"And that's why it's your best line of defense," Michael said, finishing the briefing for the Galaco mission. He cast his eye over the assembled operatives, noticing immediately that someone was missing.

"Where's Nikita?" he asked tersely.

Davenport glanced uneasily at the others before deciding to answer Michael's question. "She's late."

Davenport flushed under Michael's close scrutiny. He wasn't sure what Michael's intention was: to censure him for stating the obvious or for holding back intel.

Michael's blank stare always made Davenport feel guilty. Even when he hadn't done anything to warrant that. He wasn't the one who was late. Besides, they hadn't had two words to say to each other during the past month. "I don't know where she is," he finally felt compelled to add.

"Thank you."

With a wave of his hand, Michael dismissed the other operatives. "Davenport."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to talk to you."

"Okay."

"Not here." Michael surveyed the area and decided. "In my office."

When Michael activated the touchpad in his desk, it rendered the room virtually impossible to scan. Except, of course, by Birkoff. But that presupposed that Birkoff had the time or the inclination to examine what Michael was doing.

In truth, he had neither.

"What's this all about, Michael? I'm not lying. I don't know where Nikita is."

"I believe you," Michael responded. "But her not turning up presents me with a…problem."

"You can't turn her in, Michael," Davenport said, surprised at how firm his voice sounded.

A tic started up just below Michael's right eye. Davenport was mesmerized by this overt sign of the conflict that evidently raged within the otherwise impervious field operative.

Unable to stand the silence, Davenport threw himself into the middle of it. "I know you're a company man, Michael, and I don't imagine you'd have gotten as far as you did if you still had any kind of a conscience. But you and I both know they'd cancel her in a heartbeat. If they gave you that order…could you do it?"

Michael's face remained impassive, a tribute to his truly monumental control, but the tic persisted. "Disobeying orders is a one-way ticket to Containment."

Davenport's black eyes narrowed, fixing Michael in their sights. "Yeah…but could you do it?"

"There's nothing between us," Michael said tersely.

"You're a fucking liar, but that's not what I asked you. Could…you…cancel…Nikita?"

"I would have to," Michael answered bleakly, looking like a man who had glimpsed heaven, only to be sent immediately to hell.

Davenport seemed almost as disturbed by Michael's words as Michael. "I have to give you credit, man," he said with a vehement shake of his head. "I couldn't do it."

"You would if your life depended on it," Michael whispered.

"And just what kind of a life would that be, Michael?"

"Where were you?"

Michael's voice sounded accusatory. Which was strange, Nikita thought, because he always went to such trouble to keep the emotion out of his voice.

She shrugged out of her jacket, dropping it on the floor, and kept on walking until she was in her living room. She completely ignored the fact that Michael stopped to pick up her jacket and hang it in her closet.

As if it were his apartment instead of hers.

"Out."

Michael caught up with her quickly and grabbed her by the wrist. "We should be well past this sort of thing, Nikita."

"What sort of thing, Michael?" she inquired innocently.

"You're playing games. I don't have time for this," he said shortly, once again allowing his feelings to creep into his tone.

"Then leave. I don't remember inviting you anyway," she said, aware that she sounded like a sulky little girl who couldn't get her way.

"There was a briefing. You weren't there."

"Ah, did you miss me, Michael?" she asked coquettishly.

Suddenly he dropped her wrist, causing her to cry out in pain. "Hey! You don't have to break my arm just because I pissed you off."

"Whether or not *I* missed you is beside the point."

"And what is the point, Michael?"

"Someone else might miss you. Someone less forgiving than I am," he ground out.

"I don't think you're forgiving at all, Michael. I'm surprised *you* think so."

"I can't help you if you don't take this seriously."

"I never asked for your help."

"I'm trying to protect you, Nikita."

"I don't know why. You seem to care more about my life than I do."

That was the truth. She could see it register in Michael's eyes before he was able to hide it away. From her. But more importantly, she thought, from himself.

He didn't want to know how much he really cared about her. In fact, if she had to hazard a guess, she would say that he probably couldn't function if he knew. That was one way to live.

