked around the loft. The horse caught her eye. She hadn't paid it much attention lately. Maybe she had even been avoiding it -- now that she knew its history, she would never again see it in quite the same innocent light. But, it was still beautiful. She stroked its mane. She smiled as she remembered "riding to Camelot." Maybe they'd go for another ride soon. When Michael was ready. She realized that the saddle still hung over the straight-backed chair in the corner. She carried it over and hoisted it back onto the horse. She cinched it and straightened out the stirrups. They were getting pretty tarnished. If she could find some silver polish, she'd brighten them up. She draped the reins over the pommel of the saddle. There. It was ready to ride. She put her foot down on the back of the rocker, then released it. She stepped aside and watched it rock, back and forth, in a lazy canter. She never even noticed the delicate 'J' engraved on the heel panel of each silver stirrup.

Michael tasted the quiche. It melted on his tongue and warmed his heart. This was one of the comfort foods of his childhood. It had been a long time . . . He took another bite, washing it down with the wine. He was content to listen as Emil and the doctor continued to argue the benefits of wine versus exercise in reducing cholesterol. His thoughts drifted . . . ("Michael, you really should get more exercise.

The two of them were arguing over his head as he continued to heave the bitter contents of his stomach into the kitchen sink. For some reason, he was fascinated with the colors - the red and yellow splashed across the white porcelain reminded him of an abstract he had once considered buying for his loft. He wished they would shut up. Suddenly, they did. Relief. He rested his forehead against the edge of the sink and took a couple of deep breaths. That was better. He heard the water running as someone turned on the faucet. A cold rag was pressed to the back of his neck.

At Dr. Molbert's nod, Emil rose and returned with a clean glass and a bottle of Perrier. Michael watched the bubbles fizz in the glass, then picked it up and drained it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then set the glass carefully on the table. He sat silently for more than five minutes - hoping against hope that they would leave him alone. Instead, the doctor asked another question.

The doctor patted him on the back. "Bon. Tres bon, Michel. We will be finished with our little discussion in a moment. I just want to give you something to think about. Have you noticed that these incidents occur just when you are feeling safe? Like today, for example. Here we sat, all talking comfortably about a rather trivial matter, when all of a sudden you left us. Are there any other such examples you can remember? You don't have to tell us about them unless you want to, but if you can recognize a pattern, I think it will help you to have some control over them." ('Control' - Will he take the bait? I wonder.)

She was waiting in the rocking chair on the porch when he drove up. Her hair was piled haphazardly atop her head. She wore overalls, and her feet were bare. One leg was thrown over the arm of the rocker, and she pumped it back and forth in the air. She was reading something - he wasn't close enough to make out the title. He would have to sketch her in this pose. Later. Right now, he just sat in the car and let her vitality seep into his pores.

She hesitated. "Because - there could be complications. When Dr. Molbert examined me, he found some old scarring. He said that shouldn't affect my ability to have a baby. But there was something else. At first, I told him I didn't want to know, but I couldn't help asking him a few days later. The difficulty I experienced last month was probably a very early miscarriage. I don't want that to happen again, Michael. He said that the chances were remote, but I think if it happened once . . . Anyway, I'd rather use some other form of protection - something less . . . damaging."

If she said so herself, the crepes were pretty good. Genevieve's persistence was finally beginning to show some result. She glanced across the table. Michael was really chowing down! He had rolled a crepe around each strawberry, and she could see the melted chocolate oozing from one end as he stuffed the other end into his mouth. His eyes closed as he chewed slowly. The look on his face was familiar, for some reason. When had she seen it before? Oh yeah, last night just after they had . . . Honestly, sometimes, he was so FRENCH.

She could feel a familiar insistent pressure against her lower belly. She reached down with her hand and rubbed her palm over the protrusion in his pants. She met increasing resistance. He moaned her name and flattened himself into her hand. She felt herself tighten, then release deep inside, and a trickle of warmth dampened her panties. It never ceased to amaze her how quickly he could arouse her. She was ready for him right now.

"It doesn't matter how fast you are, Ni-ki-ta. I can always CATCH YOU!" His last two words came out in a forced grunt as he pushed against her so violently that she staggered back against the table. He looked at her wild-eyed, then swept the empty plates onto the floor. She scooted back onto the table and bent her knees. They frantically unzipped one another, and he took her right there. She grunted each time she felt him slide in and out, in and out, a little deeper each time. He was absolutely silent, focusing all his energy between his thighs. He had certainly mastered Dr. Lamaze's technique. As his own climax approached, she was already spasming around his shaft. At the last, he strained deep inside her, plank-stiff, as she twisted under him, wringing every drop of semen from his body. She could feel the scorching liquid being expressed in one, two, three violent contractions of his penis. He collapsed on top of her. His face and hands were slick with sweat, And so were hers.

The doctor breezed in the door a few minutes later, unaware of his close call. "Bonjour, mes amis! Bienvenue - welcome to my inner sanctum," he said as he escorted them into his private office. "Unless it's an emergency, hold my calls until further notice," he instructed his nurse, who had risen as soon as he came in and was holding a medical chart for him to sign. She sighed dramatically, threw up her hands, and retreated to her desk, muttering imprecations.

