"À la Vie!"
Michel Samuelle was unhappy, This was not an unusual occurrence. Ever since his mother died two years ago, he had not truly been happy. One would think that an ambassador’s son would live an exciting life, and Michel would be the first to admit that he had been to many interesting places and had seen many wonderful things in his short twelve years. However, since his mother’s death, he rarely saw his father and, moving from country to country, Michel found it difficult to make friends. This had not mattered when his mother was alive. She was his sunshine, making every day bright and cheerful. Now Michel was depressed and moody, and he didn’t mind if his father’s servants knew it.
“Please, Monsieur Samuelle,” pleaded his driver. “Your father told me to bring you on the beach to play. I must drive him to a luncheon in twenty minutes. I will be back to retrieve you in four hours.”
“I told you, I don’t want to play. I’m too old. Besides, with whom am I to play? And with what?” He gestured to the empty beachfront where the limousine was parked.
“It is a nice day,” said the driver desperately. “You can swim—or build cabins in the sand.”
“You mean ’castles,’ not ’cabins,’ Michel corrected him snidely. They were speaking English, as his father required that they speak the native language of whichever country they were in. Michel had an amazing acuity for languages, and didn’t mind showing off at the expense of others.
“All right, build castles, but I really must leave,” pled the driver.
“Just go,” said Michel dispiritedly.
“Here is your lunch,” the driver said, relieved, setting down a picnic hamper. “There is a drying towel here as well.”
“Fine.”
Not wanting to prolong the moment, the limousine driver returned to the vehicle and quickly pulled out of sight.
Michel stared dejectedly at the basket then, after a few minutes, sat beside it to stare blank-faced at the sea. He was so intent in his self-pity that he didn’t notice the presence of a small elfin-like creature until she plopped down beside him.
“G’day,” she greeted him with a sunny smile. “My name’s Nikita. What’s yours?”
She looked to be about six or seven years old, with long, tangled hair and scrawny arms and legs bursting through a dress that was at least two sizes too small.
“Where did you come from?” Michel asked, looking around.
The child pointed vaguely down the beach, where Michel could barely make out a row of tumble-down houses, hovels, really, about half a kilometer away.
“Who is watching you?” he persisted. “Where is your mother?” Baby-sitting was the last thing on his agenda.
“Mum’s sleeping it off,” Nikita replied matter-of-factly. “I’m watching myself. I do it all the time. Is that food in there?” she asked, eying the picnic hamper intently.
Michel had planned to stage a hunger-strike over what he considered to be his abandonment, but the girl was obviously not well fed. He opened the hamper and began to unpack its contents. He spread a linen cloth on the sand, and placed a basket of fruit, a paring knife, a platter of cheeses and crackers, and a bottle of wine and stemmed glass upon it.
Nikita gazed adoringly at the fruit, but looked shyly at Michel from beneath white-blonde lashes, awaiting his permission. He peeled a banana and handed it to her. He gaped at the way she shoved the fruit in her mouth—it was as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. He started to peel an apple for her, but decided she probably wouldn’t mind a little peeling. She didn’t, and she ate the core and seeds as well. She handed him the stem, sat back on her heels, a feral gleam in her eyes, waiting to see what came next.
Michel set the platter of cheeses in front of her, and Nikita gasped in wonder. She took a bite of everything, sometimes finishing off the morsel, sometimes wrinkling her nose and handing the uneaten portion to Michel. The crackers disappeared in a heartbeat.
A slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, Michel uncorked the bottle of wine, and poured a glass for Nikita. However, when she smelled it, she jumped up and backed away as though she had been stung.
“No!” she cried vehemently. “No booze!”
Michel was astonished. He would never have categorized a good Cabernet as “booze” but, as the wine obviously upset the child, he obligingly emptied the glass into the sand and recorked the bottle.
He reached back into the fruit basket and began to peel an orange for them to share. As she took a section from him, she asked again, “What’s your name?”
“Michel,” he answered, amused at her serious tone.
Then she giggled. “Michelle is a girls’ name!” she taunted.
Michel didn’t bother to explain her error. “You can call me Michael.” As he handed her another section of the orange, he considered informing her that Nikita was a man’s name, but decided he didn’t want to make her mad. He wanted to hear her giggle again.
************
“Do you know how to swim?” Nikita asked Michael, glancing longingly at the sea.
“Of course.”
Nikita looked at Michael’s navy bathing trunks, gathered her courage, and jumped in with both feet. “Could you teach me?”
“Now?” he asked, caught off guard. “You’re not even wearing a bathing costume.”
She shrugged. “Don’t have one.”
Michael looked appraisingly at her dress. It was so threadbare that two or three good waves would probably tear it apart.
“How about tomorrow?” he bargained, inspired. “I’ll bring you something to wear, and we’ll have our first lesson.”
“Truly, Michael?” Nikita’s wide blue eyes grew moist. She jumped into his arms and hugged him fiercely.
Mon Dieu, he thought. What have I gotten myself into?
* * *
Michael tried to explain what an ambassador was, and why his father was so important. He brushed his dark curls out of his eyes and looked at Nikita in exasperation as she continued to fail to care. Traveling all over the world meant nothing to someone who had never stepped foot outside of Sydney, Australia, and had no knowledge of any place other than her current neighborhood. She explained loftily to Michael that she and her mother moved a lot, too, but Michael couldn’t get her to grasp that being a diplomat and running away from bill collectors were hardly the same thing.
He told her about the pandas he had seen in China. She told him about the koalas she saw nearly every day in the eucalyptus grove behind her house. He told her about the canals in Venice—she didn’t see why anyone would want to row a boat to get to someplace when they had perfectly good legs to walk on. He described the ancient ruins in Greece; she told him about the current state of disrepair her house was in. Michael gave up.
Nikita taught Michael how to skip stones, something he had never tried before and turned out to be quite proficient at. They finished off the basket of fruit, and they staged a mini-war, throwing cherry pits at each other and laughing. When Michael tried to ask Nikita about her home life and her family, she skirted the issue and told him instead about crazy Walter, the old man who walked the beach with a metal detector looking for buried treasure.
“Sometimes he gives me peanuts or raisins,” Nikita said wistfully, scanning the beach with sky blue eyes. Her voice got softer, almost a whisper, and Michael leaned closer. “Sometimes, I pretend he’s my grandpa, and he let’s me come live with him.”
“Is it that bad at home?” Michael persisted.
Nikita looked at him quizzically. “Walter’s not really my grandpa,” she explained patiently, “so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Michael turned his face away and pretended to contemplate the ocean, his grey-green eyes darkening with anger at Nikita’s mother. After a few moments, he felt a small hand creep into his. He held on tightly as the afternoon sun dropped lower in the sky.
* * *
It was just after eight o’clock, and Michael was finishing his Geometry homework. His tutor had picked up on his dour mood this morning, and had let him off relatively easily—no Chemistry or Latin tonight.
There was a sharp rap on his bedroom door. “Enter,” Michael responded, expecting to see one of the maids coming in to turn down his bed.
“Did you enjoy yourself today, son?” an unanticipated voice inquired.
“Father,” said Michael, turning around in his chair.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t spend any time with you today,” Jacques Samuelle began. He was a tall man with fair hair and dark eyes. “You know how it is in my line of work. There are meetings after meetings, and dinners after dinners. It is even worse when you are the ‘new kid on the block.’” He smiled. Michael didn’t.
An awkward silence passed. The ambassador began again. “Marcel informs me that you were not fond of the beach. Perhaps tomorrow you would rather go to the museums?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Michael responded quickly. “I rather enjoyed the beach. I made some friends today,” he embellished.
“Good, good,” Jacques answered, somewhat surprised. His reticent son did not make friends easily. “Then perhaps you would like to return to the beach tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir. If it’s not a problem, sir.”
“No problem at all,” his father replied with forced joviality. Another chore marked off his To Do list. “I’ll inform Marcel.”
“Good night, Father,” Michael said dismissively, turning back to his homework.
“Well, yes. Good night to you too, son,” the ambassador replied, and quickly left the room.
When his father had gone, Michael rummaged through his bureau for an XL t-shirt and some drawstring shorts that Nikita could wear at the beach tomorrow. He was really looking forward to their swimming lesson. He couldn’t have explained why. All he knew was that he liked being with Nikita. She had brought the sunshine back into his life.
************
“Keep kicking,” Michael commanded. “Face in the water.”
Gamely, Nikita kicked and blew bubbles as Michael towed her around in the shallow water. Every so often he let go of her hands, and she would panic, sputter, and stand up. This time she managed to keep kicking and found, much to her delight, that she was moving under her own power.
“You’re doing it, Nikita! You’re swimming!” Michael yelled in encouragement. Soon however, she had to take a breath, and stopped kicking to stand up. “You did great,” he said, giving her a hug. “We’ll work on breathing next time.”
Her teeth chattering, Nikita let herself be led to shore where thick Turkish towels awaited her and Michael. The drawstring shorts had been abandoned, as they had floated off of her as soon as she had stretched out in the water. Michael’s t-shirt was extra large, though, and came below her knees. It actually covered more of her than her dress did, so her modesty was intact.
They sat on their towels on the beach, and Michael teased her by putting the picnic hamper between them but not opening it. Nikita waited patiently. True, she had not eaten since Michael had fed her yesterday, but she had gone longer than 24 hours without food before. Finally, Michael opened the hamper, setting forth the same feast as the day before with one notable exception. Instead of wine, he brought out two bottles of Pepsi and a bottle opener. Nikita’s eyes grew wide with delight. She rarely got to drinks soda, let alone a whole bottle.
The embassy cook, Vizcano, was bowled over by Michael’s request for pop instead of wine. She had had to make a special trip to the market to meet his demands. Michael had also noted which of the cheeses Nikita had preferred, and ordered that their amount, as well as the number of crackers, be doubled. First no wine, then no brie. What was next, thought Vizcano with distaste, franks and beans? She debated about telling Michael’s father about his bizarre change in eating habits, then decided it was not worth incurring the wrath of Michael. He was, for the most part, a quiet and polite boy, but his temper was already legendary when things did not go his way.
* * *
Sated after their meal, Michael and Nikita lay back on their towels and watched the clouds overhead. Michael grew drowsy and, within minutes, was fast asleep. Nikita waited to make sure he was not moving, then carefully edged away from her towel. She stepped behind Michael and stripped off his now dry t-shirt and slipped back into her hated dress. She cautiously returned to Michael’s towel and curled up beside him, letting herself fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Michael was dreaming of his sister. An infant when their mother died, his father had allowed his sister and brother-in-law, Josephine and René Dian, to adopt Martine and raise her as their own. The childless couple was thrilled—Michael was furious. He took this as a sign of how important his children were to his father, and reacted accordingly. He distanced himself from the ambassador, and his heart had grown cold.
Somehow, in his dream, Martine grew into a seven-year old girl with silver-blonde hair and huge blue eyes, and her name was now Nikita. She had found a warm spot in his heart, and he would protect and take care of her the way he had been unable to do for Martine.
After a bit, Michael became aware of a weight pressing down on his chest. He opened his eyes to find Nikita curled against him, her head over his heart. He smiled, feeling very brotherly, and stroked her long, blonde hair. He took a closer look at the arm flung across his chest and frowned. There were bruises on her upper arms that hadn’t been there yesterday. Bruises shaped like finger marks. His expression hardened.
Nikita grew restless. She started moaning in her sleep, then whispering, “I’m sorry, Mum. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.” A tear slid down her cheek. Michael held her closely and murmured comforting words in French.
“Shh, shh, ma fille précieuse. Je suis ici. Rien ne peut tu faire du mal. Je tu protégerai.’’
(Shh, shh, my precious one. I am here. Nothing can harm you. I will protect you.)
Nikita sat up in panic, struggling to be free of Michael’s strong embrace. “No! Let me go!” she whimpered, eyes unfocused.
“Nikita!” Michael voiced loudly, trying to wake her up. “Nikita, it’s me. It’s Michael.”
Understanding slowly dawned in her eyes, and she threw her arms around him and cried into his shoulder. He patted her back and stroked her hair, waiting for the storm to pass.
* * *
Nikita refused to talk about her dream, to explain the new bruises (there were old ones as well, Michael noted), or to come home with him.
Michael stood. “Then at least let me walk you home,” he offered, hoping she would capitulate.
“Can’t. Mum would see you and think I’m giving it away for free and she couldn’t make any money that way.”
Michael was shocked. He knew that Nikita was being physically abused. He intended to speak to her mother about that. He had calculated that being a diplomat’s son would carry some weight. Now to find out the she was being sexually abused! Pimped by her own mother! It was too much to take in. He sat down heavily.
“Are you okay?” the child asked, concerned.
Am *I* okay? Michael mused, still stunned. No, I’m not okay. This is the worst thing I’ve ever heard of in my life.
“I’m fine,” he answered her dully.
“I really need to go,” Nikita said, casting anxious looks over her shoulder in the direction of her house. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” answered Michael with conviction. With the police and Child Protective Services.
Nikita smiled brilliantly then, and kissed him on the cheek. “See ya!” she called over her shoulder as she loped down the beach.
“See ya,” echoed Michael in a whisper.
************
“Military school?” Michael repeated in total disbelief.
“Naturally, you would enter school as a commissioned officer,” his father explained dismissively.
“But why now? I mean, why tomorrow?” His head was still spinning.
“As we’ve already discussed, your tutors can do no more for you here. It is time for you to go away to school with other boys. Learn social skills.” Michael made no answering comment, as one did not seem to be required. His father cut to the chase. “You’re spoiled, Michel. You lack discipline. Culver Military Academy is the best school in Europe. You should feel honored to matriculate there.”
“When do I leave?” Michael asked, resigned. He knew that once his father had made up his mind, there was no changing it.
“Your flight to Tokyo leaves at 0630.”
“So early?” Michael asked in despair. He would not be able to say good-bye to Nikita—not even get a message to her.
“You’ll get used to rising at dawn, son,” the ambassador pronounced, completely misunderstanding Michael’s dilemma. “Your bags are packed. I suggest you make an early night of it.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael capitulated, wheels turning 100kms per minute. If he could get Marcel to drive him to the beach, he might be able to find Nikita’s home and tell her where he was going.
* * *
Nikita was home alone, nursing a sore back which had recently received a beating for her failure to do her chores. It was useless to explain to her mother that she couldn’t iron clothes when the electricity had been shut off and there was no heat from the iron. She sat in the closet which doubled as her bedroom, reading her favorite book, Heidi, by candlelight. She had mostly taught herself to read, with a few nudges from a kind neighbor, who had given her the book when she moved away. Nikita was determined to go to the Alps someday, and fall in love with a goatherd named Michael—er, Peter. Now where had that thought come from? She knew she had a teensy crush on Michael, just as she knew he thought of her as a sister. Oh, well. She would see him tomorrow. She turned the page.
* * *
Michael was walking along the beach, peering at the row of houses where Nikita had said that she lived. Very few had lights on, and his courage dimmed when he considered knocking door to door. As he stood contemplating his next move, he suddenly heard a low gravelly voice behind him.
“Looking for someone special, kid?”
He turned, and encountered a man who fit perfectly Nikita’s description of “Crazy Walter,” from the ponytail and bandana to the bare feet and metal detector. Good manners won out over momentary terror, and Michael extended his hand. “Michael Samuelle. You must be Walter. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Walter disregarded the outstretched hand, and peered deeply into Michael’s dark green eyes. Michael felt as though Walter were looking down into his very soul. He shivered.
“You’re Nikita’s friend.” Walter pronounced.
“Yes, sir,” Michael sighed in relief. “I have to leave the country suddenly, and I wanted to say good-bye.”
“I’ll give her the message.”
“I’d really like to see her,” Michael stated, growing a bit impatient. Marcel would not wait forever without informing his father of his late-night assignation.
“Can’t be done.”
“Why not?” asked Michael, exasperated.
“I’ll give her the message,” Walter repeated, and started back down the beach in the direction from which he had come.
Trusting Crazy Walter to carry a message about as far as he could throw him, Michael ran after him. “Wait! Please!” The old man stopped and waited for Michael, who pulled a dark bundle from under his windcheater. It was a black T-shirt, with the words À la Vie! in white script. It was the shirt Nikita had worn earlier during her swimming lesson. “Could you please make sure that she gets this?” he implored. “It’s very important.”
Walter looked steadily at Michael again before he nodded slowly. “Yair, kid. She’ll get it.”
“Thank you,” said Michael, relieved. He offered his hand again, and this time Walter took it. When Walter walked away, Michael climbed back into the limo and headed back to the embassy and out of Nikita’s life.
************
Roberta Wirth was on the wagon for the moment, and working as a dishwasher at Pedro’s Prawns. Nikita was getting regular meals now, and going to school on a fairly regular basis. She had a school uniform—one that she could grow into—purchased from a local thrift store, and shoes that really fit. She also had a “new” set of play clothes that she was to change into immediately upon returning from school so as not to soil her uniform. They did not own a washer and dryer, and trips to the Laundromat were infrequent at best.
Nikita did not tell her mother that the other school children teased her mercilessly about her height, her thrift-store clothes, and her inability to do sums. Her teacher liked her determination and quiet manner, and gave her special treatment and tutoring, which did not endear her to the other students. They would surround her after school, taunting her and making fun of her name as she walked home. Some days, when she just couldn’t take the pressure, she went to the beach instead. She always stuffed her precious cargo under her blouse so she could look at it while dreaming on the sand.
À la Vie! “To Life!” Michael had told her. She stroked the white script on the black shirt and thought about Michael often. She had had her eighth birthday in February—she wondered if anyone had given him a party when he had turned 13 last October. She wondered if he still remembered her.
* * *
Military school hadn’t taught Michael discipline so much as it taught him how to circumvent it. Obedient by nature, he now saw rebellion as a challenge, and worked very hard to buck the system without getting caught or getting punished. His partners in crime were the Birkoff twins, Seymour and Jason. Canadians whose father was also a diplomat, they were open and fun-loving, and not beyond pulling a great prank just for the heck of it. Their favorite trick was to stand in for each other in certain classes. Seymour was the maths and physics whiz, while Jason excelled at the arts and languages. Their professors had no idea that each twin was receiving a completely lopsided education.
It was February now, and Michael had been away at school for two years. He decided it was time to really shake things up. The stink-bombs in the Underground had been inspired. Phone pages at Heathrow for Seymour Butts were sophomoric. He decided that on his fifteenth birthday, October 31st, he would stage the blow-put of all pranks. One that required special handling. Something that mandated planning and delicate timing. He would have to think this one through before consulting the Birkoffs and his other best friend, Helmut Volker.
* * *
Nikita was awakened suddenly by a horrible sound, one that she hadn’t heard in over a year. Her mother was singing. Loudly. Badly. And in tandem with a raucous male voice. Her mother was drunk. Swiftly, she climbed out of the bed she had been sharing with Roberta and took sanctuary in her closet. She gathered Michael’s shirt to her face and prayed that this man was too drunk to notice that Roberta had a daughter. Most of them were. Her mother and Nikita’s newest “Uncle” were undressing on the way to the bedroom, and bumping into furniture and laughing. They finally made it to the bedroom, where Nikita sat in terror.
After listening to the grunting, animalistic sounds she had learned to associate with grown-ups coupling, she heard first one, then two distinct snores. She cautiously opened the closet door and edged her way to the kitchen. Dressed in her play clothes, Nikita stuffed Michael’s shirt deep into a burlap bag. She followed this with a wedge of cheese, a hunk of bread, a bread knife, and a thermos of water. She also took a $5 note from the man’s wallet she found in his trousers that were crumpled in a heap on the kitchen floor. Closing the front door behind her, she quickly made her way down to the beach. She didn’t know how long she would have to stay there, and she wanted to be prepared.
* * *
Two days later she was sitting cross-legged on the beach, chatting away with Crazy Walter, and eating a handful of peanuts. She wished for a Pepsi to wash them down with, but she knew that was an era long gone past. Her mother hadn’t bothered to look for her yet, so she and Walter just sat, looking at the grey-green sea before them.
************
Michael stood calmly before his father in the study of their mansion in Sydney. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, his face a blank mask. He was ready to take whatever punishment was meted out.
“Expelled!” the ambassador exclaimed again. “My son. From one of the finest schools in England. And all for the sake of a practical joke!” He stared at Michael in disbelief, his face red with anger. “Pourquoi dans l'enfer feriez-vous que vous avez fait? What the hell were you thinking?”
“It was just a prank, Father. No harm was meant,” Michael answered calmly. He knew when his father lapsed into his native French that he was beyond furious.
Trembling with rage, Jacques watched his son. No reaction. None at all. Michel truly didn’t care that he had brought such dishonor to the Samuelle name. The ambassador made up his mind.
“I wash my hands of you,” he pronounced. “You are going back to Marseilles to live with your Aunt Josephine and Uncle René. I will make the necessary arrangements. Hopefully, when you are sixteen, I can still pull some strings and get you into a decent university.”
Michael continued to appraise him calmly. Jacques was surprised to notice how much Michel had grown—they stood nearly eye-to-eye now.
“You are to remain at the embassy until further notice. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That will be all,” his father said, dismissing him.
Michael blinked, turned abruptly on his heel executing a perfect about-face, and exited the room.
* * *
It was ten o’clock when Michael met the taxi outside the gate at the foot of the driveway. He gave the driver directions to the beach (he hoped he remembered them correctly), and sat back in the seat to wait. He was gratified to find that his memory served him true, and he jumped out of the taxi and started jogging toward Nikita’s house. Then he stopped. The house was gone. All of the houses were gone. He ran to the spot were he thought they had been. Yes, this was the right place. The eucalyptus grove was still there, as were the foundations of several of the houses. But the houses themselves, and their inhabitants, had disappeared.
Michael walked slowly back to the waiting taxi. He was too late. He had been gone too long. Oh, this was ridiculous. Nikita was just a kid when he left. She probably didn’t even remember him. A gravelly voice startled him out of his rêverie. “Looking for someone special, kid?”
“Walter!” he exclaimed, turning around. “It’s Nikita. Her house is gone.”
“They’re all gone, kid. But Nikita wasn’t living there when they got torn down.”
“She moved?” Michael asked, heart sinking. “Do you know where?”
“No idea. Child Protective Services came and took her away one day. She never came back.”
“So she’s a ward of the state?”
“Dunno. May be living in a kids’ home, maybe fostered, may be back with the bitch who birthed her. Think she moved to the States, though.”
“What was here mother’s name?”
Walter considered Michael a few minutes before answering. “Roberta Wirth.”
“And her father?” Michael persisted.
Walter shrugged.
Michael was devastated. Finding Nikita would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack. In desperation, he pulled a pencil and piece of paper out of his pocket. “If you find out where she is, please let me know at this address,” he said, writing down Josephine’s address in Marseilles. He handed the paper to Walter, who glanced at it carelessly before slipping it in his pocket.
“Sure, kid,” he responded. “No problemo.”
“Thank you, Walter,” Michael said, not feeling reassured in the least.
Michael climbed back into the taxi and headed back to the embassy with an odd feeling in his gut that he would see Nikita again.
************
Michael hated living with his aunt and uncle. They refused to let him tell Martine that he was her brother, though the physical resemblance between them was remarkable. Both had dark chestnut curls and grey-green eyes that changed color with their mood. Even at age five, Martine had noticed the similarity and commented on it, but was told that “Michel was a very close cousin.” They also refused, despite his constant requests, to call him Michael. “Michel is a good French name,” they told him. He should be proud of his heritage.
As soon as he was able, Michael entered the Sorbonne, where he studied Art and Art History. He actually had a very acute business sense, and ultimately planned to open art galleries all over the world. His father, who had planned on Michael becoming an engineer or a chemist, did not blink when he was informed of his son’s chosen path. He knew Michel was doing this to spite him. Michael graduated with an advanced degree and, although the younger man visited his father at his new residence in Turkey, the Samuelles never really reconciled.
* * *
Of all the places she had lived, Nikita preferred Sunny Day Nursery the best. At fifteen, she was the oldest child there, but she loved taking care of the little ones, and the sisters were grateful for the extra help. Although she declined to speak of them, the sisters knew that Nikita often had nightmares, for she would cry out in her sleep. Sometimes she would ask for Michael, who they assumed was a sibling from whom she had been separated. She didn’t let her conscious self think of her nine years at Roberta’s house, or her three years off-and-on in the foster care system. Some of the foster homes were okay—not really loving, but a safe place to sleep where she was well fed. Some were worse than living with Roberta, and it was these she got in trouble for running away from. She had lived at other children’s homes, but Sunny Day was the first place where Nikita actually felt “at home.”
It came with great surprise, then, and much dismay, when the sisters told her it was time for her to leave them. She was to be given the job as au pair to a diplomat and his wife, who had recently come to inhabit the embassy of the French ambassador to Australia. They had twins who were three years old who spoke no English, and Nikita was to be their nanny and teacher. Nikita didn’t want to leave what had become her first real home, but Sister Adrian pointed out what a wonderful opportunity this was for her. She would be exposed to a new language, to new cultures, and would be living in the lap of luxury. Nikita thought of Michael then, and realized it must have been his father who was the former ambassador, and that Michael had lived in that very house. She acquiesced.
* * *
At twenty-two, Michael opened his first gallery. It was located in Marseilles, as he wanted the Samuelle name to mean something in the place of his birth. Many of the works on display were his own, as he did not yet have the capital to invest in other artisans or pieces of art. Fortunately, Michael was very talented both as a painter and a sculptor, and his opening drew rave reviews. He was greatly relieved, as were his two other investors, Seymour and Jason Birkoff.
After being expelled from Culver, the Birkoff brothers eschewed higher education in favor of traveling around the world on their trust funds. Fortunately, these were considerable, and the Birkoffs had ample cash available to invest in Samuelle’s, more than Michael did, actually. They had great faith in Michael as both an artist and a businessman, and they knew their money was wisely invested.
* * *
Nikita could never have predicted how much fun she would have had as an au pair. The twins, Georges and Lisette, were adorable, and Madame Fanning was like a mother to her. Immediately after Nikita arrived, Madame Fanning (“you must call me Lisa”) took her shopping for a whole new wardrobe. Nikita thought that she would be wearing a uniform, but Lisa pooh-poohed that idea and bought her every outfit a fifteen-year old girl could possible want. She got jeans (that were long enough), blouses (with sleeves the right length), skirts (both modest and “fun”), and sweaters (that were actually warm). She bought serviceable flannel pyjamas, as well as nightgowns that felt like silk. And underwear that had never been worn by anyone else!
The children learned English rapidly, although with more than a touch of Nikita’s Aussie twang. She learned some remedial French as well: Bon jour. Comment allez-vous? Je suis parfait. Ma nom est Nikita. Quel est votre nom? She taught the twins their colors—red, yellow, blue, green, orange, purple, black and white. They taught them back to her in French--rouge, jaune, bleu, vert, orange, pourpre, noir and blanc. The children howled with laughter at her accent.
Two years flew by, and at seventeen, Nikita was asked to make a life-altering decision. The ambassador was being transferred back to Marseilles. Nikita could come with them and continue as their nanny, with pay, or stay in Sydney and look for another job. Lisa Fanning assured her that she would give Nikita the best of references if she decided to stay. Nikita asked her if she could give them an answer in the morning.
She didn’t know anyone in France. On the other hand, she really had no friends in Sydney. In France she had a guaranteed job. In Sydney she was on her own. Again. Her French sucked. But the Fannings spoke English. Nikita forced herself to face the biggest stumbling-block to her decision—what if he comes back and he can’t find me because I’m not here? She made herself say it out loud. “What if Michael comes to Sydney, and he can’t find me because I’m in France?” She smiled at the absurdity of the situation. She hadn’t seen Michael in ten years. They had only been together for two days. Why would he ever come back? For her??
Nikita made her decision.
************
Michael made his first million dollars before he was twenty-five. He had opened galleries in Marseilles, Paris, London, New York, Los Angeles, and Tokyo. It was from this last gallery that he had just returned to the Marseilles gallery, and was feeling extremely jet-lagged, as well as gratified. He would be thirty next month, and he would be a millionaire several times over. The money was a bonus, no doubt, and he wouldn’t give it back, but Michael enjoyed working for the sheer pleasure of what he did. He had excellent taste, and an eye for the most exquisite treasures in the world. He still painted when he could, and his collection of beach scenes was famous all over the world. Many of these paintings featured a small girl with long, white-blonde hair wearing a long black T-shirt. Michael would never acknowledge who she was—his daughter? Childhood sweetheart? Muse? Whoever she was, Michael wasn’t telling, and the mystery only added to the allure of his paintings.