But it wasn't hers.

"The mission is loading in an hour."

"I'm not going."

"Tell me you didn't say that."

"Why? Are you going to cancel me? Go ahead. You're carrying right now, aren't you? Shoot me, Michael. I…dare…you."

"You don't know what you're saying. Let me take you back to Section. To Medical. I'll tell them you're sick."

"But I'm not sick, Michael. I just came to my senses, that's all."

"You can't do this. I won't let you."

"You can't stop me."

"I'll do whatever I have to."

"I don't care."

"Dammit, Nikita, why does it have to be this way with you?" She flinched. She didn't think she'd ever heard Michael swear before. Maybe it was the blank stare. Maybe it was the way he repressed every fucking feeling he had. But provoking him seemed to be the only way to get through to him anymore.

They couldn't make love.

At least when they argued, it felt real.

"I want you to come back with me."

"Make me."

They stared at each other in silence for several seconds, neither one of them willing to bend in the slightest. Then Michael responded to Nikita's ultimatum in the only way he knew.

He kissed her. Hard. He pushed her up against the wall, his mouth punishing her for defying him. Need engulfed her and Nikita whimpered under the onslaught. She thought he was as carried away as she was.

She was mistaken.

Moments after he broke away, he said, "Get your jacket. We're leaving."

She didn't think. She reacted.

Her hand connected with his cheek in a resounding slap. His head jerked back with the force of it and all too briefly, fire flashed in those eyes, warning her.

He instinctively shoved her away from him, but he didn't predict her banging her head against the wall. She slumped to the floor in a heap.

He bent down and picked her up before carrying her to the door. Stopping to get her jacket, he studied the unconscious woman in his arms. "Nikita…" he breathed her name wistfully. "I wish things could be different," he added in a whisper, though he knew she couldn't hear him.

She moaned and Michael tenderly caressed her forehead with his lips. "I'm sorry."

"Is she all right?" Michael asked the doctor who had examined Nikita.

"I'm fine," Nikita whined irritably. "But my head hurts."

"Here," the doctor said, handing her two Tylenol caplets. "Take these and—"

"Call you in the morning. Very funny." Nikita held her hand to the back of her head and glared at the doctor.

The doctor, one of a cadre of faceless medical personnel who were recruited to tend the operatives, merely gave her a puzzled look.

"What about the mission?" Michael reminded him.

"Oh, she can't go. No doubt about that. I suggest that she stay here and rest where we can observe her for the next few hours."

"To hell with that!" Nikita exclaimed, sitting up too suddenly. Her face paled instantly as the movement intensified the pain in her head. "Oh, God. I think I'm going to throw up."

"You probably have a concussion," the doctor offered.

"Probably? Ya think?" Nikita all but snarled.

"Hmm…does she always have mood swings like this?"

Michael blinked. "It's part of her personality."

"Really? A certain degree of inconsistency is to be expected, but—"

"Hey! You two can stop talking about me like I'm not here!"

"She doesn't seem stable to me," the doctor added, shaking his head.

"She never does," Michael said tersely.

"Then how on earth do you control her during a mission?"

"It's a secret," Michael answered, thinking that any control he might have over Nikita was strictly an illusion.

Michael helped the medical staff get Nikita into bed. To say she was being uncooperative would have been an understatement. Exasperated and running dangerously low on time, Michael cut to the chase. "Look, if you don't stay here in this bed while I'm gone, I'll order them to keep you sedated until I get back," he whispered to her under the pretense of pulling the covers up around her neck.

Unexpectedly, because it was truly the last thing that Michael anticipated, Nikita began to smile. "You never had to use drugs to keep me in bed before, Michael," she whispered back seductively.

After Michael left, Nikita lay there for a minute or two, faking sleepiness. Her expansive yawn evidently convinced the doctor who moved on to more pressing medical problems. She tested her arms and legs, relieved to find that Michael hadn't asked them to restrain her.

Not that it would have stopped her.

Waiting for the most opportune moment to make her move, Nikita crept through MedLab, easily dodging the preoccupied staff. Making her way to Van Access wasn't quite as easy. But she made it.