"Don't you dare tell me you're not sure you love him, chouette. I have eyes in my head - and ears too. And as for any other doubts you have - well, welcome to real life. This old man and I have been married for fifty years, and there are times . . .to illustrate . . . an old woman was asked if she had ever thought of divorcing her husband of many years. She replied, "Divorce, non, mais murder, yes!" Then her expression softened. She held out her hand to Emil. "But I can tell you, chere, that it is still worth the trouble. Even after fifty years." Emil kissed her hand and grinned slyly at her. He said to Michael, "Observe the master, mon ami, and learn from my example." Genevieve rolled her eyes at Nikita.

"That is true," replied Genevieve thoughtfully. She looked at Nikita. "That first night, I remember you said, 'just call me Nikita.' And then, when you introduced him, you said only, 'this is Michael.' It was obvious you did not wish to share any further information with us, so I respected your wishes. I thought you would tell us eventually - when you felt comfortable enough. So, I haven't asked again."

They were all looking at him. He felt . . . he didn't know what he felt. He would have to deal with that later. When it was safe. It wasn't safe yet. Not yet. With an almost physical effort, he shoved the rage back in its box. Visualized nailing the box shut. He took a deep breath. Consciously relaxed his hands. That was better. But please, please, don't let them ask him any more questions right now.

He rose and, in passing, touched Nikita briefly on the shoulder. She placed her hand over his and smiled in gratitude. Behind Emil, she could see Michael. He looked -- alone. In two long strides she had reached his side and linked her arm in his. He inched closer until his entire length brushed against her. She didn't think he was even aware he had done it. She cast a sidelong glance at him. He appeared calmer now. Emil pressed glasses of champagne into their hands, and he and Genevieve raised their own glasses.

He groaned in protest as he shifted position. She passed her hand over his eyes, coaxing his lids shut. He gave a sigh of relief at the resulting darkness. She leaned over him and circled his temples with her thumbs, then pressed down hard on the acupressure point just above each eyebrow. She held the pressure for nearly a minute. He moaned softly but didn't try to push her hand away. When she released, she could see the white imprints on his skin flush deep red. She waited a minute, then asked, "Any better?"

At four am she was awakened by his nightmare. It caught her by surprise. He hadn't had one for nearly two months. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that it would have been a miracle if he HADN'T had a nightmare. First, the visit with Dr. Molbert. Then, Genevieve's cornering him about marriage. Finally, Emil's recollection. "Michael." She stroked his arm repeatedly. He arched his neck and began to keen softly. "Michel," she tried again. He stilled immediately. "Wake up, my sweet baboo," she murmured, continuing to stroke his arms and chest. He gave a deep gasp, then his eyes opened wide, locking on hers.

She got up and went into the bathroom. He could hear the water running in the sink. A minute later she was back with a cold wet washcloth. She wiped his face. He was so thirsty he opened his mouth a little, hoping a few drops would trickle down his throat. Was disappointed as she moved the cloth down and away. He closed his eyes against the light. Too bright. His head was pounding again. He felt the mattress shift as she stood up again. (Where . . ?) But before he could complete that thought, she was holding a glass to his lips. He sucked down the cool liquid, almost choking in his eagerness. She was saying something . . . what?

She looked back at the bed. Michael was stirring at last. He stretched his arms above his head and arched his back. His toes wriggled like live bait on a hook. So tempting to a big grouper. On impulse, she tiptoed over to the foot of the bed and tickled the bottom of one foot. He jerked it away. She tickled the other one. He lashed out with it, just missing her jaw. (Serves me right!) she admitted ruefully. But a minute later she was at it again. "Itsy bitsy spider," she hummed, as her fingers walked over the hair on his legs, all the way up to his inner thighs, then higher. His hand snaked out and captured hers, pressing it against the sweet ache that had brought him to full consciousness. He was swollen tight as a tick.

"Who's going to call, Michael?" She smoothed her hands down his flanks, inside the waistband, and cupped his buttocks. He planted his feet and lifted his hips. His underwear folded down with one flick of her wrists. She lowered herself onto him and squeezed with her inner muscles, rotating her pelvis at the same time. That did it. He grunted out his answer in perfect counterpoint to his powerful thrusts, one word for every burst of scorching liquid leaving his body.

Father Philippe had been struggling with his homily for two days. If an author suffered from "writer's block," his audience was usually sympathetic. But God help the parish priest whose Sunday sermon was less than riveting! So, here he was, in the middle of the third week of Lent, searching his mind and soul for something new to say to villagers who had heard every variation possible on the central Lenten theme of repentance, every year at this time, for their entire lives.

Actually, he was right on both counts. As for the first, Michael had been so exhausted, so emotionally distraught, at their first meeting, that he had been beyond caring about whatever impression he made. His memories of it were blurred. What was dream - what was reality? Had he confessed? Been absolved? His impressions were infantile in nature, involving touch rather than sight and sound. The warm pressure of the priest's hands on his head, the wool fabric of the cassock tickling his nose, the tears that scalded his cheeks. And others - too painful to face yet.

