A Few Reposted Chapters (contains some 18+ material)

Wednesday morning was cold and wet and definitely not the sort of day to have left your umbrella at home. Birkoff huddled unhappily into the depths of his anorak, increasing his stride to the point where he was almost jogging. As he carefully negotiated the rain-slicked pavement, he thought longingly of the gigantic golf umbrella he’d left behind in his flat. Idiot, he fumed silently.

In his own defence, he’d been running late and it hadn’t actually been raining when he left home. Typically, the rain hadn’t started falling until he began the five minute walk from the tube station to the office. “Stupid English weather,” he muttered under his breath as his glasses fogged up for the fourth time. “What am I supposed to do, walk around with an umbrella permanently attached to my hand?”

By the time he arrived at work, he would have been quite happy to call it a day. His shoes squelched, his socks were cold and wet, and his waterproof anorak hadn’t quite lived up to its promise. Standing just inside the front door of Wirth & Wirth, he shrugged out of his wet jacket and ran a hand over his damp crew cut. Somebody, probably Hazel, had cranked up the heat, and he almost sighed with relief as the warm air seeped through his clothes.

“Did you forget your brolly?”

He squinted through his rain-misted glasses in the direction of the voice, but it wasn’t hard to guess its owner. It was Tatjana, the new junior whom he couldn’t deny was cute in a pigtailed, funky glasses kind of way. Not as cute as the Sushi Girl, of course, but cute enough that he acknowledged her with a grin instead of the sarcastic retort he would have offered to anyone else. “Yeah. Do I look a mess?”

She dimpled at him, her eyes sparkling behind her glasses. “No. You look just right.”

He was sure she didn’t mean anything by them, but her choice of words sent a rush of dull heat up the back of his neck. Glad that Hazel didn’t seem to be around to witness his discomfort, he managed to mumble a reply of “Uh, thanks” just as Walter appeared, strolling toward them with coffee cup in hand.

“What happened to you, Amigo? Did you swim to work?” Chuckling heartily at his own joke, he clapped Birkoff on the shoulder with his free hand. “If it’s still raining at quitting time, I’ll give you a lift home, okay?”

Birkoff grinned. “Thanks, Walter.” He turned to Tatjana, momentarily disconcerted to find her still gazing at him with a rapt expression. “Uh, where’s Hazel this morning?” he asked hastily, more to cover his confusion than from a genuine desire to know where the old biddy was.

Walter and Tatjana exchanged a look, then Tatjana mumbled something about having to get back to work. After a lingering glance at Birkoff, she vanished into the depths of the filing compactus.

Walter cleared his throat. “Hazel is in Nikita’s office,” he announced almost dramatically.

Still staring after Tatjana and wondering what that look was all about, it took Birkoff a minute to answer. “Yeah?” Big deal, he thought to himself. Hazel was in Nikita’s office a dozen times a day, dropping off deliveries and letters, picking up mail, doing the filing. Wondering why Walter felt this information warranted such an air of mystery, he slung his jacket over his shoulder and headed toward his workstation. When he was halfway down the long hallway, he stopped, stared, then turned around to find Walter trailing behind him. “Nikita’s door is shut.”

Walter grinned. “She and Hazel are having a meeting,” he replied, his tone an odd mix of amusement and dread.

Birkoff couldn’t remember that happening before. “What about?”

“Interpersonal office relationship issues,” Walter deadpanned in a soft voice as they made their way past Nikita’s closed door.

Although dying of curiosity, Birkoff waited until they’d reached the back room and he’d slung his knapsack and coat into the corner before asking his next question. “And what’s that mean in plain English?”

Walter sighed as he leaned against the doorframe. “It means Nikita would like Tatjana to keep working here, so she’s having a little chat to Hazel about Being Flexible and Working Together.”

Comprehension swiftly dawned. They’d all heard the way Hazel spoke to their new junior secretary. While it hadn’t worried Birkoff at the time, he was suddenly glad Nikita was doing something about it. “How long have they been in there?”

Walter checked his watch. “About twenty minutes.” He made a face. “And if I were you, Amigo, I would make sure that I’m not anywhere near that door when it opens again. If I know Hazel, and I’m afraid I do, she’s not going to take kindly to being told off, no matter how well Nikita handles it.”

Birkoff considered the prospect of an angry Hazel, and suppressed a shudder. “Thanks for the tip.” He glanced at the Vachek file on his desk and his spirits instantly lifted. He had some serious digging to do, and there was nothing he liked better. “I’ve got a lot of work to do, anyway.”

Walter gave him a smile. “Then I’d better let you get on with it, hadn’t I? Catch you later, kiddo.”


~*~*~*~*~*~


Fifteen minutes later, he heard Nikita’s door open. He stopped typing and held his breath. Would Hazel storm out in a fit of pique? Would Nikita finally be able to get rid of that stupid typewriter on the reception desk? Straining his ears, he managed to hear Nikita say in a warm voice, “Thank you so much for your time, Hazel, and your understanding.”

Birkoff goggled in silence. Understanding? Hazel?

Hazel’s voice wasn’t quite as warm and fuzzy as Nikita’s had been. “As I said, as long as she remembers that respect is a two-way street,” she intoned in her plummy accent, “then there won’t be a problem.”

Birkoff bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud in disbelief. He’d never seen the younger girl be anything but painfully polite to Hazel. Tatjana scurried about like a frightened mouse whenever Hazel was in one of her imperious moods, which was quite often. If that wasn’t respect, what was?

“I’ll be speaking to Tatjana this morning as well, Hazel,” Nikita cooed smoothly, “I’m sure things will sort themselves out soon enough. Thanks so much again.”

This must be killing her, Birkoff thought with a grin, unconsciously leaning toward the doorway. Sadly, however, he heard nothing more. With a shrug, he went back to work, only to be interrupted by a knock on his open door.

“Got a minute?” Nikita sounded as though she was also ready to call it quits for the day.

“Sure.”

With a sigh, she dropped into the spare chair at the side of his desk. Linking her hands together, she stretched her arms high above her head and blew out a loud breath. “Got anything good in that top drawer of yours, Seymour?”

Birkoff automatically glanced at the drawer in question, not knowing which annoyed him more, being called Seymour or the fact that everyone seemed to know about the goodies he kept stashed in his desk. “Maybe.”

“Care to share?”

He put a protective hand on the drawer handle. “Is everyone else in this firm incapable of buying their own candy?” He knew he sounded like a petulant teenager, but he was tired of the smash and grab raids on his sugar supply.

“Come on, have a heart,” Nikita coaxed with a weary but winsome smile. “It’s been a long morning.”

He looked at the time on his computer. “But it’s only 9:30!”

“Exactly,” she replied dryly.

He sighed and opened the drawer. Nikita grinned. “Excellent selection, Birkoff, as usual.” Rising to her feet, she came to stand behind him, leaning over his shoulder to sift through his stash. “Excuse me, would you?”

Birkoff gulped, trying very hard not to notice how nice she smelled or the fact that if he turned his head a fraction to the right, he would be able to see right down the deep v-neck of her shirt. Yeah, she’s hot, but she’s your boss and your friend, you idiot. After a few seconds of this torture, Nikita let out a triumphant “Aha!” as she held aloft a king-size Galaxy bar.

“You have had a bad morning,” Birkoff muttered. As much as his boss liked chocolate, she wasn’t in the habit of chowing down huge chunks of it just after breakfast.

Nikita looked at him with wide blue eyes that told him nothing. “I’ve had better,” she said simply. “Thanks for sharing your stash,” she added as she moved toward the door. “I’ll replace it after lunch, okay?”

“No rush," he mumbled, her gratitude instantly making him regret his churlishness.

She turned to leave, then stopped as she saw the Vachek file. “Oh, I knew I had something to tell you.” She sounded exasperated, but he knew it wasn't directed at him. “The Duskovic matter has all but settled. I'm sorry, I should have told you yesterday but I got caught up with Hysterical Helena and then you had to leave early…"

“It’s okay.” He waved away her apology, doing his best to hide his disappointment. He knew he should be pleased that she’d settled the matter quickly, but he’d really wanted to sink his teeth into routing out all of the Vachek brothers’ deep, dark secrets. “That was quick. What happened - did they make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

She lifted her chin and looked out the window at the murky sky, and Birkoff had the sudden feeling she was choosing her words carefully. “They increased the offer and Joe found some contract work,” she said lightly. “It all worked out very nicely.”

Bugger. He darted a longing glance at the file, then looked up to find Nikita scrutinising him. “What’s wrong?” she asked, frowning.

“It’s no big deal.” She raised a sceptical eyebrow and he sighed. “I was just looking forward to doing some more digging.”

She grinned, the odd tension in her expression melting away. “I just love that you enjoy your work so much. However, I have the feeling that the only way to find out more about those particular companies would have been do a spot of hacking, and even you aren’t that good, Birkoff.”

Her words were light-hearted, but they still stung. Birkoff turned back to his computer. “Wanna bet?”

“Not today, Birkoff.” The chocolate bar she’d commandeered from his desk dangling from her fingertips, she gave him a smile and waltzed out the door.

Birkoff looked at his in-tray. Apart from the Vachek file, everything else he had to do today was boring, boring, boring. Court filing, land title searches, going to the Registry of Births and Deaths. The kind of stuff a well-trained monkey could do, he thought resentfully. If I hadn’t walked out on everything, I would be working in some swanky office somewhere now. Maybe even some place where it didn’t rain every other hour, and where he could buy some real chocolate, not the weird tasting Cadbury’s stuff that Nikita and Tatjana went mad over.

He looked out the rain-smeared window, aware that he was wallowing but unable to stop himself. He liked working at Wirth & Wirth, he really did. Nikita and Walter were just great, Walter especially. But he was tired of feeling so…unsettled. His law degree was unfinished. He hadn’t spoken to his parents or his brother in three months –not for their lack of trying, of course. And then there was Gail.

Bitterness, dark, sour and familiar, tightened around his heart, and he closed his eyes. Don’t. Don’t think about it. He opened his eyes and reached for the keyboard. He had work to do. As boring as it was, it was better than thinking about his ex-girlfriend.

He was just contemplating starting on the less-than-exciting pile of title search lodgment forms when he remembered he hadn’t checked his email. It was more habit than anything else. It wasn’t as though he was expecting anyone outside the firm to contact him. He scrolled through the new additions – a couple of ribald jokes from Walter, a reminder from Nikita that their weekly staff meeting had been postponed until Friday morning. No spam, he observed with a satisfied smile. That new firewall was definitely doing its job.