* * *
Down the street, Gray Wellman was having difficulty with one of his new models. Surely she knew that the beaches in France were topless? So why, then, was she so determined not to remove the top of her bikini?
“I told you,” Nikita said, facing Gray firmly, “I don’t do nude shots. It’s in my contract.”
“But this isn’t nude,” the photographer protested. “You are still wearing your panties.”
“It’s the same thing,” Nikita maintained stubbornly.
Gray ran his fingers through his ash blond hair. He looked at Nikita appraisingly. She was old, as far as models went. At least 24, which is why she was probably doing print work instead of hitting the runway scene. Still, her legs were incredible, and those eyes. So blue you could fall right into them.
“Let’s take a break,” he said wearily. “I need to reload, anyway.”
Nikita stepped out from under the bright lights and donned a light robe. She wasn’t so sure this was a good idea after all. Her manager told her that Gray was one of the best, but he didn’t tell her about the skimpy clothes she would be wearing. Ever since her “discovery” three years ago at an embassy party, she had done mostly print work, but generally hair, make-up and skincare ads for women’s magazines. Nikita was not comfortable with displaying her body, and her manager, Mick Schtoppel, had never insisted.
Gray was wracking his brain for a way to get Nikita to loosen up. She probably didn’t do coke, and she had adamantly refused the glass of wine he had offered earlier. Maybe he could slip something in her soft-drink.
* * *
“So, Michael, what’s next on the agenda?” his office manager inquired. Michael hated Perry Bauer with a passion but he had to admit, the man was good at what he did. Michael chose to ignore the rumors about Perry’s private life, as long as no hint as scandal touched Samuelle’s.
“You know I’ll be going to San Francisco at the end of the next month, but first I need to visit my father in Turkey.” The ambassador’s health had been in rapid decline in the last six months, and Michael felt obligated to pay him what could be a final visit.
“Right,” said Bauer. “I’ll book your flight for the end of the week.”
“Thank you,” said Michael quietly, stifling a yawn. He needed to retire to his loft and catch up on some sleep. Business could wait until morning. He turned to go.
“Oh, just one other thing.” Damnez-le! thought Michael. Almost made it.
“The private investigator you hired called. It seems that he has found a Roberta Wirth in San Francisco. She emigrated from Australia about 10-15 years ago.”
Michael’s heart beat faster. It’s just a name, he told himself. She could be anyone.
“Thank you,” he answered calmly. “I assume his number is on my desk?”
When Bauer answered in the affirmative, Michael told him that he would handle it in the morning, and left the gallery.
* * *
Nikita was still wearing the bikini, but now she was modeling hats. Big, floppy, silly hats. This was fun, she realized, mugging for the camera. She turned this way and that, bending the brims forward and back. She couldn’t stop giggling. Gray didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to be amused by the whole thing, and very, very pleased. Until Nikita threw up. It happened so fast neither one of them had time to react. She just fell to her knees and started vomiting. The room started spinning. She had never felt so sick. She couldn’t even raise her eyes to look at Gray. Which was just as well, because he was furious. He had wasted two whole rolls of film on those freaking hats until the drugs made her relaxed enough to take off her bra, and then she had to start puking everywhere.
“I think we’re finished here,” he said coldly. “Get dressed and go home.” He packed up his bags and left the studio. Nikita lay on the floor for a full thirty minutes before she could sit up and then crawl over to the dressing room. When she came out, she looked at Gray’s studio. What a mess. She wrinkled her nose. Oh, well—it wasn’t like she was ever going to work with him again!
************
When Michael’s hired car pulled into the embassy driveway, the first thing he noticed was that his father had company. He was a little perturbed. He had been very specific about his travel plans. The butler let him in the door, and showed him into the drawing room. When his father spotted him, he turned to his guests and announced, “And this is my son, Michel, whom I have been telling you about.” He spoke in French, so Michael did the same. He stepped forward to greet him.
“Bonjour, Père. Vous avez bonne mine aujourd'hui.”
“Ah, but looks can be deceiving, can they not?” The ambassador gestured to his guests. “Michel, I would like for you to meet my neighbors, Estrella and Elena Vacek.”
Michael saw before him one of the loveliest creatures he had ever seen. She was petite, with warm doe-eyes and long, black hair. When she spoke, Michael swore he heard music.
“Good day, Michel,” said the enchantress. “Your father has been telling us all about you. He is very proud of his son, the famous art dealer.” She spoke in English, her accent British, her diction flawless.
“You can call me Michael,” were the only words that came to mind.
“Michael, then,” said her mother. “I hope we can persuade you to join us for dinner one evening during your visit.”
Michael turned to look at Elena’s mother, and saw in her regal beauty what Elena would look like in twenty years. “I would be delighted,” he responded, flashing perfect white teeth in a genuine smile.
* * *
Roberta Wirth was getting paranoid. She was sure she was being followed, although she had no idea why. The other day, she could have sworn someone even took her picture. This was really creeping her out. She decided against going to the police, though, having spent too many nights on the wrong side of the bars when she was still a “working-girl.” But she had been sober for five years now, with a respectable job as a maid at the Howard Johnson. She hoped whoever was following her around was getting well paid for it. Her life, as she saw it, was dull, dull, dull.
* * *
Michael rarely left Elena’s side. She had a PhD in Art History, so they had plenty to talk about. She, like Michael, had lived all over the world, and they compared notes and laughed. On the fourth and final day of his visit, he wasn’t entirely surprised when his father called him into his study and asked him what his intentions were toward Elena Vacek. “She’s very young,” his father warned, “only twenty-two, and has led a very sheltered life. It’s true that her mother and I would be pleased if there a union between you, but first you must ask her father’s permission.”
“That’s a bit premature, don’t you think, Father?” said Michael, smiling. “Elena and I are friends. It is true I would like to get to know her better, but I am not in any way prepared for marriage!”
His father reflected for a moment, then said quietly, “Michel, I’m dying. I will probably not live another six months. It is my fervent hope to see you settled down with a wife and family—someone to carry on the family name. Think of it as a dying man’s request.”
Michael looked at the old man before him. He knew he had “dishonored” the family name, at least in his father’s eyes, many times. It wouldn’t hurt anything to talk to Salla Vacek, would it? Mentally crossing his fingers, Michael promised his father what he wanted to hear.
************
Nikita’s agency thought it was important that she be seen at major events, and in the company of famous personages. That was the only reason she was going out with the famous British actor, Alec Chandler, she reminded herself. Over and over. They were to be seen together at the opening of the latest Samuelle’s in San Francisco. Nikita’s flight had been two days early, but she took most of that time to rest, vowing to explore the sights of the city another time.
Right now, she was getting ready for her “date,” with the help of the agency’s wardrobe, hair, and make-up departments. She approved of the dress—a long sleeveless navy sheath with a high neck and low back. She wore matching jeweled ballet slippers—Alec Chandler was tall, but they wanted him to tower over her 5’10” frame. Her hair was pulled up and back, and cascaded down her neck in riotous curls. Simple silver jewelry completed the outfit. Nothing she wore was to take the attention away from the real celebrity, Alec Chandler.
The limousine picked her up at the designated time, and she rode to the exclusive hotel wear she was to meet Alec Chandler for the first time. Stop calling him “Alec Chandler!” she scolded herself as she walked through the lounge. His name is Alec, and he’s a human being just like everyone else.
Right. The god stood before her, resplendent in black Armani, a cocktail in his hand and fawning females gathered around him. His press agent finally recognized and brought her over to meet him. “Nikita, this is Alec Chandler. Alec—Nikita.” They shook hands and Nikita murmured something she hoped passed for “How do you do?” Alec raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Delighted, I’m sure,” he answered, shooting her his world famous smile.
“May I get you something from the bar?” he offered. Nikita refused politely. Introductions and cocktail hour behind them, they exited the hotel and entered the waiting limo. Hoards of cameramen were standing outside, jockeying for position to get the best shot of the couple together.
Nikita was so nervous. What should she say? How should she act? Chandler answered her questions immediately. “Well, that’s over,” he pronounced. He sat back in his seat, lit a cigarette, and poured himself a drink from the mini-bar. He opened a newspaper, completely ignoring her. What an ass! thought Nikita. She hoped he would at least have the courtesy to pretend to like her at the opening.
* * *
Perry Bauer was wringing his hands nervously. He had never presided at a Grand Opening before, but Jacques Samuelle’s sudden death made Michael unavailable. As the date had already been chosen, and everything else was in place, Michael had told his people to go on without him.
Samuelle’s would again be showing Michael’s collection of beach scenes. Perry knew how popular these were, and had arranged for major press coverage. He gently steered every celebrity he recognized in that general direction. He saw Alec Chandler enter with a beautiful blonde on his arm, and paved the way toward the beach scenes, two glasses of vintage champagne in his hands. Nikita refused the proffered glass politely, but Alec accepted and drained his glass in one gulp. With all the liquor he had put away in the limousine, Nikita was surprised he was still standing.
She wandered over to the beach scenes and glanced at the ones with the little girl. Lead. Her feet were made of lead. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Mistaking her shock for rapture, Perry sidled up next to her. “Breathtaking, aren’t they? And all the more mysterious because of the little girl.”
Nikita finally regained her power of speech, though she still could not move. “Who is the artist?” she whispered.
“Why, Monsieur Samuelle himself,” Bauer stated proudly.
Nikita grabbed his arm and held it in a viselike grip. “His first name. What is his first name?”
“M-Michael,” he answered warily. This woman was obviously unwell.
“Where is he? Where does he live?” Nikita gasped. Her head was reeling.
“He’s away on personal business at the moment, but his home office is in Marseilles.”
Nikita fainted.
************
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.
“He was a good man.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“We’re so sorry.”
“Thank you for coming.”
The litany droned on and on. Michael had no idea his father had this many friends. Of course, as a diplomat, he would have many mourners, but most of those present seemed to genuinely miss the ambassador. Estrella Vacek’s grief was evident, as was that of her daughter. Michael looked at Elena closely. She was definitely not wearing well under the strain of the funeral. In fact, she looked rather ill.
He began to walk toward her when he was intercepted by her father, Salla. The man was grim-faced, and pulled Michael roughly aside. “Your father was a good man, no?” he queried. Michael agreed that he was. “The kind of man who keeps his promises, yes?” Again, Michael answered in the affirmative. Then Vacek smiled cunningly. “It is like father, like son, is it not?
“I believe I am a man of my word—yes,” answered Michael.
“Then you will marry my daughter, and give your child a name.”
Michael was stunned speechless. He did some quick calculations. If Salla knew Elena was pregnant, then she must have been so when Michael met her two months ago. Obviously, she had told Salla that he was the father. No wonder Salla had agreed so readily to their “pre-engagement” arrangement.
“I’d like to speak to Elena for a moment, if you don’t mind,” he said, shrugging off business and personal acquaintances of his father to go in search of the girl. He found her in the back garden, near the Olympic-sized swimming pool. He walked up behind her and came directly to the point.
“You told your father that I was the father of your unborn child.” Elena didn’t speak or turn around, but he could tell by her shaking shoulders that she was weeping. “I had to,” she whispered. “I’ll never see Jamie again, and my father wants his grandson to be legitimate.
“Do you know that he expects me to marry you?” Michael asked impatiently.
Elena turned around then. “Would that be so horrible, Michael?” she countered. “I thought you liked me.”
“I do like you. But I never planned on getting married to you!” He cried in exasperation.
“Then why did you talk to my father? Why did you agree to become pre-engaged?” she said, sorrow evident in her voice. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want her at all.
“Because I promised my father I would,” Michael answered flatly. Elena sat down on a stone bench, her face in her hands, the tears flowing freely. Michael looked up at the sky. The sky was clear and bright today, the color of Nikita’s eyes. He pondered. Would marriage to Elena be so horrible? They did have a lot in common, they got along well, and she would be an asset to his galleries. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Nikita was gone. There was no point in waiting for her. She was gone, and he would never see her again.
“Are you a Catholic?” asked Michael.
Elena turned to him, confused, but nodded in the affirmative.
“We’ll have the wedding in Marseilles. Very small—immediate family only. I’ll get a special license so we can be married by the end of the week.” Elena’s jaw dropped. Michael continued. “My business is in Marseilles, so that’s where we will reside. We can live in my loft or, if that doesn’t suit you, we can buy a house.”
“W-Why are you doing this?” Elena choked out.
A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “We want my son to be legitimate, don’t we?”
* * *
Mick Schtoppel was not pleased when Nikita told him she would be moving to the States permanently. He told her that all of the really famous models lived in France. She countered by reminding him that her present employer, l'Éclat, had a studio in San Francisco, and had no problem with Nikita living in the city. It didn’t take long for Nikita to pack her personal belongings, sell her flat, and move the States. She had held onto very few keepsakes over the years—her childhood experiences had taught her to travel light. She held Michael’s shirt in her hand for the longest time. She had owned it for over 17 years, and it was only thing that she had never traveled without. She dropped it on the pile of clothes to be donated to chariity, but within seconds had picked it back up and crammed it in her carry-on. Now she was ready to leave.
On her 25th birthday in February, l'Éclat kicked off their new eyewear campaign. Nikita’s baby blues were featured everywhere—from billboards to magazines to bus stops. A total face shot appeared in several women’s magazines, with her name, NIKITA, splashed in bold letters across the bottom.
* * *
It was one of these magazines that her mother saw when emptying the trash cans at the Howard Johnson. It was the name that caught her attention—at first she didn’t recognize the face that she hadn’t seen in over 15 years. Then she took a closer look at the eyes, and her heart stopped. She would never forget those eyes. Well, how about that. Her kid was a model. A famous model. Probably making big bucks. It might be worth it to make a few phone calls to this l'Éclat place. Her neighbor, Simone, had done some modeling. Maybe she would know how Roberta could reach Nikita. It was definitely time for a mother-daughter reunion.
************
Michael was irritated. It wasn’t Perry Bauer’s fault—the airline had just screwed up. That’s why he was flying coach from Vancouver to Los Angeles instead of First Class. He scowled at the lack of leg room, and at the miserly salted peanuts that the airline considered to be worthy of the title “snack.” He couldn’t even find any decent reading material, like Forbes or the Wall Street Journal. Only USA Today and some women’s magazines. He tilted his chair back and was not surprised to find that he had reclined about one inch. He was definitely writing to the president of the airline.
He sighed and looked out the window. The opening in Vancouver had been a great success. That was a plus. Kate Quinn, the manager of the Los Angeles gallery, reported that the expansion was going well, and she only needed his approval on a few documents. That shouldn’t require more than a couple of hours. He could probably work in a round of golf.
He thought of Elena for the first time since he had left Marseilles. Marriage to her had not been “horrible,” but he didn’t know if he would classify it as a success, either. He was a kind and considerate lover, and that seemed to satisfy her. Never a “player,” Michael had definitely not saved himself for marriage, and he knew how to please a woman. He had only had two rules—never sleep with a married woman, and never get emotionally involved. Unfortunately, rule number two seemed to apply to his wife. He was fond of her, but he didn’t love her. Now seven months pregnant, she was moody and irritable, and Michael was away from the new house as much as possible. Giving her free-reign to decorate had been a stroke of genius. It gave her something to do, and it kept her mind off of Michael. It wasn’t fair. He must try to be a better husband to Elena. He had offered himself up for the role—he had not been forced into it.
One of the stories on the front of a magazine caught his eye: “What To Expect When You’re Expecting.” Thinking he might try to relate better to Elena, to see things from her perspective, he flipped the magazine open. And froze. The page he opened to was an ad for l'Éclat eyewear. The model was a beautiful blonde, with unforgettable eyes. Named Nikita.
Michael loosened his tie. He couldn’t breathe. He stared at the page in wonder, running his thumb over the model’s brow. God, she was beautiful. And alive. And healthy. And well. He flipped to the photo credits page and entered the details into his PDA. He gently tore the page with Nikita’s picture out of the magazine and, handling it lovingly, placed it in his briefcase. He searched the other magazines in the pocket in front of him, and was rewarded with two more ads, all different. These he placed with the first, after verifying the photographer’s credits. He never did read the article for Elena.
* * *
Nikita was having fun. She and another agency model, Carla, were drinking espresso on Fisherman’s Wharf. Carla was a lovely Hispanic model, with thick, curly hair, whose lips were the envy of housewives everywhere. The two of them together were a striking pair, and they giggled when passersby would stop and stare or take their picture. Carla had attended a function in New York with Alec Chandler the weekend before, and the two of them were comparing notes.
“He was all over me the minute the limo door shut,” Carla related, shivering in disgust. Nikita was impressed.
“He wouldn’t say two words to me,” she confided. “He just emptied the mini-bar and then had to hold on to me to make it in to the gallery. He was acting like such a pig.”
“He is a pig,” confirmed Carla. “A pig in a pretty package.” The two of them gathered their thoughts. “But what a pretty package!” they bemoaned simultaneously, and began laughing hysterically.
* * *
L'Éclat refused to give Michael any information about the photographer who had shot Nikita’s photos, let alone any information on Nikita herself. Michael understood their motives, and was somewhat glad at the way they fiercely protected their models, but he was frustrated. Nikita was out there somewhere, and he had to find her. He left his business card with his address in Marseilles, and was assured that it would be forwarded to Nikita’s agent.
Six weeks later he received an 8”X10” glossy photo, with a computer-generated signature reading ”À la Vie! Nikita.”
************
The private detective Michael had hired, Marco O’Brien, had turned up scant information on Roberta Wirth before she came to the United States. She had immigrated roughly 15 years ago to Los Angeles before settling in San Francisco ten years ago. She had been in and out of jail on several misdemeanor charges, then sobered up five years ago and had been working in housekeeping at Howard Johnson’s ever since. The file O’Brien sent contained several photos of a dark-haired woman, none of which bore any resemblance to Nikita. Michael would have to meet with this Roberta in person.
* * *
“You’re going to California now?” said Elena in stunned disbelief. “You were just there six weeks ago, and the baby could come at any time.”
“It can’t be helped,” Michael said evasively, avoiding her eyes. She sensed there was something different about him since he had returned from Los Angeles, and it frightened her. Hell. It frightened him. “There’s a situation in San Francisco that requires my immediate attention. You know I wouldn’t leave you now if it weren’t so important.”
Elena pressed her lips together and said nothing as Michael continued to pack. She knew arguing with him wouldn’t do either of them any good, and it seemed to be upsetting the baby.
* * *
Roberta’s neighbor, Simone, was a petite Asian beauty and a former model for l'Éclat. Unfortunately, her fondness for cocaine had interfered with both her flawless skin and her work ethic, and she had been discharged two years prior. However, she still had friends in the office, and she was schmoozing one of them now.
“God, Gail, how long has it been?” she gushed. “I’ve really missed you guys.”
“I missed you too, Simone,” the receptionist answered sincerely. She and Simone had gone out to lunch together a few times, and Gail was shocked when she found out why Simone had been let go.
“Hey, I’m trying to find a buddy—someone who transferred to this office not too long ago. The new eye girl, Nikita?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Gail, smiling broadly. “I love her. She is just the nicest woman. And so beautiful. But she never talks down to me, you know, the way *some* of them do,” indicating the wall of the office which was plastered with magazine covers of agency models.
“Yeah, she’s great,” enthused Simone. “We were supposed to get together for dinner, but I lost her phone number. Do you think you could get it for me?”
“You know I can’t do that, but I can give her a message,” Gail said helpfully, picking up her pad and pencil.
“No, I don’t want to leave a message. I don’t want her to know I lost her number,” Simone rolled her eyes and grinned. “She already thinks I’m a big enough doofus as it is.”
“Well, you know I can’t give out any personal information about the models—“
“To the general public, I know, but this is me, Gail. You know me.”
Gail wavered for a moment, then said, “I guess it would be all right if you have her phone number, seeing as you’re friends and all.”
“Thanks, babe,” said Simone, winking, as Gail pulled up Nikita’s file.
* * *
Michael was on his way to the airport when his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, so he let his voice mail pick it up. His number rang twice more in rapid succession. Finally, he answered the fourth call. It’s was the hospital. Elena was in labor. Merde he swore under his breath.
He leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Luc, prenez-moi au Sainte l'hôpital de Mary. Vite.” The driver obediently turned the car around and quickly headed toward the hospital. Michael barely arrived in time to see Elena push. Everything happened so fast. One minute he was putting on his mask and gown, the next, they were thrusting a small, wailing infant into his arms. He was fascinated. They had already decided to name him Adam Salla Jacques. Michael didn’t know anything about Jamie, but he thought that the baby looked exactly like Elena. He placed the infant in the crook of her arm and took a seat at the head of the bed. “He’s beautiful, Elena,” he told her sincerely. “Just like his mother.” Elena smiled weakly at this, and dropped off into an exhausted sleep.
************
Nikita tossed the mail on her kitchen counter as she pushed the door shut with the heel of her shoe. She kicked off said shoe, then its mate, and wandered into the kitchen, luxuriating in the feel of the cool tile against her warm toes. She pulled a Pepsi out of the fridge, and stepped down into the living room and draped her long body gracefully across the couch. She picked up the unopened pop can and held it to her head, sighing. Today had been filled with meetings and contract negotiations, and Nikita was fighting a raging headache. She wasn’t happy when her phone rang. She considered letting the machine pick it up before remembering she had promised Carla a dinner date. Rolling over on her belly, she picked up the phone from the end table and placed it to her ear.
“Hullo?” she said expectantly. Nothing. Not even the sound of heavy breathing. Shrugging her shoulders, Nikita snapped the cell shut, sat up and popped open her Pepsi, taking several large gulps. The phone rang again. “Hullo?” Silence again. “Is anyone there?” This time she heard a nervous cough, and waited patiently for the other party to speak.
“Nik?” The female voice was deep—not low and husky, like Nikita’s, but hard and rough from too many cigarettes and too much whiskey.
“Who’s calling?” she asked, gooseflesh appearing on her arms. She knew that voice from somewhere. It couldn’t be—
“Nik? It’s uh, it’s Roberta.”
How on earth had her mother gotten this number, and why would she be calling after fifteen years? Still, she had to be sure.
“Mum?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes, Nik,” the voice on the other end of the line sighed in relief. “It’s your mother.” A few, stunned moments of silence passed while neither woman spoke. Then Roberta began in a rush of words. “I know it seems weird hearing from me after all this time, but I want you to know, baby, I never stopped looking for you. Ever since they took you away from me. I’ve been trying to find you and bring you back home,” she improvised.
“M-Mama?” Nikita choked out, her eyes filling with tears. Her mother loved her. She never gave her away, no matter what all those agency people had told her.
“Yes, baby girl. It’s Mama, and we’ll be together again real soon. I’m living right here in the city. Can you imagine? I couldn’t believe it when I saw you in that magazine. Baby, you looked like a fairy princess. I was so proud of you. I just had to find you and tell you that.”
“Where are you?” asked Nikita tearfully. “When can I see you?”
“Oh, you can’t come to my neighborhood,” Roberta said, setting the wheels in motion. “It wouldn’t be safe. I’m scared to death myself half the time, and I’ve lived here for years,” she added, forcing a laugh. “Where do you live, and I’ll come you your place?”
Nikita dutifully recited her address and, after exchanging more endearments with her mother, hung up her phone.
Michael may still see her as a little child, but her mother accepted her for who she really was, and she loved her. She had said so.
* * *
“Are you sure they’ve made contact?” Michael persisted. Detective Marco O’Brien again answered in the affirmative. He consulted his notes.
“On 10 May Roberta Wirth took a taxi to 412 Plaza Drive. The taxi was met by and paid for by the l'Éclat model known as Nikita. They went to dinner at One Water Street, and returned to Plaza Drive at 8:45 pm. Mrs. Wirth was put into a taxi and returned home. They have met at Nikita’s residence three times since then, on 13 May, 17 May, and 22 May. Each time Ms. Wirth left Nikita’s apartment she was carrying bags of what appeared to be clothing and other gift items.”
“She’s scamming her,” Michael surmised shrewdly.
“It appears so,” confirmed the detective. “Nikita opened a joint checking account at Wells Fargo Bank in the names of Roberta and Nikita Wirth on 4 June, with a beginning balance of $5000. The account now has an overdraft of $128.52.” He flipped his notepad over. “Nikita has also purchased a used car for her mother, as well as a television, a VCR, and a microwave.”
“Nikita needs to be loved by her mother. She may feel like she has to buy this love, but she is not stupid. She is being conned big time, and part of her probably knows it.” Michael narrowed his eyes. “From what you’ve told me, Roberta is not that clever. She has to have someone helping her. See what you can dig up,” he instructed the detective.
He handed O’Brien their prearranged fee, then left the restaurant where their meeting had taken place. He was about eight blocks from Plaza Drive now. The temptation to see her was overwhelming, but he fought it. Nikita had forgotten him and moved on with her life. He would try to protect her interests, but he could not interfere in her personal life, especially as he had a wife and son of his own back in Marseilles. He summoned his driver and reluctantly headed toward the airport and back to his own life in France.
************
Madeline Frayne, Nikita’s new manager at l'Éclat, was adamant. Nikita would have to go to Marseilles for the kick-off of the fall eyewear campaign. The dark-eyed, auburn beauty was a firm taskmaster, and wasn’t buying any excuses. Nikita didn’t know which she feared more, losing her mother or running into Michael. She smiled sardonically. Roberta was here to stay, as long as the purse strings were open. Nikita had figured that one out almost at once. She picked up almost immediately that her “long-lost” mother saw her as a meal-ticket; nothing more. She was hurt, but she bounced back. She always did.
Michael was another story. She had checked out the owner of Samuelle’s and found that he was an extremely successful businessman—and married with a young son. She knew that the little girl in the Beach Scene pictures was herself—but she wondered if Michael even remembered her name. Apparently, he had gotten over her far more easily than she had gotten over him. What a joke. He had been twelve. She was just seven. What was there to get over?
She would go to Marseilles this September. She might even go to Samuelle’s. Just for a laugh. It might be fun to see if Michael had any idea who she was, or if he remembered that summer in Australia all those years ago.
* * *
He never thought it would happen to him, but Michael Samuelle had fallen in love. He was head-over-heels ga-ga about his son, Adam. At four months old, Adam Samuelle was the most handsome, brightest, engaging infant to be found on the planet. Michael found he could just stare at him for hours. Elena had suffered a mild bout of post-partum depression, and most of Adam’s care had fallen to Michael. He loved it. He took him everywhere—to the office, the market, the park—anywhere he could show him off. He bought him one of every toy made for children under the age of two. His studio was filled with photos and sketches of Adam in different positions and moods. Nothing was too insignificant to capture on canvas.
Elena was jealous. It was to Michael that Adam responded. It was to his voice that Adam turned—his face that he smiled. She knew part of her mood stemmed from her depression, but she was tempted on more than one occasion to remind Michael that he was not Adam’s “real” father. Then she would see the two of them together and she couldn’t do it. Elena wasn’t a petty woman, just a tired one. As soon as she felt better, she would take a more central role in Adam’s life. As soon as she felt better.
* * *
The l'Éclat party was to be held at the American embassy, and hosted by the American ambassador, Paul Wolfe. Nikita requested that Ambassador Fanning and his wife be invited, as they were the closest thing to real family that she had. She did not mention the party to her mother. Salla Vacek, with his wife Estrella, would be in attendance, as the East Indian ambassador to France. The Vaceks had requested, and been granted, the transfer a month ago, and Elena was thrilled to be reunited with her parents. Michael had been told only that it was an embassy party—Elena was sure that he would never have agreed to come if he had known it was for the launching of the new season of a line of cosmetics.
Paul Wolfe was a charming host, and Nikita was delighted to meet him. She noticed that the distinguished looking man with grey hair and ice-blue eyes was more that delighted to meet Madeline, and wondered if Madeline felt the same way about him. Nikita sought out and quickly found the Fannings, and they celebrated their own mini-reunion in the middle of the banquet hall. Nikita oohed and aahed over pictures of the twins, now thirteen and away at boarding school. She had been very fond of the children, and often wondered if she would ever have any of her own some day. In her mind, they had always had dark chestnut curls and grey-green eyes. She knew she would have to give up that fantasy once and for all.