It never occurred to Nikita to question why she suddenly wanted to go on a mission she had been determined to avoid. All she knew was that she had to follow Michael.

And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

When Nikita appeared, Michael had no choice but to let her stay. They were running late as it was and he couldn't hold up the mission any longer. But he wasn't happy about it.

"Nikita…" he said softly.

She breathed his name and the sound of her husky voice went straight to his groin. She was already his weakness. Now she was going to be the death of him.

He inclined his head, indicating that she should follow him. When the two of them were in a relatively private area of the van, he hissed, "What are you doing here?"

"Doing my job."

"You weren't all that interested a little while ago."

"I couldn't let you go without me. You need me."

Oh, God. Michael was in grave danger of losing what little concentration he had on the mission. "In case you hadn't noticed, I have a team," he made himself say coldly.

"Oh? Who's replacing me?" she asked casually, at the same time managing to convey that she knew there was *nobody* who could.

"Sheila," he said tightly.

"You mean Conroy? Hm…when did you get on a first name basis with her?"

"If you'd been at the briefing, you'd know."

"Why? What's the mission? What can she do that I can't?"

"We're going in as husband and wife." God, he couldn't believe how much effort it had taken to force those words out of his mouth. He could see hurt darken Nikita's light blue eyes and he regretted, not for the first time, that she had ever been recruited. She had changed his life. She had made him want things that he knew he could never have.

She was one of them.

To her credit, Nikita didn't flinch. At least, not visibly. "Well…I won't ask what experience she has to draw on."

"I haven't slept with her."

"Of course not, Michael. That might…compromise the mission."

"No," Michael contradicted hoarsely. "Actually, it would make it a great deal easier. If we were…sleeping together." Unbidden, Michael's eyes dropped to Nikita's mouth, as if he knew that he wasn't talking about Conroy anymore.

Nikita swayed slightly and Michael instinctively caught her, his hands gripping her shoulders too tightly. But they weren't completely hidden from the rest of the team, who were starting to give them curious looks.

"I don't want to have to worry about you, 'Kita," he whispered.

"Then don't."

"Will you be all right?"

Surely that wasn't concern in Michael's green eyes. "I won't be a liability, if that's what you're asking."

Stung, Michael turned away from her. But Nikita grasped his arm. "I was your first choice for this mission, though. Wasn't I?"

Lying to her had always come easily to him before. She was a complication that he didn't need. She was vulnerable to his particular brand of charm. But hurting her came with a price. He saw her clinging to the tattered remnants of her frayed humanity and he ached.

He looked her straight in the eye and whispered, "Yes."

Nikita smiled hesitantly. She never really knew where she stood with Michael. But she wanted him to be telling the truth this time. Her light blue eyes flickered to where her apparent rival sat at the rectangular black table and back again. She liked the expression in Michael's eyes now, and she liked knowing that she'd put it there. If he had to be conflicted, it *should* be over her.

"It would be a shame if something happened to Conroy, wouldn't it?" she murmured, so low that only Michael could hear her.

Oh, God. Michael closed his eyes briefly and sought control. He didn't know which was worse. That she wanted to hurt Conroy…or that she wanted to replace her.

"That…wouldn't be a good idea, Nikita."

Michael never changed his mind. Ever. For him to start second-guessing himself was disturbing in ways that no one could express. That's why his decision to cut Conroy from the team on the fly stunned them.

Half of them thought that Michael was really under orders to cancel her in a relatively non-obtrusive way. The other half thought that Michael's reaction to Nikita's sudden appearance foreshadowed something else. Something equally ominous.

Conroy didn't put up much of a fight. There was almost nothing she could say anyway. That was the trouble with conditioning people to follow any order at all, no matter how destructive it might be. They could practically be depended on to walk calmly to their own deaths.

When Conroy was gone, Michael turned on Nikita and hissed, "I got rid of her. Now obey me."

Nikita bit her lip and looked up at him innocently, her light blue eyes dancing with mischief. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Why can't you just do the job?"