Looking at the last unread item, his heart sank. It was another email from his brother. Even though Birkoff hadn’t replied for months, Jason wouldn’t give up. Birkoff frowned, aimlessly moving the mouse back and forth, caught between the urge to delete without reading and a sudden, violent wave of homesickness. Finally, he took a deep breath, and clicked it open, knowing in his heart that he was probably going to regret it.


From : Jason Birkoff <Jason.Birkoff@crawfordpelham.com
To : Seymour Birkoff <s.birkoff@wirthwirth.co.uk
Subject : Are you still alive?

Hey, little bro. Long time no speak. Or email. Or write.

Mom and Dad ask me every day if I’ve heard from you. They keep crapping on about how you should come home for Christmas, and then pretending that it doesn’t matter to them if you do or not. I don’t suppose you’d consider getting off your ass and call them? They’re driving me nuts.

How’s London? How’s your job? Work here is insane, but I’m loving the pressure, you know? The bigwigs are already talking about moving me into a better office and getting me a secretary. There’s a few hotties floating around this firm, my man. Hey, I wonder if they’d let me take my pick?

Speaking of hotties, I saw Gail last week. And before you ask, no, I did not speak to her. She was too busy fawning over that pompous idiot of a lecturer to even notice me. And to think that girl used to have good taste. If you want my opinion, Birky Boy, she may be a fine piece of ass, but you’re better off without her. You’ve probably already hooked up with a dozen English roses by now, so who cares, right?

Gotta go. My division head is taking me out to lunch to reward me for making budget this month. Have I mentioned that I love this joint?

Ciao
Jason


His heart pounding, Birkoff clicked ‘delete’, but it was too late. The barely healed wounds he’d been nursing for so long had already begun to peel away, exposing him for the loser he was.

He pulled off his glasses and dashed his hand across his eyes. God, he hated feeling like this. This was the reason he’d left home in the first place. It had been nearly two years – when was he going to stop feeling as though he was just treading water? His life was going nowhere, and on the other side of the world Gail was happily screwing the same guy she’d dumped him for, Jason’s career was on fire and his parents were probably still thinking, “if only Seymour was more like Jason.” His parents’ attitude wasn’t Jason’s fault, he knew that, but it still pissed him off. Jason, the golden-haired son, the one who always did everything just that little bit better.

He slipped his glasses back on and reached determinedly for the pile of paperwork in his tray. As he did, his hand brushed against the Vachek file that Nikita hadn’t thought to take with her. He stared at the folder as her teasing words came back to him. “Even you aren’t that good, Birkoff.”

But he was that good. It was the one thing he could do better than Jason. Better than anyone.

He slowly opened the file and ran his fingertips down the front page of the report he’d compiled the previous week, and temptation gnawed at him. He wouldn’t exactly be doing anything really illegal. Nikita had said not to bother, but surely she’d be impressed when he marched into her office and gave her the scoop on all the Vachek companies? And if she didn’t have to use it, well, no harm, no foul.

With a growing feeling of anticipation, he began to flick through the file. Do a spot of hacking? He grinned. Piece of cake.


~*~*~*~*~


When the phone on his desk rang, Joe flinched. He couldn’t help it. It was only his third day at Fulton, Jacob & Russell, and he was still trying to find his feet. He definitely didn’t feel ready to field calls from irate staff complaining that the server had gone down.

“What you’ve got there is an outside call, my friend. The ring is different to an internal call,” came the lazy drawl from somewhere behind him. “I’m surprised you haven’t picked that up by now.”

The speaker was his colleague, Greg Hillinger, who had somehow managed to become a thorn in Joe’s proverbial side in only three days. Must be a new world record, Joe thought dourly, wondering how one person could be so completely and utterly obnoxious. “Thanks for the tip, Greg,” he replied casually, hoping it didn’t sound as though he was gritting his teeth. Deliberately keeping his back to his co-worker, he reached for the phone.

“Joe Duskovic.”

“Hi Joe, it’s Nikita.”

Joe grinned. Although it was his wife’s voice he’d been half-expecting to hear, he was still pleasantly surprised. “Hey.”

“Can you talk for a minute, or are you too busy?”

Joe automatically glanced at his computer screen. He had eighty-one emails in his in-box, each one of them a request or a question from a member of the staff, each message seemingly more urgent than the next. “I’m pretty busy, but a minute isn’t going to put me too much behind schedule,” he replied, smiling.

“How’s it going?” she enquired brightly. “Still a blur?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded. At this point in time, he didn’t feel as though he’d ever know what he was doing ever again.

“I won’t keep you,” Nikita went on, her tone cheery. “I just wanted to let you know I’ll have your settlement cheque in my hot little hand tomorrow morning.”

He blinked, then grinned again. “Already? That was quick work!”

“Thanks,” she shot back, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “I can have it couriered to either you or Marina at work, if you like. Or did you want to drop by the office and pick it up?”

It was a simple enough question, but for a long moment, Joe said nothing. His voice seemed to be stuck in his throat, his head spinning. After two months of indecision and frustration, it was finally, suddenly over. If he’d been alone in the office, he would have jumped up and done a victory dance.

“Joe?”

“Uh, sorry.” Faintly lightheaded from relief and elation, he chose the easiest option. “You can send it here, if that’s okay? Hang on, I’ll just double-check the street address,” he said as he reached for the induction package he’d been given on his first morning. As he rattled off the address for Nikita, his eyes met the dark and irritatingly smug gaze of Greg Hillinger. “You’ll send it tomorrow morning?” he asked Nikita lightly, turning his back on his obviously eavesdropping colleague once more.

“Yes.”

“That’s great. I can deposit it in our account during my lunch break. You don’t think it will bounce, do you?” he added, only half-joking.

Nikita laughed. “I certainly hope not. I’ll send it over as early as possible, then you can relax.”

Joe smiled to himself. Relax? That was definitely an understatement. For the last two months, he and Marina had done nothing but worry – about the mortgage, their car repayments, Molly’s day-care expenses – and the prospect of their financial problems being solved so decisively was a little hard to comprehend. “I can’t quite grasp the thought of having that much money in our account.”

“After what you’ve been through, I think you’ve earned it.”

Joe let out his breath. “I can’t believe it’s all over.”

“Weight off your shoulders?”

“You have no idea,” he said quietly, aware he still had an audience. “It’s more than just the money, if you know what I mean.” He thought of how Salla Vachek had looked at him during the mediation, and felt a ghost of a shiver skip down his spine.

“Yes, I do know. But it’s over. Finished. Kaput.”

Joe picked up his pen and twisted it between his fingers. Vachek Holdings had been his whole working life. He’d given it everything he had, and to have it end like this… He sighed, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Ten years down the drain.”

“Ten years, yes. Down the drain, no,” Nikita shot back in a brisk, no-nonsense tone that sliced quickly through his momentary wallowing. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Expect a delivery sometime around 9:30 tomorrow, okay?”

“Will do.”

Grinning broadly, he replaced the receiver and went back to reading his ‘help-desk’ emails. He was dying to call Marina and tell her the good news, but he would wait until his lunch break when he could have some privacy. I’ll have to get another bottle of champagne on the way home, he thought with a smile. He looked down at his hands, amazed that they weren’t shaking. I can’t believe it’s over.

The sound of Greg Hillinger’s voice brought him back to earth with a thump. “You okay over there, Joseph?”

Joe reached for the mouse. “Yes.”

He knew Greg was still staring – no doubt with that supercilious smirk plastered all over his face – but Joe was determined not to let it bother him. He’d tangled with the head of the Vachek Corporation and come out a winner. He wasn’t going to let a teenage ‘delicate genius’ rattle him.

After a few minutes, Greg cleared his throat loudly. “So, where did you work before you joined us?” he asked in a casual tone of voice that didn’t fool Joe for an instant. Greg had obviously overhead his conversation with Nikita and decided to amuse himself by doing a little digging.

“In the city,” Joe replied shortly, scrolling through a terse email - a complaint about a faulty printer - from the senior Family Law partner. A complaint easily solved, much to Joe’s relief. He quickly forwarded the complaint to the firm's Systems Administrator, then deleted the original email. One down, only eighty to go, he thought dryly.

“Law firm?”

Joe counted to ten. He hadn’t thought it possible that someone could annoy him as much as this person did, but he was learning something new every day. “No.”

“Accountants? You seem like the accountant type.”

Joe counted to ten again, then forced himself to smile as he spoke. “I’m a bit busy here, Greg. Mind if we chat later?”

There was a long pause. Just when he thought Greg had finally taken the hint, he heard an exaggerated sigh. “I’m just making conversation, pal. There’s no need to bite my head off.”

They worked in silence for the next ten minutes, something for which Joe was grateful. It was hard enough trying to settle into a new role after ten years with Vachek Holdings, without having to deal with Greg Hillinger’s odd sense of humour – if you could call it that - and pointed barbs at the same time.

Immersed in his work, Joe didn’t realise someone was standing near his desk until they spoke. “How’s everything going?” He looked up into Angie Georgiou’s smiling face, the sight of her a timely reminder that Greg Hillinger was an exception to the rule, personality-wise. Every other staff member that Joe had met in the last three days had been perfectly pleasant.

He smiled back. “So far, so good.”

She seemed pleased by his answer. “That is what I have been hearing,” she said warmly.

Joe grinned. “That’s a relief.”

Angie glanced at the other occupant of the room. “How are you, Greg?”

Greg leaned back in his chair, his hands linked behind his head. “Can’t complain.”

The corner of Angie’s lipsticked mouth twitched. “I’m pleased to hear it.” She turned back to Joe. “Let me know if you need anything, won’t you?”

A request of “can you get rid of the little weirdo sitting behind me?” came to mind, but he just smiled at the woman who’d been good enough to give him a break. “I will. Thanks.”


~*~*~*~*~*~


After quickly reading through the letter one last time, Michael signed it, attached Vachek’s cheque, then slipped both into an envelope addressed to Wirth & Wirth. He didn’t put it into his out-tray for mailing, however, but slipped it into his briefcase. This was one letter that would be delivered personally. With that thought in mind, he glanced out his office window, slightly annoyed by the gray London sky. If it were still raining this evening, they would hardly be able to go running.