************
The kickoff party was starting off to be a rousing success. All of the “right” people had arrived. Photo-journalists were everywhere, representing every kind of publication. Nikita, Carla, and several other l'Éclat models were being treated like princesses, and were secretly getting a kick out of the whole thing. Nikita had always loved to play dress up, and tonight was no exception, even though it was only her eyes that were “on display.”
Michael, as Elena had feared, was irritated. He had expected to be able to speak with some of his father’s former colleagues. He had not anticipated being trapped at a “make-up ball.” He didn’t even know which line it was. Nor did he care. Until he heard the word l'Éclat. Suddenly, alarm bells went off in his head. Was she here? Did she know he was here? Had she seen him? Did she remember him? His eyes scanned the crowed as he accepted another glass of champagne from Elena, who tucked her arm through his and looked up at him, smiling. He smiled back, but there was no warmth in his eyes. He had gone into machine-mode, almost without realizing it. If Nikita was here, he would find her.
* * *
Nikita was starting to feel overly warm in the crowded hall. Letting Madeline know where she was going, she stepped outside onto the patio, breathing deeply in the still warm autumn air. There were few stragglers about, and those her were didn’t seem too interested in talking. Nikita smiled. What would the tabloids give to know that the famous model Nikita, one of the People Magazine’s “25 Most Beautiful Women,” had never had a boyfriend? Never even been kissed? True, she wasn’t a virgin, she thought, her expression hardening, but that had hardly been her choice. Fortunately, she could no longer recall that exact horrific moment in her childhood. She sighed wistfully. What man would ever want her if he knew the truth? That she was damaged goods. Probably frigid, too. The one time a boy at Sunny Day Nursery had tried to touch her breast, she had nearly gone postal, screaming bloody murder and acting like a complete idiot. Probably rendering the kid impotent for the next 10 years, she grinned in spite of herself.
* * *
Michael didn’t feel her. He couldn’t sense her presence. He couldn’t have said how, but he would have known if she were in the room. Easing himself from Elena’s side, he started up the stairway, determined to check the second floor. He couldn’t be this close and not see her for himself. Even if he didn’t talk to her. Even if they didn’t exchange a word. It was a compulsion he couldn’t fight, even if he knew how. He reached the top of the stairs and started checking unlocked doors, one by one. Most of the rooms were offices, and therefore locked, but he had to try them all. He stepped inside a small parlor where a group had gathered. No Nikita. He asked a young woman going into the ladies’ room if she could check to see if Nikita was there. Of course, no description was needed. Several minutes later the woman emerged from the powder room and reported in the negative. Feeling frustrated, Michael opened the French doors that let out to a small balcony over the patio. He stepped outside and took a deep breath of the autumn air. The current was electric. He could feel it. Quickly, he scanned the occupants of the patio below.
He almost missed her. She was standing almost directly beneath him. It wasn’t until she moved out into the open and he saw the moon reflect in her silver-blonde hair that he knew he had found her. Nikita. His Nikita. Michael almost called out to her, then caught himself. Even if he had made such an undignified gesture, what would he have said? Hey, Nikita! Remember me? The boy from the beach 18 years ago? He reminded himself that she probably didn’t even remember him. She would probably think he was an ardent admirer run amok, and have security take him away.
Enough with the “probablies.” It was time to make his move. Michael turned back inside and hastened back down the stairs. He crossed the floor in long-legged strides to the patio doors and stepped outside. She was gone! No, wait. There she was, over against the far wall. Her back was to him. He approached her cautiously, silently, as though she were an injured animal. Mon Dieu, she is tall, he thought as he neared her silent figure. Almost as tall as I am.
Suddenly, his elbow was snatched from behind, and he whirled around fiercely to find himself staring into Elena’s startled eyes. “Michael, it’s Adam,” she began. “His nanny called, and he’s running a fever. I really think we need to leave.”
Michael’s mind was in a quandary. Adam was probably teething, but it might be something serious. The woman of his dreams was standing scant feet away, but his son was ill. His heart was torn. Reluctantly he turned around for one more look, and then left with Elena.
* * *
Nikita was startled from her rêverie by the word “Michael,” but she knew better than to turn around. He wasn’t here. Why would he be? Why would a multi-millionaire art dealer come to a cosmetics launch party? She had to stop reacting every time she heard that name. People would start coming after her with butterfly nets.
After a few more moments of solitude, Nikita came back inside and reported to Madeline, who was stuck to Paul Wolfe like white on rice. She told her that she had a slight headache, and that she would be returning to the hotel to lie down with a cold face-cloth. Madeline wasn’t pleased, but the launch party was a two-day event, and she couldn’t afford to have her most famous eyewear model all puffy. She bid Nikita good-night, and Nikita fled to the sanctuary of her hotel.
************
Adam turned out to have a mild ear infection, and responded immediately to the antibiotics the doctor prescribed. Elena was worried about Michael. He had been so preoccupied since his return from Los Angeles, and he had barely talked to her at the embassy party last night. It was as if he were looking for someone else. Elena wondered if he had a lover. She supposed he was entitled. She had forced him into this marriage. He hadn’t wanted her before, and just look at her now—a dumpy old cow with the sex appeal of a sack of potatoes. Was it Kate Quinn? No, he evidently didn’t care for brunettes. She saw the way he was looking at that model, Nikita, when she called him away last night. He obviously had a thing for tall blondes, two things that Elena was not. She began to weep in despair. She had to find a way to win him back.
* * *
Michael was at his office, buried in his work. The gallery in Lisbon was set to open before Christmas, and he still had a lot of preparations to make. His intercom buzzed, and his secretary let him know that his friend, Helmut Volker, was waiting in the reception area. He instructed her to send him back, and breathed a sigh of relief. A visit from a good friend was just what he needed to take his mind of the whirlwind of recent events.
“Have I come at a bad time?” asked the boyishly handsome blond, sticking his head through Michael’s doorway. He walked into the office and plopped down on the leather couch next to Michael’s desk, making himself quite at home. Of German parentage, Helmut had been another of Michael’s comrades at Culver Military Academy. Narrowly escaping expulsion with his fellow “Musketeers,” he had graduated and gone on to be recruited by Interpol. Naturally, he couldn’t talk about his work with Michael, but they did get together now and then for a round or two of golf.
“No, not at all,” answered Michael, offering Helmut his usual cigar, which the other gratefully accepted. “Just gallery work. It seems never ending.”
“It will never end the way you keep expanding,” the other man retorted. “You’re almost large enough to qualify as your own country!” The two men shared a laugh.
“Helmut,” Michael asked thoughtfully, “what do you know about the l'Éclat model, Nikita?”
“Not as much as I’d like to,” said Helmut, grinning, “and I’ve even gone out with her!”
“You have?” said Michael, incredulous.
“Yeah. We had a great dinner, a great talk, and when I took her home, she offered to shake hands at the door and disappeared inside her flat,” said Helmut, shaking his head and grinning at the memory. “So much for the great Volker charm.”
“She didn’t invite you in?” said Michael, not quite believing his story. Helmut could charm the clothes off a woman faster than anyone Michael knew.
“From what I’ve heard, she’s never invited anyone home. Never granted so much as a peck on the cheek. She’s known as the Ice Princess in the modeling circles.”
Michael mulled this over in his mind, fascinated. Her childhood must have left deep scars indeed. It never once occurred to him that she might be saving herself for someone. Someone like him.
* * *
Elena was dining with her parents, having ascertained that Michael would be detained at the office again. This habit of his was starting to be annoying. Oh, well. Just because he was content to have no social life didn’t mean she had to sit home and twiddle her thumbs. She checked her appearance in the mirror again, and liked very much what she saw. Too bad Michael wasn’t here to appreciate her.
Her parents were entertaining a family friend, Jurgen, from the Swiss embassy. Jurgen was tall and broad shouldered, with thick, wavy blond hair and dark blue eyes half hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. It had been clear at once that he was taken with Elena, and she was very flattered. It was a pity that Michael couldn’t be here to see that other men still found her desirable.
************
Nikita sighed as she made another money transfer to cover her mother’s overdraft. She had already found her a better place to live and furnished it for her, bought her a reliable car, and given her a sizable allowance. Nothing, it seemed, was enough. Whatever Nikita bought her, Roberta wanted a better model. What ever monies she gave her, Roberta needed more. Her mother wasn’t drinking—Nikita saw to that. That was part of the deal. One drop of alcohol and the party was over. She just couldn’t understand where all the money was going.
She hadn’t met Simone. Simone was still using, and was forcing Roberta to split the proceeds of Nikita’s monetary gifts 50/50 as payback for finding her daughter. It wasn’t as though Nikita couldn’t support herself and her mother, but she was worried. She decided to hire a private investigator. She looked through the Yellow Pages and stopped on a name that she liked. Marco O’Brien.
* * *
“You’re going out again?” Michael asked. “That’s four times this week.”
“Relax, Michael. I’m just having dinner with my parents,” Elena lied smoothly. “I didn’t mention it to you before because I had no idea you would be home tonight. You usually aren’t.”
“You thought I would miss Adam’s birthday?” Michael asked her incredulously. “You knew I’d be home for that. Are your parents having the party at their house?”
“I thought he was too young for a party,” said Elena, improvising madly. “He’s only one. He wouldn’t remember it anyway.” She couldn’t believe she had forgotten Adam’s birthday. Why hadn’t his nanny given her the heads-up?
“Well *we* would remember, and my son is having a party. Call your parents and cancel. We’re having a blow-out party for Adam tonight, and we’re *both* going to be here to celebrate it.” What was Elena thinking? It was as if she didn’t even have a son. Or a husband. She was so wrapped up in herself lately it was like the rest of them didn’t even exist. “I’ll make all the arrangements from the office. All you have to do is be here with your parents. Do you think you can manage that?” he asked her, a trifle sarcastically.
“Of course,” she answered, praying desperately that her parents were in town.
Michael left for the office and Elena called her parents, who fortunately were at home. They were thrilled to come to Adam’s party, and had wondered when she was going to invite them. “Just one small favor, Mummy,” she asked her mother. “Michael thinks I was having dinner with you and Daddy tonight.”
“Why would he think that? You haven’t been to dinner with us in ages,” Estrella answered, perplexed.
“Michael’s been staying late at the office so much lately. I didn’t want him to think I was home alone night after night, so I told him I’ve been there with you and Daddy,” Elena said persuasively.
“I’m not sure I like this idea, Elena,” said Estrella. “Lying to Michael—“
“Just let him think I was coming there tonight,” Elena pleaded. “He may not even ask about any other time.”
“Well, I don’t like it, but—“
“Thanks, Mummy,” Elena sighed in relief. “You’re the best. Kiss Daddy for me.” She hung up the phone and dialed Jurgen’s number.
* * *
“You need to get Nikita to increase your allowance,” pronounced Simone. She was examining herself in the mirror for signs of any cocaine residue.
“I don’t think I can,” Roberta responded nervously, checking between the mini-blinds for any sign of the cops. She hated it when Simone did coke in her living room. It wasn’t that she was tempted—booze and weed had been her drugs of choice, but she had fought hard for her six years of sobriety and besides, she had promised Nikita that she would stay clean and she didn’t want to end up back on the wrong side of a jail cell.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” replied the petite Asian, snapping her compact shut and dropping it in her purse. “You wouldn’t want little Nik to find out about your illustrious career as a working-girl, would you?”
“You said you wouldn’t tell her anything as long as I split the money with you,” said Roberta defensively, “and I’ve done that from Day One.”
Simone tossed her long hair back dismissively. “Yeah? Well it’s not enough any more. Either she increases your allowance, or we change our split to 60/40—my favor.”
“That’s not fair,” whined Roberta. Inside, she was panicking. Since she had come into her windfall, she had taken the extra money and had begun to play the ponies. Her luck had taken a turn for the worse lately, and she had debts of her own to pay.
“Fair or not, that’s the deal,” said Simone harshly as she left Roberta’s apartment.
* * *
“Nik? It’s me. We need to talk. I’m going to need an advance on my allowance this month. Or an increase would probably cover it. Call me as soon as you get in. I’ll be waiting by the phone. I love you, baby.”
Nikita pressed the rewind button on her machine and listened to the message again. Roberta sounded nervous. Almost desperate. Something was definitely going on. She put in a call to Detective O’Brien to let him know about this latest development. She would wait until she heard back from him before calling her mother.
************
Michael was in shock—his face alternately ashen and then red with rage. Elena was in tears. “How long has this been going on?” he ground out. Elena cried harder. “Answer me!”
“He--, I--, you need to listen to me, Michael,” she pleaded desperately.
“I’m listening.” Michael’s eyes were the color of slate. His face was a mask of stone. Elena had never seen him look so cold.
“This was the first time! I swear!” she choked out. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“Then the servants should be able to verify that, shouldn’t they?” Michael sent for the doorman. A thin, elderly man soon stood before him, visibly trembling. “How many times has Mr. Jurgen been to the house in my absence?”
The doorman swallowed convulsively. He had been with the Vaceks for years, and felt some allegiance to Elena, but frankly, Michael terrified him. He was compelled to tell the truth. “Two or three times a week, sir,” he answered, almost in a whisper.
“I see,” said Michael, a muscle working in his jaw. “And how long has this been going on?”
“At least four months. Maybe more.” The doorman couldn’t meet Michael’s eyes.
“Thank you. You’re excused.”
The doorman left without a sound.
“He’s lying,” Elena cried brokenly. “Who are you going to believe? A servant, or your wife who loves you?”
Michael looked directly at her with soulless eyes. “I have no wife,” he pronounced calmly.
* * *
“How much does she need to pay off all her debts?” Nikita asked O’Brien wearily. The detective ran his fingers through his already wind-mussed hair.
“She has three bookies. These are the totals.” He pulled a paper from his rumpled suit coat pocket and set it down on the table in front Nikita. They were having an espresso at Fisherman’s Wharf, not far from the café she and Carla favored. Nikita looked at the figure and sighed in dismay. No wonder her mother had sounded desperate on the phone.
“If I give you the money, can you cover these?” she asked.
“Yes,” Marco replied, “but it will have to be today. Interest on these kinds of debts compounds daily.”
Nikita stood up. “I need to go to the bank. I’ll meet you back here in two hours.”
O’Brien looked at his watch and frowned. He broke into a sheepish grin. “Should give me enough time to go buy a new watch.”
Nikita laughed.
* * *
“Of course you will stay here with us,” said Estrella, stroking Elena’s back. “I still cannot believe that Michael kicked you out of your own home. I had thought better of him than that.”
Actually, Michael had moved into a hotel the same day that he had found her with Jurgen, but Elena neglected to mention that to her mother. He had also said that he would send for Adam as soon as a suitable nanny could be found, as Elena had shown him that she put her own needs and desires ahead of those of her son.
“And he threatened to take Adam away from me!” Elena wailed. “My own son!”
“Well, he’ll not take him from here,” pronounced Salla Vacek. “My grandson will be safe, here with his family.”
“Oh, thank you, Daddy,” said Elena, throwing herself into her father’s arms. This was going even better than she had planned.
************
“Anything you can dig up on her,” Michael said stonily. “Anything at all that would discredit her in the eyes of the law.” He looked over the top of O’Brien’s disheveled brown hair and into the clouds behind him. “I won’t let her take my son away from me. I won’t have it.”
“You know I’ll do what I can, Mr. Samuelle, but the laws in France are very specific. They always rule in favor of the mother, especially when, uh” he cleared his throat and Michael looked him straight in the eye. “When the petitioner is not the natural father.”
“But what if I am,” Michael persisted. “Elena is such a whore, Adam’s father could be anyone. Why not me?”
“You know that DNA tests will prove that you are not a blood relative to Adam.” He sighed, running his hands through his hair again. “I really wish I had better news.”
“But you will keep trying, yes?”
“Absolutely,” promised O’Brien vehemently. The two men stood to shake hands and Michael sat back down at the table, too tired to move. After everything else she had done to him. The public scandal she had caused. Now he may never see his son again. His eyes began to fill with tears.
He almost missed her. He could see the blurred image of a tall blonde woman scanning the tables of the outdoor café behind him. Suddenly, she found the person she sought. “Carla,“ she called, raising her arm to wave. Michael stood, blocking her path, and grabbed her by both shoulders.
“Nikita?”
Nikita studied the face before her. She should have felt panicked at his assault, but she didn’t. She took in his mousse-tamed chestnut curls that covered his collar in back, and a pair of grey-green eyes she had only seen once before in her whole life.
“Michael?”
“It’s really you,” he breathed.
“It’s really you,” she echoed, struggling to take in what had just happened.
Michael pulled her forward, intending to kiss her cheek, but instead the kiss became a fierce embrace, one that Nikita freely returned. They stood unmoving, just holding each other, feeling each other, breathing each others’ scent. Michael felt an overwhelming sense of peace, as if all the tension of the last two decades had just drained away. Nikita knew that she had finally, after searching for so long, come home.
Nikita buried her tearstained face in Michael’s shoulder. “I didn’t think—I never—“ she began.
“I know. Me, too.” Michael held her a moment longer, then pulled her back to take a good look at her face. She was still there. The little girl from Sydney. They could start over again.
Nikita pulled him close again and buried her face in his neck.
“Are you two gonna get a room or what?” asked Carla, who had finally walked up behind them when she saw that Nikita was no where near ready to order lunch.
Michael and Nikita both sniffled at the same time, and Nikita giggled, wiping her eyes. “Carla, I want you to meet my oldest and very best friend in the whole world, Michael Samuelle. Michael—Carla Sanchez. We work together at l'Éclat.
“The lipstick ads,” Michael concurred. “You’re even lovelier in person.” He gallantly took her hand and raised it to his lips. Carla turned to Nikita, who shrugged, smiling.
“Are you any relation to the art gallery Samuelles?” Carla asked innocently.
“He owns them,” answered Nikita proudly.
“Oh my God,” exclaimed Carla. “You must be a gazillionaire!”
“Not yet,” Michael replied, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Carla,” admonished Nikita, her cheeks turning pink. Carla backed away, her hands in the air.
“Obviously you two have a lot to catch up on, so I’m going to order my lunch to go, and you guys have a great time, okay?” She winked broadly at Nikita before turning around and walking up to the café’s takeout counter.
************
Michael and Nikita talked for hours—at least, they held hand across the table and stared at each other for hours. Sometimes they had actual conversations.
“When I was coming here, I thought I saw Detective O’Brien leaving your table,” commented Nikita. “Are you two friends, or is he working for you?”
“How do you know Marco O’Brien?” asked Michael, nonplussed.
“It’s about my mother and her gambling debts,” Nikita said wryly. “He helps me find out who she owes so I can pay them before it gets out of hand.”
“I’m sorry, Nikita, but I have no sympathy for your mother,” Michael replied, voice chilling, his eyes darkening. “I remember what she did to you when you were a child. The woman should be in prison.”
“I know you hate her, Michael, and with good reason. But she is my mother. She’s the only family I have.
The two sat silently for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Nikita remembered that Michael had not answered her question.
“What about you? Why did you meet with Detective O’Brien?”
Michael stayed quiet for a moment, trying to think how to best word his answer. Finally, he was blunt and to the point. “Elena has my son. I want to get him back.”
Nikita dropped Michael’s hands. Married. She’d forgotten that he was married.
Seeing the look on her face, Michael was quick to reassure her. “I’m having the marriage annulled. I’ve already started the proceedings. It could take up to two years though,” he warned. He took her hands back in his and stared at her with all the warmth and sincerity he had in his heart. “Will you wait for me?”
She couldn’t lose him again. Not after coming so close. The words came out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. “Yes, Michael. As long it takes. I will wait for you.”
* * *
“Just how well do you know your in-laws?” Helmut Volker put to Michael. He was seated on the leather couch in Michael’s office, smoking one of his favorite cigars.
“I know that Salla Vacek is the East Indian ambassador to France, he was formerly assigned to Turkey, and that he has my son. What more is there to know? Michael asked dismissively.
“Did you know that he has ties to the Russian mafia?”
Helmut waited for Michael’s reaction after dropping that bomb. “The *mafia!*” Michael exclaimed. “My son is being held captive by a member of the *mafia*!?”
“Apparently, Vacek does quite a bit of money laundering for them under the guise of philanthropic organizations. He’s been on Interpol’s Green List for years.”
“Green List?” asked Michael. “What the hell is that?”
Helmut knew that he had said too much already, but this was Michael, a fellow Musketeer. He couldn’t let him down. “The Green List is a list of bad guys who we know exist, but they’re not important enough to do anything about.”
“Can’t you do something?” demanded Michael. “Move him up to the Red List?”
Helmut shrugged. “It’s not my call to make. Technically, I don’t know anything about him, and I never called in any favors to find out the intel that I did.”
He stood to leave, wishing that he had brought Michael better news. As he put on his jacket, a sheaf of papers fell to the floor. “If it were me, I would start by investigating his charitable organizations—work backwards from there. It will be time-consuming, but it’s the only plan that I have.”
Michael and Helmut hugged briefly, then the shorter man left, still puffing on his cigar. Michael gathered up the papers Helmut had “accidentally” dropped. They were lists of philanthropic organizations, some of which Michael had contributed to himself.
“Yvonne,” he said, buzzing his secretary. “Téléphonez à l'Inspecteur O'Brien à San Francisco.”
“Oui, M Samuelle.”
Two minutes later, O’Brien was on the line.
************
Nikita knew that Madeline was maintaining a long-distance relationship with Paul Wolfe, the American ambassador to France. She hoped that his diplomatic powers would carry some weight, and she knocked on Madeline’s door.
“Yes, Nikita, what is it?”
Uh oh. Madeline was wearing her “Mona Lisa” smile, the one that didn’t reach her eyes and proclaimed that she was generally pissed at the world. Not a good time to ask for a favor, thought Nikita. Still, she hesitated. This was so important to Michael. The least she could do was ask. The worst that could happen was that Madeline would say “no.”
“I was wondering,” began Nikita nervously, “that is, the ambassador. The one we met in Marseilles?”
“You’ll have to narrow that down, Nikita,” answered Madeline. “The party was at the American embassy, remember? The place was lousy with ambassadors.”
Nikita blushed. “Yes. Of course. I mean the American one. Paul Wolfe?”
The smile was gone instantly, replaced by a penetrating glare. “What about Ambassador Wolfe?”
Nikita wished that the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Her mouth was completely dry, but she managed to swallow. “I have a friend. In Marseilles. He’s having trouble with another ambassador. I was wondering if Ambassador Wolfe would have any influence and be able to help my friend.” She was staring at the floor at though her Nikes were the most interesting shoes she had ever seen in her life.
“I don’t know,” replied Madeline. Nikita looked up. The glare was gone, replaced by an almost genuine half-smile. “What is your friend’s problem?”
“He was married to the daughter of the East Indian ambassador to France. When they separated, she took their son and has refused to let my friend go near him or even see him. He has petitioned for custody, but—“
“The law always favors the mother, I know,” said Madeline thoughtfully. “I’m not sure what you think Paul can do, through, other than talk to Ambassador—“
“Vacek,” Nikita supplied.
“Ambassador Vacek. He may be able to talk him into supervised visitation, but that’s the most your friend can hope for. Ambassador Wolfe is a smart man—respected and well-liked, but he has no authority over any of the other ambassadors.”
“I’d appreciate anything he could do,” Nikita said gratefully.
Madeline picked up the phone. “It’s about tea time there. I should be able to catch him in his office.”
“Wait,” said Nikita. “There’s something else you should know.”
Madeline looked at her, eyebrow raised.
“Adam isn’t Michael’s natural son. His wife was already pregnant when they got married.”
Madeline frowned. “I think your case just died,” she pronounced.
“Couldn’t you still call and ask?” Nikita pleaded. “Michael has raised Adam since he was born. He’s the only ‘real’ father Adam knows They’re very close. Elena never cared about him until Michael moved out. She even forgot his birthday!”
Madeline slowly reached for the phone again. “I’ll call Paul, and ask him to do what he can, but I’m sure you’re fighting a lost cause.”
“Thank you, anyway,” Nikita said wearily as she stood to leave the office. She had done what she came to do. She prayed fervently that it would help, but deep in her heart, she knew that Madeline was right. Michael was fighting a losing battle.
* * *
Simone had had it. Roberta was not holding up to her end of the deal. Actually, Simone was doing more and more cocaine, and her habit was growing faster than Roberta’s bank account. She would give the old lady one more chance, then she would rat her out to her precious “Nik.” Simone knew what models at l'Éclat could make, and featured ones like Nikita were bringing home a bundle. It was time to share the wealth.
To hell with it. She would go over to Roberta’s right now and demand her money. She reached her destination in less than 10 minutes. *Old neighborhood not good enough for you, huh?* she thought snidely. The door to the small rental was locked, but Roberta had left a spare key under the Welcome mat. “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Simone muttered as she let herself in.
She looked around. Not bad. Not bad at all. A VCR, but no movies. “Hmm, looks like she doesn’t need this,” Simone thought, and disconnect the unit from the TV. “Oh, what the hell,” she said, and loaded the television into the back seat of her car as well. Simone looked around at her handiwork and figured Roberta would learn her lesson. You do not screw around with Simone!
************
Detective O’Brien was not acclimating well to France. The fact that he didn’t speak the language was a major factor, but he missed American food, American baseball—hell. He just missed America. Michael promised him that he would fly him home for the week of July Fourth and let him fill up on American patriotism. In fact, Michael would join him. He hadn’t seen Nikita in over six weeks, and he missed her.
Nikita had emailed Michael her itinerary, so he knew where to find her once they landed in San Francisco. He had the limo driver wait while he went inside the studio to surprise her with an armload of daisies, her favorite flowers. As it happened, Nikita was finished for the day, and was ready to leave with Michael after they first embraced each other in a crushing bear hug. The other models looked each other in wonder. Who was this gorgeous guy? Her brother? It couldn’t be her boyfriend—they never even kissed. Picking up her daisies in one hand and slipping her other hand through Michael’s larger one, Nikita left the studio with a spring in her step and a song in her heart.
“I know it’s only five o’clock, but do you feel like eating yet?” Michael asked. “We could go to our café and sit outside. There’s going to be a beautiful sunset.”
“No,” said Nikita. “Not tonight.” She had thought this over very carefully, weighed all the pros and cons, given herself a stern talking to, and come to a decision. “I’m an excellent cook, and you must be exhausted. Let’s go to my house.”
Michael looked at her in surprise, and tried to ignore the rising pink in her cheeks. “I am tired,” he agreed. “Maybe a quiet dinner in is a good idea. I’ll have my driver take us there.”
Neither of them spoke much on the ride to Nikita’s house. Nikita thanked Michael again for the daisies, and Michael told her again that she was welcome.
The limousine stopped at 412 Plaza Drive. The driver let Nikita out, and Michael exited from the other side of the vehicle. “Shall I wait, sir?” the driver asked Michael. Michael looked at Nikita, who was looking at her mailbox as through she’d never seen it before. “I’ll call you,” Michael replied.
He took Nikita by the hand, and together they walked up the front walk and up two steps to her door. When Nikita took out her keys, her hands were shaking. “Let me, said Michael.” He held her trembling hand reassuringly and with the other, opened the door to number 412. They stood at the front door for what seemed like five minutes, but Michael was not going to enter Nikita’s house without permission. Finally, she stepped inside and made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Won’t you come in?” she said hesitantly. Michael did. He looked around. From the foyer he could see into the kitchen, which led to a living room/dining room area. To his right was a small office. He couldn’t see what lay beyond that, but the whole house was open and airy, with one room leading into the next.
“Your house is beautiful, Nikita,” Michael said sincerely. The décor he could see was strictly Nikita—old world traditional mixed with modern funk. Everything blended perfectly. Nikita moved left into the kitchen, so Michael followed. He saw a fireplace at the other end of the living room, and glass French doors that led from the dining area to a private patio. There were steps leading out of the living room next to the fireplace—Michael assumed these led to the bedroom.
“Please, have a seat,” Nikita said, gesturing to the couch. She found a vase, filled it with water, and carefully placed the daisies inside. “What can I get you to drink?” Michael thought a glass of wine would relax them both, when suddenly he had a flashback to a little blonde girl on a beach yelling ‘No booze! No booze!’ “Whatever you’re having will be fine,” he answered. Nikita was grinning when she served him his soda. “Do you remember that day on the beach? You turned me into a Pepsiholic!” Michael laughed. He remembered.