They pulled up in front of the church a few minutes before five. Father Philippe waved to them from the courtyard. "I'll meet you in the church, mes amis." As they stepped into the cool, dark nave, the side door opened. The priest stood there, briefly spotlighted by a shaft of late afternoon sunlight. The door closed behind him and he hurried toward them. Smiling broadly, he kissed Nikita on both cheeks, then turned to Michael. "Et toi, Michel?" he invited, his arms outstretched. Michael stepped forward into his embrace. Father Philippe hugged him in perfect silence for a few moments, then whispered something in his ear. Michael nodded and stepped back.

Without a word, she tucked it under one arm and led the way to the cemetery. She unfolded it at the foot of Adam's and Elena's graves. He unzipped the case and laid it on the ground, then sat down and began to rosin the bow. Nikita stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders. He continued the ritual preparation - tightening the bow, then gently plucking the strings to test the tuning. Finally, he took a deep breath and began to play. She had never heard the melody before, but it reminded her of a lullaby. She closed her eyes and swayed gently in time to the music. At first, she thought that soft vibration she felt - the faint hum she heard, were resonating from the cello. But no. He was singing, so softly that she could barely make out the words. She leaned closer. It was indeed a lullaby.

Slumber, my darling, thy mother is near, Guarding thy dreams from all terror and fear. Sunlight has passed, and the twilight is gone. Slumber, my darling, the night's coming on.Slumber, my darling, the birds are at rest, Wandering dews by the flowers are caressed, Slumber my darling, I'll wrap thee up warm, Pray that the angels will shield thee from harm. Slumber, my darling, the morn's blushing ray Brings to the world the glad tidings of day. Fill the dark morn with thy dreamy delight. Slumber, thy mother will guard thee tonight.

When they reentered the church, Father Philippe was kneeling in prayer in front of the stand of votive candles. Nikita touched him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes and smiled at them. He pointed to the two candles directly in front. "You know, Michel, although I am a priest, I too sometimes have doubts. But, when I lit these a few moments ago in remembrance of your wife and son, I heard a child whispering in my ear - as if he were telling me a secret. He said, "Tell my daddy to let God love him."

Nikita perched on the edge of the cushion, her long legs akimbo. Michael gently pulled her back against him and put his arm around her shoulder. She took a healthy gulp of her drink and began to relax. It warmed her insides as his embrace warmed her from without. She waited, content to have him bring up the reason for their visit. He just sat there, in no apparent hurry to settle anything! She took another swallow, then poked him with her elbow. At his soft grunt, Father Philippe joked, "Mon fils, I suggest you begin talking before she resorts to sterner methods of persuasion!"

"Definitely," replied Michael. Nikita sagged back against the cushion. All the tension was gone now, and she felt numb. She held out her glass and the priest started to pour. "Enough," Michael said before the glass was even half full. She started to object, but one look from him made her think again. It certainly wouldn't do to get sloshed before dinner, tonight of all nights! She needed a clear head to plan the details.

"Let me see," said Father Philippe, flipping through the pages of his appointment calendar. "This is the middle of March. Allowing you time to prepare, and three weeks for the banns to be read, I would suggest the first Saturday in May. Is that too soon?" He was aware of a sudden silence. He looked up. They were staring at him in dismay. "Too long?" They smiled in obvious relief. Of course. How could he have been so naive! She must be enceinte!

"Do you have any other questions?" the priest asked. They shook their heads. "Good. Dinner should be ready now. If you will excuse me, I will go and ask Andréé to serve." As soon as he left, they came together in a rush of mutual hunger. Nikita's lips parted, and Michael groaned as he thrust his tongue deep inside. She felt liquid warmth purl within her, and all of a sudden, she wanted him so badly she was tempted to see if the parlor door had a lock. But then he pushed her away and whispered harshly, "Ni-ki-ta! We can't! There isn't time!"

Dinner had been quite enjoyable. Andréé had outdone himself. They had spent a leisurely two hours at the table, and the priest had watched his visitors become increasingly mellow. He had to admit, in all humility, that he was quite the raconteur. He had been a priest for nearly thirty years, but he had been a keen observer of human nature for his entire life. He chose only the most humorous vignettes from his repertoire. For tonight, his sole purpose was to put them at ease. And he had succeeded admirably. Nikita had laughed so hard at his story of Monsieur Broussard and his truffle-sniffing cat that she had actually snorted like a piglet! And Michel's expression had been singularly unguarded. He was an appreciative listener - not one to laugh out loud, but his quiet smile was reward enough.

Finally, they had adjourned to the parlor. He chuckled out loud at the contrasting picture they presented. Michel had sat down with quiet grace. But Nikita - well, she had flung herself down on the sofa with such abandon that he was surprised the old thing hadn't collapsed! (After all, she is no midget!) They were a study in contrasts. She was light to his dark. Spark to his flint. Word to his deed. And they certainly gave credence to the theory that opposites attract. Father Philippe had wondered, if the lights were dimmed, he might actually see the electrical charge flash across the sofa from one to the other.

From that point on, the conversation had segued into a lively discussion of the modern arts. Not just music, but literature, art and architecture. Nikita's unorthodox opinions had added spice to the classic argument of "inclusive" art, easily understood by the masses, versus "exclusive" art, created for the enjoyment of the few experts who could appreciate it. She had suckered him and Michael into defending the esoteric while staunchly advocating "art for everybody". And she had steadily given way before their superior knowledge of the subject. Then she had delivered the coup de grace to their careful construct with three words.