After a day of missing each other’s calls, he’d finally spoken to Nikita last night. His call had found her lying on the couch, trying to decide ‘if 8:00pm was too early to go to bed’. The sound of her voice, husky with weariness, and her casual disclosure that she’d just gotten out of the bath had almost been enough to make him reach for his car keys. But he hadn’t. With a supreme effort, he’d managed to quell the violent pang of sexual hunger that ripped through him and simply asked how her day had been.

Nikita had laughed, told him that he’d be sorry for asking, then proceeded to tell him about the crying client who’d disrupted her afternoon schedule. Then the sad office junior and Nikita’s resolve to speak with her formidable secretary in the morning about her lack of compassion toward said office junior.

By the time she’d finished, Michael was smiling into the receiver. “Perhaps we should have gone running tonight? You sound as though you need to let off some steam.”

There had been a long pause before she’d replied, and when she spoke, the teasing note of promise in her voice had made his gut tighten. “No, tonight I need to go to bed early and sleep. Tomorrow night I can let off some steam.”

He’d swallowed hard, but before he’d had a chance to reply she’d asked him how his all-day conference had gone. The unavoidable lie tasted bitter on his tongue as he told her it had gone well, but he was pleased the matter had been finalised. Not giving her the chance to ask any more questions, he’d quickly changed the subject. “My client has given me the settlement cheque for Mr Duskovic. Would you like me to have it sent to your office in the morning, or shall I bring it with me tomorrow night.”

“Bring it with you,” had been the swift reply. “Then I can say thank you in person.”

Sitting in his office on a cold and wet Wednesday afternoon, Michael felt the memory of the exchange warm him through to the bone. They’d agreed that he would come to her home at 7:30 that night, rain or no rain, and ‘take it from there’, as Nikita had said.

It had been a busy week. It seemed like an eternity since he’d managed an early morning run, and his body was suffering the pangs of withdrawal; craving the sated satisfaction that only deliberately sought physical exhaustion could provide. He glanced at the rain-splattered window and smiled. As much as he relished his usual daily exercise routine, he could think of an even more enjoyable way to achieve physical exhaustion.


~*~*~*~*~*~


Nikita pulled her hair back into a high ponytail and considered the effect in the mirror. She looked fresh-faced, shiny-eyed and more than a little keyed up. A mature-age cheerleader before the big game, she thought with a faintly sheepish grin.

The rain had stopped an hour before she’d left the office, which meant her run with Michael was definitely on. Even so, she stuck to her usual routine of washing away the day - as she’d once described it to Carla - and jumped into the shower as soon as she’d arrived home.

Besides, she hated wearing makeup while she exercised. And if Michael ran with the same intensity he did everything else – she had to wrench her mind out of the gutter at this point - she would be hot and sweaty in no time just trying to keep up with him. While he had already seen her without makeup more than once, she wasn’t quite ready for him to see her sporting a pair of panda eyes.

Pulling a face at her reflection, she flicked off the bathroom light and wandered downstairs to retrieve her running shoes from behind the couch. Shoes on, she checked her watch. 7:25pm. There was nothing left to do but wait for Michael to arrive.

At 7:30pm, when she was flicking half-heartedly through a dog-eared fashion magazine, her cell phone began to ring. Thankfully tossing the magazine aside, she leaned over and snatched the phone up from the coffee table.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

She swallowed hard, a warm flush stealing across her skin at the sound of Michael’s voice. “You’re not calling to cancel, I hope,” she said lightly, suddenly afraid he was about to do just that. “I’m already wearing my running shoes.”

“Definitely not,” he said softly, “but I am going to be late. Obviously.”

Buoyed by a heady mix of relief and anticipation, she grinned. “That’s all right, then. What time do you think you’ll get here?”

“Not until after eight, I’m afraid,” he answered. “I was delayed at Chambers.”

Nikita checked her watch again. It seemed silly for her to just sit around cooling her heels when she could be using the time to warm up. “I have an idea. Do you know St Mark’s Park?”

“In Kensington?”

“That’s the one. I was going to suggest it as our starting point, so why don’t I meet you there? I may as well warm up while I’m waiting.”

There was a pause. “I thought you didn’t like running alone at night?”

Smiling, Nikita rolled her eyes. Being in a relationship with someone who had a photographic memory definitely had its pros and cons. “It’s only ten minutes from here and I know the route by heart. It’s no big deal.”

There was another pause, longer this time, and she could almost hear him considering her suggestion. “I’m not sure…”

“Michael, it will be fine” she replied briskly, before she could change her mind. He was right – she didn’t really like to run alone at night, but she was suffering from a bad case of nervous energy. She didn’t want to just sit around in her lounge room.

He sighed, or perhaps she just imagined he did. “I’ll meet you outside the main gates in twenty minutes.”

She grinned. “I’ll be the one gasping for air.”

Five minutes later, her house key tucked inside one shoe, Nikita bounded down the steps that led from her front door. Ten minutes later, the cold night air flowing over her newly -flushed face, she knew she’d made the right decision. It seemed like an eternity since she’d made the time to go for a run. With every pounding stride, she could feel the tension drain from her body. She hadn’t realised until now just how tightly wound she’d been. The last few weeks had been busy, to say the least.

She reached the main gates a few minutes before the agreed time. Hands on her hips, she sucked in several deep breaths, then glanced at her watch. “Best time yet,” she congratulated herself. Obviously it helped when you had the incentive of an incredibly handsome man waiting for you at the other end. Or not waiting, as the case may be, she thought as she surveyed her surroundings. There was no sign of Michael, but she wasn’t worried. The area wasn’t deserted by any means. It was early evening, and tourists (strolling) and locals (rushing) populated both sides of the street.

All the same, she hoped Michael would arrive sooner rather than later. There was a definite post-rain chill in the air, and she could feel her rosy glow fade with every passing minute. She jogged slowly over to one of the ornate park benches near the main entrance, and propped up one foot, then the other on the seat. Taking a deep breath, she leaned into the stretches, grimacing happily as her muscles loosened and flexed.

One hand on the back of the park bench, she absentmindedly completed her usual warm-up stretches, all the while keeping an eye out for Michael’s black Mercedes. Her heart was still racing, but she suspected it was due more to anticipation than her ten-minute burst of exercise. She’d last seen Michael early Tuesday morning - now it was Wednesday night. Not even forty-eight hours, yet it felt like a week - a very long week.

In the last few days, she’d run the gamut of emotions, and she had the feeling that her odyssey was far from over. Michael Samuelle was a complicated man, and she sensed that the battle to know him had only just begun. But it was a battle she was more than prepared to fight.

She couldn’t deny that she’d feel 110% better once Joe’s settlement cheque was in her possession. Even through the rosy haze of newly discovered emotions, the ever-present shadow of Salla Vachek still niggled at her. She suspected their ‘conflict of interest’ worried Michael as well, although he’d taken great pains to downplay his client’s reaction. Nikita definitely didn’t want to be a fly on the wall when – if, she told herself sternly – Salla Vachek ever found out that his trusted legal counsel had taken negotiations with the other side to an unexpected level.

The ‘blip blip’ sound of a car alarm being activated nearby pulled her from her reverie. Turning to see Michael strolling toward her, she smiled, both amused and annoyed that he’d managed to slip under her radar. As he drew closer, however, her smile faltered, the breath literally leaving her lungs in a rush. She opened her mouth to greet him, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was gaze at him, shocked by the force of the longing that surged through her, and fighting the urge to fling herself into his arms like a lovesick heroine straight from the pages of a historical bodice-ripper.

His hair looked more tousled than usual, curling at the nape of his neck, and he sported a five-o’clock shadow that did nothing to soften the hard line of his jaw. Dressed in black sweatpants that clung to his muscled legs and a black hooded sweatshirt, he looked – as her mother used to say - mad, bad and dangerous to know. His clear green gaze swept her from head to toe in the space of a heartbeat, then locked with hers. “Hi.”

“Hello,” she answered, relieved that her voice seemed to be working once more. “It’s nice to see you.”

Through the darkness, she saw his lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “I agree.” He closed the distance between them with two long strides. A few seconds later she was in his arms, his body warm and solid against her own.

He didn’t kiss her, but that didn’t stop the embrace from melting her heart. She could feel the steady thud of his heart against hers, and the warmth of his breath teased the skin behind her ear. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her cheek against his, the scrape of his whiskers against her skin making her shiver with delight. Inhaling his now-familiar scent, she reveled in the sensation of her bones slowly turning to mush.

The sound of girlish laughter had them breaking apart. One hand still resting on her hip, Michael watched the group of teenage girls, dressed for a night on the town, scurry across the road, then turned back to her. “Shall we run?” he asked with a rueful smile.

Nikita grinned, hoping he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart. “Why not?”



~*~*~*~*~


During the next forty minutes, Nikita learned two things. One, Michael’s competitive streak wasn’t restricted to his professional life. Two, she was more than happy to answer his unspoken challenge.

Matching him stride for stride, she even managed to hold up her end of the admittedly breathless conversation. For some reason, after some intermittent chat about their respective days, Michael had asked if it had been a difficult decision to leave Stanley Pembroke and start her own firm.

“It was nerve wracking, that’s for sure,” she puffed lightly. “I couldn’t bring myself to resign until the new firm was up and running, so for six months I spent weekends and nights renovating and lugging boxes.”

“Hard work.”

She flashed him a grin. “Worth it.”

He shot her a quick admiring glance in return. “Being your own boss suits you.”

She would have blushed if her face weren’t already pink. “I love it,” she admitted freely. “I may have had some issues,” with a self-conscious grin, she deliberately emphasized the word, “with my inheritance, but that money did give me the freedom to leave a job I hated and start my own practice." She paused to catch her breath. "To offer Walter a chance to do something he loved.”

As they turned the corner into Cale Street to circle back to the park, Michael’s hand brushed against her hip. Whether accidental or deliberate, his touch almost made her trip over her own feet. She swallowed hard. “Your turn,” she declared breathlessly. “What made you study law?”

It seemed to take him forever to answer. “My father,” he finally said quietly.

She was so surprised by his answer – that he’d finally mentioned his family without being prompted – that it took her a minute to reply. “He was a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“So you followed in his footsteps?”

Again, it took Michael a while to answer. The sound around them - their breathing, the nearby traffic, their feet hitting the pavement - seemed to grow louder as she waited. “For a long time,” he said softly, so softly she could hardly hear him, “following in his footsteps was the last thing I wanted.” He glanced at her with bleak eyes. “But I eventually changed my mind.”