“Are you in the mood for chicken or fish?” asked Nikita, padding back to the kitchen. Michael noticed that her shoes had come off, and took this as a good sign—she was comfortable around him. “Surprise me,” he called to her. “If I fix fish, there won’t be much of a surprise,” she stated, smiling. Michael smiled back, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.
“Take your shoes and jacket off and lie down on the couch,” Nikita instructed. “Dinner won’t be ready for at least 45 minutes, and you look ready to drop.” Michael wanted to argue, except that she was right. He put a comfortable pillow under his head and closed his eyes just for a minute.
* * *
Michael awoke to sunlight streaming in from the wrong direction. It took a few minutes for him to get his bearings, and then he remembered he was in Nikita’s house. He must have slept all night! He was covered with a colorful afghan—he wondered who had made it. He also wondered if Nikita was awake yet, but did not want to go into her bedroom to find out. He sat up and saw a folded note on the coffee table. “Michael—Went for a run. Help yourself to breakfast. N” Michael noticed that Nikita had loosened his tie, and he removed it and placed it on the chair beside his suit jacket. He opened the refrigerator door and looked longingly at the chicken casserole Nikita had prepared. He bet it was wonderful.
Only one way to find out. He got out the casserole and cracked four eggs in a bowl, stirring them with a whisk. He was going to make the omelet of all omelets.
************
“My son turned two on May ninth,” he told O’Brien disparagingly. “I wonder if she remembered that birthday.” She should have. Michael had sent a card with a long letter, and a literal truckload of toys. As far as he knew, they had both been delivered.
“I got through most of these places when we were in France.” Marco showed him the pages that Helmut had left for him, with many names now crossed off. “I have a few more to investigate, and a couple of question marks.”
“Which ones are the question marks?” Michael said intensely—eyes burning. “Where? Show me.”
The detective complied, and Michael took note. He would call Helmut and ask for another favor—off the record, of course.
“We can’t do anything more from here,” sighed Michael, “and I did promise you a week in the States. Go. Enjoy your American self.”
Both men grinned as they shook hands and O’Brien left Michael’s San Francisco office.
* * *
Nikita was at the l'Éclat studio, trying out the new colors that would be part of this year’s fall kick-off. The summer campaign had been a huge success, and the higher-ups expected more of the same.
“What’s this one called,” she asked, pulling a face as she looked at the palette of eye shadow in her hands.
“That’s ‘Mocha Fantasy,’” answered Madeline. Nikita rolled her eyes. Who comes up with this stuff? Besides, Mocha anything was not her best shade and Madeline knew it.
“What happened to ‘Misty Mauve,’” Nikita asked. “It sold like crazy last year, and it actually looked good on me.”
“Mauve is out. Mocha is in,” came the reply.
“Then I think you need a model with hazel or brown eyes, not blue,” countered Nikita.
“Just wait until you’re made up,” Madeline said impatiently. “It’s not for us to decide, anyway.”
Nikita shrugged in compliance, and the rest of the afternoon went smoothly.
* * *
Michael and Nikita were watching “My Cousin Vinny,” one of Nikita’s favorite movies. Michael had never seen it.
”What exactly is a ‘yout?’” came the judge’s voice from the television. Nikita giggled. Michael smiled just watching her enjoying herself. The chicken casserole omelet this morning had been a hit, and they had ordered dinner from the nearest Chinese restaurant because neither of them had felt like cooking tonight. When the movie ended, Nikita asked Michael if he had liked it, and he told her that he had.
“Liar,” she teased. “You hardly looked at the screen at all. You kept looking at me.”
“I’m just trying to take you all in,” Michael answered honestly. The atmosphere in the room immediately became uncomfortable.
Michael broke the silence. “I don’t want to make you nervous, Nikita. I don’t why I do, but I can tell. You’re edgy right now. We’re supposed to be best friends. Talk to me,” he pleaded.
Nikita’s eyes began to fill with tears. Michael leaned closer to her, but she held her hands up and he backed away. “What are you afraid of, Nikita? Let me help you.”
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then abruptly left the couch. “Wait here, she instructed him, then ran up the three stairs to her bedroom and slammed the door.
************
“Adam! If you don’t stop that pounding right now, I’m going to take that thing away and never give it back! Do you understand me?” Elena was not having a good day. The nanny was sick, her mother was gone for the day, and she actually had to take care of Adam herself. What the hell was Michael thinking—giving Adam a toy that involved a plastic hammer and little plastic pegs?
Adam looked up in confusion. This was his favorite toy. This was how he always played with it. The banging was the best part. Where was Julie? He liked her much better than this “Mummy” person. Julie had fun with him and let him laugh and play. Whenever he saw Mummy, she said he gave her a headache. What was a headache? When he had asked Mummy what it was, she told him to shut up. He didn’t know what “shut up” meant, but thought he should quiet, just in case.
He wandered aimlessly over to his toy chest, and pulled out his English ABC book. He considered asking Mummy to help him read it, but she looked cross. He sat down on the floor and began turning the pages, naming each letter as he went. “A—apple. B—boy. C—cat. D—“
“Will you shut up!?” snapped Elena. “Go take a nap or something. Isn’t it your naptime?”
He had just eaten breakfast, and it was nowhere near naptime, but Adam quickly did as she asked. He left the nursery and went into the room next door where his bed was. Obediently he removed his shoes and socks and climbed into bed, clutching his Teddy fiercely. Adam wasn’t sure if he remembered Daddy, but he knew that Teddy had come from Daddy before he left, and holding the ragged bear always made him feel better. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, hoping that Mummy would go away and Julie would come back soon. Maybe, if he was a very good boy, Daddy might come back, too.
* * *
Nikita’s telephone rang. As Michael was sitting by the end table where the cellular was, he picked up and answered it. “Nikita Wirth, please,” came a female voice on the other end.
“She’s busy right now. May I take a message?” asked Michael, his pen in his hand, looking on the coffee table for something to right on.
“Tell her I have information about her mother that she needs to know,” said the voice.
Michael recognized a scam when he heard one. “What sort of information?” he asked.
“It’s none of your business,” the woman snapped.
“It sounds like you have information that Nikita really doesn’t want to hear. Am I right?” There was silence on the other end of the line. He continued. “Maybe you and I can do business so that we don’t need to bother Nikita with any of this.”
“Who are you?” came the voice, suspicious.
“A friend. You can call me Michael.”
A pause, then “My information doesn’t come cheap.”
He dangled the bait. “Money is of no concern.” He envisioned the woman smacking her lips in satisfaction. “We need to talk,” he continued, “but not on the phone. Where can I meet you?”
A longer pause, then, “I’ll call you tomorrow with the arrangements.”
“I’ve left this number with a lot of people. How will I know it’s you? What’s your name?”
“Simone.”
Simone hung up the phone, threw her had back and laughed with abandon. She was going to be rich. She could smell money a mile away, and this dude had it. A looker like Nikita wouldn’t be sleeping with a loser. A rich businessman or financier. Simone didn’t care. She hummed. “I’m in the money. I’m in the money.”
************
Michael slipped his pen back into his shirt pocket and relaxed back into the corner of the couch. He didn’t know what Nikita was up to, but he was sure that whatever she had to tell him would be worth the wait.
He heard the bedroom door open, and Nikita walked shyly down the stairs. Michael’s jaw dropped. She was wearing his old black À la Vie! T-shirt, the one in his paintings. He couldn’t believe she had kept it all these years. She sat on the other end of the couch and drew her bare legs up behind her.
“I can’t believe you still have that thing,” Michael said, breaking the silence.
“You don’t know what this “thing” has done for me, Michael,” she said in a low voice, her eyes downcast. “I needed you so much when I was a child, and holding on to this shirt was like holding on to a part of you. When things got really bad, I knew you were close by, watching over me, waiting to make me feel better.”
“Oh, God, Nikita,” Michael uttered, his voice filled with raw emotion.
Nikita continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Even when I grew older, and I knew you weren’t coming back, a small part of me never gave up hope. I felt like, if I had this shirt, then one day we would somehow find each other again.” She smiled crookedly. “And we did.” She looked up to see tears in Michael’s eyes.
“I tried to find you,” he said hoarsely. “When I got home from school, I went to the beach, but your house was gone. I didn’t know where you were. No one could help me. Not even Crazy Walter.”
Nikita smiled at the memory of the old man.
“I gave him my address in Marseilles, but you never wrote, so I guessed he never found you.”
“Then I saw the paintings in San Francisco,” said Nikita, her face solemn again. “I knew at once that the little girl was me, but I didn’t know if you even remembered my name, or if you would want to see me. When I found out we were both living in Marseilles,” Michael’s head shot up, “I checked you out. You had a wife and son.” Michael closed his eyes in pain. “I moved to the States. I had to get away. I couldn’t bear knowing that you were so close and that you hadn’t waited for me to grow up.” She looked at him from beneath veiled lashes. “Stupid, huh?” She forced a laugh.
“I did wait, Nikita, as long as I could. Then my father died, and made me swear on his deathbed that I would marry Elena Vacek.” He looked away. “I had no intention of following through, but Elena turned out to be pregnant, and she named me as the father.” He closed his eyes again, then opened them to her, letting her see into his soul. “I had never slept with Elena. You know Adam is not my biological son, but I love him as though he were. I’m moving heaven and earth to try to get him back from his whore of a mother.” Nikita began to speak, and he silenced her with a wave of his hand. “Adam is my problem, not yours. I never should have mentioned it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you see, Michael? Fate has brought us together again. We are two halves of a whole. We complete each other. I was functioning without you, but I wasn’t really me. Part of me was missing. That part was you.” Michael digested her words slowly, and knew she spoke the truth. “If you have a problem, then we have a problem,” she continued. “I’ve already put a call through to Ambassador Wolfe in Marseilles.”
Michael’s eyes widened in surprise. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You still don’t get it, do you?” she smiling gently, placing her left hand on his arm. “We’re a team. No one is ever going to split us up again.”
“You have a deal,” Michael agreed emphatically.
“Should we shake on it?” offered Nikita.
“Or we could seal the deal with a kiss,” proposed Michael impulsively.
Nikita visibly withdrew into her shell again.
“What did I say?” asked Michael, truly confused.
Nikita chewed her lip again, then took the plunge. If she couldn’t tell Michael, then who could she tell?
“I-I don’t know how to kiss. I’ve never kissed anyone before.” Her face turned crimson, and Michael had the good sense to keep the look of total disbelief from his countenance.
“Then I’ll teach you,” Michael pronounced. “Just like I was teaching you to swim. Only this time we’ll finish the lesson, okay?”
“Okay,” came the whispered answer.
************
Michael moved closer to Nikita, but not too close. He wanted her to come to him. She did, reluctantly, inching toward the middle of the couch. She knelt facing him, then settled back on her heels. Michael told her to watch his hands, which he placed palm down on either side of her legs. “I won’t move them,” he promised. She nodded. She closed her eyes and waited for the assault. Waited for him to grind his face into hers and ram his tongue down her throat. She felt her stomach churning. She couldn’t do this. Her eyes flew open. She was terrified.
She saw Michael’s loving, concerned gaze. “It’s okay, Nikita. I won’t do anything to frighten you. We’ll just sit here and talk. It is not a problem.
“It is a problem, Michael. It’s my problem. I’ve seen couples kiss. I’ve seen it in the movies and on TV. I know it doesn’t have to be like it was when I was a child. It’s just that when I close my eyes—“
“Then leave them open,” Michael shrugged. “Some people do. I usually close mine. It’s a personal preference, not a rule.” Nikita looked at him skeptically. “We’ll both leave our eyes open, ok?” Nikita nodded slowly. “Ready?” he asked. She hesitated, then nodded again.
Michael instructed her. “I’m going to kiss you, but I don’t want you to kiss me back. I just want you to know what it feels like.” He leaned forward, Nikita braced herself, and Michael placed a butterfly kiss on her trembling lips. “There. Now you’ve been kissed. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
Nikita shook her head slowly. That was it? *That* was what she had been afraid of?
“I’d like to kiss you again. Is that okay?” Nikita nodded again. This time Michael’s lips lingered a little longer, and Nikita felt their soft, velvet-like texture. It felt—nice.
“This time, I want you to kiss me back.” Nikita nodded, and pursed her lips as though she had just sucked a lemon dry. Michael smiled gently. “You don’t have to do that. Just wait for my kiss, then do what I do. If you like it, we’ll keep doing it. If you don’t, just back away and we’ll stop. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Nikita, licking her lips. Her mouth was dry and her pulse was racing. She had felt something during that last kiss, a sort of tingle inside. Was that normal? Would it happen again? Curiosity won out over fear.
This time she leaned into the kiss, surprising Michael. There is was again! That sort of “zing” feeling. She wondered if Michael felt it, too. She closed her eyes to give into the feeling. Their kisses became longer, deeper. It was Michael who broke it off. He was heeding his early warning signs. If she knew where his mind was going and where his body wanted to follow, it would frighten her to death.
Nikita had to ask. “Did—did you feel something?” she asked hesitantly, shyly.
Oh, yeah, thought Michael. “Like what?” he asked Nikita.
She blushed. “I can’t describe it. A kind of electric thing. Like a buzz or a tingle.” She looked away, totally embarrassed.
Michael took her hands in his. “Absolutely,” he answered honestly. “Like a current flowing between us.”
Nikita’s head snapped up. He had felt it, too! “Is that normal?”
Michael laughed. He couldn’t help it. “It is for us. It happens when two people who love each other very much and are meant for each other come together.”
Nikita pondered this and nodded. Yes. That made sense. She asked him another, totally unexpected question. “Do you want to spend the night?”
Michael reared back in surprise. “Nikita, that’s a huge step from kissing to staying the night. I don’t think you’re ready—“
“I didn’t mean together,” she said, smiling now at his discomfiture. “I meant in the spare room. It seems silly for you to stay in a hotel when I have an extra room, and I really liked waking up with you here this morning.”
“All right,” he agreed. It would be good for her to get used to his presence in close quarters. “It’s too late to send to the hotel for my bags, though.”
“I have an extra toothbrush you can use, and I guess you can sleep in your shorts until your pajamas arrive.” Michael smiled in agreement, not bothering to tell her he didn’t wear underwear or pajamas. Nikita and Michael both stood and stretched, having sat in one position for too long. “We share the bathroom, so I’ll leave a robe for you. It’s one of those big, terry ones some of the nicer hotels give out.”
“That will be fine. I’ll see you in the morning,” Michael said warmly.
“In the morning,” echoed Nikita. Then she walked up to him and kissed him full on the mouth. *ZING* There it was again! She walked upstairs and into the bathroom. Michael sat back down on the couch and ran his fingers through his hair. What sort of animal had he unleashed?
************
Roberta Wirth liked holidays. Holidays meant lots of filled rooms, and lots of filled rooms meant lots of tips. It wasn’t big money, but it certainly helped out. Of course, she had to work harder, but Roberta had never been afraid of hard work. She had been bussing tables from the time she was fourteen, then waitressing even after she got pregnant with Nikita at the age of seventeen. It’s not like Nik’s father had stuck around to help with the bills. Well, to be completely honest, he could have been one of two boys she went to the drive-in with. At least, those were the two that were blond. Roberta had tended bar, dealt blackjack, and even took a stint in a factory just to put food on the table and to keep Nikita in school. No, work wasn’t the enemy.
Simone was.
Simone looked far too happy last night when she came in to the motel to get her monthly check. She was up to something. Another get-rich-quick scheme. Roberta prayed that it didn’t have anything to do with Nikita. Not that she was worried about her, but she didn’t want her free-ride to come to an end.
* * *
Nikita awoke with a smile on her face, and she knew immediately why. Through her bedroom door, on the other side of the bathroom, was Michael Samuelle. Her best friend, her confidant, her mentor, and the world’s best kisser. Not that Nikita had anyone to compare him to, but she knew she was right. She stretched languidly, loving today already. Even the sudden chirping of her cell phone couldn’t ruin her mood. She slipped out of bed and ran down the steps to the living room.
“Hullo?”
A pause, then “May I speak to Michael, please?”
Nikita answered, “He’s sleeping.” A little thrill went through her when she said that. Okay, Nik, get a grip. “May I take a message?”
“Tell him I’ll meet him at Volare’s at noon. We, ah, have a lunch date.”
A knot formed in Nikita’s stomach. “And your name is--?”
“Simone. He’s expecting my call.”
“I’ll certainly give him the message,” Nikita said brightly, wishing she could sink through the carpet as she snapped the cell phone shut.
Michael was meeting another woman for lunch. How could she have been so stupid. All that talk about “completing” each other and loving her. Of course he loved her. Just like a brother loved a sister. She remembered how abruptly he had ended their kissing “lesson.” Obviously, he didn’t feel comfortable kissing his “sister.” She had been so intent on her wants and needs that she hadn’t even considered how Michael might have felt. Well. Now she knew.
The object of her musings took that moment to emerge from his bedroom, freshly showered and dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing yesterday, pressed last night by Nikita. He couldn’t find any mousse among Nikita’s hair products, so his hair lay damply in riotous chestnut curls, framing his handsome face.
“Hi,” he said softly, noting that Nikita was still dressed in his T-shirt.
“Oh. Hullo,” she returned nonchalantly.
Michael instantly went on the alert. He had not become the successful businessman he was without honing his skills at reading people. Nikita was upset. Brittle.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” came the flippant reply.
“Nikita. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Oh, yeah. Speaking of talking, you had a phone call earlier. I’m supposed to remind you about your lunch date.” Her smile was forced. She seemed almost apologetic.
Michael was confused. Today was a holiday. Most of the restaurants were closed. Bauer would never have scheduled a lunch meeting on July the 4th in San Francisco. “Who called?”
“Simone,” Nikita managed to spit out.
Understanding dawned on Michael’s face. Nikita was jealous. What lousy timing. He couldn’t tell her about Simone and the scam she was trying to run. Not yet. “Did she say where and when?” he asked in his most business-like voice.
“Volare’s. Noon.”
Michael fiddled with his PDA, then picked up his briefcase and pretended to look through it. “I must have left her file back at the hotel. I can pick it up when I have my luggage sent over.” He snapped the briefcase shut and fixed an amiable smile on his face. “So, what’s on your agenda for today?”
“Dunno,” she said, wheels turning. Simone was a client. Or at least Michael acted like she was. He wouldn’t lie to her, would he? She had to test him. “Probably hang out with Carla at her place until dinner time, then spend a quiet evening at home. I’m not real big on fireworks.”
“Sounds nice,” Michael agreed. “But let me cook tonight.”
“Okay,” Nikita agreed, “but it will have to be fish.”
“Ah. Zee Frenzh can work meericles weeth feesh,” he said with an impossibly thick French accent.
Nikita laughed in spite of herself. “See you tonight,” she waved as he picked up his jacket and prepared to leave. Michael figured that a good-bye kiss was probably out of the question, so he blew a kiss and bowed deeply at the waist before closing the door. Nikita giggled.
She then grew sober again. She hoped she knew what she was doing. She picked up the phone to call Carla.
************
Salla Vacek paid a rare visit to his grandson. The boy was sleeping peacefully, clutching some sort of ragged animal. Vacek made a mental note to have the servants throw it away. He was so proud. The child was one-hundred percent Vacek. He had Elena’s straight dark hair and dark eyes, and his skin was amber, not pasty white like that bastard father of his.
Yes, little Adam had no idea how fortunate he was. He was heir to the Vacek kingdom. The ambassador smiled. Even Estrella had no idea how wealthy he was. She was unaware of his “second job,” the one that was so lucrative. Laundering money for the Russians was almost too easy. Just press a few buttons here, write a few checks there, and the job was done. Of course, he would bring little Adam into the “secret” family business as soon as he was old enough. The boy was very bright—far ahead of his age group in both physical and mental abilities according to the doctors who had recently examined him.
His mother, well, Elena had been a disappointment to him. Her life revolved around shopping and parties. Where did she think her clothing allowance was coming from? She seldom saw Adam, and the day spent with him yesterday had been a disaster. Elena was definitely not maternal material. Finding Julie was a stroke of genius. Adam adored her, and she gave him the attention he so badly needed. Now, as to a father-figure. Adam must not grow up to be a sissy. Elena should marry again—provide Adam with a male role-model. He would talk to her mother tomorrow.
* * *
Carla felt ridiculous. Spying on people was not her gig, and she thought that the big, floppy hat Nikita forced her to wear drew more attention to her than it accomplished as a disguise. Per Nikita’s instructions, she had arrived at 11:45 and had requested a table near the kitchen. The maitre‘d looked at her quizzically. No one had ever requested a table close to the kitchen before. Carla just smiled.
Michael arrived five minutes early. He was seated at a table for two in the window of the restaurant. The waiter showed him a wine list, which he waved away. Michael looked at his watch. He looked up at the door every time someone walked in. At five after twelve, a petite Asian woman entered the establishment and glanced around furtively. Michael knew at once that she had to be Simone, and motioned to her. It looked like she wanted to move to a booth in the back, but Michael was holding her chair and insisted that she sit down.
Carla made her move. She grabbed the arm of a passing waiter and asked if she could possibly be moved away from the kitchen—the noise was giving her a headache. Was the table behind the gentleman in the window available? This was no problem at all, and Carla was in the perfect position to hear every word Michael said.
* * *
Marco O’Brien was thoroughly enjoying his “vacation.” He’d been to a Giants’ game, where he’d eaten four hot dogs and gotten pleasantly drunk on American beer. He couldn’t get enough of television broadcast in English, and even today, on his favorite holiday, he sat dressed in his shorts drinking beer and watching reruns of “Three’s Company” and “Soap.” He loved Benson. Didn’t take crap from anyone.
Eventually, he scratched his chest, ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, and picked up the files he had on Salla and Elena Vacek. Michael was paying him double his usual fee, not to mention flying him home for a week, and Marco felt guilty if he didn’t do *some* work He couldn’t do anything more about Salla until they returned to France. Now Elena. Her file was growing. The parties she was going to were getting wilder and wilder. He might be able to find evidence of drug use. He would check around with the modeling agencies in town to see if any of them had seen Elena on the party circuit while in France. Having accomplished that arduous task, he pulled on an old pair of cut-offs and went out in the back yard to fire up the grill. The Fourth of July wasn’t a holiday without a man-sized steak and a king-sized beer to wash it down with.
************
Michael could tell that Simone was using from the moment he saw her. It was clear now where most of Roberta’s allowance was going—straight up Simone’s nose. He studied the face in front of him. She must have been beautiful once, with almond eyes and long black hair. He supposed that some people might still consider her to be “pretty,” but it was obvious to him that the drugs had taken their toll. Simone was unnerved by his perusal.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” she said sarcastically.
Michael smiled politely. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve already ordered for us. Fettuccini Alfredo. Is that all right?”
Simone looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you buying me lunch?”
“You told Nikita we had a lunch date,” he responded smoothly. “I didn’t want you to be a liar.”
Simone snorted.
Carla leaned as far back in her chair as she could without being obvious. Damn Michael and his good manners. He talked so softly she had to strain to hear him. Simone was coming through just fine. So far, she couldn’t tell if the meeting was business or something else. The waiter chose that moment to bring her food, and she missed the following exchange.
“You have some information for me,” Michael said bluntly. “What is it?”
“I said my information isn’t cheap. Put an offer on the table.”
“One thousand dollars.”
“You’re insane. One thou will get you the weather report. We’re talking major news. Ten-thousand dollar major news.”
Michael didn’t blink. “Twenty-five hundred.”
“You’re not getting squat for under six-thousand.”
“Three-thousand. That is my final offer. I have a cashiers cheque in my wallet made out in that amount. Take it or leave it.”
Simone knew he was serious. She had expected more, but three-thousand in her hands today was a sure thing. She could always soak him for more later.
Carla had finally dumped the waiter, and was all ears again.
“Hand over the check.”
Michael pulled his wallet out of his breast pocket and removed a cashiers cheque in the amount of three-thousand dollars. He replaced his wallet and laid the cheque on the table, placing his hand firmly on top of it.
“What is the information you have about Nikita’s mother?”
All Carla caught was “Nikita’s mother,” but Simone’s reply came through loud and clear.
“She was a hooker. A prostitute. She’s got a record.”
“When was this?” asked Michael quietly.
“When she first came to the States—for about 10 years,” Simone said triumphantly.
“And you know this how?” questioned Michael.
“Before she moved, she was my next-door neighbor for five years. There’s not a lot about my neighbors I don’t know about,” she bragged.
Michael released his hold on the cashiers cheque. “I trust that this information will not get to Nikita?” he confirmed.
“Not from me,” Simone said blithely, cheque firmly in her possession. “But you know how some things have a way of just—slipping out.”
“And what would prevent that?” asked Michael, knowing that Simone had no intention of keeping her promise.
Simone picked up his hand. Michael raised his eyebrows. Simone said, “You’re a good-looking man, Michael Samuelle. I think maybe you and I can work something out. I know you find me attractive. You couldn’t keep your eyes off me when I first sat down.”
Michael stifled the urge to burst out laughing. Oh my God! She was trying to seduce him!
Carla had heard enough. Stuffing the hideous had under her chair, she stood and walked over to Michael and Simone. “Michael Samuelle! It is you! I’m Carla Sanchez, remember? From the café?”
“Of course I remember you, Carla,” Michael said warmly. “Have you eaten yet? Would you care to join us?”
Simone was stunned. Was he turning her down?
“No, thanks. I’ve just finished. The food’s great though. You should bring Nikita here sometime.”
“Yes. I will. Thank you.” And with that, so Simone couldn’t see him, he winked broadly at Carla. He had seen her the moment he walked into Volare’s, and guessed what Nikita was up to. He should have felt hurt that she didn’t trust him, but actually, he was kind of flattered. Carla blushed as she picked up her purse and walked over to pay the cashier.
“Hell-O?” Simone said, visibly annoyed. “Remember me? The one who could turn Nikita’s life into a living hell?”
Michael picked one of Simone’s hands in both of his. Her heart beat faster. “Simone,” he said softly, looking her directly in the eyes. “You know that I am a rich man. You should also know that I am a very powerful man, and I protect those I care about. That includes Nikita and, by extension, her mother. If I were to hear that there was any unpleasantness involved in either of their lives, you will deeply, deeply regret it. Have I made myself clear?”
Simone nodded. Her hand in his had grown cold. Suddenly the waiter appeared with their food. Michael stood to leave. “I’m sorry,” he told Simone. “I’m not going to be able to stay for our ‘date.’ Please, enjoy your meal.” He handed a fifty-dollar bill to the waiter and told him to keep the change. He strode confidently out of the restaurant, while Simone just stared out her food, suddenly sick to her stomach.
************
“It was a business meeting, nothing more,” Carla repeated, staring at her fingernails.
“Then why do I get the feeling you’re keeping something from me?” insisted Nikita.
“I’ve told you everything! She sat down, told Michael she had some information for him, I didn’t catch what kind—gallery stuff I guess. He paid her, and then he left. He didn’t even stay to eat. That’s all that happened. I swear.”
“Since when does Michael pay people for information,” mused Nikita.
“Maybe she was a detective,” said Carla, inspired, “like that Marco guy with the great smile and cute butt.”
“That’s possible,” Nikita agreed reluctantly. “But why wouldn’t he have told me? He said her file was at the hotel, like she was client or something.”
Carla threw her hands up in the air. “I give up. At least you know it wasn’t some romantic tryst.” She stood to leave. Just then, Michael let himself in with his new key. “Must be nice having a live-in chef!”
Nikita ducked her head and smiled. Naturally, Carla assumed that she and Michael were really “living together,” not just sharing a house.
“Will you join us for dinner, Carla?” he said, placing a bag of groceries on the kitchen table and shrugging out of his jacket.
“Nah. I get offers like that from handsome guys all the time,” she joked, winking at Michael. “I prefer my own cooking, actually. Nobody else makes churritos just the way I like them.”
She and Nikita hugged goodbye, and Nikita locked the door behind her.
“Would you mind making a salad while I change clothes, or am I totally on my own tonight?” Michael asked Nikita.
“I think I can handle a salad,” she smiled, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to start washing vegetables.