"Which one? The one where I shoot people? Or the one where I get to love, honor and fuck you through the mattress?"

Michael flushed. It was all he could do not to clamp his hand over her mouth until she shut up…or couldn't breathe.

He grabbed her panel from the table and literally shoved it into her hands. "Read this," he growled. "I don't want anyone else paying for your stupidity today."

"Why, Michael, are you actually angry with me?" Nikita asked incredulously.

"Just don't get killed. I want that pleasure myself."

The profile called for Michael's team to establish itself in the household of a very wealthy couple. Once they arrived on the scene, Michael quickly dispersed everyone to their individual tasks. Maid, gardener, butler, cook, housekeeper. That was the reason for the larger than average team. Everyone had to be replaced. No matter how insignificant they might appear to be.

Disposing of the couple itself wasn't necessary. Martin Van Zandt and his wife Delia were on a tour of some remote part of Asia. They were not expected to return.

Michael was familiar with Martin's life, down to the most intimate detail. That was part of what worried him about Nikita. Martin's relationship with his wife was very loving. They had everything they could possibly want. Except for one thing. A child.

Delia Van Zandt was trying to get pregnant.

There was no way that Michael could escape having sex with Nikita. In fact, since they had no idea what kind of surveillance, outside of Section's, had been set up, it would be remarkable if he *didn't* sleep with Nikita.

The thought of being assigned to have frequent, unprotected sex with a beautiful woman like Nikita should have filled him with excitement. Instead Michael found himself gnashing his teeth in frustration. Because there were two things he knew: he wanted her to the point of distraction and it wasn't real. It could never be real.

The tension between them grew even more unbearable when they moved into the bedroom. "You can't wear that," he said, his lips parched.

Nikita held a pure white nightgown against her body, the silk flowing along her naked curves with tantalizing slowness. "Why not?"

"Because…" Michael couldn't believe the impossibility of their situation. He couldn't tell her what he knew about Delia Van Zandt. Someone was listening. Probably Birkoff. With a sigh, he contemplated the image of the young head of Comm stroking himself through his pants as he watched Nikita seduce Michael.

"I *am* your wife, *Martin*," Nikita said flirtatiously, letting Michael know that she was greatly enjoying his discomfiture.

"Yes," Michael breathed, momentarily taken aback by how much he wished it were true.

She allowed the nightgown to fall to the floor in a silken heap. Michael couldn't move. He could only stand there and watch, transfixed, as she approached. Some part of Michael's mind registered that he couldn't refuse her. It would look odd.

But he had no desire to refuse her. In fact, ached to have her. His cock throbbed insistently against his zipper, reminding him of how it would feel to plunge headlong into her softness. Once. They had been together only once. But the memory of it was etched into the deepest recesses of his brain.

Nikita reached out with one hand and touched her palm to his chest. It didn't matter that he was still fully dressed. He was so sensitized, he could feel the whorls of her fingertips. Her heat penetrated the sensual fog that surrounded him and he fell back onto the bed beneath her.

With a soft whimper, Nikita claimed his mouth. His hands rose of their own volition, tangling themselves in her hair. She broke away with a throaty cry and pulled on his zipper impatiently. Anxious to free himself, Michael slid a hand between their bodies, freezing when he touched her bare skin.

Oh, God, she was wet.

Before he could act, Nikita pulled open his pants and swallowed him whole. Just the sight of his cock in her mouth was enough to make him come. He pulsed rhythmically down her throat, the rest of his body so rigid, he thought he might break.

He had never surrendered control this easily. It should have scared him. But he had little time for fear. He could only feel his body react, his cock twitching appreciatively as she licked its flaccid length clean.

She rubbed her cheek against his groin, seemingly content to wait for him to return the favor.

That was how Davenport found them.

"What the fuck?"

As the newly installed head of security, Davenport was entitled to make rounds throughout the entire house. But he should have known better than to enter without knocking.

Michael groaned and covered his eyes with his arm. "Was there something you wanted?"

Yeah, Davenport thought. But I don't think I'm ever gonna get it.