With a sickening sense of certainty, Nikita knew why he’d changed his mind. His father had died. “I didn’t mean to…” she began, but he shook his head, then caught her hand in his, gently halting their progress.

“Don’t be sorry.” He lifted her hand to his lips for a fleeting kiss. His breath was hot on her skin, and the rasp of his beard made her fingers curl. “I don’t mind.” Their eyes met and held, a long burning glance, and Nikita felt a sudden, instinctive tug of longing deep inside her. The urge to gather him in her arms and comfort him, to find her own escape in him, was overwhelming.

Time to go home.

She squeezed his hand. “Hey, Michael?” She spoke lightly, hoping to diffuse the tension her question had inadvertently caused.

“Yes?”

She pulled her hand from his. “Race you back to the park?” Before he had the chance to reply she took off, grinning as she heard his muttered oath behind her. Then she put her head down and concentrated on maintaining the rhythm and speed of her stride without killing herself.

Her calf muscles were burning, but she didn’t care. She was fueled by unspent sexual energy and – she couldn’t deny it – the desire to win. She could hear him behind her, his footsteps closing with every passing second. The sound only served to spur her on. Ten minutes later, however, with every inch of her body straining, she was about to give up.

Then she caught sight of the park gates. Gulping air into her burning lungs as best she could, she tapped into every last drop of energy she possessed. Arms raised like an Olympic sprinter, she dashed through the gates, laughing and gasping for breath at the same time. “Yes!”

A few seconds later, Michael caught her by the shoulder, and spun her around. He was breathing heavily too, but he wasn’t laughing. Wrapping his hand tightly around her upper arm, he pulled her into the shadows beneath the closest tree. In the space of a heartbeat, he pushed her backward against the rough, ancient trunk, pinning her against the cold bark with the heat of his body. The darkness wrapped itself around them, engulfing them. She could barely see, but it didn’t matter. She felt him with all of her five senses.

“You win,” he breathed heavily against her mouth, his lips teasing hers with each word. The scent of him – clean male sweat and the tang of citrus aftershave – filled her nostrils. Speechless with the sudden shock of desire, Nikita threaded her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair and guided his mouth to hers. His lips were salty, his mouth warm and hard, and she wanted him so much she felt as though she was about to split her skin.

She could hardly breathe. She didn’t care. Her sweatshirt rode up at the back and rough tree bark scraped her skin. She didn’t care. All she cared about was the taste of Michael’s mouth, hard and hot on hers, and the feel of him against her.

Their kiss grew fiercer, hotter. Desperate. He cupped her breast, his thumb brushing her nipple through the soft fabric of her sweatshirt and bra. Eyes tightly closed, she moaned softly into his kiss, arching against him in a mute plea. He trailed his hand downward, between her breasts, down her stomach. When he pressed the heel of his palm against the growing ache between her thighs, her knees buckled beneath her. He slipped his thigh between hers and pressed her hard against the tree, and she felt the rigid heat of his erection against her belly.

“Michael…” she whispered unsteadily, pleadingly, slipping her hands underneath his shirt to stroke his stomach. His skin was smooth and damp with sweat, and she had the sudden longing to taste its salty heat.

“I know.” He kissed her neck, his tongue hot on her skin, the scrape of his teeth making her shudder. Her blood felt thick and languid in her veins, and yet her heart was pounding.

“We can’t do this here.” Noble words, she thought feverishly, considering the fact she was ready to push him to the damp ground and rip his clothes off.

“I know,” he said again, his breath harsh in her ear. A faint tremour went through him, then he cupped her face in his hands, kissing her so sweetly, so tenderly, that she knew she couldn’t possibly bear to let him go home tonight.

When he lifted his head, she combed her fingers through his damp tousled hair, then kissed him softly on the mouth. “Are you going to give me a lift home, or do I have to walk?”

He gave her a long, burning look that made her heart flip over. “Are you inviting me home for coffee?”

Holding his eyes with hers, she toyed with the waistband of his sweatpants. “No.”

He gave her a slow smile that she felt all the way down to her toes. “Good.”


~*~*~*~*~*~


“It’s warm in here.”

“I know, I left the central heating on. I hate coming into a cold house after a run.”

The first words they exchanged upon reaching her house were not the stuff of which romance was made, but Nikita didn’t mind. The easy familiarity between them was as important to her as the simmering sexual anticipation that literally had her hopping from one foot to the other. Almost as important, she amended silently as Michael carefully placed his car keys, wallet and phone on the kitchen bench, then looked at her expectantly.

Lordy. Her hands on her hips, Nikita blew out a loud breath through pursed lips, then gave him a wry smile. Would it always be like this between them, she wondered. One kiss, one look, and she didn’t seem to have two brain cells left to rub together.

They’d already shared a bottle of water during the drive to her house, but she felt she should make at least some effort at being a good hostess. “Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked as she pulled the elastic from her tight ponytail and ran her fingers through her hair with relief.

Michael’s gaze followed the movement of her hands with a hunger that made her mouth go dry. “No, thank you,” he said politely as he took the elastic band from her fingers and dropped it onto the kitchen bench. Gently threading his hands through her hair, he kissed her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. Fleeting, whisper-light kisses that made her pulse quicken and sent a shiver of pleasure dancing down her spine. By the time his lips touched hers, all thoughts of being a good hostess had fled.

She wasn’t, however, totally lost to reality. When he reached for the zipper at the front of her hooded shirt, she entwined her fingers with his, interrupting his endeavours. He merely quirked a well-shaped eyebrow, as though he didn’t know his thumb was tracing a slow circle over the curve of her breast. “I thought I might have a shower,” she explained sheepishly, knowing she was probably ruining the moment, but feeling too hot and sticky from their run to be happy with tumbling instantly into bed.

Michael’s eyes darkened. Brushing aside her hair, he bent his head to kiss her throat, then the curve of her neck, a slow, deliberate tasting of her skin that turned her bones to water. She closed her eyes as goosebumps skittered across her skin, her hands clutching handfuls of his sweatshirt. “Were you planning on taking this shower alone?” he murmured, his tongue delicately tracing the whorl of her ear.

She shivered with delight, both at the implications of his question and the feel of his stubble grazing the side of her throat. “Well,” she heard herself say in a far away voice, “company is always nice.”

He said nothing, but simply took her hand in his, his gaze searching her face, the heat in his eyes making her stomach flip-flop. Leaning forward, she brushed his lips with a chaste kiss, her other hand on his chest, resting over his heart. Pulling away, she let her gaze flicker toward her bathroom, then slowly met his eyes once more. “After you, Mr. Samuelle.”


~*~*~*~*~


Steam surrounded them, fogging up the glass, fogging her thoughts until there was nothing left but Michael and how he was making her feel. Before this moment, she’d never fully appreciated the erotic properties of liquid soap and hot water. She knew she’d never look at her fluffy loofah quite the same way either.

Her back braced against the cool tiles, she trailed both hands down Michael’s chest, then his stomach. She couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop running her hands over skin that was slick with moisture and scented foam. Michael seemed to be having the same problem. A look of utter absorption on his face, he cupped her breasts in his hands, his fingers gentle as they caressed and teased. Bowing his head, he kissed her, his tongue exploring her mouth with lush, languid strokes. One hand dipped lower, sliding down her stomach, and Nikita felt her whole body clench with expectation.

“Michael…” she breathed his name into the steamy, fragrant air, her toes curling into the tiles as he cupped the aching warmth between her legs. He kissed her softly on the mouth, then lifted his head. His gaze devouring her face, her lips, he caressed the soft curls between her thighs. Holding her eyes with his, he gently slid one long finger inside her, unerringly finding the place where her pulse pounded violently with the need of him.

Heat instantly flooded her veins, tightening her skin. “Oh, God…” The warm water beat a tattoo on her shoulders, running down her arms, the backs of her legs. She barely noticed. All she knew was Michael.

Hooking one arm around his neck, she pulled him closer, hungry to feel his skin against hers. Some dark emotion flickered in his clear green eyes, then he covered her body with his, pinning her against the smooth tiles, his hand still between them, still driving her senses to the brink of meltdown. He kissed her, his mouth hard and urgent, his whole body moving against hers in a subtle, slick rhythm, his chest rubbing against her aching breasts. She felt the rigid length of his arousal – hard and urgent – against her inner thigh, but for the moment he seemed intent on pleasing her rather than himself, and she wasn’t about to argue with him.

His mouth moved to taste the curve of her jaw, then her throat. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against her skin.

You make me feel that way, she told him silently, her throat suddenly thick with unspoken emotion. Her heart felt as though it was about to burst, as though there was too much trapped inside it.

He bent his head to kiss the hollow between her breasts, chasing away her thoughts. When his mouth closed over her nipple, the brush of his tongue mimicking the slow, deliberate slide of his clever fingers, she couldn’t hold back the moan that rose up in her throat. “Michael, please…” She arched into his touch, wanting more, not knowing if she could stand it.

Muttering her name, he pressed her hard against the tiles, his mouth hot on her shoulder. He curled his fingers inside her, rubbing and teasing her aching flesh until her breath was coming in short, shallow pants, her eyes tightly closed. Then his mouth was on hers, a fierce, hungry kiss, the brush of his tongue against hers making her shudder with pleasure. It was as though she could feel the violent beat of her pulse everywhere – her breasts, her throat, just under her skin.

She rose up on tiptoe, the muscles in her legs tightening, adding to the delicious, almost unbearable sensation of everything inside her growing taut with anticipation. His touch grew more demanding, his caress becoming a sensual challenge. The promise of release fluttered low in her belly, then retreated, making her gasp, her body straining, seeking, finding.

Her climax hit her hard, a sudden wave of pleasure flooding the hollow of her womb, the throb of release pulsing deep inside her. She cried out, the sound echoing softly around them, her arms going around Michael’s neck to pull him close. The warm water sluiced over their entwined bodies as she clung to him, her hips instinctively rocking against the hand that had just turned her into a gibbering wreck.

With a sigh, she buried her face against his shoulder, her breathing still rapid and shallow. She felt his arms go around her to shut off the water, then he was holding her tightly against him, one hand on the back of her head. His lips brushed her temple softly, a gentle caress contradicted by the wild hammering of his heart against hers and the hard thrust of his erection against her belly.