* * *
Elena was hung-over again, and in a foul mood. She had broken up with yet another boyfriend. Men. They were so undependable. Look at Michael. They had the perfect marriage until she made one teensy mistake—then he suddenly turned into Mister Self-Righteous and dropped her like a hot rock. At least she could keep Adam from him. That made her smile. Then she frowned again. Jurgen, who ruined her entire life, had been seeing two other women at the time he was seeing Elena, and she would never forgive him. Who else did she hate? She sighed, there were too many to remember.
The only person she could really count on was her best friend, Karyn. They had met a couple of months ago, and bonded immediately. Elena knew that Karyn was gay, but that didn’t bother her. The fact the Karyn popped uppers and was constantly wired bothered her a little, but it also made her a lot of fun, too. Elena could always turn to Karyn when she had man problems. She would call her today. What time was it? Only three in the morning. Oh, hell. She’d only been asleep for an hour. She should never have taken that pill Karyn gave her. She would never get any sleep.
* * *
Michael had baked the fish and served it with a thick cream sauce. Nikita had to admit it was delicious, as were the snow peas and tomato pudding. She also managed to snarf down some of the magnificent chocolate soufflé. She felt as though she waddled as she made her way to the couch when Michael waved her out of the kitchen. He cooked it, he would clean it. She watched him as he washed the dishes—he was wearing a pair of tight-fitting faded blue jeans and a navy polo shirt, and from her angle, the view was magnificent. Of course, he chose that moment to turn around and smile. She waved weakly and turned back around on the couch.
She picked up the TV remote and started flipping through channels. There was never anything good to watch on Sunday nights. She paused the remote on “La Femme Nikita.” She chuckled silently. Carla had tried to get her to watch this show, since she and the lead character shared the same name. A homeless girl is taken off the streets and trained to be a covert anti-terrorist operative. Puh-leeze. Who writes this stuff? Even though the male lead’s name was Michael, she just couldn’t get into it. The whole “counter-terrorism spy” thing just seemed ridiculous to Nikita.
She turned off the TV and picked up a magazine. The higher-ups at l'Éclat had agreed that Nikita was not the best model for “Mocha Fantasy,” and had chosen Suzanne Sherman instead. Nikita supposed it would be Suzanne’s face, not hers, that she saw staring back at her from next month’s issue. She flipped through a few more pages. Fortunately for Carla, her coloring was perfect for “Mocha,” and she would be working a lot this fall. Nikita would be doing hair care products, and had been ordered to stay out of the sun or to wear a hat so as not to change her natural hair color. Nikita loved the sun, but she tended to freckle, and had learned to stay out of it anyway so this was not really a problem for her.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when Michael’s butt suddenly plopped down on the couch next to hers. She started to laugh, then saw that his face was totally serious. “What is it, Michael?” she asked, concerned.
He took her hands in his and looked deeply into her eyes. “We need to talk.”
************
Madeline had received several messages from Paul Wolfe regarding Michael Samuelle’s son. None of them contained good news. Paul had talked to Vacek, which seemed to have made things worse. Vacek deeply resented the American’s interference in personal family business, and the relationship between the two diplomats was now chilly at best. Vacek had also thought that Michael had given up his quest for Adam. Now that he knew differently, the boy was a virtual prisoner in the embassy. He was rarely allowed outside of the grounds, and even then he had two bodyguards. Salla Vacek wasn’t taking any chances.
Madeline had debated on whether to call Nikita had home, but finally decided a face-to-face meeting was needed. She had her secretary draft a letter and put it in Nikita’s box. She would see it the next time she came into the office.
* * *
Nikita’s heart lurched. Carla was wrong about Simone. Michael was having an affair with her.
“I lied about Simone,” he said bluntly.
Oh God!
“I said she was a client, but I was meeting her about personal business.”
Nikita started to see black spots before her eyes. She was hyperventilating.
“She is a con artist and a thief, and she wanted to be paid for giving me certain information.”
The black spots started to fade as Nikita’s heart rate slowed. She looked at Michael, who was looking directly into her eyes with care and concern.
“I didn’t want you to know anything about her until I found out what the information was.”
“What was it?” Nikita asked, chewing her bottom lip nervously.
Now it was Michael’s turn to look uncomfortable. He rubbed his chin. “This is very hard for me to tell you, Nikita. It’s-it’s about your mother.”
“My mother?” Nikita asked in surprise. “Oh, Michael! Is she ill? Is she dying?” He shook his head but didn’t speak. “Tell me,” she demanded. “I need to know.”
“It’s nothing like that,” he promised. Nikita waited. “How well do you remember your mother from when your were a little girl?”
Nikita looked at him in surprise, then looked away. “I don’t really remember that much.”
“I remember that she hit you. You had bruises all over.”
Tears were forming in Nikita’s eyes.
“And what about her boyfriends?” he persisted gently. He thought, but didn’t add, ‘and what she let them do to you.’
“She was different then, Michael!” she snapped angrily as she stalked away from the couch. “She was drinking then. She didn’t know what she was doing.”
“Please sit down, Nikita,” he implored gently. Nikita sat back down in the corner of the couch, a large pillow clutched to her abdomen as if it could defend her from the evils of her memories.
Michael continued. “She was still drinking when she came to the States, Nikita. She did some things—things she wouldn’t want you to know about.”
“What sort of things?” she asked in a whisper.
Michael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She was a prostitute, Nikita. She has a record with the both the Los Angeles and San Francisco Police Departments. I checked it out myself, and it’s true.”
“Why are you telling me this, Michael?” Nikita asked, tears rolling down her face.
“Because I love you,” he answered honestly. “Because I wanted you to hear it from me instead of someone like Simone.” Nikita didn’t respond or look at him, so he continued. “She’s been sober for five years. She has a good job, and she loves you. She’s not that other person anymore. That’s all in the past.”
Nikita stared at the blank TV screen for a few more minutes, then scooted over on the couch to nestle close to Michael. He wrapped his arms around her protectively. Just like a big brother, thought Nikita.
************
Something between them had changed, and Michael couldn’t figure out why. Nikita was still friendly and cordial, but it was as if a spark in her had been blown out. She was treating him as though she were his sister, not his girlfriend, and it felt all wrong. “I made dinner reservations for us tonight at Volare’s. Wear something sexy,” he instructed her.
Well, *that* was certainly unbrotherly. “Volare’s?” she questioned, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Couldn’t we go some place else?”
“No,” came his firm reply. “I need to exorcise some bad memories from that place, and who better to do it with than the woman I love.”
He’d been calling her that a lot lately, but he never actually said he was *in* love with her. He’d not kissed her since that first night, and he was leaving for France the following afternoon. Nikita’s head was in a whirl. She didn’t know how to read Michael anymore. She cautiously agreed to dinner at Volare’s, then mentally searched her wardrobe for something to wear once Michael had left for the office. Nikita didn’t own anything that could remotely be considered “sexy,” but Carla did. They were roughly the same size, though Carla’s chest was bigger and Nikita’s legs were longer. She picked up the phone.
* * *
Carla pretended to be shocked at Nikita’s confession about her mother. Nikita had mulled over what Michael had told her, and decided that the news was not so earth-shaking after all. It was almost to be expected of her mother. Carla marveled at how well Nikita was coping at finding out that her mother had been a hooker. “She was a whore in Australia,” she told Carla bluntly. “Why not get paid for it here? Money in the bank is certainly better than a black eye and a kid you don’t want.”
“Oh, Nik,” said Carla, and embraced her best friend. The two held each other for a moment, then got down to the business at hand.
Carla had the perfect dress for Nikita. It was silk, off the shoulders, cut just low enough to tease, and came to the middle of Nikita’s thighs. “It looks so much better on you than it does on me,” Carla said wistfully. And it did. The color was ice blue, and complemented Nikita’s eyes and hair perfectly. She wished she owned the dress instead of Carla, but it would never have occurred to her to ask.
* * *
Adam and Julie had a secret. Julie was teaching Adam how to write his full name, and she was using brochures from Samuelle’s to do it. On the back cover of a pamphlet was a picture of Michael Samuelle—Daddy, Julie had told him. Adam had gazed at it in wonder, and rubbed his chubby finger over the black and white photo. “Daddy?” he whispered, knowing even at the tender age of two that this must remain between him and Julie. She confirmed that the man in the picture was his daddy, and helped him find a safe place to hide it.
Julie was using only the front cover of another brochure—helping him to trace the letters S-A-M-U-E-L-L-E, when Elena chose that moment to enter the room. She picked up the page and tore it into shreds. “Teach him to write “Vacek,’ she pronounced. “I’m having Adam’s name legally changed.”
“I didn’t think you could do that without the father’s permission,” Julie ventured timidly.
Elena looked at her coldly. “I can do anything I want. I’m a Vacek. You would do well to remember that.” She tossed her head and left the nursery.
* * *
O’Brien’s questions had not been very productive. Those with whom he had spoken that had remembered seeing Elena Vacek had never seen her doing drugs. In fact, she was always admonishing her friend, Karyn, to stop. No, nobody knew Karyn’s last name, only that she was gay and that she and Elena were inseparable. Hmm. He would follow up this mysterious Karyn when he returned to Marseilles.
À la Vie! - Chapter 34
Nikita skillfully applied her make-up and went to work on her hair. She had rolled it on huge rollers, creating soft waves that cascaded down her shoulders and back. She pinned the sides back—nothing too fussy. Her dresser was now lined with hair care products courtesy of l'Éclat, but she eschewed both hairspray and spritz. If her hair stayed up, it stayed up. If it didn’t, it didn’t. After all, this was just Michael she was having dinner with. Her roommate and best friend.
Michael had chosen to get dressed at the hotel, and had his suit pressed there as well as having his shoes shined. He shaved closely, something he hated doing, and moussed back the recalcitrant curls. There. That would teach them. He was extremely nervous about their date tonight. After all, this was Nikita he was having dinner with. His soul mate and the love of his life.
* * *
Michael’s driver picked Nikita up at precisely 7:15. She was already seated at a table in the front window when Michael’s cab let him out at the front door. Nikita saw him before he saw her, and she drew a deep breath. God, he looked magnificent. How could she have ever though Alec Chandler was good looking when the most beautiful man in the world was standing twenty feet away, dressed in Gaultier, and looking for <I>her.</I>
The maitre‘d brought Michael to their table, and he drew in his breath. My God. She looked amazing. The dress was fantastic, that was true, but Nikita’s natural beauty radiated sunshine, filling the room and Michael’s heart with warmth. He sat down in the chair opposite her.
“Hi,” he said shyly.
“Hi,” she whispered back.
A long pause while they just looked at each other, like moths drawn to twin flames.
“You look—incredible,” Michael breathed, breaking the silence.
Nikita blushed. “You look pretty good, too,” she answered softly, staring at the table napkin in her lap.
The waiter broke the tension, and Michael looked at the wine list, then ordered something in French. The waiter smiled and backed away from the table.
“I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I should have asked you what you wanted instead of just taking charge.”
“It’s okay, Michael. I don’t drink,” responded Nikita.
Michael was mortified. “Oh my God. I was so nervous about our dinner tonight that I completely forgot. When the waiter comes back, I’ll order us two sodas, okay?”
“Water with lemon will be fine,” she answered. Michael was nervous? About what?
When it was time to order, Michael, still reeling from his earlier faux pas, let Nikita make the selections. She ordered two of her favorites, planning to share with Michael. He agreed, and some of the earlier tension dissipated.
They talked of trivial things during dinner. It seemed that neither of them was able to put on the table what they were really thinking about.
Finally, while they were finishing their spumoni, Michael spoke. “Nikita, are you mad at me?”
“Mad at you?” She jerked her head back in surprise. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“You’ve changed. Ever since I told you about your mother, you’ve been, I don’t know, indifferent toward me. Like you don’t love me anymore.” His eyes were sad.
“But I do love you,” Nikita responded without thinking. “I love you with all my heart.” She blushed, realizing what she had just revealed. She had really put Michael on the spot. “I know you love me, too” she went on quickly. “We’re best friends. We’ll always love each other, no matter what.”
She’s not in love with me. Michael was stunned. She thinks of me like a sister thinks of a brother. Michael felt the darkness closing in. He gave it one last shot. “But what about when you said you’d wait for me? Didn’t you mean it?” he persisted.
Nikita had the courtesy to look embarrassed. “I did when I said it. That was before I knew how you felt about me. I won’t hold you to it.”
Michael was genuinely confused. “How I felt about you? I’m in love with you, Nikita. I think I always have been. I wanted you to be my wife, and a mother for Adam. I thought you felt the same way.” He saw her dismayed look and realized he was wrong. He stood to leave. “I’m sorry, Nikita. I’ll move my things back to the hotel tonight.” He had taken three disconsolate steps when he heard Nikita call out.
“Michael, I’m in love with you!” Several patrons of the restaurant turned to look in her direction, but Nikita didn’t care. Michael had to know how she felt.
Michael stopped in his tracks. He came back to their table as though he were being pulled by invisible string. He looked at Nikita’s eyes, which were brimming with tears. “I knew that you loved me, but you never said you were in love with me. And that night that we were kissing. You stopped so suddenly, I thought that I disgusted you.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “At first I thought it was because I was ‘soiled goods,’ then I figured out you felt like you were kissing your sister.”
He took her hands in his and shook his head slowly. “Oh, Nikita. If only we’d said these things three days ago. We could’ve straightened this whole mess out. Look at me.” It took her a while to do so, but when she did, she saw love. True love. “I had to stop kissing you the other night. You were so amazing I was afraid I would lose control and ravage you on the couch.” She gasped, and Michael grinned. “It’s true. That’s all I thought about when I was in the spare bedroom. How much I wanted you and how I needed to force myself to go slowly so I wouldn’t frighten you.”
“R-Really?” asked Nikita with a shy smile.
“Really,” Michael confirmed.
************
Michael and Nikita held hands all the way home in the back of the limousine. Twining and untwining fingers, rubbing each other palms with their thumbs. “Hand Dancing” was the phrase that popped into Nikita’s head. She stifled a giggle. They pulled up into Nikita’s driveway, and Michael gave the driver instructions for taking him and O’Brien to the airport Thursday afternoon. They stepped inside the kitchen, where Nikita automatically kicked off her shoes and Michael threw his suit jacket and tie over the chair in the living room. Nikita snagged two Pepsis from the fridge and joined Michael on the couch, where he was lounging with his stocking feet on the coffee table. He’d probably already forgotten where he left his shoes. He took the Pepsi with a smile, popped open the top and drank deeply from the can. Nikita joined him on the couch, sitting as she usually did, with her long legs pulled up behind her.
“Did I ever tell how beautiful you are?” he asked.
“Not tonight,” she responded with a smile.
“Well, you are. Beautiful.” He took another swig of Pepsi before placing the can on a coaster. “Where did you get that dress? It’s incredible.”
“Actually, it’s Carla’s,” she answered, smoothing the dress down her thighs. “It looks different on her, though.”
“I’ll bet,” Michael snorted. “Find out how much she paid for it and I’ll pay her double. No one should ever wear that dress but you.” He ran his hand lightly over her bare shoulder before returning it to his side. How could she ever have thought that he wanted her as a sister?!
Nikita shivered at his touch, but it wasn’t with fear or apprehension. She didn’t know what it was, but she wanted to feel it again. “Michael,” she asked boldly, “will you kiss me?”
Michael lifted his hand again and ran his thumb over her brow, then gently across her lips. “Are you sure you want to start something we can’t finish?”
“Why can’t we finish it?” she asked, holding his thumb to her mouth and kissing it softly.
“You’re not ready,” he told her gently. “I want your first time to be truly wonderful, with no doubts and no fears.”
“I’m not a virgin,” she reminded him.
“Yes you are,” he said softly. “You’ve been raped. You’ve never make love before. I want to make love to you Nikita, but not until you’re ready.” He leaned in swiftly and kissed her. Nikita pulled away sharply. “See what I mean? You’re still afraid, even of me.”
“That was just a knee-jerk reaction,” she protested. “Try it again. I’m ready this time.”
“You need to be ready every time. You need to want and expect it If and when that happens, we’ll move on, but not before.”
“Deal,” agreed Nikita. “Seal it with a kiss?”
Michael threw back his head and laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”
He leaned forward to kiss her, and Nikita did not pull away. She met his kiss with one of her own, and Michael felt an electric current run through his body. He placed one hand on the nape of her neck to hold her closer—she flung both arms around his neck and did the same. Michael gently ran his tongue across her closed lips. Nikita gasped, but she didn’t pull away. Encouraged, Michael slowly slipped his tongue between her parted lips—just enough to touch the tip of hers.
Nikita wasn’t sure if she liked this new sensation or not. Michael hadn’t removed his tongue, so he clearly enjoyed it. Nikita decided to experiment. She slid her own tongue into Michael’s mouth. He gently sucked on her tongue, and she could feel the sensation down to her toes. She returned the favor, and Michael deepened the kiss. All righty, then. This was definitely on the “OK To Do” list. Michael broke the kiss, and Nikita sighed in disappointment.
“I want you to do something,” he said solemnly. Nikita looked at him warily. “I want you to touch me.” Nikita began to feel panicked. The tongue thing was nice, but surely he wasn’t telling her to— “I want you to touch my chest through my shirt. Do you think you can do that? Say ‘no’ if you can’t, and I’ll understand perfectly.”
Nikita didn’t even realize she’d been holding her breath till she let it all out in a rush. His chest. She could to that. She’d even seen his chest bare before. Okay, that was twenty years ago, but the concept wasn’t completely foreign. She took her hands from around Michael’s neck and laid them palms down on his chest. His heart was beating as rapidly as hers! She ran her hands up to his shoulders, then down the side along his ribcage to his smoothly muscled abdomen. She splayed her fingers and ran them up his shirt, but stopped when she felt two small, hard knots. Oh my God! She had touched his nipples! She started to jerk her hands away, her face crimson, but Michael held them there, trapped. “It’s okay, Nikita,” he said with a grin. “I told you you were a good kisser.”
Michael picked up her hands them and brought each of them to his mouth, kissing her palms. “I think that’s enough for tonight. I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I did.”
“You enjoyed yourself? Really?” Nikita questioned.
“Are you kidding?” he said, grinning broadly. “I just made out with a super model, and I’m spending the night at her house. It’s every teenage boy’s dream come true!”
They both laughed, and wrestled on the couch. Nikita won. Michael was ticklish.
************
There was a message waiting in Michael’s Marseilles office from Julie. Michael read it and frowned. Adam’s trips outside the embassy grounds had been cut off completely, and he had two body guards with him when he was outside in the compound, which was a rare occurrence. She also reported that Elena was using amphetamines, but not on a regular basis. She knew nothing about Karyn, so had nothing to report on that front. Michael made sure that Julie knew he was grateful for the information, and that she was well compensated.
Julie would have reported to Mr. Samuelle for free. She hated the Vaceks--Elena in particular. She was completely unfit as a mother, and should never have been given custody of Adam—laws be damned. She had never met Mr. Samuelle face-to-face, but his inquires about Adam’s health and well-being were far more frequent than Elena’s visits to the nursery. Julie had asked for, and received, a 4” X 6” color photo of Michael, which Adam kissed every night before hiding it from his mother and the other servants. They had thrown out his Teddy, so the picture and the brochure were the only connection he had to his father. The pictures and Julie. Julie never let Adam forget that his father loved him very much, and wanted to come and see him, but it was against the law. He also knew that he must never ever mention Daddy when anybody but Julie was in the room, or they would send her away for ever.
* * *
O’Brien crouched in the bushes, snapping photos of Elena and Karyn as the former left Karyn’s home. That was not a friendly little good-bye kiss. Evidence was growing that proved Elena and Karyn were having a full blown affair. Being a lesbian would not cause Elena to lose Adam, but if Marco could prove that she was also using drugs, they might just have a case.
The courts still might give custody to the grandparents, claiming that Adam had been raised in their home and would be traumatized if he were removed. The detective had to find the key to exposing Salla Vacek. He knew he was close. He wondered how Michael was getting along with his friend from Interpol.
* * *
“You know I only come here for the cigars,” Helmut Volker was saying, puffing away contentedly. Michael did know that, and it was the only reason he ordered them. Personally, he hated the smell of any kind of tobacco, and generally had his office fumigated after every one of the agent’s visits.
Michael came to the point immediately. “What did you find on the charities I sent you?”
Helmut leaned back on the couch, savoring every moment. He was in a theatrical mood. “Well, my friend, I believe you’re going to be one very happy man.”
“Cut the crap, Volker.” Michael was not in the mood for games.
Helmut got down to business. “Two of the three names you gave me are dirty, with Russian Mafia written all over them.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m not sure,” Helmut reminded him. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Which two?”
“That I can’t say. But have O’Brien concentrate on the ones that you gave me. You won’t be disappointed.”
* * *
Nikita had talked to Madeline, and she was disappointed, though not terribly surprised. She liked to think of her adopted country as being the most powerful on earth—able to move mountains—but she was a realist. Having an American ambassador talk to an East Indian one wasn’t going to get the latter to change his mind, especially when it was none of the American’s business in the first place.
It was with great surprise, then, when she got a telegram one early August afternoon. She opened it with trembling fingers. “ELENA DRUG ABUSING LESBIAN.VACEK TIES TO RUSSIAN MAFIA.NEW CUSTODY HEARING 19 SEPTEMBER.LOVE YOU.MICHAEL”
Nikita cancelled all her bookings for the next six weeks and took the next flight to Marseilles.
************
Michael had put the opening of the Chicago gallery on hold until after the trial. That didn’t mean he had any less work to do, and he was elbow deep in paperwork when his intercom buzzed with a welcome announcement. “M. Samuelle, Mlle Nikita Wirth attend pour vous voir.”
“Très bon,” he answered delightedly. ”Accompagnez Mlle Wirth à mon bureau, s'il vous plaît.” When Nikita came through the door, he had the presence of mind to wait until his receptionist had gone before pulling Nikita into an embrace and kissing her deeply. She willing kissed him back. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly a month, and nightly phone calls were not enough to feed their need for one another.
“I got your telegram,” Nikita panted when they came up for air. “I had to come and be with you. Oh, Michael—this is so exciting.”
“I’m going to see my son again!” Michael was positively beaming. “There’s no way the courts can keep him from me now.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Nikita said sincerely. “You must be so happy.”
“And relieved,” Michael added. “It’s been over eight months since I’ve seen Adam. I wonder if he’ll even remember me?”
“Of course he will,” Nikita was quick to reassure him. He took her into his arms again and they just held each other, breathing deeply.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“I dunno,” Nikita confessed. “I didn’t make any reservations, and I came right here from the airport.”
“You’ll stay with me,” Michael announced. “The rates are good, and the food is magnifiques.”
“Okay,” Nikita agreed. She couldn’t believe how easily the word came to her mouth. She had changed so much in the last month—all thanks to Michael.
* * *
Julie was highly agitated. She wasn’t supposed to know, but she had pried it out of Vacek’s limousine driver, Eric, that Elena was planning to take Adam and run. Salla Vacek was working out the details. They would both be out of the country before the end of the month. She had to get word to Mr. Samuelle.
* * *
“Your loft is great,” enthused Nikita. Not that it couldn’t us a woman’s touch. The colors were dark and severe, mostly black and dark red, and the walls were stark and ironically free of artwork.
“It’s just a place to sleep,” Michael shrugged. “I’m not here that often. Oh!”
“What?” asked Nikita, curiously.
Michael looked sheepish. “I’m afraid I forgot one rather important detail. I didn’t do it to set you up, I promise,” he said sincerely. “I had no ulterior motives when I made the offer, just wasn’t thinking, as usual.”
“Michael,” Nikita said patiently. “What are you talking about?”
“I only have one bedroom,” he confessed.
Nikita’s cheeks were tinged with pink, but she looked him the eyes when she answered. “Then we’ll have to share.”
“Are you sure about this Nikita?” Michael said gently, stroking the side of her face and running his thumb across her eyebrow. “I mean, it’s a fairly big bed, but I can sleep in the chair down here.” He gestured to a black leather overstuffed chair with matching ottoman.
“I’m sure Michael,” she answered resolutely. “I trust you.”
Michael looked at her for a few moments, considering her words, then came to a decision. “All right,” he said gamely. “Let’s get your bags upstairs.”
************
They were eating leftover vegetable lasagna, which Michael had prepared the day before. Conversation at the dinner table was initially stilted, but became more animated as Nikita drew Michael out by asking him questions about Adam.
“He walked at eight months. Did I tell you that?” he asked, beaming. “Eight months! That’s almost unheard of. And he was speaking in complete sentences at a year and a half. Not long dissertations or anything like that, but ‘Daddy, I want the ball.’ None of that baby babble most kids use. And so handsome! Well, he looks just like his mother—.“ His voice trailed off.
“I’m sure he’s beautiful,” said Nikita, “with his father’s artistic eye and kind and gentle soul.”
“He does know all his colors,” Michael said hopefully. “In French and in English.”
“I bet you’ll have him painting before his third birthday,” teased Nikita.
Michael smiled. “And he’ll love you. He’ll love having you for a mother. You’ll make a great one, I know.”
“I hope so,” returned Nikita softly, “and maybe not just to Adam.”
Michael took her hand and pulled her on to his lap. They kissed deeply.
Michael and Nikita were in love; Adam was coming home; and all was right with the world.
* * *
Julie braced herself as Eric’s hand crept further up her thigh. He was leaving a slobbery trail of kisses down her neck, and she felt vaguely nauseated. “But where do you think they’re going?” she prodded gently.
“He said something about Munich. You should be meeting Adam’s German tutor any day. Now can we drop this and get back to the subject at hand?” His own hand slid higher, and he giggled at his double entendre. Julie smiled weakly, her mind racing. Munich. She had to get word to Mr. Samuelle. He was not in the office today—she would try again tomorrow, if she lived that long.
* * *
O’Brien’s contacts informed him that Karyn’s house was on the market. She couldn’t possible live openly at the embassy with Elena, and Elena couldn’t leave the embassy without Adam if she wanted to continue her “good mother” façade. There was only one explanation that made sense. Elena was going to take Adam and run.
* * *
Michael showed Nikita where to put her toiletries in the bathroom, then slipped into the bedroom to find something to wear in bed. Sleeping nude in the same bed with Nikita would not be a good move—for either of them. He settled on a pair of black sweatpants and a thin white tank shirt, and removed all the covers except the top sheet in deference to the warm weather. Nikita emerged from the bathroom a moment later, dressed in a modest powder blue nightshirt with the l'Éclat logo.
Michael had been right about the bed. It was not quite king-sized, but almost. He crawled over to the far edge and lay on his left side, facing her. “Is that the side you usually sleep on?” asked Nikita, “because it really doesn’t matter to me, and I don’t want you to go to any trouble or to put you out or anything just because—“
“Nikita, get in bed,” he ordered. She was rambling, which meant she was scared to death. Michael decided that a firm, no nonsense approach was what she needed now to put her at ease. Nikita got into bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin. “Pull the little chain on the lamp to turn it out,” Michael instructed. When she hesitated, he added, “There’s a nightlight in the bathroom, so it won’t be totally dark in here.” Nikita did as Michael said and, after a moment, realized that he was right. She could see just fine. She stole a look at Michael, who had turned on his back with his arms folded beneath his head. His eyes were closed.
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Nikita rolled on her side away from Michael and closed her eyes, smiling. She was asleep in minutes.
************
Michael had decided not to go into the office today. It was Friday, and he was going to spend his 3-day weekend with Nikita. Until his secretary called him at home. He knew the news must be dire if she disturbed him on his day off.
It was. It was an urgent message from O’Brien, stating that he had to see Michael, and that time was of the essence. Julie Sand from the Vacek’s mansion had also left several messages asking him to call. Michael received O’Brien’s message about Elena first, only to have it confirmed by Julie. Vacek’s plans were still unknown. All she knew for certain was that they had hired a German tutor for Adam. Julie was nervous. This was her first visit to Samuelle’s and Adam’s father was rather intimidating.
“Is the tutor male or female?” Michael asked Julie suddenly.
“Female,” answered Julie, a little thrown by his line of questioning. She tucked a lock of bright red hair behind her ear.
“Did Vacek interview .her, or did she come from an agency?” Michael pressed.