By the time he had refilled all their glasses, Michael had returned carrying his cello and one of the chairs from the dining room. In utter silence, he had removed the instrument from its case and tightened the bow. Pointing to the glass on the table, he had asked, "Is this one mine?" At Nikita's nod, he had drained it in one gulp. Then he had sat down and begun to play. In that moment, Father Philippe knew what Nikita had been trying to say. Michael might intellectually espouse the cause of the "esoteric artist," but when he played, he reached out to all who heard him. Without fear. Without reservation. Without deception. He touched them and was touched by them. He loved and let himself be loved.

The challenge shifted suddenly in his sleep. Mumbled something. She listened more closely. He was speaking in French - still the language of his deepest dreams. She could understand only a word or two, beginning with her name. "N'kit . . . j't'aime . . . j'ai besoin d'. . . " At the last, he moaned and reached for her without ever waking. She gave him her hand, and he pressed it hard against the evidence of his "need". She turned to him and flicked her tongue over his nipple. He arched his neck and gave a deep groan. At the same time, she felt him turn to stone under her hand. She clasped him through the sheet, squeezing lightly, once, twice, three times. He lifted his buttocks, twisting in her grasp, and a damp stain spread beneath her palm. His eyes opened at the same time, and he called her name again - in a grating whisper. "Ni-ki-tahh!"

"Please . . .NOW!" He abruptly released her hands and she went straight for him. He flinched as she curled her hands possessively around his engorged penis and stuffed it inside herself in one swift plunge. She wriggled further down in the bed, pulling him in deeper as her heels dug into his flanks. They stared at one another, eyes wide with shock, as they felt the tidal wave approach. Neither of them had the strength or the will to resist it - all they could do was ride it out.

The second call was as brief as possible. He could hardly stand to talk to his contact, but if Nikita wanted Walter and Birkoff at the wedding, it was necessary to follow channels, for the time being at least. When it was over, he had what he wanted. He poured the hot water over the coffee grounds, cursing softly as half of it splashed over the counter tiles and dripped down the cabinet. He regarded his hand with contempt.

The wind whipped her hair about her face, and she buried her nose in his jacket, relishing the smell and feel of the soft leather. Usually they wore helmets, but the weather was so glorious that they had made an exception this once. She knew he needed the sense of freedom that riding the bike gave him, especially without the usual headgear. As a precaution, he had tied his hair back on top with a rubber band. But, shoulder-length curls still flowed freely in the windstream. She had laced her fingers together across his middle, so she could feel every shift in his balance as the bike went around the curves. He danced the same way. In sync with her -- wherever they were. She hugged him tighter. He covered her hands with his own and squeezed briefly. The bike roared around the final curve into the village. He braked to a stop in front of the toy shop. She hopped off first and held the door to the shop open while he set the kickstand and dismounted.

It rained all weekend. Warm spring rain that soaked the fields and ran in rivulets between the rows of sprouting wheat. Rain that released the fragrance of the fresh herbs growing in Nikita's garden - dill and sage and lavender and mint. She kept the windows open, upstairs and down, and the door to the front porch. A cool, misty breeze blew through every room. Inside, they slept, and woke, and slept again. Dreaming together in one another's arms, soaking up peace as the earth soaked up the rain.

Sunday night, they woke at the same time, ravenous. The rain had stopped. They carried the makings of a late supper out on the porch. Bread and feta cheese, olives and the fresh-picked tomatoes Emil had sent home with them. Nikita nibbled an olive absently, watching Michael's throat work as he took long swallows of cold beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and caught her looking at him.

He knew what she meant. Years of stress, of tightly-controlled emotion, of exhaustion delayed or denied by diligent necessity, had taken a toll on both of them. In addition, secrets long-buried had weighed him down, until he had had no reserves left. In the relative security of the past few months, he had finally begun to let his guard down. He could see, from this vantage point, that Dr. Molbert was right. It was inevitable that those secrets should begin to leak out of him. Perhaps it was time to let it all go. He ruminated on the consequences as he took another swallow. Cool, slightly bitter, it quenched a deep thirst. So did she. She bit into a tomato, and juice spurted all over her T-shirt.

Half an hour later, the two of them were on the road to Bienville. Walter was driving. His eyes twinkled with humor. He was aware of Birkoff watching him. Every few minutes, the kid would sneak a look at him as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His appraisal was quite accurate. Birkoff WAS amazed at the transformation. (The old guy looks snazzy! Not that I'd ever tell him that. His head's big enough as it is.) Walter was wearing a black leather jacket over a collarless white shirt with diamond stud for a the neck button. In his ears were matching diamond studs. And, damned if he DIDN'T sport a "formal" bandanna in black silk with silver embroidered fleur-de-lis!

Another hour and they were on the rise overlooking Bienville. It was a clear day, and the green rolling hills were covered in a multitude of wildflowers. The tiny village looked pristine from this distance. The steeple of the church was the tallest structure around, and the stone glittered in the sun. They drove slowly down the country road, with the car windows down. The only sound was the crunch of the tires on the crushed granite surface.