She kissed his throat, tasting both salt and clean skin, then trailed her hand down his stomach. Her fingertips danced over crisp male hair, then smooth, hot flesh that strained against her palm. Michael inhaled sharply, a groan resonating deep in his chest as she touched him. “Your turn,” she murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to his shoulder, her tongue savouring the sensation of cool drops of water and warm skin.

His hands tightened on her hips. “Not here.” He pulled her away from the wall, then reached for the glass door of the shower.

“You’re no fun,” she shot back teasingly, but she couldn’t deny that her legs were rather wobbly and that changing venues was probably a good idea.

He merely smiled at her, his hair a tangle of wet curls, droplets of water clinging to the ends of his eyelashes. Nikita suddenly felt as though someone had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart. She opened her mouth, then pressed her lips together into a tight line. Stop. Do not tell him that you love him. It’s too soon. It’s ridiculous.

Instead, her head and heart full of so many things she wasn’t sure he was ready to hear, she simply put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him lightly. “You’re right. It’s getting cold in here.” She deliberately let her breasts brush his chest as she spoke, and a muscle twitched in his smooth jaw. Mischievously deciding to push him a little further, she stroked one muscled thigh, then wrapped her hand around the warm, thick length of him, teasing him with her fingertips. “And I would hate for you to catch a chill.”

His gaze narrowed, the gleam of intent glittering in his eyes as he reached for her. The next few minutes were a blur of white towels and being literally carried from the bathroom, followed by a quick descent onto her bed. As his body covered hers, his mouth taking hers in a hungry kiss, she realised that pushing Michael Samuelle too far could be a very good thing.


~*~*~*~*~*~



The cool, crisp sheets clung to his damp skin, tangling around his legs. A dozen candles – hastily lit by Nikita before she’d followed him to the shower - flickered around them, scenting the air with the tang of orange peel and cloves. Last night, alone in his own bed, his dreams had been of this very moment, Nikita lying in his arms, her touch bringing his body to life, her skin warm and smooth against his. But the reality far outweighed any dream. The reality never failed to amaze him, every single time.

He kissed her neck as she danced her hand down his stomach with obvious intent, then inhaled sharply as she cupped and stroked him, her fingertips cool against his heated flesh. A few seconds later, she casually tossed a now-empty condom packet over her shoulder, hooked one long leg over his hip, gave him a saucy smile, then neatly flipped him onto his back. He’d barely caught his breath before she’d straddled his hips, a mischievous gleam of triumph glittering in her eyes. “Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but apologetic.

He slid his hands up the length of her thighs, then over the swell of her hips. “I don’t mind,” he said softly, an answering smile touching his lips. She’d performed the same move on him in a French hotel room a few days earlier, but the repeat performance had been just as enjoyable, if not more so.

“Hmmmm.” Putting her hands on either side of his head, she leaned forward until her damp hair fell like a soft, tangled curtain around his face. Her breasts brushed his chest, her hips fitting against his with devastating accuracy. “I didn’t think you would,” she breathed against his mouth, her lips teasing his.

Curving his hand around one soft breast, he was immediately rewarded by her sharp intake of breath. “It’s quite an impressive move,” he murmured as he gently rubbed her nipple, loving how it tightened and puckered against the skin of his palm.

“Seido.” She rubbed herself against him, the soft warm between her thighs teasing his aching erection.

Pleasantly distracted by the slow, rhythmic brush of her body against his, it took a moment for him to recognise her answer as a form of martial arts. “Seido?” His voice sounded so calm, not the voice of a man who was almost being burned alive by the need to lose himself in the woman in his arms.

“Yes.” She rubbed against him in silent invitation. “I’ve been taking lessons,” she whispered unsteadily as Michael lifted his hips, his body instinctively seeking hers. Their eyes met and held for a long moment of almost unbearable anticipation, then the silken heat of her body enveloped his straining flesh in one smooth, hot slide of sensation.

My God. Michael’s jaw, then his whole body clenched at the feel of her around him. The blood was already roaring in his ears, through his veins, and they had only just begun. Forcing himself to resist the primal urge to thrust deeper into the slick embrace of her body, he stroked the curve of her hips, then the tempting swell of her derrière. “You must be an excellent student,” he murmured as he explored the gentle dip at the base of her spine.

Putting her hands on his chest, she began to move against him in a slow, sweet rhythm. Michael began to pray for the strength to endure. “Not really.” Her voice was throaty. “Apparently I don’t take direction very well.”

Despite the erotic assault on his senses, he couldn’t help smiling. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said softly as he reached up and curled his hand around the nape of her neck, threading his fingers through her hair. “Perhaps you just like doing things your own way.”

A devilish smile curved her lips as she ducked away from his touch. “Maybe.” She arched her back, tilting her pelvis to take him deeper inside her, and Michael groaned, all their teasing words forgotten as a red haze of lust swirled behind his eyes.

Endurance be damned. He reached for her once again, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her down to him, his mouth blindly seeking hers. She didn’t resist, her body literally melting into his as she stretched out on top of him. He kissed her again, a tender caress that quickly became something much more – hungry, urgent, almost brutal in its intensity.

His patience at an end, he pulled her closer, then rolled her onto her back. He pressed himself deep inside her, once, twice, and Nikita hooked her arms around his neck, arching beneath him like a bow, her words a gasp against his mouth. “Oh, yes…”

Those two simple words almost pushed him beyond the point of no return. His hands hard on her thighs, he rocked himself against her, slow, languid thrusts that threatened to dissolve him from the inside out. His breath coming hard and fast, he bent his head to her breasts, tasting tender skin and taut flesh. Her hands tangled themselves in his hair as she held his head to her breast, urging him on. As though he needed encouragement, he thought as he deliberately scraped his teeth across one tight nipple, smiling with pure male satisfaction as a shudder wracked her body.

Her hands slid down his back to grip his hips, her breath hot against his neck as she buried her face against his skin. “More,” she gasped, her voice thick with desire.

He knew what she wanted. It was the same thing he’d wanted for the last two days, what he’d wanted from the moment he’d met her at the park. She wanted to lose herself, to give herself over to a pleasure so pure it was like a drug, an addictive rush that both soothed and inflamed the senses and the soul.

Kissing her fiercely, he gave her what she wanted, what they both wanted, and in return she gave him more than he’d ever dreamed possible. Clinging to each other, they twisted together in a heated dance of give and take, their shower-damp skin clinging and sliding, the scent of soap and desire rising around them. Her breasts rising and falling rapidly with every harsh breath, she watched him through glittering, half-lidded eyes. With every beat of his heart, his aching flesh seemed to grow heavier inside her, the familiar tingle at the base of his spine growing stronger with every thrust of his hips.

And Nikita met him stroke for stroke, her hands on his body no longer gentle, her mouth hot on his chest, teeth nipping at his skin. When he slipped one hand underneath her to lift her up to him, her lips parted on a soundless moan of pleasure. Gritting his teeth, his body balancing on the razor’s edge between agonised anticipation and ecstasy, Michael pulled her hard against him, thrusting deeper, faster, the blood pounding through his veins. A moment later, just when he thought he was going to shatter into a thousand pieces, her thighs tightened around his hips, her heels pressing into the small of his back as she pushed up against him. The slick warmth of her body shivering around him, she arched beneath him, his name a half-sob on her lips, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Michael!”

Her gasp of pleasure singing in his ears, his whole body on fire, he closed his eyes and willingly gave himself up to the madness.


~*~*~*~*~


His heart seemed to be pounding in slow motion, languidly pulsing the blood through his sated body. Rolling onto his side, he gazed at the sleeping woman lying beside him. He gently brushed the hair back from her flushed face, careful not to wake her. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes, a weary set to her mouth even in sleep. Her day had obviously been as tiring as his.

Alone with his thoughts, he rolled onto his back. Hands behind his head, he stared unseeingly at the ceiling, more than a little angry with himself. He’d taken the usual surveillance precautions while travelling to St Mark’s Park, then again while they ran. Even when Nikita had inadvertently and painfully slammed him back into the past by asking about his father, he’d kept a practiced watch on their surroundings.

And then he’d touched her, kissed her. Alone together in the darkness, his world had shrunk to the scent of her, the feel of her against him. For a few glorious moments, he had been on the verge of losing control. He had burned to take her there and then, his common sense besieged by lust, love, sorrow and guilt, a heady and dangerous mix of emotions.

Michael rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. There had been no prying eyes watching them this evening, he was certain of it, but that didn’t stop him berating himself for his recklessness. His temporary loss of focus was understandable, perhaps, but it was unacceptable.

Nikita shifted in her sleep, her legs tangling with his, and he gladly abandoned his bleak self-recriminations. Rolling once more onto his side, he gently touched the bright blonde hair spilling over her bare shoulder, watching as the silky strands cling to his fingertips. Her hair was so soft. Like her skin, her lips.

And her heart.

He’d quickly come to learn that Nikita was a strong, independent woman, and it was one of the things he admired most about her. She was open and honest, and she didn’t play games. He’d also learned that when she decided on a course of action, she threw herself into it with a kind of joyous abandon, whether it was her work, her family, or her friends. Or him, Michael’s conscience whispered. After her initial misgivings, she’d taken him into her life and her bed. And, he realised with a thrill of both guilt and elation – into her heart.

The enormity of the lie he was living always haunted him, but never more so than when he was in Nikita’s arms. It was going to be almost impossible to resolve his tangled relationship with MI5 and Vachek without her becoming aware of his subterfuge, at least to some extent. Although he’d known this unpalatable fact from the very beginning, it still sank like a stone to the pit of his stomach.

Stirring in his arms, Nikita slowly opened her eyes, blinking at him sleepily as he gave her a smile. Reaching up, she stroked his face, her palm cool against his skin, her vivid blue eyes searching his. “This is becoming quite a habit, isn’t it?” she asked, a slow, teasing smile curving her lips.

The question was lighthearted, but Michael sensed there was a very real need for reassurance behind it. He couldn’t blame her. He, too, had been knocked off-kilter by the speed with which their relationship had burgeoned. Brushing the air back from her forehead, he pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. “Is that a problem?”

Still smiling, she trailed one finger along his jaw. “Not exactly,” she murmured, tracing the cleft in his chin with her fingernail. “It’s just been a bit of a whirlwind, if you know what I mean.”

He ran his hand slowly up her arm, smoothing the curve of her shoulder with his palm. “I know.” The words felt thick in his throat as the lie between them mocked him. To tell her the truth of his feelings for her would to be make a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep, but she deserved what few truths he could offer her. “A whirlwind doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

A smile tugged at one corner of her wide mouth. “Really? And why’s that?”