“I don’t remember hearing anything about an interview, and since we would be working so closely, I’m sure I would have met her if there was one.” She paused. “I was never interviewed,” she added helpfully. “They hired me through an agency.”
“So they don’t have any idea what she looks like,” mused Nikita, following Michael’s line of questioning.
“You don’t happen to speak German, do you?” Michael asked Nikita, sure he knew what her answer would be.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she stated proudly. “I learned along with the Fanning twins. I’m a little rusty, and I couldn’t fool a native for long, but I could hold my own with the Vaceks.”
Michael’s gleam of elation turned into a sigh of disappointment. “It’s too dangerous. I could never allow you to do it.”
Nikita ignored him and turned to Julie. “What’s the tutor’s name?”
“Bobbi Maxfield.”
“Right. Michael, get the name of the agency that Julie was hired through—call them and cancel Bobbi Maxfield. I’m going to buy a couple German tapes to brush up, and Monday morning, the Vaceks are going to meet the new, improved Fräulein Maxfield.”
“Nikita, this is insane. You’re a model. What if they recognize you?”
“Michael, you’ve seen me without make-up. How do I look?”
“Beautiful.”
Nikita laughed. “To you, maybe, but to the average Joe I just look normal—like anyone else you’d see on the street. I’ll even wear sensible shoes and tweeds.”
“In August?” asked Julie, still puzzled.
“I’m kidding,” said Nikita. “Give Michael’s secretary the name of your employment agency, then go back to the Vacek’s and keep your eyes and ears open. Do not act surprised when you see me Monday morning masquerading as Fräulein Maxfield, German tutor.
“Got it,” said Julie, confusion clearing. She swiftly left the building and returned to the embassy before she was missed.
Michael took Nikita’s hands. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s very risky.”
“It’s the only way we can get close to Adam. Somehow, we’ll work out a plan to get him outside and then snatch him away from the Vaceks. It’s the only way.”
“Have I told you how much I love you?”
Nikita smiled. “Every day in every way.”
* * *
“You are Australian,” pronounced Salla Vacek.
“Yes,” replied Nikita, “but my father was German, and we lived in Germany for 10 years”
“Then you know Munich well,” said Vacek, intending to test her.
“No, actually, we never made it to Munich. We lived in Bonn.” It was the only other Guidebook she could find, and she had crammed like crazy in case he asked about landmarks. When he admitted he didn’t know Bonn, Nikita let out a giant mental sigh.
“Will my grandson have an Australian accent?” he asked, concerned.
“No,” Nikita answered truthfully. “I learned German with a true German accent.”
“My driver has a few questions for you.” He motioned for Eric to come into the room. “Eric lived in Munich as a boy. He is anxious to see if his German is still fluent. You will indulge him?”
“Of course,” said Nikita, smiling. Okay, here it comes. Let’s hope you can hold your own.
“Das junge Fräulein reist ohne Gepäck. Wo sind Ihre Kleidung?” he fired at her.
“Die Luftfahrtgesellschaft hat mein Gepäck verloren. Ich warte darauf jetzt.”
“Wie werden Sie sich behelfen?” he tried again.
Nikita smiled. “Ich werde fein sein. Vielen dank für das Sorgen.”
Nikita looked at Vacek. He was looking at Eric with an expression that clearly said, ‘Well?”
Eric hesitated a moment, looked at Nikita, then nodded to the ambassador. Vacek sent him from the room. Nikita’s heart slowed to a more normal rate.
Vacek summoned Julie. “This is Adam’s nanny. She will show you to your room and introduce you to Adam.” Nikita smiled at Vacek, then left the room in Julie’s wake.
**The young lady has no luggage. Where are your clothes?
The airline lost my luggage. I am waiting for it now.
How will you manage?
I will be fine. Thank you for your concern.
************
Adam was adorable. A little withdrawn and sober for Nikita’s taste, but she hoped fervently that Michael could remedy that, and soon. A quiet and polite child, he sat on at his little table and looked at his picture books while Julie showed Nikita her room across the hall. The two rooms were connected by a bathroom—Julie was across from Adam’s bedroom while Nikita was opposite the nursery.
“Perhaps you would like to freshen up a bit,” offered Julie. Nikita gratefully accepted the offer, and closed the bathroom door, turning on the taps. She quickly pulled out her cellular and hit Michael’s speed dial number and was surprised with the alacrity with which he answered.
“I’m in,” she said, feeling a bit like the Nikita from the television series.
“How is he?” he asked without preamble. “How is my son?”
“Oh, Michael. He’s beautiful. He’s healthy and well cared for, and he’s coping very well under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” he asked, growing alarmed. “What have they done to him?”
“Shh, Michael,” said Nikita soothingly. “Calm down. There’s nothing wrong with Adam. I just think he misses being able to go outside to play. That’s all.”
A momentary pause, then, “That’s when we’ll do it,” cried Michael triumphantly.
“What are you talking about?”
“He’ll have to go outside to learn to say ‘tree,’ ‘grass,’ ‘bush,’ won’t he? That’s when we’ll take him.”
“But what about the bodyguards?” asked Nikita, concerned.
“Let me worry about them. Just wait for my call, and then plan your lesson accordingly.” Another pause, then, “I miss you already.”
“You miss what?” Nikita asked laughingly. “My cold feet or my snoring?”
“You don’t snore,” he chided her gently.
“I miss you, too,” she said softly.
The four nights they had shared a bed had seemed so natural—like it was always meant to be. Nikita had awakened one morning to find her head on Michael’s chest, one long leg thrown across his, and his hand tangled in her hair. She had looked up at his face to see him smiling at her. He wished her Good Morning, and it had been. They were starting to act like an old married couple. It was nice.
Sunday night, Michael hadn’t worn his shirt to bed. Nikita hadn’t even noticed until she was almost asleep, and then realized that it didn’t bother her at all. If the truth were known, she preferred him without one. She remembered the night in San Francisco when he had let her hands wonder over his upper body, and she felt a slight shiver. She wondered what it would be like to do that when he wasn’t wearing a shirt. She must ask him if she could some day. She didn’t stop to think of the effect that “session” might have on Michael.
She suddenly realized that the faucet had been running for two minutes, and told Michael she would have to call him later. He asked her to kiss Adam for him—she promised she would.
* * *
Adam had a secret. His new teacher, Fräulein Maxifeld, was a friend of Daddy’s. No one must know this, not even Julie, and he kept his word. If Adam wanted to get a message to Daddy, he could tell Fräulein Maxifeld, and she would tell Daddy. If Daddy had a message for Adam, Fräulein Maxifeld would give it to Adam. Adam was bursting to show his pictures of Daddy to his new friend, but he had promised Julie he would not speak of them, so he did not. Nikita and Julie both informed Michael that Adam was mature enough to cooperate in their plan, and moved onto the next phase.
Nikita began her German lessons with Adam the way her French lessons had begun with the Fanning twins. She taught him ” Guter Tag. Meine Namen sind Adam. Wie ist Ihr Name? Wie geht's Ihnen? Ich bin fein.” She taught him his numbers: Ein, Zwei, Drei, Vier, Fünf, Sechs, Sieben, Acht, Neun, and Zehn. She taught him his colors by pointing to different objects in the nursery. Rot. Gelb. Blau. Grün. Orange. Purpurrot. Schwarz. Weiss. Adam was a quick learner and an avid student, especially for one so young. It made Nikita’s heart grieve to see how quickly he responded to any kind of positive attention at all. It made her all the more determined to help Michael in his quest to get Adam away from this place.
************
O’Brien had unearthed a link between Salla Vacek and a faction of the Russian Mafia known as “Black Storm.” Vacek’s contact was a mid-level lieutenant named Gregori Zalman. He had put a tail on Zalman, and was hoping to intercept communication between him and Vacek or, better yet, get visual evidence of the two of them in collusion. Zalman had a bodyguard named Suba, who had the reputation of killing first and asking questions later. The detective hoped to avoid a confrontation with him at any cost.
* * *
Karyn had already moved to Munich, and Elena had visited her in her new flat twice. Both times Salla had been livid when he found out. He would not have the Vacek name besmirched by the “unnatural” behavior of the mother of his grandson. He was considering taking Adam away from her himself and keeping the boy in France, but he knew Michael would file another petition for custody, and his background may not stand up to fine scrutiny. No, leaving Adam with his mother was the best thing to do, he conceded, but he would have her marry again. He would insist. Perhaps to Eric. That way he could keep a closer eye on her and Adam without taking constant trips to Munich, and the marriage would stop any gossip about Elena and Karyn before it started. Yes. He would have Estrella make the necessary arrangements immediately.
Elena informed her mother that she had no intention whatsoever of marrying Eric the limousine driver. Even had she not found the man utterly repugnant, no one would ever believe that a Vacek would marry a member of the working class, let alone a staff member. She did see the advantage of participating in a sham marriage, and agreed to keep her options open. Her father was satisfied. Her mother was more that a little disgusted that her daughter’s ethics had fallen so low.
* * *
Roberta was upset. The month wasn’t half over, and Simone had already spent all of the money Roberta had given her. She had pawned her microwave and stereo, but Simone wanted more. Roberta had called Nikita several times and left several messages on her machine, but Nikita had not returned her calls. A drive by the house confirmed her fears—Nikita was out of town. Now what was she to do? She did the only reasonable thing a mother could do under these circumstances. She broke into Nikita’s house.
Nikita had a much nicer TV than Roberta had had, and a VCR/DVD player. Her stereo should fetch quite a bundle as well. Her microwave was built in, but she had some nice jewelry and a good fake fur coat. This should buy her quite a bit of time as far as Simone was concerned. She left Plaza Drive with her conscience clear and the door unlocked.
Carla was the one who discovered the theft. She had a key to Nikita’s house and was dropping off some contracts when she saw the missing TV and stereo. She called the police, who arrived within minutes. One of the officers made a comment about this not feeling like an ordinary burglary, but they swept the living room and bedrooms for fingerprints. They told Carla they would call if they had any information. Carla didn’t want to bother Nikita in France until she had more information.
* * *
Julie and Adam were playing in the nursery, and Nikita was snapping photo after photo. The explanation she had ready was that she would be using the pictures as flashcards teaching Adam the German words for his toys--zug (train), lastwagen (truck), etc. In truth, she was going to send the film to Michael so that he could finally see Adam for himself. She had told Michael that Julie said Adam kissed his picture goodnight, and she could hear Michael crying through the phone.
She had casually mentioned to Estrella that she would be taking Adam to the park soon to teach him the names of the small animals such as squirrels, rabbits, fish, and birds. She acted astonished when Estrella told her that Adam was not allowed to leave the grounds. Estrella told her that Salla Vacek was a wealthy man and there had been kidnapping threats made against Adam, but she had not looked Nikita in the eye when giving her this explanation. Nikita compromised by saying that she would take Adam out in the back garden and teach him the words of thing he could see out there—Estrella thought a moment but could find no fault with this plan. Nikita was ecstatic. She called Michael immediately, who said he would come up with a way to neutralize the bodyguards.
It was all a waiting game now.
À la Vie! - Chapter 42
Michael found a picture of Adam when he was about 11 months old. He was standing with one bare foot forward, fists raised high in triumph and a beatific smile on his face. Michael turned the photo into a pen and paper drawing, sketching himself behind Adam, kneeling at his back and holding the tiny fists in his hands. He was looking at Adam with joy and love. This is the message he wanted to send his son. He signed the picture “To Adam, with all my heart, Daddy.” He had the 5”X7” picture laminated, and gave it to Nikita to give to Adam.
Adam was ecstatic. This was the first time he had seen his father and himself together, and it made the Daddy in his pictures seem more real in his head.
“Does my Daddy still love me?” he asked Nikita as she helped him hide his picture.
“Of course he does, Adam,” answered Nikita, surprised. “What would make you ask such a question?”
Adam lowered his eyes and scuffed his boot back and forth over the carpet. “He never comes to see me,” he said softly. “I thought maybe he found a new little boy he liked better than me.”
Nikita sat down and pulled him onto her lap. “Oh, Adam, your daddy loves you very much. The law in France is very silly. It says that when Mummies and Daddies get divorced, only the Mummies get to keep the little boys. It doesn’t mean the Daddies don’t want to. Your daddy wants to see you very much. He would never look for another little boy, because he has you.”
“Can he see me when I go to Germany?” asked Adam, inspired.
Nikita was taken aback. “What do you know about Germany? Who said you are going there?”
“Mummy did,” Adam shrugged. “She said, ‘the sooner we get out of this hell hole and move to Germany, the better.’”
“Do you want to go away to Germany and live with your mummy?” probed Nikita.
Adam was silent.
“It’s okay, Adam. You can tell me the truth. I won’t be upset, and I won’t tell Mummy.”
Slowly, Adam shook his head. He said in a voice that was nearly a whisper, “I really don’t like Mummy very much.” He flung his arms around Nikita’s neck and buried his head in her shoulder. He was frightened by the enormity of the sin he had just committed. Nikita could feel his small body trembling. She stroked his back and whispered soothing words. She promised that his secret would stay safe with her—Mummy would never ever find out.
* * *
Michael was upset and frustrated. It had rained every day for the past week, and there had been no opportunity for Nikita and Julie to take Adam outside. Julie had been surreptitiously been smuggling some of Adam’s clothes over to the gallery, as well as some of her own. Adam would need someone to look after him while they were on the run.
Today, Nikita was singing to Adam—silly little German songs and lullabies that she remembered from her days with the Fannings. Her husky voice was sweet and clear, and Adam was growing drowsy, nestled in Julie’s arms. It was this charming tableau that Elena chose to disrupt.
“You’re supposed to be teaching the boy German,” she leveled at Nikita accusingly. “Why are you singing him idiotic songs? And why are you all sitting on the floor? It’s all very unseemly.” It was clear that she was high on something—probably amphetamines.
“I apologize, “Mlle Vacek,” said Nikita as she stood, eyes downcast. “I was singing to him in German so that he would get used to the sound of the language.”
“Sitting on the floor was my idea,” broke in Julie, partly to deflect attention away from Nikita. “Adam and I usually sit on the floor unless he is eating or doing desk work. His little legs are so small—he finds it more comfortable that way.”
“I’m not interested in his comfort,” said Elena dismissively. “How are his lessons progressing?”
“He knows his numbers 1 to 10, and his colors,” began Nikita. “He can say, ‘Good day, my name is Adam; what is your name?’ and ‘I am fine; how are you?’”
“That’s it?” asked Elena, clearly displeased. “Ten days and that’s all you’ve done?”
“He is just two years old,” said Julie defensively. “He can name most of the objects in his bedroom and in the nursery. We are waiting for a nice day to take him outside to teach him words like grass and bush and tree.”
“Why are you defending her,” Elena said to Julie, gesturing at Nikita. “Can’t she speak for herself?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” said Nikita deferentially, “but I agree with everything Julie just said. We’re working very closely together with Adam’s lessons”
Elena took a closer look at Nikita. “What did you say your name was?”
Nikita answered, “Maxfield, Mademoiselle. “Fräulein Maxifeld.” She held her breath.
Elena announced “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“It’s possible, Mademoiselle. I’ve tutored other children in and around Marseilles. Perhaps you saw me when you were out with Adam?”
Knowing this was not possible, Elena shook her head. “No, that’s not it. But it will come to me.” She turned to leave. “Make sure he’s ready as soon as possible. We leave the day after tomorrow.”
She flounced out of the room without speaking to Adam. Nikita and Julie looked at each other in dismay.
************
The next day dawned clear and bright. Vacek received an emergency call to come to the American embassy. This was just as well, as he would never have allowed Adam to be taken outside with both of his bodyguards suddenly fallen ill. Julie assured Estrella that no harm would befall the child while she and Fräulein Maxifeld were close by and, as Elena was in no condition to make any kind of decision, Adam’s grandmother acquiesced.
Nikita pointed out Strauch (shrub), Rasen-Stuhl (lawn chair), Baum (tree), and Gras (grass), all the while drawing further away from the house and closer to the garden gate. When she saw the limousine at the gate, she whispered to Adam not to make a sound, then suddenly picked him up and carried him to the waiting vehicle. Julie got in on the passenger’s side, and Michael pulled swiftly away from the embassy.
They drove immediately to the airport, where Julie got out with her new passport and airline tickets in her hand. “I’ll see you soon, sweetie,” she waved to a still wide-eyed Adam. He waved back feebly but, per Nikita’s earlier instructions, did not utter a word. Michael and Nikita, still carrying Adam, left the limousine in the Passenger Loading zone. Luc, Michael’s driver, picked them up and hurriedly drove them to the new Samuelle airstrip outside Marseille. The pilot had already loaded their luggage into the jet, and within 20 minutes they were on their way to the United States.
* * *
The police didn’t look kindly upon abandoned vehicles at the airport, limousine or not, and were looking inside to find a clue as to whom the owner might be when they heard a strange, muffled sound coming from the trunk. Undoing the latch, the opened the trunk to find Eric, bound and gagged with a nasty bump on the back of his head. After hearing a quick version of his story, he was allowed to enter the airport and search for the possible kidnappers, for he was sure this was what had just taken place. A woman fitting Julie’s description had just boarded an international flight bound for New York City. Eric immediately phoned Salla Vacek, who realized that his meeting had been a lure to get him out of the house to facilitate the kidnapping. Vacek made a few phone calls to his Russian friends in New York. No way was Samuelle going to get away with this!
* * *
Two hours later, a brunette Julie, AKA Valerie Davenport, emerged from the Ladies’ Room and boarded her flight to Miami, Florida—the first stop on her trip to Corpus Christi, Texas.
* * *
The flight to Texas was long, and Nikita suggested to Adam, that he try to get some sleep. He just shook his head slowly, stuck his finger in his mouth, and stared at the man who had his daddy’s face. A million questions were whirling around in his mind, but Nikita had not yet given him permission to speak.
Michael couldn’t get enough of looking at Adam. He, too, seemed struck dumb, and the two Samuelle men just stared at each other in wonder.
Nikita couldn’t stand it anymore. “Adam, this is your daddy. He’s going to take you to live with him. Would you like that?” Adam’s face was a blank mask.
Michael tried. “Hallo, Adam. It’s Daddy. I’ve missed you very, very much. I’m so happy to see you again.” Adam looked at Nikita, then Michael, but still didn’t say a word. Michael tried again in French. Adam, c'est le Papa. Je t'ai manqués très, très beaucoup. Je suis si heureux de te voir de nouveau. Adam fidgeted, but still said nothing.
Suddenly, Nikita realized the problem and began to laugh. “It’s okay, Adam. You can talk now. This is really your daddy.”
With that, Adam withdrew the finger from his mouth and pointed it at Michael. “Daddy?” he asked hopefully.
Tears shone in Michael’s eyes. “Yes, mon petit fils, it’s Daddy.” Adam took a few hesitant steps toward Michael and extended his arms. Michael swooped him up in a firm embrace. He held him at arms length to get a good look at his face, tears here falling freely now.
“Are you sad, Daddy?” Adam asked, concerned, as he touched to wetness on Michael’s face.
“No, I’m not sad, Adam.” Michael responded. “This is the happiest day of my life!” He hugged Adam again, then threw him up in the air and caught him and brought him close to his chest. Adam giggled.
By now, Nikita’s own face was damp with tears, and she was happy that she had been a part of the gift that had made Michael so happy at last.
************
Salla Vacek was meeting with his Russian “friends.” They were not happy at being summoned but, because he had done so much for them, they figured the least they could do was hear him out. Apparently, his grandson had been kidnapped. The Russians knew how important family was, and told Vacek they would make some inquires. The trip to New York had been a red herring—something simply to throw them off track. The mob didn’t like being made a fool of. They would find this grandson and bring him home again.
The best man for the job, they decided was Suba. Bodyguard to Gregori Zalman, Suba was of Filipino descent. A handsome man with long dark hair worn back in a thick pony-tail, his features were marred by a cruel smile—one that no one wanted to be on the receiving end of. In addition to being a bodyguard, he was also a trained assassin. Vacek wanted Michael and Nikita (Elena had finally remembered where she had seen her and put two and two together) to suffer the way he was suffering, and the closest thing to that was death. Michael had galleries in many cities. It made sense that they would choose one of these cities in which to take refuge. It was only a matter of time before they were found. The mafia had arms that stretched around the globe, and Michael was bound to make a mistake sooner or later.
* * *
Life in Texas was peaceful, if a little warm. They were staying at a Day’s Inn, with an adjoining room for Julie and Adam (they tried leaving Adam with his father while the two women shared a room, but Adam was having night terrors, and they decided it was best if he stay with his nanny), and a pool right outside their door. Michael and Adam were at the pool now while Nikita and Julie, minding their fair skin, sat in the hotel reading novels and eating Taste of Lime Tostitos.
Michael was towing Adam around in the kiddie pool, just as he had done with Nikita over 20 years ago. “Keep kicking,” he commanded. “Face in the water.” Adam wasn’t as easy to intimidate as Nikita had been, though, and he let his father know when he had had enough. They spent the rest of the afternoon in the big pool, with Adam jumping off the side into his father’s arms. By the time Michael brought him back to the room, he was already fast asleep. Michael stripped him of his still damp bathing suit and put clean Spiderman briefs on his little bottom, then tucked him into bed to rest until dinner time. Julie came back into their room with her book and a bowl of chips, and Michael went through the adjoining door, closing it behind him.
“Did you and Adam have a good time?” asked Nikita, knowing full well what the answer would be.
Michael gave her a smile that nearly split his face in two. “He’s incredible, Nikita. So strong, and brave, and handsome. And smart! He remembers all the German that you taught him, and he switches back and forth between French and English without missing a beat. He’s a genius—I know he is. No other child could do that at 28 months old.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Michael,” Nikita agreed. And she meant it. In the short time she had spent with Adam, she was amazed at how quickly his brain grasped new concepts and how well he remembered everything he was taught. They had told him how they had “fooled” Mummy and that Nikita wasn’t really Fräulein Maxifeld after all. Michael decided that it would draw the least amount of attention if Adam called Nikita “Mom,” and Adam happily complied. Nikita’s heart was overjoyed, though she knew that by grabbing Adam they had sealed their fates; they would probably be on the run for the rest of their lives, and therefore never able to legally marry.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Michael announced. “Wanna join me and scrub my back?”
Nikita smiled. “Maybe next time,” she replied. They had begun joking like this when they were living at Michael’s loft, and Nikita was beginning to enjoy it. It felt ‘normal;’ natural. Michael had been right when he told her she was not yet ready for a physical relationship, but just being with him every day brought them closer and closer together. Their third night at the motel, Nikita had picked up her pillow and walked over to Michaels bed, waiting for permission to be invited in. Michael lifted the covers, surprise on his face, but Nikita simply turned her back toward him and went to sleep.
They shared a bed every night now, though Nikita had no idea how difficult this was for Michael. Several times he had awakened in the night to find himself ‘spooning’ her, his right arm wrapped around her waist and his leg wedged between hers. Other times she would be lying on his chest, her left arm wrapped around him and her head tucked under his chin. Often, he was fully aroused, which made it even more difficult to extricate himself from her without her being awakened.
Last night, during their ‘make-out’ session (the ZING having turned into a steady hum), Nikita had allowed Michael to unbutton her shirt. Michael had already removed his so, when they held each other close, there was skin-to-skin contact. Suddenly, Nikita had excused herself and fled to the bathroom. Michael blamed himself for moving too fast, though he couldn’t figure out why Nikita had allowed him to go on for so long before cutting things off so abruptly. In truth, Nikita had felt a sudden warm dampness between her legs, and thought she had started her period. She was puzzled when she saw no blood on her panties or on the tissue. What was it that had happened, then? Oh, well, she couldn’t very well go back out to the bedroom and say,” My mistake. Now, where were we?” Instead, she got ready for bed and neither of them had spoken of the incident today.
For dinner that evening, they went to Whataburger—all three adults wearing baseball hats to hide their hair. Julie insisted she couldn’t wear the hot, itchy wig anymore, so Michael insisted she tuck her hair up into a cap whenever they went out. Nikita thought this was a good idea as well, and Michael wore his backward to cover his long curls. Adam’s ‘going out’ name was “Evan,” as his soccer jersey proudly proclaimed. Michael had chosen a name that sounded close enough to Adam to get his attention, and told Adam they were playing a big game and pretending to be other people. Adam always giggled when he put on his “Evan” disguise, but he never blew his cover.
* * *
Suba broke into Marco O’Brien’s office. Fortunately for the detective, he was out on a date with Carla Sanchez. Suba was thorough, but could find no evidence that O’Brien and Samuelle were in contact. He did, however, turn up an interesting file on a Roberta Wirth.
************
Michael had planned for them to stay at in Corpus Christi for six months. They moved to five other modest motels in the interim, always as Peter and Sage Philo and their son, Evan. Michael figured this would give Vacek enough time to check the cities where Samuelle’s had galleries and come up blank.
Christmas had been an odd affair, as the day dawned sunny and warm. Adam was afraid that Santa Claus wouldn’t be able to find him since he had moved so many times. The toys he had received allayed his fears, and he spent many happy hours playing with his new hand-held computer game, books, and new Teddy bear. Michael had allowed Adam’s hair to grow to his shoulders, thus making him look less like the Adam that Vacek’s men would be seeking.
It was almost March, now, and even Nikita was feeling the need to put down roots somewhere. Anywhere. Michael decided to let her in on Phase III of his operation.
* * *
Marco O’Brien thought Michael was being a complete idiot, but he decided that saying that to his boss’s face would not be a good career move. He called the Howard Johnson in San Francisco and booked a suite for David and Lisa Fanning. He then wired $15,000 from Michael’s personal account into Nikita and Roberta’s joint account, and mailed Roberta a copy of the deposit slip. “Hide in plain sight,” Michael had told him. Marco sighed. He hoped Michael knew what he was doing.
* * *
Adam and Julie were asleep in the next room, and Michael and Nikita were engaged in some heavy petting in the master bedroom. Nikita had finally confessed to Michael what her “problem” was (it had happened several more times), and Michael explained that it was just Nikita’s body getting ready for him—it was a good thing, not a bad thing, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Michael had now gotten to “second base,” and Nikita’s bra was draped over the back of the couch. He was using only his hands to pleasure her, though he was aching to take the pink bud in his mouth and show her what pleasure really was. Instead, he rolled over on his back so that Nikita lay upon him and he held her close, stroking her bare back. He knew she could feel his arousal, though she had learned to ignore it. For Nikita, it was conquering a fear. It was a whole other ballgame for Michael. She had no idea how much willpower he was forced to express, and how draining it was for him.
While they lay on the couch, Michael told Nikita that they would be moving tomorrow into the Howard Johnson in San Francisco. Nikita’s head jerked back in surprise. “But, Michael, my mother works there,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he said, flashing her a grin. “That’s the beauty of it. We supply her with all the money she needs, and she lets us stay in empty suites. We’re already booked for the weekend as David and Lisa Fanning. They will check out Sunday afternoon, but we will stay.”
“What makes you so sure Mum will help us? She’s not exactly dependable.”
“The money,” Michael answered flatly. “She’s been playing the ponies again, and I just put enough money in her account to settle her debts with enough left over to buy her own racehorse.” He waited while Nikita processed this information. “Come on, he said, lightly slapping her derriere. “Let’s go to bed.”
Nikita reached for her bra, but Michael stopped her. “No,” he said. “Just wear your panties. See if you can do it. If you can’t, you can get up and put your gown on.” Nikita hesitated, then nodded. Michael turned his back politely while she removed her jeans and slipped under the covers. He went into the bathroom and came out wearing a pair of fleece boxers he had bought to sleep in. He lay down beside her, his arms crossed behind his head, and soon his breathing was deep and even.
Nikita was uncomfortable. She was not used to the feel of the sheet on her bare breasts, and it bothered her. She turned on her right side, facing Michael. She had figured out from doing their laundry that he didn’t wear underwear, and that he had bought a few pair of boxers to sleep in to appease her. She watched him sleep for a few minutes more, then rolled on her stomach. Better, but not good enough. She waited as long as she could then, with a sigh, padded into the bathroom to get her nightshirt. Michael opened his right eye and turned toward the clock on his bedside table. Twenty-four minutes. Oh, well—it was a start.