Genevieve Beaullieu stared at her reflection in the armoire mirror. For just a moment, she caught a glimpse of her younger, slimmer self, as she might have appeared on her own wedding day. She smiled at that image. A dimple appeared at one corner of her mouth. Her eyes sparkled - still a brilliant blue. Her new lipstick gave a pretty fair imitation of the natural blush of 50 years ago. Thank goodness for that new sealing compound the young vendeuse had demonstrated. She just hated it when the lipstick crept up the cracks in her upper lip! She peered more closely, then nodded, satisfied that the dam was holding. Backing away, she examined her figure. The new suit was very smart - a bright blue the same color as her eyes. It covered a multitude of - well, not sins, but certainly little peccadillos. "Too many sweets, Genevieve," she murmured regretfully."

What a pair they made. It would never be a dull partnership, thank God! She smiled at the memory of that first day they came to the shop. Nikita had entered first - a leggy blonde with huge eyes that took in everything at a glance. She had exclaimed with delight, then drifted from toy to toy, touching each one with a kind of reverence. Her companion had stood to one side, tracking her every move with a single-minded intensity, seemingly oblivious to Genevieve's frank stare. She had always been a people watcher, and there had been something intriguing about the two of them. Something that had stirred her maternal instincts. That was why she had offered to show him the horse. She had never intended to sell it. But . . . she had no regrets. None at all.

She heard the splash of water in the tub, then Emil's voice. "Aiee, yi yi!" She grinned. That should redistribute his blood flow - back to his brain, where it belonged right now. She gave her suit jacket one more tug, then left the bedroom. There were a few final touches she wanted to make to the cake. It was sitting on the dining room table, and she congratulated herself on how well it had turned out. As promised, it was dark chocolate. Inside. The frosting, however, was another matter. Her own grandmother's recipe - crystallized sugar. It even had a name - "Sans Egal" - "Without Equal." She prepared to add her own personal touch to the cake - tiny bouquets of "rosebuds" crafted from fresh raspberries nestled in sprigs of mint. As she admired her handiwork, there was a knock on the door. She glanced at the mantel clock - noon already! She lowered a large soup pot over the cake. After all, it was to be one of her little surprises for them. She wiped her hands on a damp towel, then went to greet the bride and groom.

"Come in, mes enfants," she cried. "Let me look at you!" They entered the parlor and turned slowly for her inspection. She examined them from head to foot. They presented quite a contrast. Michael was meticulously groomed, elegant in a black Armani suit with a single-breasted jacket that fell almost to his knees. Underneath the jacket, a simple black silk T-shirt with a rounded neck displayed the sturdy column of his neck and shoulder-length hair to full advantage. She especially admired the tight black pants which hugged his muscular calves. The shoes, however - well, comfort was important too, she supposed. At least they were black. Black leather gloves completed his ensemble. In one hand he dangled a pair of black sunglasses. Armani too, if she was not mistaken. It was a unique look -- one that suited him. Suddenly, she recalled Nikita's remark about Michael already having a black suit. He did indeed.

The bride's attire was another matter entirely. Her hair hung in damp tangles around her face and down her back. It looked as though she had ridden over here with her head stuck out the car window like a dog. Her nose was red and peeling from sunburn, of all things. She was wearing a white T-shirt with the words "Depeche Mode" emblazoned across it, and faded jeans with holes in the knees. (Mon Dieu, but she presents quite a challenge!)

Michael went over to the dining room table. He removed his gloves and lay one hand on upturned bottom of the soup pot. The metal was cool to the touch. He caught a faint whiff of chocolate. His thoughts began to drift. "What did I just tell you?" called a voice from the top of the stairs. He jerked his hand back, then went to stand in front of the picture window. He was still standing there a quarter of an hour later when Emil came down the stairs. The older man called his name softly, then touched him on the shoulder. Startled, he whirled quickly, one palm outthrust. He pulled back just in time. The killing blow stopped a fraction of an inch from Emil's throat. Emil's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Michael sucked in a trembling breath and shut his eyes as his hand dropped to his side. He sagged back against the window ledge.

"Auburn - in fact, it is almost the color of Michel's, although with a bit more gray. It is difficult to believe she will be 49 in September. She and Pierre celebrated their silver anniversary last November." Genevieve stopped brushing and looked at Nikita in the mirror. "I pray that you and Michel will have many happy years together, chouette. You deserve it." She bent down and kissed the top of Nikita's head, then continued the soothing brush strokes. At last, she was satisfied that all the tangles were gone. "What style would you prefer, cherie? A couronne, perhaps? A chignon?"

Genevieve beamed. "That would be my preference also." She gathered the golden strands together, winding them low on Nikita's neck, and pinned them loosely in place. "Now, I have a little surprise for you. Something very old. Something borrowed. And something blue - to match your eyes." She opened a shallow drawer in the center of the dressing table and pulled out a box filled with tissue paper - and a delicate silver net.

She rummaged around in her dresser drawer and came up with a silver tube. "This is called 'L'Occitaine.' I order it from a shop called 'La Provence.' It is made from beurre de karite - the sap of an African tree. It nourishes the new skin and disguises imperfections. Here, try a little." She squeezed a dollop into Nikita's palm. It had a light fragrance - entirely unfamiliar, but vaguely floral. It felt wonderful. Nikita dabbed it on her nose and massaged it in. Sure enough, her sun-damaged skin took on a healthy, soft glow.