He cupped her cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb across the elegant arch of her eyebrow. “I’d already wasted enough time,” he said softly, his eyes locking with hers. “I didn’t want to waste any more.” The words were the closest he’d come to a declaration of love in over twelve years. Just uttering them sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

Surprise widened her eyes and her lips parted as if to speak, then she pressed them together again. For a few seconds, they simply gazed at each other, Michael holding his breath, Nikita obviously considering his words very carefully. Finally, she gave him a tremulous, beautiful smile that made his heart ache and his spirit soar. “I’m very glad you didn’t.”



~*~*~*~*~



Closing the last file, Madeline checked her watch. 10:00 p.m. It was still early by her usual standards - she quite often worked until midnight – but she couldn’t deny she was a little weary. Also in the back of her mind was the fact she was due at a breakfast meeting with Simmons from MI6 early tomorrow morning. A dreary appointment, but one that was both unavoidable and necessary. No doubt he would want to dissect their current collaborations to an infinite degree, as per usual. Perhaps a relatively early night would be a wise idea.

She hadn’t spoken to Paul since before lunch when they’d grabbed a quick coffee together at a nearby bistro. Once again, he had been full of his plans to upset the balance of power within the Vachek clan, but they’d hardly had time to begin their discussion when he’d had to rush back to MI5 for a series of Departmental meetings.

She’d spent the best part of the afternoon profiling a new security configuration for Judge Harker. Perhaps that was why she was unusually weary, she mused with a wry smile. Ten minutes of Judge Harker’s problems would be enough to exhaust the hardiest of souls.

Slipping the laptop into its carry case, she then locked her desk and filing cabinets. As she shrugged into her overcoat, she felt a faint stirring of hunger in the pit of her stomach. Stopping to eat dinner had been very low on her list of priorities this evening, something she was now regretting. She switched off the light in her office and pulled the door shut to engage the security, suddenly wondering if Paul was still working. Perhaps he would be amenable to the suggestion of a late supper.

She made her way to his office, deep in thought. She’d never denied that she enjoyed her job. It was demanding, both personally and professionally, but she’d always relished the challenge. The last two years, however, had been little more than a series of late nights, rushed dinners, late suppers and early mornings. It seemed an eternity since she had the luxury of sleeping later than seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, or since she’d had the time to tend to her sadly neglected garden.

It was the same for Paul, of course, and the other operatives connected to the Vachek case. It was perfectly understandable. The closer they came to ensnaring Salla Vachek, the more vigilant they needed to become. Nevertheless, she would be relieved on many counts when he was taken out of play.

As she walked, she nodded to the operatives she passed in the hallway. It was comically easy to tell which of them were just finishing ten hour shifts and which of them had just arrived to work through until the morning. Some operatives never became accustomed to the demands the job made on their lives and their body-clocks. Needless to say, those operatives usually didn’t last longer than a few years within the organisation.

Paul’s door was closed, but that meant nothing. He had a strict policy of not being disturbed when he was working after-hours. It was an intrepid or foolish member of the Housekeeping staff who dared enter his office to mop or dust while he was still in occupancy.

Smiling at the thought, she rapped sharply on the door. For a moment the only reply was silence, but it was eventually followed by an irritated, “Come in!” Opening the door, she made no move to enter the room but merely leaned against the doorframe. Without bothering to look up, he added a testy sounding, “Yes?”

“You’re here late.”

His head snapped up at the sound of her voice. “I thought you were one of those damn cleaning women,” he drawled, a smirk replacing his frown. His gaze moved over her appreciatively, seeking and lingering.

She smiled in reply, returning his gaze steadily as she enjoyed the sight of him in his rumpled shirt-sleeves, his tie slightly loosened. That there was an edge of pure steel beneath his work-weary demeanour only enhanced his attraction as far as she was concerned. “Have you had dinner?”

“I was planning to pick up something when I left here,” he glanced at his watch, “which will be in about ten minutes.” His light blue eyes searched her face. “Perhaps you’d care to join me?” His tone was casual, as though her answer would make no difference to him either way. “After all, we never had a chance to finish our discussion.”

She smoothed her hand over a non-existent wrinkle in the sleeve of her coat, then smiled. “I’d love to.” As well as the undeniable pleasure of his company, she was eager to discuss the finer points of his proposal to use Elio and Stefan to weaken the foundations of Salla Vachek’s empire.

Twenty minutes later they were being shown to a quiet, corner table in their usual Italian trattoria. The owner, apparently delighted to see them, waited on them personally, seeing them to their table and taking their order with a practised air of obsequiously overdone efficiency. After delivering a half-bottle of Italian red with a flourish, he departed with a promise – on his mother’s soul - that their food would not be long.

Paul seemed amused by the owner’s antics, which was rather unusual. He’d often told Madeline he only put up with the man because the food was good and the restaurant within walking distance of Thames House. Smiling, he poured her a small glass of wine, then lifted his own glass. “To another successful day.”

She sipped her wine, taking a moment to appreciate the simple, smooth taste of the unpretentious vintage. “I take it your meetings with the Division Heads went well this afternoon?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Hardly. It was a complete waste of time, as usual. Idiots, the lot of them.” He took a sip of wine. “No, I’m talking about our friend Mr Vachek and his dysfunctional extended family.” His tone was gleeful, so much so that she almost expected him to rub his hands together. “I ordered a little extra digging done on young Elio, and a few interesting facts have come to light.”

“Such as?”

“It seems that Elio had recently branched out into peddling designer drugs.” He smirked. “Fortunately for the greater good, he hasn’t been any more of a success in that field than anything else he’s turned his hand to in the past.”

“Hardly surprising,” she replied dryly. She was intimately acquainted with MI5’s already extensive dossier on Elio Vachek. When she thought of him, the words ‘professional underachiever’ came to mind.

His smile widened. “It gets better. In a relatively short space of time, he’s managed to step on the toes of the Eastside drug cartel and piss off several suppliers by not delivering on time. And then there’s his mounting gambling debts – he’s in for over five hundred thousand pounds.”

Madeline took another sip of wine. “A model citizen.”

Paul snorted. “Oh, yes. If his last name wasn’t Vachek, he would have been taken out long ago. It would have just been a case of who would have gotten to him first, the authorities or his associates.”

She toyed idly with the stem of her wineglass. “I wonder how much his father and uncle know about his little side business.”

He seemed pleased by her observation. “For all their murderous ways, the Vacheks are very traditional. Bringing shame on the family is not acceptable, and Elio knows it. He’s been very careful about covering his tracks.” He shot her a grin. “Not good enough to hide from us, of course. His father – and his uncle – are probably aware of his extracurricular activities, but I doubt they have any inkling as to the true extent of the hole he’s dug for himself.”

A complicit silence fell over them as the owner appeared with their meals. Thankfully, as there were now quite a few late night patrons requiring his attention, he only lingered at their table long enough to offer them ground pepper and freshly grated parmesan cheese. When they were alone once more, Madeline took an appreciative bite of her crabmeat lasagne, then glanced at her companion.

“Elio’s foolishness makes for interesting reading, I agree. The question is, however, how do we go about translating that foolishness into an exploitable scenario?” Even as the words left her lips, her thoughts were skipping ahead, her weariness falling away from her like a cloak.

Paul gave her a knowing smile. “I have a few ideas.”

At his words, a familiar feeling of anticipation prickled along her spine. There were few things she enjoyed more than debating the pros and cons of a new profile with the man sitting next to her. Putting her knife and fork aside, she sipped her wine, letting her eyes smile into his over the rim of the glass. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”


~*~*~*~*~


Huddling deeper into her fluffy sheepskin coat, hands wrapped around a warm teacup, Nikita shot Michael a grin. “Are you sure you don’t want to borrow one of my jumpers?”

At her suggestion, they were sitting on the terrace in her two favourite chairs, the battered wooden table between them. There was a definite chill in the air, but the night was now clear enough for them to see both the stars above and the lights below.

Michael was only wearing his running clothes, but he was apparently as impervious to the cold as the most of the males she knew. “Thank you, I’m fine.” He took a cautious sip of his tea, then looked faintly surprised. Catching her eye, he gave her a smile. “This is very good.”

Nikita buried her nose in her teacup to hide what she suspected was a smug grin, feeling ridiculously pleased by the simple compliment. When they’d finally left her bedroom, Michael had looked dubious – politely so, of course - when she’d announced she was going to whip up a quick batch of Indian ‘railway tea’ rather than coffee. “Thanks.” She took a sip, then smiled. He was right. It was good. Hot enough to produce a warm glow but not burn the tongue, and just the right amount of spices to cut through the sweetness. “It’s a poor imitation of the real thing, but I like it.”

After taking another sip, he set the cup down on the table next to the small pile of his belongings – wallet, cell phone, car keys – that he’d quietly gathered up and brought with him when they’d decided to sit out on the terrace. Nikita eyed the phone warily, wondering if a summons from Salla Vachek would be on the cards this evening and wondering what Michael would do if she picked up the phone and tossed it over the edge of the terrace railing.

Thankfully oblivious to her evil train of thought, Michael leaned back in his chair, linked hands resting loosely in his lap, his expression softening as he stared out into the night. “You have a wonderful view from here.”

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

He turned his head to look at her. “Yes, it is,” he agreed softly, the warmth in his voice more than matched by the warmth in his eyes. Before she could react to that little statement, he turned away, his gaze fixed on a distant point as he went on, “How long have you lived here?”

Nikita took another sip of tea before she answered, hoping to drown the idiotic butterflies fluttering around in the pit of her stomach. Somehow it didn’t seem fair that you could still have a schoolgirl crush on someone even after you’d made love with them several times and let them see you without makeup. “I’ve been here over five years now. The view is the main reason I bought the place.” She chuckled. “Actually, it was the only reason.”

Michael glanced at her, one well-shaped eyebrow raised in silent query, and she hastened to explain. “The apartment was in such a dreadful state when I came to inspect – I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear someone had been keeping a herd of goats in it.” She could smile about it now, but at the time she’d been too overwhelmed by the nasty smell, ruined carpet and smashed fixtures to do more than stand and stare in horror.