************
Michael and Julie checked in at the Howard Johnson as David and Lisa Fanning. Roberta had never met Michael, and might not recognize him. He was wearing his usual baseball hat disguise, and the desk clerk didn’t give him a second glance as he took his credit card and gave him his key to suite 412. Michael smiled at the irony of the number—it was the same as Nikita’s address on Plaza Drive. Once he procured the key, he snuck Nikita and Adam in through a side entrance.
Their suite was nicer than any place they had stayed in while in Texas, and even had a Jacuzzi tub in the Master bathroom. Adam had discovered a Chinese station on the television, and demanded that Nikita teach him Chinese. He was already fluent in German now, and couldn’t understand when Nikita told him she didn’t know Chinese. He thought she knew everything. No matter—he would teach himself, and parked his little bottom in front of the TV.
* * *
Estrella had gone to visit Elena in Munich and was appalled at what she found. Elena looked exactly like the drug addict she had become. Gone were the clear eyes, flawless skin and sleek black hair. Estrella couldn’t tell when the last time was that Elena had taken a shower, and she was thin to the point of emaciation.
She whisked Elena away to a rehab clinic in Switzerland, determined to regain the beautiful daughter she had lost. Even in her anger and despair, Estrella did not blame Michael. She knew that Elena was spoiled and headstrong, and had seen her downward spiral begin shortly after Adam’s first birthday. She did blame Karyn for introducing Elena to drugs, and had her name added to the list of visitors who were not to be allowed access to Elena.
She needn’t have bothered. Two days after Elena moved out, Jan moved in. Jan was into motorcycles and all things fast, and she and Karyn hit it off immediately. Somehow, Elena found out about Jan, and committed suicide by hanging herself with a bed sheet from the transom over her door.
* * *
Salla Vacek saw red. Michael Samuelle would pay. Not only had he stolen his grandson, he had killed his daughter. He must not be allowed to live.
* * *
“Mum,” said Nikita tentatively into the phone.
“Nikita!” cried her mother. “Where the hell have you been? I got people all over the place looking for you.”
“It’s hard to explain. I need you to do me a giant favor.”
“First you need to get these people off my back,” Roberta whined. “You broke your contract, baby girl. Left l'Éclat without so much as a forwarding address. And the police tried to book me on burglary charges!”
“Burglary!” exclaimed Nikita. “What happened?”
Suddenly remembering that she had been guilty, Roberta said, “That can wait for another time. Right now, you need to come home.”
Nikita resolutely stuck with the script Michael had given her. “Did you get the deposit slip Detective O’Brien sent you?”
“Yeah,” her mother confirmed. “What was that about?” Always look a gift horse in the mouth.
“It’s partial payment for the favor I need.”
“What favor?” Roberta asked suspiciously.
“Not now. Call me when you get to work. My number is 480-1281.”
Roberta dutifully repeated the number and Nikita ended the call. Roberta wondered if this was the type of information Mr. Suba wanted her to get. She would wait until she talked to Nikita. She knew Michael was worth millions. She didn’t know squat about Suba. She would see who made her the better offer.
************
Adam loved his new home. The indoor pool had a waterslide, and Adam would have played on it all day had Michael not grown exhausted from treading water. He and Adam took a bath together in the Jacuzzi tub, and Adam was delighted when Michael obligingly turned up the jets full force. He was so busy playing he didn’t even realize that Michael had washed his hair, something he absolutely hated. He was holding his collection of superballs against one of the jets, letting them go one by one and watching them ‘ping’ across the room. He shouted with glee.
Nikita heard Michael and Adam from the bedroom. She loved being a part of this family tableau—she just wished that she and Michael could make it legal. She wished they could settle down somewhere, even in Marseilles, in a real house with a real garden for Adam. Maybe even a picket fence and a cocker spaniel named Winston. She, of course would have a cat. Nikita was a cat person, and was always bringing home strays as a child. Naturally, Roberta threw them out as soon as she found them—food was too scarce to share with some “goddamned flea infested animal,” Even as an adult, Nikita always left a bowl of water and a plate full of cat kibble on her back porch as a welcoming gesture. She didn’t own a cat because she traveled so much, but this way she could pretend she did.
* * *
Roberta agreed to help them out, as long as her monthly allowance stayed at $15,000. Nikita started to protest, but Michael had cut her off. He would do whatever it took to keep her and Adam safe. Roberta was friendly with the night desk clerk, Hillinger, and was able to persuade him not to book anyone in suite 412, but to make it appear to be occupied in the computer. Hillinger had no problem with this. He just figured Roberta had a boyfriend, and wanted a nicer place than her house to have fun in. He warned her about Memorial Day weekend, though. He may not be able to let her keep the suite. Roberta shrugged and told him she would deal with it when the time came.
* * *
Suba had finally traced Michael and Nikita to a Motel 6 in Corpus Christi, Texas. They had been registered as Sage and Peter Philo, and had a little dark-haired boy and a red-headed nanny with them. This was back in January, though, and their trail had grown cold again. Suba’s face twisted into a cruel smile. Now that he had a name, the game was on. They only had a three month lead on him. He would bring home his quarry. He always did.
* * *.
Two whole months in the same suite of rooms. “It was heaven,” thought Nikita. She hadn’t complained, but she was growing desperately tired of constantly being on the move. She asked, and received permission, to give Madeline Frayne a call. It really wasn’t fair what Nikita had done to her and to l'Éclat by disappearing so suddenly. Madeline did not sound thrilled to hear her voice, but she did agree to meet with Nikita at l'Éclat. Donning a dark wig and sunglasses, Nikita took a taxi to her old office.
Madeline was not unsympathetic to Nikita’s plight, but business was business. Nikita agreed to pay whatever damages she had incurred by breaking her contract, and let Madeline know that she would be more than willing to return to l'Éclat as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Madeline had her sign a non-compete agreement to that effect, and was in happier mood when Nikita left than she had been when Nikita had first called.
* * *
Adam’s third birthday, by necessity, was celebrated quietly in their hotel suite. Michael let him order whatever he wanted from the children’s room service menu, and they all feasted on hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. Michael and Nikita had taken him to a toy store earlier in the day, and given him 30 minutes to pick out all the toys he wanted. He started running up and down the aisles, pushing his little plastic shopping cart in front of him. He finally ended up with six new cartridges for his computer, Tickle Me Elmo, a set of Hot Wheels cars, and some construction paper and colored pencils. It was these last items that made Michael tear up a bit. He was thrilled that Adam wanted to draw, and he promised he would teach him everything he could without interfering with his natural style.
Well, at least Adam had a good sense of color, Michael consoled himself. Adam’s drawing of him and Nikita were the work of a typical three-year old, with balloon bodies, shrunken heads, and sticks for arms and legs. He supposed Adam couldn’t be a prodigy at everything. Nikita bought some fridge magnets and proudly hung Adam’s drawing on the mini-bar. He had painstakingly written “MOM AND DADDY’ at the top of the page, and Nikita couldn’t have been more proud.
************
The rest of the summer passed quickly by. Adam had been with them for a year now, and he had never once asked after his mother. He and Nikita were learning Spanish from watching Sesame Street, Adam having given up on Chinese rather quickly. He and his father played in the pool every day, and Michael’s dark hair was taking on a cinnamon cast with a few golden streaks here and there. Sometimes Nikita slathered on the sun block and joined them in their games of underwater tag. Adam swam like a fish now, and was quick for someone with such little arms and legs. They had only had to give up their suite once, on the July 4th weekend, and the four of them camped out in a single room behind the front desk that was always kept vacant for emergencies.
* * *
Simone was suspicious. When she demanded that Roberta raise her “allowance” from $3000 a month to $4000, Roberta had done so without batting an eye. This told Simone that she was getting much more than $5000 a month from Nikita, and she was determined to find out how and why. She remembered Michael’s threat vividly, but Nikita had the right to know that she had been robbed by her own mother, didn’t she? She knew that Nikita must be back in town, as her mother was no longer whining about constant calls from l'Éclat. She wondered if that man, Suba, knew that Nikita was in San Francisco, and calculated how much the information would be worth to him. She would go through Roberta’s apartment and find Suba’s phone number.
* * *
Michael awakened slowly from a vivid dream. He had been dreaming that a naked Nikita had come to him, begging him to make love to her. She was touching him all over, arousing every pore, and he was so close to climaxing that he couldn’t stand it. He became fully awake only to realize that only part of what he felt was a dream—Nikita lay behind him, her naked breasts boring holes through his back, her left arm flung around his waist and her fingers brushing the tip of his arousal. Mon Dieu! Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? They had been sharing a bed for nearly a year. He was not made of stone. He didn't know how much longer he could wait, despite his promises.
Carefully, he lifted her hand away from his manhood and moved it up to his chest. Big mistake. Nikita snuggled even closer to him and started rubbing his chest lazily, trailing her nails lightly over his nipples. Quickly, he threw off her arm and stepped out of bed. His sudden movements awakened Nikita, who sat up quickly, holding the sheet up to her shoulders. “Michael? Is something wrong?” She looked at the clock. It was just past two. Michael didn’t answer, and she started to ask him again when he happened to turn and she saw him in silhouette. Instantly she knew what his problem was, and that she had been the cause. “Michael, come back to bed,” she implored.
“Take off your panties,” Michael rasped. Nikita was in shock. Was this the big night? Did she feel ready? She wasn’t sure. She was nervous and uncertain. Michael saw the hesitancy in her eyes, and spoke reassuringly. “I’m going to leave my shorts on. I just want to try something, okay? We can stop if you don’t like it.”
We can stop if you don’t like it. How many times had she heard those words before? And every time she had liked it. This was Michael. He would never do anything to hurt her or anything she wasn’t ready for. She slipped her panties off and dropped them by the side of the bed. Michael got back under the covers, and began to kiss her gently. The kisses grew deeper, then his head dropped lower, raining butterfly kisses on her neck and shoulder until he licked the tip of her right breast. Nikita gasped. This was one of those things she had liked. A lot. He drew the nipple into his mouth and sucked gently, teasing the left breast with his hand. Nikita moaned, burying her fingers in Michael’s hair, holding him there. Suddenly his head dipped lower, and he ran his tongue around her belly button. This was new. Nikita liked it.
Michael kissed and licked his way back up to her mouth, then looked her straight in the eye. “I want to touch you,” he told her gently. “I won’t hurt you—I swear. If you want me to stop, just say ‘Michael,’ and I will. Is that okay? Can I touch you, Nikita?” Nikita was torn. A part of her wanted to know what it was like to be loved by Michael—another part remembered the rapes of a six-year old girl. She and Michael just stared at each other for a full minute, then Nikita slowly nodded.
He kissed her again, and his right hand made its way lazily down past her breasts and stomach until it rested on top of her golden curls. Nikita’s legs were clamped firmly together. Michael stroked her hip and the top of her thigh, all the while murmuring for her to just relax. Nikita felt the sudden warm dampness again, and knew that her body was ready. Gamely, she opened her legs minutely. Michael cupped his hand over her mound, letting his fingers brush back and forth against her womanhood. He stoked with one finger between her folds, and soon his finger was wet with Nikita’s own juices. He smiled. He stroked her inner petals with his wet finger, from her opening to her tiny pearl. Nikita jerked under him, but made no sound.
He removed his hand, and brought it up to Nikita’s face so she could see his finger with her own eyes before he placed it in his mouth and sucked it sensuously. Nikita’s womanhood was throbbing. Was this what sex was like? She knew Michael had left the job unfinished, because there had been no penetration. What was he trying to do—drive her crazy?
Michael rolled onto his back, pulling Nikita on top of him. His erection throbbed between their stomachs, tethered by his shorts. “This is what you do to me, Nikita--I don’t know how much longer I can hold out,” he confessed.
Nikita flushed guiltily. Now she had some idea what Michael was going through. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.
Michael sighed. “Wear your gown to bed. I’ll wear my tank shirt. Maybe that will help.” Nikita quickly got out of bed and pulled on her l'Éclat nightshirt and brought Michael his shirt. They both turned on their sides facing away from each other, and tried to get some sleep.
************
There was a personal ad in the paper, supposedly from a couple named Nicholas and Michelle, wanting desperately to adopt a baby. Michael dialed the 800 number, knowing that O’Brien needed to speak with him. Nikita noted that Michael said very little, but that he had turned pale, and was a little shaky when he got off the phone.
“What’s wrong,” she asked. “What happened?”
“Elena’s dead,” he answered flatly. “Suicide. Apparently her lover took a lover while she was in rehab.”
“Oh my God, Michael. When was this?”
“Six months ago.”
Nikita was shocked. They had been so insulated in their happy little make-believe world that they had forgotten that life around them continued day by day.
“It gets better,” Michael went on. “Vacek holds me personally responsible for ‘murdering’ his daughter, and has put an assassin on the payroll.”
Nikita’s eyes were huge. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.
“I should go,” he said dully. “Vacek wants me. Not you, not Julie, not even Adam. You’re all in danger because of me. I need to disappear to keep you safe.”
“No way!” retorted Nikita, eyes flashing. “We’ll talk to Julie, but you and I are a team, remember? I’m in this for the long haul. You are not going to get rid of me so easily.” She thought for a moment. “You’re right about Adam. Julie will keep him safe, and Salla would never harm him, even if he did find him. But wherever you go, buster, I’m going too. I am so not losing you again.”
She stepped into his arms and they held each other, neither one saying a work.
* * *
Simone contacted Suba, and told him she had information on Michael Samuelle. They met at an outdoor café on Fisherman’s Wharf. Simone pulled her sweater tightly around her, wondering why he had chosen to meet outside rather than inside someplace comfortable on this crisp autumn day. Like Volare’s. She remembered the free meal she got from Michael, and was sure this information was worth double what Michael had paid her.
Suddenly she looked up to see Suba sitting opposite her. She hadn’t even seen him approach. “What information do you have for me?” he asked without preamble.
What was with this guy? Didn’t he realize that she got paid first? “What’s it worth to you?” she asked saucily.
“Your life,” he answered, moving his lapel aside so she could see the gun he was carrying.
Simone gulped. This was not going well at all. She stared, bug-eyed.
Suba leaned forward, his left hand still on his lapel. “I don’t have all day.”
“Roberta Wirth is Nikita’s mother. You know, Nikita the l'Éclat model?”
Suba blinked.
Simone went on hurriedly “Nikita and Michael Samuelle are together, and Roberta is in contact with Nikita. I think she knows where they are.”
“Where is this Roberta?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“She works at the Howard Johnson near the university.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very informative.”
“But what about my money,” whined Simone.
“I’m sorry,” replied Suba.
Before she could react, his right hand had reached for his gun and he fired two silenced rounds at her. Simone was leaning back in her chair, her eyes still wide with shock, when Suba casually got up from his seat and walked down the Wharf to his waiting car.
************
Michael’s 34th birthday was a subdued affair. Julie and Adam would be leaving at the end of the week to stay with Julie’s relatives in Ireland. Nikita consoled the little boy by telling him that he could learn a new language, Irish, for Daddy. She side-stepped his questions about when he would see Daddy again.
Michael had contacted Helmut Volker. The assassin, he learned, was a man named Suba. He was employed by the Russian mafia for a number of positions, his personal favorite being that of killer. Even when a job had been cancelled because a deal had been brokered, Suba followed through on the hit, claiming he had never received the message. He was a sick and twisted bastard, Volker had warned, and was on their Yellow list.
* * *
Roberta thought Suba was kind of handsome, if you went for that pony-tail look. It didn’t do anything for her personally, but it didn’t look bad on the man sitting across from her at Nikita’s kitchen table. Besides, he was talking about a humongous amount of money, and a sum like that could make the ugliest of toads look handsome to Roberta.
Half a million bucks! The guy was talking half a million bucks. And all she had to do was tell him where Michael Samuelle was staying. Granted, $15,000 was a lot of money, and she was living trouble-free, but for 500 thou she could quit her job, move to Miami and live large for the rest of her life. She wouldn’t need Michael or Nikita. Never really wanted a kid, anyway. Only reason she never got married. Guys would take one look at a kid and run hell for leather.
Resentment for Nikita growing, Roberta made up her mind. Besides, she didn’t even know Michael. She didn’t owe him a thing.
* * *
The Russian mafia was tired of Salla Vacek. His whining and complaining had been going on for over a year. The kid was gone—suck it up and move on. Besides, Vacek hadn’t told them that the kid was with his dad. The dad was family—where was the injustice? Salla Vacek was not that important to their organization that they felt the need to waste any more time on him or his problems. They contacted Suba and rescinded their order for a hit on Michael Samuelle, and told Vacek he would have to settle his personal problems on his own time.
* * *
Michael and Nikita went with Julie and Adam to the airport. As they were leaving the hotel room, Nikita suddenly plucked a long, blonde hair from her brush and placed in between the door and the doorjamb. “Saw it in a detective movie once,” she smiled lamely. Adam sat on Michael’s lap, his head buried in Michael’s shoulder all the way to the airport. Nikita could see that he wanted to cry, but wouldn’t let himself. Her heart went out to both of them. Michael reviewed with Julie the technique for putting an ad in the San Francisco Chronicle whenever she wanted to contact them.
Good-byes were short and sweet, and took place out by the curb. Michael had no idea if anyone was watching the airport, and although Julie was wearing her black wig and Adam’s appearance had changed drastically in a year, he and Nikita were too recognizable to risk going into the terminal itself.
Michael was back in the taxi before Julie and Adam had even entered the building. It was just too painful for him to prolong. Nikita grieved with him, and it was a long, silent ride back to the hotel.
Michael started to put his keycard in the door, when suddenly Nikita jerked his arm away. “Look,” she whispered, pointing with a shaky finger. Michael had no idea what she was pointing at. “My hair,” she reminded him. Michael stooped down and picked the golden strand off the floor.
“Someone’s been in our room,” he whispered back.
“Or still is! Let’s get out of here.”
They turned silently to walk back down the hall and had just reached the elevators when their door flew open and two muffled shots rang out.
Michael shoved Nikita in the elevator and pressed the top floor, as well as the seventh. He didn’t know if Suba was taking the stairs or the other elevator, he had no idea where they would meet up again. Focus, Michael. Focus. Think of Adam. Think of Nikita.
Exiting the elevator on the seventh floor, Michael grabbed Nikita’s hand and ran for the other set of elevators on the opposite side of the building. He pressed LL to take him to the laundry room. Suba may be a trained assassin, but Michael and Nikita had lived in this hotel for seven months--they knew every nook and cranny. Suba didn’t.
* * *
On the other hand, Suba hadn’t gotten where he was by being stupid. He hadn’t fallen for Michael’s ‘up button’ routine, and had immediately gone to the kitchen. When he assured himself that there was no feasible way out of there, he made his way to the laundry room.
************
Suba entered the laundry room without a sound. Michael pointed at Suba’s feet, and Nikita gasped before Michael could put his hand over her mouth. Hearing the sound, Suba fired a shot. Michael and Nikita played a real-life game of cat-and-mouse in the laundry room, ducking through sheets and around steamers till they made their way back to the doorway. They raced on silent feet to the kitchen, leaving a frustrated Suba to find his way out of the white cotton maze.
Suba was close behind, and he fired two more shots, one of which glanced off Michael’s arm as they raced into the kitchen. With unspoken communication they dove, first Nikita, then Michael, through the incinerator chute into the oven in the alleyway below. Suba saw Michael’s feet disappearing and paused. Should he follow, or race around the outside of the building to trap them in the alley? While he pondered, Michael helped Nikita climb out of the oven, and they ducked down beside it, waiting for Suba. They were not disappointed. Ten seconds later his athletic form came hurtling through the chute. Michael jumped up and slammed the lid on the oven and closed the latch as Nikita held her breath and turned the incinerator on. She buried her face in Michael’s chest as she heard Suba’s muffled screams. Michael held her close, breathing heavily.
It was several moments before Nikita noticed that Michael was bleeding.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” he reassured her. He had always wanted to say that.
“But we just crawled through garbage. It could be infected. We both need to get cleaned up, and you need to have that looked at.” She thought a moment. “I’ve got an idea.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, a freshly scrubbed Michael was sitting at Carla’s kitchen table, having his arm stitched by her boyfriend-of-the-month, who happened to be interning at the nearby hospital. “Chainsaw, hmm? Yep, those things can be a might slippery if you don’t hold on to ‘em just the right way.”
Steve looked like a typical Ivy League doctor: tall, thin, glasses, goatee--until he opened his mouth. His deep Southern drawl made Nikita want to giggle. “I’d look into gettin’ me a tetanus shot, too, if I was you. Don’t wanna take any chances.”
Michael agreed, and Carla sent Steve on his way.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Carla,” Nikita began. I hope we haven’t put you in any danger by coming here.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Carla said. “I’m just so happy to see you again. I’ve really missed you. You disappeared without a trace!”
“Now you know why,” shrugged Nikita.
“So is it safe? I mean, now that this Suba guy is toast?” Nikita winced. Carla back-pedaled quickly. “I mean, now that you don’t have an assassin after you, can you bring Adam home again?”
“I don’t know if we’re in the clear,” said Michael heavily. “As long as Salla Vacek is alive, he’ll want me dead.”
“That sucks.”
The three of them sat in silent agreement.
“The worst part,” began Michael, “is that I’m going to have to go back to Marseilles.”
“Michael, no!” cried Nikita.
“I have to, my love. Perry Bauer isn’t CEO of Samuelle’s; he’s only the office manager. I can’t continue to run my business by telegram.”
“Then I’m going with you,” Nikita said stubbornly. “On l'Éclat business. I’m sure Madeline will be glad to have me working again, and I can keep you out of trouble in France.”
“Madeline would kill to have you back now. The new winter shade is Dusty Rose, and it’s even better than Misty Mauve,” enthused Carla.
“Then it’s settled,” pronounced Nikita, waving off any protestations from Michael. “We’ll stop by the clinic to get your tetanus shot, have Madeline draw up my new contract, then fly to Marseilles by the end of the week.”
“Maybe I should make you CEO,” quipped Michael, pulling her close.
************
Even with his “unofficial” Interpol guards, Michael felt like a sitting duck as he walked through the doors of Samuelle’s. He was greeted effusively by his staff, Perry Bauer in particular. Meetings stretched on for hours. All he wanted to do was go home to his loft, crawl in bed with his arms around Nikita, and fall into a dreamless sleep. It never occurred to him that Nikita might have other plans.
“What do you mean you’re rooming with one of the other models? Are you upset with me?” Michael was plainly hurt.
“No, of course not,” she assured him. “I just think it would be better if we spent some time apart after all the time we spent together. Maybe we could use a little break from each other.” Nikita was thinking primarily of Michael’s libido and, to some degree, her own. She honestly thought her suggestion would be well received.
Michael’s feelings were not the only thing hurt—his ego had suffered a crushing blow as well. He thought he meant the world to Nikita, as she did to him. He couldn’t imagine why she wanted to live apart from him, especially now.
“Of course, it’s up to you,” he said magnanimously, “but the offer is always open.” Clearly the sparkle had gone out of his eyes.
Nikita’s inner voice was screaming at him. Elena is dead. We can be together for always. We can be married. We can be a family. All you have to do is ask. Just say the words and I am yours forever. But Michael didn’t hear her.
“Let me make a call to Volker to make sure you have adequate security,” he said quietly. Nikita chewed her lip, but said nothing.
Once the arrangements were made, Michael had Luc drive Nikita to her new flat. He brooded for another hour in his office instead of reading his paperwork, then had Luc take him to his loft. His cleaning woman had done an excellent job. It was as if he had never been away. There was just one problem. Nikita’s toiletries were all over the bathroom. He thought about packing them up and having them sent to her, but decided to put it off. She might change her mind, he thought hopefully.
* * *
Nikita lay in her single bed, looking at the ceiling. It was strange. You would think after sleeping most of her adult life alone she would be used to it, but she could not get comfortable without her nightly “companion.” Michael had been like her security blanket over the last year or so, much like his T-shirt had been during her childhood. She liked watching him sleep, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest with each deeply measured breath. Not that she didn’t enjoy Celine’s company—she even had the same accent as Michael--but it just wasn’t the same.
After a while, and feeling like a complete idiot, she rummaged through her bureau drawer until she found Michael’s À la Vie! t-shirt and spread it over her pillowcase, laying her head upon it. It was as if she felt Michael’s arms around her, his breath lightly in her ear, and she fell immediately into a deep and peaceful sleep.
* * *
Salla Vacek was livid when he learned that Michael had returned to Marseilles, and that he had brought his two-bit whore with him. Turn-about was fair play, no? Michael had murdered his daughter—he would eliminate the whore!
Estrella checked on Salla in his study. He was reviewing some paperwork and chuckling. She was relieved to see him happier than he had been in a long time. If she had known that his happiness stemmed from madness, she would have felt anything but relieved.
************
On their third day in Marseilles, Michael called Nikita at l'Éclat and asked her out to dinner. “I know it’s short notice,” he apologized, “but I miss you.”
“You do?” responded Nikita, thrilled. “I mean, I miss you too.”
“I have some gallery business I have to finish up, but I’ll have Luc pick you up at your flat at 7:30. Will that be all right?”
“That will be fine,” said Nikita smoothly, while mentally reviewing Celine’s closet. She didn’t own anything that Michael hadn’t seen before.
“Until tonight, then.”
“Tonight,” agreed Nikita.
Unfortunately, Celine was shorter and much more full-figured than Nikita. Nothing she had tried on fit. Nikita hurriedly took a cab back to l'Éclat and went immediately to wardrobe. She was trying on gowns when Madeline paid a surprise visit to the fitting rooms.
“Hullo,” said Nikita, surprised. “What brings you to France?”
“Oh, getting an early start on the Winter Kick-off,” Madeline returned nonchalantly.
A*very* early start, thought Nikita, but she didn’t say a word because she recognized Paul Wolfe’s driver standing in the hallway, obviously waiting for Madeline.
Finally, Nikita found the perfect dress. It was similar to the one she had worn to Volare’s with Michael, only sleeveless and with a slightly longer hemline. Even the color was the same, though this dress was in satin while the other had been silk. She found matching stiletto pumps—she would be the same height as Michael, but she knew he wouldn’t mind—and a pearled clutch. She decided to wear her hair up, and asked one of the stylists to do it for her. Michael was used to seeing it straight down or back in a pony-tail. For some reason, she felt like knocking his socks off.
* * *
Michael was already seated in the window seat of the restaurant when she arrived. He was resplendent in black Versace with a bright purple tie—a birthday gift from Adam. He rose as she was seated, and smiled appreciatively at her outfit. She could tell at once he drew the parallel between this dress and Carla’s.
When the wine steward came to the table, he ordered something rapidly in French, never taking his eyes off her. Nikita frowned inwardly in dismay. He had forgotten again that she didn’t drink. And here she thought that after over a year of living together they would have picked up on each other’s personal habits. He smiled warmly. She did her best to smile back.
When the wine steward returned, he was carrying a 2-litre bottle of Pepsi. Nikita’s eyes grew huge. The steward unscrewed the top off of the bottle and gave it to Michael, who sniffed it discerningly, then indicated that the steward should pour him a sample. He picked up his class and swirled the Pepsi around, noting the clarity. Nikita started to giggle. Michael looked at her in chastisement. Finding the vintage acceptable, Michael told the steward to fill both glasses. He did, then left the remainder of the bottle to chill. Nikita finally burst out laughing.
“You are such a rat!” she chided.
“Moi?” Michael said in mock seriousness. “I requested only the best for the woman I love.”
They toasted each other, and Nikita drank deeply.
* * *
They had finished dinner, and were picking at the remains of their Crème Brule when Michael was about to ask Nikita the question she had been waiting to hear. Suddenly, shots rang out, and two small holes appeared in the place in the window where Nikita’s head had been just before she had bent forward to hear Michael’s request.
Michael threw Nikita to the floor and covered her with his body, then jumped up and ran out into the street. Nikita was right behind him yelling, “Michael, no!” But it was too late. The shooter was long gone.
“You’re moving back in with me. Tonight.” Flowery words of devotion went out the window. Nikita could have been killed tonight, and all because of him.
Nikita agreed.
************
Walking into Michael’s loft was like stepping back in time. He still needed a decorator, she noted, although his new security system was extremely sophisticated. He had to show it to her several times before she caught on. There was also a system on the second floor to secure the living area while they were in bed. No midnight snacks from now on.
Nikita took her bag upstairs, and blushed when she saw her shampoos and cosmetics taking up most of the counter space in Michael’s bathroom. Either he was really sure of himself, or he really missed her. She had her answer when she commented on the second bath towel on the towel rack.