At last they were ready for the piece de resistance. Genevieve unzipped the garment bag and pulled out the dress they had chosen together a few days before. It was the palest of blues - almost silver - a simple, sleeveless silk sheath with a rounded neckline. It slid over Nikita's head and draped straight down to her ankles. It needed no ornament. In the bottom of the bag was a box containing the matching shoes. Open-toed, with a sling-back heel, they were covered in the same blue silk. Once she had slipped them on, Genevieve took her by the hands and backed her slowly toward the armoire mirror. "Now, close your eyes and turn around, cherie. All right, you can open them now."

Their voices faded as the kitchen door slammed shut behind them. The parlor door opened at almost the same time. Michael stood there, pale and still, devouring her with his eyes. She took the first step, but he closed the distance between them. She could see traces of moisture still glittering on his eyelashes. She palmed his cheek and smiled at him. He covered her hand with his own, then lifted it to his lips. His feather-light kiss made her shiver.

The meal had been delicious. He hadn't had much home-cooked food, and he usually preferred burgers to steak anyway. He had been wary at first, of the unfamiliar tastes and textures of the various dishes. But, Walter had threatened him on the way here. "At least take a couple of bites of whatever is on your plate, or I'll personally see to it that Operations finds out about your sneaking off to play video games on Level 6!" So, with Walter's eagle eye on him every minute, he had forced himself to sample every course. And, to his surprise, he had really liked most of what he ate. Especially the dessert. He licked his lips, hoping for one more taste of the chocolate mousse. No luck. (Maybe . . . ) He sneaked a look over at the table. Darn. That waiter guy had already taken away the dishes.

Before Walter could counterattack, the door opened and Father Philippe entered, carrying a tray with three desserts. He smiled serenely. "I must confess, this is my favorite part of every meal. I brought one for each of us." He passed the tray around, then took the remaining dessert and dipped his spoon into the rich pudding. "Umm," he groaned as though in ecstasy. "Well, what are you waiting for, mes amis? Mangez, mangez!"

She beamed at them both, then extended her hand to Walter. "Just a taste," she teased, as he bent down and brushed her fingers lightly. As he straightened, he was aware of Michael's direct gaze. It was a silent challenge. He was slightly taken aback, then relaxed as he realized Michael was not even aware of what he was projecting. Well, he could fix that pronto. He gently released Nikita's hand and faced Michael with a knowing grin - his eyes wide and eyebrows raised. Michael looked puzzled. Walter could tell the moment he realized what he had been doing. His face flushed a dusky red and he broke eye contact. Walter held out his arms wide and gestured with his fingers. "Come on, kid, give this old man a hug, just to show you don't have any hard feelings."

"Oh, excuse me!" she exclaimed. "Walter, Birkoff, I don't believe you've met Emil and Genevieve Beaullieu. Genevieve, Emil, allow me to introduce two of our dearest friends." The French couple had been reticent, but they came forward eagerly to shake hands with these new acquaintances. Soon, all four of them were chattering amiably, while Nikita and Michael stood to one side, observing this interface between their past and future lives.

Nikita smiled at Michael. "Well, my sweet baboo, It looks like we've been abandoned. What should we do now?" She stepped closer. His nostrils flared at the scent of her perfume. She brushed that same recalcitrant curl behind his ear. At her touch, he was suddenly as hard as the gems he carried in his pocket. Thank God for the length of his jacket. She felt it too. He could tell by the way she licked her lips and leaned toward him. He gave a low moan.

For the first time since the ceremony began, Michael's hand left Nikita's. From his pocket he pulled two rings and placed them on the tiny pillow held out by the altar server. Nikita gasped in recognition. These were Josephine's rings! She would never forget the first time she had seen them, as they tumbled out from that velvet sack onto the table in the loft. Gold filigree, intricately worked --the man's ring adorned by a single emerald, the woman's by a sapphire. She felt the heat of Michael's gaze. His eyes shifted from her to the rings and back again, and she could see in his stark features that his wedding gift to her lay on that pillow -- not the rings themselves, but what they symbolized -- the key to his past. The secrets of his soul.

Then it was her turn. She took the ring from Father Philippe and placed it on Michael's finger, repeating the words he had just spoken. It was a bit snug, and she had to give it a slight twist to fit it over his knuckle, even as she recited, " . . . and with my body . . . " She heard him suck in a breath, and when she looked up, afraid she had hurt him, she saw that his pupils were dilated. He licked his lips and swallowed thickly. She grinned impishly, giving the ring yet another push. He colored deeply, then turned in self-defense to face the priest.

They slowly turned to face one another. One look at Michael and Nikita knew exactly why he was afraid to touch her. But there was no avoiding it now. She grabbed his face with both hands and gave him a big juicy kiss full on the lips. His arms tightened around her, and she could feel him throbbing fiercely against her. Suddenly, he wrenched his lips from hers and, grabbing her by the hand, began a headlong dash down the aisle. "Michael - slow down!" She hissed. Unfortunately, her dress was acting as a hobble, preventing her from keeping up with his long strides. He halted just long enough to pick her up. The delighted witnesses trailed after them, hooting and pointing at the couple who rounded the corner of the church and disappeared from view.