“I was ready to walk straight out the door, but the woman from the real estate office literally dragged me out here.” She waved her hand at the inky night sky, grinning. “That woman definitely knew what she was doing. It was late afternoon and the sun was just setting. Absolutely glorious. I wrote a cheque for the deposit on the spot.” She made a moue of distaste. “It took me a little longer to fall in love with the interior, given the state it was in.”

A smile tugged at one corner of Michael’s mouth. “Is that when you developed your interest in renovating?”

She raised her teacup in a mock salute. “You bet. Once I’d discovered the joys of knocking down walls and ripping up carpet, I was hooked.” Stretching out her legs in front of her, ankles crossed, she slouched comfortably, and joined Michael in admiring the view. “I love this terrace. Carla and I practically live out here during summer.” She flashed him a grin. “Margaritas and crisps being the staple diet, I’m afraid.”

He looked amused, but as usual she had no idea whether he was laughing with her or at her. The worrying thing was that she didn’t really care either way. “Carla is the friend who plays the guitar,” he said quietly, still watching the night sky.

“That’s the one.” Leaning across the small table between them, she danced her fingers lightly down his forearm. “I don’t know if I told you but your choice of sheet music was very well received.”

He glanced at the hand on his arm, then lifted his eyes to hers. “I hope you took the credit for it,” he replied, his lips curving into a slow smile.

“I would have, believe me,” Nikita laughed, letting her hand fall away, “but she knew straight away that I’d had help.”

His gaze traveled unhurriedly over her face, then lingered on her mouth with an lazy intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Did she ask who did choose them?”

“Yep.” Nikita grinned, trying to ignore the infuriatingly rapid pitter-pat of her heart. “Carla’s not a girl to leave any stone unturned when it comes to potential gossip.”

A tiny muscle in his smooth cheek twitched, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. “And what did you tell her?”

His tone was casual, but there was something in his eyes that made her swallow the flippant reply she was about to shoot back. Instead, she sipped her tea leisurely and smiled at him over the rim of her teacup. “I told her the truth, of course,” she drawled. “I said that I bumped into a musically inclined friend who took pity on me and helped me pick them out.” Her nose was probably growing with every word she spoke, but she certainly wasn’t going to tell Michael that Carla had been receiving regular updates about him for the last month.

If her answer, especially her teasing use of the label ‘friend’, bothered him he didn’t let it show. Instead, a secretive smile touched his lips, a smile that made her want to pin him down and interrogate him until she knew him inside and out. “I hadn’t been to that store in months.”

“What made you decide to visit that morning?” she queried, taking another sip of tea.

He lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “It was a snap decision - I was in the area and I needed to buy some new music.” Their eyes met once more. “A very good snap decision, as it turned out.”

Lordy. Nikita fought the urge to fan herself, her inner glow no longer due to the hot tea. Suddenly feeling a little flustered, she simply smiled and feigned an intense interest in the stars. While she was more than happy to talk about their meeting at Trebles and why Michael had decided to go there that day, it was another question entirely that had been practically burning a hole in her tongue all evening. Ever since they’d met at the park gates, she’d wanted to ask him about their mutual case and what Vachek thought about the result. But she hadn’t, and her unspoken questions had plagued her ever since.

Well, she was tired of tiptoeing around the subject of Salla Vachek. Taking a deep breath, she carefully placed her teacup on the table. “Speaking of good decisions,” she began casually, inwardly wincing at the cheesiness of her phrasing but wanting to start off on a light-hearted note, “don’t you have a delivery for me?”

“I do.” Reaching for his wallet, Michael drew out a slim, white envelope that had been folded in half. He unfolded it, then handed it to her with a subtle flourish. “Voila.”

Trying to look as though that one softly accented word hadn’t sent a very pleasant shiver of anticipation down her spine, she sliced open the envelope with the handle of her teaspoon. A few seconds later, she was looking at a cheque for four hundred thousand pounds, personally signed by Salla Vachek. His signature - all thick black, blunt strokes - made her think of Belinda’s hobby of analyzing people’s handwriting. She would have a field day with this one, Nikita thought soberly.

Slipping the cheque back into the envelope, she looked at Michael. “Thank you.” She reached out and touched his hand. “For everything.”

Tangling his fingers through hers, he bowed his head. “It was my pleasure.”

She thought of how he’d pushed his client to increase the offer, of how he’d done whatever he could to ensure a good result for Joe. “It was above and beyond the call of duty and we both know it, Michael.”

His hand tightened on hers, but he merely smiled. “Perhaps.”

She went to drop the envelope onto the table, then thought better of it. The wind was starting to pick up, and she would hate to end their evening by watching Joe’s settlement cheque fly off into the night. “So, I guess that’s the end.”

“The end of our professional relationship, yes,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving hers.

His words produced a little thrill of delight, but there was one more question she needed to ask. Running her fingernail along the edge of the envelope still tightly clasped in her hand, she tilted her head to one side and studied his face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you help me so much?”

A guarded look came into his eyes. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, then reminded herself of her vow to stop tiptoeing around. It was their mutual case that had brought them together and now that it was all over, it seemed ridiculous to act as though it had never happened. She held up the envelope containing Vachek’s cheque. “This is what I mean.” She paused, trying to find the right words. “You helped me at the expense of your own client, Michael.”

“Not necessarily.”

She felt her eyes widen. “You call an extra fifty thousand pounds ‘not necessarily’?”

“Your client had a legitimate claim,” he replied smoothly, “and to drag out proceedings would have only cost my client more in the long run.”

Nikita sighed, wishing she’d had the sense to keep her big mouth shut. This really was too bizarre. They were sitting on her terrace holding hands and yet arguing as though they were still in that bloody mediation. “Fine. Forget I mentioned it.”

Threading his fingers tighter through hers, Michael rose gracefully to his feet and pulled her out of her chair to stand beside him. One hand still gripping hers, he tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear with the other, his eyes searching hers. “What is it that you want to know?”

She pressed her lips together into a tight line, marvelling at the fact that men would ever have the nerve to claim that women were contrary. “Why did you help me?”

He trailed one fingertip down the curve of her ear. “Because I wanted to.”

“Why?”

His clear green gaze burned into hers. “I liked you,” he said simply.

She blinked. “You liked me,” she repeated, wondering if she’d heard correctly.

“Yes. And I liked your client.” A fleeting smile touched his lips. “Although not quite in the same way, of course.”

Nikita stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head. “Are you telling me that’s the only reason I’m holding this cheque tonight? That you felt sorry for my client and fancied me?” Suddenly walking the thin line between feeling flattered and being very annoyed indeed, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear Michael’s answer.

His hand was warm on the crook of her neck, the slow brush of his thumb along her collarbone sending a ripple of goosebumps across her skin. “No,” he said softly as he leaned toward her to brush a kiss against her temple. His hand trailed down her arm, then slipped around her waist to rest lightly on the small of her back. “You’re holding that cheque because you did an excellent job for your client.” His gaze locked with hers. “You’re holding that cheque because you won.”

Strange. All of a sudden she didn’t feel as though she’d won. There was an oddly hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach and when she spoke, her voice sounded almost tinny. “And if you hadn’t liked me? Would I have still won?”

As an answer he pulled her closer, sheltering her from the growing chill of the night with the warmth of his body, then tilted back his head to gaze intently into her eyes. “Does it matter?”

Yes, it does matter, she thought unhappily. I need to know if you helped me because it was the right thing to do or because it was only a means to an end to get me into bed. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped when her eyes met Michael’s. For all his air of casual acceptance, there was a look of mute appeal in his clear green eyes, a silent request for her to let it go.

She hesitated. They needed to have this conversation, but perhaps Michael was right to brush it aside for now. It was late, they were both tired, and the ink was barely dry on Salla Vachek’s cheque. For tonight, she would give in to his unspoken request to drop it, but they would have this discussion again, and next time she would see it through to the end. She shook her head, wondering just what the hell had happened to her backbone lately. “You are,” she muttered under her breath, “the most infuriating man I have ever met.”

He stroked one hand down the length of her spine, his touch soothing even as it aroused her senses. “Are you angry?”

“I don’t know.” Her answer became faintly muffled as his mouth touched hers, his tongue tasting her bottom lip in a butterfly-light caress that had her breath catching in her throat. “Maybe.” He kissed her again, a sweet tender kiss that she felt right down to her toes. The cold night air swirled around them, but her skin was glowing. Closing her eyes, she pushed away her lingering doubts. Be patient, she told herself. Time and a place for everything, remember? Winding her arms around his neck, she pulled him close, whispering her last answer against his mouth. “No.”


~*~*~*~*~


A few hours later, she was awoken by a familiar dull ache low in her belly. After tossing and turning for a while, she gave up and threw back the bedclothes. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she flicked on the bedside lamp and cast a bleary eye at the Dr Seuss calendar on the wall. Bingo, she thought wearily. Four weeks to the day. Right on schedule, as usual.

She was alone. After sharing her late supper of soup and grilled cheese on turkish bread, Michael had left just before midnight, regretfully citing an early morning and a lack of clothes as the reasons why he couldn’t spend the night. She couldn’t deny she’d been a bit disappointed, but certainly understood that he didn’t want to get out of bed at the crack of dawn just so he could drive home and get dressed for work. That he’d left her with a promise to call the next day and a goodbye kiss that had curled her toes had also gone a long way to easing her disappointment. It’s probably just as well, she mused as she pulled on her robe and padded barefoot to the bathroom, then down to the kitchen to brew up a cup of herbal tea. She would only have kept him awake with her inevitable nocturnal fidgeting.

She scooped two spoons of tea into the pot and then, because she liked to cover all her bases, fished her packet of ‘magic blue pills’, as Carla liked to call them, out of the kitchen drawer. As she grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, she remembered all the times during the week when she’d felt close to tears. At the time, she’d blamed lack of sleep and her whirlwind courtship with Michael. It was quite a relief to know that her hormones were at least partly to blame for her out-of-control emotions.

As she waited for the kettle to boil and the pills to start working, she wandered over to the dining table and opened her briefcase. Pulling out the envelope Michael had given her, she studied Vachek’s cheque for a long time. At the sight of the thick, black signature, a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature crept across her skin. “This is ridiculous,” she said to the empty room, then swiftly slipped the cheque back into the envelope and the envelope back into her briefcase.