“I was hoping you would change your mind,” he said, eyes downcast. She turned to him and walked into his embrace.
“I’m glad I had the chance to,” she said, a shiver running through her.
“It had to be Vacek,” Michael pronounced. “No one else has any reason to want to get back at me anymore. The man is insane. He needs to be taken care of.”
“What do you mean, ‘taken care of?’” asked Nikita, brow arched. “Surely you’re not thinking turnabout is fair play?”
“Of course not,” Michael reassured her. “I’m sure Interpol knows by now what happened tonight. I’m anxious to see what they do about it.”
* * *
Unfortunately, Interpol didn’t perceive Vacek as a threat to world peace. He was not a terrorist, and therefore would remain Green-Listed.
Helmut Volker made an unofficial phone call to someone he thought he would never see again. A woman he had known briefly but quite well. His former wife. A woman known to him as Anna Guerner.
* * *
Michael showed Nikita how to arm the security system at the top of the stairs before they went into the bedroom. Walking to their respective sides of the bed, they slipped under the covers. Nikita reached up to the lamp and pulled the chain, plunging the room into semi-darkness. She noted that Michael was wearing his shorts, but not his tank shirt. She knew the shorts were for her benefit, and regretted that she had to cramp his style. Nikita looked over at Michael to see if he was sleeping. He was lying on his back with his arms folded beneath his head. His eyes were wide open.
“Michael?”
“Yes??”
“At the restaurant. What did you want to ask me?” She thought she knew the answer. She hoped she did, but she wanted to be certain.
“It can wait.”
“Maybe it can’t.” She rolled onto her stomach and put her left forearm on his chest, propping her chin on it so she could look him in the eyes. “What if one of us dies tomorrow, Michael? Not necessarily gets shot, but gets hit by a car, or gets mugged or something.”
Michael started to speak, but she waved him to silence. “Maybe there’s another option. I mean, we could live this day like it was our last.”
“It very well could be,” he replied quietly.
She shivered and nestled closer to Michael, her head over his heart. He held her for a few moments, then gently pushed her aside and got out of bed. Hurt, Nikita rolled back to her side of the bed, facing away from him, her eyes brimming with tears.
Michael returned to the bed, kneeling beside her. “Nikita?”
“What?” she snapped, a little too harshly.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
So now he wants me. I don’t think so. Nikita refused to respond.
“Nikita?” he asked again, a little more insistently.
Heaving a great “who cares?” sigh, Nikita rolled over to face Michael. He was holding something in his hand. Something that looked like—
“It was my mother’s,” said Michael hoarsely, looking into Nikita’s eyes. “I stole it from Aunt Josephine when I was a boy. It was supposed to go to Martine, but when she entered the convent, no one ever noticed it was missing.”
Nikita pulled the chain on the lamp, lighting up the room. The ring was beautiful. It was a small, emerald-cut sapphire, surrounded by tiny diamonds. The tears Nikita was holding back fell at last, only this time they were tears of joy.
“Put it on me?” she asked shyly.
Solemnly, Michael took her left hand and slid the ring on her third finger. It fit perfectly. “Nikita, will you marry me?
“Oh, yes, Michael!” She threw her arms around his neck and rained kisses all over his face, neck and shoulders. He grabbed her face and pulled her mouth to his, kissing her deeply. Their fingers tangled in each others hair—they couldn’t get close enough. Michael pressed her back against the pillows. She opened her legs and he lay between them, both reveling in the sensation.
Suddenly Michael sat up. Nikita grabbed his arm. Her eyes were shining. “Michael, I think I’m ready,” she said boldly.
“Not yet,” said Michael, trying to calm his breathing. “Not until we’re married. We’ll make it official on our wedding night.”
Torn between wanting to remind him of her ‘living this day like it was our last’ speech and wanting to honor Michael’s request, she chose the latter, slipping her legs demurely back under the covers. They each reached out to take the other’s hand, and this is how they slept until morning.
************
Madeline was shocked by what had happened at the restaurant, and insisted that Nikita move to a high-security building immediately. Nikita assured her it had been taken care of. Madeline also spoke to Paul Wolfe about Michael’s feelings regarding Salla Vacek and his need for revenge. She wanted Ambassador Vacek psychologically tested or removed from his position. Paul promised he would look into it for her.
Paul Wolfe was a busy man. As the American Ambassador to France, it was his job to represent the United States in a positive light overseas. He was to resolve conflicts and pave the way to harmonic cohabitation with other nationalities within the country.
Today, however, he wore a different hat. From the Perch he looked down past the briefing area to Comm. One of the profilers was running a sim on Salla Vacek and the best way to take him out of play. Once the highest POS was achieved, he would select the team leader, head the briefing, and debrief the mission. Today, he was known as Operations.
Section One had received an unofficial request for help from Interpol. One of their agents, whom Section had used in a Valentine mission, required assistance in neutralizing Salla Vacek, the East Indian ambassador to France. Operations knew Vacek’s comings and goings intimately and, though he had no personal gripe with the man, agreed that he was insane. He granted this favor to the Interpol agent, Volker, who believed he had once been married to one of their operatives, a woman he knew only as Anna Guerner.
* * *
Jurgen was entertaining, as usual. Being the Swiss ambassador to France did have its perks. Women really went for the diplomat thing. The mansion that came with the job didn’t hurt. No, most of the time Jurgen loved his job. All he really had to do was remain neutral. This had been part of the Swiss ambassador’s job for the last 75+ years.
Jurgen was just about to invite his lovely guest upstairs to see his etchings when his phone rang.
“Etienne,” the voice said. “Come in.”
Being an ambassador rocked. Being a Level 5 Operative for Section One, the most covert anti-terrorist group on the planet, sucked.
* * *
News of Salla Vacek’s untimely demise was all over the papers. It appeared that he had been watching television in his den when he suddenly had a heart attack and died. He’d had no history of heart problems, but sometimes these things just happened.
Michael felt obligated to go to see Estrella, but Nikita persuaded him to call her instead. Michael agreed that a phone call was the right decision. Emotions were still too raw. Estrella had lost her grandson, her daughter and now her husband, all in just over a year. Michael and Nikita agreed that Adam should be allowed to visit Estrella as often as possible as soon as he came home.
However, Estrella needed family now, and as soon as Salla’s will was probated, she moved back to India to be with relatives. Salla had left a sizeable trust fund for Adam, one which Michael vowed he would never touch. The money had to be dirty, and he would not have Adam soiled in that way. When Adam was old enough to understand the reason why, Michael would suggest he donate the monies and interest to a charity of his choosing.
* * *
“Are you sure you don’t want to invite your mother to the wedding?” Michael asked again.
“I don’t know how you can even ask me that, after what she did. She sold us out to an assassin, Michael! She chose blood money over her own daughter!”
“The only reason I keep bringing it up is because we’re on the cover of every tabloid known to man. Your mother is bound to see it, and she may try to crash the ceremony. It would be better if she were an invited guest rather than a party crasher,” explained Michael.
“Buy her off,” Nikita said coldly. “It worked before.”
Conceding defeat, Michael picked up the phone to call O’Brien. He knew that Roberta had moved to Miami—it shouldn’t be hard to track her down.
************
Michael had flown to Ireland to bring Adam home, and Carla was lounging on Michael’s bed, watching Nikita packing for her honeymoon in Fiji.
“So, what’s he like?” Carla asked, grinning.
“Who, Michael? You’ve met him. You know what he’s like.”
“No, Miss Prim-and-Proper. What’s he like in bed?” She laid back and smoothed her hand over the coverlet. “I bet he’s absolutely delicious.”
“Well, you’ll never find out, so there’s no point in asking,” side-stepped Nikita.
“That good?” responded Carla, sitting up. “Wow. Great looking and a great lover. You are so lucky.”
“Yeah,” said Nikita, a dreamy look in her eyes. “I am.”
“So, what’s his best move,” persisted Carla.
“None of your business!” retorted Nikita, cheeks growing pink.
“Come on, Nik. Drop a crumb for your best friend.”
“His best move.” Nikita pretended to think a moment, then told the truth. “Everything.” It was true. From “that” night in the motel to their ‘hand dancing,’ everything Michael did left her breathless and wanting more.
“Is he a tit man or an ass man?”
“Both,” Nikita responded automatically, then blushed crimson. Again, it was true. Michael made her feel like her kneecaps were sexy.
“Tell me he has a flaw,” begged Carla.
Nikita thought a moment. “He leaves the toilet seat up.” They both roared with laughter.
* * *
Adam was a seasoned flyer by now, and he teased Michael during the flight to France by rattling off a few phrases in Irish. This was one language Michael didn’t know. Michael stroked Adam’s long hair. “We’ll have to get this cut for the wedding,” he said absently.
“Daddy! You’re going to marry Mom?” Adam shouted excitedly.
Michael could tell who on the flight spoke English by the eyebrows that question raised.
“Yes, Adam. Mom and I are getting married as soon as we get home. Does that make you happy?”
“Oh, yes, Daddy! I love Mommy!”
He scooted off Michael’s lap to run across the aisle to Julie. “Did you hear that, Julie? Daddy and Mommy are getting married!”
“Yes, Adam. That’s wonderful news,” Julie responded, winking at Michael.
Michael just rolled his eyes.
* * *
Marco O’Brien found Roberta Wirth. She was living in a modest section of Miami, in a modest home, and he suspected that, as long as she stayed away from the ponies, she should be able to live out her life in relative comfort. Michael’s offer would sweeten the pot considerably.
“Half a million bucks? What does he want me to do—kill somebody?” she scoffed.
“No. You tried that already. Didn’t take.”
Roberta had the decency to look embarrassed before she got defensive. “I supported her ass for nine years in Sydney, and she becomes a super model and what does she do for me? Squat. I had to track her down to let her know I was alive. She sure as hell wasn’t looking for me. But she did all right, though. I saw in the Enquirer she’s going to marry her pretty-boy millionaire boyfriend. She spreads her legs and she’s set for life. I do the same and what do I get? An ungrateful kid.”
“Are you finished?” O’Brien asked quietly. Roberta remained mute.
“Here is the cashiers cheque for $500,000. All you have to do is promise to stay out of Nikita’s life forever. Do you think you can manage that?”
“Definitely,” Roberta replied, plucking the cheque from Marco’s fingers and stuffing it down her bra.
“Then our business here is finished. Good day.”
“It sure was for me,” the detective heard her say as he walked back to his car.
* * *
Adam ran his fingers through his short hair. “It feels funny,” he complained.
“You’ll get used to it,” said his father smiling. He, too, had endured a haircut; still long on top but short enough on the sides not to need mousse.
“Well, I think you both look very handsome,” declared Nikita. She’d had two inches trimmed off, but no one could tell.
Michael’s phone rang. “You did?” he said. “How is he? He will? That’s fantastic. I owe you big time.”
“Who was that, Michael?” asked Nikita, curiosity piqued.
“Oh, just business,” he replied, but he didn’t look at her. He could never lie to her and look her in the eye.
************
“Now, the groom will enter here,” directed Father Eugene, “with his groomsmen behind him.” Michael took his place. Next to him stood Helmut Volker and the Birkoff twins.
“Then the bridesmaids walk down the aisle. Step, pause. Step, pause. That’s it.” Madeline was first, followed by Julie, and then Carla, the maid of honor.
“Now the father of the bride walks the bride down the aisle.” Chuckling followed by “aahs” ensued as Adam gamely held his arm up high enough for Nikita to hold on to.
“This is the father of the bride?” asked the priest, understandably confused.
“Adam is our son,” Michael explained. “Neither Nikita nor I have any other living male relative.”
“A friend of the family, perhaps?” Father Eugene asked weakly.
“What’s the matter? I can do it,” said Adam determinedly.
“Of course you can, Adam,” said Nikita. “Father Eugene is just confused.”
Adam wiped the scowl off his face and looked up at Nikita adoringly. “I can’t wait until you’re my real Mommy.”
Nikita picked him up and held him close. “Neither can I, sweetie.” She had already filed the paperwork petitioning to legally adopt Adam.
* * *
The rehearsal dinner was a lot of fun, with Nikita finding out much more about Michael than he would ever have revealed about himself. The Birkoff twins were a font of information, and Helmut had a few “Michael” stories himself, despite the threat to cut off his cigar supply completely. Nikita, of course, had no happy childhood memories to share, and Michael noticed the sad look that flashed across her face now and then and he squeezed her hand.
He stood up. “Did I ever tell you about the first time Nikita tried brie?” he asked. Nikita looked at him in surprise. Michael scrunched up his face and wrinkled his nose in a perfect imitation of Nikita. The table roared. “And once, when we went swimming, she wore a pair of shorts I had—“ The table was all ears. Nikita felt her eyes brimming with tears. Michael was taking the two happy days in her childhood and stretching them into a lifetime of good memories. She loved him now more than ever.
* * *
Nikita brushed her teeth and hair and examined her face in the mirror. This was her last night as a single woman. Tomorrow she would be Nikita Samuelle. Mrs. Michael Samuelle. She looked at her sapphire ring for the millionth time. The matching bands that she and Michael had picked out were a perfect complement to the ring she now wore. For some reason, Michael had insisted on giving the rings to Julie instead of leaving them with Helmut. He joked that Volker would probably pawn them for a good cigar.
She turned off the overhead light and walked into the bedroom. Michael was lying on top of the covers. He had on sweatpants, athletic shorts, and a sweatshirt. “Michael, are you cold?” He actually looked overly warm.
“Full body armor,” he explained. “I only have one more night to go, and I’ll be damned if I blow it now!” Nikita picked up her pillow and tossed it at him, laughing as she slipped under the covers. She turned out the light and lay on her side facing Michael.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me good night?” she asked.
“Don’t start with me, Nikita,” he warned.
“Michael, it’s just a kiss,” protested Nikita.
“Tell that to someone who didn’t have a full out hard-on in front of a priest!”
She gasped. “Oh, Michael! You didn’t!”
“Petit Michel has been a very bad boy lately,” Michael replied solemnly.
Nikita grabbed her pillow back and held it to her face. Michael could still hear her laughing.
************
When Nikita awoke the following morning, she found Michael’s note telling her that he had gone to run some errands, and then he would be going to the hotel where Julie and Adam were staying. She laughed when she read his P.S., “MADE IT!!” and put his ‘body armor’ in the hamper.
She mentally reviewed her checklist. The marriage license was signed and at the church. Julie had the rings. Her bags were packed and at the hotel. Madeline was to pick her up at 9:30 and drive her to l'Éclat where she and her bridesmaids would have their hair and make-up done. Luc would pick them up at 11:30 and take them to Reine d'Église d'Anges (Queen of Angels church), where they would get dressed.
Michael had actually picked out her dress. It had a sweetheart neckline, with rows and rows of pearls and yards and yards of lace. The train was enormous. Nikita felt like a fairy princess when she tried it on. It had fit perfectly, too, except for the length. Nikita would have to wear ballet slippers in order to have the hemline reach the floor. She would have worn clogs and danced a jig if it meant she could wear this dress and be married to Michael.
* * *
Michael was at the airport, pacing with agitation. The flight had landed over two hours ago. Customs had never taken this long before.
“Looking for someone special, kid?”
“Walter!” exclaimed Michael, turning on his heel. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”
“Well, I did.” Walter was never one for idle chatter. Michael had learned that long ago.
“Let’s get your bags and get you to the hotel and get your tux fitted,” said Michael, taking Walter by the arm. Walter shrugged him off.
“I just look old,” he told Michael, eyes narrowing. Backing off, Michael followed Walter to the Baggage Claim area. Walter was a little shorter, a little thinner, and his pony-tail was a bit more sparse, but he still had a spring in his step. Nikita would be delighted to see him.
Michael was extremely proud of Adam and the “trick” they had played on Nikita during the rehearsal. Julie had sewn the wedding bands on a white pillow, and Adam was at the hotel practicing his role as ring bearer. Since his tux came with short pants and knee socks, he looked more appropriate for that role than for that of father of the bride.
* * *
The soft strains of “Ave Maria” from organ, flute and cello were heard faintly in the ‘ready room’ at the back of the church. There were few guests in attendance. Perry Bauer and some of the other gallery owners had made it, along with a few of Nikita’s friends from the modeling business. Carla told her Mick Schtoppel had already hit on Celine.
Oddly, Nikita wasn’t at all nervous. She felt serene—peaceful. She felt like she had been on a whirlwind journey, and she was finally coming home. Her destiny had been set since she was seven years old. Being married to Michael made their union legal, but they had joined their hearts long before. She stayed in the ready room as her bridesmaids left one by one to walk down the aisle—Adam watching from the doorway. He would return for her when it was time. But he didn’t. It was time for the Wedding March, and Adam was nowhere to be seen. A gravelly voice jolted her memory and filled her eyes with tears. “Looking for someone special, kid?” Nikita flung herself at Walter, who kissed her cheek and offered his arm. Proudly, she marched down the aisle with her ‘Grandpa’ by her side.
Michael was devastatingly handsome in his tux, and looked as calm as Nikita felt. The twins chalked it up to his being a ‘second-timer,’ but they were wrong. Michael was at peace because all was right with the world. He had his son by his side, and Nikita was coming home. They grasped hands and recited their vows in steady voices, each one staring into the other’s eyes. Adam brought forth the wedding bands on a little white pillow, and both Nikita and Michael stooped down to give him a kiss before he returned to his seat. They knelt before the priest for the blessing, then those who wanted to partake in the Eucharist did so while the others waited in their seats. Michael and Nikita stood facing their guests, and the priest pronounced them man and wife. An enthusiastic Adam yelled “Yippee!” as he ran and jumped into his father’s arms. There was much laughter through tears of happiness.
* * *
Dinner at Chez Fonfon was a lovely affair, with a view of the port in the picturesque Vallon des Auffes on Corniche. Michael knew that the dinner would drag on, so he had scheduled their flight to Fiji for the following afternoon. Thoughts of Nikita in a tiny bikini were making Petit Michel act up again, so he mentally recited his multiplication tables until he had the situation under control. He hoped he could control himself tonight. This night was too important to Nikita for him to do anything to ruin it for her.
************
Michael and Nikita were silent during the trip back to Michael’s loft. Michael had booked the honeymoon suite at the hotel, but Nikita insisted on waking in Michael’s arms in their “own” bed in their “own” house. Besides, they would be in Fiji for two weeks. That would give Nikita plenty of time to model the scandalous underclothes Carla and her friends had given her at her wedding shower. She already knew what she was wearing to bed on her wedding night.
Michael was deep in thought for a different reason. He wanted to satisfy Nikita without hurting her. What if he was too rough? Too quick? It had been almost two years since he had last had sex, and he didn’t want to scare her or put her off by giving in to his own need. He stole a look at Nikita, who met his eyes and then shyly looked away. He took her hand and entwined his fingers with hers. He could never hurt her. She was his soul mate. They were meant to be together. Everything would be all right.
* * *
Michael slipped nude under the covers while Nikita brushed her teeth and hair. He didn’t think she was ready to undress him yet. That could wait for another time. Nikita turned off the bathroom light and entered the bedroom. She was wearing the À la Vie! t-shirt. He knew she would be. He had not anticipated her next move. She went to the head of the bed and pulled down all the covers so they would be within reach but out of the way. Michael lay completely exposed, and Nikita crawled in bed and lay down beside him.
“I want to see everything,” she explained. And she did. She ran her hand down his hip to his muscular thigh, gazing raptly at his maleness. Michael felt a little bit on display, like Michelangelo’s David. “Can I touch you?” she whispered. Michael nodded. She reached out her left hand tentatively and gently grasped his shaft. “It’s soft!” she said in surprise. She was referring to the texture, not the physical properties, because Petit Michel was quickly growing hard as a rock. She watched the process with growing fascination, and Michael felt himself blushing.
Her fascination grew into concern as Michael’s shaft grew longer and heavier. Michael quickly took her hand and made her look at his eyes. “I won’t hurt you,” he vowed. “I promise.” And Nikita looked at him and believed him. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then pulled her face to his for a gentle kiss. She wrapped both arms around his neck, deepening the kiss, and Michael laid her back gently on the pillows. His right hand slipped to the hem of her T-shirt, and he cupped her left buttock. She wasn’t wearing underwear. She lifted her hips and he continued to slide the shirt upward until her breasts were exposed. She raised her arms to help him remove the T-shirt, and the unthinkable happened. They both heard the sound of ripping cloth.
Nikita quickly sat up and held the shirt up for examination. The thread on the left seam had finally given out, and there was a tear in the shirt about eight inches long. Michael held his breath. He knew how much this shirt meant to Nikita. How would she react? Would this cause some kind of setback? Nikita continued to stare at the hole, then she smiled wryly. Dropping the shirt off the side of the bed, she said calmly, “I guess I really don’t need the shirt anymore. I’ve got the real thing now.” Then she leaned over to Michael and kissed him. They were lying side by side now, facing each other, and Michael reached out to hook his right heel behind Nikita’s legs to draw her closer. They were touching everywhere, from head to toe.
Michael kissed Nikita’s eyelids, then slowly rolled her over onto her back. He looked in her eyes for any sign of hesitation. There was none. He rained butterfly kisses down her jaw, her throat, then took her right nipple into his mouth. It grew hard instantly, and he sucked gently, while pleasuring her other breast with his hand. His hand slipped lower, gliding down her sleek abdomen until he could cup her golden curls. She was already wet. He looked at Nikita’s face again. She was watching him with anticipation. He began to stroke her inner folds, totally lubricating his finger, Then, holding his breath, he inserted it into her core. Michael felt her inner walls clench in reaction, and he kissed her abdomen just above her curls while murmuring words of love in French. When he felt her relax a bit, a second finger joined the first, and they began to move slowly in and out in a steady rhythm. He ran his wet thumb around her slick pearl, and Nikita gasped. It was time.
He pulled his fingers out of Nikita’s core, and knelt between her legs. “Are you sure?” Michael asked one last time. Nikita licked her lips. “Very sure,” she responded. There was not a hint of fear or hesitation in her eyes or her voice—only love. Slowly, Michael positioned himself so that the tip of his arousal was at the center of her slick folds. He pressed the head of his erection through the barrier to her womanhood. God, she was tight! He stared into her eyes. He saw amazement. Rapture. And love. Encouraged, Michael entered her inch by inch by enticing inch until he was buried deep within her. Instinctively, Nikita wrapped her long legs around Michael’s waist, pulling him even closer. She moaned as he pulled part way out, and then slowly thrust back in.
Michael set a slow and languid pace. Nikita seemed to understand what was wanted from her, and she arched her back and began to meet him, thrust for thrust, in a rhythmic dance as old as time. He withdrew his manhood and ran the slick shaft back and forth over Nikita’s pink bud. She cried out, clenching his shoulders. Michael entered her again, and his thrusts became faster. He was very close, but trying desperately to wait for Nikita.
Nikita felt like a volcano ready to erupt. She’d heard about people having orgasms, but were they supposed to be this intense? She felt like she was on the verge of falling, and she wanted to leap. Suddenly, her world exploded, and her whole body jerked. She felt Michael thrust quickly three more times before spilling his hot seed into her as her womanhood went into wild spasms around him. Michael collapsed on top of her, bracing himself on his elbows. His breathing was ragged—his hair damp with sweat. She waited until her own breath was close to normal before she put her hands on either side of his face, looking him in the eyes. “Thank you,” she said solemnly.
Michael looked at her in amazement, then started to laugh. He rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him. “Thank you,” he corrected her. “You gave me back my soul.”
“You gave me back my life,” returned Nikita sincerely. They gazed into each others eyes. They were both right. He moved Nikita aside for a moment, and reached down to pull the covers up over them. Michael pulled Nikita back into his arms, and they held each other, limbs entwined. As they drifted off to sleep, Nikita thought, À la Vie! indeed! If this is life, let me at it! She smiled.
************
Epilogue
“Would you be insulted if I told you I was too tired to ravage you?” Michael asked Nikita wearily.
“Not at the moment,” Nikita said agreeably. He had kissed and loved every inch of her last night—she felt like she was still glowing.
Michael and Nikita had just spent what seemed like a week in the air, flying from Marseilles to the tiny Fijian island of Taveuni, where they were spending their honeymoon at the Maravu Resort.
“Oh, Michael. Listen to this.” Nikita picked up a brochure from the Welcome packet on the writing table of their Bure. “’Maravu is a Fijian word meaning calm and tranquil—like on a sunny day when the sea is quiet and looks like blue glass.’ Isn’t that beautiful?”
“Uh-huh,” Michael responded as he pulled off his too-tight shoes and flopped back on the king-sized canopy bed.
“Wake up,” Nikita scolded. “You promised to call Adam when we arrived.”
Michael lifted his watch and stared at it blearily. “It’s only three o’clock in the morning in Marseilles. We’re seven hours ahead. He won’t be up for at least four more hours. Let’s take a nap. You have to be jet-lagged.”
“I guess I am a bit,” conceded Nikita. “But I’m a little hyper, too. I’m going to take a quick walk down to the beach. I’ll be back in about 15 minutes.”
“Uh-huh,” Michael agreed, already drowsing again.
* * *
When she returned, Michael was awake and much more alert. Nikita joined him on the bed. “Am I going to be ravaged now?” she asked innocently.
“If you wanna be.”
“Well, I wanna be.” Nikita turned her face toward Michael’s and kissed him until neither one of them could breath. “Th-There’s just one problem,” she said. Oh, God, how could any woman think with hands like that running all over her body. “Really, Michael,” Nikita said breathlessly, imprisoning his hands to keep them from roving even lower. “I mean it!”
He stopped and sat up, looking at her skeptically.
Nikita jumped out off the bed and headed to the bathroom. “I really gotta go!” she called over her shoulder. “And no laughing,” she admonished as her pace quickened.
Michael hadn’t thought of it before, but now that Nikita mentioned it—
“Hurry up in there,” Michael shouted.
* * *
While Nikita was freshening up for dinner, Michael called Adam. They talked for a bit, Michael chuckling a lot, then Adam requested to speak to his mom. Adam had been calling Nikita “Mom’” for over a year now and, while he was a little bit excited about her adopting him; it meant the world to Nikita. Adam then handed the phone to Julie, and Nikita handed hers to Michael.
Michael had brought his laptop, and asked Julie to have the builder email him the plans for the new house. He had sold the house he had shared with Elena, and sent the entire proceeds to the Sunny Day Nursery in Sydney, Australia. Adam and Julie were living in a suite at the Sofitel Palm Beach hotel in Marseilles, but Michael wanted to give Adam a real house with a big back garden where he could romp and play. He wanted to give him all of the things the Vaceks had denied him.
* * *
After dinner, Michael accompanied Nikita to the beach for a long walk. It was hard to believe that the ocean before them was the same one they had seen in Sydney, as well as in San Francisco. It really was a small world. Any larger, and Michael and Nikita might have missed each other.
Michael plopped down on the warm, white sand, and pulled Nikita into his lap. “Feeling a little déjà vu?” she asked, smiling, running her fingers through his chestnut curls.
“Absolutely,” he answered solemnly. “Do you know that I pitched a fit that day when Marcel brought me to the beach? I was seconds away from persuading him to take me back to the embassy.” Nikita took a moment to digest this, and added “If my mum had been sober, there’s no way she would have let me out of the house that day.” They sat holding each other, pondering the mysteries of the universe.
“I told you how I found you,” Nikita began. “The beach scenes with the little girl at the Samuelle’s opening in San Francisco. How did you find me?”
Michael smiled wryly, thinking back. “A mix-up with the airline. I got bumped back to coach, and all I had to read were some cheesy women’s magazines. Out of sheer boredom I opened one up, and there you were—staring right at me with those incredible eyes.”
“Didn’t you contact the agency?” she asked, puzzled.
“Of course,” Michael replied. He smiled. “They sent me an 8”X10” glossy with your signature.”
Nikita turned to him with incredulous eyes, then chuckled. “That figures. So close, and yet so far.”
“I initially hired Marco O’Brien to find your mother. I thought she might lead me to you. I was on my way to see her when Elena went into labor with Adam.”
“So you never gave up on me?”
“Never.”
“I never gave up on you, either.”
They shared a lingering kiss, then Michael helped Nikita up and they walked back to their Bure, hand in hand.
La Fin