Against the rear stone wall of l'Eglise de Saint Pierre de Bienville, Michel Samuelle thrust himself as deeply as he could into his eager bride. They strained together, thighs quivering, as they rocked back and forth ever so slightly. Her dress was hiked up around her waist, and the rough stone abraded her rear end, but she couldn't care less. He hadn't had time to drop his pants - only to open his braguette enough to free that red-hot bar which had been tormenting him all through the ceremony. Just then, she groaned and arched into him. He bucked against her, grinding his hipbones into hers, coming in such a violent rush that she cried out as the scalding milk of him filled her cup to the brim. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and she heard his helpless groans give way to a long sigh of relief. She sagged back against the wall, her boneless limbs no longer able to support her.

The party lasted well into the evening. The young couple had been toasted with champagne. The cake had been cut and pronounced delicious by one and all. Nikita appeared to have fallen into a coma from an overdose of chocolate. She lay across the sofa with her bare feet resting in Michael's lap. He massaged them absently-mindedly while sipping brandy from Father Philippe's private stock. Now and then a faint smile would cross his lips, as he listened to the conversations swirling around them. After an hour or so, his eyes drooped shut, and only quick action by Birkoff saved the brandy glass from shattering on the stone floor.

"Allow me," said Father Philippe finally. He walked over to Michael and placed his hands gently on the top of the sleeper's head. He waited a few moments, allowing the warmth to penetrate, then called him softly by name. "Michel. Michel. Attends. C'est moi, Pere Philippe." The younger man's eyes opened. The priest repeated the litany softly. He lifted his hands and came to stand in front of Michael. He smiled down at him and said calmly, "Did you have a nice nap, mon fils?"

To Walter's amazement, Michael smiled back at him and replied pleasantly, "Very nice, mon pere." He shrugged his shoulders apologetically. "Please forgive us. We did not intend to fall asleep. Why didn't you wake us?" He shook Nikita gently. "Nikita, wake up." She lashed out with her foot, nearly catching him in the groin. It was a good thing her feet were bare! He stood up and raked his hands through his hair. Turning to face the company, he apologized again for his and Nikita's neglect of them all.

Michael's expression flattened. He made no response to Emil's friendly jibe. Just turned back to Nikita and shook her again, this time from a safer spot. She mumbled something unintelligible at first, then opened her eyes wide. "Oh my God!" She scrambled up from the sofa, nearly toppling Michael. She looked at them all in chagrin. "I am so SORRY! I can't believe I fell asleep! Michael, how could you let me . . .!" He put his hands up and shook his head, backing away slowly. "It wasn't my fault . . ."

He lowered the car windows. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. He sat back and stared silently at the gate and the driveway beyond. She ran her fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He shivered under her touch. Suddenly, he opened the door and stood up. She got out and walked around to his side of the car. She leaned into him and he put his arm around her, drawing her close. She could feel his whole body vibrating.

The inn had a blue door, and was named, appropriately enough, "La Porte Bleue". The proprietor was already up, and the smell of coffee wafted into the reception area. Nikita's nose twitched in appreciation. Michael noticed, and he requested that a pot of coffee and a selection of pastries be brought to their room as soon as possible. A sleepy-eyed young man escorted them to a room at the back, with a tiny balcony overlooking the kitchen garden.

It was only a few minutes before there was a knock on the door. He made no move to rise - only huddled there staring into the flames. She opened the door and indicated the small round table near the balcony door. The young man set down the tray and accepted politely the few francs she shoved into his palm. After he had left, she poured the steaming coffee into the two yellow crockery mugs on the tray.

"Come have some coffee," she invited, and he slowly stood up and came to the table. She pulled out a chair and shoved him gently down into it, then sat across from him. She blew on her coffee. Steam drifted across the top. Deliberately casual, she picked up a croissant and broke off a large piece. She chewed in silence, tried to swallow what felt like a lump of raw dough. It stuck in her throat, and she took a long sip of coffee, watching him all the time from over the rim of her mug. He had wrapped his hands around his coffee mug, and she noticed that the warmth had stilled their tremor - for now. She steeled herself for what was to come.

"The rings were passed from generation to generation. From oldest son to oldest son. My grandparents were the last to wear them. They had them on when they were taken away by the Nazis. German art experts would have recognized the craftsmanship and included them in the Josephine collection. My father -- he used to tell me the story of the rings. I must have heard it a thousand times. They were a symbol of all he had lost. They were part of my legacy as his only son."

"My father was 15 years old when his parents and little sisters were taken. He never saw them again. He only escaped because he was out hunting. His father thought that the family was exempt from the laws governing Jews, since they had converted to Catholicism during the 1920's. He was wrong. My father became a sniper with la Resistance. That's how Emil met him. He was barely 18 when the war ended. He had killed 107 men."

He paused. Then, in a dreamy voice, he continued. "When I was little - maybe five or six - he would take his rifle out of the case and show me the notches he had carved in it. I learned to count to 100 that way. I had trouble understanding a number that big. Strange. It doesn't seem like so very many to me now." He looked at her with a puzzled expression, as though she might be able to explain it to him. She shuddered. He was far from her now, and she wasn't at all certain she could call him back.