She drank her tea, pulled on her most comfortable pyjamas, then crawled back into bed. The sheets had grown cold, and she thought longingly of the warmth of Michael’s smooth bare skin. Reaching for the spare pillow – Michael’s pillow – she cradled it in her arms, burying her nose in soft cotton that still smelled of his aftershave. Gradually the combined effect of modern medicine and herbal remedy began to take affect, and she felt herself starting to drift slowly into the soft haze of sleep. Drifting very slowly, unfortunately. Her thoughts were still racing, and none of them were particularly soothing.

Rolling over, she hugged Michael’s pillow tighter, wishing he were here, wishing she’d made him answer her questions. She thought of the cheque burning a hole in her briefcase and frowned. That little piece of paper with all the zeros meant that she and Michael were no longer on opposite sides. No more conflict of interest, no more barriers, no earthly reason why they couldn’t be together openly.

Remembering the wariness in Michael’s eyes when she’d mentioned the mediation, she sighed and buried her face in the pillow, struck by the sudden, sinking feeling that she was asking an awful lot from one little piece of paper.

~*~*~*~*~*~


Two minutes after Joe had walked out of the room, his telephone began to ring. Sitting at his own desk, Greg Hillinger sighed loudly. The thought of picking up the call briefly crossed his mind but he dismissed the notion almost immediately. Whoever was calling would be only too happy to make their problem his problem, and he just wasn’t in the mood. Spinning his chair around, he turned his back emphatically. “He’s not here, you idiots,” he muttered under his breath.

After eight rings the phone fell silent, and he knew the call had gone through to the voicemail system. Much to his annoyance, however, it soon began to ring again, and he suspected that the caller had simply disconnected and redialed. Three times the phone started and stopped and started again, until the plaintive bleating grated on his nerves to the point where he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Sure, Joey, I’ll be your goddamned secretary,” he announced to the empty room in a sing song voice. Snatching up his own telephone handset he pressed 8 to pick up the call and without bothering to check the caller ID display, barked out one word of greeting, “Systems.”

There was a pause, then a painstakingly polite, “Oh, Greg.” It was Sandra, the ground floor receptionist. She was cute in a snooty British Career Girl kind of way, but sadly lacking when it came to the crunch. He used to think she had potential, but she’d turned out to be just another sexually uptight female who didn’t know a good thing when she saw it. It was her loss, of course. “Is Joe Duskovic there?”

Greg leaned back in his chair. Idiots. I’m surrounded by idiots. “Gee, Sandra, let’s see – his voicemail kicked in three times and now I’m answering his phone. Does it sound as though he’s here?”

There was a longer pause, during which he could almost hear her counting to ten. “Is he in the break room?”

“Maybe.” He smirked into the phone, picturing her frustrated expression. It was almost too easy to annoy this one. “But then again, who can say?”

She sighed. “Fine, I’ll page him.”

The speed with which Sandra capitulated was disappointing to say the least. She used to be good for at least a five minute argument. “Oh, wait, now I remember – he’s in the can. No use paging him while he’s in there, sweetheart.”

His deliberately coarse choice of words probably had her wrinkling her nose in distaste, but it didn’t show in her clipped, no-nonsense tone. “When he comes back to his desk, could you please ask him to come down to the ground floor reception immediately? He needs to sign for a delivery.”

A personal delivery after only four days on the job? Their little Joey was definitely shaping up as a Man of Mystery. His interest now officially roused, Greg assumed his second most obsequious voice as he smiled into the phone. “Well, that sounds mighty exciting, Sandra. Why don’t you tell me where the delivery is from so I can tell Joe? You know, just to hurry him along.”

Not only did Sandra refuse to take the bait, her tone became positively icy. “If you could just ask him to come down, I would appreciate it.”

“I guess,” he said with exaggerated reluctance. “But I have to ask myself, Sandra. What’s in it for me?”

She didn’t even pause to draw breath. “For one thing, I won’t make an official complaint to Human Resources about how unhelpful our ‘help’ desk seems to be when you’re manning the phones,” she said sweetly.

Well, well, well. There’s hope for you yet, princess. “Well, I guess I could send him down,” he drawled.

“Very kind of you,” she said dryly, then abruptly disconnected before he could reply. Slowly replacing the receiver, Greg smirked. Oh, yeah. She wanted him bad - she just didn’t realise it yet.

Five seconds later, Joe reappeared. Greg briefly toyed with the idea of ‘forgetting’ Sandra’s request just to see what would happen, but decided that he wasn’t that bored. Maybe another time. “The chick from the ground floor reception rang for you while you were gone.”

“What did she say? Does she want me to call her back?”

Greg studied Joe’s irritatingly earnest face, wondering what sins he could have committed in a past life to be stuck with John Boy Walton in this one. “No, you need to go down and sign for something,” he said with a dismissive shrug as he spun his chair around. God, he was being so helpful, he could hardly stand himself.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Greg shook his head at the empty doorway. “Take your time, John Boy, take your time.”


~*~*~*~*~


Settlement cheque clutched in one sweaty-palmed hand, Joe walked sedately through the hallways of Fulton, Jacob and Russell, hoping he was projecting an air of professional calm. It was a difficult task when he was torn between running like a soccer hooligan back to his desk or tap-dancing (very badly) down the corridor.

He couldn’t believe it was all over. More to the point, he couldn’t believe the number of zeros on the cheque in his hand. He felt sick in the stomach, but in a good way, and a dozen different thoughts were zipping around his brain. I have to ring Marina. I have to go to the bank. I think I need to sit down.

The first two would have to wait until his lunch break, but the sitting down he could manage right away. He walked quickly back to the IT department, where he wasn’t bothered in the slightest by Greg Hillinger’s seemingly permanent smirk.

“What have you got there, Joey? Anything exciting?”

Joe grinned. “Not really,” he said cheerfully. The childish retort of ‘wouldn’t you like to know’ hovered on the tip of his tongue, but there was no need to stoop to that level. Not yet, anyway, he thought dryly.

Greg lifted a lofty eyebrow. “It must have been pretty important if you had to sign for it personally.”

Joe slipped the envelope into the leather satchel under his desk, then gave his co-worker a deliberately bland smile. “Not really,” he repeated coolly. He’d only worked with this idiot for four days. Perhaps it should have worried Joe how much he enjoyed scoring points off him, but he defied any sane person to work with Greg Hillinger and not want to beat the living snot out of him.

Greg’s gaze narrowed and he held his hands up in mock defense. “Hey, I didn’t mean to pry,” he said with a wide and completely insincere smile. “Just looking for some excitement to liven up a dull Thursday morning, you know how it is.”

Joe took a deep breath but was saved from having to reply by the mildly raucous arrival of Terry - IT Manger - and Lynette - senior programmer - were engaged in a spirited discussion about an ancient television show that Joe remembered vaguely from his childhood.

“Yes, but you’re forgetting that Avon is the definitive anti-hero,” Terry announced as he tossed a handful of disks onto his desk.

Lynette snorted as she headed for her workstation. “Oh, I don’t think so. He was a nasty old queen with a power complex.” Grinning, she tossed Joe a look of appeal. “Help me out here, Joe.”

“Sorry, I watched Dr Who,” Joe apologised with a smile as he reached for his keyboard. Lynette sighed loudly, muttering something under her breath about ‘boys sticking together’. Still smiling, Joe started to scroll through the new emails in his in-box. With one exception, his new colleagues were easy-going and hard-working. Although he would have liked his sudden career change to have happened under different circumstances, he was enjoying his new job very much. Thinking again of the cheque in his bag, he made a mental note to organise a baby-sitter for the following night. It was definitely time for that celebratory dinner.


~*~*~*~*~*~


Greg leaned on the reception desk and smiled. “Hey, Sandra. Busy morning?”

The receptionist flicked him a cool look, the rhythmic sound of her typing unbroken. “What can I do for you, Greg?” she asked flatly.

He did his best to look wounded. “Can’t a guy stop by to say hello on his way out to lunch without wanting something?”

Sandra’s eyes never left her computer screen. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

Bitch. “That hurts, Sandy, it really does.” As he spoke, he leaned a little further over the desk, his gaze travelling over the paperwork strewn across her desk blotter. He’d worked at a few law firms in the last two years, and one place was as anally retentive as the other. If Joey had received a delivery, little Miss Sandra would have conscientiously written it up in her diary or whatever the hell she used to record that sort of boring pencil-pusher crap. But there was nothing in sight. Damn. Still, Sandra had to go home sometime. Perhaps he’d take a stroll past her desk later this evening.

He didn’t actually give a shit about what Joey had received, but it pissed him off that their new recruit had been so coy about it. Greg scowled. That idiot had only been here four days, and the other geeks in their department – not to mention Angie - fawned all over him. His scowl deepened at the thought of the Human Resources Manager. He’d offered – very generously, he thought – to take over the role that Joey was now so averagely filling, but no-o-ooo…that fat cow Angie had turned him down flat. She’d actually accused him of trying to poach Suzanne’s position while she was on maternity leave. Of course, the thought had crossed his mind, but it was none of that old Russian bitch’s business.

Her fingers still flying over the keyboard, Sandra sighed once more, the soft sound of disdain bringing him out of his musings. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your lunch.” She shot him a glacial glance. “Unless you plan to slouch over my desk for the rest of the afternoon, of course.”

He straightened up and gave her a mocking salute, already looking forward to rifling through her stuff after she’d gone for the day. “Aye Aye, ma’am.”


~*~*~*~*~*~


Several hours later, Greg was staring at Sandra’s neat handwriting. 10:15am – Wirth & Wirth Lawyers – J. Duskovic – Private & Confidential. Silently cursing Sandra’s irritating respect for the words ‘private’ and ‘confidential’, he closed the deliveries book and slid it back into the top drawer of her desk.

Deep in thought, he made his way out into the cold night air. Young Joey had been pretty excited this morning, a big smile on his wholesome John Boy face. Something in that envelope had made him very happy. A letter from a lover, maybe? Greg considered the thought for a moment then dismissed it. Adultery didn’t seem to be John Boy’s style. Another job offer? Now wouldn’t that put the cat amongst the pigeons? Angie wouldn’t be too happy if her new golden boy threw in the towel so soon.

He snorted. Golden Boy, my ass. Joey was good, but he wasn’t as good as Greg. So why the hell did Angie think he was such hot shit? Frowning, he hunched deeper into his coat and started toward the tube station. Perhaps he could just make nicey-nice with Joey until he learned all his boring little secrets. As he reached for his wallet to pull out his train pass, he smirked. Nah. Why bother making nice when digging for dirt was so much more fun?


~*~*~*~*~*~