"After the war, he spent several years drifting - to Spain, Italy, Greece - eventually making his way across the Mediterranean to Palestine. He made connections there. Men like himself, who were searching for some raison d'etre. They traveled to the United States, to the Soviet Union, China, Australia. They were pilgrims in search of power. And my father was their guide. In their travels, they drew other devotees to their cause.

"My mother was never fully aware of his work. She was content with her home and her children, with her music and art. She worked part-time at the university art museum. My father's long absences were a source of friction, though. They fought often - giving no quarter. It was quite frightening to us. I sometimes prayed that they would divorce, but they never did. Despite everything, I know now that they loved one another - violently so - until the end."

"I found out later that he had always intended for me to succeed him eventually. But, my mother's death triggered in him that same thirst for revenge as had the slaughter of his family. This time, I was his weapon. The day of her funeral, he took me with him to Le Centre. It was quite a revelation. The technology was amazing - even then. He introduced me to his chief strategist - a man he called Mr. Jones. For two days and nights they force-fed me the details of the organization my father and his cadre had created. By the third day, I was no longer a child."

"My father turned that to his advantage as well. It served a dual purpose. To teach me a lesson, and to use me to accomplish his next goal. By this time, Section One was becoming a problem. Adrian and her chief strategist, Paul Wolfe, were having 'philosophical' differences. There was imminent danger of a coup. The Board was concerned. My father assured them he would do whatever it took to restore stability."

This time when he left the room, she peeked out the door to see where he was going. He walked stiffly down the hall, one hand sliding along the wall for support. He entered the bathroom at the end of the corridor and closed the door. She was right behind, but if he was aware of her presence, he was incapable of doing anything about it. He was on his knees, draped over the bowl of the toilet. There was nothing left to come up -- that had gone down the drain nearly an hour ago, on his previous visit. Still, his body convulsed with dry heaves - nearly silent spasms that forced red-tinged bile from somewhere deep inside him. A spoonful at a time, it spurted into the water, swirling in patterns like dye. Again and again and again.

The convulsions remained violent. He was completely spent, losing consciousness during the brief respites his body allowed. Only her hold on him kept him from drowning. Gradually, the interval between attacks lengthened, and she began to hope for an end to it. She looked around for a towel. Snagging one from the shelf above the sink, she wet it under the faucet and pressed it, sopping, to his forehead. He gave one last bubbling hiccup and moaned softly. She held the cold towel in place for the next several minutes, until she was sure it was finally over. She let him slide down onto the floor, turning him on his side just in case. He was utterly still. His face was almost translucent, with blue veins she had never seen before crisscrossing his eyelids and temples. She wiped pink-tinged froth from the corners of his mouth, then lay down behind him on the cool tile, spoon-fashion, drawing him into the circle of her arms. In his ear, she continued the mantra she had begun. "I love you, Michael. Let God love you."

"Put your arm around my neck," she instructed, crouching beside him. He obeyed, but she had to hold his hand to keep it from slipping off. She grabbed him by the belt and hauled him to his feet. His legs were rubber, and as they folded under him she hoisted him over her shoulder. (Thank God this isn't a small bathroom!). She opened the door a crack, looked in both directions down the hall, then carried him back to their room. She locked the door behind her and dropped him down on the bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Everything hurt. He tried to open his eyes, but they were gummed shut. He smelled vomit. Nearly gagged. Tasted old blood. Tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and swollen. Gave up the effort. There was a weight on his chest. He tried to lift his arm, but it was just too heavy. His fingers crawled over the sheet until he encountered another hand. He grabbed hold of one of the fingers just before the darkness descended.

The next time he woke, the weight was gone from his chest. So was the hand. Everything still hurt - even his scalp. He tried to call out, but all he heard was a faint croak. Tried again, with no better luck. Then someone slipped a hand under his neck and tilted his head forward. A glass touched his lips, and a few drops of water dribbled over the cracked dryness there. He concentrated on prying his lips apart, and a moment later the stickiness gave way to cooling softness as the water seeped into his mouth and trickled down his throat. He quivered in relief. Opened his mouth wider, hoping for more.

He felt her fingers working at the buttons on his shirt. Heard her unzip his pants. Slowly, gently, she removed his clothes. His skin felt raw, and a frisson shook him. Then she was passing a warm cloth over the front of his body. She placed a pillow on his chest, folded his arms around it, and rolled him over. She washed his back, then lower - all the way down the backs of his legs. He nestled his cheek into the softness of the cushion.

After patting him dry with a towel, she began to massage him. Beginning with his head and neck, her hands kneaded and molded every part of his body to her touch. Even his fingers and toes. Soft groans escaped his lips - he wasn't sure of pain or pleasure - or both. By the time she finished with him, he felt as though his very bones had dissolved. The last thing he remembered for a long time after that was her singing. Some children's nonsense song. It didn't matter what. Just the sound of her voice was more than enough for him.

Nikita lay beside him, more content and at peace than she could ever remember. She didn't feel sleepy. Or hungry. Or too cold. Or too hot. Everything was just right. (Like Goldilocks) she thought muzzily. It was fine - really fine - just to lie here listening. Listening to a pair of jays screeching and splashing in the fountain below. Listening to the faint voices of the proprietor and his son tending the garden. Listening to Michael breathe. Deep and slow.